Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Journal of Screenwriting 1.1
Journal of Screenwriting 1.1
EDITORIAL BOARD
Journal of Screenwriting
Volume 1 Number 1
© 2010 Intellect Ltd Editorial. English language. doi: 10.1386/josc.1.1.3/2
EDITORIAL
JILL NELMES
Principal Editor
REFERENCES
Cook, John and Spicer, Andrew (2008), ‘Introduction’, Journal of British Cinema
and Television, 5: 2, November, pp. 213–22.
Khatib, Lina (2007), ‘Editorial’, Journal of Media Practice, 8: 2, pp. 105–06.
Kozloff, Sarah (2000), Overhearing Film Dialogue, Berkeley: University of
California Press.
Maras, Steven (2009), Screenwriting: History, Theory and Practice, London:
Wallflower.
Price, Steven (due 2009), The Screenplay: Authorship, Ideology, Criticism, London:
Palgrave.
Rilla, Wolf (1973), The Writer and the Screen, London: W.H. Allen.
Thompson, Kristin (1999), Storytelling in the New Hollywood, Cambridge, MA:
Harvard University Press.
CONTRIBUTOR DETAILS
Jill Nelmes is a senior lecturer in film at the University of East London and
a screenwriter. She has studied screenwriting at the National Film and
Television School and at UCLA, is the editor of Introduction to Film Studies
and is currently working on a ‘how to’ manual about writing the independent
Journal of Screenwriting
Volume 1 Number 1
© 2010 Intellect Ltd Editorial. English language. doi: 10.1386/josc.1.1.7/2
EDITORIAL
IAN W. MACDONALD
Co-Editor
REFERENCES
Cahiers du Scénario (c.1985–89), 1–3, 6–15. Brussels: Université Européenne
d’Ecriture, http://www.uee.be. Accessed 25 June 2009.
Cinémas (1999), 9: 2/3, Spring, Montreal, University of Montreal.
Film History (1997), 9: 3. Sydney [?]: John Libbey.
Hiroshima, Mon Amour (1959), Wr: Marguerite Duras, Dir: Alain Resnais,
France/Japan, 91 mins.
Drazin, Charles (2008), ‘If… before If…’, Journal of British Cinema and Television,
5: 2, November, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, pp. 318–34.
Journal of British Cinema and Television (2008), 5: 2, November, Edinburgh:
Edinburgh University Press.
Maras, Steven (2009), Screenwriting: History, Theory and Practice, London:
Wallflower.
Scan: Journal of Media Arts Culture (2006), 3: 2, October. Sydney: Macquarie
University, http://www.scan.net.au/scan/journal/. Accessed 26 June 2009.
CONTRIBUTOR DETAILS
Ian W. Macdonald is the research director of the Louis Le Prince Research
Centre for Cinema, Photography and Television, in the Institute of
Communication Studies at the University of Leeds. His own research work
has concentrated on aspects of screenwriting, a subject he has taught since
1993, both during and after his time as head of the Northern Film School at
Leeds Metropolitan University (1992–2001). Most recently he has investigated
the changing and establishing practices of early British screenwriters during
10
KATHRYN MILLARD
Macquarie University
ABSTRACT KEYWORDS
This article aims to contribute to contemporary debates about screenwriting screenwriting
as a process of developing the screen idea; about the ways in which for- scriptwriting
matting conventions from an earlier era of cinema may restrict innovation screen practice
in screenwriting; and about shifting practices of screenwriting in a digital research
era in which images and sound play a potentially more significant role. digital cinema
Additionally, it questions the use of terms such as ‘blueprint’ to describe independent film
the relationship between the screenplay and the proposed film that it repre- script development
sents. The article draws on the author’s body of practice-led research as a
writer and director of feature films and documentaries, as well as histories
of screenwriting, film production, comics and the graphic arts.
INTRODUCTION
In 2003, I directed a feature film Travelling Light (2003) which was
loosely inspired by Allen Ginsberg’s visit to Australia to participate in
Adelaide Writers’ Week in the 1960s. The script, which was in devel-
opment for approximately six years, was funded draft by draft through
the Australian Film Commission, the national film-funding agency
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12
revisions and yet more revisions – all justified in the name of criti-
cal rigour and industry imperatives. Along the way, screenwriters and
their collaborators struggle to retain or re-inject into their screen ideas
what social psychologist Abraham Maslow called in his diaries a qual-
ity of ‘aliveness’ (Lowry 1982: 37); an attribute that Maslow consid-
ered fundamental to works of art if they were to connect with their
intended audiences.
Early in his career, Atom Egoyan observed that many script-devel-
opment and film-funding mechanisms seem aimed at delaying the pro-
duction of the film as long as possible in the belief that this was a good
thing (Burnett 1988). In all the many and various deliberations about
Travelling Light it was invariably words on a page that were discussed,
dissected and analysed, rather than images, sounds, gestures, rhythm
or the cinematic qualities of the script. Yet the work of many innova-
tive screenwriters and film-makers has long favoured audio and visual
expressivity over plot and narrative drive, and their approaches pro-
vide a wealth of alternative scripting methodologies and structures for
analysis. Scripts can be inspired by still photographs, visual art, sense
memories, location pictures, video footage or popular songs. Acclaimed
writers and film-makers, including Gus Van Sant, Jim Jarmusch, Tony
Grisoni, Michael Winterbottom, Wong Kar Wai, Wim Wenders and
Chantal Ackerman, have all developed methods of shifting between
writing and production, working with both words and images. These
writers and film-makers embrace cinematic scriptwriting. Some of the
terms used to describe the resulting story designs include the road
map, the open screenplay, the visual scenario and the ars combinataria
screenplay (Millard 2006). As film-maker and screenwriting theorist
J.J. Murphy suggests, ‘real innovation in screenwriting […] comes not
from ignorance of narrative film conventions but from being able to see
beyond their limitations’ (Murphy 2007: 266).
13
while they try to get their own projects up, (b) generate activity
and create the illusion that your project/screenplay is progress-
ing, and (c) to explain why things can’t or won’t happen.
(Janaczewska 2007)
14
a common understanding. The readers of the screenplay and other 1. Cultural historian
Thomas Hine uses
documents inevitably construct a version of the screen idea in their the term ‘populuxe’
heads, which (unlike readers of novels) they then have to contribute to describe a trend
to (Macdonald 2004b: 91). This process, too, has only intensified with within architecture and
design in the United
the proliferation of digital technologies and the working methods they States of America
enable. In this era of digital cinema, previously discrete stages of pre- in approximately
1955–64: the
production, production and post-production tend to get collapsed design of everyday
into a single more fluid stage, in which images and sounds can be spaces and consumer
goods aimed at
reworked to a much greater degree. Increasingly, elements of post- a combination of
production and pre-production can be happening simultaneously. populism and luxury.
Surely then, more than ever, the screenplay needs to be a flexible doc- Hines suggests
that ‘populuxe’
ument? Film editor Walter Murch observes that ‘digital technologies simultaneously looked
naturally tend to integrate with one another’ (Murch 1999). Perhaps in back to the myths
of the frontier whilst
this environment it is more appropriate to consider the screenplay as anticipating the coming
an open text that sketches out possibilities and remains fluid through space age. For more
the film-making process? information about
populuxe see Hine
(1989).
15
2. In typography, kerning fonts around, with versions available for almost every typewriter
refers to the process of
adjusting the spaces on the market. One of the first advertisements for the ubiquitous
between letters. Courier claimed ‘a letter can be just an ordinary messenger, or it
can be the courier which radiates dignity, prestige and stability’
(Vanderbilt 2004).
Of course, this message is exactly what many screenwriting manu-
als and funding guidelines have long been trying to drum into aspir-
ing screenwriters. Present your scripts in the approved formatting,
and you not only imbue your work with ‘dignity, prestige and sta-
bility’, but announce your status as an insider in the film industry.
In What Happens Next: A History of American Screenwriting (Norman
2008: 190–96), Marc Norman reports that Preston Sturges was initially
hired to write dialogue in 1930s Hollywood on the basis of his stage
plays. Producer Jesse Lansky initially dismissed Sturges as an amateur
when he offered to take Lansky’s idea straight from pitch to first draft
(bypassing the conventional ten-page treatment common at the time).
When, a month later, Sturges turned in a script, Lansky was forced to
eat his words:
There are several ways to read this but it is hard to go past the view
that, in Lansky’s eyes, it was Sturges’s command of screenplay for-
matting that accorded him the status of the true professional.
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17
In fact, his script never really existed as a traditionally presented and for-
matted screenplay. Instead, Maddin and his collaborators worked from
a story outline with lists of sets and props. He also describes gradu-
ally introducing other elements into the mix. Fascinated by sound post-
production he invited the film’s team of Foley artists to contribute to a
live performance, and his narration was partly inspired by benshi, the
film explainers of Japanese silent cinema. Maddin’s work presents one
possible model for opening up the screenplay, due to his insistence on
working with cinematic elements from early in the process.
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19
more to offer cinema than simply a stockpile of stories ripe for adapta-
tion. For him, they are a form of graphic language that operates within
a unique poetics.
Comic narration blends and modifies features shared by other art
forms – especially literature, painting, photography and film.
Versaci contends that reading the interplay between the written and
the visual is complex, and that comics do not happen in the words or
the pictures but ‘somewhere in between’, in a process that requires the
active participation of the reader to fill in the details between the panels.
It is this filling in the space between the words and the pictures, he suggests,
that fosters an intimacy between creator and audience (Versaci 2007:
14, my emphasis). For me it is this dynamic mix of words and images,
the fact that images as well as words (and the relationship between
the two) take centre stage from the beginning, that makes comics and
graphic novels one particularly apt model for the screenplay.
One artist/illustrator whose work I have found especially inspiring
is John M. Muth. In his graphic novel M, Muth restaged Fritz Lang’s
film (1931) about the investigation of a child murder with a neighbour-
hood cast and a collection of borrowed costumes (Muth 2008). He then
produced watercolours based on stills from these re-enactments. His
blurred, defocused images of his characters help convey the sense of an
everyman’s version of M. His graphic novel juxtaposes stills of dramatic
action and evidence from the investigation – maps, memos, bars of
haunting music and dialogue bubbles. Muth’s M suggests yet another
possible pathway for the screenplay, perhaps with collected and assem-
bled images for those of us who do not have his skills as a visual artist.
In her account of ‘breakthrough thinking’ across the arts and sci-
ences, Notebooks of the Mind, cognitive psychologist Vera John-Steiner
argues that images are a more nuanced form of representing ideas than
words (John-Steiner 1997: 109). This is not to suggest, of course, that
words such as the scene description within a screenplay cannot evoke
images for readers. Indeed, in his discussion of the evolution of screen-
play, Kevin Boon argues that the trend towards less technical informa-
tion within screenplays, and a more distilled, literary style has been
particularly pronounced over the last thirty years (Boon 2008). Boon
describes this transition as cinema and television shaking off the influ-
ences of staged theatre and developing its own distinct literary form.
He regards Robert Towne’s influential screenplay for Chinatown (1974)
as a significant marker in this evolution. For Boon, though, the object
of screenplay analysis is always this written documentation rather than
20
the processes and collaborations that are part of both the development
of the screen idea and its transformation into the screen work. Perhaps
this arises from the fact that in charting the transitions in the formatting
of the screenplay over the last century and more, Boon is primarily con-
cerned with making a case for the film script as a distinct literary form.
CROSS-PLATFORM WRITING
21
with YouTube, TiVo, instant messaging, MP3s and cell phones as well
as graphic novels are abandoning the idea of writing only for the mov-
ies. Instead they are embracing a more elastic, cross-platform approach.
According to some commentators, the era of the speculative script with
its armies of gatekeepers may have passed. US-based manager/pro-
ducer Paul Young, for example, encourages his comedy clients to film
excerpts from their speculative scripts and post them online. He sees
producers, studios and distributors looking beyond the printed page for
material to film. Many people are now used to watching material online
and do not expect it to have high production values, Young suggests
(Fernandez 2008).
CONCLUSION
We are all subject to what Susan Stewart calls the ‘self-periodisation
of popular culture’, to the ways in which shifts in technologies and
viewing platforms shape our experiences of viewing and watching
(Straw 2002: 313). Courier, a product of the 1950s, could perhaps be
regarded as the film industry equivalent of the Ploughman’s Lunch. If
the Ploughman’s Lunch was a fake heritage item devised in the 1980s
to bolster lunchtime trade in British pubs, then might we see Courier
as a font maintained by a nostalgic film industry to keep itself aligned
with the era of classic Hollywood?
Media theorists Henry Jenkins and David Thorburn challenge
the assumption that new technologies displace older systems with
decisive suddenness. ‘Media change is an accretive, gradual proc-
ess, always a mix of tradition and innovation, in which emerging
and established systems interact, shift and collude with each other’
(Jenkins and Thorburn 2003: x). So much of cinema did not begin
with film, but migrated across from earlier art forms and entertain-
ments. Consequently, cinema’s histories can be found in photog-
raphy, painting, portraiture, music, the fairground, the peep show,
picture palaces, vaudeville, theatre, the nickelodeon, magic shows,
travelogues, the illustrated lecture, the public science experiment,
the book, the typewriter and the architectural sketch. Digital cinema
continues to transform, to adapt and reconfigure itself. So much of
the current era, with its proliferation of digital technologies, returns
us to the beginnings of cinema and creates spaces to investigate
the paths that were not followed, the possibilities not explored; the
branching lines and loops, or the byways of cinema as Guy Maddin
describes them (Marlow 2007). Film theorist Robert Stam notes:
‘Pre-cinema and post-cinema have come to resemble each other.
Then, as now, everything seems possible’ (Stam 2000: 318). I think
the same is true for the screenplay. As Lawrence Lessig argues, the
most interesting ways to write are increasingly with images and
sounds in addition to text (Korman 2005). The processes of screen-
writing and film-making have been separated since the early years
of cinema when Thomas Harper Ince, Hollywood’s answer to Henry
22
REFERENCES
Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences (2008), A Few Notes on
Formatting, http://www.oscars.org/nicholl/format.html. Accessed 31
August 2008.
Boon, K. (2008), Script Culture and the American Screenplay, Detroit: Wayne
State University Press.
Bosley, R. (2001), ‘Infidelity in the Far East’, American Cinematographer, 82: 2,
pp. 22–33.
Brand Upon the Brain (2006), Wr: Guy Maddin, Louis Negin, Dir: Guy Maddin,
Canada, 95 mins.
Burnett, R. (1988), ‘Atom Egoyan: An Interview’, http://www2.cruzio.com/~
akreyche/aeai1.html. Accessed 24 May 2009.
Celtx (2009), http://celtx.com/overview.html. Accessed 24 May 2009.
Douglas, E. (2007), ‘Guy Maddin’s Brand Upon the Brain!’, interview with Guy
Maddin, http://www.comingsoon.net/news/movienews.php?id=20244.
Accessed 24 May 2009.
Dramatica (2009), http://www.dramatica/com. Accessed 8 June 2009.
Election (1999), Wr: Alexander Payne, Jim Taylor, Dir: Alexander Payne, USA,
103 mins.
Fernandez, Jay A. Evolution of a Screenwriter, Hollywood Reporter, 24th July,
2008. http://vivicardoso.blogspot.com/2008/08/evolution-of-screenwriter.
html Accessed 3rd August 2009.
Final Draft (2009), http://www.final draft.com. Accessed 8 June 2009.
Frameforge 3D (2009), http://www.frameforge3d.com. Accessed 3rd August
2009.
Geuens, J-P. (2000), Film Production Theory, New York: State University of
New York Press.
—— (2007) ‘The Space of Production’, Quarterly Review of Film and Video, 24:
5, pp. 411–20.
Gruber, H. and Wallace, D. (eds) (1989), Creative People at Work: Twelve
Cognitive Case Studies, Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Hine, T. (1989 [1986]), Populuxe, London: Bloomsbury.
Hyde, L. (2007), The Gift: Creativity and the Artist in the Modern World,
2nd edn., New York: Vintage.
Janaczewska, N. (2007), ‘The Development Sceptic’, Outlier-NJ, 19 December,
http://outlier-nj.blogspot.com. Accessed 24 May 2009.
Jenkins, H. and Thorburn, D. (eds) (2003), Rethinking Media Change: the
Aesthetics of Transition, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.
John-Steiner, V. (1997), Notebooks of the Mind: Explorations of Thinking, Oxford:
Oxford University Press.
Ketchner, Andrea (2006), Screenwriter Jim Taylor Talks Comics, http://www.tsl.
pomona.edu/index.php?article=1371. Accessed 3rd August 2009.
Koman, R. (2005), ‘Remixing Culture: An Interview with Lawrence Lessig’,
O’Reilly Network, http://www.oreillynet.com/pub/a/policy/2005/02/24/lessig.
html. Accessed 24 May 2009.
23
24
SUGGESTED CITATION
Millard, K. (2010), ‘After the typewriter: the screenplay in a digital era’, Journal
of Screenwriting 1: 1, pp. 11–25, doi: 10.1386/josc.1.1.11/1
CONTRIBUTOR DETAILS
Kathryn Millard is a writer and film-maker and is Associate Professor at
Macquarie University, Sydney. Her credits as writer, producer and director
include award-winning features, documentaries and essay films. Kathryn
publishes on topics including screenwriting, screen history, colour, pho-
tography, creativity and collaboration. She is currently carrying out further
research on the increasingly blurred boundaries between screenwriting and
pre-visualization software, and the creative possibilities that this represents
for screenwriters. Her feature-length essay film about Chaplin imitators, The
Boot Cake, was released in 2008.
Contact: Department of Media, Music and Cultural Studies, Macquarie
University, Sydney, Australia, 2109.
E-mail: kathryn.millard@mq.edu.au
25
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BRIDGET CONOR
University of London
‘Everybody’s a Writer’
Theorizing screenwriting
as creative labour
ABSTRACT KEYWORDS
This paper offers a theoretical agenda for a labourist analysis of screen- critical sociology
writing, and critically evaluates the marginal status of screenwriting creative labour
within film production systems. On the one hand, screenwriting offers an screenwriting
exemplary case study of creative work in post-modernized film production industrialization
industries, work characterized by freelancing and multivalent working pat- marginalization
terns, insecurity and hierarchization. Investigating screenwriting as creative collaboration
labour also offers unique insights into an intensely industrial vocation; this
requires a highly particular theorization of the contexts and conditions of
writers’ working lives.
This paper draws on sociological analyses of creative production and
utilizes a Foucauldian understanding of ‘technologies of the self’ as this
concept has been applied in the analysis of creative labour. This approach
enables a critical examination of particular aspects of screenwriting labour,
including the rigidity of the industrial screenplay form and its pedagogi-
cal frameworks, the standardized mechanisms of control over screenwriting
labour (such as inequitable collaboration and practices of multiple author-
ship), and the heady mix of both creative fulfilment and punishment which
characterizes this form of work.
27
INTRODUCTION
Syd Field’s (1994: 254) warning that ‘Everybody’s a Writer’ works
as a rhetorical device in his ‘how-to’ manual to describe the widely
held belief in Hollywood and beyond that many people aspire (but
often fail) to make a living as a screenwriter. Concurrently, Field’s
phrase warns that working screenwriters will constantly be offered
advice, comment, criticism and suggestions for improvement from
those they consult with, those who likely harbour dreams of success
and acclaim in the seductive world of film production like everyone
else. This paper presents a labourist analysis of screenwriting and
one which works to critically evaluate the marginal status of screen-
writing as a creative input within film production systems. On the
one hand, screenwriting offers an exemplary case study of creative
work in post-modernized film production industries, work charac-
terized by freelancing and multivalent working patterns, insecurity
and hierarchy. Investigating screenwriting as creative labour also
offers unique insights into a vocation that is often shaped by col-
lective organizing that bestows benefits and privileges not provided
for ‘below-the-line’ film workers. For Kohn (2000: 303) screenwrit-
ers now typically inhabit the familiar roles of new creative workers:
‘cosmopolitan, networked and networking, brazen, supremely self-
confident’ but argues that this masks a ‘hollowness’ and ‘insecurity’
which is perpetuated by the continued peripheral status of screen-
writing as a creative form.
I will argue in this article that the historical and continued margin-
alization of screenwriting labour can best be understood and analysed
by a) examining and critiquing standard theoretical paradigms for
‘creative labour’ practices, b) analysing how these standard paradigms
can be applied to screenwriting labour, and c) examining the unique
practices of screenwriting labour and the exceptional labour market
in which screenwriters work. This actively challenges key aspects of
established creative labour theory.
28
All have been employed in order to understand how the experiences of I. Immaterial labour is
defined as ‘…the
work have changed in recent decades and, particularly, how the work labour that produces
of artists and creatives is now constituted and experienced within the the informational and
postmodernized cultural industries. cultural content of the
commodity’ (Lazzarato
1996: 133). Hardt
and Negri argue that
LABOURING IN LATE CAPITALISM immaterial labour is
now a qualitative
Shifts in production organization since the 1970s and the rise of new hegemonic force within
postmodern production
working subjectivities have been analysed in numerous ways. There systems.
is a vast array of accounts of these changes which are largely within a 2. Note that the
‘liberal-democratic’ paradigm that celebrates them as progressive and autonomist-Marxists
both question the
humanitarian in the benefits they offer ‘post-modern’ workers (for adverse effects of
example see Aglietta 1979; Bell 1973; Castells 1996, 1997, 1998; Lash postmodernization
and post-Fordism for
and Urry 1987; Piore and Sabel 1984). This paradigm can also be seen immaterial labourers
at work in autonomist-Marxist accounts (see Hardt and Negri 2000, and also suggest
2004; Virno 2003; Lazzarato 1996) of these changes in production, the emancipatory
possibilities of
which focus on the nature of work in ‘informational’ societies. As immaterial labour,
Webster (2002) outlines, most theories of the ‘information society’ and but do not offer a
sustained critique
the shifts to postmodernized production systems focus on a number and lack empirical
of quantitative changes that, it is argued, have led to a qualitatively evidence to back up
new society. On the one hand, technological developments since the their philosophical
arguments. See Gill
1970s and the rise in the pervasive use of information and communi- and Pratt (2008) for a
cation technologies (ICTs) have been a starting point for analysis; for recent and very useful
discussion.
others, economic changes, particularly the measured increase in
the economic worth of ‘informational activities’ are paramount.
Occupational changes are also foregrounded – from a preponder-
ance of workers in primary and secondary occupational sectors to
the rise in service sector (tertiary) and now ‘information-processing’
or ‘symbol-manipulation’ (quaternary sector) jobs (Hardt and Negri
2000: 292). Post-Fordist writers have produced parallel accounts
of changes in various production sectors, from car manufacturing
to film production, that emphasize shifts from mass production to
small-batch production. Hardt and Negri (2000, 2004) offer a typi-
cal and influential reading of these changes, writing that the shift
from an industrial to a post-industrial or information society can
be termed the ‘postmodernization’ of production. Most importantly
Hardt and Negri argue that postmodernization ‘marks a new mode
of becoming human’ (2000: 289) and integral to this is the new and
central role for immaterial labour in many areas of productive life.1
The rise in the centrality of immaterial labour is tied in with changes
in production and work since the 1970s and modern management
techniques, which, Lazzarato argues, have increasingly sought to
co-opt the soul of the worker – to make the worker’s personality
and subjectivity ‘susceptible to organisation and control’ (Lazzarato
1996: 134).
The conceptual problems with broadly ‘liberal-democratic’ theo-
ries of changes in production organization and more specific the-
ories of immaterial labour2 are their tendencies (both subtle and
29
3. For example, de overt) to celebrate the ‘freedom’ and ‘autonomy’ which post-Fordism,
Peuter and Dyer-
Witheford (2005) flexible specialization and other incantations of the ‘information
have emphasized society’ promise, thus often masking issues of increased exploita-
the consequences tion, precariousness, marginalization and discrimination which new
of the now stark
divisions of labour forms of immaterial work have also made visible.3 Whilst they have
within postmodern or varying philosophical agendas, they also tend to lack empirical evi-
post-Fordist production
systems – separating dence for the trends they discuss, or they offer quantitative data
out high-tech research on changes in occupational structures (Bell 1973 for example) but
and development
workers in Silicon
then make sweeping claims about changes to the nature of work
Valley from young and society whilst neglecting the continuities also visible between
women in developing industrial and informational capitalism.4 In fact, such theories also
nations who assemble
microchips for example. raise further issues by using ambiguous concepts such as ‘immate-
New hierarchies within rial labour’ or ‘symbol-manipulation’ to crudely hierarchize labour in
post-Fordist workforces
often reinforce traditional
new and problematic ways (between skilled/creative and unskilled/
stratifications along non-creative jobs for example). Such theories, whilst providing
gender, ethnic and important tools for understanding the disparate changes precipitated
socio-economic
lines, issues which by declining manufacturing industries, rising employment in new
proponents of post- types of ‘immaterial’ work, and the pervasive influence of informa-
industrial or information
societies and workers tion technology, offer a partial and distorted theoretical framework
often neglect entirely. for understanding changes in labouring practices in late capitalism.
4. Castells (1996, 1997, Critical sociological frameworks that recognize these changes, but
1998) offers a more
nuanced account of also foreground the marginalization of labour within ‘knowledge
these changes, arguing economies’, provide a sharper and more incisive theoretical frame-
for both transformation
and continuity and work. These accounts have some affiliation with the earlier seminal
is one of the most work of Braverman (1974) and labour process theorists who provide
authoritative scholars
on these various trends.
the most scathing critique of the degradation of work in advanced
5. Braverman and labour capitalism, emphasizing the spuriousness of claims made about
process theorists have labour ‘flexibility’ (for example Pollert 1988). However, Braverman is
been criticized for
their ‘neo-Luddism’, now dated and has also been extensively criticized and this signals
for romanticising that a more sophisticated approach is needed to questions of labour
forms of brutalizing
industrial work and for
in postmodern production systems.5 I argue that critical sociology
embodying a ‘radical coupled with a neo-Foucauldian understanding of governmentality
pessimism’ which and ‘technologies of the self’, as they are mobilized within working
leaves little room for
the subjectivities of selves, offers a more satisfying critical base.
workers themselves (see
Dyer-Witheford 2004).
As Blair (2003) notes,
the ‘missing subject’ CREATIVE LABOUR
within Braverman’s The theories outlined above have been mobilized to examine the par-
work has been a
sticking point for many. ticular changes that are visible within creative occupations and the
production of cultural goods. Certain cultural industries such as the
Hollywood production system have been analysed as exhibiting a
post-Fordist model in its changing organization (from mass production
to independent and contract forms of film-making, see Christopherson
& Storper 1986, 1989; Storper 1989, 1993) and the term ‘immaterial
labour’ has been utilized in relation to creative occupations within
new media production (such as game developers, see de Peuter and
Dyer-Witheford 2005). Celebratory accounts of a new ‘creative class’
(for example Leadbeater 1999; Landry 2000; Florida 2004) have argued
30
that the freelancers and independent creative workers have become 6. Ursell (2000) also
provides an important
more visible within the economic growth patterns of cities and nations. account of self-
These workers are described as the vanguard of the workforce in ‘post- enterprise in television
industrial’ societies, embodying the traits – entrepreneurialism, networked, production work as
a powerful form of
multivalent, flexible – most valued in advanced, neo-liberal economies. pleasure in creative
These celebratory accounts have, in turn, been taken up by governments work and thus also a
technology of the self.
keen to invest in their ‘creative industries’ and ‘knowledge economies’
and hoping to reap both economic and cultural rewards. Thus discus-
sions and analyses of creative labour are developing at a particularly
interesting and rich intersection of a number of theoretical and policy-
directed paradigms.
Critical sociological accounts of creative labour (such as Ryan 1991;
McRobbie 1998, 2002a, 2002b, 2004; Ursell 2000; Blair 2001, 2003; Gill
2002, 2007; Ross 2003) provide an incisive basis for analysis when
combined with a Foucauldian understanding of work and subjectiv-
ity, and this mitigates against simplistic accounts of brutalized and
exploited workers. As Hesmondhalgh writes in his assessment of
theories of creative labour as they have developed in recent years, the
work of McRobbie and Ross provide the most promising openings
because, ‘they join theoretical sophistication with empirical sociologi-
cal analysis of the specific discourses of creativity and self-realization
in particular industries’ (2007: 67).
The most penetrating accounts of creative labour to date (McRobbie,
Ross, Ursell) have illuminated trends in late capitalist workplaces
(towards increased individualization, self-reflexivity and uncertainty; see
also Beck 1992, Du Gay 1996; Sennett 1998; Bauman 2001) whilst also
offering prescient critiques of neo-liberal working cultures and claims to
increased freedom and creativity in work. What these accounts do not
neglect, unlike labour process theory and some sociological accounts, is
the self in work. A Foucauldian perspective focuses on the ‘technologies
of the self’ or ‘self-steering mechanisms’ (Foucault 1988) that creative
workers embody and employ in order to conduct themselves in their
work. Thus buzz-words such as ‘freedom’ and ‘flexibility’ within creative
labour practices are ‘new languages and techniques to bind the worker
into the productive life of society’ (Rose 1990: 60) and are also embod-
ied and enacted by workers themselves. Angela McRobbie writes:
31
32
wages set by the US Writers Guilds for writing a treatment or first draft 8. The ‘Schedule of
Minimums’ is broken
in comparison with the very high retainers which are paid to the few up into yearly periods
‘sought-after ’ screenwriters at any particular point in time. Within the from 2008–2011
2008 Writers Guild of America ‘Schedule of Minimums’, the delivery and these figures are
for the first period
of an original screenplay, including treatment,8 ranges from US$58,477 effective 2/13/08 to
to US$109, 783. Figures for the top end of the pay spectrum are more 5/1/09. See Writers
Guild of America
difficult to accurately document9 but widely cited examples in the last (2008).
ten years include the fees paid to writer-directors such as M. Night 9. A number of factors
are influential
Shyamalan, paid US$5 million for Unbreakable in 2000 (Anon 2009) here including the
and David Koepp, paid US$3.5 million for Zathura: A Space Adventure commercial sensitivity
(2005) (Laporte 2004). Published interviews with screenwriters are also of these top-end
figures for production
littered with references to the glamour, excitement, creative fulfilment companies and studios
and prestige possible within the industry as compelling reasons to pur- as well as for the
established writers. But
sue such work. Again, creative screenwriting labour like other crea- also and even more
tive occupations offers simultaneous limitations and rewards, potential slippery, the notorious
autonomy and creative freedom as well as exploitation and insecurity Hollywood rumour mill
which thrives on such
and these are not binary oppositions but are enmeshed within the eve- speculative figures
ryday working experiences of screenwriters. serves to inflate hype
and prestige around
Broadly, screenwriting labour must be separated out from the particular projects
theorizations of other creative labour forms firstly because of the during the development
inherently industrial nature of the work – screenwriting is a histori- process. Arguably,
this further veils the
cal and contemporary industrial creative labour form which exemplifies material conditions of
idiosyncratic characteristics, enables distinctive working experiences the pay negotiations
that are routinely
and facilitates particular mechanisms of organization and control. For conducted within the
screenwriters, the inherent industrialization of their largely independ- industry, distorting
the perception both
ent, creative, pre-production or inception-oriented work means that within and outside
they have always experienced their labour as highly intensive and screenwriting labour
personal; individualized and collaborative; competitive and hierar- networks about what
screenplays and
chized; marginalized and elite – which then offers a rich mixture of screenwriting work
both pleasures and pains (Caldwell uses the term ‘trade pain’, 2008: is ‘really worth’ and
perpetuating such
221) which can only be understood by examining both the historical catch-all industrial
and contemporary industrial conditions within which screenwriting axioms as ‘nobody
functions. knows anything’
(see Goldman 1996).
10. Because the focus
of this theorization is
INDUSTRIAL FILM PRODUCTION AND SCREENWRITING industrial screenwriting
labour, it is important
LABOUR MARKETS to examine the
In particular, the development and contemporary workings of the Hollywood labour
market as the
Hollywood labour market in which screenwriters now function10 industrial centre for
provides key insights into the unique set of trends and conditions film production and
screenwriting work
that mark out the distinctive case of film writers as creative workers. particularly. Certainly
A brief examination of some of these trends and conditions in the British writers work
outside this centre
industry’s ‘post-Fordist’ phase emphasizes not only this uniqueness but with British film
(unionized creative workers are rare for example) but the clear paral- production inextricably
lels with other forms of creative work that encourage partialization tied into Hollywood-
centric networks of
for most workers – hierarchization, a dual labour market, entrenched film-making, writers
insecurity, individualization and compulsory entrepreneurialism. constantly engage with
and function within
Dichotomies that have now developed in the film production industries
33
these networks. Many and the screenwriting labour market specifically, signal these issues –
British writers belong
to the US Writers above vs. below-the-line, and entrepreneur property-holders vs.
Guilds (more so than wage workers for example.
the UK Writers Guild) Scott (2005) provides an analysis of the increased hierarchiza-
and have US-based
agents. See UK Film tion of the Hollywood labour market in the period since the 1950s,
Council (2007) for one emphasizing the externalization of the employment relation and the
of the few studies of
writers for British films shift to predominantly temporary and freelance work for film work-
which highlights these ers. Scott (2005) and Miller, Govil, McMurria, Maxwell and Wang
dynamics.
