The Sting DVD: Creating Characters with Lives of Their Own
0 comments Posted by Aric Mitchell at 4:03 PM
“It was the perfect script,” Newman said on The Art of THE STING (disc two of The Legacy Series DVD release). “I don’t think we changed ten words.”
THE STING won the Academy Award for Best Picture, solidifying Hill’s place in the hallowed halls of great directors. But it also won writer David Ward the award for Best Original Screenplay. Ward’s script was the first time audiences had been introduced to the confidence (or “con”) man, as the star of his own vehicle. His originality attracted the right kind of attention, from stars to director to studio. THE STING became the success it was because of its innovative, original content, and Ward’s tireless effort to get things right.
“It took me one full year to write,” Ward confessed. In the end, such tedium and patience proved worth it, when the young writer accepted the Academy Award.
And while the story of THE STING is, no doubt, an inspirational kick in the pants for those of us looking to “make it” in comics, or any other entertainment venue for that matter, it is also one of deeper value to our daily craft, and a sad dose of nostalgic realism for the state of the film and comic book industries.
Allow me to explain.
BY COMMITTEE
“George (Roy Hill) knew exactly what he wanted,” Newman said. “And it didn’t matter what the studio told him; he did things his way. Everything today is decided by committees and film focus groups.”
Newman’s tirade on today’s film industry is all too familiar, and reoccurs from other seasoned stars and disgruntled fans far too often. Unfortunately, I fear it also applies to the comic book community. Just take a look at the yearly maxi-series, which promise to “shake things up,” only to be apathetically forgotten by all but a handful of Fanboys keeping things on life support, instead of attracting and allowing in new fans. We have many works to be proud of – THE GOON, HELLBOY, SIN CITY (to name a few) – but what we give the public when they show an interest in comics are these committee-written “events” and monthly titles starring popular characters, whose status quo hasn’t changed in years.
Originality – it’s a missing concept. Yet it’s also something desperately needed if you want to “break in.” The cookie cutter story may sustain your career, but it will not earn you one. Aside from that, you must know what you want to preserve your creative vision.
Obviously, you are in no position to play Maverick if you’re a young buck working for a demanding conglomerate that can simply throw you away and find someone else. But in two cases, you have absolute freedom to flex your creative muscles: when you’re struggling, and when you’re established. Let’s approach this from the struggling perspective, since that’s what so many of us are.
Advice: Know what you want.
As a writer, you should look for, and listen to, feedback. Seek it out. Beg for it. Want it. Because, let me tell you, it’s desperately needed. No writer is above it. But no writer should be a slave to it either. So where’s the balance? Where is the line you should walk between receiving constructive criticism and absolutely killing your material?
When I was writing BEARCATS ALL THE WAY, my first novel, I thought reaching the final page meant I was almost finished.
Dead wrong.
I knew it wasn’t perfect. I knew I needed to comb over it a few times. And I even knew getting someone I could trust to look at it would be a good idea. Still, I was proud of myself for finishing. If only I’d known just how much work was left to be done, I might not have been so quick to have a brownie and pat myself on the back.
In my family, I have an uncle, who will tear my work a new one, if it needs it. Apparently, it did. Now you may think it difficult hearing feedback that stings. It’s important, though, you find someone, who can give you their honest opinion without being an ass about it. Even if he or she is an ass, listen to what they have to say. Sift the good from the bad, and make those changes. Once your editor has made some helpful comments, get ready, because you’re back in the driver’s seat.
I’ve always said, “I’d rather hear what’s wrong with my work than what’s right with it.” Okay, maybe not always; but that’s been my take since I started taking this whole writing thing seriously. You should feel the same way. Don’t get defensive, and hide in a corner. This is your work. It deserves more than such trivial trivialities.
