The best way to organise the analytical thinking that goes into a good script report is under these headings:
The following subsections take each of these elements of screenwriting and discuss in detail how to write the most useful report on each aspect.
Before we get started properly, it is worth stating that whenever the Script Factory gathers a panel of producers or distributors to talk to new screenwriters you can absolutely guarantee that one of the very first questions will be, ‘What kind of scripts are you looking for?’ I suspect that, quite often, the writer who is asking is hoping to become privy to some secret industry agenda that they can go away and fulfil – films with 25–year–old female protagonists, or low–budget horror set on a Scottish island – but, without exception, the answer is always, ‘We are looking for a good story.’
This answer may seem disingenuous to the new writer hoping for something more concrete, but the truth is that we all have the ability to recognise a good story. Since earliest childhood we have heard them, read them, created them, and told and retold them.
We enjoy stories for their capacity to enthral and entertain us but we also recognise the essential function of story is to help us make sense of our lives. Life as lived is a continuous series of random and unpredictable incidents over which we may only achieve a very tenuous and partial control. So, unlike the ever–evolving experience of life, stories have a very stabilising integrity. They contain a finite sequence of events that we expect to be meaningful. The stories that we consider to be good are the ones that have a sense of purpose, a reason to be told.
The most important point to remember is to be confident that you know a good story when you read one and, equally, that you know what is wrong; this book is designed to help you process your instinctive response to screenplays so that you become quick and confident in your reporting and developing.
The most useful reports start with a brief, three–paragraph synopsis of the story of the script: a paragraph to set up the story, one to describe what then happens, and the third to reveal how it ends. This approach corresponds to the three–act structure discussed later; but, in writing a synopsis, your task is to extract the central idea of the screenplay and test whether it can be presented as a simple and consistent story, with a logical beginning, middle and end.
If the screenplay can be faithfully retold in this way it usually indicates that the foundations of a solid story are in place. The story might not be strong enough to sustain a feature film or interesting enough to warrant one, but these issues are addressed later in the report.
If it is a struggle to write a synopsis that meets basic story expectations then this is probably an indication of serious problems in the concept and construction of the narrative. The process of negotiating through the story to write the synopsis should help with the assessment that informs the later sections of the report.
Essentially, the purpose of the synopsis is to convey back to the writer the main story spine. Most writers find it very hard to reduce their own screenplays to a brief synopsis. This is because screenplays are incredibly textured documents and to ask a writer to simplify months of work into half a page of prose is daunting; it can be difficult to know where to start. A brief synopsis at the beginning of the report says: this is the main story and everything in the screenplay is going to be assessed in the light of telling this story well.
It is hard to write synopses, but it’s a discipline that is important at the beginning of any development process because it pins down what the main story idea is and becomes the benchmark for all development.
The information in a three–paragraph synopsis roughly breaks down as follows:
How the character achieves his/her goal or what happens to ultimately stop them
What has changed about the character and/or their situation at the end of the film
The intention is always to show the story in its best light and to remember that it’s a work in progress – so always write the synopsis and, indeed, the entire report in the present tense.
For example: Juno
Juno is 16, at high school in Minnesota and unexpectedly pregnant by Bleeker, after their first time, on a chair. Having confirmed this state of affairs Juno arranges an abortion but is unable to go through with it and decides instead to have the baby and give it to a childless couple who desperately want one. Juno locates the perfect couple, Mark and Vanessa, in the Penny Saver small ads and decides that these are the people that can offer the baby a perfect family. He’s cool. She’s nice, and clearly wants nothing more than the baby.
Juno’s condition raises a few eyebrows around the school as the ‘Cautionary Whale’ but her family are supportive of her decision and all is going well – but Juno likes hanging out with Mark and Mark is getting too fond of Juno and the boundaries begin to blur. Juno turns up at the house one day to discover that her Mark and Vanessa aren’t so perfect. They are splitting up. Distraught and eight and a half months pregnant, Juno drives away in crisis.
‘I’m in if you’re in,’ Juno writes to Vanessa and, a couple of weeks later, as Vanessa holds her son, it may not be perfect, but it will be okay. Juno is held by Bleeker and assured by her dad that she will be back in the maternity ward on her own terms one day and, a bit wiser to the fact that life is messy, she gets back to being a teenager, officially in love with Bleeker.
It is important that the reader earns their right to assess the script by demonstrating that the script has been read carefully, with serious effort being made to understand what the writer is trying to do. A well–written synopsis will assure the writer that the reader is on their side and respects what they are trying to achieve. By well written I mean that there is clearly conveyed cause and effect between the story events and not a list of events punctuated with ‘this happens, then this happens, then this happens’. This style of synopsis should ensure the writer will be much more responsive to the comments and criticisms that may then be made in the body of the report.
It is important to invest emotion into each event, so, for example, instead of writing, ‘John goes to see his dad who tells him that his brother was involved in a shady deal,’ it’s better to write, ‘Desperate for information, John visits his dad who confirms his worse fears…’
The synopsis is not the time or place to offer criticism so it’s inappropriate to write sentences such as, ‘And then, by an unbelievable coincidence…’
Writing the synopsis isn’t something a reader should labour over. The script should only need to be read once if it has been read with proper attention and the synopsis will flow better if it is written from memory. Think about it in terms of how it might be retold verbally.
That said, it is important that details such as names and places are accurate. Getting these kinds of facts and details wrong makes it easy for the writer to think that the script hasn’t been read very carefully and will undermine the hard work that has gone into the report.
Start with date and place, particularly if the story is set in the past, e.g. Chicago, 1955.
Try to write from memory as much as possible, but check for accuracy of details (names, places).
Use each paragraph to set up the story, describe the action and reveal how the story concludes: three paragraphs in total should be enough.
If a whole secondary story line can be left out without creating confusion in the main storyline, leave it out in the synopsis. If a small subplot has importance, introduce it into the synopsis at the relevant time, otherwise it can be hard to refer to it later in the synopsis without extensive explanation.
Present the script in its best light; the way to do this is convey the drama and the emotion where it is present and don’t just list events in order of their happening.
If the script is illogical or nonsensical, iron it out sufficiently in your synopsis so it can be used as a basis for the commentary. The problems will be discussed later on in the report.
Remember the synopsis is not the place to start the commentary. Be matter of fact about the script’s plot and don’t try to covertly include your criticism in your use of language when summarising. Save this for later.
The synopsis should be up to a page in length.
Managing Director, Pathe UK
Selected executive producer credits: Iron Lady, Slumdog Millionaire, 127 Hours, The Queen
I do use script readers, and the specific skill I require is the ability to spot the strength of an idea, even if the script itself is poorly realised.
When I am reading a script the most important consideration for me to take it forward is always the strength of the concept. If the writing is good, I will pursue with the original writer. If the writing is weak, I would wish to bring on another writer better skilled in the identified area of weakness (whatever that may be e.g. humour, dialogue, action).
The only reason for passing on a project is that the concept has insufficient appeal. Some scripts are wonderfully written but it is impossible to see them ever being made because the subject matter would never find an audience (or at least not an audience commensurate with the likely budget). And sometimes, though the concept is great, after many drafts and many writers, you may simply have to put a project to one side, accepting that you haven’t managed to develop a script that will satisfy an audience.
Having done the hard work of figuring out the story in the synopsis, the question for the premise section is: will this story make a good film? Is the idea or the concept strong enough for a feature film?
What does all drama need? The answer is conflict.
Conflict is the reason we engage with stories. As human beings we tell stories to make sense of the world, to find order in chaos, to process experience. Without conflict there is no story, simply an account of events. So whatever else can be said about the script, like the originality of the setting or the vibrancy of the characters, the one thing the success of the idea hangs on is the conflict. In every film there is something at stake that the audience can care about and identify with. This can range from something as huge as the survival of the species to something as personal as being understood.
Most screenplays play out the conflict through the experiences of one character, the protagonist. Protagonist is derived from two Greek words:
Protos – meaning ‘first’
Agonistes – meaning ‘a combatant, a person who acts’
From this comes the implication that a good film protagonist is one who takes action. And from that idea has developed the theory that all protagonists should have a goal. However, it is my contention that this has led to lots of confusion and lots of very bad screenwriting.
Goal implies a conscious choice, or an active desire, or a mission, and is true for films like Billy Elliot, where the character discovers they want or need something, and spends the rest of the film pursuing it.