(2005) write that a key element of this profound change was codified
within the new classification system which distinguished workers
according to labour-market power and was then enshrined within
the production budgets of the films themselves. So ‘above-the-line’
workers (such as stars, directors and writers) considered to be the
key creative inputs for a film, have individually negotiated salaries,
are guild represented and ‘are named explicitly as line item entries
in any project budget’ (Scott 2005: 121). Miller et al. (2005: 119)
note that these workers are subjectively viewed as ‘creative’ and
‘proactive’. In comparison, ‘below-the-line’ workers are the mass
of ‘reactive’ or proletarian workers whose wages are determined by
collective agreements or wage schedules.
Christopherson (1996) analyses the consequent shifts in the rela-
tionships between workers and firms in Hollywood after the 1950s
and argues that as the major studios divested themselves of once per-
manent workforces and began subcontracting production, there were
concomitant changes in labour organizations – mechanisms such
as health and pension benefit schemes and certification of skill and
experience came under threat and the unions were forced to adapt.
Particular strategies in response to flexible specialization were a roster
system to certify skills based on seniority and experience, health and
pension systems independent of any one employer and a system of
residuals payments for creative workers (Christopherson 1996: 103).
Overall these changes made it possible to ‘maintain and reproduce
a skilled and specialised labour force without long-term employment
contracts’ (Christopherson 1996: 104).
Christopherson also provides insight into new hierarchies that
emerged within the labour force at this time. She states:
34
These new hierarchies are fundamentally important to the exceptional 11. This is reflected by
the large number of
analysis of screenwriting labour – while on the one hand, their sta- possible modes of
tus as ‘above-the-line’, creative and ‘proactive’ workers bestows some screenwriting work
prestige on the profession overall (and enables certain levels of job now mobilized which
link to variable pay
security and industrial power in the form of the Writers Guilds), signif- rates, e.g. treatments,
icant hierarchization is now a feature of the profession and this opens first and subsequent
drafts, rewrites,
up new fault-lines and serves to stratify workers within the field. polishes and so on.
Christopherson also identifies the new entrepreneurial culture that 12. In 2007–2008 the
most recent strike
developed and contributed to new divisions of labour, as well as new action of the Writers
opportunities for acquisition of skills and working alliances across the Guilds in the United
production sector. As she puts it: States highlighted
residuals payments as
a key area in which
The historical social division of labour between craft and tal- screenwriters continue
to fight to maintain
ent, manager and worker, was undermined and new divisions, security and some
such as those between entrepreneur-property holders and wage control over their
workers, were constructed. This transformation created new ten- work. In eighteen of
twenty-one strikes by
sions between individual skills and collective identities. above-the-line guilds
(Christopherson 1996: 108) since 1952, the issue
of residuals was the
major or at least a
Scott argues that Hollywood’s occupational structure can now be prominent issue (Paul
viewed as two overlapping pyramids, ‘one representing the manual, and Kleingartner
1996: 172).
crafts and technical workers in the industry, the other – which has
many more tiers in the upper ranges – representing the creative or
talent workers’ (2005: 127). Scott also writes that the labour market is
characterized by an intricate system of occupational categories (now
codified within collective bargaining agreements) that illustrates the
myriad divisions of labour both above- and below-the-line and which
then often links directly to rates of pay, credits awarded to various
roles undertaken on particular films and prestige and status within the
industry.11 The creative pyramid of the labour system is characterized
by chronic bloating at the base of the employment pyramid because,
as Scott illustrates, there is a constant over-supply of ‘aspirants’ who
are then slowly filtered through the system along various paths: into
routine, relatively secure ‘day jobs’ such as television writing; out of
the industry altogether; or up into the higher echelons, where reputa-
tion, credits, asking prices and interpersonal networks all play signifi-
cant roles in maintaining one’s status (Scott 2005: 128). Networking
is also complemented, for Scott, by other ‘instruments of social coor-
dination’ (2005: 130) such as the prevalence of intermediaries (talent
agents, managers etc.). This also means that particular mechanisms of
control become the pivots of prestige and security within the screen-
writing labour market, such as the complex processes of residuals pay-
ments and credit allocation.12
I argue that at one level there are two broad modes of industrial-
ized screenwriting labour which can be identified and which broadly
determine the amount of autonomy and authority individual writers
have to control their own creative work and the uses to which that
work is put. This fits within the ‘dual labour market’ picture outlined
35
36
and into other industrial film production contexts such as in the UK; 13. For example Thomas
see Stempel 1988, and Norman 2007 for historical accounts in the Ince is cited as
ushering in a process
US). For example, the divisions of labour formalized in the Studio of script development
era of Hollywood production, which separated out conception from and film production
which separated
execution and offered a standardized screenplay model,13 can be conception from
highlighted, as well as the coordinated mechanisms of control that execution. In evidence
here is the first sign of
solidified routine practices such as multiple authorship in the film the degradation of the
production system, eroding claims to individual creative authorship screenwriter’s creative
by screenwriters.14 Changes in the organization of the film produc- process under the
strictures of an industrial
tion industry have certainly followed broader changes in production production system.
organization but, again, screenwriters cannot be analysed as exempli- As Staiger writes, the
application of scientific
fying new, flexible, post-Fordist labour practices. management to screen
Firstly, this is because screenwriters have always and continue to production leads to a
be inherently individualized and atomized in the experiences of their separation which
‘…destroys an ideal
working lives – by nature of their work and its placement in the incep- of the whole person,
tion stages of a film production, often before a ‘project-team’ has even both the creator and
the producer of one’s
been assembled. Simultaneously, writers are called into being within ideas’ (1982: 96, my
daily industrial working contexts as collaborative and therefore inher- emphasis). Arguably
ently partial – their work only becomes productive, useful and thus this separation is
applied vigorously
meaningful when it is subject to development, notes, and input from to screenwriting
other film-makers. It is then produced in filmic form, leading to a con- in later years and
is thus acutely felt
stant and chaotic tension between individualized and collaborative by screenwriters
modes of work.15 So, whilst some screenwriters may work in teams, themselves.
14. The strategies of a
most experience the writing itself as solitary, even if working within studio boss such as
larger television writing teams or other agglomerations. Also, more Irving Thalberg can be
commonly, they experience competition on numerous professional highlighted here – he
developed the routine
levels as well as both productive and punishing forms of collaboration practice of hiring
during the writing process. Examples of this potent mix of solitude, multiple writers and/
or teams of writers for
competition and collaboration can be seen in the narratives recounted a single project without
by screenwriters such as Mark Andrus (who co-wrote As Good As It the others’ knowing;
Gets, 1997, with James L. Brooks without the two writers ever meet- see Stempel (1988:
71) for an account
ing; see Katz 2000).16 Ron Bass’s self-described ‘ordeal’ writing Rain of this and Norman
Man (1988) is another telling example (Engel 2002: 55); his experience (2007: 135), who
refers to this by the
involved initial collaborative work with Stephen Spielberg, a firing insider term ‘following’.
with the arrival of a new director (Sydney Pollack) and the eventual re- 15. This is the premise
hiring of Bass. Macdonald (2004: 204–5, citing Petrie 1996) also pro- and focus of Becker’s
sociological account
vides a fascinating inventory of the collaboration between the Scottish of collaborative
actor and writer-director Peter Capaldi and Miramax in 1995–1996, networks and collective
production within ‘art
which includes numerous approvals and disapprovals, suggested worlds’: ‘Art worlds
rewrites, delays and a threat to bring on a new writer.17 consist of all the
people whose activities
Additionally, the creative drive of screenwriting labour is and has are necessary to the
historically been highly marginalized but this must be simultane- production of the
ously viewed alongside the organized (and thus securitized) and elite characteristic works
which that world, and
positionings of screenwriters. The liminal status of the screenwriter perhaps others as well,
as an author/artist and the questionable status of the screenplay as lit- define as art’ (2008:
34).
erature or art (visible in the rhetoric of auteur theory for example18) 16. This practice
are important elements of broader arguments for crude marginaliza- of ‘distanced
tion and brutalization of screenwriting but these discussions cannot collaboration’ is
37
38
practices such as ‘inequitable collaboration’22 which dilutes the author- qualitative, empirical
research, will mirror
ity of the screenwriter as a primary creative input and therefore affects Hesmondhalgh’s
the ability of the screenwriter to maintain control of their own work. ideal approach
for creative labour
Also, the entrepreneurial mechanisms that require constant network- research: ‘…theoretical
ing, pitching, negotiation and meeting-taking are all practices that can sophistication...[and]
discourage screenwriters in their pursuit of secure and rewarding work empirical sociological
analysis of the specific
or force them to ‘play the game’ (often to their detriment) within a discourses of creativity
corporate cultural production system. All these factors are experienced and self-realisation in
particular industries’
by screenwriters at the deepest levels of the self – ‘how-to’ screenwrit- (2007: 67).
ing manuals that encourage writers to put their hearts and souls into 21. Ryan’s analysis terms
their writing then, on the following pages, remind writers to subject this ‘formatting’ ‘loosely-
connected parameters
and adapt those screenwriting selves to the everyday vicissitudes and pointing to preferred
brutalities of the industry. outcomes’ (1991:
180), but which
However, all this does not preclude the very real benefits that nonetheless exert a
screenwriting labour provides and the creative and artistic, as well ‘coercive power’ over
as economic, rewards which the work offers. As Caldwell writes in creative labouring such
as screenwriting.
relation to the resilience of the film and television production indus- 22. I use this term to
tries and workers, ‘reflexivity operates as a creative process involving connote particular
routine practices
human agency and critical competence at the local cultural level as and discourses,
much as a discursive process establishing power at the broader social perpetuated within the
film production industry
level’ (2008: 33). Screenwriters are able to exercise creative autonomy over time and now
and freedom not possible for many other film production workers; invoked in ‘how-to’
they can and do experience fruitful collaborations with fellow creatives screenwriting manuals
and within production
and may be rewarded with both high remuneration and also critical meetings that routinely
rewards and recognition. It is this rich mix of individualization and col- place screenwriters
in the position of
laboration, constraint and reward, exploitation and autonomy within (as Macdonald,
this work that an examination of screenwriting as creative labour can 2004, terms it),
illuminate. supplicants. These
practices demand
and/or assume that
screenwriters be
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SUGGESTED CITATION
Conor, B. (2010), ‘‘Everybody’s a Writer’ Theorizing screenwriting as creative
labour’, Journal of Screenwriting 1: 1, pp. 27–43, doi: 10.1386/josc.1.1.27/1
CONTRIBUTOR DETAILS
Bridget Conor is a Ph.D. candidate in the media and communication stud-
ies department of Goldsmiths College, University of London. Her disserta-
tion is a critical analysis of screenwriting as creative labour in the British
42
and North American film industries. She is also a lecturer in media and
film theory in the UK. Previously, Bridget taught and studied in Auckland,
New Zealand, her research focusing on the globalisation of the New
Zealand film industry.
Contact: Goldsmiths College, 8 Lewisham Way, New Cross London, SE14 6NW.
E-mail: cop01bc@gold.ac.uk
43
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IAN W. MACDONALD
University of Leeds
ABSTRACT KEYWORDS
The Screen Idea Work Group (SIWG) is a flexibly constructed group organ- Screen Idea Work
ized around the development and production of a screen idea; a hypotheti- Group (SIWG)
cal grouping of those professional workers involved in conceptualizing and screenwriter
developing fictional narrative work for any particular moving image screen interviews
idea. In this article, I use the notion of the SIWG to draw together the views doxa
of key workers about how the process of screen idea development works – or best practice
doesn’t. My findings are based on a small ethnographic study I undertook craft skills
in 2004, in which, through in-depth semi-structured interviews with seven production analysis
SIWG workers, I attempted to understand how they came to occupy their
role, how they felt their judgements were made and received, and how far
the SIWG’s view of the screen idea accorded with the screenwriting doxa
(characterized as how to do a ‘good’ piece of work). As detailed below, their
answers were concerned with status, a sense of self-worth and respect,
points of tension, power, control, collaboration and trust, and the nature of
the doxa itself.
45
1. For example, the UK If you believe the stories, film and TV screenwriters are frequently
professional journal
Scriptwriter has struggling in an already tough freelance business.1 They are misunder-
included articles fairly stood, unappreciated and ignored, and what creative power they have
regularly on what is neutralized before anything gets going. Their one bargaining chip –
is wrong with the
industry’s relationship their creative idea – is exchanged for a contract, and from that point on
with the screenwriter, they are at the mercy of anyone that has even junior executive status.
such as in issues 6
(September 2002), 7 One writer I talked to (on condition of anonymity) was bitter about
(November 2002), the treatment he’d received from film and TV companies, who wanted
8 (January 2003),
10 (May 2003),
his scripts but not his opinions once he had delivered his drafts:
15 (March 2004),
17 (July 2004), 21
(March 2005), 22 [I] mostly have to deal with idiots [who] don’t know what I do,
(May 2005)… etc.
2. See, for example, how difficult it is. The pay is ridiculous in the UK. Meetings
Bourdieu (1984; can easily be cancelled… [there is a] courtesy problem. [I also
1993; 1996).
3. The doxa is therefore
have experience outside the UK] – but instead they want me to
the internalized disappear. There’s a lot riding on it for me, so it’s not surprising
practice of a set of that I’m neurotic and nervous.
norms based around
a particular orthodoxy. (Writer ‘B’ 2003)
The doxa also informs
the habitus, and the
feeling of ‘rightness’ So what is the screenwriter’s role in relation to the development of the
that comes with the screen idea, and to the others involved in that process? I have argued
doxa will contribute
to the (re-)composition previously (Macdonald 2004a) that the study of screenwriting as a
of the habitus. This practice can be approached using Pierre Bourdieu’s concept of ‘habi-
disposes the ‘agent’
to make judgements
tus’, which he developed to describe how individuals form a system of
in the same or similar dispositions within a culture and area of activity, and which then work
way in the future, in an to structure practice.2 Habitus provides the practice with its normative
almost circular fashion.
4. For more information codes, which are (re-)internalized as ‘best practice’, craft skills and so
on this study, see on. Best practice becomes the doxa – the way we feel it is done best in
Macdonald (2004c),
Chapter 7. the rules of the game – which is articulated as an orthodoxy or doc-
trine via manuals and other ‘how-to’ books and articles.3
Secondly, I have argued that such practice congregates around
a shared screen idea rather than focusing on a specific written text
(Macdonald 2004b). Thirdly, I have also suggested the idea of a Screen
Idea Work Group (SIWG) as a flexible and semi-formal work unit that
congregates around the screen idea, and whose members contribute to
its development (Macdonald 2004c; 2008). In this article I describe the
notion of the SIWG, based on a small ethnographic study undertaken
in 2004. In this I attempted, through in-depth semi-structured inter-
views with seven SIWG workers, to understand how these workers
viewed their creative involvement, and how they believed it worked in
relation to each other and to their industrial context.4 The quote above
comes from a screenwriter interviewed for this project.
The Screen Idea Work Group is a conceit; it is a researcher’s way
of understanding how a process takes place around something that is
non-existent (the screen idea). The concept is taken from the ‘flexible
work group’ referred to by Helen Blair (2001, 2003), where she talked
of a figuration – using Norbert Elias’ term – of networks of interde-
pendence between freelance workers in a fairly closed industry. It is
46
a flexibly constructed work group organized around the development 5. The well known and
respected TV adaptor
and production of a screen idea; a hypothetical grouping of those pro- Andrew Davies offered
fessional workers (with, potentially, a few non-professionals) involved an amusing and
in conceptualizing and developing fictional narrative work for any revealing example of
his relationship with his
particular moving image screen idea. director in his 1995
Of course one could argue that the kind of opinion contained Royal TV Society Huw
Wheldon Lecture
in this quote from Screenwriter B above is not confined to writers, (Davies 1995).
and that ridiculously low pay, short cuts around courtesy and a lack
of interest in previous experience is what some other people also put
up with in the film and TV industry. These kinds of comments are
individual reactions to the way the film and TV industries are organ-
ized, and also represent the common understanding in the business of
‘how it works’ (or the doxa). People know it’s a tough business, and
there may even be a rough sense of pride in surviving it.
However, the negative and personal nature of such comments still
characterize such problems as fixable at the individual level, or as issues
for strategic action. There is little sense that they might be systemic,
entrenched in the doxa itself. In other words, the assumption – whether
generally negative or not – appears to be that better treatment for
screenwriters lies in recognizing their authority as true originators of the
screen idea, and therefore of their deeper, more fundamental understand-
ing of it. Screenwriters deserve higher status and better treatment (the
argument might go) because they know the idea better than others. But it
stops short of demanding change to the system, of (for example) claiming
an authority for the writer that might trump the director. In practice some
of those writers who have developed a personal status that might be
powerful enough to cross that demarcation line, shy away from claiming
it.5 Others, like Dennis Potter, seek more power by becoming hyphenates
(e.g. writer-producer, writer-director), which solves an individual prob-
lem without changing what appears to characterize the writer’s role.
Some production studies, like Georgina Born’s 1997 study of news
production in the BBC (Born, 2002) reveal, as David Hesmondhalgh
says, what creative staff struggle with – real dilemmas and difficul-
ties involved in making public service broadcasting (Hesmondhalgh
2006: 83). This emphasizes the inner dynamics of institutions while
also suggesting ‘the continuing existence of spaces where relative inde-
pendence can exist’ (Hesmondhalgh 2006: 84). I suggest that study-
ing the conceptualization of fiction production for the moving image
in terms of firstly the doxa, and secondly of the specific practices of
the SIWG, can be useful in understanding the link between produc-
tion practices and text. It could explain how ‘relatively independent’
working is encouraged, shaped, directed and channelled as well as
constrained; and also how that process informs the development of the
screen idea into something this group of workers recognizes as legiti-
mate in their understanding of a moving image narrative. In this article
I use the notion of the SIWG to draw together the views of key work-
ers about how they perceive the process of screen idea development
works – or doesn’t.
47
6. For example, Todd This kind of study is, I suggest, a form of production analysis
Gitlin’s excellent
analysis of the US which concentrates on the early conceptualization of the production.
networks in the 1980s Production analysis can help in understanding why a screenwork is like
(1985); or Feuer, it is, but such studies often concentrate on the later and practical ele-
Kerr and Vahimagi’s
useful study of the ments of production post- script development, and are usually descrip-
MTM production tive of specific cases. This limits the generalizations that might be made.6
company (1980).
Roger Silverstone’s Individual biographies or production diaries are also helpful in under-
Framing Science standing the creative context, but again such approaches reinforce the
(1985) is a good
example of a factual
sense of individual actions taken in the context of a specified role within
production analysis. a production – Hesmondhalgh’s space of ‘relative independence’. In
All these include useful relation to the study of screen idea development in general, however,
information about
early screen idea two suggestions offer areas for further consideration. First, John Corner
development, but the has suggested that the development of screen ideas from pre-production
focus on individual
cases makes it harder
through to viewing the final film can be seen as a series of transfor-
to draw general mations (Corner 2008: 125). The direction of these transformations
conclusions about is influenced by (or even determined by) decisions made in response
common patterns of
development. to specific and significant elements – from TV network policy to ele-
7. For example, Parker ments identifying a particular company style, to practical interventions
(1998: 42–43),
McKee (1999: 415) in project development like changes in location, budget, schedule or
or Cattrysse (2003). even censorship rulings. In relation to these elements, the more overt
See also Patrick judgements and decisions usually occur some way into the production
Cattrysse’s article in
this issue of the Journal process. However, less obvious is what informs decisions made in the
of Screenwriting. early stages, when people are assessing and developing the perceived
general worth of the screen idea. This occurs in the perhaps ‘purer’
air of script development rather than in pre-production proper, where
realities intrude on creative suggestions.
Second, as Newcomb and Lotz have suggested (2002: 76), the
emphasis on struggles and power relations in accounts of produc-
tion sometimes obscures the collaborative nature of such work, which
also obscures the nature of that collaboration and what underpins it.
It may be easier to observe decisions made in response to the kinds of
changes mentioned above, than it is to identify the quieter decisions
made in agreement with others. But one assumption must surely be
that screenwriters and their colleagues wish to reach amicable agree-
ment about the screen idea and its meanings, and that such collabora-
tion is an important factor in deciding the eventual screenwork.
Before looking more closely at the transformations, collaborations
and conflicts within the SIWG, two observations on the conventional
framework within which screenwriters are invited to work – the current
doxa – are pertinent, as this is the basis for collaboration and communi-
cation. Usually referred to as ‘craft skills’, the doxa is well documented
in manuals and underpinned by courses for budding screenwriters, and
by the UK’s training agency for screenwriting, Skillset, when approving
such courses. The professional discourse of screenwriting has recently
become more overt with a proliferation of works during the last fifteen
years, marked by increasing discussion in the professional arena about
specific aspects of orthodox practice such as terminological incon-
sistency.7 Screenwriting manuals reinforce the status quo, while their
48
proliferation offers the impression of difference in the field. However, 8. To get a clearer sense
of the extent of this
there is little or no difference. The point is that they all offer a consistent ‘normalisation’, in
normative framework representing a specific approach to storytelling on 2003 I conducted
screen, even where there is some variation between what Philip Parker a representative
survey of concepts
has called the ‘new structuralists’ (2000: 66) and those presenting ‘alter- and terminology. I
natives’ such as Dancyger and Rush (2002).8 Secondly it is important to analysed twelve
manuals (six British
note this as a discourse which characterizes the process of screenwriting and six US), and
as individual, personal and oriented towards a goal that is qualitative cross-referenced
the similarities. An
and universal – that is, possessing merits independent of its industrial analysis of terms and
brief. It connects the industrial need of commercial film-making with the concepts produced
subjective mindset of an individual worker, and it makes a clear appeal a very close fit. For a
full account of this see
to the screenwriter to put aside any questions, and immerse themselves Macdonald (2004c),
in the process of writing. Debate within the doxa is usually restricted to chapter 3.
9. The concept of elective
ways of understanding the orthodoxy – the secrets of how it is done. This interaction with others,
is seductive, as it offers systematic help to the struggling individual, and in a hybrid activity
promises you can write any content as long as it is written ‘this’ way. between consumer and
producer – ‘prosumers’
Of course screenwriting is only ‘individual’ for as long as it takes for or ‘produsers’ – has
the writer – working within the doxa – to complete the first draft (or even been discussed
recently, e.g. by Bruns
treatment). When this is produced, the screen idea is then developed (2008).
through a social process amongst a ‘community of practitioners’, as Bill 10. The importance of
Nichols put it (1991: 14). However, this is not a democratic community the screenplay as
text is also implicit
as Nichols implies in his model (though there are democratic elements in academic studies
to it), and neither is it elective or self-nominating as Internet groups are.9 such as Sternberg
(1997). She also
Drawn together for the purpose of developing the screen idea, the Screen makes the point that
Idea Work Group simply refers collectively to all those who have some it is an ‘unstable’
document open to
direct connection with the development of the screen idea. various interpretations
This notion of the SIWG allows us to consider the screen idea devel- (Sternberg 1997: 1),
opment process both in general terms and in terms of what is specific effectively allowing
its unreliability and
to that particular production. We can avoid being limited to discussion partial nature. See
of activity linked to an individual role as currently demarcated, such as also Pasolini ([1966]
1977).
what the director commonly does or does not do. We might identify how
judgements and decisions are made within the changing flux of power
relations in this group, and in relation to screen idea and to the industrial
field and the field of power. We might consider the habitus of the individ-
uals, the extent of the constraints and possible spaces allowed for nego-
tiation within the field of film and TV drama production, the imported
status of those individuals, the social power they actually wield, and the
actual negotiation processes involved in the working of that SIWG.
It is, I claim, easier to think of a group working in both formal and
informal ways to shape this screen idea than it is to accept the com-
monly described linear model of a succession of individuals crafting a
script like some kind of object passing down a Fordist production line.
I suggest it also helps to get away from focusing on the importance of
the script itself; not as a document of record, because it is clearly the
main written evidence of the screen idea, and the main document that
people work with,10 but because the people around it are not working
with the script alone. They work with their notion of the screen idea in
the contexts of that document and of that particular group.
49
50
White 3 3 6
Non-white 1 0 1
Male 2 2 4
Female 1 2 3
Film experience* 2 4 6
TV experience* 2 4 6
London location 2 3 5
Regional location 1 1 2
*NB: Some interviewees appear in both these categories. Source: author’s analysis
of interviewee information, 2003/2004.
script reader (TV) and a development executive (film). They also repre-
sented some key differences in gender, race, industry experience, and
location within and outside London. I was trying to understand what
went on in general, using specific but different experiences to build up
a composite picture of conventional practice.
In semi-structured interviews lasting 60–90 minutes I asked inter-
viewees questions designed to elicit how they got to occupy their role,
how they felt their judgements were made and received, how far the
SIWG’s view of the screen idea accorded with the screenwriting doxa,
and what might have shaped, constrained or restrained the judge-
ments of those involved. I asked them about screen idea development,
the concept of ‘good’ screenwriting, the training of screenwriters and
their sense of the audience. Their answers came back as being con-
cerned with status, sense of self-worth and respect, points of ten-
sion, power, control, collaboration and trust; as well as being about
the nature of the ‘doxa’ (characterized as how to do a ‘good’ piece of
work). The three writers, the director and script reader discussed their
personal power in negative terms, with only the development exec
and the producer appearing to be satisfied with their personal power
and status. This seemed to be based on their direct experiences of
treatment received, with all giving examples. The writers in particular
talked of being ‘constantly rejected’ (Writer B 2003) and ‘being locked
out of decisions’ (Writer A 2003) and of being led into directions they
were not inclined to go down; ‘all the banging your head against a wall
thinking yes, but this isn’t what I wanted to write’ (Writer F 2004).
The opposition of power and control versus collaboration and trust
was a balance important to all interviewees, and this seems to go to
the heart of the operation of a SIWG. Good experiences were those
51
11. ‘Format’ here refers to in which the interviewee felt both empowered and trusted, as well as
shape, style, tone and
genre of this series, not trusting the judgement of colleagues; and unsurprisingly these occurred
(necessarily or only) to with people of similar backgrounds and experience. Bad experiences
script format. were those where there was disagreement leading to a breakdown of
trust, which seemed to happen when there was a change in person-
nel or direction of the project for external reasons, together with a
difference in cultural vision. It was a separation of views of the screen
idea that seemed to lead to breakdowns in trust, the point where what
might be an undercurrent of differences in opinion became less of a
negotiation and more of a power struggle.
52
result of a shift in the operation of the SIWG, even while retaining the
original screenwriters writing the same kind of storylines.
What about film production? In another example, Writer B describes
the personal dislike that he took to the people in the company that
wanted to produce his treatment and first draft. After various con-
tractual moves over some time, the same company acquired the script
but not the writer, suggesting the feeling was mutual. According to
the writer, the screen idea changed radically after his departure and it
no longer ‘worked’ because the genre did not fit the different context.
Here, judgements could not be made in common and disagreement
was terminal, for the writer. In this example, Writer B was originally
working with one producer with whom he agreed, but eventually
another SIWG took over the screen idea and developed it differently.
These examples highlight differences, but shot through all the
interviewees’ comments was the clear desire to find common ground
on which to collaborate. This takes the Newcomb and Lotz observa-
tion mentioned above a bit further, in that collaboration seems to be
the desired way of working. It is when individual struggles for power
and control become important, and when market and industrial pres-
sures combine with individual habitus to bring about difference of opin-
ion that can be acted upon, that trust breaks down and collaboration
ceases. At that point the character and operation of that SIWG changes.
The well-known term ‘development hell’ suggests (anecdotally at least)
that difficulty and breakdowns are not uncommon. Such a conclusion
implies that our conventional industrial model places the screenwriter
in a difficult position personally; this is often damaging to the ego, and
it’s tough to survive that.
If the Screen Idea Work Group is based on the desire for collabora-
tion, the basis for that collaboration and communication is clearly the
doxa. Conventional craft skills, and a shared vocabulary of technical
terms were mentioned and used (although one interviewee did not
believe the trend towards greater use of such terminology was add-
ing value). There is a universal belief amongst these interviewees in
the ‘admirable screenplay’, a piece of consecrated work whose quali-
ties are difficult to define but which are clear ‘when you see it’. It is
believed that this is achieved once a screen idea has been developed
in accordance with the doxa, but which then somehow transcends the
ordinary. The admirable screenplay appears to aim particularly at four
specific goals associated with industrial practicability: realizability; an
appropriate structure; a clear thesis, and some aspect of originality (or
perhaps novelty). Good screenwriting, according to all the interview-
ees except one writer, is something that connects subjectively with the
reader. ‘Great screenwriting’ is something that transcends the frame-
work of craft skills. These are orthodox views that do little to illumi-
nate the process of screen idea development, except to show that their
holders have absorbed professional screenwriting culture to a point
where they rarely question their practice and accept it as the norm.
What constitutes or leads to admired work can therefore only be
53
54
involved negotiate a place for their ideas within the screen idea. They 12. See Barthes’ S/Z
(1974), and
do collaborate but also compete to present and legitimize their version Macdonald (2004b,
of the screen idea outside the framework of observable and conven- 2009).
tional power relationships. Successful adoption of a contribution does
not necessarily reflect the power structure, as all members of the group
usually subscribe to some kind of consensus about the screen idea in
question, and how it should operate. This means that any contribution
to the screen idea is absorbed into the official hierarchy and conven-
tional ways of working and – importantly – is (re-)directed towards the
commonly understood goal of producing a particular (type of) screen-
work. As Newcomb and Lotz suggested, in relation to the production
structure of a US TV drama, ‘it would be wrong to suggest that unequal
power relations always reflect fundamentally opposed perspectives, or
that ‘winners’ exercise power in order to obliterate the ideas and contri-
butions of “losers”’ (Newcomb and Lotz 2002: 76).
Working on the screen idea then, during the period of script devel-
opment, is a complex process which acknowledges some contribu-
tions but not others, where the power that comes with status is used
in decision-making but where acceptance of ideas does not always
relate to status, where judgements are made in relation to the doxa
of screenwriting and its surrounding culture as well as in relation to
direct market and institutional pressures and where, as Roland Barthes
might put it, a writerly process is directed towards a readerly goal.12
The way the SIWG works requires an individual to submit their
contributions to a process of review and decision-making in an arena
fraught with social complexities, industrial and cultural conventions
and individual habitus masquerading as ‘sound artistic judgement’.
This makes the screenwriter immediately vulnerable, as noted at the
start of this article – their status as the originator of the screen idea
is initially high, until others have become familiar with it and begin
contributing, but then the writer is in practice no different from any
other contributor. Of course their official status as writer comes with
a level of respect that demands diplomacy in how they are treated,
and it is likely that their experience and familiarity with the project
affords them a higher chance of making valuable contributions, but
the conventional role of the screenwriter requires them to relinquish
control of decision-making in the screen idea. On a personal level this
is never going to be easy, especially in the freelance and pressurized
film industry in the UK, because their dispensability reduces their lev-
erage, to use Joseph Turow’s phrase (1997: 26).
This small study (and my accompanying arguments) is merely a
pointer to future work. I suggest it indicates the value of studying group
practice as an SIWG, and it raises a few possible conclusions that need
further investigation. Firstly it suggests that professional screenwriters
are likely to believe in an orthodox way of doing things – even if it is
approximate in their view – which doesn’t just inform their work – it
forms their work. I suggest tha t thinking of their work in terms of the
screen idea and the SIWG helps to recognize how this orthodox discourse
55
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SUGGESTED CITATION
Macdonald, I. W. (2010), ‘‘...So It’s not surprising I’m neurotic’ The Screenwriter
and the Screen Idea Work Group’, Journal of Screenwriting 1: 1, pp. 45–58,
doi: 10.1386/josc.1.1.45/1
Contact: University of Leeds, LS2 9JT.