One year after receiving my uncle’s comments, I came to the end of a draft I could live with. Is it perfect? Nope. But I’m darn sure it’s the best thing I’ve ever written. And guess what: published comics, graphic novels, and novels, and Award-winning films are also imperfect. It’s a harsh reality. You’ll never write the ideal piece. It could always be made better in some way, large or small.
So you have to ask yourself: when is it ready? Let’s answer with a question: when is it NOT ready?
For answers to these questions, you have to 1) Trust your writer’s instincts, and 2) HAVE writer’s instincts. That means being harsh when necessary. That means holding yourself to a higher standard than you ever would anyone else. And that means knowing when to silence the inner critic.
If you feel like something is missing… if you know of scenes that gave you trouble… if you know portions were rushed on the long journey towards a completed draft… then chances are all your fears are correct. It needs more work. But there comes a point when you’ve simply grown too close to the material.
You need a new pair of eyes.
Find that critical uncle in your life, even if he’s your wife, and let the S.O.B. tear you to shreds.
Of course, schedule a few days to lick your wounds and recover. Then, reassure yourself that he/she does not wish utter failure upon you (that they don’t hate your guts), and begin rewrites.
Work through those corrections. Throw out the ones you disagree with. Re-craft your vision into a new, improved, definitive version. On the road to that definitive version, make sure to let two or three more people look at it, if you have that luxury (or at least let the S.O.B. take another crack at it).
But when is enough truly enough? When does criticism and rewriting evolve into the mutilation of a dead squirrel? That’s a question there can be no clear answer to. For me, it’s when you know the writing has a spark that wasn’t previously there. In SPRING RIVER WILD, I knew the first four-issue arc had an undeniably flat quality to it I couldn’t quite define. I needed that second set of eyes to steer me in the right direction. Once I’d determined the dialogue needed some kind of spark, I was able to open the gates by allowing my character’s smart-ass alter-ego a crack at narrating the events as they unfold. The result was something that landed me a publishing agreement with a small comic book hopeful. They’ve since gone out of business, but the work I do continues to improve, and the series is on-schedule[i].
Look for the spark. Write in more concrete, visual terms. Expand your details and characterization, and follow those paths wherever they lead through the plotting. But be careful. Listening to too many criticisms can result in writing by committee. At the end of the day, create something that can be called uniquely yours.
Next time, we’ll take a look at how David Ward’s script uses specific characterization to create conflict, tension, and twists.
[i] (Last year’s breakdowns at Speakeasy have made me more comfortable about discussing this minor aside. When a company fails before you’ve had a chance to, don’t take that as your fault. Crummy business practices cannot be controlled, especially in this industry. The important thing is when someone has enough faith in your work to say, “Hey, I wouldn’t mind spending my money to see this published.” When that happens, pat yourself on the back, even if it doesn’t come to pass. Just make sure you shake off the pride, and the fall, and start pushing your material again.)
[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?
One Final Word: "How can I screw this up?"
Perhaps the best piece of advice Coppola provides on this track is this: before executing a scene, think of every possible thing that could go wrong.
“I ask myself,” Coppola states, “how can I screw this up?” He then thinks of every possible pitfall to the execution of a scene. Settings have to be convincing. Italians can’t “talka lika thisa.” Stereotypes must be avoided. Tensions must rise at a steady pace. And last but not least, exposition must be substituted, as much as possible, by worthwhile scenes full of subtext and gradual revelations.
In other words, don’t try too much too soon.
This advice struck me as peculiar, and I’ll admit, not everyone may find it easy to swallow. After all, this idea basically amounts to revision BEFORE writing. But on second thought, I believe there is some value in what Coppola has to say. We spend so much time trying to “get it right,” we never stop to ponder the ways “it” can go wrong. Often, the blind eye we turn leads us directly into these traps. As a result, our stories begin to sound like millions of other stories destined for slush piles everywhere.
Till next time, don’t give up, keep writing, and if you need any help, dust off some of those special edition DVD’s – or meet back here next week; same time, same place.