However, in many screen stories characters find themselves caught up in situations that aren’t consciously of their own making. They aren’t proactively pursuing a desire but rather are dealing with circumstances that they didn’t choose to be in. This is the case in Juno. Juno did not plan to be pregnant.
It is also the case that, often, what a character thinks they want is very different to what they really need. That gap between what a character is actively pursuing and what they learn along the way forms the central conflict to most rites of passage and road movie films. In American Beauty, Lester wants to shag his daughter’s best friend. What he really needs, however, is to accept the stage of life he has arrived at and learn to be a good father to Jane. Which he does, just before he dies.
Similarly, in Little Miss Sunshine the Hoover family’s outward goal is to get Olive to the beauty pageant so that she can have her chance to compete. But what they really need is to adopt Grandpa’s view that it’s not the winning that counts but the trying, so that when Olive stands on that stage and clearly isn’t a beauty queen destined to win the crown of Little Miss Sunshine they can give her the support that every seven year old deserves and so protect her from being destroyed by failure in the way every other member of the family has been.
In more morally complex films, quite often the situation is set up so that what the character wants is actually directly at odds with what they also know that they need – a lot of good detective thrillers put the protagonist in that position, so that they are constantly getting more desperate, looking for an impossible way out of their predicament. An example of this is Dirty Pretty Things, where the main character Okwe wants to put a stop to the organ trafficking he uncovers in the hotel he works in illegally, whilst still needing to remain under the radar of the authorities.
When reading and reporting on scripts it can therefore be much more helpful to define the protagonist as a combatant, someone who is engaged in a struggle or fight, someone who is living out conflict. And that conflict isn’t necessarily the desire to reach a defined goal. It may just be a problem.
It might not always be obvious to the character that they are engaged in a conflict – for example, victims in thrillers, or even the protagonist in a drama, might not consciously process the opposition to what they are trying to achieve, but it should be clear to the audience/reader.
In reporting on the premise in the script report there are three main tasks:
How do you articulate the central idea or conflict?
The first questions to ask are: who is the protagonist? What conflict is this character facing? What do they need or want to achieve and what is standing in their way?
It can be really helpful to know that there are only three sources of conflict in the world of films:
Internal, where the character’s problem is made worse by aspects of their personality such as shyness, or a lack of confidence, or excessive arrogance
Situational/environmental, where the character’s problem is made worse by the world in which they inhabit, such as intemperate climates, the lack of anonymity in small communities, or a poltergeist in the walls
Interpersonal conflicts where the character’s problem is chiefly manifest through the other characters; such as a parent disallowing certain activities or a stalker that wants to steal your identity
In most film stories all three types of conflict should be evident, but in order for the story to be meaningful it needs to be informed by one clear idea and so the first task is to articulate the central story idea in terms of one main conflict. Start the premise section with a sentence or two that encapsulates the main story and expresses the conflict.
For example: Billy Elliot
This is the story of 11–year–old Billy Elliot who wants to audition for the Royal Ballet School in London but he comes from a Northern mining town where boys learn boxing not ballet. Set against the backdrop of the 1980s miners’ strike, this is a story about true talent emerging where it is least expected and defeating the class barriers that would hold it back.
Conflict is never original; they have all been done before. So an important element of defining the story idea or the dramatic conflict of this particular screenplay is the setting. It’s the world of the story that will make it original or will give it a reason to be told again by offering new resonance to a familiar issue.
Billy Elliot has a very clear, simple conflict (which is possibly why it continues to resonate with audiences around the world to this day). It is more likely that a script will not have such a clear idea informing it and these are some of the problems that are very common:
In some scripts the main conflict doesn’t become fully clear until later in the story. Often that can indicate a problem with the story design and, if this does seem to be the case, it is helpful to state that the conflict could inform the story earlier. However, be careful not to try to define the problem too early or decide that the first thing that the character seems to be pursuing is the main conflict and wilfully disregard everything that comes after.
In some scripts the conflict is inconsistent, meaning that the main problem the protagonist is dealing with changes over the course of the screenplay. This usually happens when the protagonist resolves their problem and then moves on to another one. If this is the case then the premise section is the place to offer a discussion of the competing conflicts and which of them, potentially, could be developed and extended most effectively.
It is really hard to articulate the main idea if the protagonist is not the character who is living out the most conflict. This often happens in stories with a child protagonist where the child is in fact getting to do what he or she wants, and it is the people around them that experience the conflict. (It isn’t possible to tell the story of Little Miss Sunshine as Olive’s story as it would go something like this: Olive wants her chance to compete in the Little Miss Sunshine beauty pageant, and she does.)
There are two types of instance of not enough conflict. The first is reasonably straightforward. There just isn’t enough at stake to ensure that the reader/audience cares about what happens in the end. Or, quite commonly, the writer has convinced themselves that the problem is really hard to solve, because it is for their character (due to their personal hang–ups or circumstances), but, actually, in terms of recognisable human behaviour, it’s really not that difficult.
This occurs when the story is about one main character (such as films like Fish Tank or An Education) but the writer hasn’t discerned which particular aspect of the character’s life the story is most interested in. In trying to tell everything about a character, the character becomes unknowable and the effect is to make the story feel crowded and not universally relevant.
Once the main conflict is articulated, the next task is to assess whether it is a strong enough idea to carry a feature film. If the main conflict isn’t yet clear because of one or more of the problems outlined above, the report should assess whether the idea is strong enough once the specific problem is solved.
The most useful way to phrase the question is to ask if it offers enough dramatic potential. By which we mean: does the idea suggest that it will generate interesting events and keep the audience engaged in discovering the outcome?
Then there’s the other side of the dramatic conflict…
Dramatic potential is suggested by the depth of the conflict and the literal number of obstacles and antagonists that the character has to negotiate in the story. The first and most important point to restate is that antagonism/conflict is manifest only in those three ways – internal, situational/environmental and interpersonal, so the antagonist or forces of antagonism are not always human. In fact, there can be a problem with human antagonists in that they need to be convincingly motivated and we generally don’t have archenemies in real life! However, we do have people who may stand in the way of what we want to achieve because, somehow, it is in conflict with what they want to do.
If the story does have a traditional antagonistic character, that character should have compelling motivators; things like jealousy, power, money and revenge, as well as your basic psychos. If the story dramatises internal conflict through relationships with people, exploring more normal situations, it is important to assess whether those relationships demonstrate recognisable behaviour, like parents restricting freedom, or children demanding their needs be fulfilled, or the boss requiring commitment, etc.
If the main source of antagonism isn’t another character but the situation the protagonist finds him/herself in, then you need to ask whether the rules of the protagonist’s world, and the way they have been set up, sufficiently restrict them from easily achieving their goal or solving their problem? Is the internal or situational conflict complex enough and strong enough to sustain the drama required in a feature film? Good examples of this kind of premise can be found in 127 Hours and Buried.
Based on a true story, in 127 hours Aron Ralston falls down a crevice, miraculously surviving without injury, although his hand is trapped under a boulder. There is no way of freeing it, and very little chance that anyone will find him. This is sufficiently restricting to completely engage the audience in the outcome. Similarly, Buried is the story of Paul Conroy, a US truck driver in Iraq, who awakes one day to find himself buried alive in a coffin, with only a cigarette lighter and a phone – enough to offer a glimmer of hope that this nightmare may end, but sufficiently restricting and horrifying to keep the audience engaged in the outcome.
In assessing the dramatic potential of the idea the main sources of antagonism should be both clear and clearly restricting. If this is not the case the ‘Premise’ section is the place to offer this comment and it can be appropriate to also offer suggestions about strengthening the conflict. However, be careful not to rewrite the story!
It can be helpful to consider how the conflict is layered as this is often the way that the drama is generated.
To illustrate this point clearly, consider the layers of conflict in Billy Elliot:
Billy Elliot is the story of a boy from a northern mining community who wants to audition for the Royal Ballet School in London.
That simple description indicates that there are some very obvious potential conflicts here: he’s a boy, dancing is generally considered for girls; he’s working class whilst ballet is primarily the domain of the middle classes. And he lives up North and wants to go to school down South in London.
So, in the basic assessment of the idea, it is clear that there is plenty of potential conflict, but potential conflict doesn’t automatically generate drama. Billy is clearly going to find it tough but it is actually the detail with which his world is set up that makes it tough enough for this to be a dramatic story.