Phone: +44 113 343 5816 (incl. voicemail)
E-mail: i.w.macdonald@leeds.ac.uk
58
Teaching screenwriting
in a time of storytelling
blindness: the meeting
of the auteur and the
screenwriting tradition
in Danish film-making
ABSTRACT KEYWORDS
This article analyses how the approach to screenwriting in Danish cinema screenwriting
has undergone major changes from an auteur-oriented film culture in the film schools
1960s with basically no professional screenwriters, to a ‘collaborative auteur’ Danish cinema
industry where screenwriting is now a recognized craft and screenwriters collaboration
are established professionals in the film industry. Focusing on the histori- authorship
cal development of the Screenwriting Department at the National Film
School of Denmark, the article discusses how the educational emphasis
on teaching screenwriting has had an impact on Danish cinema both
by introducing a basic understanding of screenwriting models and tools
59
60
and Nimbus Film have emerged (Darmer, Pedersen and Brorsen 2007), 1. Not surprisingly, many
film professionals
and the financing of the films has gone from a mainly national focus with a focus on
towards international co-production or co-financing (Brandstrup and screenwriting are
Redvall 2005). On the textual level, Lars von Trier and the Dogma 95 not happy with the
auteur theory. After the
Manifesto has had a great influence on the output of films and their publication of Sarris’s
international positioning (Hjort and MacKenzie 2003; Schepelern 2001), writings, the film
critic Richard Corliss
and a number of prestigious prizes as well as local box office hits have thus replied with a
made audiences turn to Danish films, producing an impressive mar- ‘Screenwriter’s Theory’
in Talking Pictures:
ket share ranging from 24 to 33 per cent of the domestic box office in Screenwriting in the
admissions since 2001 (Danish Film Institute 2002–2009). American Cinema
However, one aspect of this blossoming time for Danish film that 1927–1973. The
debate is still alive in
has not received much attention is how screenwriting has become a recent books like David
respected craft and profession during these years of success. Several Kipen’s The Schreiber
Theory: A Radical
directors have found inspiration and help in working with a screen- Rewrite of American
writer, and this article argues that a crucial reason for the emergence of Film History (2006).
the screenwriter as an important collaborator is the establishment of a
full-time screenwriting department at the NFSD, and consequently an
almost paradigmatic change in the status of storytelling techniques and
dramaturgy. Focusing on the development of the NFSD Screenwriting
Department, this article takes a historical approach using written Danish
sources together with qualitative interviews, to show some of the effects
of teaching basic storytelling tools combined with the deliberate inten-
tion of creating collaborations between directors and screenwriters.
61
2. While the director was theory and practice of screenwriting, ‘few issues provoke as much emo-
in focus, director/
novelist teams like tion in screenwriting discourse’ (Maras 2009: 97).
Palle Kjærulff-Schmidt/ Since the establishment of the DFI in 1972, in the institutional frame-
Klaus Rifbjerg and work of Danish cinema directors have been given the main credit as
Bent Christensen/Leif
Panduro thus emerged initiators of films. As described in classical studies of the American film
at the time as noted industry as well as studies of small national cinemas like the Danish one,
by Dan Nissen when
writing on a new wave the structure of Hollywood is of course dramatically different to a small,
in Danish film in the state-subsidized film industry (Bordwell et al. 1985; Hjort 2005). When
1960s (Nissen 2001:
206–07).
it comes to screenplays, the American industry has a producer-driven
film culture where studios and producers often buy the rights to finished
screenplays and later get a director attached to the project (Taylor 1999;
Wasko 2003), while modern Danish film culture has been based on the
conception that a film springs from the idea and the vision of a director.
As noted by former film consultant Vinca Wiedemann, Danish directors
primarily want to work on films that they have initiated while screenplays
initiated by writers are considered second rate (Wiedemann 2003).
In his analysis of the transition from a classical to a modern Danish
film culture, Ib Bondebjerg has argued that from 1930 to 1960 Danish
film was dominated by a studio system where a number of strong
production companies worked with regular film teams and directors
(Bondebjerg 2005: 56–57). Peter Schepelern has documented how
only six writers wrote more than half of the 350 sound films produced
in those same thirty years (Schepelern 1995a: 19). These writers were
craftsmen who could deliver both original screenplays as well as adap-
tations on a regular basis.
As Bondebjerg (2005) concludes, a lot of very different causes led
to major changes in the film culture of both the United States and
Europe around 1960. Among them, the French New Wave and mod-
ernism in European film led to a focus on the individual artist, or a
privileged position of the director in the production process. This
shifted the power structure in the industry and films were considered
less as factory products and more as individual works of art.
The Danish director Palle Kjærulff-Schmidt has described the New
Wave as an inspiration to move from a view of film as being ‘just’
entertainment to a view of film as a medium where new realizations
could be explored. He says,
We found that the old rules of the craft that we had slavishly
been following were without meaning […] If the content was
vital, then one just had to start telling the story and trust that a
form would appear. The essence could grab an audience without
the use of stiffened conventions.
(Bondebjerg 2005: 85)
This meant that there was no longer the same interest in efficient crafts-
men producing formula films. If directors were looking for collaborating
writers, they were more likely to collaborate with authors from the new
realism in literature who had become interested in film, for example.2
62
63
and screenwriting didn’t exist at that time. And it was presumably the
dominant opinion that teaching it wasn’t feasible’ (Camre in Wivel and
Bro 1991: 11). Rukov agrees and believes that the teaching of screen-
writing started at a very bad time, because it was a time of moving
from subjectivity being the ‘law’ together with the idea that nobody
could teach anybody anything, towards an acceptance of the possibil-
ity of basic elements in screenwriting being something that could be
learned (Rukov 1991: 39).
The director Gert Fredholm was a student in the first class of direc-
tors graduating in 1968. He has described his time at the School as
a time of ‘storytelling blindness’ (Fredholm 2006: 18). After Theodor
Christensen had left the School, the more focused analysis of gen-
res and structures disappeared, according to Fredholm, who com-
plains about not having heard of Aristotle or basic dramaturgy at
the School: ‘intuition can be a good thing, but it was not until much
later when Mogens Rukov made his entry at the School that there
started to come words and terms on a dawning film dramaturgy’
(Fredholm 2006: 18).
64
major challenges. While it has been natural for directors to use a cin-
ematographer, an editor and a sound engineer on their productions,
screenwriters have not been an immediate choice as collaborators.
Over the years, the School has attempted many strategies in trying
to establish collaborations but, as exemplified by the problems of the
first screenwriting students, it is hard to force directors into directing
screenplays in which they have no faith.
When writing about Lars von Trier’s time at the NFSD in 1979–82,
which was also when the first cohort of writers started on a longer
screenwriting course, Peter Schepelern has described how there was
trouble brewing when von Trier refused to direct a screenplay he was
given during one of the few firm attempts to force the students to col-
laborate. His categorical refusal could have been a cause of expulsion,
but there were no negative consequences since Mogens Rukov – after
having read the screenplay in question – argued that directors want-
ing to direct that particular screenplay ought to be expelled instead
(Schepelern 1997: 42–43).
The anecdote is amusing, but the fact is that establishing collab-
orations with the students of the other departments, especially the
directors, has been a genuine problem for the writing students. This
is partly due to the conviction of many directorial students that ‘real’
directors are writer-directors with no need of assistance on the screen-
play, and partly due to logistical problems in terms of coordinating the
education of the different departments.
A SHARED LANGUAGE
At the time the first screenwriting students graduated in 1982, the
screenwriting courses lived a parallel life of their own, separate from
the rest of the School. However, around the same time there was
beginning to be a new awareness in the industry that one might
actually be able to learn something about telling stories. The present
director of the drama department of the Danish public service TV
station Danmarks Radio (DR), Ingolf Gabold, thinks that there was a
minor revolution in the Danish film and TV world when the Swedish
dramaturg Ola Olsson came to the NFSD in 1979. Olsson intro-
duced ideas about story structure and terminology that, according to
Gabold, created the possibility of a shared language between screen-
writers, directors, production designers, cinematographers and the
rest of the team.
Ola Olsson gave us a film and TV dramaturgy that let the stuffy
air out of that room, which a lot of film and TV people had
kept hermetically closed, believing that their creations could
not be put in a formula or be discussed in a professional lan-
guage beyond judgments of taste by their colleagues and the
audience.
(Gabold 2006: 9)
65
7. In the 1980s, the As a directing student at the School (graduating 1979) and afterwards
output of films was on
average 12.4 films a screenwriting student (graduating 1982), Rumle Hammerich experi-
per year (Bondebjerg enced how Ola Olsson and the British screenwriter Neville Smith were
1997: 15). As put great revelations in the field of screenwriting. Hammerich described it
by two film historians
in 1985, Danish film as a shocking experience to learn that stories have a certain structure
at the time was very like a beginning, a middle and an end since until then the students
depressing, losing
money and getting had been ‘floating around in a magical darkness regarding screenwrit-
bad reviews (Schmidt ing’ (Hammerich 2006: 97).
and Nørrested 1985:
153). Between 2003
Peter Thorsboe, who graduated in 1984 and is now a successful writer
and 2008 the average of TV fiction together with his brother Stig, participated in one of the
Danish output of fiction early short courses and later applied for the longer screenwriting course,
features was 26 films
per year, including which had classes laid out over the whole year so that one could attend
100 per cent Danish- part-time and still maintain paid employment. As Thorsboe states,
financed films as well
as major and minor
there was no prestige in writing films at the time, and for most people
co-productions (Danish screenwriting was something they would do over a summer break out-
Film Institute 2009: 8). side their official careers in literature or journalism. Considering that the
directors ‘of course wanted to write their own films’, Thorsboe was nev-
ertheless impressed by the facilities that the School put at the disposal
of the writing students (Thorsboe 2006: 144–45).
Although the early years of teaching screenwriting were not
marked by fruitful collaborations, important first steps were made
towards establishing a shared language, one of which was the
obligatory dramaturgy class, attended by all other specializations
as well as the screenwriting students. A central conclusion in Heidi
Philipsen’s Ph.D. thesis on the NFSD is that most former students
emphasize having acquired a shared language as one of the most
valuable things learned at the School (Philipsen 2005: 352).
66
literary approach to writing films (Kjeldgaard 2007). ‘Show, don’t tell’ 8. As it is satirically
shown in De Unge
became a mantra and, as a supplement to in-house lecture notes about År/The Early Years –
directors ranging from Buñuel to Cassavetes, American screenwriting Erik Nietzsche Part 1
manuals like Syd Field’s Screenplay (1979) were introduced. Kjeldgaard (2007) – directed by
Jacob Thuesen, from
calls the approach a continuation of ideas from the French New Wave a screenplay by Lars
and Italian neo-realism, but a fundamental principle was to identify von Trier that was
inspired by his time at
with ‘great storytellers, no matter where they were’ (Kjeldgaard 2007). the School – a circular
However, because of the introduction of terms like ‘acts’ and ‘gen- dramaturgy was on
the NFSD agenda
res’ some people in the film establishment, according to Kjeldgaard, at the time of the
felt that the teaching was too influenced by thoughts from Hollywood earliest screenwriting
film-making.8 students. Students
of the first class of
The Screenwriting Department launched in 1988 by letting 30 the Screenwriting
applicants participate in a four-week introductory course, before Department in 1988
remember also being
accepting 12 students on to the eighteen-month programme. Nikolaj taught alternatives to
Scherfig, screenwriter and later film consultant from 2003 to 2006, classical, dramaturgical
was among the first 12 students chosen. He found being introduced models but, as one
graduate of the first
to basic and concrete thoughts about elemental storytelling concepts intake has stated,
like plot, character, scenes and conflicts to be a great revelation, but the female students
of the introductory
he also states that the notion of a real director at the time was still course were primarily
that he wrote screenplays himself, or wrote them together with a interested in circular
famous novelist (Scherfig 2006: 158). In tongue-in-cheek fashion dramaturgy which was
considered to be more
Scherfig has described how directors felt threatened by screenwriters, ‘round’ and ‘female’
since they were convinced that they in fact wanted to become direc- while ‘all the others just
thought that dramaturgy
tors; the idea of anybody actually wanting to be a screenwriter was was a bourgeois
too absurd (Scherfig 2006: 159). Scherfig managed to start working Hollywood thing that
impeded the free,
with the director Søren Fauli on his graduation film, and then later artistic will’ (Scherfig
wrote films for the students of 1989–93; he himself started teaching 2006: 156).
at the Screenwriting Department in 1995. He is convinced that the
graduating students of 1988–89 were the starting signal for something
crucial in Danish film in the 1990s and onwards, because they devel-
oped into a whole new professional grouping in Danish film, whose
primary focus was on film story. Nowadays the members of this group
are popular as collaborators with directors (Scherfig 2006: 162).
The so-called ‘golden year’ directing students of the class of
1993 have been highlighted as being the first to be interested in the
screenwriters (Philipsen 2005). Director Thomas Vinterberg had the
impression of the School having previously been dominated by the cin-
ematographers, while he and his directing colleagues now had a new
focus, that of putting the actors and the story around their characters
at the centre of attention (Vinterberg and John 2006: 180). Producer
Bo Ehrhardt who, together with Birgitte Hald, started the production
company Nimbus Film as a base for a number of directors from this
‘golden’ year, believes that the collaborations between directors and
screenwriters at the School did not seriously take off until their year
(Philipsen 2005: 230).
The Dogma 95 Manifesto (von Trier and Vinterberg 1995) and
Thomas Vinterberg and Mogens Rukov’s collaborative writing of Festen/
The Celebration (1998) are among the events that, in the late 1990s,
67
9. The Bodil award started to make people outside the NFSD aware that something
is the Danish film
award given by interesting was happening in the Screenwriting Department.
Denmark’s National Vinterberg remembers that as a student it was a great insight that
Association of Film there was inspiration to be found there with Lars Kjeldgaard and
Critics (Filmmedarbej-
derforeningen). Mogens Rukov doing interesting research and coming up with con-
Established in 1948, cepts like ‘the natural story’ (Vinterberg and John 2006: 184). The
it is one of the oldest
awards in Europe. concept of ‘the natural story’ can be described as – in its utter banal-
Mogens Rukov shared ity – stating that the physical contexts, plots and rituals that make
the Honorary Bodil
with screenwriters
up every moment of every day are the basic building blocks of film
Anders Thomas drama (Wiedemann 2005: 24). According to Vinterberg, the concept
Jensen and Kim Fupz worked very well with the desire of the directors to give the actors
Aakeson.
more room for creating living characters, and together with a hand-
held camera this created the framework for telling stories that gave
actors the opportunity to show what they were worth (Vinterberg
and John 2006: 184).
This concept of the natural story has been influential in Danish
film since its introduction at the School. The former film consultant
Vinca Wiedemann highlights it as important for a change in how to
approach writing stories and finds that by leading to films like The
Celebration it raised the bar for Danish films in general and Danish
screenwriting in particular (Wiedemann 2005: 24). Rukov’s impor-
tance has been acknowledged in Danish film by an honorary Bodil
award in 2003 and he has also become known abroad.9 When the
script tutor Dick Ross in 2002 counted NFSD among the leading film
schools in the world he credited Rukov for a lot of the School’s success
(Ross 2002: 47).
The films made by the directors of the class of 1993 show an inter-
est in writing stories in close collaboration with others. While still at
the School, Vinterberg started working with the screenwriter Bo hr.
Hansen (graduated 1991). Together they wrote his graduation film
Sidste Omgang/Last Round (1993), the much-acclaimed short Drengen
der Gik Baglæns/The Boy Who Walked Backwards (1994) and Vinterberg’s
first feature De Største Helte/The Biggest Heroes (1996). Then Vinterberg
turned to collaborating with his old teacher, Mogens Rukov, with The
Celebration (1998), It’s All About Love (2003) and En Mand Kommer
Hjem/A Man Comes Home (2007).
After having worked with screenwriter Ole Meldgaard (graduated
1991) on his graduation film, director Ole Christian Madsen worked with
Lars. K. Andersen (graduated 1996) on Pizza King (1999), the TV series
Edderkoppen (2000) and the recent box office hit Flammen og Citronen/
Flame & Citron (2008). He also directed screenplays by Mogens Rukov (En
Kærlighedshistorie/Kira’s Reason (2001)), Bo hr. Hansen (Nordkraft/Angels
in Fast Motion (2005)), and Kim Fupz Aakeson (Prag/Prague (2006)). All
screenplays have featured Ole Christian Madsen as co-writer.
Peter Flinth, another director from the same class of 1993, directed
Nikolaj Scherfig’s screenplay for Ørnens Øje/Eye of the Eagle (1997)
while Per Fly, after having directed the puppet film Prop og Berta/Prop
and Berta (2000) from a screenplay by the author Bent Solhof and
68
69
70
71
… get them around a table, give them a day to play with it and
hear it, and make their text come alive by putting it in the mouth
of an actor […] Suddenly people started to realize what that could
give and then suddenly I think that the directors started listen-
ing. What are the actors suddenly doing with the screenwriters?
(Moritzen 2007)
72
73
film and theatre, noting that while Danish theatre has for a number
of years tried to break out of this ancient Greek way of thought, many
film people have fallen in love with this old model, with a touching
and faithful passion (Michaëlis 2001). By 2001, classical dramaturgi-
cal tools were now so established and commonly used that they, in
the opinion of Michaëlis, cemented a certain conservatism that might
work but which might also obscure more original approaches.
So, after some years of general enthusiasm for efficiently narrated
films, a fear of dramaturgy as a straitjacket began to emerge; the sug-
gestion that it makes it harder for different and more experimental
films to see the light of day. If most people in the industry have learned
the same things about the nature of stories, and now read screenplays
using the same parameters for judging quality, it is hard to go against
the stream. A dominant discourse then becomes hegemonic.
In 2005, when Lars von Trier sharply criticized the current state of
Danish film he began another debate about screenwriting. Ten years
after having attacked the predictability of dramaturgy for being ‘the
golden calf around which we dance’ in the Dogma 95 Manifesto, he
now criticized writers like Kim Fupz Aakeson and Anders Thomas
Jensen for being so good at writing screenplays that are so clear in
their structure and easy to read that it is damaging for films. Von Trier
called for people to have a personal relation to the subjects treated,
and for a discussion of the profession of screenwriting per se:
The writers were accused of abusing reality by taking all sorts of topics
off the shelf and – in an American fashion – treating them only at a
superficial level.
74
She cut to the bone, and she only wanted to get to what I
wanted to get to. That is what a good screenwriter does; digs
out what you are looking for or helps find what you cannot see
for yourself.
(Genz, in Redvall, forthcoming 2010)
Genz also pointed out in the same interview that he later ‘re-conquered’
the material, making it his own, but also that he believes he has a
tendency to get too caught up with everything in a potential story to get
anywhere with it directly. Genz’s opinions suggest that, far from making
the material lose its heart, the screenwriter helps the material find its
right form. However, while appreciating the work of screenwriters, Genz
nevertheless also mentions the prevailing tendency to try to fit every-
thing into the same story structure as one of the greatest challenges of
Danish cinema today (Redvall, forthcoming 2010).
Concerned voices have argued recently that the artistic integrity of
the director is threatened by the increased industrial status of the screen-
writer, and after a number of years where the National Film School of
Denmark has been credited as one of the major reasons behind the
recent success of Danish film, the NFSD has also become the target of
criticism (Monggaard 2007; Benner 2008). In a series of articles focusing
on the state of Danish cinema in 2006/7, the School was charged with
having become too oriented towards the industry rather than towards
creating art. Lars Kjeldgaard stated that the storytelling theories of the
Screenwriting Department have been devalued by being regarded as
too general, rather than as aids to creating engaging stories. He would
75
76
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SUGGESTED CITATION
Redvall, E. N. (2010), ‘Teaching screenwriting in a time of storytelling blindness:
the meeting of the auteur and the screenwriting tradition in Danish film-
making’, Journal of Screenwriting 1: 1, pp. 59–81, doi: 10.1386/josc.1.1.59/1
CONTRIBUTOR DETAILS
Eva Novrup Redvall is Assistant Professor in the Film and Media Studies
Section of the Department of Media, Cognition and Communication at the
University of Copenhagen. She has contributed to a number of anthologies on
Danish and Nordic film, among them Transnational Cinema in a Global North
(Wayne State University Press, 2005), and she is the co-editor of a new edition
of Danish Directors – Dialogues on a Contemporary National Cinema together
with Mette Hjort and Eva Jørholt (Intellect Press, forthcoming 2010). She is
currently finishing a Ph.D. thesis on creative collaborations behind screen-
writing practices in Danish feature film production. She has been film critic for
the daily newspaper Information since 1999.
Contact: Department of Media, Cognition and Communication, Film and Media
Studies Section, University of Copenhagen.
Phone: +45 – 3532 9437
E-mail: eva@hum.ku.dk
81
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PATRICK CATTRYSSE
Emerson College European Center; Antwerp University;
Université Libre Bruxelles
The protagonist’s
dramatic goals, wants
and needs
ABSTRACT KEYWORDS
Screenwriting manuals tell us that narratives should have a protagonist character design
and that a protagonist should have an important dramatic goal to achieve. protagonist
With respect to this goal, manuals often mention another common distinc- dramatic goal
tion, that between a protagonist’s ‘want’ and ‘need’. Wants are generally want
understood as external and/or conscious dramatic goals, whereas needs need
are defined as internal and/or unconscious dramatic goals. This essay empathy
argues that these tools could be made more powerful if defined in a more
precise way. Whereas wants refer to the goals of characters at the level
of story, needs play at the level of the interaction between plot and real
audience. This re-definition links the wants and needs debate with the
much wider and far more complex study of audience involvement and its
relationships with the value systems expressed in a narrative and those
experienced by a viewer; a subject which stretches far beyond the limits of
a single article.
83
84
It is within this larger context that I venture a very modest con- 5. This is also part of this
‘other’ practitioner’s
tribution. It deals with one, rather widespread, terminological con- culture. Trainers pass
fusion in the normative discussion about protagonists, dramatic on knowledge and
goals, and more specifically in the use of the terms wants and needs. expertise in workshops
such as the European
Screenwriting manuals tell us that narratives should have a protago- programme ‘North
nist and that a protagonist should have an important dramatic goal by Northwest’ (which
included tutors from
to achieve. Why this is so is not always clearly explained but one may University of Southern
assume that it is less difficult to interest audiences in someone rather California) who
‘mention’ this in their
than in something – hence the protagonist of the story – and that it is workshops. Unlike the
easier to interest audiences in someone who wants something than in academic tradition, the
someone who does not want anything; hence the dramatic goal. The oral tradition prevalent
in such workshops
types of problems or dramatic goals protagonists may run into have does not have written
been widely discussed in screenwriting manuals. Dramatic goals can references.
be concrete or abstract, external or internal, short term or long term,
temporary or final, static or dynamic, simple or layered, conscious or
unconscious, etc. With respect to this goal, screenwriting manuals
often mention another common distinction, that between a protago-
nist’s want and need. In what follows, I claim that these tools could
be made more powerful if defined in a more precise way. At the same
time, what follows puts into practice a shift towards the aforemen-
tioned ‘interlingua’ between academic and practitioner, in the hope
that the over-specialized academic and the imprecise practitioner may
begin to find their common ground.
85
Gone with the wind (1939) Scarlet (Vivien Leigh) wants Scarlet needs Rhett Butler, who is
(among many other things) not married.
Ashley, who is married.
Casablanca (1942) Rick (Humphrey Bogart) wants Rick needs to discover what hap-
to forget about Paris and bury pened in Paris (in order to regain
himself in Casablanca. his proper self).
Some Like it Hot (1959) Joe (Tony Curtis) wants to cheat Joe needs to love Sugar (‘tell her
Sugar into a relationship. the truth’).
Kramer vs. Kramer (1979) Kramer (Dustin Hoffman) wants Kramer needs to become a good
the custody of his son. father.
Romancing the Stone (1984) Joan (Kathleen Turner) wants to Joan needs to find love.
find the stone.
Witness (1985) John Book (Harrison Ford) wants Book needs to relate more com-
to catch the corrupt cops. passionately to others.
Moonstruck (1987) Loretta (Cher) wants to marry Loretta needs to marry Ronny
Johnny because he is a safe bet. whom she loves.
Twins (1988) Vincent Benedict (Danny De Vito) Vincent needs the love of a family.
wants $5 million.
Pretty Woman (1990) Edward Lewis (Richard Gere) Lewis needs to follow his heart.
wants to further his career.
The Devil’s Advocate (1997) Kevin Lomax (Keanu Reeves) Kevin Lomax needs to seek moral
wants to continue his profes- justice and not prevent perverts
sional career as a lawyer who and gangsters from escaping their
never lost a case. rightful punishment.
Traffic (2000) Robert Wakefield wants to fight Robert Wakefield needs to fight
the drugs cartel on an interna- the drugs problem on a family
tional scale as a politico-judicial scale as a medical or a healthcare
problem. problem.
Analysis: the author
86
physical journey and the need with an internal, emotional one (see
also Batty 2007: 45).
87
ignorant’ (Cowgill 1999: 45), and that ‘what a character needs is often
the psychological key to understanding his inner obstacles’ (Cowgill
1999: 47). Furthermore, irrespective of the parameters used to define
the concepts of want and need, the examples mentioned above show
two more common aspects of the want and need dilemma. Firstly, the
development of a conflict between an inner and an outer or between
a conscious and an unconscious goal can help to establish more psy-
chological depth and to ‘dimensionalize’ characters (Lucey 1996: 52) so
as to avoid the narrative becoming too cartoon-like. Secondly, when
a conflict is written in between the want and the need, it is shown to
the audience that the more protagonists go for their want, the further
away they drift from their need. Hence, applying the want vs. need
terminology, a story with a happy ending is a story where the main
character abandons his want in time to go for his need, whereas a trag-
edy represents a narrative where the main character sticks to his want
and thereby loses his need. A ‘Hollywood happy ending’ then is, as
the joke goes, when the protagonist exchanges his want for his need in
time and therefore ‘deserves’ to obtain his want in the end after all.
In spite of these common features, I would argue that the respec-
tive parameters external vs. internal or conscious vs. unconscious are
not accurate enough to describe the aforementioned examples of
wants and needs in a precise way.
88
89
of wins in court and let this pervert go free or abandon his client and
allow justice to run its due course? The stakes of the dilemma are
raised because if Lomax abandons his client now, he will be barred
from his profession as a lawyer. Both journeys, both choices, may be
perceived and described as equally external or internal (as mentioned
above) but, above all, in the mind of the protagonist they are both very
conscious from the very beginning. In Some Like it Hot (1959) one may
assume that Joe (Tony Curtis) is also very conscious of the fact that
he should not lie to Sugar, that he should tell her the truth. However,
when Daphne (Jack Lemmon) confronts him with his immoral behav-
iour, Joe(sephine) replies that one cannot make an omelette without
breaking eggs.
Thirdly, when looking at the examples mentioned in screenwrit-
ing manuals it is not always clear how conscious or unconscious pro-
tagonists are about their need. For example, is Scarlett (Gone with the
Wind, 1939) conscious of the fact that she should marry Rhett Butler?
Probably not. Is Rick (Casablanca, 1942) conscious of the fact that he
should discover why Ilsa (Ingrid Bergman) abandoned him in Paris?
At first he is not, but as the narrative progresses, he is. In Traffic (2000)
judge Robert Wakefield (Michael Douglas) wants to become President
of the United States of America and in order to achieve that goal he
accepts a high profile job to fight the international drugs cartel in
Mexico. This represents his want. However, about thirty minutes into
the movie, the audience discover that Wakefield’s daughter Caroline
(Erika Christensen) is taking all kinds of hard drugs. When the audi-
ence see how one night a boyfriend collapses after an overdose and
she and a couple of her friends dump the boy on the street in front of
a hospital, the audience realize that there is a conflict between what
the main character Wakefield wants to do and what he needs to do.
Wakefield wants to fight drugs on an international scale as a politico-
judicial problem but he needs to tackle the drugs problem at a family
level, i.e. in his own family, and this as a medical healthcare problem.
At that moment, however, Wakefield is not so much unconscious of
his need as entirely unaware of it; he does not experience any inner
conflict. In fact, he is convinced that his daughter is doing as well at
school as at home. It is only forty minutes later when Wakefield dis-
covers his daughter taking drugs in the bathroom that the protagonist
catches up with the level of knowledge of the audience and is con-
fronted with the conflict previously shown to the audience; the con-
flict between his want (to fight drugs on an international scale) and
his need (to fight drugs on a family scale).
A fourth problem is that ‘knowing’ or ‘being conscious’ of a need
that conflicts with a want offers no guarantee of continuous inner dra-
matic conflict in the character. In Casablanca (1942), Rick realizes along
the way that he should hear Ilsa out in order to learn what happened
in Paris, and that inner struggle is dramatized through action (drinking)
and dialogue. However, in Some Like it Hot, Joe knows that he should
not lie to Sugar but he puts this knowledge aside without great difficulty
90
until the very end. In The Devil’s Advocate, Kevin Lomax ‘knows’ very 6. Here I adhere to the
common narrato-
well what he should do but after a few seconds he decides not to fol- logical distinction,
low his need and to go for his want by defending the pervert. After generally ignored in
that, the moments of inner conflict are rare even though he runs into screenwriting manuals,
between story (or
an increasing opposition from his need. As the narrative progresses, fabula) understood as
Lomax’s relationship with his religious mother becomes troubled, his the diegetic content
which through some
wife is raped, turns mad and kills herself, and finally Lomax has to act of narration is
commit suicide in order to prevent the antagonist – the Devil himself – represented in a plot
(or sjuzet) understood
from achieving his satanic goal. In Trottier’s (1998) terminology, the as the narrated story.
audience see how Lomax’s inner ‘flaw’ develops into a growing oppo- 7. Obviously not all
sition to his need. It is only at the end of the narrative, when it has narratives present
characters with inner
been shown how the path of his want leads to total loss, that, at least conflicts between
temporarily, the protagonist chooses the path of his need. wants and needs.
For example, in
Finally, if the need is, and remains, unconscious to the charac- one-dimensional hero
ter (as in many gangster movies and crime stories), i.e. if characters stories such as James
find themselves in a dilemma of which one part remains unknown or Bond or Indiana Jones,
the respective wants
unconscious to them, how can there be an inner conflict? The answer and needs coincide.
to that question is simple: there cannot. Still, intuitively screenwriting
manuals recognize a conflict, but to the character that conflict is nei-
ther internal vs. external, nor conscious vs. unconscious. It plays on an
altogether different narrative level.
91
8. Another of Frank the reigning endoxa, a moral conflict may arise between the want
Daniel’s concepts (see
Howard 2004: 52ff.)
and the need. If all goes well – that is, if the audience empathize
9. For the sake of clarity with the main character – this conflict may reinforce the ‘hope/fear’8
I need to specify that the audience are experiencing vis-à-vis the protagonist.9 If the
here that the concept
of ‘audience’ refers audience empathize with the main character, they hope that the
to real, empirical protagonist is going to abandon their want and go for their need, but
audiences, not to
imagined ‘implied at the same time they fear that because of reasons such as an inner
readers’ or ‘narratees’ flaw, material profit, etc., the protagonist will choose their want and
as is often the case in thereby lose their need.
structuralist narratology.
If we consider the want-need dilemma as a conflict between the
character and the audience rather than between the character and
herself/himself, this shifts the central focus of the conflict from the
story level to the level of interaction between the plot (as a narrated
story) and the audience. At the story level all kinds of options remain
open: the character may never learn about a conflict between their
want and their need or may learn about it after the audience do, or
they may be informed at the same time as the audience. The character
may be more or less (un)conscious of an inner conflict, feel troubled
by the conflict and act upon it or not. The inner conflict at story level
may play immediately or start only later on.
92
in common is the notion that texts do not have one fixed meaning 10. Malicious delight
(trans. the author).
and that different people may ‘read’ texts in different ways – ways 11. See for example
that were not always intended by the writers. Among other fac- Zillmann (1991), Smith
tors, people’s socio-cultural position for example co-determines the (1995), Tan (1996),
Grodal (1997),
interpretation process in different ways (Fiske 1992: 292). In order Coplan (2004), Keen
to illustrate this, Fiske describes an interesting experiment about a (2006) and Keen
(2007).
group of homeless men who watched the movie Die Hard (1988) on 12. The concept is well
a VCR in their church shelter (1992: 302). These men rarely watched known in structu-
ralist narratology but
television because it generally advocates values such as family life, generally ignored
work and leisure, which are irrelevant to them. Fiske describes how in the world of
these men enthusiastically cheered when the villains destroyed a screenwriters and
screenwriting trainers.
police armoured vehicle and killed a ‘good’ guy, but switched off It refers to the person
the VCR before the end, when the hero and the police force restored to whom the narrator is
narrating/addressing.
law and order and reconfirmed the dominant ideology they so much As the narrator is to be
despised. distinguished from the
Fiske’s anecdote and the aforementioned theories link the discus- flesh and blood writer,
so the narratee must
sion of audience interpretation with that of audience involvement. also not be confused
Instead of rooting for the main character and its dramatic goal, Fiske’s with the flesh and
blood reader/viewer.
viewers experienced what in German is called ‘Schadenfreude’;10 13. See Chatman (1978).
they hoped the protagonist would lose and they turned off the VCR
when he started to win. This also suggests another line of research
that is of interest to this study: the study of narrative empathy and
other types of cognitive-emotional audience engagement with nar-
rative fictions.11 The cognitive-emotional impact of a narrative plays
at different levels. While reading or watching, readers-viewers con-
sciously or unconsciously react to the ways a narrator behaves, the
ways an agent acts at the level of story and the ways the narrator
assigns features to the ‘narratee’.12 Narrators may behave in a sym-
pathetic and agreeable way, but also in sexist, racist, unreliable, and
other ways. These ways may or may not motivate the reader’s or
viewer’s interest in the narrative. As explained above, ‘events’ and
‘existents’13 at the story level may refer to characters wanting things
that are on a par with the reader’s or viewer’s hopes and fears, or
not. And finally the use of any narrator, whether through telling
or showing, not only creates a diegetic world, but also ‘creates’ an
addressee or, in narratological terms, a narratee. The very act of nar-
rating suggests features of a narratee. These features concern what a
narratee does or does not know, likes or dislikes, feels or thinks, etc.
