SPECIAL EDITION WRITING TIPS

[SPOILERS AHEAD – BE WARNED]

In geometry terms, story structure can be defined as the distance from a starting point to an endpoint. In Richard Sarafian’s Vanishing Point, that structure gets turned on its head, emphasizing what would become an influential form of storytelling as well as asking the question: can a man be defined by a solitary moment?

Simply speaking, Vanishing Point is exactly what the title claims it to be: a point. But within that point are the events and risks taken by a single character known as Kowalski. (“First, middle, and last.”)

Kowalski’s life is a mosaic of broken images revealing dreams unfulfilled. He tries to live by his own sense of what’s right, but those efforts are usually stamped out by an establishment that refuses to accept him or his moral code.

Detailing Kowalski’s life, we see a breathtaking motorcycle wreck he inexplicably walks away from; a tragic relationship that ends in the drowning death of the only woman he’s ever loved; and a noble stand made against a crooked ex-partner that results in his dishonorable discharge from the police force.

The establishment doesn’t understand him, and it doesn’t accept him.

As a result Kowalski becomes the quintessential existentialist. His life will no longer be ruled by an outside system. He will live and die on his own terms in the front seat of a 1970 Dodge Challenger (“super-charged”), as he takes police on a wild car chase across Nevada for a fateful rendezvous in San Francisco. Along the way Kowalski’s priorities change as he realizes the impact his journey has on the rest of the world.

Cheered on by a blind, high-strung radio DJ (“Super Soul” – an amazing performance by Cleavon Little), Kowalski becomes a symbol for freedom from oppression for a lot of listeners. Helped along the way by a down-on-his-luck old-timer and a couple of outcast hippies, Kowalski finds kinship only with those who share his philosophy and his pain. But ultimately, Kowalski can live for just one person – himself – and it puts him in the driver’s seat to his destiny.

Just what will it cost him?

Those who don’t “get” Vanishing Point criticize its finale as being anti-climactic. However, if you’ve followed the film and its character every mile of their journey, you know what happens on the outskirts of San Francisco in the late hours of Sunday morning is a fitting and exciting fulfillment to the end of Kowalski’s long journey. It is a final stand Kowalski makes, this time answering to no one but himself.

Every time Segarini & Bishop’s “Over Me,” rolls out for Kowalski’s final ride, I tingle with freedom and the thrilling reality of what it’s like to truly live.

Sadness.

Fear.

Excitement.

As Kowalski hurtles toward his destination, we know what the next fleeting moments will bring. Odd – in these last seconds of Kowalski’s life he (and sympathetic viewers) feels more alive than any other point in the film.

Hardly an accident.

Kowalski is a man defined by a single event: his death. Without it, nothing else in his life matters. He cannot be taken alive, even though he has done nothing that would garner serious jail time. If Kowalski stops the car and gets out, he is arrested, slapped on the wrist, and released back into society to live his “life.” But he rejects society because it has rejected him.

What life would he have left if he gave in?

That last smile Kowalski gives is one of understanding. It wasn’t clear, even to him, till the moment he saw the bulldozers blocking out the road what must be done to achieve his goal. After the vanishing point comes, no one understands what to feel:

Law enforcement cannot figure out why a man would pick death over a harmless misdemeanor infraction.

Onlookers are numb.

And admirers – such as Super Soul – are angry Kowalski refuses to change his mind. They think he’s taken “the man” for one hell of a ride, but it’s time to stop and fall back in line. It’s hard to understand why death would be a viable option unless you’re inside Kowalski’s head. And Sarafian does a great job of putting us there.

What are the lessons learned from Vanishing Point?

• Stories need not be chronological.


• Flashbacks are okay. However, they must not be filler. They should be relevant to the character’s present.


• Characters must be active to be interesting. They should do things. They should have philosophies they stick to at all costs.

There is a reason Vanishing Point is remembered and embraced by legions of fans. There is a reason new audiences are discovering it every day. It’s an incredible story about being true to one’s self. Like Kowalski, it doesn’t always follow the rules of the road, but does a top-notch job of getting us where we need to go.