Looking a bit more closely at the world of Billy Elliot, this is what we know: Billy comes from a working–class background, but specifically he comes from a family of miners during the miners’ strike of the 1980s. This generates two key areas of conflict in the story:
The family has no money, food is hard to pay for let alone ballet lessons and auditions.
Billy’s father and brother have a very strong sense of working–class pride, and loyalty to the cause is considered more important than personal needs and ambition. Billy’s ‘poofy’ ballet dancing is seen as an affront to the dignity of the working man.
And in this setting, where that dignity is under threat, it’s a much more emotive value and stops the antagonism towards Billy’s dancing being simply inverted snobbery or chauvinist ignorance. And it’s important that we do have sympathy for Billy’s dad, and that would be much harder to achieve in a different setting.
These masculine values are bolstered by two further details about Billy’s life: that boxing is a family tradition; and that Billy’s mother is dead – without the female influence, the family is governed entirely by masculine values, and any support she may have given Billy is removed.
Finally, Billy is 11, an age at which he is still dependent on his family and therefore cannot pursue his dream without their support. If he were 15, then this would be a film about him running away to join the ballet. But, at 11, he is dependent and also at an age when he is on the cusp of developing his sexuality, so his interest in ballet triggers concern that he might be gay.
When watching the film or reading the script, all of this should just seem like character detail, none of it competing with the main conflict in the story, which is the class issue. But it is the detail that actually provides the drama: the obstacles that Billy will have to overcome in order to realise his dream.
In summary, the main conflict in this story is that Billy comes from the wrong class to be a dancer. The details of his character, situation and world enable the writer to dramatise the conflict in these ways:
Billy’s internal conflict is his initial perception that dancing is for girls. He gets over this pretty quickly, but it is important that this argument is set up, as it will become the main objection of Billy’s father, Jackie.
More importantly for Billy, his other internal conflict is his struggle with his sense of family loyalty versus his need to express himself and he’s deliberately set up as a kid who is not particularly rebellious.
The situational conflicts in the story are the lack of money, the fact that the world of ballet is completely foreign, and that it is literally far away from home. And Billy lives in a community in which cultural pursuits are not valued.
Finally, Billy’s interpersonal conflicts are with his father and brother, both of whom consider dancing to be for girls or ‘poofs’. He therefore becomes dependent on his ballet teacher, a woman from whom he feels culturally distanced.
In other words, the writer has maximised the opportunities offered by the idea to provide the internal, situational and interpersonal conflicts that will make it as hard as possible for the character, in this case, to achieve their goal.
In reading scripts you are looking for the specific details that the writer has used which can generate the drama that the character will have to navigate to achieve their goal, solve their problem or learn their lesson.
Analysing and developing screenplays requires an ability to assess whether there are enough layers of conflict in the story and, further, that they do feed into one clear central conflict. Quite often they don’t. The protagonist may have many different problems to deal with, but the obstacles and antagonism do not add up to anything consistent.
Once the dramatic premise has been considered, the next element of the premise section is to think about the thematic conflict in terms of what the story means. It seems that readers are generally happier talking about theme because it’s a discipline we are used to from studying literature and it’s much easier to talk generally about ideas than assess whether those ideas are played out well dramatically. Therefore, it is important to think about the dramatic premise first to stop the temptation to become immersed in the theme and meaning; to do that will fail to address the specific dramatic conflict of the story.
The story exists in order for the writer to express a view, or several views, on the world. No film can exist without a viewpoint on its subject matter. And it is in the establishment of theme that a film has resonance. It is imperative that the script report questions and analyses what a script is actually about, so that the writer becomes fully aware of the emotional, intellectual and visceral impact of their story. Themes emerge from the conflicts explored within the story, and the meaning of the film is derived from the resolution of the conflict. If the main conflict in the screenplay is unclear, it is likely that the writer’s intended meaning will also be muddled. A film’s meaning can be expressed as a universal ‘truth’ (e.g. love conquers all), personal beliefs or statements of emotional intent. These statements are often disarmingly simple, even for the most intelligent and seemingly complex films.
To analyse thematic conflict try to:
State clearly in the report what you consider the themes, or potential themes, to be.
Is it possible to articulate what the story is actually saying about this theme? (e.g. the theme may be ‘fame’, and the meaning of the story may be ‘fame corrupts’).
Are the ideas in this film likely to resonate with an audience?
Are there elements of the screenplay that create confusion by undermining the theme/meaning?
Are events manipulated skilfully to convey the meaning, or is the message delivered heavy–handedly?
It can be useful to offer a discussion of how the theme works in tandem with the chosen genre. For example, it would be a problem if the film set itself up as a romantic comedy but then became thematically preoccupied with something other than love.
The last point to consider is whether these themes will resonate with the film’s intended audience. Effectively, the key questions are: what is at stake for the audience, either emotionally or intellectually, in this story, as suggested by the themes? How is the writer intending to engage the audience in the story?
Should the audience want the character to solve their problem or achieve their desire? And, if so, how is the specific situation of the character made universal? Whilst we may hope that Billy gets offered a place at the Royal Ballet School, the reason that it matters to audiences is because he is talented. That talent should be supported and recognised is a universal value.
To conclude the section on premise: in essence, is the idea going to take us into dramatically interesting situations and say something thematically interesting about the way people are?
Kevin Loader
Free Range Films
Selected producer credits: Wuthering Heights, Nowhere Boy, In the Loop, The History Boys
When I use readers I am far more interested in the summary and the judgement – including the reader’s reservations – than I am in getting a detailed plot summary. If the reader thinks the script is worth reading, I’ll read the script. If I want to put it into development or meet the writer, I’ll read the script. There has been almost no occasion I can recall when a (sometimes far too) detailed plot summary is useful. This goes for reporting on books too!
If I’m reading a script I’ve commissioned then it would have to be a complete car crash for me not to give the writer another draft. If after a second go they still aren’t getting to the vision we all discussed, I’ll reluctantly abandon. But abandonment is such a big step – as is replacing the writer. It should be a last resort. The best thing a writer can do if they realise they are not delivering is to do another draft on their own dime – and quickly!
Sometimes I pass on a script simply because I don’t want to spend four or five years of my life imagining and living in the world it creates. It’s a huge commitment to make a film, and you don’t get to make many; as I get older, I do increasingly feel that my choices have to be carefully made. On the other hand, I need to pay my mortgage too, so I will consider projects that I think are feasible, even if they’re not necessarily something I’d have thought of, if I like the writer and feel I can do it justice. Time rarely is a factor: we all know it takes years to make a film – there’s often no pressing deadline, unlike in television.
Once the idea of the story has been assessed, the report moves on to examining how well that story is being told for the screen. The structure isn’t the idea of the story, then; the structure is the order in which the writer has chosen to tell it. And the choices the writer has made should be informed by, and conscious of, the way audiences receive dramatic narrative.
Many of you reading this book will be familiar with the basic three–act structure model that informs most screenwriting. Some writers vehemently reject all structural paradigms, suggesting that they restrict creativity, and others embrace them slavishly, which brings its own problems. The best advice when analysing structure is to think about how information is given to the audience; or, phrased another way, is the audience given everything that they need to know at the right time in order to be engaged by the story, understand what’s going on and piece together the meaning?
That said, story structure is complex and, obviously, different genres have different requirements; it is therefore important for script readers and writers to keep studying it. Not to study the theory books but to dissect screenplays that work so as to build up a very solid understanding of how the audience’s response to a story is successfully managed by a good writer.
There are key structural terms; ‘inciting incidents’, ‘act breaks’ and ‘turning points’, and it is crucial, as a reader, that you know both what they mean and why they matter, which is what this chapter aims to clarify.
It is important to offer feedback in a report to the writer with the assumption that they understand the structural terms. However, the task of reporting on the structure of the script is not to give an account of where the acts break and where the turning points are. That approach ensures that the report only offers a commentary on the structure rather than an assessment of how effective the current structure of the screenplay is.
Fundamentally, the three–act structure works because it appeals to the way we receive stories. Film can be understood as part of an oral tradition of storytelling, because we effectively sit at the feet of the storyteller and receive the story in one continuous sitting within a limited time frame. Movies aren’t designed for us to leave and come back to in the way that novels are, or even theatre is, with its literal act breaks. Because of the way we consume film stories it’s imperative that the filmmaker holds our attention, and that’s where the turning points come in – our interest starts to wane and so something more needs to happen to take the story in a different direction, or infuse it with greater tension so that we remain hooked to the end.