For example, in the novel The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro
(1998) the narrating character, Stevens, addresses his narrative to
a ‘you’ in the text, the narratee. When Stevens talks about butler-
ing, he assumes the narratee knows certain things about the subject,
and so does not explain these elements. Stevens also assumes other
items may not be known to the narratee – hence he explains these
things. The same goes for certain assumptions with respect to ‘nor-
mal’ social, political, economical and cultural values or ideas that are
‘taken for granted’ by the narrator. When in Romeo is Bleeding (1993)
the narrating character Jack Grimaldi (Gary Oldman) is enjoying the
93
14. See for example sight through his binoculars of a man having sex with two women,
Lavandier (2005: 43,
45), Iglesias (2005: he addresses the narratee in a direct way:
61ff.), Williams
(2006: 93ff.), etc.
15. See for example Vogler JACK GRIMALDI (V.O.)
(1992) and especially (Chuckles)
Vogler (2007), who
concentrates on the I bet you know what he was thinkin’, don’t ya? You’d have done
story of a hero with a
moral dramatic goal just what he wound up doing, I’ll bet.
and a happy ending.
16. See for example
Armer (1993: 5ff.), Some (actual) viewers of this scene may agree with his supposition
Iglesias (2005: 61ff.), and enjoy the view, others may not.
Lavandier (2005:
44ff.). Even though not all narratives present narratees in such a con-
spicuous way, the examples show that during the actual reading/viewing
process a narratee may partly or entirely correspond with (or differ
from) the actual reader/viewer on an individual as well as a socio-
cultural and political level, in terms of moral and other values, opin-
ions, beliefs, sensibilities, etc. In turn these differences and similarities
may have an impact on different types of empathetic engagement. In
this sense, cognitive narrative studies meet the aforementioned socio-
logical and cultural studies approaches. As Ralf Schneider explains,
‘[the] kind of emotion [that] results from empathy and how intense it
is in each case depends on the recipient’s attitude towards a character,
which is (sic) turn influenced by his or her value system in general’
(Schneider 2005: 136).
Screenwriting manuals do not entirely ignore the problem. Several
authors offer advice with respect to the so-called ‘un-sympathetic’
protagonist and how to increase the chances of obtaining audience
empathy with that character and its goals.14 They suggest turning
this main character into a hero and have him or her meet impossible
challenges; or also assigning ‘positive’ features to the main character
next to the negative ones, and to have other characters in the story
admire the main character; or victimizing this ‘unsympathetic’ main
character and making his or her antagonist(s) even ‘worse’ than (s)
he is, etc. However, most screenwriting manuals focus on audience
empathy with a protagonist and a dramatic goal that corresponds
with what ‘the’ audience would like the main character to do.15 The
re-definition of want and need offered above includes narratives that
contain a character who goes after a goal the audience disagree with.
Why audiences remain interested in watching characters who pursue
something against the audience’s wishes is an interesting question.
Why do audiences continue to watch Scarface (1983)? Or all those
other crime stories and gangster movies for that matter? In order to
experience criminal acts by proxy? Or to wait for that satisfying moment
when the villain finally gets what (s)he deserves?16 The success of
crime stories and gangster movies suggests that a gap between what
a character wants and what an audience feel a character should want
does not necessarily destroy viewer motivation. Fiske’s (1992: 302)
anecdote about the homeless men watching Die Hard on a VCR shows
94
at the same time that narratives with conflicting wants and needs hold
some risks, including the risk that the value system of the character
deviates so much from that of the viewer that the viewer abandons the
narrative.
As suggested at the beginning of this section, these questions
stretch far beyond the limits of a single article. They fit in the even
larger debate about aesthetic pleasure and aesthetic experience.
Audience empathy with one or more characters should be considered
next to other possible viewer motivations for connecting or disconnect-
ing with a narrative. Some viewers may continue watching because of
the choice of actors or actresses, or vice versa. Others may continue
watching because of the music, or the photography or because the
movie was shot in their hometown. Since the point of view adopted
here is that of the screenwriter, the scope should be limited to those
motivations that fall into the working field of the screenwriter.
By way of conclusion, I turn back to the discussion about wants and
needs. It should be clear to screenwriters that they may write conflicts
between what a character wants and what she/he needs according to
an audience. However, to the extent that there is not one homoge-
neous audience, there is not one homogeneous need. What screen-
writers intend does not always translate into what viewers interpret.
One can doubt that the screenwriters of Die Hard intended to write a
conflict between a want and a need with respect to their protagonist
John McClane (Bruce Willis)? And who says that all viewers watching
gangster movies experience a conflict between a want and a need?
What should we think of the huge success of ultra-violent video and
computer games where the dramatic goal of the player-protagonist
consists in murdering as many people as possible as fast as possible?
The links between the value systems of a narrative and those of
a viewer on the one hand, and empathetic viewer engagement on
the other continue to fascinate scholars. Further research will have to
come up with more convincing explanations. The next challenge will
consist in turning those findings into workable writing tools.
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Williams, S. (2006), The Moral Premise. Harnessing Virtue and Vice for Box Office
Success, Studio City CA: Michael Wiese Productions.
Witness (1985), Wr: William Kelley, Earl W. Wallace, Pamela Wallace, Dir:
Peter Weir, US, 112 mins.
Zillmann, D. (1991), ‘Empathy: Affect from Bearing Witness to the Emotions of
Others’, in Bryant Jennings and Dolf Zillman (eds), Responding to the Screen:
Reception and Reaction Processes, Hillsdale NJ: Erlbaum, pp. 135–168.
SUGGESTED CITATION
Cattrysse, P. (2010), ‘The protagonist’s dramatic goals, wants and needs’,
Journal of Screenwriting 1: 1, pp. 83–97, doi: 10.1386/josc.1.1.83/1
CONTRIBUTOR DETAILS
Patrick Cattrysse is Head of the Flanders Script Academy (FSA). He is a
researcher and trainer in storytelling and screenwriting at different universities
and film schools, among them the University of Antwerp, the Université Libre
de Bruxelles, Emerson College European Center, the FSA, and the Escuela
Internacional de Cine y Televisión (San Antonio – Cuba). To receive current
information on courses available at the FSA, please email patrick.cattrysse@
telenet.be or visit www.vsa-fsa.org.
Contact: Raamlolaan3, B-3120 Tremelo, België.
E-mail: info@vsa-fsa.org.
97
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JASMINA KALLAY
National Film School, IADT, Dublin
Cyber-Aristotle: towards
a poetics for interactive
screenwriting
ABSTRACT KEYWORDS
Through analysing appropriations of Aristotelian dramatic theory within interactive
interactive digital narratives (Laurel 1991, Hiltunen 2002, Mateas and screenwriting
Stern 2005), this article assesses the merits of Aristotle’s Poetics in pro- poetics
viding a basis for an ‘interactive screenwriting poetics’. From the six com- Aristotle
ponents of tragedy (plot, character, thought, diction, melody, spectacle) to narrative
mimesis and catharsis, these concepts are examined for their value in a architecture
new media context. The hierarchy of the components is challenged and new cyber-drama
formal and material causative relations are explored, using the interactive new media
drama Façade (Mateas and Stern, 2005) as an example. With new dra- digital media
matic configurations emerging (such as spatial plotting and narrative archi-
tecture), the question posed is - to what degree can Aristotelian thought
really aid the interactive screenwriting process? If this approach can not
yield substantial results, what is the alternative?
INTRODUCTION
Irrespective of any new ideas and developments in screenwriting
theory, Aristotle’s Poetics (c. 350 BC) remains the backbone of the
99
100
of a stringent analysis. The general picture, not the details, seems to 2. Although this debate
is now losing steam,
be the guiding light of this work. for the past ten years
Alternatively, attempts by (non-interactive) screenwriting theorists or so, the crux of it
to cover developments in the new media arena can be equally was that the ludologists
(Gonzalo Frasca,
misguiding, as Hiltunen’s example demonstrates. In Aristotle in Jesper Juul) defended
Hollywood (2002), Ari Hiltunen broadens his industry-perspective the game-play as the
main attraction in a
of the value of classical storytelling to include cyberspace. While game, and minimised
he rightly recognises the inevitable media industry shift towards the importance of the
narrative, whereas the
interactive forms of drama, when analysing specific examples, there narratologists (Janet
is no attempt to provide a new, re-thought Poetics that could be Murray, Marie-Laure
adapted to the new digital media. Instead, Hiltunen presents a Ryan) defended the
story as being key to
superficial reading of the narrative aspects of a game like Doom attracting the gamer
(1993) in order to prove his point regarding the universality of to a game and
motivating the game-
Aristotle’s dictum (Hiltunen 2002: 111–122). The book’s arguments play. Irrespective of
are further weakened by the inclusion of Joseph Campbell’s mono- this debate, however,
myth and Propp’s mathematical organisation of folk tale plots with- one undisputed
development has been
out linking them to Aristotle’s work in a coherent and meaningful the emergence of more
way. There are two points that are significant, though. Firstly, in sophisticated narratives
in games in recent
one chapter, Hiltunen steps away from drama to focus on sport and years.
its mass appeal, and makes the claim that sporting encounters that 3. The terms for these
feature some type of ongoing background story (such as one built six components can
vary from translation to
around two teams’ long-running rivalry) provide greater pleasure translation of Aristotle’s
for the reader/viewer (Hiltunen 2002: 39). Unfortunately, this focus Poetics, however, here
I am quoting the terms
on sport is not tied into the analysis of computer games and so that Brenda Laurel
does not explore the balance between the ludic (gaming) and the uses. While ‘character’
is self-explanatory
narrative aspects, which is one of the key unreconciled aspects of in dramatic terms,
interactive narratives, especially in computer games.2 The second it’s important to note
point relates to Hiltunen’s interpretation of what Aristotle means by that the term action
here refers to plot,
‘proper pleasure’ derived from drama, and Hiltunen distinguishes and ‘thought’ can be
four dimensions that provide pleasure: emotional, moral, intellectual likened to the idea or
premise of a dramatic
and symbolic (Hiltunen 2002: 47). It is to the intellectual dimension piece. Melody
that I will be returning when discussing catharsis, because while and spectacle are
Hiltunen recognises that catharsis can not be fully explained accord- explained in greater
detail within the article.
ing to the Poetics, he does provide useful links between these four 4. Aristotle’s Poetics
dimensions and catharsis. define tragedy in
section 4, ranking them
in section 4.4 – ‘plot is
THE ARISTOTELIAN DRAMATIC MODEL the source...; character
is second [etc.]’
Brenda Laurel’s influential Computers as Theater (1991) was one of the (Aristotle [c.350BC]
first academic works to recognise the potential uses of computer tech- 1996: 12).
nology in drama and creative work, as long as dramatists and artists
rather than computer programmers engaged with the medium. More
significantly, Laurel’s adaptation of Aristotle’s six components of drama
(action, character, thought, language, melody, spectacle),3 while not
without its problems, provides a stimulating basis for exploring Aristotle
in cyber-drama (2003: 565). Laurel begins by establishing the causative
links between the six components. The hierarchy Aristotle imposed
is not accidental,4 and Laurel develops a model from this, governed
by a two-way system of causation: material and formative. A useful
101
metaphor that Mateas uses for this model takes the building of a house
as its example, and likens the material cause to the building materials
whereas the formal cause would be the architectural drawing of the
house (2004: 23). Applying this to the dramatic context, action (i.e. plot)
becomes the main formative cause, and determines the form (comedy,
tragedy) that the story takes. The formative line of causation thus fol-
lows Aristotle’s six components sequentially in a line from action at
the top, down towards spectacle at the bottom. The material causa-
tive chain builds in the opposite way, in ascending order; from bottom
to top. The basic material out of which the story is told is contained
within the spectacle (or the visual, the mise-en-scène). So, in order
for the story to be told it needs characters, who in turn need diction to
express their thoughts and the aural and visual elements provide the
material means for the drama to unfold. If this is the model from which
successful, satisfying drama is generated, the question Laurel was curi-
ous to explore was whether this same model could prove as fruitful in
generating interactive drama.
Assessing each individual drama component in an interactive
context, Laurel concludes that action is now a collaborative process
between the user and the computer; character is similarly split into the
human and computer correlative; thought influences process in the
computer system as well as shaping the drama, and language com-
prises verbal and non-verbal signs, being any of the available means
of communicating/interacting with the computer (2003: 565). Thus far,
the causative links appear intact in the interactive sphere. However, it
is at the level of melody and spectacle that Laurel modifies the terms
more significantly to allow for a broader understanding of these con-
cepts and in the process the causative clarity comes into question. In
screenwriting terms, melody is understood to denote the aural, from
speech to sound effects and spectacle is understood to be the visual dis-
play, from mise-en-scène to special effects. Laurel herself accepts these
definitions to be the norm (2003: 565). However, Laurel’s premise is
based on the aforementioned model of categories, which are interde-
pendent in both upward and downward directions. Therefore, Laurel
asserts that if melody builds on the material of spectacle (as in what is
seen), then non-diegetic sound can not be included, which does not
make sense (even from a classical or non-interactive screenwriting
point of view). Laurel then goes further and transforms melody into
‘pattern’, which now signifies any sensory pattern that is perceived.
More problematically, spectacle is turned into ‘enactment’, exhibiting
every sensory dimension, ‘visual, auditory, kinesthetic, and tactile, and
potentially all others’ (2003: 565). This widening of spectacle (which by
Aristotle’s admission is the least significant of the six components of
drama) to now mean enactment, is quite illogical. According to Laurel,
enactment encompasses the way the action is represented, meaning
that the modes of interaction now fall under this category. The way
the gamer navigates the gameworld and physically controls his ava-
tar is both kinesthetic and tactile. Yet this interaction surely overlaps
102
with action, the first category, which means the clear causative chain is 5. AI–generated dialogue
is commonplace in
broken. Following this line of thought, enactment would hold a higher gaming software,
place in the interactive hierarchy of dramatic building, meaning that whereby artificial
Laurel’s point challenges the ordering of the components, which I intelligence
programming is
will address within the re-imagining of Laurel’s model by Mateas and used to create the
Stern (2005). impression of real
time, spontaneous
Having laid out Laurel’s computer-friendly reading of Aristotle in dialogue. This kind
its theoretical isolation, the natural question is – how does one apply of programming has
its limitations, as it
this? What are the steps from this model to writing a synopsis for a can not sustain itself
computer game or an episode of a webseries? for any long stretches
So far, Laurel’s theory has inspired Michael Mateas and Andrew of conversation
without revealing its
Stern to create Façade (2005), an interactive drama that was computerised origin.
specifically designed with non-gaming and non-technologically 6. A cutscene is the only
cinematic element
aware users in mind. Taking its narrative cue from Edward Albee’s in a game, which is
Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf (1962), Façade invites the player to a inserted as a filmed
dinner with his/her ‘old’ friends Trip and Grace, whose marriage sequence within the
game to either explain
has hit a rough patch. Interactions with the couple throughout the some backstory or
night (ranging from the player’s typed sentences, Trip and Grace’s provide motivation for
the next stage of the
AI-generated5 dialogue and displays of affection such as kissing and game. The cutscene
hugging) will affect the future of their marriage. What makes Façade is there to be viewed,
so innovative is its positioning between a game and a webseries not interacted with;
therefore its dialogue is
in the interactive narrative range. The fact that the player enters pre-recorded and can
the narrative universe and participates as a character makes it more not be interrupted by
the gamer.
game-like, as they have the kind of agency games afford, yet the
genre, focussing on relationships, is closer to the webseries scape.
In addition, the AI dialogue is far more sophisticated than common
in-game dialogue (excepting dialogue in cutscene sequences).6
Mateas also summarized the experience of creating Façade and
formulated his theoretical approach in A Preliminary Poetics for
Interactive Drama and Games (2004). Laurel’s re-thinking of Aristotle’s
model serves as the basis for Mateas’ preliminary poetics, with user
agency providing a crucial new component.
The formal cause is now no longer just at the level of the writer’s
envisioning of the plot and how that plan manifests itself down to the
other components; the user’s choice of how to interact/play the story
creates another layer of formal cause - ‘user intention’ - that then
shapes the subsequent components. Equally, the material causes
become ‘material for action’ in the user’s hands. To put it crudely, as
an interactive screenwriter you are no longer just in charge of devis-
ing the plot and creating the characters, you are also responsible for
the user’s actions. This might sound like an impossible task; as if it
were not challenging enough to write a compelling drama, how does
one predict a player’s behaviour and choices? To answer this we must
first address the meaning of agency in this context.
Mateas draws from Janet Murray’s definition of agency (Murray
1997), which she identifies as one of three dimensions of interactivity,
along with immersion and transformation. According to Murray,
agency is not to be mistaken for mere activity, such as the clicking
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104
(2004: 121). This is a novel way of thinking for someone coming to 7. In the absence of a
universally agreed
this field from ‘traditional’ screenwriting, and offers a useful way of term for viewers/users
entering the mental processes of interactive screenwriting. of interactive content
Jenkins’s concept of narrative architecture underlines the need to (webseries, computer
games, etc), ‘interactor’
reassess the position of setting and objects in the enactment rank. at least denotes a more
Alert to this discrepancy, Tomaszewski and Binsted have critiqued precise nature of the
active participation
both Laurel’s (1991) and Mateas and Stern’s (2005) models in their with the content.
A Reconstructed Neo-Aristotelian Theory of Interactive Narrative (2006).
They point out that objects ‘play an increasingly important aspect of
computer-based interactive drama since they are often the means
through which the player can affect the action’ and go so far to
liken the game world’s objects ‘within the same narrative context as
characters’ (Tomaszewski and Binsted 2006: 3–4). To accommo-
date this difference in status, the authors place ‘setting’ alongside
‘character’ in their table, below ‘action’, after which they reinstate
Aristotle’s notions of object, manner and medium, which replace the
other categories of Laurel and Mateas’ models. However, the authors
do not venture further from their discovery vis-à-vis the setting and
its revised position within the model. They have come up with a
valid new positioning for setting, recognising its significance in both
plotting and character development in an interactive context, but the
full implications of how all the other interrelationships within the
model would now work are not explored.
The relevance of this model, given the modifications and variations
that have been made, is perhaps in question. It is possible that a new
model is needed, a question I will return to in the conclusion.
105
character. The formal constraint means that the situations the gamer
encounters are preordained, which would place this on a reproduc-
tion rather than production level. However, how the gamer positions
himself vis-à-vis this situation is a production and an invention; it is
something that is unique to each gamer and indeed in each replay.
This is the transformative aspect of interactivity – the infinite variation
that each interaction prompts, unique and never to be repeated.
The ‘as if’ concept also happens to be a currency in cogni-
tive behavioural psychology, courtesy of George Kelly’s research
into corrective behavioural exercises (Kelly 1991), inspired by Otto
Vaihinger’s philosophy based on the same ‘as if’ credo. Kelly found
that by encouraging patients to behave (in a structured and guided
manner) ‘as if’ they were something other than their usual self, he
could help them access new emotional states and unblock emotional
and psychological problems. By prompting an ‘as if’ mode of behav-
iour in an interactive context, it follows that a psycho-emotional
response can be elicited, which becomes relevant when analysing the
possibility of catharsis in interactive narratives.
Aristotle did not fully elucidate the meaning of catharsis, which con-
tinues to cause a certain degree of contradictory interpretations. The
common interpretation, which dominates screenwriting manuals, is
that of purgation in the metaphoric sense, of the build-up of emotions
caused by the dramatic incidents (although this is a point that is
refuted by Aristotelian scholars such as Golden (1992) and Belfiore
(1992)). A less simplistic take on catharsis explains it as the culmination
of the emotions of pity, hope and fear. Its function can be summed
up as a psychotherapeutic release of pent-up negative emotions such
as anger, frustration and stress, which then get released along with
the emotions stirred up as a direct response to the drama. And while
most components of drama have been satisfactorily identified within
interactive narrative formats, catharsis appears resistant to interactive
narrative, and is deemed to be inapplicable by such scholars as Janet
Murray (1997).
In her landmark work on cyber-narratives, Hamlet on the Holodeck
(1997), Murray makes a sweeping statement on the future of digital
narratives; ‘… in order for electronic narrative to mature, it must be
able to encompass tragedy as well’ (Murray 1997: 175). Yet this seems
an insurmountable obstacle, as tragedy necessitates catharsis, and
Murray in the same breath bemoans the impossibility of catharsis ‘in a
medium that resists closure’ (Murray 1997: 175). From this we can glean
that Murray, too, subscribes to the ‘final purge’ version of catharsis,
which would appear contradictory in a medium that invites continuous
re-engagement with the same narrative (e.g. multiple replays). So, is
catharsis impossible as a potential interactive screenwriting ingredient?
Laurel takes up Murray’s third aspect of interactivity, transformation
(in the sense of personal transformation, where the user is changed
emotionally and/or psychologically as a result of interacting), as com-
ing closest to embodying catharsis, but does not elaborate on this
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REFERENCES
Aristotle ([c.350BC] 1996), Poetics. Translated with an introduction and notes by
Malcolm Heath. Harmondsworth, Penguin Books.
Belfiore, Elizabeth (1992), ‘Aristotle on Tragic and Comic Mimesis’, Bryn
Mawr Classical Review 4: 1 http://hegel.lib.ncsu.edu/stacks/serials/bmcr/
bmcr-v4n01-belfiore-aristotle. Accessed 5 January 2009.
The Dark Knight (2008), Wr: Jonathan Nolan, Christopher Nolan, Dir:
Christopher Nolan. USA/UK, 152 mins.
Doom (1993-), PC/Xbox, Designers: John Romero, Sandy Petersen and Tom
Hall, id Software.
Field, Syd (1994), Screenplay: The Foundations of Screenwriting, New York: Dell
Trade Paperback.
Football Manager (2005-), PC/Xbox, Designer: Kevin Toms, Sports Interactive.
The Godfather (1972), Wr: Mario Puzo, Francis Ford Coppola, Dir: Francis Ford
Coppola. USA, 175 mins.
Halliwell, Stephen (1987), The Poetics of Aristotle, London: University of North
Carolina Press.
Hiltunen, Ari (2002), Aristotle in Hollywood: The Anatomy of Successful
Storytelling, Bristol: Intellect Books.
In the Motherhood (2007), Cr: Alexandra Rushfield, Jennifer Konner; Mindshare
for Science + Fiction; cca 6 mins x eps. Webseries.
Järvinen, A. (2009), ‘Understanding Video Games as Emotional Experiences’,
in Perron, B. & Wolf, M.J.P. (eds), The Video Game Theory Reader 2, New
York: Routledge, pp. 85–108.
Jenkins, H. (2004), ‘Game Design as Narrative Architecture’, in Wardrip-Fruin,
N. & Harrigan, P. (eds), First Person: New Media as Story, Performance and
Game, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, pp. 118–130.
Kelly, George A. (1991), The Psychology of Personal Constructs. Volume One; A
Theory of personality, London: Routledge.
Laurel, Brenda (1991), Computers as Theater, Reading MA: Addison-Wesley
Laurel, Brenda (2003), ‘The Six Elements and the Causal Relations Among
Them’, in Wardrip-Fruin, N. & Montfort N. (eds), The New Media Reader,
Cambridge, Massachusetts: The MIT Press, pp. 563–571.
Lord of the Rings: the Fellowship of the Ring (2001), Wrs: Fran Walsh, Philippa
Boyens, Peter Jackson, Dir: Peter Jackson. USA/New Zealand/Germany,
179 mins.
Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers (2002), Wrs: Fran Walsh, Philippa Boyens,
Stephen Sinclair, Peter Jackson, Dir: Peter Jackson. USA/New Zealand,
178 mins.
Lord of the Rings: Return of the King (2003), Wrs: Fran Walsh, Philippa Boyens,
Peter Jackson, Dir: Peter Jackson. Germany/New Zealand/USA, 201 mins.
Lost (2004-present), Cr: J.J. Abrams, ABC; 42 mins x eps.
111
SUGGESTED CITATION
Kallay, J (2010), ‘Cyber-Aristotle: towards a poetics for interactive screenwriting’,
Journal of Screenwriting 1: 1, pp. 99–112, doi: 10.1386/josc.1.1.99/1
CONTRIBUTOR DETAILS
Jasmina Kallay is a Lecturer at the National Film School (IADT), Dublin, and is
in the final stages of completing her PhD in Interactive Screenwriting at UCD.
Jasmina regularly contributes to film and digital media publications and confer-
ences. Apart from her academic output, Jasmina also works as a freelance script
consultant and editor for a number of broadcasting and production companies
in Ireland and the UK.
Contact: National Film School, IADT, Dublin.
E-mail: jasmina.kallay@iadt.ie
112
RIIKKA PELO
University of Art and Design, Helsinki
ABSTRACT KEYWORDS
The article focuses on the ‘invisible role’ of the screenwriter and makes Tonino Guerra
observations about the screenwriter’s part in the process of writing a screen- Michelangelo
play together with a director. By studying the two examples of the collabo- Antonioni
ration between the screenwriter and poet Tonino Guerra with the directors Andrei Tarkovsky
Michelangelo Antonioni and Andrei Tarkovsky, the intention is to follow screenwriting
the ways in which authorship is both constituted and shared in such a liai- authorship
son. I observe how the craft of the screenwriter is understood in relation writer-director-
to the different aspects of his task. By focusing on the case study around relationship
113
114
presented in film journals such as Les Cahiers du Cinéma and in the writ-
ings of Alexander Astruc (Astruc 1968 [1948]: 17–23).
The auteur philosophy emphasized the director’s creative domi-
nance of all the phases of cinematic creation. It also questioned the
importance of text, the screenplay, as an origin or an inherent part
of a film. Jean-Luc Godard’s pronouncements on getting rid of the
script may have had a great impact on the neglect of the screenwriter,
even though he later admitted that he too had written manuscripts
like all the others (Godard 1984: 229–30). As a result of the auteur
philosophy, the screenwriter became an ‘invisible ghost’, hiding but
still nonetheless working in the shadows of film production.
In Andrei Tarkovsky’s artistic work the ideals of auteur philosophy
were strongly present. Although Tarkovsky held poets and novelists
in high esteem, he did not value screenwriting very much, not even as
a profession in itself. The screenplay was not to be compared to litera-
ture either; it was a creative laboratory, in itself fated to die in the film.
For him the director was the poet, the composer, the author.
However, as with Tarkovsky, the text did continue to serve as the
basis for fiction film in the era of the New Wave. Yet there were also
variations in how the labour of writing was divided or shared. Only
a few directors, like Ingmar Bergman and Pier Paolo Pasolini, ful-
filled the double-duty position of writer-director and wrote their own
screenplays. Godard often based his screenplays on other texts, nov-
els and short stories, and especially later on in his career he worked
extensively with screenwriters. Many auteur directors like Federico
Fellini, Michelangelo Antonioni and Francois Truffaut wrote with a
partner or team. In the tradition of European film-making, from the
era of Italian neo-realism in the 1940s and 1950s to the French New
Wave in the 1960s and later, the names of several screenwriters come
up alongside famous directors. The Italian writer Suso Cecchi d’Amico
began her career in the 1940s and went on to work with Vittorio De
Sica and Luchino Visconti. In France, the writer Jean-Claude Carrière
worked with Jacques Tati and Luis Buñuel; Jean Gruault worked with
auteurs such as Francois Truffaut, Alain Resnais and Jacques Rivette;
and Gérard Brách wrote many of Roman Polanski’s films. Novelist
Marguerite Duras created screenplays for and with Alain Resnais
while directing her own films; and in the USSR, Aleksandr Misharin
collaborated with Tarkovsky for over twenty years, starting with the
film Zerkalo/The Mirror (1974).
One of the most recognized of these often-unacknowledged
European screenwriters is Tonino Guerra. His contribution as a writer
varied significantly depending on the film production he was involved
in. Very often he co-wrote with the director, as was the case with the
screenplays for Antonioni’s The Red Desert (1964) and Tarkovsky’s
Nostalgia (1983). In spite of his remarkable contribution to film, in
most of his cinematographic work Guerra was characterized as an
inventor of stories or as a technician of narrative structures but rarely
as a screenwriter in the sense of an author (Pellizzari 2004: 228).
115
1. A tetralogy is ‘any In this article my aim is to focus on the invisible role of the screen-
set of four related
dramas’ (OED, 1968). writer and to make observations on the screenwriter’s role in the proc-
Contemporary ess of writing a screenplay together with a director. By studying the
critics pointed to the two examples of Tonino Guerra’s collaboration as a writer – the life-
similarities of these
three from the 1960s. long collaboration with Antonioni and the one-off collaboration with
Il Deserto Rosso/The Tarkovsky – my intention is to follow the ways in which authorship is
Red Desert (1983)
was later seen by both constituted and shared in such liaisons. I observe how the craft
others such as Seymour of the screenwriter is understood in relation to the different aspects of
Chatman as similar in
theme, plot structure
his task, here especially in creating the theme and the idea, the narra-
and character type tive structure and the cinematic image for a screenplay. I compare how
(Chatman 1985: 51). these issues are defined by the directors and by the writers themselves.
By focusing on the case study around the writing of the film Nostalgia,
I also consider how responsibility in developing these aspects is shared
between screenwriter and director during different phases of a screen-
writing process: in gathering ideas, sketching, building the story struc-
ture, writing drafts, rewriting and completing the final draft.
Theoretical discussion on the status of the screenplay as an inde-
pendent work in its own right, as compared to a complete film or to
a play or a literary work (e.g. a novel) will be left aside here, although
it would also be a significant topic in any consideration of the screen-
writer’s authorship. Instead the emphasis is here on the practice-
oriented perspective of the artists and in the processes and methods
of creating a screenplay.
With this study, my aim is also to give an optional view to tradi-
tional research on the screenwriter’s work, which typically explores the
subject from the perspective of American industrial film production. In
that context the respective roles of the writer and director are gener-
ally seen as separate entities with independent responsibilities in the
production line, the writer being in charge of the storyline, the dramatic
structure and the dialogue, whereas the visual imagery of the film is
entirely the director’s responsibility (see, for example, Stempel 2000;
Norman 2007). In studying the work of Tonino Guerra my question is
whether these different elements of the narrative whole can be seen
as separate entities or responsibilities defining the writer’s task, or
does the example of his work suggest another way of looking at the
writer–director relationship?
Very little has been documented of the professional relationship
between Guerra and Antonioni, even though Guerra is credited as
writer of the screenplay for most of Antonioni’s films. I shall mainly
follow Lorenzo Pellizzari’s short monograph on Guerra’s work, in
which he also tries to define Guerra’s personal poetic and narra-
tive style, recognizable in many Italian films (Pellizzari 2004: 40–109,
218–40). In addition, I will pay attention to several scattered notions
on the nature of Guerra and Antonioni’s relationship as presented
in different interviews and screenplay introductions from the early
1960s, when the first three of Antonioni’s so-called ‘Great Tetralogy’,1
the films L’Avventura/The Adventure (1960), La Notte/Night (1961) and
L’Eclisse/Eclipse (1962) were produced.
116
117
2. The term ‘cinema In spite of his large filmography, Guerra has been treated as a
of alienation’
was first used in footnote to European film history – if even that. Yet The Encyclopedia
Italian film reviews of Italian Literary Studies in turn acknowledges him as the greatest
of Michelangelo Italian screenwriter, ‘playing an essential role in shaping Italian cin-
Antonioni’s films, which
dealt with individual ema’ (Marrone and Puppa 2006: 905–06). Leonardo Pellizzari, the
experiences of writer of a monograph on Guerra, brings up the same argument and
alienation caused by
modern industralization defines him as an invisible thread tying together the different nar-
and technology. rative approaches in Italian cinema. Guerra did contribute widely to
Later in Italy it also
came to mean
Italian cinema, from creating the post-neo-realistic ‘cinema of alien-
other post-neo-realist ation’2 to developing the commedia all’Italiana.3 Pellizzari also claims
cinema influenced that Guerra deserves the status of an original author, the creator and
by Antonioni’s films
(Pellizzari 2004: developer of cinematic storytelling, in stead of being defined as a
220–28). mere technician working on the narrative inventions of the great
3. ‘Commedia all’Italiana’
refers to another
auteurs (Pellizzari 2004: 218–21).
approach in Italian From the 1960s, in film reviews and cinema studies Guerra was
post-neo-realist cinema already recognized as a writer with his own approach and bracketed
presenting the subject
of social malaise together with Antonioni as one of the creators of the ‘cinema of alien-
and contradictions of ation’. In particular Guerra has been credited with introducing the
culture in the rapid
transformation of ‘irrational component’ to new Italian film (Pellizzari 2004: 224–25). The
Italian society, through Red Desert powerfully exemplifies both these tendencies in the story
comedy but with of Giuliana, the neurotic Ravenna housewife suffering the trauma of
a cynical sense of
humour. For example, attempted suicide, who is agonized by modern industrial life and her
films by Mario own paralysed marital life.