[SOME SPOILERS AHEAD – BE FOREWARNED]

Now that I’ve slipped in my shameless overused pun, let’s talk about the movies themselves. If you read the title, and you still can’t tell I’m talking about The Godfather series, then you may have wandered into the wrong column. Regardless, rush out and pick up The Godfather Collection on DVD. In it, you’ll find two terrific films, and one solid effort cursed with the unenviable task of living up to its predecessors.

I recommend everyone watch these films. You already have? Then do so again – totally worth it. While you’re over by disc five, pop it in, and do a little more digging into the production process. Paramount has loaded our plates with a healthy portion of Coppola’s method to adapting the acclaimed Mario Puzo novel. And while adaptation may not be your game, don’t think for a minute Coppola’s method doesn’t contain useful elements for the sequential storyteller.

"The Wedding"

During the excellent featurette “Francis Coppola’s Notebook,” we are invited into one of the most overwhelmingly brilliant planning sessions I’ve seen from a writer on any level. I wonder if Puzo even thought this much ahead when he was pounding out word-after-word to the mammoth 500-plus page count of his original novel.

Coppola starts with what he calls “the core,” which contains objectives for the scene he wants to film. “Whenever I felt there was a really important part, I would include great detail in the planning stages,” Coppola said.

In “The Wedding,” the first film’s opening sequence, Coppola delays his introduction for Vito Corleone. He decides to show us examples of the Don’s power instead.

A father begs for justice after his daughter is viciously attacked. He makes a desperate plea. Then, he waits. Finally, Corleone matter-of-factly clears his throat and begins to speak. Before agreeing to anything, he chastises the father’s request for help, when he has been too proud to seek the Don’s prior counsel. As the two men reach an agreement, a large lumberjack of a man, Luca Brasi, practices his “congratulations” speech outside the door. We observe him repeating lines, trying to determine the best way to say his piece. His nervous manner tells us exactly the kind of man Don Vito Corleone is.

Why is this sequence so effective? Because Coppola doesn’t just tell us the Don is powerful; he shows us. He uses other characters. He makes each a reflection of Corleone’s strength. We get to know the Don by watching those, who admire, fear, and respect him.

Likewise, when creating your own stories, build up characters by showing them to us through the eyes of others. What do you want us to know? Is your character a coward? Let’s see him knock over an old lady as he escapes a burning building. Is he a failure? Let’s see his archenemy triumph in a climactic fight. Create scenes where the intended emotion plays out visually.

One of my students recently had trouble figuring out how to start his short story. He wanted to tell me the names of everyone involved, as well as some small character trait for each. One character, he said, was a leader.

I asked him to elaborate.

He said he would “break up fights ‘n stuff.”

So I said, “Instead of telling me that about him, why don’t you create a scene where two men get in a fight, and he breaks it up, and really takes charge of the situation?”

In other words, find ways to dramatize. I suggest using reactions from secondary characters. Think of them as mirrors that reflect the desired emotion of your focal character.

As mentioned in the student’s example, a good way to show leadership would be sticking the character in a setting with a horde of bad-looking dudes, tattoos of naked women dancing across rock-hard biceps. They’ve waited thirty seconds since their last kill, and it’s getting unbearable. Yet here comes the leader. He is nothing special at first sight – a little smaller, maybe a few less tattoos. However, the dudes jump to attention the minute he arrives, and begin answering in “sir sandwiches.” That shows us the intended trait without the subject uttering a word.

"The Killling"

Another popular sequence – “The Killing” – uses pacing to its advantage. The scene represents a rite of passage for young Michael Corleone. After his father, the Don, is almost killed by a rival gang, he volunteers for a hit on the ringleaders of the assault. Meeting them at a quaint Italian restaurant, he sits through a discussion with the unsuspecting would-be assassins. Michael is the one Corleone without a reputation. He is the college boy. Everyone knows it. What they don’t know is Michael has a present waiting for him in the bathroom – a present he will use to blast dime-sized craters into the heads of each oblivious victim.

Once Michael pulls that trigger, he will never be the same. We know this, because of the way Coppola presents it. He uses terse, awkward bits of conversation – silence from Michael, uncertainty in his facial expressions. Then Michael, as if he’s on another planet, asks if he can use the restroom. Sure, what’s the harm? He enters. He finds the stall, and the gun hiding behind the toilet. Each moment is painstakingly slow-moving, but never slow. Coppola knows that dragging this scene out will best illustrate the stress Michael feels. He’s never killed anyone. Is he sure he wants to do this?