The most helpful way of thinking about structure is to be conscious of what is going on between the story on the screen and the audience. Is the audience being given the information needed to stay interested, to care about characters, to feel the tension and make sense of the story?
The job of the first act is to make the story matter, to engage the audience in the character’s predicament and to show what is at stake. It should:
Establish the tone of the film
The sooner the audience knows the kind of story they are watching, the quicker they relax and settle in for the ride. This is the reason that action films so often start with an action sequence that stands alone from the main story; its purpose is both to tell us what kind of film we are watching, and to deliver some thrills and excitement, thus buying the writer time to set up the proper story without boring us.
Scripts that deal in a particular tone, like black comedy, need to establish this quickly, and it can be really helpful for the reader to note the tone – or, more importantly, note where the tone seems to change. Black comedy, for example, often enables the audience to enjoy a story in which we treat death with irreverence, so something has to happen in the first act that signals that death is not being treated with the usual reverence; otherwise the audience won’t be able to understand and enjoy the main story in the way it is intended.
Set up the world of the story
Each of the main characters should be introduced in relation to each other and to their world; the main conflict that the story is dealing in should be established and the groundwork for the themes of the film should be laid.
Contain an inciting incident that kicks the story off
The best definition of this is ‘the stranger who comes into town’. It should be easy to identify what or who that stranger is, remembering that it can be as simple as a desire or an opportunity, as well as an actual person that upsets the usual order of the story–world.
And, finally, the first act ends at a turning point at which a dramatic question is raised, which should inform the action throughout the rest of the story.
It is important to remember that the ‘stranger’, whatever or whoever that may be, is not the beginning of the story. The beginning of the story is the decision by a character to do something (which can include not doing anything). What makes this the end of act one is the audience’s understanding that this is a point of no return. It is no longer possible to carry on as things were.
For example, Lester in American Beauty sees Angela cheerleading and right there and then decides he wants her. He could carry on wanting her for the rest of his life but it would be a fairly dull story. The fact that he calls Angela on the phone, and she and Jane figure out it was Lester, means this fantasy has moved into his real world. It is an irrevocable choice of behaviour and elicits reactions and responses that will need resolving.
Juno’s situation at the start of the film is ‘pregnant’, so discovering this is not the inciting incident of this story. The inciting incident is the decision not to have the abortion, and the end of the first act is identifying Mark and Vanessa as the parents. A lot more people are about to be involved in this story. Had Juno had the abortion, life would have returned to normal with only Leah and Bleeker the wiser.
First acts should be as long as they need to be to deliver the relevant information. The basic principle is that it is about a quarter of the film’s length, although different genres will need more or less.
Most early draft scripts have an overlong first act, and the probable cause is the writer setting up the world of the story in more detail than will be needed to understand the film. An audience only needs to know what is going to be relevant to the main conflict, plus an understanding of what the character is up against.
By the end of the first act, the audience should know who the story is about, why we are watching them, and they should also be beginning to care about their fate.
There are three ways that a writer can engage an audience with the character’s situation and help make it matter:
The writer can generate empathy by placing the audience in the character’s shoes and allowing both the character and the audience to discover what’s at stake together so that the audience becomes emotionally engaged as they do. For example, we’re with Billy when he is first challenged to join the ballet class and we’re with Lester when he first sees Angela.
Alternatively, a writer can engage the audience in the character’s situation by using dramatic irony – which means that the audience knows more than the character does. This choice often has the effect of making an audience feel protective towards a character – we can’t turn away until we know that they know what we know they’re up against.
This is routinely the case in some kinds of thrillers, in which the protagonist remains oblivious to the true nature of the threat against them until sometimes as late as the end of the second act, but the tension comes from the audience knowing what the antagonist is doing.
A writer can intrigue an audience by showing the character doing something that is not yet clear or understood. However, this is the most risky approach. Curiosity alone is very rarely enough to engage the audience. It is the equivalent of someone saying ‘I have a secret that I’m not going to tell you’. It is hard to sustain interest in that secret for more than a moment. Curiosity coupled with a way of unnerving the audience is more likely to generate engagement. The kinds of stories that do this, and have to do this, are suspense thrillers and political thrillers. Red Road is a great example of this method of story telling.
In the film Red Road, Jackie works as a CCTV operator. Each day she watches over a small part of her world, watching and protecting the people living their lives under her gaze. The knowledge that Jackie has of the intimate and private way in which we behave when we believe we are not being watched is deeply unnerving; the cleaner dancing, the teenagers making out. This world is suitably intriguing to keep the audience engaged whilst we learn about the reappearance of a man on her monitor that Jackie thought she would never see again, and never wanted to see again. It would be harder to keep our interest in a mysterious past event without this setting.
Whichever way the writer is choosing to engage the audience in the characters and their story–world, the most important job of the first act is to end by raising a clear dramatic question. A dramatic question is the specific question that this story is going to address. For example, at the end of the first act of American Beauty the dramatic question is raised: will Lester get to live his fantasy and shag Angela? This informs the drama of the second act. However, as this course of action is unlikely to solve Lester’s mid–life crisis, the audience raises another question, which will be discussed shortly.
The best dramatic questions are active, meaning that the answer will be in the form of a yes or no outcome. Will he get the girl? Will the murderer be caught?
One of the problems with early draft scripts is that the dramatic question is a passive one. Passive dramatic questions are those that begin with ‘why’. Why did he kill himself? Why does she have to move on? Why does he have to find his real father? The problem with questions beginning with ‘why’ is that it is much harder to make the audience care. The writer, probably without realising, is denying the audience the opportunity to emotionally invest in an outcome. The writer is effectively asking the audience to be the passive recipient of the presentation of a character or a situation.
When preparing feedback on structure, it is important to write a decent paragraph on each act. Part of the discussion about the first act should consider whether a clear dramatic question has been raised and the report should suggest what that dramatic question seems to be. It is so important because the dramatic question should inform the development of the drama throughout the second act and be clearly answered at the climax of the film.
Be careful of being too prescriptive or critical about the dramatic question or, indeed, the lack of one. It is very rare for an early draft script to clearly present a good, clear dramatic question – however, as a reader, it should be possible to identify the general territory that the dramatic question is in, and then it can be very useful to write that in the report and indicate how it needs to be clarified. If the dramatic question is emerging as a passive one, it can be useful to pose to the writer the possibility of re–organising the material so that the question becomes active.
An example of this was a script that opened with a young man going through the increasingly horrifying routine of the things you do when you are going to kill yourself. At the end of the first act, when the character is definitely dead and his mum is about to come home, the writer raised the question: ‘Why has John killed himself?’ So far, in 20–odd pages of screenplay, the events have been a bit distasteful, we haven’t seen anything of John that may endear him to us, nor met his mother, and it is surprisingly easy not to care why John did it. However, a shift in the dramatic question to: ‘Will John’s mother find out why John killed himself?’ does an extraordinary thing. It changes the main character to one who is living not dead, it puts in a mission and a quest and therefore gives the story forward momentum, it creates a pathos because the character the audience is now being asked to relate to is going through something unbearable.
In terms of structure, the passive dramatic question asking ‘why’ generally requires a lot of backstory to come into the present of the film, which can mean an over–reliance on expositional dialogue or flashback. The active dramatic question should automatically ground the story of the film in the present. So, even though it may throw the writer of a script with a passive dramatic question into momentary chaos, it can be one of the most helpful notes in the script report.
The other thing to bear in mind is that, whilst the dramatic question should inform the drama throughout the story, and it is important that the script is consistent in exploring that question, the question can be refined as the stakes are raised.
So, for example, in Billy Elliot the dramatic question is first raised as: will Billy pursue ballet dancing? This later becomes: will Billy audition for the Royal Ballet School in London? It is absolutely fine for later events in the story to refine the dramatic question this way, but there must be consistency in the question. It is quite often the case that a reader needs to work backwards in order to articulate what dramatic question the first act should be posing and where it might be failing to deliver that.
It is quite useful to pause around page 30 and ask: what does the audience know about this character and the story–world so far? What question is being raised?
When there is a discrepancy between what the character wants and what the character needs, it is likely that two questions will be raised: one resulting from the character’s actions and decisions and one which the audience supplies.