Monicelli represent the
classic example of the Both Guerra and Antonioni were also held equally responsible
genre, closely linked for the disintegration of cinematic narrative typical of the films of the
to the old commedia
dell’arte (Bondanella
Great Tetralogy, soon to be widely imitated in Italian and European
2001: 145). cinema (Pellizzari 2004: 224–25). Though in most later research mini-
4. In his book Story, malist and open-ended narrative structures with causal disturbances
Substance, Structure,
Style and the Principles are often categorized as representing the inheritance of Antonioni’s
of Screenwriting, 1960s approach (e.g. Chatman 1985: 73–82), Italian scholars Niccolo
Robert McKee presents
three variations of the
Machiavelli and Pellizzari are also willing to credit Guerra with having
plot, one of them being invented this whole new narrative style (Machiavelli 2004: 243).
a mini-plot. Contrary to Guerra himself has asserted that his signature as a writer in a film
an archplot, which has
an active protagonist can be traced from its sense of poetry, be it poetic images or qualities
and is dominant in of the structure. ‘In everything I make, all I am doing is diluting a little
Hollywood films,
a mini-plot is often poetry. I think I’ve always given a bit of poetry to all the directors I have
based on the internal worked with,’ he has stated, in retrospect (Machiavelli 2004: 241). But
conflicts of a passive how did this ‘diluting’ happen? How did Guerra work with the direc-
protagonist and tends
to have an open tors and by what means was he able to bring his personal approach to
ending. McKee refers the work of auteurs like Antonioni and Tarkovsky?
to Antonioni’s works as
examples of a mini-plot
(McKee 1997: 45).
3. THE GREAT TETRALOGY: FROM WORDS TO IMAGES
The starting point for Antonioni and Guerra’s collaboration (which
lasted for over fifty years) was The Adventure, the well-known mini-
plot4 film which they co-wrote with Elio Bartolini in 1959. This film
also marked a turnaround in Antonioni’s style, when his earlier neo-
realism and social exploration gave way to a more reticent narrative
118
revealing the fragile inner landscape of the modern neurotic psyche. The
Red Desert (1964) was another turning point in Antonioni’s career as it
was his first film in colour. The way he used colour as a poetically expres-
sive element in the film made him one of the inventors of cinematic col-
our according to Seymour Chatman (Chatman and Duncan 2004: 91).
In Antonioni’s oeuvre the visual images, colour, setting or land-
scape dominate. In his films ‘words are only a comment, a background
to the image’, as Guerra put it early on in his career, and he describes
how, in the process of realizing a screenplay Antonioni ‘wants to
destroy in the word what it retains of literary suggestion in order to
give it value as cinematographic suggestion’ (Rohdie 1990: 76). Guerra
has also presented his own intention as a poet and a screenwriter as
primarily to create images: ‘everything I write [...] is full of images. My
writing is in its essence of images. And my poems always contained
cinema even before I worked in it’ (Machiavelli 2004: 241).
Nevertheless, as translating words to cinematographic images is
actively pursued by Antonioni as well as Guerra, the significance of
words, via the screenplay, is not denied in the process of creating a
story. Guerra explains how in their collaborative work,
119
120
fiction and truth, appearance and substance, truth and lies appear
as part of its themes so they also motivate the narrative structures,
creating a new kind of, perhaps irrational, causality. Pellizzari (2004)
points out that certain of Guerra’s qualities also specifically intensi-
fied Antonioni’s narrative style present in the Great Tetralogy. He sees
Guerra’s contribution as being especially in the way the films move
from the conventional dramatic line of presentation to a more seg-
mentally and structurally oriented – yet playful and open – way of
constructing a story (Pellizzari 2004: 225).
In a later comment, the older Guerra considers the dramaturgical
structure of a film in a more intuitive and artistic way: ‘the structure is
something musical. It is like an electrocardiogram that appears to me
at a certain point and allows me, so to say, to feel whether the story has
its own rhythm, homogeneity and sonority’ (Machiavelli 2004: 248).
The sensitive metaphor with which he speaks of the structure as the
heart of the story itself suggests a concept of screenwriting similar to
a composer working with his vocal or instrumental material, or to that
of a poet absorbed in the materiality of his medium, and not as a tech-
nician only working out a vision of the great artist.
Even though Guerra and Antonioni’s professional relationship was
at the time defined in hierarchical terms of master and assistant, at least
in public, questions still arise about the division of their tasks. Namely,
is a screenwriter only ever able to work on the structure without at the
same time intervening or developing the images – the visual, organic
and moving material of the film? Are they not both, the image and the
narrative structure, dependent on each other as well as the essential
part of the screen idea as both sides of the coin, growing and develop-
ing out of each other’s structure, itself a more organic problem of com-
position than simply the order of the scenes? By looking at Guerra’s
collaborative work with Tarkovsky on the screenplay of Nostalgia as a
case study, would it be it possible to decipher a different, more organic
and perhaps equal way of dividing and sharing the work of creating
cinematic narrative?
121
5. Most references to the externaliation of images born in the stillness of the director’s inner
Tarkovsky’s diary are
taken from the Finnish self (Synessios 1999: xv).
edition (1989). English Synessios notes that, like many earlier auteurs, Tarkovsky often
translation is by the worked with co-writers, even with novelists such as the Russian
author.
science-fiction writers the Strugatski brothers, but involved himself
heavily in the process as the main author of the screenplay. In a collab-
oration of this sort he usually discussed the work with his writers inten-
sively, after which they would put themes, dialogues and scenes into
writing. Usually he read the results, discussed it with them and asked
them to revise and edit it, progressing in a piecemeal fashion. Even
though he did part of the rewriting himself, it was usually the writer
who made the changes and solved the problems, until Tarkovsky
felt it was his own script. As a true auteur, he maintained control all
the way through the screenwriting process and always had the final
word (Synessios 1999: xvi–xix).
However, in his collaboration with Guerra on the film Nostalgia
(1983), Tarkovsky’s auteurist attitude does not appear as strong and
hierarchical as, for instance, in his other collaborations. On the con-
trary, the professional relationship seems to be based on the possibil-
ity of opening up a creative writing space for two authors with their
original ideas and poetic and visual imagination. The fact that Guerra
was a poet was also one reason why Tarkovsky (himself the son of a
poet) ended up working with him, something which can be deduced
from a quote from Goethe in Tarkovsky’s diary,5 written while he was
working intensively with Guerra; ‘the one who wants to understand
the poet must go to the poet’ (Tarkovsky 1989: 183).
Nostalgia is a film about the contradictory emotional life of a
Russian intellectual abroad, and of his meeting with an Italian mad-
man who has locked his family in their home for seven years because
of his fear of the impending end of the world. As the film deals with
the director Andrei Tarkovsky’s personal ‘state of suffering far away
from my home country’ (as Pellizarri quotes from Tarkovsky’s state-
ment to the film’s Italian investors), it also explores ‘the nostalgia
for a world without borderlines, a world that each of us so often
imagines existing or that could exist’, as Guerra crystallizes his own
intention for writing the film (Pellizzari 2004: 238). The hero of the
story, the poet Andrei Gorchakov, states this same longing in one
of his lines too, including both sides in his character: Tarkovsky’s
subjectivity on the one hand and the poet Guerra’s humanism on
the other.
While considering Guerra’s contribution to Nostalgia to be author-
ship in its own right, Lorenzo Pellizzari posits that the film works on
two separate levels revealing the personal thematic intention of both
authors. There is Tarkovsky’s self-absorbed level of inner torment and
a more confident level of discovering the reality, mastered by Guerra.
He suggests that the film’s visionary and hallucinatory aspects could
be ascribed to Tarkovsky, and that the humanity found in all its quo-
tidian matters is Guerra’s (Pellizzari 2004: 238). Following Pellizzari’s
122
123
could be constructed – even though the original image had been fixed
and set in its correct place in the narrative structure of the film.
A key issue was to find a motive for the hero’s travels. On Tarkovsky’s
return to Rome in July 1979 – having by then found a new name for the
film, Nostalgia – he and Guerra left immediately for a journey through
Italy, seeking inspiration. They did not so much seek the hero’s motives
in a dramatic sense but in a poetic and symbolic one, as Tarkovsky
emphasized in his diary. Test shootings and a visual diary, later cut
together as the film Voyage in Time (1983), also fed the writing process;
fragmentary ideas inspired by the landscape and Giotto’s paintings, and
sketches for important scenes that would occur later, were all registered
in Tarkovsky’s notebook. He also writes of how they would constantly
‘invent a lot together’ (Tarkovsky 1989: 213–18).
Both sources, Tarkovsky’s written diary (1989) as well as their
visual one Voyage in Time (1983), reveal how the dramatic motives of
the hero seemed almost something to be avoided by both collaborators
for a long time. They knew only some absurd details, about such things
as Gorchakov’s hands and his wet feet, as well as of his interest in
architecture. They wanted him to encounter the characters from the
‘End of the World’ story outline, but there was as yet no motive for
Domenico’s death. Throughout this process of development the agony
of the auteur as well as the hesitation of the dramatist continued, as
they felt they did not have a basic idea. The overall concept of the film
was missing. The inability to be alone in the beauty of Italy was not
yet an idea. They had to search for more ideas (Guerra & Tarkovsky
1983; Tarkovsky, 1989: 219).
In studying these discussions it also becomes obvious how their
roles of auteur and dramatist, visual thinker and storyteller, vision-
ary and devil’s advocate were not something essentially defined and
unchanging but roles that shifted between the two co-authors. And
yet neither of them was ready to compromise their ideas or their
work. They ‘demanded a lot’ from each other and from themselves,
as Guerra states in the documentary film (1983). What Voyage in Time
shows very clearly is how both of them were becoming the driving
creative forces in propelling the work forward. For the intention to
create a poetic film about a Russian meeting an Italian was becoming
a very intense issue for both of them – full of personal intentions. As
a result, the idea of only the director having dominance and control
over the key personal idea and developing it in his own artistic direc-
tion dissolved into a shared process of invention and creation.
After their Italian travels the new version of the screenplay was
reworked separately by the two of them in Michelangelo Antonioni’s
house in Sardinia. This was a literary document, a novella-like script in
the Russian way (Synessios 1999: xiv). In diary entries from this period
(Tarkovsky 1989: 219–21), the shared nature of the labour of writing
becomes clear too; first Tarkovsky wrote the scenes they had discussed
together, then Guerra translated and rewrote them and finally Lora,
Guerra’s wife, translated them back into Russian for Tarkovsky. ‘I will
124
definitely edit the final version myself,’ Tarkovsky now stated in his 6. Noted from Internet
Movie Database,
notebook, revealing that he truly wanted to retain ultimate control as http://www.imdb.
a true auteur. com, accessed 2 July
The structure of the story in this version followed the course of 2009.
125
126
own pace. Thus he seemed to be the driving force of the project during
this time, propelling both of them forwards like a quasi-producer.
In addition to the roles of the analyst and the guide, there is yet one
side of Guerra’s expertise as a screenwriter fully at work in the writing
of Nostalgia, as it was in the screenplays of Antonioni too; his work
with structure and cinematic images in the medium of words. Some of
the elemental images of the film arose as expressions of Tarkovsky’s
inner self, from sketches written in his diary many years before. To
make a complete narrative stand on its feet, a wider and more sig-
nificantly defined flow of ideas, themes and images was needed. Most
importantly, it required the poetic, dramatic and narrative skills of a
professional, Antonioni’s ‘technical sweetness’ mentioned above, for
the dynamic relationship of the story to be constructed.
What counts in the task of the screenwriter the most is what to
make out of all the material brought up by these or any other methods
and, most importantly, how to build them into meaningful constella-
tions, structural and syntactic units and a moving image narrative, into
a ‘language’ of cinema, without shattering the often very abstract and
fragile core ideas and the mystery involved in their creation.
To conclude, the authorship here should be considered not in terms
of a personal signature, but more according to the mathematics of the
child and the madman as they appear in Guerra’s oeuvre; as one plus
one equals one, so Guerra and Tarkovsky’s work constitutes a whole
in which one is inseparable from the other. Even though Tarkovsky
can be seen as the ‘auteur of auteurs’, he nonetheless allowed Guerra
to be a poet in the practice of screenwriting. Thus he makes Guerra a
creator, not just serving Tarkovsky, but rather conceiving the story and
the visual and poetic world of the film. Furthermore, what their liaison
suggests is that, at its best, collaborative screenwriting – the shared
authorship between a writer and a director on a screenplay – can be
an organic and intimate thinking process shared between two creative
minds, arising from the specificity of the film’s visual vocabulary, and
its conditions and possibilities.
REFERENCES
Amarcord (1973), Wrs: Federico Fellini, Tonino Guerra, Dir: Federico Fellini,
Italy, 127 min.
Angelopoulos, Theodo-ros and Fainaru, Dan (2001), Angelopoulos Theo:
Interviews, Jackson: University Press of Mississippi.
Antonioni, Michelangelo (1963), Screenplays of Antonioni, New York: Orion
Press.
—— (2007), ‘Mitä olen halunnut sanoa’, Filmihullu, 6, pp. 28–32.
Astruc, Alexandre (1968 [1948]), ‘The Birth of a New Avant-Garde: La
Camera-Stylo’, in Peter Graham (ed.), The New Wave: Critical Landmarks,
Garden City, NY: Doubleday, pp. 17–23. (Orig.‘Du stylo à la caméra et de
la caméra au stylo’, in L’Écran Française, March 1948).
Bondanella, Peter E. (2001), Italian Cinema: From Neorealism to the Present,
London: Continuum.
127
128
Uomini e lupi/Men and Wolves (1956), Wrs: Giuseppe de Santis, Tonino Guerra,
Ivo Petrilli, Elio Petri, Tullio Pinelli, Cesare Zavattini, Dir: Giuseppe de
Santis, Italy, 94 min.
Zerkalo/The Mirror (1974), Wrs: Andrei Tarkovsky, Alexander Misharin, Dir:
Andrei Tarkovsky, Soviet Union, 106 min.
SUGGESTED CITATION
Pelo, R. (2010), ‘Tonino Guerra: the screenwriter as a narrative technician or as a
poet of images? Authorship and method in the writer–director relationship’,
Journal of Screenwriting 1: 1, pp. 113–129, doi: 10.1386/josc.1.1.113/1
CONTRIBUTOR DETAILS
Riikka Pelo is a Finnish novelist and a screenwriter currently working on
her Ph.D. by practice in screenwriting in the University of Art and Design,
Helsinki. Her novel, The Heaven-Bearer, will be published in English by The
Twisted Spoon Press (Czech Republic/USA) in 2010.
Contact: University of Art and Design, Helsinki, Finland.
E-mail: rpelo@taik.fi
129
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ISABELLE GOURDIN-SANGOUARD
University of Stirling
Creating Authorship?
Lindsay Anderson and
David Sherwin’s
collaboration on
If.... (1968)
ABSTRACT KEYWORDS
This article draws upon the research currently undertaken for my doctoral authorship
thesis and is meant to act as a complementary study of Lindsay Anderson collaboration
and David Sherwin’s partnership on If…. (1968), following Charles David Sherwin
Drazin’s 2008 article for the Journal of British Cinema and Television, Lindsay Anderson
‘If… before If…’. Charles Drazin (2008: 318) highlights the idea of a sequence 5
‘creative dynamic’ underlying the working partnership between Lindsay script to screen
Anderson and David Sherwin on If…., as well as in the subsequent projects transition
they developed together. The following article aims to uncover the nature process of
of the creative dynamic suggested by Drazin’s article by looking at both the equivalence
personal and the artistic dimensions that the working relationship assumed. François Truffaut
The aim is to highlight the distinctiveness of their collaboration in the cin- ‘une certaine
ema; the article will show that in the course of this collaborative work they tendance du
realized their artistic potential through an exchange of expertise, and that cinéma français’
131
1. The title for the film is their collaboration helped to bring about an alternative approach to the con-
If…., with four ellipsis
dots, not three. See
ventional opposition between screenwriter and director, especially when it
Lindsay Anderson comes to claiming authorship over a film.
(2004a, 2004b) and
Mark Sinker (2004: 14).
INTRODUCTION
The following article explores the nature of the working relationship
between the film director Lindsay Anderson and the screenwriter David
Sherwin during the screenwriting and production phases of the feature
film If.... (1968).1 The objective is to highlight the distinctive nature of
their director-screenwriter partnership by unravelling the existence of
a dynamic that their respective artistic potentials made possible. The
132
133
2. See David Sherwin’s 5 place within the confines of a fictional English public school2 – had, in
May 1960 entry: ‘the
only experience we’ve Sherwin’s words, generally been met with moral outrage and outright
got is that Nazi condemnation.3 David Sherwin’s published diaries (1997) and more
camp – Tonbridge – recently Charles Drazin’s account of If....’s genesis (Drazin 2008: 321–
our schooldays!’ /[John
Howlett] ‘it’s never 324), highlight the connections between the adverse feelings which
been done. Not the the original script generated and the context in which it was presented
real truth. The torture!
The keen types!’ to potential producers. Drazin’s article in particular outlines what he
(Sherwin 1997: 2). perceived to be the lack of artistic vision and ambition that charac-
3. See Lindsay Anderson:
‘They had been
terized the British cinema of the late 1950s and early 1960s (Drazin
working on the draft 2008). Quoting his own interview with Geoffrey Nowell-Smith,
for some years, and Drazin contrasts the inertia afflicting the British cinema scene with the
in various drafts had
submitted it to such then blooming French New Wave that was, in his opinion, taking the
people as Nicholas medium into uncharted territories of new-found cinematic creativ-
Ray… and the British
producer Ian Dalrymple
ity with films such as François Truffaut’s Les Quatre-Cents Coups/400
(who had told them Blows or Jean-Luc Godard’s A Bout de Souffle/Breathless – both 1959
they both deserved to (Drazin 2008: 326).4
be beaten)’ (Anderson
2004b: 108). Also By the time the script – still entitled Crusaders – reached Lindsay
David Sherwin noted Anderson in 1966, two film directors are cited as having expressed an
on 21 May 1960
‘[Lord Brabourne] interest in the story (Sherwin 1997: 3–10, Anderson 2004b: 108). In both
is straightforward. cases, however, they decided against directing it themselves; Nicholas
Crusaders is the most Ray, the director of Rebel Without a Cause (1955) whom David Sherwin
evil and perverted
script he’s ever read’ and John Howlett greatly admired, turned down the project on the
(Sherwin 1997: 4). grounds of his American heritage, which he believed disqualified him
4. See also Penelope
Houston: ‘France for the task. Similarly, the second director to react positively to the
probably has a script, Seth Holt, also felt that his lack of a first-hand experience of the
rather higher share
of enlightened
investors than Britain
or America, men
prepared to take risks
on a creative rather
than a commercial
reputation’ (Houston
1963: 87). Also,
‘looking across the
Channel … France
and Italy have their
defiantly young
directors, as unafraid
of making mistakes
as they are of making
pictures; and Britain’s
cinema by contrast
looks scared of cutting
loose, of appearing
immature or juvenile’
(Houston 1963: 113).
134
Figure 3: Anderson and Sherwin consult their scripts, while shooting If....
(1968). Courtesy: Lindsay Anderson Archive, University of Stirling.
English public school system proved too much of an obstacle for him
to produce a film that would do justice to the script (Anderson 2004b:
108). Both David Sherwin’s diaries (1997) and Lindsay Anderson’s
own recollection (2004b: 108) privilege the personal dimension in
the decision-making process of these directors, while the industrial
context might just as equally have accounted for Nicholas Ray’s and
Seth Holt’s unwillingness to see the project through. Sherwin’s entry,
detailing his first meeting with the American director, is illustrative of
the tone which characterizes the screenwriter’s records for the gen-
esis of the film; a tendency to turn the context in which film-making
practice was operating in Britain at the time into a critique of his own
personal struggle over artistic creation:
Within the context of this article the quote also allegorises the
connection between the personal and the artistic sides of Lindsay
Anderson’s and David Sherwin’s lives. Their respective frustration
at a system which was only just opening up to more socially rel-
evant and challenging themes for screen adaptation is but another
135
5. See Robert Murphy manifestation of the duality which was to inform their working
(1992: 102–14),
and in particular; partnership. Robert Murphy (1992) provides a useful account of the
‘Complaints about structural and economic changes that were affecting the British cin-
Rank and ABC’s ema industry in the course of the 1960s. If the Rank Organization
domination of the
industry led Edward and Associated British Picture Corporation (ABPC) had a de facto
Heath… to refer the monopoly on the British cinematic production and distribution
“Supply of Films to
the British Cinema” until as late as the mid-1960s,5 cracks in the system had started to
to the Monopolies emerge in the early 1960s with a string of unexpected critical and
Commission. Their
report, finally delivered
public successes achieved by independent productions.6 Saturday
in October 1966, Night and Sunday Morning (Karel Reisz, 1960), for instance, which
proved to be a Seth Holt had edited, managed to overcome the hurdles of a hos-
clear and incisive
indictment of the tile film trade, gaining critical and public acclaim which further
monopoly influence enabled Tony Richardson’s newly created Woodfall film company
exerted by the two big
corporations’ (Murphy
to achieve financial viability (Murphy 1992: 21). Of note, Albert
1997: 106–107). Finney, the lead in Saturday Night and Sunday Morning, was to
6. See also Roger become the producer of If…. with his own film and theatre com-
Manvell (1966:
116–133). pany, Memorial, taking the project on board in June 1967 (Sherwin
7. Lindsay Anderson 1997: 18). Lindsay Anderson had himself been given the chance
commented ‘we
were not writing on to direct his first feature film at the suggestion of Karel Reisz, who
commission, had no acted as a producer on This Sporting Life (1963). It could be argued
‘development deal’, that Lindsay Anderson merely continued with David Sherwin
and so felt beholden
to nobody, and quite the tradition of artistic exchange, started in the wake of the Free
unaffected by any Cinema initiative, whereby respective areas of expertise were both
prejudices except our
own. In this way If…. used and promoted with the objective of furthering a common
was well and truly in vision for the cinema.7 In this respect David Sherwin describes
the tradition of “Free
Cinema”’ (2004b:
the conditions which led him to work with Lindsay Anderson as a
110). personal and artistic epiphany (Sherwin 1997: 11). Charles Drazin
8. David Sherwin: ‘With (2008) also stresses this sense of artistic recognition – ‘a mutual
this mutual flash of
understanding my and flash of understanding’8 – which was to herald a lifelong intellec-
Lindsay’s destinies tual, artistic and emotionally-charged collaboration of which If....
change…’ (Sherwin
1997: 11).
(1968) captures the essence.
9. David Sherwin recalls
in one of his diary
entries how the title for FROM CRUSADERS TO IF…. :9 UNRAVELLING THE
the film came about
(Sherwin 1997: 18). DYNAMIC OF A WORKING PARTNERSHIP
Lindsay Anderson was
using his old school – If this ‘stroke of divine providence’ (Drazin 2008: 329) translated into
Cheltenham College – an opportunity for the script to become a film, it also led Sherwin to a
as one of the shooting profound reassessment of his professional skills in view of Anderson’s
locations. As Anderson
feared the reaction of outright dissatisfaction10 with the draft submitted to him. As Drazin’s
the headmaster, should interview with Sherwin indicates, a self-confessed teacher/student
he read the actual
Crusaders script, a working relationship soon asserted itself (Drazin 2008). It appears that
fake script was sent the young screenwriter accepted the terms of their working partner-
instead. The title for
this fake, from Rudyard
ship as a necessary and even integral part of a tacit learning curve.
Kipling’s poem If, was Lindsay Anderson’s own view of the early stages of their collaboration
suggested by Albert certainly suggests that his intervention brought about a complete re-
Finney’s secretary,
Daphne Hunter, and appraisal of the existing draft: ’David Sherwin and I took Crusaders to
Sherwin decided to pieces, invented new characters, new incidents and a new structure’
keep it afterwards for
(Anderson 2004b: 109).
136
This idea of a new departure for the script finds further confir- the film itself. Mark
Sinker highlights the fact
mation in Anderson’s mention of the subsequent decisions by John that Lindsay Anderson
Howlett and Seth Holt to withdraw from the project entirely (2004b: leaves room for doubt
109–10, 113). An interesting pattern then develops between the two as to whom – himself
or Sherwin – Daphne
men, as suggested in the Drazin article (2008: 331), from this initial Hunter suggested the
hierarchical structure in their approach to their craft; the screenwriter use of the poem title
(Sinker 2004: 18). See
locates his own strength in his capacity for imagination, but also pro- also Anderson (2004b:
fesses a need for containment which he believed the director’s pro- 110).
10. ‘After reading it,
claimed synthetic and analytical skills provided.11 Lindsay Anderson though, I found myself
also appears to accept his role as the more experienced practitioner. disappointed. It was
The letter which he wrote to Sherwin from Poland in November 196612 certainly appealing
in an anarchic, even
illustrates the point fully: poetic way, but I felt
there was a naivety
about it, which…
You have (excuse me writing like a school report) a fecundity of made me feel that
imagination, but it seems to operate rather without organic sense, it could only be
directed by the authors
like a series of prose poems: or jottings for a script. Sometimes a themselves’ (Anderson
whole idea is valuable, sometimes a couple of lines, sometimes 2004b: 108).
nothing. 11. Charles Drazin:
‘Anderson […]
(Anderson 2004a: 171) possessed a formidable
sense of structure and
the analytical ability
Not surprisingly, David Sherwin’s entries recording the redrafting to push a dramatic
process betray a high degree of emotional turmoil. Between July situation to its logical
conclusion’ (Drazin
1966 and June 1967 Sherwin’s mood seems to oscillate between 2008: 331).
extremes of exultation and depression. In his published diaries, two 12. Anderson spent three
entries, one for December 1966 immediately followed by one for months in Warsaw
between October
Spring 1967, are an indication of the emotional strain experienced and December 1966
by the screenwriter: to direct a Polish
production of John
Osborne’s Inadmissible
December 1966: I get so carried away by this letter that I produce Evidence, with Tadeusz
a script which is complete rubbish. Lomnicki in the leading
role. While in Poland,
Christmas Eve 1966: Lindsay tells me the script is awful. I have on the suggestion of
the director of the
failed. ‘Go away and write simply. Remember Georg Buechner,’ Documentary Studio,
he says. Anderson also filmed
a documentary about
Spring 1967: [...] finish the new draft in April. In trepidation I the Warsaw Dramatic
Academy, which he
post it off to Lindsay. He rings me at the crack of dawn to say called Raz, Dwa,
it’s brilliant. Trzy/The Singing
Lesson.
(Sherwin 1997: 15)
137
13. Lindsay Anderson: of his published diaries – merely the sense of an emotionally-driven
‘David Sherwin arrives
early morning – well creative spirit in need of critical support – the recent interview which
10.00: but I am he granted Charles Drazin (2008) appears to undermine, ever so
not up… the idea slightly, this view of their collaboration. For instance, Sherwin recalls
of getting down to
discussing Crusaders, his attempts to regain control over the drafting process and his subse-
rewrites, etc. is quent strategy of privileging afternoons for their working sessions – in
really alarming and
distasteful’ (Anderson all likelihood due to Lindsay Anderson’s self-proclaimed aversion to
2004a: 177). working in the morning:13
It is tempting to argue that the only way for this young screenwriter
to ever see his script transposed onto the screen was to agree to a
tacit denial of his artistic impulses. David Sherwin betrays an apparent
desire to redress the balance: ‘Anderson was a containing influence
for a highly inventive mind… Sherwin recalled the warning that the
director would often issue during their work together: ‘David, bread as
well as jam. And you’re too much jam’ (in Drazin 2008: 331).
In these circumstances the dual dimension underpinning the col-
laborators’ working dynamic would point to the precarious position
in which a screenwriter finds himself, whenever allowing the direc-
tor to become involved in the drafting process. Instead of the fruitful
collaboration which Sherwin appears keen to emphasize, a struggle
for creative dominance (for which Anderson’s and Sherwin’s respec-
tive set of artistic skills would provide a metaphor) asserts itself. An
entry in Sherwin’s diaries, from around the same time as Anderson’s
remarks quoted above, encapsulates this idea of a contrary pull, and
is to the detriment of the screenwriter. On 15 May 1967 Anderson
pronounces the draft to be complete. Sherwin says, ‘Our draft of
Crusaders is finished. Lindsay is pleased…’. However, the following
morning Sherwin finds himself in a state of panic: ‘The script is rub-
bish’ (Sherwin 1997: 17). What is interesting about Sherwin’s out-
burst is that it seems to act as a question mark over his claim of the
authorship of the script. In this regard, his published diaries do not
make any mention of the redrafting that subsequently took place at
Lindsay Anderson’s flat in London, but an account of this is found in
Anderson’s diaries (2004a: 177–80).
Charles Drazin (2008) contributes his own approach to the issue
of who could rightfully claim the authorship of the final script in
assimilating script and filmed version. Instead of establishing a clear
divide between the author of the written script and the director of
the film, Drazin reinforces the idea of a common artistic goal which
would have been attained through a collaborative effort throughout.
138
He declares, for instance, ‘the film was an example of the key crea- 14. ‘I stare at the story
tors in effect pooling their authorship through shared values. If.... was in Variety, not quite
believing that it is true:
neither Anderson’s film nor Sherwin’s film; it was their film’ (Drazin SHERWIN WINS
2008: 333, original emphasis). BRITISH WRITERS’
GUILD AWARD’
This compromise position, which Drazin seems to privilege, finds (Sherwin 1997: 26).
its manifestation in the tone of the interviews at the time of the
film’s release and the subsequent publication of the script in 1969. In
an interview for The Observer in December 1968, Lindsay Anderson
clearly attributes all decisions in terms of narrative and style to both
Sherwin and himself (Anderson 1968: 114). Similarly, in the ‘Notes
for a Preface’ to the published script of If…., the director discusses
the background to the storyline as well as any decision pertaining to
style or any meaning to be inferred from their working partnership
(Anderson 1969: 120–3). Furthermore, given that Anderson’s sub-
sequent two feature films as well as an unrealized sequel to If….
were scripted by David Sherwin as well, the picture of a particularly
productive and mutually beneficial partnership would appear most
convincing. David Sherwin does not seem intent on directly claim-
ing the authorship of the script for himself. In his published dia-
ries he refers to ‘our script’, or talks about his ‘contribution to If….’
(Sherwin 1997: 17, 23). The closest he comes to proclaiming the
script as his own creation is his mention of the British Writers’ Guild
Award, which he won for the 1968 Best British Original Screenplay
(Sherwin 1997: 26).14
It follows that Charles Drazin’s article (2008) convincingly high-
lights the emotional dimension underlying Lindsay Anderson and
David Sherwin’s collaboration on the drafting process by offer-
ing a detailed insight into their working pattern and writing rituals.
However, the question of assigning the final authorship of the script
remains open as Drazin grants each partner’s input equal importance.
Within the present context this proves useful as it provides a starting
point from which to investigate conventional notions of authorship in
a cinematic context.
139
15. Entries in April and on the film. Second, it hints at their ability to transcend the usual
May 1967 note: ‘We
settle into a routine… boundaries between each other’s assumed areas of expertise. This
Lindsay insists on two would in turn suggest the existence of an interchangeable dynamic
walks a day… then between the two – a dynamic which lies at the heart of their artistic
along the stony beach
and into – JOY! – a drive. Sherwin here writes himself into the role of dominant part-
wonderful seaside ner, referring to Anderson by his first name and further recounting
pub called the
“Broadmark”. Here in their meeting that night by simply using the third person pronoun,
the public bar we play and thereby asserting his control over the situation. Of note, Mark
the jukebox and listen
to the Beach Boys. If
Sinker (2004: 62–3) regards the sequence in which the three main
I’ve been a good protagonists in If…. are whipped as evidence of an underlying S&M
writer, Lindsay allows motif, for which the public school’s etiquette works as an allegory.
me a second glass of
barley wine’ (Sherwin He further argues that this reading would account for Mick Travis’s
1997: 16). subsequent rebellion as in S&M practice “[…] the bottom is run-
ning [the] scene” (Sinker 2004: 63). With regard to the present argu-
ment highlighting the degree of emotional dependency displayed in
turn by both Anderson and Sherwin, it is tempting to regard the
sequence in the film as a fictional re-creation of their own artistic
process; in other words, the apparent teacher/student relation that
had established itself during the drafting process is indicative of a
pre-established hierarchy necessary to the production of the story
but by no means impervious to change and/or challenge.