In your stories, use pacing to your advantage; and, most of all, use variety. Not every scene should be breathless action, where the good guy rides a motorcycle out of the 150th story of a building just before the bomb explodes, while trying to catch up to the parachute pack the bad guy has just dropped from the building’s summit. Fast-paced fighting and spectacular stunts have their place. But the heaviest suspense comes in those moments before the action. Make the most out of it. Milk it for everything it’s worth. And just when we can’t wait any longer, force us to wait a few seconds more.

"Michael in Sicily"

The last sequence we will discuss is “Michael in Sicily.” After “The Killing,” the Corleone family knows they have to get their college boy out of the country, or it’s his ass. So begins Michael’s all-too-brief escape to a world where happy endings seem possible, and the filth of his father’s world can’t reach him. Michael finds love. Marries. And steps comfortably into the role of devoted husband. His wife – “painfully beautiful,” as Coppola describes her – represents innocence, ecstasy, and happiness, all rolled into one darling little package. Michael is truly happy. But again, Coppola holds the strings, and makes us feel all these things, so he can emphasize the later point that Michael has no other choice but to turn to his father’s ways, if he wants his family to survive.

So much of this Paradise Lost motif depends on the wife. “She had to be so beautiful, it hurt,” Coppola said. Through her, we can see how Michael might truly “have it all.” And we have to believe he can have it all, for him to be able to lose it all.

When his wife is killed – incinerated in a fiery car bomb, a smile still on her face as she turns the key – Michael loses everything. Freedom, love, safety – he might as well go back to America and take his revenge.

Quick Review

Before we close this week, let’s review:

• Pay attention to scenes you feel will be important to your story.
  
• Plan those scenes out with reckless abandon.
  
• Decide how you will dramatize character traits, rather than relying on endless amounts of “telling” and exposition.
  
• Use secondary characters to reflect traits of your subject.
  
• Use varied pacing to build suspense and take the audience’s breath away. (Don’t be afraid to make them wait for it.)
  
• Have a purpose for every choice you make regarding your characters. Will they be beautiful? How will you use that beauty to advance the story? Will life be perfect for your characters? If so, how do you plan on shaking things up, and getting your story on the go?

With the recent reboot of TALES FROM THE CRYPT from Papercutz now in stores, I engaged in the internal debate of being true to the spirit of something, or changing the old formula for a new generation. Needless to say, the preview Papercutz released left me under-whelmed (as a long-time fan of the originals), but it does raise a serious question worthy of more consideration. Are we fans of the original just looking for a comfy nostalgic ride down memory lane? Are we doing the future of comics harm by holding such attitudes? Shouldn’t we just be happy this book could grow the market as it is?

Such questions inevitably led me to the state of children’s literature – not as it relates to novels (I actually think books are doing a good job these days), but to the comic book world – our world. Sure, we’ve got BONE and some Manga titles we can hand out to kids, but I sense a shortage in the American comics market of bona fide good books directed at future readership. Does the problem really exist, or is it something I’ve imagined? Comparing our market with Japan’s makes me think I’m not being paranoid. Regardless, I decided to search for a solution in this week’s column.

How does it all tie in to my weekly purpose – examining films and their special features for writing help? Read on.

Terry Gilliam’s TIME BANDITS gets it right. It’s deep, original, funny, scary, tragic, and, ultimately, self-affirming (a good quality for kids). Looking at the shortage of younger comic book readers in our country, I can’t help but think the problem exists because we’re not offering the right kind of material as creators. I’m as guilty as the next guy, I admit. SPRING RIVER WILD is anything but a children’s book. I wouldn’t want a child of mine reading it. However, I did write a young adult novel, BEARCATS ALL THE WAY, and I must admit the task was no small endeavor. I struggled for months with what is acceptable, and what isn’t, in a book for younger readers. Ultimately, the struggle lasted over a year, and the finished product was shorter than Stephen King’s novel CARRIE. The wait didn’t come from me sitting on my thumb. I worked everyday, two to four hours per night. I typed, erased, typed, erased, trashed the whole project, came back to it, typed, erased, typed, erased, but somehow, I always felt uncomfortable with what I’d come up with till about eighteen months and tons of rewrites had passed. It’s too mature for young readers, I thought.