As previously noted, the end of the first act of American Beauty is when Lester calls Angela on the phone. In terms of Lester’s desire, the dramatic question is raised – will he get Angela, the object of his affection? However, it is obviously not as straightforward as that. Because, from what we have seen of Lester’s life so far, it is unlikely that shagging Angela is going to solve his problem. His actual problem is his mid–life crisis. The first scene of the script shown in the final cut of the film is of Jane being recorded by Ricky. She says, ‘I need a father who’s a role model, not some horny geekboy who’s going to spray his shorts whenever I bring a girlfriend home from school.’ (Filmfour Screenplay, 2000, p.1)
Lester wants Angela, but he needs to learn to love the stage of life he’s arrived at and be a good father to his daughter Jane. The second dramatic question is about this.
Just to complicate things, American Beauty also offers a third passive dramatic question, which is: why is this man now dead? This is a very interesting device as it imbues actually quite small story events with a far greater significance because we know that there is a dramatic outcome.
If the first act ends with a clear commitment by the character to a course of action, or a point of no return, that moment should propel the reader into the second act where the consequences of that decision begin to unfold. In Billy Elliot, he’s decided to carry on dancing, so, for the first part of the second act, the audience watches him do that and try to keep it secret. Lester starts working out, quits his job; the Hoover family set off for California in a bright yellow VW van.
The most important point to remember is that the second act should logically develop the story. At the mid–point, the second act should contain a turning point that raises the stakes, either by making it harder for the characters to get what they want or even more important that they do. Making it messy means complicating it for both the characters and the audience. However the character first thought they were going to solve their problem or achieve their goal is no longer an option. And it is at this point that the story should restate the dramatic question. As a reader, this is what you are looking for and can offer constructive comment if the structure isn’t serving the story.
A useful way of thinking about turning points is that they change the rules of the game.
The second act is generally the hardest to get right. There has to be enough happening on screen to keep the story interesting, but absolutely everything has to remain focused on the central conflict. Every sequence must offer a relevant movement towards answering the active dramatic question either by taking the character further away from solving their problem or moving them nearer to it. The assessment of the second act in a script report will mainly be about whether or not the writer has managed to do this.
The two main problems with second acts are that not enough happens, indicated by long scenes, often repeating the same beat of the story, or that too much happens around the main story, indicated by subplots taking over, or a switch in point of view to other characters.
In a script report the job is to assess whether the second act is consistent, logical and dramatic (does anything happen?), and whether it contains an appropriate mid–point that in some way shifts the power and effectively gets the audience sitting upright, re–engaged and wondering what this is going to mean for the characters. Remember to commend any sequences that work well and flag up sequences that are irrelevant to the main dramatic plot.
The second act ends at a second turning point, which signals the beginning of the build–up to the climax. This turning point further increases the stakes and raises the dramatic question again by either putting the protagonist tantalisingly close to getting what they want, with one final hurdle ahead of them to overcome, or by placing them in much more danger than they have ever been in before.
The important thing to remember is that act three is a whole dramatic act, it isn’t just the climax and the resolution. There should be clear dramatic events building up to the climax of the story.
The climax is generally an inevitable moment that we’ve been waiting for since the beginning of the film. It is a now or never moment that everything rides on. In different genres it takes different forms – in a rom–com it’s usually the moment that the character realises that love is within their grasp if they risk everything and act now, generally leading to some kind of grand gesture. In thrillers it is most often a physical showdown between the protagonist and the antagonist. In dramas it is the moment that the character confronts their mother/father/lover. The climax of the film is when the dramatic question is finally answered.
The third act should also offer a resolution, which succinctly shows the consequences of the answer to that dramatic question, giving sufficient space to absorb what has happened without dragging on too long.
And, finally, the third act offers some point to telling the story by showing what the character’s journey means.
In the analysis of the script’s ending it is important to pick up the discussion about the meaning that is raised in the premise section. In particular, think about how the story is resolved, in terms of literally what happens to get to that point and not just the final outcome, and examine what that means. For example, does the protagonist make the choices that lead to the climax and resolution, or does another character take control?
If a clear dramatic question hasn’t been raised at the outset, it becomes impossible to define these crucial moments at the end of the film. And if that’s the case, that is the main point that needs to be made in the premise and structure sections of the script report.
Little Miss Sunshine based on the published script by Michael Arndt from the Newmarket Shooting Script Series, 2006
This is a story in which what the characters want and what they need are at odds, so there are two dramatic questions. The first is: will the Hoover family get Olive to the beauty pageant in time? However, as we know from the outset that Olive is unlikely to win this, the story is about the other dramatic question, which is: will the Hoover family overcome their obsession with winning before it destroys Olive too?
Olive is not the protagonist of Little Miss Sunshine. Olive is not living out any conflict; she is very happily getting on with her life. Richard is most often cited as the protagonist; however, given that all the characters experience change, the protagonist in this story could be seen as ‘the family’.
The inciting incident of Little Miss Sunshine is when Olive defaults into the final of the beauty pageant. This is the opportunity that has arisen.
The end of the first act is the decision to take the whole family to California so Olive can have her chance to win the pageant. (Scene 26, p.27)
RICHARD
Yes or no Olive? Are you gonna win?
OLIVE
Yes!
RICHARD
We’re going to California!
The act two mid–point is the death of Grandpa. The impact of this event is that it literally slows down the journey to California as they deal with the body, and it gets rid of the only person in the family who had the right attitude to winning the beauty contest: ‘A loser is someone who doesn’t try.’
This is a brilliant mid–point because it impacts on both dramatic questions, taking the family further away from what they are trying to do as well as what they need to do. Really messy.
The end of the second act is when Olive gets into the contest. One question is now answered. The family has got Olive to the pageant on time, but, as we know, this is less important than the other question, which is: will it change its attitude to winning in time to protect her?
The answer is ‘yes’ and it is expertly demonstrated at the climax of the film where the family gets up on stage and dances. In its desire to protect Olive, and its unexpected joy at dancing and not caring what anyone at the pageant thinks, we see a new, improved and hugely changed Hoover family, very different from the one we met at the beginning.
The resolution is the moment the family is released from prison, having been arrested for disrupting the pageant (Scene 127 p.108).
OFFICER MARTINEZ
Okay you’re out.
RICHARD
we’re free?
OFFICER MARTINEZ
They’re dropping the charges on condition that you don’t enter your child in a beauty contest in the State of California ever again.
FRANK
(Hesitates)
I think we can live with that.
The meaning is that winning is about trying, not about winning, and when winning becomes more important than trying, it can destroy you.
The Kids Are All Right by Lisa Cholodenko and Stuart Blumberg, March 2009
The Kids Are All Right is a relationship drama about the impact of introducing Paul, the once–anonymous sperm donor who fathered Joni and Laser, into their lesbian family. The significant detail is that it starts on Joni’s 18th birthday when it is only a matter of weeks before she leaves for college, with her brother Laser not far behind. The moms are Jules – a chaotic blurrer of boundaries who has spent much of the last 18 years bringing up the kids – and Nic, the protagonist, a basic control freak, for whom the value at stake in this story is the loss of control.
The inciting incident occurs when the kids contact Paul and arrange to meet him. The meeting goes well and the end of the first act is the decision to keep this momentous development secret from their moms.
The first turning point of the second act is the discovery of the secret. Paul is invited for dinner. The plan is to ‘kill him with kindness and put this to bed’ but Paul offers Jules a job as his garden designer. The mid–point of the second act is Jules and Paul having sex. This is the worst thing that could have happened. The end of the second act is Nic’s discovery of the affair at the very moment she has decided to like Paul.
The climax is the confrontation between Nic and Paul:
No, you hold on! Let me tell you something, man! This is not your family. This is my family!
Nic slams the door in his face and walks back into the house.
As this story is about family and relationships, the resolution of The Kids Are All Right is Jules’ speech in which she says, it’s complicated but we are a family and we mustn’t let anything wreck that. As with all drama stories, life goes on.
Mia Bays
MIA Films
Selected credits for marketing and distribution: Shifty, Strawberry Fields, Tsotsi
I use one particular reader for my own production slate – she’s my right–hand woman on all company and creative matters, and so has to read everything. She works on every draft of the stuff we’re making/developing. For Microwave – Film London’s low–budget feature project – we do use a selection of readers, and we refresh the pool regularly, also welcoming people with real development experience to read for us, too, as we want feedback on the script, the writing, the idea and the potential to make it a micro–budget film, rather than a detailed script analysis.