Here, the recourse to a drink and some music mentioned by
Sherwin functions as a much-needed reprieve from having to face
the consequences of their artistic endeavour. A ritual has established
itself between the two partners; whoever happens to find himself
exposed to outside scrutiny can rely upon the emotional comfort
and temporary leadership granted by the other. Both Anderson’s
and Sherwin’s diaries support this view by providing examples of
the same pattern repeating itself on numerous occasions. In the case
of If….’s pre-production and filming stages, David Sherwin’s diary
entries, referring to his stay at Lindsay Anderson’s family cottage,
mirror the account of Anderson’s breakdown on the eve of shoot-
ing.15 Similarly, Anderson documents his location-scouting trip to
Charterhouse, at the end of which he reports Sherwin experiencing
his own anxiety attack:
The working pattern between the two men also provides an illustration
of the human dimension underpinning the coming-into-existence of
the script. It further lends legitimacy to Anderson’s vision of the film-
making process as a fusion of many and various creative elements; the
script becomes an intrinsic part of the production of the film. Neither
a compilation of filming guidelines for the director, nor the transposition
140
of a novel, the script is the product of a creative dynamic which, in 16. ’I work practically
without a shooting
turn, makes the film possible. script; all I prepare
Two episodes further illustrate the relevance of the dynamic that is the dialogue […]
underpins Anderson and Sherwin’s partnership. The first involves You can’t put the
best moments of a
the writing stage: the second, the passage from script to screen. film down in a script’
In 1994 Lindsay Anderson recalled a key instance of a scene ‘which (Truffaut in Manvell
1966: 69).
seem[ed] entirely right within the film but which [was] not in the 17. See for instance Louis
original script’ at the start of filming (2004b: 117). The scene in ques- Marcorelles: ‘The
credits of A Bout de
tion occurs straight after the sequence during which the three main Souffle list François
protagonists and friends – Mick, Johnny and Wallace – go through Truffaut as screenwriter
the ritualistic flogging by the school’s prefects. Anderson reports and Claude Chabrol
as “artistic supervisor”;
that he did not think that the scene ‘worked’ as scripted, so instead but this was done
he relied upon his intuition and devised an entirely new scene. For for the benefit of the
technicians’ union and,
the director the new scene, showing Mick shooting darts at a col- in fact… Truffaut’s
lage of newspaper cuttings, ‘solved the transition after the beating’ contribution was the
(Anderson 2004b: 117). discovery of a news
snippet which became
The background to the filming of this unscripted scene reinforces the starting point of the
Lindsay Anderson’s distinctive championing of the existence of crea- plot. A Bout de Souffle
is therefore a genuine
tive elements at the heart of the film-making process. Anderson’s film d’auteur – more
account, justifying the suppression of one scene and its substitu- so than either Les
tion by another conceived by the director himself, initially seems to Quatre-Cents Coups
or Hiroshima, Mon
echo François Truffaut’s own directorial practice on Les Quatre-Cents Amour, to which the
Coups/ 400 Blows (1959), a film which has often been cited along- screenwriters made
powerful contributions’
side Anderson’s If.... for their common homage to Jean Vigo’s Zéro (Marcorelles
de Conduite/Zero for Conduct (1933). Roger Manvell quotes Truffaut 1960: 84).
as advocating a directorial practice liberated from the constraints of a
written script and thereby opening up fully the cinematic potential of
a film (Manvell 1966: 69).16 While the French New Wave representa-
tives are keen to suggest that a gradual dismissal of the screenwriter’s
input ought to operate when moving from the page to the screen,17
the collage scene constitutes another manifestation of the dynamic
underlying Anderson and Sherwin’s collaboration; this visual token
illustrates the process of equivalence that supersedes any traditional
definition of authorship. Lindsay Anderson provides an illustration of
this process of equivalence such as it applies to the two men’s work-
ing pattern and, in this instance, to the collage scene:
141
18. ‘It is only when you work. Instead, the main protagonist ‘firing darts into the collages
make [the film], you
write it, you film it, broaden[s] the impact’ intended by the film (Anderson 2004b: 118),
you edit it that all and reaffirms the collaborative dimension of the pair’s work because,
the creative process as Sherwin explains, ‘we worked through the night, arranging the
sets in, and that you
reach a conclusion pictures in different patterns on the floor, until finally we have highly
which is the film per charged collages for our heroes’ (Sherwin 1997: 23).
se’ (Anderson 1969,
trans. the author). This mention in Sherwin’s diaries of the collage scene assumes
19. The notebooks further significance when seen in parallel with an incident that took
themselves are held in
the Lindsay Anderson
place barely a month beforehand. David Sherwin was present for
Collections, Stirling the shooting of the sequence showing the three friends carrying out
University. their punishment for killing the chaplain. Just as the camera was
supposed to start rolling, Lindsay Anderson started reproaching
Sherwin for not having written one single line of dialogue between
the protagonists from that place in the story until the very end of the
film. At that point Anderson appears to forego all claim of author-
ship over the script and instead castigates his screenwriter for his
alleged laziness. Sherwin’s rebuke – ‘It’s called poetry, Lindsay –
the poetry of cinema’ (Sherwin 1997: 23) – undermines the tradi-
tional notion of authorship being limited to particular stages of the
film-making process. A more fluid definition takes precedence: one
which acknowledges the area of expertise of each person involved
in the film-making process, while at the same time emphasizing the
existence of a continuous exchange inherent to that same process.
Sherwin’s active contribution to the preparation for the scene, which
had come into existence as a result of directorial involvement, puts
forward the interdependence of both. This dynamic sheds a new
light upon the claim of the authorship over the script, which involves
a process of equivalence.
There is no journal or shooting diary of the film itself; as far as
we know, Lindsay Anderson did not keep a record of his day-to-
day experience of shooting If….. Anderson did, though, give a sig-
nificant number of interviews at the time of If….’s release in 1968, as
well as on the occasion of the film’s presentation at the 1969 Cannes
International Film Festival. These interviews suggest that Anderson,
the director, goes beyond the normal and expected practice of mar-
keting a film: it brings out Anderson’s view of his function as a direc-
tor or, in other words, how this function translated into the practice
of film-making. For instance, in a 1969 interview to a French cinema
journal, Jeune Cinéma, Anderson defines his role as film director as
an integral part of the creative process underpinning film-making, as
opposed to being the film’s sole or main originator: ‘c’est quand on le
fait, qu’on l’écrit, qu’on le tourne, qu’on fait le montage que s’opère
tout le processus créateur et au bout on arrive à une conclusion qui est
le film’ (Anderson 1969: 9).18
Anderson’s published diaries provide another example of his view;
the editor, Paul Sutton, notes the presence in Anderson’s notebooks
of a mock interview featuring both the questions and the answers
(2004a: 193).19 One of the mock questions outlines the relevance of the
142
For anyone who has seen the film, the correspondence between
script and screen is striking. In terms of the dynamics operating
between the screenwriter’s and the director’s respective practice, it
provides an example of this idea of equivalence that constitutes a
key feature of their partnership. It also brings further confirmation
that Lindsay Anderson and David Sherwin’s working collabora-
tion on If…. challenges the traditional notions of authorship within
143
20. Reprinted in Lindsay the film-making process; through the director’s and screenwriter’s
Anderson (2004b:
194–199). open acknowledgment and sustained exchange with the constitu-
tive stages of the film-making process, a more fluid understanding
as to who is making/writing/ creating the film becomes possi-
ble. When Anderson, as a director, defends his choice of literally
‘putting the Chaplain in the Drawer’ (Anderson 2004b: 118), he
provides evidence of the dialectic which he places at the heart of
his artistic practice; ‘I used to throw myself against reality out of
which I can create something – but to create that reality is very
hard for me. I only seem able to work through some kind of dialec-
tic’ (Anderson 2004a: 174).
144
(Truffaut 1954: 226). This refers to transformation between media, 21. See David Gerstner
whereby in screen adaptations of pre-existing novels or plays, some and Janet Staiger
(2003: 3–25) and
scenes would be deemed un-filmable. Truffaut believed instead Virginia Wright-
in the potential for an ‘auteur’s cinema’ (Truffaut 1954: 234), that Wexman (2003: 1–18)
for instance, for recent
is, a practice of film-making which would acknowledge the true overviews of the debate
potential of the medium. Using Robert Bresson’s bold inclusion of surrounding the issue of
authorship in film.
a supposedly un-filmable scene in his adaptation of le Journal d’un
Curé de Campagne/Diary of a Country Priest (1951), Truffaut advo-
cates the need for transcending the boundaries which ‘scenarists,
directors and litérateurs’ have imposed upon film-making (Truffaut
1954: 234). Within our present context, it proves tempting to shed
a new light upon a seminal text that is commonly regarded as the
manifesto of the Politique des Auteurs, which was to champion
the centrality of the director’s role in the film-making process and
the study of film.21 It is worth noting that, in that same article,
Truffaut resorts to screenwriting practice to illustrate the short-
comings of the ‘scenarists and metteurs-en-scène of the “Tradition
of Quality”’; he argues that (screen)writing comedy is the ulti-
mate test for identifying the true men of the cinema (1954: 234).
In other words, Truffaut might also have intuited the interdepend-
ence of screenwriting and film directing but subsequently failed to
investigate the connection any further, as his later contributions
to Cahiers du Cinéma tend to suggest. Lindsay Anderson’s vision
for the role of the director in the film-making process would here
provide the missing connection by highlighting the centrality of the
latter’s role while simultaneously arguing for the need of a creative
trigger. In other words, Truffaut’s reference to the writing of com-
edy as a way of testing the cinematic potential of ‘true men of the
cinema’, would echo Anderson’s view of the ‘form versus content’
debate in the cinema. For Anderson contrary to what is happening
‘in the other arts [that display many] facets of the same personality,
in the cinema we have a varying number of artists – each perhaps
with a slightly different conception of the work they are combining
to create (Anderson 1948: 198). In that same article for Sequence,
Anderson further argues in favour of regarding the director’s role
as essential, making possible the ‘fusion’ of the creative elements
in the film. He also simultaneously proclaims the director’s reliance
and dependence upon the other members of the filming crew – ‘he
cannot stand alone’ (Anderson 1948: 199). This is a view which
Lindsay Anderson reaffirmed throughout his career as a film critic
(e.g. 1955: 255–256; 262; 271–276), and which his working collabo-
ration with David Sherwin on If…. exemplified. In ‘Notes For A
Preface’ (Anderson 2004b: 120), Anderson acknowledges the auto-
biographical undertones that pervade the film, but urges audience
and critics alike to look at it in more general terms. The way in
which the personal (both Anderson and Sherwin attended a public
school) and the artistic intersect in If…., parallels the way in which
the context of the late 1960s that surrounded the film’s release – that
145
22. See Lindsay Anderson of ‘youthful dissidence and revolt’ (Anderson 2004b: 108) – inter-
(2004b: 118).
sected with the film’s script. It provides the metaphor for their
working dynamic just as the parallels between lived experience
and social context fed into the film – at the pre-production, pro-
duction and exhibition stages. In that sense, their collaboration on
If…. transcends the conventional boundaries of authorship within
the film-making process. The intrusion into each other’s area of
expertise does not signify a denial of authorship; instead, it signals
a constant interchange of creative practice. Just as film functions
as a metaphor for society but not merely as a reflection upon cur-
rent events,22 Lindsay Anderson and David Sherwin’s collaboration
illustrates the possibility in film of:
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The author gratefully acknowledges Professor John Izod’s input at
the drafting stage as well as Karl Magee’s and Kathryn Mackenzie’s
assistance with the archival material.
REFERENCES
A Bout de Souffle/Breathless (1959), Wr: François Truffaut, Jean-Luc Godard,
Dir: Jean-Luc Godard, France, 86 mins.
Anderson, Lindsay (1948), ‘Creative Elements’, Sequence 5, Autumn, in P.
Ryan, (ed.) (2004), Never Apologise: The Collected Writings, London: Plexus,
pp. 194–199.
Anderson, Lindsay (1955), ‘Positif and Cahiers du Cinéma’, Sight and Sound,
January–March, in P. Ryan, (ed.) (2004), Never Apologise: The Collected
Writings, London: Plexus, pp. 255–256.
Anderson, Lindsay (1968), ‘School to Screen’, The Observer, December, in P.
Ryan, (ed.) (2004), Never Apologise: The Collected Writings, London: Plexus,
pp. 112–115.
Anderson, Lindsay (1969), ‘Lindsay Anderson; en 69 comme en 57: contesta-
taire’, Jeune Cinéma, Revue Mensuelle de la Fédération Jean Vigo des Ciné-
Clubs de Jeunes et des Cercles de Culture par le Film, 39: 1–10.
Anderson, Lindsay (2004a), The Diaries, Paul Sutton (ed.), London:
Methuen.
Anderson, Lindsay (2004b), ‘Unpublished Material’ in Never Apologise: The
Collected Writings, P. Ryan (ed.), London: Plexus.
Drazin, Charles (2008), ‘If…. Before If….’, Journal of British Cinema and
Television, 5:2.
Gerstner, David A. and Staiger, Janet (2003), Authorship and Film, New York,
NY; London: Routledge.
Hiroshima, Mon Amour (1959), Wr: Marguerite Duras, Dir: Alain Resnais,
France, 91 mins.
146
SUGGESTED CITATION
Gourdin-Sangouard, I (2010), ‘Creating Authorship? Lindsay Anderson and
David Sherwin’s collaboration on If.... (1968)’, Journal of Screenwriting 1: 1,
pp. 131–148, doi: 10.1386/josc.1.1.131/1
CONTRIBUTOR DETAILS
Isabelle Gourdin-Sangouard, M. Phil, is a doctoral candidate at Stirling
University and part of the AHRC-funded project ‘The Cinema Authorship of
Lindsay Anderson’. She has contributed a number of conference papers and
articles to the project – one of which ‘Music/Industry/Politics: Alan Price’s
roles in O Lucky Man!’ will be published by Cambridge Scholars Publishing,
as part of a study of Culture and Society in 1970s Britain. She taught film,
media and French language and culture, as a lecturer at The Robert Gordon
University, Aberdeen (2004/7) and as a teaching assistant at the University of
147
Aberdeen (2000/6). Her research interests also include the area of media and
education, with presentations and a workshop at IAMCR 2006 and ECREA
(2007 European Media and Communication Doctoral Summer School).
‘The Cinema Authorship of Lindsay Anderson’ is an AHRC-funded project
at the University of Stirling. The Principal Investigator is Professor John Izod,
with Karl Magee as Senior Archivist and Co-investigator, Kathryn Mackenzie
as Archivist and Research Assistant, and Isabelle Gourdin-Sangouard.
Contact: The University of Stirling, Dept of Film, Media & Journalism, Office
J13, Pathfoot Building, FK9 4LA.
Tel: +44 (0)1786 466227
E-mail: isabelle.gourdin-sangouard@stir.ac.uk
148
ROSAMUND DAVIES
University of Greenwich
Screenwriting strategies
in Marguerite Duras’s
script for Hiroshima,
Mon Amour (1960)
ABSTRACT KEYWORDS
The published ‘scénario et dialogues’ (Duras 1960) (Figure 1) of the film screenwriting
Hiroshima, Mon Amour (1959) feature precise technical specifications of Marguerite Duras
sound and image and more novelistic passages, all of which create an emotional Hiroshima,
resonance that has been left to the director to translate into images. This article Mon Amour
explores Marguerite Duras’s text as a particular example of how the written script
component of the screen idea (Macdonald 2004a) might function on the page memory
and as part of a dialogue with the director. It also examines the way that the narrative
script’s concern with problematizing and drawing attention to the process of rep-
resentation makes it a palpable and controlling presence in the resulting film.
INTRODUCTION
Hiroshima, Mon Amour (1959) was a collaboration between the writer
Marguerite Duras, as script writer, and Alan Resnais, as director.
A co-production between France and Japan, the original aim of the
149
film was to address the subject of the nuclear bomb and the tragedy of
Hiroshima. Duras and Resnais approached this from an unusual angle,
centring the narrative on a fictional present day love affair between
a Frenchwoman and a Japanese man, set in Hiroshima, rather than
undertaking a documentary examination of the facts. Subsequent
critical analysis of the film has most often focused on the way that,
150
by taking this approach, the film problematizes memory, history and 1. My translation. All
translations from the
indeed representation itself. An early analysis by Pingaud, reprinted French, other than of
from an original paper given in 1960 (Pingaud [1960] 2002), is typical the script for Hiroshima,
in this respect. Pingaud states that the central character of the film is Mon Amour, are my
own. The original
in fact time, rather than the human beings who live through it, and French is ‘la condition
that the film presents memory paradoxically as a process of forget- désespérée, désolante,
de la vie même’.
ting (l’oubli), a state which is portrayed in the film as ‘the hopeless, 2. Throughout this article,
wretched condition of life itself’ ([1960] 2002: 72).1 Pingaud points out I refer both to the
original French script
that both the bombing of Hiroshima and the other central narrative by Duras (1960), and
of the film, which concerns a young Frenchwoman’s love affair with to the 1966 translation
a German soldier and its aftermath, are presented as ‘images d’oubli’ by Richard Seaver.
When a quote from
([1960] 2002: 70). Here he underlines the fact that these events are the script is given in
not so much memories for the characters as gaps in their memory. The English it is taken from
Seaver’s translation,
film repeatedly emphasizes the fact that the bombing of Hiroshima, at unless otherwise
which neither of the characters was present, can only be experienced indicated. Any original
by them second-hand: through the physical remnants of buildings French text (from Duras
or other quoted French
and other artefacts that survived the blast, through the documen- sources) is given in the
tary footage of survivors, and through monuments and reconstruc- footnotes, unless my
comments refer directly
tions. Conversely, the Frenchwoman’s direct experience during World to the original French,
War II is buried so deep in her memory that, at the beginning of the in which case French
film, she cannot properly access or articulate it. Rather it interrupts and English translation
are quoted together
the film narrative as an unexplained visual flashback and through an within the article.
aural motif; the name of the town ‘Nevers’ where she lived, which 3. ‘Impossible de parler
de HIROSHIMA.
is repeated and lingered on as a word many times by the characters Tout ce qu’on peut
before its narrative significance is revealed. faire c’est de parler
de l’impossibilité de
More recently Gronhovd and VanderWolk write that in Hiroshima, parler de HIROSHIMA’
Mon Amour the cinematic form lends itself to the portrayal of memory (Duras 1960: 2).
as ‘an agent of disjunction’ (1992: 125), which can open up ontological
investigation, but cannot answer epistemological questions, because
‘there exists in Hiroshima no ontological grounding from which epis-
temological questions can take shape’ (1992: 121).
What is being underlined in these readings is the fact that the
film Hiroshima, Mon Amour, in its insistence on the inseparability of
memory from forgetting, sets out in a certain respect to represent
the unrepresentable. This interpretation echoes the words of Duras
in her synopsis for the film, in which she states that it is ‘impossible
to talk about Hiroshima. All one can do is talk about the impos-
sibility of talking about Hiroshima’2 (Duras 1966: 10).3 Her script for
Hiroshima, Mon Amour then takes on the paradoxical project of say-
ing the unsayable.
Pingaud ([1960] 2002: 74) also highlights the way that the
Frenchwoman’s story unfolds in the film in a form that is similar to
that of a psychoanalytical cure. Her visit to Hiroshima acts as a cat-
alyst for involuntary memories from her past in France. These start
to interrupt and disrupt the present day narrative, until her Japanese
lover takes the role of the psychoanalyst and helps her to finally tell
in full the story of her love affair with a German soldier in occupied
France. This aspect has also been picked up by more recent theorists,
151
4. The published text who have expanded more fully on the film as an example of trauma
for Hiroshima, Mon
Amour (Duras, 1960) narrative. Caruth (whose understanding of trauma resonates with
is subtitled ‘scénario et Pingaud’s analysis of memory/forgetting within the film) writes that
dialogues’. This is in ‘the enigmatic language of untold stories – of experiences not yet
line with the standard
credit accorded to completely grasped – that resonates, throughout the film’ is in fact ‘a
the writer on French new mode of seeing and of listening – a seeing and a listening from
films, for which the
translation in English the site of trauma’ (Caruth 1996: 56).
would most typically My own research has been undertaken in the light of these existing
be ‘screenplay’, as
indeed would be
readings of the film, which I take as a starting point for my own work.
the translation for This article examines the script and associated documents written by
‘scénario’ alone. This Duras, presenting a close analysis of the way that the written text
absence of perfectly
matching terms in develops the themes and produces the effects commented on above.4
French and English is
further complicated
by the fact that Duras’s THE PRODUCTION CONTEXT AND PUBLISHED
script does not conform DOCUMENTS
to the standard
industry formats of My examination of the written text in relation to the completed film
the American and UK
film industries of the
work also raises some questions about the nature of the collaboration
period. Given these between Duras as writer and Resnais as director and it will probably
various slippages be helpful at this point to establish the context of this collaboration, of
between terms, I have
opted to use the word which there were three main stages. The first stage, completed in the
‘script’ (which has a spring of 1958, before Resnais went to Japan to shoot the scenes set in
looser application than
‘screenplay’) to refer
Tokyo, resulted in the writing of an initial scenario as well as character
to the main script that profiles and other supporting documents. The second stage consisted
is included alongside of a concentrated period, in July and August of 1958, in which Duras
‘synopsis’ and
‘appendices’ in the and Resnais worked in parallel: Duras writing scenes for the Tokyo
published volume. shoot and sending them to Resnais for him to commit to celluloid a
short while later. According to Adler ([1998] 2000: 221), this intense
process was a two-way exchange, which also encompassed dialogue
rewrites. The third stage was completed after the main shoot in Japan
was finished, but prior to the shooting of the scenes set in Nevers,
France in December 1958. Duras wrote additional notes relating to
these scenes, which were collected in the published version of the
script as a series of appendices to the main script. According to Duras
(1960: 107) Resnais asked her to provide this material not as a script
but in the form of ‘commentaries’, as if she was responding to a view-
ing of scenes that had already been filmed.
In addition to the main script and the appendices, the published
edition of the ‘scénario et dialogues’ for Hiroshima, Mon Amour also
includes a synopsis, with which the volume begins. Before going on to
a more detailed analysis, I will first give an overview of the character-
istic features of each of these documents.
THE SYNOPSIS
The synopsis both summarizes the film’s narrative and themes and
specifies in some detail how the film should be interpreted. Having
stated the impossibility of speaking of the bombing of Hiroshima, it
goes on to identify one of the film’s major aims as being to ‘to have
152
done with the description of horror by horror’5 (Duras 1966: 10). 5. ‘en finir avec la
description de l’horreur
Duras puts forward the proposition that, instead of simply attempting par l’horreur’ (Duras
to represent the horror of Hiroshima head on, it would be much more 1960: 3).
powerful to tell a love story in which the characters’ stories become 6. Here Seaver is picking
up on Duras’s stated
so entangled with the story of Hiroshima that it would be impossible intention that the love
to distinguish one from the other. Through this process, the experi- affair between the
Frenchwoman and the
ence of Hiroshima will in a sense be relived, rather than simply rep- Japanese becomes
resented. Adler seems to provide some background on this, when she indistinguishable from
the story of Hiroshima.
states that the departure point for Resnais and Duras, in developing A slightly more literal
the story for Hiroshima, Mon Amour, was to ask ‘Have our lives been translation of the
changed by the horror of the dropping of the bomb?’ (Adler [1998] original French might
be ‘it is as if the
2000: 219). Throughout the synopsis, Duras explicitly makes equiva- atrocity of a woman’s
lent the horror experienced by the Frenchwoman, branded a collab- head being shorn
in Nevers and the
orator in post-occupation France, and the horror of Hiroshima. She atrocity of Hiroshima
ends the synopsis by stating that the lovers exist for each other only were EXACTLY the
through the names of the places that they come from – Nevers, France same’. However,
this would not give
and Hiroshima. Her final comment is that ‘C’est, comme si le désas- the connotations
tre d’une femme tondue à NEVERS et le désastre de HIROSHIMA se of dialogue and
interaction that are
répondaient EXACTEMENT. Elle lui dira: “Hiroshima, c’est ton nom” suggested by the
’(Duras 1960: 10). (This is not translated literally in the English trans- French verb ‘se
lation by Richard Seaver, but interpreted as follows, ‘It is as though, répondre’, which can
mean both ‘to answer
through them, all of Hiroshima was in love with all of Nevers.6 She each other’ and ‘to
says to him: “Hiroshima, that’s your name”’) (Duras 1966: 15). match’ or ‘harmonize’.
7. ‘le monstre dévorateur
fait peur, il est comme
tenu à distance et
THE SCRIPT dépossédé de ses
pouvoirs au profit du
Detailed explication of the intending meaning or effect of the film also texte...’
features in the script itself. Hiroshima, Mon Amour was the first film script 8. My translation. This
opening line is omitted
that Duras wrote and, as Borgomano (1985) has written, it represents from the 1966
perhaps her unfamiliarity with and suspicion of the form. Borgomano’s translation. Here
Duras refers to the
view is that Duras attempts, through the use of detailed descriptions and iconic photograph of
stage directions, to anchor control of the film in the written text: ‘it is as the mushroom cloud
though the scary, all-devouring monster [i.e. the cinema] is kept at arm’s produced by the 1954
atom bomb test that
length and deprived of its powers, which are given instead to the text...’ was carried out by
(1985: 39).7 Thus, for the opening sequence of the film, Duras writes a the American military
on Bikini Island in
very detailed description, in which she specifies the opening image to be the Pacific Ocean.
that of the ‘infamous “mushroom” of BIKINI’ (Duras 1960: 15),8 followed The image is clearly
by a second image of two torsos in an embrace, framed so as to cut the meant to stand for the
earlier bomb that was
bodies off at the neck and hips and ‘as if drenched with ashes, rain, dew dropped on Hiroshima.
or sweat (whichever is preferred)’ (Duras 1966: 17). Duras then goes on
to specify that the main thing is that this image should ‘produce a violent,
conflicting feeling of freshness and desire’ (1966: 17).
If Duras was seeking here to anchor control of the film in the
written text, as Borgomano suggests, then the attempt was arguably
not successful, as the specific image of the mushroom cloud was
omitted from the film itself. But in fact her directions also contain
a degree of ambiguity and openness to interpretation. It is not clear
whether the phrase ‘whichever is preferred’ (‘comme on veut’) refers
153
9. Later on in the film, to the interpretation that the audience might have, or to the directo-
as Duras notes in the
text, Resnais creates rial interpretation that Resnais might make. Resnais in fact appears
a similar plurality of to have preferred to give himself, and the audience, all the choices
interpretations when on offer, rather than settle for one. In the film itself he cuts together
he responds to a
choice of alternative four different identically framed shots, one after the other, which
lines of dialogue feature in turn ash, rain, dew and sweat, in the order listed by Duras
offered by Duras by
including all of them, (Figure 2a, b, c, d).9
one after the other It is possible moreover to interpret the development of the screen
(Duras 1960: 64).
10. Also mentioned by
idea from page to screen other than as a struggle for control between
Duras as a participant writer and director. In her introduction to the published script, Duras
in these discussions comments that the script was the product of almost daily discussions
is Gerard Jarlot,
who is credited as with Resnais.10 This must have affected the precision with which she
literary advisor on the describes and gives directions for certain scenes in the script, since
film. Jarlot, who was
Duras’s lover during
they were the culmination of these discussions. It seems likely that
this period, was what Duras is offering in these passages is a further articulation on the
subsequently co-writer page of ideas that had already taken shape in discussion. These ideas,
with Duras on the
script for Une Aussi taken one step further in their articulation on the page, were further
Longue Absence/A developed by Resnais in the shooting and editing of the final screen
Long Absence (1966
[1961]) and the work.
film adaptation of Duras’s style of writing within the main script and associated docu-
Moderato Cantabile/ ments must thus equally be a result of the fact that this is not a specu-
Seven Days...Seven
Nights (1960). lative script, obliged to leave plenty of room for an, as yet, unknown
director to occupy. Rather, it constitutes a very specific and individual
collaboration and dialogue with the film’s director Alan Resnais.
THE APPENDICES
The particular nature of the close collaboration between writer and
director is suggested not only by the level of detail and prescription, but
also by the stylistic aspect of the work. In the appendices in particu-
lar, Duras provides passages of text that variously suggest or prescribe
an emotional resonance, for which it is left entirely to the director
to find a visual expression. In the synopsis and script these passages
tend towards a rather bald prescription of effects, as with the opening
statement about the importance of provoking desire in the viewer.
However in the appendices, written for the final shoot in Nevers, the
style often becomes novelistic, and suggestive rather than prescriptive.
Thus the appendices begin with the following passage on the subject
of the death of the German soldier:
154
Figure 2a: Ash. Hiroshima, Mon Amour by Alain Resnais © 1959 Argos
Films.
Figure 2b: Rain. Hiroshima, Mon Amour by Alain Resnais © 1959 Argos
Films.
155
Figure 2c: Dew. Hiroshima, Mon Amour by Alain Resnais © 1959 Argos
Films.
Figure 2d: Sweat. Hiroshima, Mon Amour by Alain Resnais © 1959 Argos
Films.
156
The translation is not able to render the full effect of Duras’s original
text. It loses the rhythms, cadences and alliterations of the original
lines and the particular emphasis created by the reinforcement of the
possessive in ‘sa mort à lui’, for which there is no obvious English
equivalent. However it does make clear the level of abstraction and
description of inner emotions that Duras brings to the passage, for
which there is no obvious visual translation.
The three parts of the ‘scénario et dialogues’: the synopsis, the script
and the appendices, thus provide three different examples of how the
written component of what Macdonald has termed the screen idea
(Macdonald 2004a) might function both on the page and as part of a
dialogue with the director. While the three elements of the published
text would seem to relate to the three different stages in Duras’s and
Resnais’s collaboration outlined above, they cannot be precisely equated
without a far more extensive examination of the original sources. Duras
states in the introduction to the script, for example, that she has kept in
it ‘much of what was left out of the film’11(Duras 1960: 11). So the script
is not a transcript of the film, it is very much an original work by Duras,
as exemplified by her stage directions. At the same time, it has evidently
undergone further revision prior to publication.
A reading of the three documents does however appear to offer
some clues on the nature of the collaboration between writer and
director on Hiroshima, Mon Amour and can perhaps raise some more
general questions about the relationship between writer and director
in the development of the screen idea, as I will now go on to explore.
157
12. ‘une voix d’homme, as Truffaut (1954) and Bazin (1957, 1967) has led, in part, to a corre-
mate et calme,
récitative’ (Duras sponding devaluing of the script’s contribution to cinematic discourse
1960: 16). (2008: 31).
13. ‘tu n’as rien vu à What is striking in the film Hiroshima, Mon Amour, however, as
Hiroshima. Rien.’
(Duras 1960: 16). introduced in the discussion above, is the extent to which the image
refuses to offer a viewing experience of plenitude and immediacy.
The same lack, the same gap between representation and meaning
that, as Boon points out, must be filled in by the reader’s interpreta-
tion of the pages of the script, is, in this case, maintained in the cel-
luloid frames of the film. As Willis explains (1987: 35), this is clearly
apparent in the opening sequence, where the viewer is presented
with the disorienting shot of two torsos locked in an embrace. The
depicted activity is ambiguous – the bodies might either be in the throes
of death or of lovemaking. Willis comments that the desire (speci-
fied by Duras in the script) that the image provokes, is in fact the
desire to see, to ‘obtain mastery of the image through its identifi-
cation of a representable object’ (1987: 35). However, the framing
and staging of the image frustrates this desire at the same time as
it provokes it.
Furthermore, the accompanying soundtrack seems to specifi-
cally deny the possibility of any such mastery. The opening speech
of the film, which plays out over the above mentioned image, is
delivered, as Duras specifies in the script, by ‘a man’s voice, flat
and calm, as if reciting’12 (Duras 1966: 17), who announces ‘You
saw nothing in Hiroshima. Nothing’13 (1966: 17). An off-screen
conversation then continues, as a woman’s voice (‘Elle/She’) enters
into a dialogue with the man’s (‘Lui/He’), in which she reports on
various places and artefacts she has seen which relate to the atom
bomb at Hiroshima, while the man’s voice continues to deny that
she has seen anything. As the conversation continues, documen-
tary and dramatic reconstruction footage of scenes of Hiroshima
are intercut with the opening image.
As Duras specifies in the script, this dialogue is recited as a kind of
duet by the actors, rather than spoken as a conversation. It instigates
a trancelike, incantatory mood. It also offers some practical clues as to
how to interpret the opening image, suggesting to the reader of the
script and viewer of the film that the image of the torsos must some-
how relate to what happened at Hiroshima. As the opening sequence
continues, it is equally through the off-screen dialogue that a sense
of the story begins to unfold. The woman continues to insist that she
has seen everything at Hiroshima: the exhibits documenting the bomb
in the museum; the news footage of the injured; and the devastated
town. Meanwhile the man’s voice equally forcefully insists that she
has seen nothing and knows nothing of Hiroshima. This conversation
is overtly scripted, in the sense that it is not naturalistic language, but
operates through the cadences and rhythms of poetry. The woman’s
first line echoes the structure and rhythm of the man’s but substitutes
‘rien’ (nothing) with ‘tout’ (everything) in a combination of repetition
158
and opposition that is characteristic of much of this opening section 14. My translation : ‘faute
d’autre chose’. Seaver
of dialogue: has ‘for want of
something else’ (Duras
HE: You saw nothing in Lui: Tu n’as rien vu à 1966: 18).
Hiroshima. Nothing... Hiroshima. Rien…
SHE: I saw everything. Everything. Elle: J’ai tout vu. Tout.