Most of what is acceptable can be learned by picking up a few young adult books, but in comics, we have a lot less to choose from, and as a visual art form, a lot more pressure. You can hide potentially objectionable content (depending on how strict the parent is) in a book of 70,000 or more words. Better yet, the kid can hide it. But in comics, you have those pesky drawings to deal with, and both sort of rely on each other. It’s harder to slip things past the goalie in these cases.

I found comfort in one of my all-time favorites, the aforementioned TIME BANDITS. The Criterion DVD contains a mesmerizing audio commentary where Gilliam and co-writer Michael Palin take center stage to describe what they feel a children’s movie should do.

“For me, fairy tales are about danger and fearful situations,” Gilliam says. And so it goes with this film, arguably his masterpiece. It’s a film I watched countless times even before grade school… and about a million times since. Gilliam continues, stating the biggest problem with children’s entertainment today is that it seeks to paint a glowing smile on the face of fairy tales. It removes the reality from children that sometimes life isn’t as easy as you expect, and there are no happy endings. “You take that [reality] away from them, and you have kids that aren’t prepared for life.”

Did I understand that in kindergarten? No. Did I like the dreary ending? Of course not. But I still loved the movie. Why did I love it? Interesting question.

There’s something to be said for the six dwarves and Kevin, a young boy, who shared my wild imagination. But on a subconscious level, the film hung around for twenty years as one of my favorites because it didn’t insult my intelligence. There are many deep themes at play here: consumerism, the strained bond between parental apathy and a child’s need for attention, cruelty, violence, death, self-reliance, and theology, to name a few. Could I comprehend any of that at the time? Most likely not, and if I understood anything, it was on a very basic level.

Still, the characters and plot held my attention. Six renegade dwarves and a young boy on an adventure through time, fleecing anyone they come across in their quest for “the most fabulous object in the world.” Little do the Time Bandits know, they are being duped by the Evil Genius (David Warner), a stand-in for Satan. Luckily, Kevin is there to protect them as the upstanding moral conscience, and the only one smart enough in the whole movie to question everything he sees.

In the next four paragraphs, I want to take each theme and dissect how the film explores it. Pay close attention, and you’ll see we shouldn’t “write down” to children. Actually, we should raise the stakes, because they often expect much more than we give them.

[MAJOR SPOILERS AHEAD – PLEASE WATCH THE FILM FIRST, IF YOU HAVEN’T ALREADY]

• Consumerism and the strained bond of parents and child – Young Kevin thirsts for knowledge, and a set of parents that will encourage his development and pay him some attention. What he gets instead are two shallow simpletons more concerned with their neighbor’s kitchen gadgets, and the morbid game show “Your Money or Your Life.” The only attention he receives involves “keeping the noise down” or “going to bed at a decent time tonight.” He pushes for a spot in their world, but they usually ignore him outright. Eventually, he looks forward to bedtime because it isolates him from failure, and allows his imagination to roam free. This time Kevin has to himself leads to a wondrous adventure born of his imagination that actually takes on a life of its own, showing the amazing things of which children are capable. As a youngster, this theme escaped me. Only as an adult did I realize it, yet I didn’t have to spell it out in those terms. Good themes speak to children, moving them, influencing them, even if those themes can’t be defined just yet.
  
• Good versus Evil, God and the Devil – Kevin and the Time Bandits find themselves in the Fortress of Ultimate Darkness, prisoners of the Evil Genius. Up to this point, they’ve spent the whole movie running from God, hoping to keep the map of time in their possession. The Evil Genius uses that against them, taking the map for himself. Just when all hope appears lost, the Supreme Being shows up to save the day. After the climactic battle, Kevin asks, “Why did all those people have to die?” The Supreme Being laughs, stating that one might as well ask why there has to be evil in the world. “Why does evil exist?” Kevin asks. “Something to do with free will,” God says. Here we are in the midst of a children’s movie, and we get a revelation about the nature of good and evil. The exchange sums up what religious scholars debate everyday (and will continue to do so till the end of time). I watched, and understood the gist of it in the first grade; and believe me, I’m nothing special intellectually.