In script reports, I’m looking for a clear opinion – though often I find myself going against the opinion, as I feel they’ve not seen the full picture! But an opinion is important, as this is an audience member responding to ideas. I don’t like pedantic reporting, a reader who goes on about structure; that comes over as a snipe. The best readers are people who have some experience of filmmaking. But readers should be used as backup, not instead of the execs reading!
Tony Grisoni said a great thing at the Script Factory conference at BAFTA, which was that everyone has to be open to ‘play’, otherwise forget it – the script will not go anywhere and the process won’t work. When I am reading a first draft and deciding whether to take it on, I look at it in a different way – it’s all about the writing and then a meeting is essential. Sometimes it’s about the idea in spite of the writing. But ideally it’s the prowess or the promise of prowess that takes you forward.
The usual reason for passing on a project is because I just can’t ‘see it’ or I just don’t rate the writing. Although my slate might be full, if someone I trust recommends someone or something, I’ll always read it and meet the writer. Most people will. Prior work is important to me. I’ve got to be hooked in by something.
Script Factory script reports systematically order the section reporting on character after the sections on the premise and the structure of the script. This requires the reader first to consider the potential of the dramatic and thematic story and how it unfolds, before turning attention to the characters portrayed.
The main reason for this sequence is to avoid focusing solely on the characters, and even writing the whole report about them, without offering anything more substantial or helpful to the writer. Characters are very tangible elements of the story and it is possible to analyse and identify strengths and weaknesses, truths and falsehoods in their depiction. But developing characters, however strongly, in isolation to the story they inhabit will not overcome dramatic, thematic or structural problems.
It is essential to keep it in mind that problems in the premise and structure of the story need to be identified first, and that the characters must be assessed in the light of their appropriateness to the story.
Some writers create a character or a group of characters and use their knowledge of a highly developed cast to design a story (Andrea Arnold’s Fish Tank was designed around the main character of Mia; and Mike Leigh also uses this approach.) Other writers devise a situation or a story idea and create characters to fit the drama. There is no right or wrong way to do this and both can be equally successful. The characters have to be highly developed and fit the story choices the writer has made for them.
In approaching this section of the report, set out again whose story this tells. If there are two or more key characters each of them will need to be discussed. It is rare to find a script where there are several characters whose stories demand equal attention from the audience. Much more commonly, it is only one character’s problem or motivation that drives the action, impacting on other characters as it unfolds. If the script feels overcrowded with characters this needs pointing out (and this will probably back up what you have said in the premise section).
There are three main areas to consider when assessing character:
It is important to examine the characters in the script very thoroughly; however, the precise comments may be brief and specific, which is desirable.
The character section of a script report examines the nature of the journey that the story is taking the character on. It is good practice to try to define the character’s nature at the beginning of the story and the character’s nature at the end. The distance/change/transformation/development (or not) between the two natures will enable you to start your analysis of the journey.
In film, the character’s desire or need for change to happen is what drives the story. The character’s journey means the decisions/actions that they make/take which result in some kind of meaningful change at the end of the story. There is a considerable body of ‘theory’ that requires characters to change their fundamental outlook or their inner nature, but this has resulted in confusion and many bad scripts.
All the books expounding these ‘theories’ present the idea that the best screenplays are those in which the character learns a life–changing lesson or faces the kinds of tests and challenges that alter their inner nature by the end of the story.
Consider briefly the last time you changed your attitude about something of significance? For example, about politics, religion, the death penalty, shoplifting, private schooling, or the benefit system? It is extremely difficult to effect a significant shift in attitude. If you have detected one in yourself, it may well have been precipitated by a major life–event such as a new birth, a death, marriage, or divorce. However, the prevalence of the notion that characters change has not been helpful, burdening screenwriters with the need to try to shoehorn life–lessons into all stories. There are many stories in which a fundamental change in a character’s outlook is neither warranted nor required. And any change in a character must be brought about convincingly from the experiences that a character has been through in the course of the story.
Any film character only ‘lives’ within the short timespan of a film (90 minutes or so). In order to engage with any character’s change, an audience needs first to know the character. This means being able to perceive a consistency of behaviour before any change starts to takes place. The limited time restricts the amount of meaningful change that can be shown over the course of a film. It is extremely important to approach scripts knowing how this limit applies.
Across all story types there are fundamentally three elements of the story–world that are potentially subject to change:
In every story the character’s situation will change and that is the reason why there is a story to tell at this particular point in their lives. It may be the arrival of the Sperm–Donor Dad in The Kids Are All Right, or the cracks in the earth’s core in 2012. Situation, then, is the circumstances that the characters either find themselves in or actively seek to create for themselves. The situation can change in a way that isn’t desired so that the film’s focus is on how the character either resists the change or reverses it. In all cases, the character may or may not succeed in making or resisting the change; however, a character in a situation and their reaction to it is the basis of every screen story.
What is important to know as a reader is the difference between the character’s actions changing and the character’s attitudes changing. The character’s actions are the things that the character literally has to do in response to his or her situation. And the fact that the drama of the story forces a character to behave differently to how they would on an ordinary day doesn’t necessarily indicate or precipitate a change in their attitude.
The character’s attitude is the way in which the character interacts with the world, so it is shown both by the character’s manner of being, e.g. aloof, happy–go–lucky, arrogant, feisty, and also by the character’s attitude as shown by their belief system, their values or their worldview. A change in attitude is only warranted when the circumstances that the character experiences in a story lead that character fundamentally to re–evaluate the way they think about themselves or the world around them. Often they cannot fully complete the actions required by their situation until they have undergone that change in their attitude.
For example, Elizabeth Bennet in Pride and Prejudice cannot marry Darcy until she discovers that she was wrong about him and admits how prejudiced she has been. Jackie in Red Road will never find peace until she realises it isn’t revenge that she needs, but the ability to forgive herself. On the other hand, Jackson Curtis in the film 2012 needs to draw on his resources as the earth’s crust starts to crack. What is required of him to get his family to safety is the ability to drive, and he is already fully equipped with the skills and mindset to do this at the start.
Be aware of the distinction between a change in the character’s actions and a change in the character’s attitude. One common reason why characters ‘do not work’, or feel unconvincing, is that the screenwriter has not equipped them with the attributes they need to complete the action required of them. Another is that the screenwriter, to ensure that they end up in the final scenes as the character they need to be, has started them out with monumental lessons to learn that are not required in the story.
Remember also that there are stories in which the protagonist does not embark on a learning journey that alters their personality but rather follows a progression or a development, since the story is about them getting on with being who they are. Wish–fulfilment stories such as Bend It Like Beckham and Billy Elliot, or the ugly duckling stories like My Big Fat Greek Wedding, all feature a character who discovers they have a passion or talent. The fact that they remain dedicated to that talent or faithful to that passion enables them to overcome whatever it was about their situation that was holding them back.
Watching those films can feel like witnessing character change but it is often the case that we have witnessed not a change but a blossoming, because the world finally makes space for them to be themselves. Nothing of their inner nature has essentially changed – rather it has been set free.
When reading the script it is really important to note the places in it where you stop believing in a character; the scenes or sequences in which you are just not convinced that the character would say or do what they are saying or are doing.
Failing to understand a character’s motivation is a very different experience from following a story that contains intrigue and/or mystery about one or more of the characters. In most situations – whether or not we have our own experience of the specific situation – there will be a range of plausible explanations that we would accept/understand, so if the character is behaving in a way that is baffling or feels unlikely, it probably indicates a problem.
The script reader’s job is to examine the motivation of the characters to ensure that the writer has created consistency in action, speech and reaction that is recognisably true throughout the development of the story. There are two main problems that emerge from this examination: characters who are inconsistent and characters who are unbelievable.
Inconsistency in a character is when something in their speech or action contradicts what is already known about them, such as a character who doesn’t trust anyone but stops a stranger to ask about the best restaurant in town; or the advertising executive who loathes her job and wants a new one, but knuckles down when it is under threat; or the mother who normally puts her children first, but forgets to arrange a babysitter on this particular night.
It is important to note when characters are saying or doing something that is inconsistent with their characterisation because, if the character is well thought through, these inconsistencies can readily be addressed by some additional thinking about alternatives; how else can they find out or forget in order to make the point and move the story on? (Often these flaws are hangovers from an earlier draft and usefully pointed out to the screenwriter.)