(Duras 1966: 17, original emphasis) (Duras 1960: 16)
However, even as the woman insists that she has seen everything,
she seems also to concur with the man that what she has seen can-
not possibly represent what really happened. She describes how
the photographs and the reconstructions at the museum are there
‘for want of anything else’,14 and states that her conviction that
she will never forget what she has seen at Hiroshima is an illusion
(Duras 1960: 18).
The use of dialogue in this opening section and throughout the script
suggests that, although it is ‘impossible to talk about Hiroshima’, para-
doxically ‘the impossibility of speech generates an obsessional effort to
speak...’ (Willis 1987: 35). The characters address their subjects (of the
horror of the atom bomb at Hiroshima, and later of the woman’s expe-
rience of first love and loss in the French town of Nevers) again and
again in a circular way. The rhythms of repetition and redundancy in the
dialogue dramatize the simultaneous necessity, urgency and impossibil-
ity of narrating these experiences, of telling these stories. Furthermore,
‘Elle’s’ narration in voiceover and its contradiction by ‘Lui’ puts the
emphasis on imagination and interpretation as crucial elements in the
acts of looking, knowing and remembering. The role of testimony in
creating history (which in French is the same word as it is for story, ‘his-
toire’) is established as a central concern of the script.
159
15. ‘Se-connaître-à- ‘Hiroshima’ and ‘Nevers’ take on a significance in the script through
Hiroshima. C’est pas
tous les jours’ (Duras their constant repetition, and through the lingering emphasis that is
1960: 36). put on them by ‘Elle’ and ‘Lui’ who – the script goes on to reveal –
16. ‘lentement, avec une are two lovers; a Frenchwoman and a Japanese man, who have just
sorte de “délectation
des mots” (Duras met in Hiroshima. Having taken a shower with her lover, ‘Elle’ says
1960: 36). to him ‘To-meet-in-Hiroshima. It doesn’t happen every day’15 (Duras
17. ‘c’est à Nevers que
j’ai été la plus jeune 1966: 32). The syllables ‘to-meet-in-Hiroshima’ appear to form a
de toute ma vie’ (Duras newly coined word, signifying a unique experience. Duras specifies in
1960: 42).
18. ‘les lieux tels que nous
the script that the words are spoken ‘slowly, as though savouring the
pourrions les voir, mais words’16 (1966: 32). Similarly, when ‘Lui’ repeats the name of the town
tels que nous ne les Nevers, where ‘Elle’ grew up, he lingers over the word. Afterwards she
avons pas vus. C’est
en quelque sorte une tells him that ‘In Nevers I was younger than I’ve ever been’17 (1966: 36)
vision dérivée…’ and he echoes her words, ‘Young-in-Ne-vers’: again dwelling on the
rhythm and intonation, so that it is the sound and not the meaning of
the words that is emphasized. Thus Duras introduces a level of mate-
riality into the dialogue, which rivals that of the image. It takes on
many of the characteristics of music and starts to signify at a level that
is sensory, rather than semantic.
However, despite the importance of the dialogue to the themes,
tone and style of the film, it is not only through dialogue that Duras’s
script dramatizes its subject. Duras also employs other tools available
to the screenwriter, such as narrative structure, action and description.
The opening section of the script, which functions as a kind of overture
or prologue introducing the central themes and figures of the film, is
as specific about the images as it is about the dialogue, orchestrating a
very precise juxtaposition of the two. For example, an ironic counter-
point is set up between a paraphrasing of Hersey’s (1946) journalistic
account of wildflowers springing up in the ashes of Hiroshima, spo-
ken by ‘Elle’, and images of children injured in the blast, with which it
is juxtaposed (Duras 1960: 21). Then, when ‘Elle’ talks about how she
had the illusion that she would never forget Hiroshima, just as in love
one has the illusion that one can never forget, Duras specifies that the
accompanying image will be that of an eye being removed by surgical
tongs (1960: 22). The image of the physical removal of the organ of
sight thus frames, with some violence, the dialogue’s evocation of love
as an image of blindness.
The internal oppositions that Duras creates within both image and
dialogue and the repeated counterpoint she engineers between the
two, leave the reader in no doubt that representation itself is being
called into question. It is clear that the specified fragments of docu-
mentary and dramatic reconstruction that Duras refers to are not
meant to represent straightforwardly what happened at Hiroshima.
In fact they are there precisely to enact the impossibility of making
present the reality of the experience. According to Pingaud, docu-
mentary is the most fragile form of memory, because it functions as
a substitute for direct, first person experience, showing us ‘places that
we can see, but which we have not seen. It is a derivative kind of
vision...’18 (Pingaud [1960] 2002: 71).
160
This opening sequence of the script thus employs a careful juxta- 19. ‘comme toi, moi aussi
j’ai essayé de lutter
position of voiceover dialogue and description of images, in order to de toutes mes forces
problematize representation and the power of the documentary image contre l’oubli. Comme
to document or represent reality in any direct, unmediated or complete toi j’ai oublié’ (Duras
1960: 24).
way. It also underlines the intense investment of the central charac- 20. ‘écoute-moi. Je
ters in this problem of memory and representation, both through sais encore. Ça
recommençera.’ (Duras
the stylistic devices it employs and through an explicit statement of 1960: 25).
the theme, as when ‘Elle’ says ‘Like you, I too have tried with all my 21. ‘C’est la ville du
monde... à laquelle,
might not to forget. Like you, I forgot’ 19 (Duras 1966: 23). The wider la nuit, je rêve le
question of history as a collective rather than an individual concern is plus. En même temps
also introduced when Elle says, of the events that have taken place at que c’est la chose du
monde à laquelle je
Hiroshima, ‘Listen to me. I know something else. It will begin all over pense le moins’ (Duras
again’20 (Duras 1966: 24). This suggests that, despite the monuments 1960: 43).
and the peace films, the lessons of Hiroshima too will ultimately be
forgotten, and so repeated.
As well as providing a powerful and original example of the
way that a particular tone and mood can be established through
the juxtaposition of dialogue and image and through a particu-
lar approach to the dialogue, this opening sequence of the script
also provides quite detailed exposition concerning the bombing of
Hiroshima and its aftermath. Duras integrates into the voiceover
precise data on the number of dead and injured, on the tempera-
ture reached by the blast and information about the effects of the
radioactive fallout. However the stylistic effects discussed above –
the incantatory nature of the dialogue, and the fragmentary structure
in which the events are not recounted in order and in which image
functions in counterpoint with dialogue rather than in parallel –
work to obscure the extent of the information imparted. The reader
has a sense of a narrative that doesn’t quite make sense, that has
gaps and cannot fully be grasped. Thus Duras manages to impart
background information that needs to be known while simultane-
ously establishing a mood of not knowing: this produces the sense
of the impossibility of speaking of Hiroshima that she states in the
synopsis.
After the opening sequence, the visual treatment moves to a
more conventional mise-en-scène in which action and dialogue are
integrated within the bodies of the two main characters as part of a
dramatized scene. There is not the same carefully contrived coun-
terpoint between word and image that characterizes the opening
sequence. However, Duras uses other strategies to disrupt the
coherence and logic of the visual narrative. Oppositions and para-
doxes continue to operate at the level of the dialogue; for exam-
ple when ‘Elle’ says of herself that she lies and she tells the truth
(Duras 1960: 41), or that Nevers ‘is the city in the world... I dream
about most often at night. And at the same time it’s the thing I
think about the least.’21 (Duras 1966: 36). Meanwhile, at the level
of the image, Duras starts to introduce the disruptive presence
of flashbacks. The first and most notorious of these is when the
161
22. ‘il apparaît brutalement Frenchwoman is looking at the hands of the Japanese man asleep
à la place du
Japonais, le corps on the bed and suddenly sees in his place a different body, ‘the
d’un jeune homme, body of a young man, lying in the same position but in a posture
mais mortuaire’ (Duras of death’22 (1966: 30). This sudden, as yet unexplained, interrup-
1960: 33–34).
23. This term, from literary tion of the woman’s early life in Nevers is a foretaste of how the
theory, refers to the story of Nevers will later disturb and briefly invade the present day
practice of putting a
frame within a frame, Hiroshima narrative.
i.e. an image within Until this point in the script is reached, when the story of Nevers
an image, a story
within a story etc.
will take over the narrative, the love story between the Frenchwoman
24. ‘Elle a eu à Nevers and the Japanese man is scripted by Duras in such a way as to sub-
un amour de jeunesse ject it to continuous interruptions and barriers. After the first scene
allemand’ (Duras
1960: 90). in the hotel bedroom, a scene follows in which they have to shout at
each other over noisy traffic outside the hotel. Following this, when
he tracks her down to the set of the documentary film in which she
plays the part of a nurse, their conversation is interrupted repeatedly
by crew and cast who push past them as they participate in a peace
parade that is being shot as part of the documentary film. Thus, as the
lovers are physically interrupted by the action, their story is disrupted
by the intrusion of another narrative – that of the documentary that
is being filmed: a mise en abyme23 which further undermines the film’s
central narrative.
Further confusion and obscuring techniques are introduced
later on in the script, through a destabilising of subject positions.
When the Frenchwoman finally recounts the story of Nevers to the
Japanese man, he starts to speak to her from the subject position of
her dead German lover. Then later, back in her hotel room, ‘Elle’
first talks to herself, referring to herself in the third person, saying
‘in Nevers she had a German love when she was young’24 (Duras
1966: 72), then addresses her own reflection in the mirror as if she
is speaking to her former lover (Figure 3). Thus, through action and
dialogue the experiences of ‘Elle’ and ‘Lui’ are continually linked,
compared and contrasted; but the role that each plays in the oth-
er’s story and the role that each story has in the other’s experience
keeps changing. The relations between them are close but never
stable.
These same shifting relations characterize the overall narrative
structure of Hiroshima, Mon Amour, which works simultaneously
towards a final linking of the Frenchwoman and the Japanese man
through their mutual traumatic experiences of the war, and of their
final separation as the Frenchwoman returns to France. It is also
revealed that the bombing of Hiroshima, which propelled the Japanese
man into trauma, occurred just at the moment that the Frenchwoman
left the trauma of Nevers behind. Furthermore, on a national level,
Hiroshima marked the beginning of a story of suffering and horror for
the Japanese, just as it marked an end to it for the French. This para-
doxical resolution at the level of plot is consistent with the oppositions
and contrapuntal relationships that structure the development of both
character and theme.
162
Figure 3: ‘Elle’ addresses her own reflection in the mirror. Hiroshima, Mon Amour by Alain Resnais ©
1959 Argos Films.
163
164
memory. So too does the material quality of the dialogue; the sen-
sory repetition of names, and perhaps most strikingly, the apparent
collapse of identity at the end of the film where ‘Elle’ asserts that
Hiroshima is indeed his name and ‘Lui’ replies that hers is Nevers.
The very physical presence that characterizes the dialogue becomes
in the end just as much a signifier of absence. The characters, who
seem to seek in the material qualities of the words ‘Hiroshima’ and
‘Nevers’ a meaning and a reality that could make these place names
somehow embody their experience, appear in this final scene to
be replaced themselves by the words that hold them in thrall. The
repetitive structures of the narrative suggest just as forcefully that
this kind of physical, unarticulated memory traps the subject in an
endless cycle of repetition, as they continue to try to access and
finally live the missed event.
The cure for trauma and hysteria that is offered by Freudian psy-
choanalysis is that of the talking cure, of narrative. The psychoana-
lyst helps the hysterical or traumatized patient to access their issues
through language, and to tell the story of what happened to them,
establishing a logical chain of cause and effect. Once the experience is
brought into consciousness in this way, it loses its emotional invest-
ment and the symptoms disappear. However, in Hiroshima, Mon
Amour this would-be cure – the creation of a logical narrative – is also
problematized, precisely because of the loss of emotional investment
that it entails. The official version of the story of Hiroshima is pre-
sented from the outset as a narrative to be questioned and dismantled,
while the Frenchwoman experiences her ‘cure’ as a betrayal of her
lover, and as an experience of loss. Addressing her lover through her
own reflection in the mirror she laments that he was not quite dead,
until she told his story:
You were not yet quite dead. Tu n’étais pas tout à fait mort.
I told our story. J’ai raconté notre histoire.
I was unfaithful to you Je t’ai trompé ce soir avec cet
tonight with this stranger. inconnu.
I told our story. J’ai raconté notre histoire.
It was, you see, a story that Elle était, vois-tu racontable
could be told.
... Regarde moi comme je
(Duras 1966: 72)
t’oublie’
(Duras 1960: 90)
165
166
Duras’s stage directions also frequently specify the effect that 25.‘quelque part en France,
vers la fin de l’après-
an image should produce without giving an indication of how this midi, un certain jour,
might be achieved visually, as when she states that the opening un soldat allemand
image should provoke mixed emotions including desire. This is an traverse une place de
province. Même la
approach that is particularly apparent in the appendices which, writ- guerre est quotidienne’
ten at Resnais’s request as ‘commentaries’, are much more novelistic (Duras 1960: 109).
‘quotidien/nne’
in style and tone. They take much further the approach that Duras commonly means
also takes in the main script of suggesting an emotional resonance ‘daily’: as in ‘daily
life’. Seaver translates
for a scene, rather than a precise visual treatment. One such example it here, as ‘boring’,
is when Duras writes ‘late one afternoon a German soldier crosses a but it could equally be
square somewhere in the provinces of France. Even war is boring’25 ‘everyday’, ‘routine’
etc.
(Duras 1966 : 84). It is notable that the sense of an apparent every-
dayness, striking in its very banality (even war has become just part
of the daily routine), that is communicated by the narrative voice
of Duras’s text, is also conveyed visually by the scene that Resnais
shoots (Figure 4). This more novelistic narrative voice marks Duras’s
text out most obviously from mainstream screenplay conventions. It
is perhaps this aspect (and the way that the final screenwork inter-
prets it) that reflects most clearly the particular context of close and
Figure 4: ‘Late one afternoon a German soldier crosses a square somewhere in the provinces of
France.’ Hiroshima, Mon Amour by Alain Resnais © 1959 Argos Films.
167
intense collaboration in which the script was written and the film
shot and edited.
Figure 5: A tracking shot through the hospital corridors. Hiroshima, Mon Amour by Alain Resnais
© 1959 Argos Films.
168
shoot, Resnais apparently requested audio recordings of Duras reading 26. ‘la jambe relevée,
dans le désir’ (Duras
the dialogue, so that he could reproduce, in the visual sequences and 1960: 73).
with the actors, the same rhythms produced by Duras’s voice (Adler 27. ‘Le blé est à ses portes.
[1998] 2000: 219). La forêt est à ses
fenêtres. La nuit, des
However, when Duras specifies in the script that the opening chouettes en arrivent
image must provoke desire, or when, in the appendices, she highlights jusque dans les jardins’
(Duras 1960: 112).
the banality of war, or states that the garden from which the German
soldier was shot was as good for the purpose as any other garden and
was chosen entirely randomly, more of a leap of imagination would
seem to be required by the director if he is to attempt to realize this
on screen. Indeed the garden that Resnais chooses for this point in
the story is in fact quite distinctive, featuring an ornate, wrought iron
viewing-platform, shot from below. Contrary to the specification in
the script, this image in the film is not unremarkable and ordinary but
striking, even before its significance in the story is revealed.
Since Duras’s voice as a writer was such an important aspect
for Resnais during the main shoot, it is interesting to note how his
approach seems to have developed for the second shoot in France. For
this final stage in the collaboration, Resnais appears to have modified
and developed his way of working and to have gone further in his use
of Duras’s text as a starting point, as a source of ideas and motifs and
as a back story, rather than as a script in any conventional sense.
The relationship between Duras’s text and the scenes of Nevers that
exist in the film is thus more complex than that which exists between
the script and the rest of the film. This complexity is partly because the
story of Nevers actually exists in three different written versions; the
scenes that are included in the original script, Duras’s later ‘commen-
taries’ on each individual scene, and finally a monologue (also in the
appendices) which is written in the voice of the Frenchwoman. Here
the woman recounts her story in chronological order (the only time
the story is told chronologically). None of these three versions per-
fectly coincide. Each includes scenes and information that are absent
from the others. The story is different each time in its telling. Resnais’s
filmed version then supplies a fourth version, which takes from each
of the other three and adds further elements, while leaving much
out. Sometimes he films a scene that reproduces exactly what Duras
describes, as when in the main script she describes the Frenchwoman
in her bedroom, after the death of her lover, lying on her bed, ‘one
leg raised, filled with desire’26 (Duras 1966: 58). Sometimes he finds a
visual equivalent for a tone or a perspective that Duras suggests ver-
bally, as with the ‘everyday’ scene of the German soldier. Sometimes
he takes a motif – such as the young Frenchwoman’s Sunday bicycle
trips, which Duras describes in the monologue in the appendices –
and turns it into an extended visual sequence. This sequence brings
out the closeness of the countryside, which Duras specifies elsewhere
in the commentaries, when describing the town of Nevers, ‘the wheat
is at its gates. The forest is at its windows. At night owls come into the
gardens, and you have to struggle to keep from being afraid’ 27 (Duras
169
28. My translation: 1966: 86). The sequence also seems to express the ‘utter happiness’28
‘irrepressible bonheur’
(Duras 1960: 109). that Duras ascribes in her commentaries to the encounters between
the Frenchwoman and her German lover.
The story of Nevers, which lies at the heart of the film and which
constitutes the revelation towards which the trajectory of the plot
leads, is thus given both greater depth and greater ambiguity through
its repeated rewriting by Duras and its visual re-imagination through
Resnais’s direction; this represents, it would seem, an extensive and
intensive process of collaboration.
Such a relationship between written and cinematic text suggests a
particular kind of interpretative work on the part of the director. In the
same way that, when adapting a literary work, a screenwriter needs to
think carefully about how to adapt the particular quality given to a novel
or short story by its narrative voice, part of Resnais’s task as a director
was to find visual equivalents for Duras’s particular literary tone.
The combined elements of synopsis, script and appendices for
Hiroshima, Mon Amour therefore embody different approaches to the
development of the screen idea through the writer’s written text and the
director’s realization of the screen work. In certain sections Duras’s text
furnishes a very exact description of what image will appear on screen,
what dialogue and even what music will be on the soundtrack. Yet in
other sections her text invites extensive translation and adaptation by
the director, rather than facilitating a straightforward transferral from
page to screen. Duras’s approach to the script thus provides an inter-
esting example of the extent to which the screenwriter’s ability to use
words to create a world of thematic depth and emotional resonance is
as important to the film as her ability to write dialogue, create convinc-
ing characters or provide a story structure. It also provides an interesting
case study in the way that a writer develops the screen idea and opens
up a dialogue with the director (and potentially other collaborators).
170
171
REFERENCES
Adler, L. ([1998] 2000), Marguerite Duras: a life, (trans. Anne-Marie Glasheen),
London: Gollancz.
Une Aussi Longue Absence/A Long Absence (1960), Wrs: Marguerite Duras,
Gerard Jarlot, Dir: Henri Colpi, France/Italy, 85 mins.
Baker, G. (1999),‘The Predication of Violence, The Violence of Predication:
Reconstructing Hiroshima with Duras and Resnais’, Dialectical Anthropology,
24, pp. 387–406.
Bazin, André (1957), ‘De la politique des auteurs’, Cahiers du Cinéma, 70 (April
1957), pp. 2–11.
Bazin, André (1967), What is Cinema? Berkeley: University of California.
Boon, K, A. (2008), Script Culture and The American Screenplay, Detroit: Wayne
State University Press.
Borgomano, M. (1985), L’écriture filmique de Marguerite Duras, Paris: Albatros.
Caruth, C. (1996), Unclaimed Experience. Trauma, Narrative, and History,
Baltimore: The John Hopkins University Press.
Craig, S. (2005), ‘Tu n’as rien vu à Hiroshima: Desire, Spectatorship and the
Vaporized Subject in Hiroshima, Mon Amour’, Quarterly Review of Film
and Video, 22:1, pp. 25–35.
Duras, M. (1960), Hiroshima, Mon Amour scénario et dialogues, Paris: Gallimard.
Duras, M. Jarlot, G. and Colpi, H. (1961), Une Aussi Longue Absence scénario et
dialogues, Paris: Gallimard.
Duras, M. (1966), Hiroshima, Mon Amour and Une Aussi Longue Absence, (trans.
Richard Seaver and Barbara Wright), London: Calder and Boyars.
Gronhovd, A-M and VanderWolk, W. (1992), ‘Memory as Ontological
Disruption: Hiroshima Mon Amour as a Postmodern Work’, in Cranston,
M (ed.), In language and in love Marguerite Duras: the unspeakable: essays for
Marguerite Duras, Potomac, Md. : Scripta Humanistica.
Hersey, J. (1946), Hiroshima, [An account of events following the dropping of the
atomic bomb on Hiroshima, 6 August 1945], New York: Harmondsworth.
Hiroshima, Mon Amour (1959), Wr: Marguerite Duras, Dir: Alain Resnais,
France/Japan, 91 mins.
Macdonald, I. (2004a), ‘Disentangling the screen idea’, Journal of Media
Practice, 5:2, pp. 89–96.
Macdonald, I. (2004b), ‘Manuals are not Enough: Relating Screenwriting Practice
to Theories’, Journal of British Cinema and Television, 1:2, pp. 260–274.
Macdonald, I. (2007), ‘The struggle for the silents: The British screenwriter
from 1910 to 1930’, Journal of Media Practice 8:2, pp. 115–128.
172
Moderato Cantabile/ Seven Days… Seven Nights, (1960), Wrs: Marguerite Duras
and Gerard Jarlot, Dir: Peter Brook, France/Italy, 95 mins.
Pingaud, B. [1960] (2002), ‘À propos d’Hiroshima mon amour’, in Goudet, S.
(ed.), Positif: Alain Resnais anthologie, Paris: Gallimard.
Showalter, E. (1987), The Female Malady, London: Virago.
Truffaut, François (1954), ‘Une certaine tendance du cinéma français’, Cahiers
du Cinéma, 31 (January 1954), pp. 15–29.
Willis, S. (1987), Marguerite Duras: writing on the body, Urbana: University of
Illinois Press.
SUGGESTED CITATION
Davies, R. (2010), ‘Screenwriting strategies in Marguerite Duras’s script for
Hiroshima, Mon Amour (1960)’, Journal of Screenwriting 1: 1, pp. 149–173,
doi: 10.1386/josc.1.1.149/1
CONTRIBUTOR DETAILS
Rosamund Davies has a background of professional practice in the film and
television industries. As script and story editor for Film London, she oversaw
the development and production of over fifty short feature films. Her special-
ist area of practice is screen narrative and, as senior lecturer in media writing
and creative industries, she lectures in screenwriting and visual narrative at
the University of Greenwich. Rosamund’s research interests include screen-
writing practices and methods and cross art-form practice in the context of
media convergence. Her recent visual media work explores the intersection
between narrative and archive as cultural forms. Rosamund has published in
academic journals and worked with independent production companies, writ-
ers and producers.
Contact: School of Humanities and Social Sciences, University of Greenwich,
Old Royal Naval College, Park Row, London, SE10 9LS.
E-mail: r.davies@gre.ac.uk.
173
afl]dd][lbgmjfYdk ooo&afl]dd][lZggck&[ge
J. J. MURPHY
University of Wisconsin-Madison
ABSTRACT KEYWORDS
One of the most interesting trends in recent independent cinema has been independent
for film-makers to avoid using traditional screenplays in making their films. cinema
Not only have emerging film-makers associated with the so-called ‘mum- screenwriting
blecore’ movement, such as Joe Swanberg, Aaron Katz and Ronald Bronstein, screenplays
veered away from depending on conventionally written screenplays, but other improvisation
critically acclaimed films, including The Pool (Smith, 2008) and Ballast psychodrama
(Hammer, 2008), have as well. Indeed, some of the most notable American visual storytelling
indie film-makers – Gus Van Sant, David Lynch and Jim Jarmusch – have
employed alternative strategies to the screenplay in such recent films as
Elephant (2003), Inland Empire (2006), and The Limits of Control (2009).
What is behind these developments and why has the conventional screen-
play been under attack? What are the aesthetic benefits of choosing not to
rely on a traditional script? Is this a completely new phenomenon or has the
industrial screenplay always been an obstacle? I explore these issues by look-
ing at three major strategies that indie film-makers have used in place of the
175
176
this as the norm. Richard Walter, for instance, ridicules the ‘weary
cliché that film is a visual medium’ by insisting that ‘still, there is
no getting around the fact that a good movie script is mainly talk’.
He goes on to add, ‘but the fact remains: open a modern screenplay
and you’re looking mainly at dialogue’ (Walter 1988: 83). For Walter,
description in a screenplay has become ‘all that black stuff’, which he
refers to as ‘random smatterings of ink grouped into bulky rectangular
blocks separating the dialogue’ (Walter 1988: 83–84). Walter contends
that producers and agents only read the dialogue and skip over the
description or action when reading a screenplay. In turn, the written
dialogue on a page has also had a huge impact on the performance of
actors because it does not allow them to deviate from the script or to
utilize improvisatory skills, a technique which I will touch on later.
In their efforts to develop an alternative cinema in the late 1950s
and throughout the 1960s, American independent film-makers were
keenly aware of these problems. The screenplay, in fact, has been a
source of contention since the very beginning of modern American
independent cinema, as evidenced by the influential writings of Maya
Deren and Jonas Mekas, the controversy surrounding the two differ-
ent versions of John Cassavetes’s Shadows (1958, 1959), and Andy
Warhol’s subversion of the very idea of the script in films he made
during the 1960s.
Maya Deren insisted in her lectures ‘that the trouble with most
films is that they are “written”, whereas cinematic thinking is another
process altogether’ (Deren 1965: 33). In an article, entitled ‘Planning
by Eye: Notes on “Individual” and “Industrial” Film’, she offers a
visual alternative to the conventional written script; ‘every effective-
ness that my films have, I owe to the fact that they were planned by
eye: that I drew out what I wanted to see on the screen as the final
product, and that I discarded any idea which I could not see or draw’
(Deren 1965: 34). Deren uses the concept ‘feeling lonely’ as an exam-
ple, arguing that ‘aloneness’ is a ‘visual condition’;
Deren uses the word ‘amateur’ here to suggest a film-maker who cre-
ates out of love as opposed to commerce.
177
Jonas Mekas, the editor of Film Culture magazine and film critic for
the alternative weekly the Village Voice, was also highly critical of the
traditional script. He placed the blame squarely on the screenwriters,
even going so far as to suggest that they should be shot for keeping cin-
ema so conventional (Mekas 1959). Mekas had been an ardent cham-
pion of the improvised and unscripted version of John Cassavetes’s
first feature Shadows, even giving it Film Culture’s First Independent
Film Award. Mekas felt betrayed after Cassavetes decided to go back
and re-shoot a second version of the film using a script. All the quali-
ties that Mekas had so admired in the first version – improvisation,
spontaneity and inspiration – he found lacking in the new version,
which he felt was no different from a Hollywood film.
Mekas would subsequently develop the notion of what he termed
‘plotless cinema’. For Mekas, La Règle du jeu/Rules of the Game (1939) rep-
resents ‘the masterpiece of the personal, “plotless” cinema’. He writes:
Renoir’s people look like people, act like people, and are con-
fused like people, vague and unclear. They are moved not by the
plot, not by theatrical dramatic climaxes, but by something that
one could even call the stream of life itself, by their own irration-
ality, their sporadic, unpredictable behavior.
(Mekas 1961)
178
Warhol preferred the moments when the scripts would break down
and the performers would fall out of roles and become themselves.
In order to do this he often employed a kind of ‘psychodrama’. In
Visionary Film, P. Adams Sitney uses the term ‘trance film’ or ‘psycho-
drama’ to describe films that represent intense interior states of mind
enacted in symbolic form, such as Deren and Hammid’s 1943 classic
Meshes of the Afternoon (Sitney 1974).
Psychodrama also refers to a form of psychotherapy developed by
Jacob L. Moreno, who emigrated from Vienna to the United States in
1925 and created the first Theater of Psychodrama in Beacon, New York
in 1936. During World War II, Moreno started the New York Theater
of Psychodrama, which he later renamed the Moreno Institute in 1951.
Moreno’s psychodrama became very influential during the 1960s when
his therapy sessions attracted the attention of actors and directors asso-
ciated with professional theatre and were even broadcast on television.
Although Moreno’s definition of psychodrama was broad and
shifted over time, psychodrama involves the patient’s spontaneous
improvisation of a particular critical life situation within a clinical the-
atrical setting. According to Peter Felix Kellermann:
179
Cassavetes once again drew on his actors’ real feelings and per-
sonalities to lend authority to their line deliveries: Tony and
Lelia had actually had a difficult romantic relationship that had
not worked out well. There was still a residue of mixed feelings
about their relationship when the scene was shot that undoubt-
edly added to its authenticity.
(Carney 1995: 238)
180
And go home and devise an inquisition, basically. Sit and ask him
questions which will make him perform in some way before the
181
camera [...] And the questions should be in such a way that they
will elicit, you know, things from his face because that’s what I’m
more interested in rather than in what he says in response.
(Smith 1986: 481)
182
had locations and images and some visual storyboards when he began
filming Cremaster 2 (1999). The Waldo Salt Award for Screenwriting
at the 2009 Sundance Film Festival went to co-screenwriters Nicholas
Jasenovec and Charlyne Yi for their narrative film about romantic love,
entitled Paper Heart (2009), starring Yi and directed by Jasenovec.
In accepting the screenwriting award, Jasenovec remarked, ‘This is
a weird prize to give this film because there were about five written
pages’ (Hernandez and Knegt 2009).
The genesis for Chris Smith’s The Pool (2007) (Figure 1) was a
seven-page short story by Randy Russell originally set in Iowa. Smith
distilled the central idea – one person’s obsession with another’s
swimming pool – and transposed it to India. The film-maker led a
small crew to the ex-Portuguese city of Panaji, or Panjim as it is trans-
lated in the film. Over the course of five months and 65 shooting days
he shot The Pool, which won a Special Jury Prize at the 2007 Sundance
Film Festival.
As Ronald Tavel insisted, all films, out of necessity, need to involve
some sort of planning – The Pool did have some form of a script – but
the process of making the film was much more open-ended. Smith,
like David Lynch with Inland Empire (2006) and Jim Jarmusch with The
Limits of Control (2009), began filming without actually having a final
screenplay. Instead, he had a rough treatment that consisted of approxi-
mately 22 pages. While many scenes were scripted later, they evolved
and changed during the process of making the film. Once the actors
were cast – Jhangir Badshah was recruited as one of the two leads while
working at a restaurant the crew frequented – Smith incorporated the
183
184
The result was a 30-page screenplay that Van Sant transformed into
a 78-minute film by altering the temporal chronology of events and
185
186
187
3. I do not mean to shooting Inland Empire. Digital technology is also having an effect on
suggest that
Hollywood never performance. Sean Baker’s The Prince of Broadway (2008) (one of his
uses the technique two films that were nominated for the 2009 Independent Spirit John
of improvisation. Cassavetes Award) tells the story of a West African immigrant street
Hollywood films in
general, however, are peddler in New York City who unexpectedly has a baby thrust upon
not generated solely him by a disgruntled Latina ex-lover. The micro-budget film, shot in
through improvisatory
practice. When a documentary style by Baker, utilizes non-professional actors. A final
employed, it usually credit indicates that the ‘characters’ dialogue was realized through
involves isolated
moments within a
improvisation and a collaborative process with all actors’.3
highly-controlled A number of Cassavetes-inspired younger film-makers dubbed
structure. ‘mumblecore’ use either improvisation or structured improvisation in
films that feature mostly their friends and focus mainly on the relation-
ships of twentysomethings. These film-makers include Andrew Bujalski,
Joe Swanberg, the Duplass brothers, Ronald Bronstein and Aaron Katz.
The plot of Aaron Katz’s Quiet City (2007) is remarkably simple. Jamie
(Erin Fisher) arrives in Brooklyn to meet a friend, Samantha, who, due to
problems with her cell phone, ends up leaving her stranded. Jamie runs
into Charlie (Cris Lankenau) in the subway station, asks for directions
to a diner, and the two end up spending the next 24 hours together.
Although originally scripted, there is not really much of a plot in the
conventional sense. Instead we experience a series of episodic narrative
incidents. The two of them break into Samantha’s apartment, have a
foot race in the park, visit a friend to retrieve Charlie’s hat, and later go
to an art opening and after-party. Katz allowed his two lead actors the
freedom to improvise or interpret each scene in their own words, even
giving them co-screenwriting credit on the film.
188
189
Shot on 16mm film rather than on digital video, Frownland has the
overall feel and texture of an underground comic – dark and extremely
hellish. Once Bronstein cast the actors, he worked with them over a
six-month period to develop their characters through a process that
approximates psychodrama (Kipp 2008).