• Cruelty and Death – Throughout the film, cruelty and death show up in sometimes poignant, mostly funny ways. From Napoleon’s gleeful executions and violent puppet shows to Robin Hood’s merry men punching in the faces of each poor person as they collect a hand-out (women and men), two very serious subjects are dealt with using a healthy dose of humor that takes the edge off their sting. Countless men die in the final battle with the Evil Genius, but we never stop to dwell on the carnage. In the end, Kevin finds himself alone after an explosion claims both parents. As an audience, we know he will be okay, because he’s a self-reliant, thoughtful, kind-hearted boy. But what a way to end a children’s movie!
  
• Self-Reliance – Perhaps the most important theme running throughout is that children are capable. This theme is what keeps TIME BANDITS from being too high-brow, too dark, and too terrifying, for its target audience. How Kevin is portrayed sets an example for all kids his age and younger – they are not helpless drones. They do have minds of their own, and they are capable of using them. Kevin outsmarts his parents, and just about every other adult in the film. He is literate. He is thoughtful. He is caring. He is brave. He is a perfect role model for children, and he is the reason the film is embraced by kids and parents alike. Sure, the kids probably laugh at the Time Bandits, and marvel at the special effects; but without a character they can specifically relate to, the film would not hold the same magic or influence. At least it wouldn’t have for me, especially at the age I was when I fell in love with it.
  

I confess. I have tendencies. I teach ninth graders in my spare time. Many is the occasion where I find myself fantasizing about all the nasty, unpleasant acts of vengeance I could take on the little pipsqueaks for making my life a frequent Hell. Rather than act on those tendencies, I pop in a good horror flick to revel in the carnage. And I find no better provider for buckets of blood than George A. Romero. His Dawn of the Dead is a masterpiece equaled by no other in the history of the gut-munching sub-genre of horror.

But Romero’s films generally have more to offer than bloodletting alone. Night of the Living Dead launched his infamous Dead series with a cynical, pessimistic view of humanity that carried over to three additional films. Dawn of the Dead, the second film of the series, mastered Romero’s equation to a degree not seen in the other efforts. Often called “The Godfather of horror films” by certain critics of more skill and esquire than myself, Dawn of the Dead proves that great storytelling can transcend any genre – even one with more stinkers than a one-bathroom house at a Christmas gathering.

In Anchor Bay’s deluxe package Dawn of the Dead – Ultimate Edition, fans of this film are in for a treat as Romero and myriad others reminisce about their experiences on the set, and the creation of the film as a whole. A 4-disc deluxe package, this release offers multiple commentaries and documentaries the enterprising comic book author – and horror aficionado – can peruse hours after the end credits.

CHARACTERS AREN’T IMPORTANT

One of the first lessons Romero teaches us is that “Characters aren’t important.” At least, not at first. By the time Dawn of the Dead runs its course Romero seems to have betrayed this ideology, giving audiences a rare experience in the horror genre: multiple characters for whom we actually care.

But in the context of Romero’s commentary, this bold statement rings true. Characters aren’t important, especially when they have no direction. “I started with the idea,” Romero says.

The idea of a small group marooned at a shopping mall, where they could find every material convenience under the sun, was a refreshing take, and an obvious path to follow for a sequel to Night. Romero looks at the situation as a fun daydream, but his reasoning goes beyond such simple logic. Wads of social commentary are thrown at unsuspecting viewers, who find them selves in the moment, simply enjoying the splitter-splatter of heads blown to bits. Only after the first experience does the full reality set in – the reality that Romero is making a statement about our consumer culture. One can’t help but wonder if the mindless zombies dragging their bodies back to the Monroeville shopping mall are any different from their living, breathing, mortal versions.

Actually, the materialistic tendencies of our species are explored at three different levels. First, there are the heroes – those people with whom we’d most like to associate. They use what is at their disposal – even enjoy it to a degree – but their first priority is taking care of each other. Next, there are the zombies. They don’t know why they’re coming back to this place, which had been so important to them in their past lives. They know they must get in. They must explore. They must be near the material décor of the shopping center. But they have no clue as to what’s in it for them. Lastly, there are the bikers. That branch of humanity, who with malice and forethought, decide to take what is available at all costs, and with little care for their fellow man. They consume not for survival. They consume for pleasure. And it doesn’t matter who gets in their way.