However, unbelievable characters present a much more serious problem. These are the ones where it is just not clear or plausible or viable as to why they are in their situation. Why is she still with this guy? Or why doesn’t she just get another job? Or why does he decide to go on holiday to Iraq? Why does he still live with his mum?
To clarify the approach, asking why is natural, and all of us are engaged in story because we are interested in the particular ‘why’ of the situation. This is not the same as not believing in a situation in the story.
Often the new screenwriter’s understanding of character comes from their observations of real people rather than studying screen characters. Real people can, of course, be deeply inconsistent and frequently baffling, whereas screen characters are entirely knowable. It is the reader’s job to understand this and be able to point out the consequences of writing ‘real people’ rather than screen characters.
The only information that the audience needs about a character is that which will be relevant to the story. An enormous amount of thought goes into creating characters much of which will not appear in the script. The only details that should be included are those that explain why the characters are in this situation, why they can’t just get out or move on, and why they do what they do.
It is very enlightening to watch films and try to write down a list of the details we know about the main character. Often there are very few. The writer’s selection of details and the precision with which they are delivered distinguishes the good scripts from the rest.
Keeping an audience engaged with a character is achieved, in large part, by making the audience aware of how high the stakes are for them. The actions of the characters, and choices they make, must be difficult for them, and the audience should fully understand why they are hard, whether or not they identify with the specific situations.
As discussed in the structure section, but worth repeating here because it is so fundamental, to assist with engagement screenwriters have three points of view at their disposal:
When the audience discovers something at the same time as the character it is incredibly powerful and films that do this the best become classics e.g. The Sixth Sense, The Crying Game, The Usual Suspects.
This convention can be played with, and a good example is Shaun of the Dead. The audience and Shaun have the same point of view in becoming aware of the ever–increasing number of zombies in London, but Shaun’s failure to interpret this information correctly generates the tension and humour of the second point of view available – dramatic irony.
So using dramatic irony, where the audience knows more than the character, is an important way in which the writer is able to generate tension. The source of the tension can be fear, humour, anxiety, sympathy, pathos – all effective in getting an audience engaged. It is a very powerful tool and shows that the writer is aware of the importance of the principle who knows what and when? In this way the screenwriter is managing the relationships between the screen and the audience effectively.
The decision to give the characters more information than the audience is a tough one. If you are reading a script that feels boring, this may be a contributory factor. In your report, find a way to repeat the point that the audience always wants to know why a character wants or needs something, and that keeping things secret or keeping information back is not always the way to get an audience involved in a story.
On screen, the character’s flaws are, or should be, an integral part of the story. The story itself may be about the character’s flaw, or the character’s flaw may be the source of the conflict that the character has to resolve (such as a crippling fear of intimacy in Lars and the Real Girl), or the character’s flaw has some impact on how the conflict plays out.
Dwayne’s colour blindness in Little Miss Sunshine means he can’t achieve his dream of becoming a pilot, and his discovery of this propels him to expose the adults in his family for what they are, exposing divorce, suicide, bankruptcy. Here, it is a flaw in his character that drives the story.
Captain Brody in Jaws is afraid of the sea but has to overcome his fear to defeat the bigger problem of the shark killing people. In this case the audience’s knowledge of the character’s flaw generates dramatic irony and added tension, but, at the crucial moment, Brody overcomes it.
The way the screenwriter presents the flaws should be analysed; it is not always about showing them – it is also about how the character conceals their flaws from themselves and from others, and this can create opportunities for dramatic irony and tension. The function of flaws is that they both inhibit and enable the character’s actions and, in doing so, the flaw is diminished, contributing to appropriate character change.
The report must consider the secondary characters. So, first, what are secondary characters for?
Are all the secondary characters contributing to the plot or the theme of the story, or revealing something significant about the protagonist? If not, their place in the story is not justified.
However, though secondary characters are primarily there to provide an environment that reveals important aspects of the protagonist, the secondary characters must also be convincing. The best way to test this is to ensure that each one has:
Inevitably, the screenwriter has spent much less time on the secondary characters than the principal ones, and a good report will highlight where additional work needs to be done. When considering the secondary characters it is useful to remember that character is contradiction. We engage because we recognise a tension between who they are – their circumstances and personality – and what they are trying to be. Obviously, the problems and desires of secondary characters will not be explored in the same detail as those of the protagonist, but they should at least be apparent.
To summarise: to make the character section of your report useful you must address different issues from the ones you have raised in the premise section. Structure this section around the following questions:
Is the main character the one who is the consistent driving force of change, whether making a change or resisting one?
If you are reading a script where the main character is not driving the action, the dramatic question must revolve around the search to understand the character’s inactivity.
What is the nature of the character at the beginning of the story and how has that changed by the end?
Is the change convincing? Has it been convincingly brought about by the experiences that the character has been through?
Is the character (and the character’s journey) appropriate for this story?
Are there too many characters vying for attention?
Is the character’s motivation believable? Do they have responses that seem appropriate for the situation and events?
Are the stakes high enough for the character? Do we understand why it is hard for the character?
What flaws has the main character been given? Are the flaws integral to the conflict?
And finally, what of ‘the significant others’ in the story? Are they both appropriate and believable?
Deciding if something is well written is very instinctive and most of us can do it. However, in a script report, the reader needs to understand both the craft and the function of the craft of writing a script in order to assist a writer in developing and honing good screenwriting skills. Being able to explain where the craft is not doing everything that it can is an attainable skill. Screenplays employ very specific techniques to tell their stories effectively, creating their own ‘language’. Fundamentally comprising scenes, which are units of action unified by time and/or place, the dialogue, use of montage and flashbacks are all elements of screenwriting craft that are continually developing and an integral part of the experience of reading a film script. To gain fluency in the craft skills, it is worth reading a lot of good produced screenplays, because they are, simply, the best learning tool and a good read. When you begin to read scripts and write reports it is worth reading the script once for the story and then again for the way in which it is written.
There are three craft skills that the writer needs to acquire: writing dialogue, visual grammar and the pacing of the story. This section takes each of these in turn in order to help a reader understand when the language is working well, and, when it’s not, to identify common problems so as to facilitate the writing of an effective script report on the craft skills.
Keeping in mind that cinema is a visual medium and that subtext is ultimately more important than text, dialogue has five basic functions:
In a good script all five are continuously in play. Story, character, information and tone must all be kept in balance otherwise the illusion of reality collapses. As a principle, if one function starts to dominate – if, for example, dialogue is simply being used to convey information – the script is in trouble and a good reader needs to be able to identify instances of this.
The illusion of reality:
The primary requirement of dialogue it that it has verisimilitude, meaning true and real. The way characters speak and what they talk about must be plausible and convincing. In practice, this means that dialogue requires an ear for the rhythm, idiom and cadence of real speech, but there are, of course, many realities. Every screenplay creates its own story–world and it creates the everyday speech of that community. This may be pure invention or it may reflect recognisably ‘everyday talk’. Real or invented, what matters is that the rules and conventions of the vernacular are convincing and consistent.
Advancing the story:
The commonest problem and the source of much work for script readers is noticing dialogue that fails to advance the story. The usual reasons are repetition and digression. If we can see what’s happening, we don’t need dialogue to explain or repeat it. Equally, when writing a scene the writer can be distracted by the situation and forget to develop the story. If characters are in a supermarket it doesn’t mean they have to talk about the shopping list unless it advances the story.
Revealing character:
Revealing character through dialogue is, on one level, straightforward. How a character talks reflects their background, appearance, psychology and circumstances. A character may be instantly recognisable by the way they speak. The whole art of dramatic writing, however, is to get beyond the surface and reveal the truth about a character’s innermost secrets and desires – their motivation. Dialogue should always be consistent with motivation, what a character wants/needs, but it rarely expresses it directly. The truth lies in the subtext. A line may express what a character feels or it may contradict it.
Conveying information:
Too much information threatens both the forward movement of a story and verisimilitude – the illusion of reality. This often happens in the set–up of a story when dialogue is used to convey backstory. The ensuing dialogue may have rhythm, idiom and cadence, but when characters start telling each other things they already know for the sake of the audience the story stalls and the illusion of reality is compromised.
Setting the tone:
The importance of dialogue varies with genre. Some demand lots, while, in others, there is less time for chat. Whatever the genre, however, dialogue has a vital role in setting the tone of the story. In a comedy we expect funny lines and feel cheated if we don’t get them. Tension is enhanced through good dialogue.