Dore Mann’s performance as Keith is absolutely crucial to the suc-
cess of Frownland. There is one scene in the film where Keith becomes
extremely agitated at his so-called friend, Sandy, causing Mann’s dia-
logue to become an explosion of incoherent sentence fragments and
utterances. While watching the scene, one cannot help but wonder
how something like that could possibly have been written. It was
not exactly, but Bronstein describes how he was able to achieve the
effect:
Yeah, he’s a complete maniac in it. The rehearsals for that par-
ticular scene involved making him prepare enough dialogue for
like 10 scenes, then loading him up with a disgusting amount
of caffeine, spinning him around, making him sprint down the
block until he was dizzy and hyperventilating, and then sort of
letting him go so that he was totally incapable of relaying this
prepared information linearly or coherently. What came out was
this berserk jumble of disparate sentiments that rendered him
absolutely senseless.
(Lowery 2007)
190
Guerín goes on to suggest: ‘For me, the screenplay is not the desti-
nation, but the point of departure. It is like a pretext I use to get the
material, human and financial means to start shooting, when I can
start inventing the film’ (van Hoeij 2007). He sees the actual making
of the film as a process of discovery rather than one of translation. As
I have tried to suggest, this is also how many American independ-
ent film-makers approach their projects when they resort to strategies
such as improvisation, psychodrama and visual storytelling.
I am not trying to suggest that many of the alternative strategies
I have been describing here would be appropriate for some heavily
plotted films, e.g. The Dark Knight (2008). Such films no doubt bene-
fit from being tightly scripted. When Gus Van Sant made Milk (2008)
for Focus Features on a budget of $20 million, he returned to a tra-
ditional screenplay by Dustin Lance Black and star actors such as
Sean Penn, James Franco, Josh Brolin, Emile Hirsch and Diego Luna.
Had Van Sant adopted some of the same tactics he used in his previ-
ous four films – no script, improvisation and extensive visual story-
telling – he might have wound up with the same type of rebellion
among his crew members that William Greaves deliberately incited
in Symbiopsychotaxiplasm: Take One (1968). Nor, given the size of the
budget, might Focus Features have been willing to take the finan-
cial risk in the first place. More process-oriented approaches such as
were used by Chris Smith in The Pool (2008) and Lance Hammer in
Ballast (2008), or more intuitive ones such as those taken by David
Lynch in Inland Empire (2006) and Jim Jarmusch in The Limits of
191
192
REFERENCES
Ballast (2008), Wr/Dir: Lance Hammer, USA, 96 mins.
Beauty # 2 (1965), Dir: Andy Warhol, USA, 66 mins.
Bentley, E. (1987), Thinking About the Playwright: Comments from Four Decades,
Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press.
Carney, R. (1995), ‘No exit: John Cassavetes’ Shadows’, in L. Phillips (ed.), Beat
Culture and the New America 1950–1965, New York: Whitney Museum of
American Art in association with Flammarion, Paris, pp. 235–41.
Carney, R. (2001), Shadows, London: BFI Publishing.
Cremaster 2 (1999), Wr/Dir: Matthew Barney, USA, 79 mins.
Deren, M. (1965), ‘Planning by eye: Notes on “individual” and “industrial”
film’, Film Culture, 39 (Winter), pp. 33–38.
Down By Law (1986), Wr/Dir: Jim Jarmusch, USA/West Germany, 107 mins.
Elephant (2003), Wr/Dir: Gus Van Sant, USA, 81 mins.
En la ciudad de Sylvia/In the City of Sylvia (2007), Wr/Dir: José Luis Guerín,
Spain, 84 mins.
Frownland (2008), Wr/Dir: Ronald Bronstein, USA, 106 mins.
Funny Ha Ha (2005), Wr/Dir: Andrew Bujalski, USA, 89 mins.
Gerry (2002), Wrs: Casey Affleck, Matt Damon and Gus Van Sant, Dir: Gus
Van Sant, USA, 103 mins.
Geuens, J. (2000), Film Production Theory, Albany: State University of
New York Press.
Gross, L. (2008), ‘Animal rescue: with Wendy and Lucy, Kelly Reichardt finds a
parable for contemporary America in the story of a woman and her dog’,
Filmmaker, 17: 1 (Fall), pp. 60–64, 125–27.
Henry Geldzahler (1964), Dir: Andy Warhol, USA, 99 mins.
Hernandez, E. and Knegt, P. (2009), ‘“Push” Wins Three at Sundance;
“Public” Top Doc’, indieWIRE, 25 January, http://www.indiewire.com/
article/2009_sundance_awards_in_progress/. Accessed 22 May 2009.
I, a Man (1967), Dir: Andy Warhol, USA, 95 mins.
Inland Empire (2006), Wr/Dir: David Lynch, France/Poland/USA, 179 mins.
I Shot Andy Warhol (1996), Wrs: Mary Harron and Daniel Minahan, Dir: Mary
Harron, USA, 103 mins.
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194
Quiet City (2007), Wrs: Erin Fisher, Aaron Katz and Cris Lankenau, Dir: Aaron
Katz, USA, 78 mins.
Rowin, M. (2006), ‘Toy Cameras: An Interview with David Lynch’, Reverse Shot,
Fall, http://www.reverseshot.com/article/interview_david_lynch. Accessed
21 May 2009.
Safe (1995), Wr/Dir: Todd Haynes, USA, 119 mins.
Screen Test # 1 (1965), Wr: Ronald Tavel, Dir: Andy Warhol, USA, 66 mins.
Screen Test # 2 (1965), Wr: Ronald Tavel, Dir: Andy Warhol, USA, 66 mins.
Shadows (1958, 1959), Wrs: John Cassavetes and Robert Alan Aurthur, based on
an improvisation (second version), Dir: John Cassavetes, USA, 81 mins.
Shapiro, J. (1986), ‘Stranger Than Paradise’, Village Voice, 16 September.
Reprinted in L. Hertzberg (ed.) (2001), Jim Jarmusch Interviews, Jackson:
University of Mississippi Press, pp. 58–70.
Sitney, P. (1974), Visionary Film: The American Avant-Garde, New York: Oxford
University Press.
Slacker (1991), Wr/Dir: Richard Linklater, USA, 97 mins.
Smith, P. (1986), Andy Warhol’s Art and Films, Ann Arbor: UMI Research
Press.
Somogyi, J. (2003), ‘Flying blind’, Screenwriter Magazine, 12: 4, pp. 24–29, 36, 39.
Stranger Than Paradise (1984), Wr/Dir: Jim Jarmusch, USA/West Germany,
89 mins.
Symbiopsychotaxiplasm: Take One (1968), Dir: William Greaves, USA, 75 mins.
Taubin, A. (2009), ‘Breaking the codes: Jim Jarmusch in conversation with
Amy Taubin’, Artforum, 47: 9 (May), pp. 196–203.
The Brig (1964), Wr: Kenneth H. Brown, Dir: Jonas Mekas, USA, 68 mins.
The Chelsea Girls (1966), Wr: Ronald Tavel (two segments), Dir: Andy Warhol,
USA, 210 mins.
The Dark Knight (2008), Wrs: Christopher Nolan and Jonathan Nolan, Dir:
Christopher Nolan, USA/UK, 152 mins.
The Exiles (1961), Wr/Dir: Kent Mackenzie, USA, 72 mins.
The Flower Thief (1960), Dir: Ron Rice, USA, 75 mins.
The Limits of Control (2009), Wr/Dir: Jim Jarmusch, Spain/USA/Japan,
116 mins.
The Pool (2007), Wrs: Chris Smith and Randy Russell, Dir: Chris Smith, USA,
95 mins.
The Prince of Broadway (2008), Wrs: Sean Baker and Darren Dean, Dir: Sean
Baker, USA, 102 mins.
Van Couvering A. (2007), ‘What I meant to say: Alicia Van Couvering reports
on the ascending independent film movement currently being dubbed
“mumblecore”’, Filmmaker, 15: 3 (Spring), pp. 40–47, 90–91.
van Hoeij, B. (2007), ‘Interview: José Luis Guerín and Pilar López de Ayala on
“En la ciudad de Sylvia”’, european-films.net, 15 October, http://european-
films.net/content/view/890/51/. Accessed 21 May 2009.
Walter, R. (1988), Screenwriting: The Art, Craft and Business of Film and Television
Writing, New York: New American Library.
Wendy and Lucy (2008), Wrs: Kelly Reichardt and Jon Raymond, Dir: Kelly
Reichardt, USA, 80 mins.
SUGGESTED CITATION
Murphy, J. J. (2010), ‘No room for the fun stuff: the question of the screenplay
in American indie cinema’, Journal of Screenwriting 1: 1, pp. 175–196,
doi: 10.1386/josc.1.1.175/1
195
CONTRIBUTOR DETAILS
J. J. Murphy is a film-maker. He has written articles that have appeared in
Film Quarterly, Film Culture, Millennium Film Journal, Field of Vision and Film
Studies: An International Review. He is the author of Me and You and Memento
and Fargo: How Independent Screenplays Work (Continuum, 2007). He teaches
film production, screenwriting and cinema studies in the Department of
Communication Arts at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, USA.
Contact: Department of Communication Arts, 6035 Vilas Hall, University of
Wisconsin-Madison, 821 University Avenue, Madison, WI 53706, USA.
Phone: (608) 238-3378
E-mail: jjmurphy@wisc.edu
196
RESEARCH RESOURCES
NATHALIE MORRIS
British Film Institute
Unpublished scripts in
BFI Special Collections:
a few highlights
197
1. BFI Special Collections’ sold. Things have improved somewhat in the intervening years, in part
script holdings are
classified into two due to the efforts of the BFI National Library and Archive, and there
groups: our sequence is now a much greater sense of the value of preserving documents
of individual of this kind. Our Special Collections’ script holdings have grown to
unpublished scripts
(c.25,000) and scripts approximately 30,000, a figure which excludes the large number of
that are part of other published scripts that are held separately within the BFI National
Special Collections
(i.e. treatments and Library’s book collection.1 This short article is therefore by no means
different script versions a comprehensive overview. It seeks merely to highlight a few interest-
which make up part
of ‘named’ collections,
ing examples from the collection, giving a sense of the diverse range
for example, the of script types we hold and indicating some of the ways in which
papers of David Lean, they can provide insight into the creative and industrial processes of
Joseph Losey, Michael
Powell and Emeric film- and television-making.
Pressburger). The latter The BFI’s unpublished script collection is continually growing. The
number approximately
5000.
collection is particularly strong in the area of British and American
cinema and ranges from silent film scenarios to shooting and post-
production scripts for the latest cinema releases. There is also a
substantial and steadily developing collection of television scripts.
This includes complete drama series as well as samples from long-
running soaps such as Coronation Street (we hold a camera script for
the first ever episode, transmitted in December 1960). We are always
looking to fill gaps in our holdings and are especially interested in
adding to our collection of silent scenarios, and in receiving script
donations from contemporary practitioners.
Where possible, we aim to collect a range of script types, dem-
onstrating the full range of the writing and production process, from
early treatments and draft screenplays through to shooting scripts,
cutting continuities and post-production scripts. We hold, for instance,
a full range of script types for Chariots of Fire (1982) beginning with
Colin Welland’s early handwritten treatment for Runners (the original
working title), through its various draft stages up to post-production
scripts. There are also collections of scripts (often supplemented by
correspondence and other papers) relating to screenwriters includ-
ing Lajos Biro, T.E.B. Clarke, David Climie, Beverley Cross, Jeffrey
Dell, Janet Green, Trevor Griffiths, Julia Jones, Angus MacPhail, Troy
Kennedy Martin, Bill Naughton, Eric Paice, Emeric Pressburger and
Eliot Stannard.
ANNOTATED SCRIPTS
Scripts come to BFI Special Collections from many different sources
including screenwriters, directors, producers, actors and other mem-
bers of the production team such as continuity supervisors, editors
and costume designers. As working documents, many of these are
annotated or personalized in some way. The collection includes
bound copies of actor Dirk Bogarde’s scripts, for instance. Titles
represented include several of the Doctor series (from Doctor in the
House (1954)), Victim (1961), The Servant (1963) and Accident (1967).
These generally have Bogarde’s lines highlighted, some are signed,
198
and many are full of notes, doodles, addresses and telephone num- 2. Vidor died during
shooting and was
bers. The script for Victim gives an important insight into Bogarde’s replaced by George
working methods. This was an important film for the actor and gave Cukor.
him the opportunity to break away from his matinee-idol image. One
of the first British films to deal explicitly with homosexuality, Victim
charts the attempts by barrister Melville Farr (Bogarde) to break a
ring of blackmailers. Homosexuality was an imprisonable offence in
the United Kingdom until 1967, so in the early 1960s it was a brave
and challenging role for Bogarde and marked the beginning of a
more serious phase in his career. The inside front cover of his script
features a hand-drawn line graph, charting his character’s emotional
trajectory across the film. This is cross-referenced with scene num-
bers, enabling Bogarde to work out how best to pitch his performance
when shooting scenes out of sequence. This seriousness of purpose
stands in great contrast to his script for Song Without End (1960), an
American biopic of the composer Franz Liszt made around the same
time as Victim. Despite his initial enthusiasm for the role, Bogarde
hated the script and clashed with the original director King Vidor.2
Consequently, Bogarde’s script conveys something of his frustration;
it is full of elaborate doodles and scribbles, suggesting that the actor
was not fully committed to his part.
The collection also contains innumerable examples of annotated
working scripts from directors including David Lean, Michael Powell,
Carol Reed and Joseph Losey. Some of these reveal the various
stages that draft screenplays went through, with alterations to plot,
character and/or dialogue. Others are annotated shooting scripts with
details of camera angles and shot composition. Within the papers
deposited by Joseph Losey, for instance, there are large quantities
of screenplays and shooting scripts in which the film-maker works
out details of dialogue and characterization, mise-en-scène, shot con-
struction and editing. This is not to undermine the contribution of
his collaborators. Indeed, these scripts (especially viewed in con-
junction with correspondence and production files) frequently illus-
trate the productiveness of Losey’s working relationships, and the
value he placed on those he worked with. His collaborations with
playwright Harold Pinter are well represented for example, and the
various drafts of The Servant illuminate the development of the film
as it was passed back and forth between writer and director. Losey’s
annotations in the early versions show his nuanced understanding
of the British class system and, more practically, his concern that the
film should not contain any references that might be too obscure for
the all-important American audience (a reference to a boating holi-
day on the Norfolk Broads was cut, for example). If read as a creative
dialogue between the two men, the scripts show a lively exchange of
ideas with each challenging the other, spurring themselves on to a
satisfactory final product.
Scripts donated by those working in other capacities can be equally
precious and illuminating. Ann Skinner was responsible for continuity
199
3. The Women’s Film on a number of significant British or British-made features in the 1960s
History project (UK
and Ireland network), and 1970s including Darling (1965), Far From the Madding Crowd (1967),
the British Silent Oh! What a Lovely War (1969), Sunday Bloody Sunday (1971) and Star
Cinema Festival and Wars (1977). Her scripts clearly demonstrate the extent to which the
the Women and
Silent British Cinema shooting script becomes an on-set bible, while revealing the extensive
website (at http:// responsibilities of the continuity or script supervisor. Heavily annotated,
womenandsilentbritish
cinema.wordpress. Skinner’s scripts note shot duration, the action that occurs within each
com/) are all currently shot, the position of the main actors, slate numbers and line changes.
encouraging and
supporting research in
Furthermore, many of Skinner’s scripts are supplemented with quanti-
this field. ties of Polaroid photographs used for reference. These record informa-
tion such as scene set-ups and details of the films’ mise-en-scène, and
there are numerous snapshots of actors unselfconsciously modelling
their costumes. Each script therefore offers a completely unique and
little-seen insight into the film in question.
SILENT SCENARIOS
BFI Special Collections includes examples of ‘photoplays’, screenplays
from the silent era (to around 1930), which on the surface may look
quite different to modern-day scripts and which give some sense of
how cinema as an industry and art form developed, during a highly
formative period. Some of the earliest examples in our collections
include screenplays by Eliot Stannard, a top British screenwriter of
the silent era who worked with directors including Alfred Hitchcock
and Maurice Elvey, and William J. Elliott, another prolific screen-
writer of the period who is yet to receive detailed critical attention.
There are also many screenplays by female scenarists including Alma
Reville, Lydia Hayward and Mary Murillo, who represent another
as yet under-researched area.3 Many of these silent scenarios offer
a great deal of direction (explicit details of shot type and duration,
action to take place within each shot, suggestions for visual refer-
ence points) and are arranged in different ways, with a single scene
or shot to a page or unusual page dimensions. Elliott’s scenario for
The Darkest Hour (c.1913), for instance, is a bijou landscape-formatted
document, while Alma Reville and Garnett Weston’s scenario for
A Romance of Seville (1929) specifies elaborate camera movements
and sets out explicit instructions for how shots should be edited
together.
NON-STANDARD SCRIPTS
Special Collections also includes examples of screenplays and scripts that
defy standard expectations of what a script looks like. As perhaps to be
expected, many of those that form part of the Derek Jarman Collection
are in themselves beautiful objects that could be classified as works of
art. The majority are in notebooks or albums, with decorated covers and
objects such as feathers and mirrors stuck in. There are handwritten
treatments, cut-and-paste scripts made up of manuscript and typescript
sequences, scripts with passages from other texts pasted in (as with The
200
Tempest (1979)), and scripts full of designs and storyboards by Jarman 4. For more details see
http://www.bfi.org.
and his collaborator Christopher Hobbs. uk/lean/.
UNREALIZED PROJECTS
Of course, due to financial and creative problems, a director’s loss of
interest etc., many more films are planned than are actually made.
The archive contains myriad examples of scripts for unrealized
projects. These are sometimes reasonably well developed as an idea
and are supplemented by additional production materials such as
cast lists, storyboards, production designs and location ideas. To give
a single example, one such project is David Lean’s planned adapta-
tion of Joseph Conrad’s Nostromo. The director’s attempts to bring
Conrad’s South American tale of corruption to the screen began in
1976 and went on for five years. During this time Lean worked with
writers Christopher Hampton, Robert Bolt and Maggie Unsworth on
numerous drafts. Problems with financing, dissatisfaction with the
script itself and ultimately Lean’s ill-health (he died in 1991 just six
weeks before the film was scheduled to go into production) meant
that the film was abandoned. It therefore now exists only on paper –
in production paperwork, storyboards and scripts.4
CONCLUSION
BFI Special Collections holds a wide range of treatments, screen-
plays and scripts that are available to researchers via the BFI
National Library. They can be instructive documents for students
and practitioners, and as research materials can shed light on the
historical development of the screenwriting process; the career tra-
jectory, working processes and creative struggles of individuals; the
changing concerns and demands of censorship; and the economic
imperatives of the film and television industries. There is not yet
an online catalogue of our unpublished script holdings, but further
information about the collections and how to access them can be
found on the BFI Special Collections web pages: http://www.bfi.org.
uk/filmtvinfo/library/collections/special/.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Grateful thanks to Carolyne Bevan, Special Collections Archivist.
REFERENCES
Accident (1967), Wr: Harold Pinter, Dir: Joseph Losey, UK, 107 mins.
Chariots of Fire (1981), Wr: Colin Welland, Dir: Hugh Hudson, UK, 123 mins.
Coronation Street (1960–), tx 9 December 1960, Wr: Tony Warren, Dir: Derek
Bennett, UK, c.30 mins.
Darling (1965), Wr: Frederic Raphael, Dir: John Schlesinger, UK, 127 mins.
Doctor in the House (1954), Wr: Nicholas Phipps, Ronald Wilkinson, Dir: Ralph
Thomas, UK, 91 mins.
201
SUGGESTED CITATION
Morris, N. (2010), ‘Unpublished scripts in BFI Special Collections: a few highlights’,
Journal of Screenwriting 1: 1, pp. 197–202, doi: 10.1386/josc.1.1.197/7
CONTRIBUTOR DETAILS
Nathalie Morris is the BFI’s Curator of Special Collections. She has recently
completed a Ph.D. on the Stoll Film Company and British Cinema (1918–28),
and has published on various aspects of British cinema including women’s pic-
tures of the 1920s and silent Sherlock Holmes adaptations. She is a member of
the Women’s Film History project and is co-creator of the website Women and
Silent British Cinema (http://womenandsilentbritishcinema.wordpress.com/).
Contact: Special Collections, BFI, 21 Stephen Street, London, W1T 1LN.
E-mail: Nathalie.Morris@bfi.org.uk
202
REVIEWS
203
204
There are areas to which I feel Maras could have profitably paid more
attention, specifically the special case of the writer-director, and the
relationship between editing and writing in the making of collabo-
rative narratives. I’d have liked more on improvisation and the role
of actors in bringing the screenplay into being. There is little about
pitching, and this could have opened a discussion of film as a process,
which, as Paul Schrader has observed in a recent Guardian interview
‘is closer to the oral tradition than it is to literature’ (Schrader 2009:
5). But these are not serious flaws. The remarkable and insightful
research that Maras has done into the history, theory and practice of
this branch of cinema is necessary to take the study of the screenplay
beyond anecdote and lay the foundations of a rigorous academic dis-
cipline. What Maras recognizes is that these interchanges are funda-
mentally about power; screenplays are implicit battles for control over
the working process and thus, in every sense, the ownership of the
finished piece.
205
REFERENCES
Kagan, Norman (1989), The Cinema of Stanley Kubrick, New York: Continuum
Books.
Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl (2003), Wrs: Ted Elliott,
Terry Rossio, Dir: Gore Verbinski, USA, 143 mins.
Rolfe, David, El-Husseini, Farid, Edwards, Adrian, Tucker, Tanja, Shaikh,
Zak and Graham, David (2007), A Study of Feature Film Development and
Screenwriter and Development Training in the UK. A Final Report for the UK
Film Council and Skillset 26.09.07. Taunton, Somerset: Attentional Ltd. http://
www.ukfilmcouncil.org.uk/media/pdf/f/f/Development_and_training_final_
report_07.11.07.pdf. Accessed 10 July 2009.
Rossio, Terry (1997), Points for Style, http://wordplayer.com/columns/wp23.
Points.for.Style.html. Accessed 22 May 2009.
Schrader, Paul (2009), ‘Have videogames and reality TV given us “narrative
exhaustion”?’, The Guardian, 19 June 2009, p. 5. http://www.guardian.co.uk/
film/2009/jun/19/paul-schrader-reality-tv-big-brother. Accessed 13 July
2009.
Shrek (2001), Wrs: Ted Elliott, Terry Rossio, Joe Stillman, Roger S.H. Schulman,
Dirs: Andrew Adamson, Vicky Jenson, USA, 90 mins.
Terminator (1984), Wrs: Gale Ann Hurd, James Cameron, Dir: James Cameron,
USA, 107 mins.
CONTRIBUTOR DETAILS
Adam Ganz was educated at Cambridge University, Bristol University and
the National Film and TV School. He is a Lecturer in Media Arts at Royal
Holloway, University of London. He writes for film, television and radio, and
has worked as a script consultant for a number of companies including the
BBC, Complicité and Working Title.
Contact: Department of Media Arts, Royal Holloway, University of London,
Egham, Surrey TW20 0EX.
E-mail: Adam.Ganz@rhul.ac.uk
206
207
208
screenplays and how they do not conform to a model, rather than the
much more common inverted process. The Shakespeare in Love chap-
ters also offer us an insight into the rewrite process (apparently a fairly
radical redo by Tom Stoppard), subplotting and, perhaps most valu-
able, balancing the intertextual jokes and flourishes of style against a
solid and engaging love story.
Finally, Seger’s views on Crash are downright illuminating. What
could quite reasonably be described as a mess of a script (I am not
just editorializing here; the writers are quoted saying as much in the
interview section), Seger is able to untangle what is working in ways
the writers aren’t even able (or willing) to describe. And what a chal-
lenge for Seger! Dramatists since Aristotle have cautioned the writer
against the ‘message’ piece, the overly shrill work about a political
topic that more often than not degenerates into a sermon. Crash, with
its stated theme of ‘racism’, seems poised to run headlong into the
ancients’ warnings. Once again, regardless of your personal opinion on
Crash – or, for that matter, your attitude towards the ancient prohibi-
tions – Seger does an admirable job of detailing how controversial and
thematic material is woven into the script.
Because Crash is the least structured screenplay compared to the
others, Seger spends a bit more time here showing how the organiza-
tion of events in the film is a valid sequence for drama. It also reveals
Seger’s own conception of story structure most clearly. Thankfully, she
does not attempt to cram Crash into her own model of storytelling,
but rather shows how simple, Aristotelian dramatic units (set-up, cat-
alyst, complication, conflict, resolution) can be applied liberally and in
quantity when dealing with multi-person stories. So long as an overall
dramatic arc – and one of audience tension, not necessarily character –
is observed, then the results will qualify as fulfilling drama. This sug-
gests a freeing, anything-goes attitude that can open up screenwriting
for those who feel constrained by formula.
Seger has written eight books thus far on the analysis of screen-
plays, and fans of her previous work will not be disappointed by this
new volume. Others will undoubtedly appreciate her analysis and
insights, even if the suggested titles are not immediate favourites. It
might be a worthwhile experiment to contract Dr Seger to view and
analyse thoroughly despicable films with the sole purpose of seeing
what results. The likeliest outcome is that when the dust subsides,
she’ll have extracted all that could be learned from them, and that this
material will also be valuable, regardless of provenance.
REFERENCES
Crash (2004), Wrs: Paul Haggis, Bobby Moresco, Dir: Paul Haggis, USA,
113 mins.
Shakespeare in Love (1998), Wrs: Marc Norman, Tom Stoppard, Dir: John
Madden, USA, 123 mins.
Sideways (2004), Wrs: Alexander Payne, Jim Taylor, based on novel by Rex Pickett,
Dir: Alexander Payne, USA, 127 mins.
209
CONTRIBUTOR DETAILS
Tim Maloney, a graduate of the MFA Film program at the University of
Southern California, is Associate Professor in the Radio-TV-Film Department
at California State University, Fullerton.
Contact:
E-mail: tmaloney@fullerton.edu
210
211
212
which contains at least four versions of the script (the original 1982
release, the so-called ‘Workprint’ shown to preview audiences prior to
the film’s American premiere, the 1992 ‘Director’s Cut’ and the 2007
‘Final Cut’). To help readers appreciate just how complex the proc-
ess of adapting a text to the screen actually is, perhaps Boozer could
have solicited contributions from practising screenwriters rather than
full-time academics. Nonetheless Authorship in Film Adaptation is a
groundbreaking anthology that places the screenplay at the forefront
of the adaptation studies agenda. I have no doubt that it will stimulate
further research.
REFERENCES
Blade Runner Five-Disc Complete Collector’s Edition ([1982] 2007), Wrs: Hampton
Fancher, David Webb Peoples, Dir: Ridley Scott, Los Angeles: Warner
Bros. Entertainment and the Blade Runner Partnership. DVD.
Bridget Jones’s Diary (2001), Wrs: Helen Fielding, Andrew Davies, Richard
Curtis, Dir: Sharon Maguire, UK/France, 97 mins.
Devil in a Blue Dress (1995), Wr/Dir: Carl Franklin, USA, 102 mins.
Eyes Wide Shut (1999), Wrs: Stanley Kubrick, Frederic Raphael, Dir: Stanley
Kubrick, UK/USA, 159 mins.
The French Lieutenant’s Woman (1981), Wr: Harold Pinter, Dir: Karel Reisz,
UK, 124 mins.
High Fidelity (2000), Wrs: D.V. DeVincentis, Steve Pink, John Cusack, Scott
Rosenberg, Dir: Stephen Frears, UK/USA, 113 mins.
Internet Movie Script Database (IMSDb), http://www.imsdb.com. Accessed
9 July 2009.
Lolita (1962), Wrs: Stanley Kubrick, Vladimir Nabokov, Dir: Stanley Kubrick,
UK, 152 mins.
Lolita (1997), Wr: Steven Schiff, Dir: Adrian Lyne, USA/France, 137 mins.
Mildred Pierce (1945), Wrs: Ranald MacDougall, [Catherine Turney], Dir:
Michael Curtiz, USA, 111 mins.
Simply Scripts, http://www.simplyscripts.com. Accessed 9 July 2009.
The Sweet Hereafter (1997), Wr/Dir: Atom Egoyan, Canada, 112 mins.
Traffic (2000), Wr: Stephen Gaghan, Dir: Steven Soderbergh, Germany/USA,
147 mins.
CONTRIBUTOR DETAILS
Laurence Raw is Professor of English at Başkent University, Ankara, Turkey.
His recent books include Adapting Henry James to the Screen (2006) and the
companion volume Adapting Nathaniel Hawthorne to the Screen (2008).
Contact:
E-mail: l_rawjalaurence@yahoo.com
213
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215
video games; for Grodal, the latter ‘represent a new form of storytelling
that integrates high-order goals with low-level muscle-and-attention-
training stories in a medium that allows for the mass production of
such experiences’ (p. 172). Grodal differentiates between realist fic-
tion (films with a beginning, middle and end that embrace final and
emotional consequences for its characters) and the ‘playful’ cognition
of video games – playful because of their sense of never-ending and
often repetitive narratives. Grodal cites a few experiments of open-
ended storytelling in feature films but sees that the ‘options’ remain
the various visions of the film-maker, not the spectator or – as in video
games – the player.
Chapter 7, ‘Stories for Eyes, Ears and Muscles’ advises on the basic
need for the writer/film-maker to identify and focus on the charac-
ter’s ‘high-order’ goals due to the audience’s innate desire to navigate
through a story in a mostly logical and understandable way; a desire
that holds true in film narrative as well as in storytelling in video
games (p. 160). Grodal references films such as Paris, Texas (1984,
adapted by Sam Shepard and directed by Wim Wenders), Mulholland
Drive (2001, written and directed by David Lynch), and films written
by Andrei Tarkovsky and others whose screenplays do not follow the
logical ‘high-order goals’ template and create a ‘cognitive dissonance’,
thus appealing to a unique (and smaller) segment of the film-going
audience.
In Chapter 9, ‘Art Film, The Transient Body and the Permanent
Soul’, Grodal examines differences in films aimed at the high-art audi-
ence and films aimed at the mass audience; high-art films being more
comfortable in transient storytelling, while mass-audience films (in
most cases) featuring subjective storytelling and a permanent conclu-
sion (p. 205). Grodal is not making a value judgment here – he simply
makes the distinction (one that seems fairly obvious but may instigate
creative sparks in the screenwriter tackling a story dilemma) between
an audience willing and wired to ‘connect the dots’ and an audience
more comfortable in a passive role.
There seems to be a plethora of thoughts, theories and possibilities
in Grodal’s dense work – however, the screenwriter scrolling through
its pages may find inspiration (or a sense of confirmation or even
interesting points of argument) within his evolutionary theory of film
story. Those creatives open to the study of the human condition as
well as human conditioning will find much to peruse regarding the
appeal of certain genres and stories to an audience interested in film
and related media.
REFERENCES
Eyes Wide Shut (1999), Wrs: Frederic Raphael, Stanley Kubrick, Dir: Stanley
Kubrick, USA/UK, 159 mins.
Grodal, Torben (1997), Moving Pictures: A New Theory of Film Genres, Feelings,
and Cognition, Oxford: Clarendon Press.
216
—— (2009), Embodied Visions: Evolution, Emotion, Culture and Film, New York:
Oxford University Press.
Mulholland Drive (2001), Wr/Dir: David Lynch, France/USA, 146 mins.
Paris, Texas (1984), Wrs: Wim Wenders, Sam Shepard, Dir: Wim Wenders,
West Germany/France/UK, 148 mins.
CONTRIBUTOR DETAILS
Jule Selbo is Associate Professor of Screenwriting in the Radio-TV-Film
Department at California State University, Fullerton. Her recent books include
Screenplay: Idea to Successful Script (2007) and the companion volume The
Rewrite: First Draft to Marketplace (2008). Professional writing credits include
feature films and television series.
Contact:
E-mail: jselbo@fullerton.edu
217
LANGUAGE REFERENCES
The journal uses standard British English. The editors reserve • The Harvard system is used for bibliographical
the right to alter usage to these ends. Please note there is a references. All quotations should be followed by the
preference for ‘ize’ endings rather than ‘ise’. name of the author, the date of publication and page
number, e.g. (Price 2009: 2)
LENGTH OF ARTICLES • References refer the reader to the bibliography at the end
Articles should be 4000–8000 words long and must not of the article, this should be headed ‘References’ and listed
exceed 8000 words (including notes and references, but alphabetically.
excluding the author biography, keywords and abstract). Examples of the most usual cases are given below:
METADATA • Books –
Any article submitted should include the following metadata Seger, L. (2003), Advanced Screenwriting, Beverly Hills:
on a separate page: Silman-James Press.
• An abstract of 150–200 words, providing a summary of Spicer, A. (2007), ‘The author as author: restoring the
the key points in the article. screenwriter to British film history’, in J. Chapman,
• Up to six keywords, one per line, in lower case (for M. Glancy and S. Harper (eds), The New Film History:
indexing and abstract purposes). Sources, Methods, Approaches, Basingstoke: Palgrave/
• A short biography to be included in the journal issue. Macmillan, pp. 89–103.
• Your name, institution or affiliation, and contact details. • Journals –
Please include phone number, and e-mail address, but Fawell, J. (1989), ‘The musicality of the film script’,
indicate if you do not want this to be published. Literature/Film Quarterly, 20: 1, pp. 48–54.