On simpler terms, Romero’s method represents a bare bones method of story construction, which could serve the aspiring comic book author in a satisfactory way. Why do we start with characters? Why do we do our best to force stories into the commercial superhero context?

Don’t get me wrong. Superheroes are just fine. But, and I’m preaching at myself on this one, why is our first instinct to create a universe, small or large, of superheroes? I struggled with this idea when I first took up comic scripting. I wanted to make it in this industry, so the first thing I did was pound out a story so full of mimicry, you could hear DC’s and Marvel’s lawyers tuning up their word processors for a justifiable cease-and-desist letter.

I didn’t think about telling a story that was real to me. I wanted to tell a story that resembled any other. And I expected people to buy it. If only I had started with Romero’s words of advice, and worked on an idea and a theme – but not just any idea or theme. Something that came from me, and not the pages of some other title.

START THINKING OF WAYS TO KILL PEOPLE

Former Vietnam combat photographer Tom Savini relied heavily on his wartime experiences to create the grisly effects of Romero’s script. But as it turns out, Romero didn’t exactly script much of the on-screen nastiness we see.

Savini tells a brief, but amusing story about the moment he found out Romero would be doing another Dead film. “I got a call from George, and all he said was, ‘Start thinking of ways to kill people.’” That simple command was all Savini’s imagination needed to ignite.

The-screwdriver-to-the-ear is one scene that always sends me reaching for that migraine medication. Also to his credit, Savini gives Dawn a disgusting dose of close-up calf-and-shoulder muscle ripping. Perhaps his greatest contribution is the machete-cleaving-skull scene in the film’s third act.

These ideas, and many others, came long after the script had been written, during the actual production. While Romero had outlined the broad strokes of his film, he left such details to Savini’s discretion, knowing he could trust his collaborator to make the visuals unforgettable. The lesson in this for us is clear. Trust your artist, even if you’re him. The script doesn’t have to be burned in stone by the finger of the Almighty. You have the opportunity to change. If you trust your collaborator, be open to input. If you are a writer-artist, don’t stress if the words feel funny on paper.

Trust your visual instincts.

I couldn’t draw stick figures, but I was blessed in the process of creating Spring River Wild to be associated with a great artist, who went beyond simply drawing my script. Artist Ken Leinaar has made enough visual improvements to my original story that I feel it’s only right to do an even 50/50 split on ownership. Without him, my passion for the story would have died out a long time ago. With him, you can expect SRW by the end of the quarter, as well as a bi-monthly schedule after the initial release.

It’s like that. You have to trust visual instincts, whether they are your own, or someone else’s that you know and trust.

Romero knew enough to surround himself with the right people. He cultivated the collaborative efforts of all his colleagues. Film is a collaborative medium, and comics aren’t much different.

One huge plus of Romero’s outlining method is that he lays the groundwork for the story to move forward, but he leaves out enough details to save some surprises for the writing itself. Once the visuals started falling into place, characters became super-important. And therein lies the final lesson. We can only run from our characterization for so long. First, we must determine what we wish to say. Then, we can devote the rest of our time writing the script to making our players jump off the page. We also leave room to be flexible in each turn of events.

Romero first wanted to end Dawn of the Dead on the same bleak note as Night. But as the film progressed, it became obvious to Romero and crew that this film deserved something more. The original storyboard ending called for the lone female protagonist, as the last remaining survivor, to step out of the helicopter and lean her head into the swirling propeller. Romero and Savini even went as far as making a cast of the actress’s head, which was used instead at the beginning of the film. A little gray paint, and they turned her into a male African-American zombie, who meets with the wrong end of a high-powered rifle during the S.W.A.T. raid. The vibe of the work changed Romero’s thoughts about what was right for the film, and in the end, all agreed, “We did the right thing.”

By remaining flexible on his script, Romero opened many creative doors, which in turn changed his movie from Night of the Living Dead clone to something far superior. The same is possible for us. Heed lessons from great writers and great works.

Robocop begins with the idea of a robotic police officer attempting to decode human behavior. Why do these people behave as they do? This image fascinates co-writer Ed Neumeier, and he builds one of the greatest science fiction scripts of all time around that premise. Neumeier elaborates on this idea with three more compelling ones:

• What if technology isn't part of the problem?
• What if the robots aren't coming to get us?
• What if we stopped opposing technology, and actually became part of it?

The single commentary track for Criterion's Robocop features Neumeier and director Paul Verhoeven, as they guide the audience through the evolution of the film - from the concepts listed above to technical aspects, camera work, and the hidden allusions that push the film from popcorn action fare to richly layered storytelling.

These revelations, though geared toward the filmmaking process, offer comic book writers a catalyst for enriching their output and making the most of visual storytelling techniques. As a sequential storyteller, I listen to this track and think of the following questions:

• How do I build past the basic framework of my story?
• How do I add layers?
• How do I incorporate my beliefs and experiences into my narratives without beating the audience over the head with them?
• And how can I use effective filmmaking strategies in the creation of a comic book or graphic novel?

(NOTE: Criterion's DVD is now out-of-print, but MGM offers a special edition. Check for availability.)

It always helps to know the method behind a creator's madness, if you're looking for ideas to ignite creativity and inspiration. Thankfully, Neumeier and Verhoeven abound with explanations for their decisions. The first tidbit comes from Neumeier regarding the media breaks, which delineate context and characters.

There are three in the film. They're quite funny; sometimes crazy. But each one serves a purpose. They introduce us to one of the film's villains, Clarence Boddicker. They immerse us in the world of Robocop with advertisements (the "NUKEM" board game - Get them before they get you!") and news reports of corporation OCP's bid to take over Old Detroit. They help to maintain the film’s consistent, quirky tone of graphic violence and laugh-out-loud comedy.
In a nutshell, they are exposition - but Neumeier uses this exposition for something more. He doesn't just tell a story. He creates an experience.

Verhoeven joins Neumeier in enumerating story method with an inclusion of his own. A nude scene early in the film appears gratuitous to the passing viewer. Men and women are dressing together in a police locker room at one of the roughest precincts in Old Detroit. Verhoeven's explanation of this scene's purpose, however, gives his audience pause to assume the worst. Verhoeven states he wanted to show men and women capable of observing one another as equals in the work place.

This scene - taking place in one of the most dangerous precincts in the city - highlights the context of gender issues in Robocop. Women can do what men can do without the barrier of sexual degradation looming over their heads. Looking at women as sexual objects is no longer a factor. To Verhoeven, the removal of this barrier has finally resulted in "a measure of equality," and the nude scene is how he chooses to represent that rare positive aspect of Old Detroit.

Moves such as this teach us to have a reason for everything we do. Verhoeven's purpose was not simply to squeeze in some tits. Likewise, we should have a purpose for everything we write, and every visual choice we make - and hopefully, we can make that purpose an intelligent one.

Let's go back to Old Detroit. Neumeier's choice to set Robocop in this city is no accident. Old Detroit represents the writer's view of American industry at the end of the Second World War. "We as a nation became so arrogant," Neumeier says, "that we made crap and still expected people to buy it." He charges the automotive industry as the most obvious example; thus, the Motor City is a natural selection to illustrate his point. Extreme poverty abounds, and the usual indicators of violence, theft, and drug use are there to accompany it. This world breeds either suffering or extravagance with no in-betweens.

Neumeier spends most of his script in the seedy parts of the city, but the legendary boardroom scene demonstrates his beliefs regarding the predatory nature of corporate America (and his disillusionment with the stupidity of that environment). Here, we see how violent, cold, and indifferent to human suffering the polished world of the elite is. Remember poor Kenny? He's the guy blown to bits by the malfunction of ED-209.

When "The Old Man," president of OCP, witnesses this tragedy, he is appalled - but not by the pieces of human anatomy splayed across his boardroom. No, he is instead motivated by the failure of a project that has consumed so much time and money. "I'm very disappointed," the Old Man says to Dick Jones, his number two man, and uber-villain of the film. Dick responds with a simple: "Minor setback."

The scene is morbid, funny, and gross. But it goes way beyond such simple descriptions. This moment in the film sets a consistent tone. It builds the main villain's character. It comments on the nature of the corporate world and the wasteful attitude of the wealthy. To them, Kenny is not a human tragedy. He symbolizes something far worse: a financial failure.

When developing story beats into scenes, ask yourself what's important to you. What beliefs, viewpoints, or images can you use to strengthen the writing? Neumeier's boardroom scene started as a violent fantasy birthed from the boredom of executive meetings in his days at a movie studio. He often dreamed of a giant robot crashing in and ending it all. Once that seed was planted, he turned to his personal view of corporate America to flesh things out.

One of the stronger contributions to Robocop comes from Verhoeven, and his vision of the title character as a Christ-like entity in a futuristic reenactment of the Crucifixion and Resurrection. Verhoeven's passion play, relocated from a world of dirt and primitive technology to one of steel and high-tech weaponry, presents young police officer Alex Murphy as a Messianic figure to a world falling apart. This idea influences many of the decisions Verhoeven makes in what he chooses to show his audience.

"Murphy's crucifixion," as Verhoeven calls it, borrows greatly from the brutality of the ancient practice perfected by the Roman Empire. The thugs responsible for his murder, led by Clarence Boddicker, believe in the concept of overkill, as we can see from the estimated one hundred-plus rounds pumped into Murphy's body. He endures, as the Gospel accounts and historical evidence indicate of Jesus (or anyone unfortunate enough to suffer such a fate), far more punishment than he could ever deserve. Furthermore, he's completely innocent in the context of the film.

Boddicker even places the first bullet into Murphy's wrist, splattering his hand across the floor, and representing the nails driven into Jesus on the cross.

Verhoeven does not flinch in showing us all the gory details, because, to him, the power of Christ's story relies equally on the brutality of his death and the impact of his resurrection. As a comics writer, you must have some "director" in you. It won't be clear how much until you know the type of artist you'll be working with, so keep in mind your influence may not end with words. Think about how well "Murphy's crucifixion" does it. Verhoeven spotted a theme in the writing that not even Neumeier intended, and he used his ideas to create a much richer scene than what was originally on the page.

As for "Murphy's resurrection," watch how Verhoeven delays Robocop's full reveal until the right moment. The Gospel accounts take a similar approach in presenting the resurrection of Christ. His return is first foretold. When he finally appears, he does not look the same. At first, no one recognizes it's him. By the time he is revealed in his original form, there has been enough build-up to where we are used to him, and the reappearance feels more natural.

Similarly, Verhoeven decides he must delay the full appearance of Robocop, Murphy's new identity. First, Robocop awakes. Next, he observes all those working on him. We see an arm here... a hand there... his image reflected in a background monitor... his rigid walk outlined through stained glass... and finally, his entire form ready to hit the streets. Leaving Murphy's death just moments before, an instant reveal of the Robocop frame could have slowed momentum, and instantly reminded us of the concept's hokiness. But Verhoeven's visual choices build anticipation and acclimate us to the character. By the time we see Robocop, we've accepted him.

Verhoeven's allusion to Christ offers another useful tip to our own work. Tap history. It's true every dramatic situation has already been mined. That doesn't mean there isn't a little more gold in the shaft. You have to find your own way, and modeling other great works can assist you. Verhoeven used the death and resurrection of Christ.

You don't have to be a Christian to draw from biblical stories. And you don't need a Bible to use the past for story enrichment. Think of novels or songs that have inspired you. What qualities of these works stand out? What do you wish to take with you to your next story? These details will be most helpful in the rewriting stage. I've always believed in getting the story out as quickly as possible.

After that, it's time to buckle down and pay attention to the details. Once you lay that foundation, it's time to build your dream home. Make the work as meaningful as possible. It deserves your effort, and you owe it to yourself to give it your all.And there's no better place to learn than from the architects of great visual storytelling. Pay closer attention to the supplemental features on your DVD's. You never know what kind of useful information is hiding there at your disposal. Learn what to do by watching your favorite films.

With the right time, effort, and talent, it could turn your current script into the next classic piece of entertainment... or at least get it out of that slush pile and into an editor's hands.