Screen stories are driven by what we see. The basic principle of dramatising stories for the screen – show don’t tell – means dialogue has a less demanding – if no less prominent – role than in a stage or radio play. The simplest way to reveal this is to read and imagine the script without the dialogue. Is the basic action clear? Is it possible to recognise the kind of story it is? Even with films like Juno, Little Miss Sunshine and The Kids Are All Right, all arguably driven to a large extent by (brilliant) dialogue, it is possible to describe the action and identify the kinds of story without the dialogue.
On the whole, though, dialogue should be concise because, in any drama, what a character thinks, feels, says and does are in conflict. The gap between dialogue and action, between what a character says and what they really think and feel, is what creates the subtext of a story or scene. If there is no subtext, there is nothing to discover, nothing to reveal. Good dialogue conceals as much as it reveals. What isn’t talked about is as important as what is. There is a continual tension between dialogue and action. Bad dialogue has many causes but collapsing the gap between words and action is the most common.
When a reader comes to write this section of the report the questions to order thought around are these:
If there are recurring problems or good examples of the dialogue not working this is a section in which page–referencing examples can be very helpful to a writer.
This section of the script report is about the ‘grammar’ or the language of film, the visual techniques employed to tell the story.
The camera can go anywhere in a film and it is this freedom of movement that makes a screen story feel like a journey. We follow characters and see what they do rather than watch them talk about what they’ve done. The way the scenes are juxtaposed creates the language of parallel time, both in the sense that the audience understands that events are happening simultaneously, and also that the worlds of the characters are about to collide, with impact.
Writing and thinking visually doesn’t mean directing the film on the page. A screenplay presents a developing action and it is customary to write how one scene connects with another (fade in, cut to, mix to, etc). But, within each scene, camera directions (angle on, another angle, close up, etc.) are inappropriate, and, if the writer includes these, it is important to make a note. Their inclusion suggests that the director won’t know how to shoot the scene (whether or not the writer hopes to direct as well), or else is using it to mask the lack of real movement in the scene.
Whatever the original conception of a story, screenplays draw on a repertoire of visual storytelling techniques. Flashbacks, Voiceover and Montage, for example, are devices made possible by the fluency and immediacy of film. All three are essentially techniques for providing the audience with information necessary to understand the story.
The argument against flashback is that it stalls the forward movement of the story and reminds us of the artifice of film. Particularly where it is used to reveal backstory – the history of characters or events that precede story – flashback can feel like bad exposition. However, there are many good examples of effective flashback that allow the writer to heighten a moment or to illuminate an action or character. For example, The Sixth Sense revisits all the scenes in which we understood Dr Malcolm Crowe to be alive and enables us to reinterpret them with the new information that he is dead. The Usual Suspects flashes back at the end to enable us to see the truth.
As a rule, if flashbacks represent a character’s subjective understanding of the past – speculation about a crime, a puzzling memory – they don’t disrupt forward movement because the story is about the character’s developing understanding of the past. In such cases, flashbacks are motivated by the character’s need to discover the truth. Objective flashbacks need much more care. When assessing these kinds of flashbacks in a script, you need to ask yourself whether the audience needs to see a past event in order to fully understand the present. On the whole, flashbacks work if they offer insight and allow us to reinterpret information that we already have, rather than just delivering information. If the script you are reporting on has flashbacks, the question must always be: what is their purpose? Are they adding insight? Or can the information be incorporated into the present of the film?
Voiceover narration is of two basic kinds: interior and exterior. Interior narration allows us to hear the private thoughts of a character as they reflect on the events of the story. The intimacy encourages the audience to engage with the character’s thoughts and feelings. This is particularly useful where a character is difficult to identify with. For a good example of this, read or watch Barbara’s voiceover in Notes on a Scandal.
A problem arises when the voiceover is failing to add insight, pathos, humour or tension, and is either telling us what we can see, or telling us what we should be able to see with a bit more thought on the possibilities of dramatisation.
Exterior narration, the objective voice of the storyteller, is rare in contemporary cinema.
Montage is compressed drama: a series of images that tell the audience an important part of the story. A montage of someone getting up, brushing teeth, shaving, eating an egg and closing the front door is unlikely to be a crucial part of the narrative. The audience does not need to see the detail to understand a character has got up and left the house. Good montage is making use of the economy of screen time by appealing to the ability of the audience to move the story along. There are two points to consider. The first is that montage is expensive. Hauling a film crew to many locations for a second or two of screen time in each has got to justify its place in the story to justify the budget. Secondly, when it is done well and is integral to the story it can be brilliant, so there is a fine judgement about the effectiveness of any montage sequence that a reader must make. Stories that take place over time and require character change may rely on montage to speed up the story. Romantic comedies often use montage effectively.
Special effects are usually employed in specific genres, most obviously science fiction. Advancing technology means that almost anything can be achieved on screen, so, rather than complicate this, if you are reading a script in which special effects are required, the question you are asking is whether the world of the story is believable and credible, so that the effects feel integral to the story rather then clever techniques.
The visual grammar is the way in which we see the action: the action is what happens and the grammar is the way in which we see it.
In summary here, this section of the script report asks – does the writer show an understanding of the grammar of visual storytelling? The reader should comment on the ways in which the writer tells the story ‘cinematically’ i.e. consider the techniques that are uniquely available to the screenwriter and how they are deployed in the script being read.
When thinking about this section it may help to order your thought as follows:
Is there an understanding of the craft of visual language in the script? What is the use of visual grammar contributing to the script?
If the script contains few or none of these techniques, could it be improved by their use?
Is the movement between scenes effectively creating a sense of parallel action which builds anticipation and adds to the tension or comedy?
Does the use of visual grammar play a useful part in creating dramatic irony?
Is this a story that could use montage effectively? Is there opportunity to compress a long sequence of scenes through montage? Or, is montage used inappropriately?
If voiceover is used in the script assess how effective it is in creating empathy with the character or adding tension to the story.
If there is use of flashback/flashforward is it expositional or does it really enhance the story?
This section of the script report deals with the technical skill demonstrated by the writer in modulating the tempo and mood within the script, not with the overall structure of the story. Remember that the script is a blueprint for a work that is destined (hopefully) for the screen and, while a script that is a real ‘page–turner’ may translate into a well–paced film, many movies that feature long action sequences can be difficult to read.
Pace is about the movement in the film and to some extent governs how the audience becomes emotionally involved in a story on screen. Modulating the tempo is a very sophisticated technique and, unlike music, where there are many tempos, there are three in screenplays which are all extreme. One is real time, one is slow motion and the other is compressed time.
On the whole, the audience can do much of the work in a film: we don’t need to see someone turn a handle, come into the room, sit down and start talking. Instead, the writer can cut straight to the conversation and we understand that all action before the conversation has happened offscreen. A good reader looks at the structure of the scenes to see whether they are as economical as possible; are they allowing room for the audience to bring its own inferences and assumptions to the table?
This tempo is more usually the choice of the director, but can be used by the writer to emphasise an action in the script; slowing down what happens enables more significant impact, such as a gunshot. If slow motion is used in a script, is its function to create impact, so the audience does not miss the moment?
This is watching action over the time frame that it actually happens and its function in scripts is to emotionally engage the audience in the situation. Using real time enables the audience to more clearly experience the pain, the dilemma or the pleasure of a character and, in so doing, the audience comes to care more.
When writing this section of the report it can be helpful to organise the response through these questions:
Martha Coleman
Head of Development, Screen Australia
When I am reading a script, the most important consideration to take it forward to another draft is whether or not the underlying premise is strong enough to carry a 90–minute cinematic film, no matter what kind of story it is. And whether there is potential for engaging characters to keep the story moving.
When passing on a project it’s always about the project itself, never about the time. Some projects take years to get right. Often it’s because we feel the team have taken it as far as they can without reaching its full potential, either because the craft is just not good enough or the vision – what they want to say – is, in our opinion, not strong enough. Often it’s because we have come to the realisation that the premise does not, after all, have the weight to carry a 90–minute film.
Screen Australia use a small pool of script readers, all of whom have a good grasp of screen craft in all genres. It’s important to us that the readers are not arrogant and they are able to critique a script with a desire to understand what the writer’s intention is and with a respectful approach.
I have taken on projects that need a lot of work and managed to negotiate the changes successfully with the writer. It’s always about understanding what the writer’s intention is, helping to identify and prioritise the blocks that are getting in the way of what s/he is trying to say and helping to guide the writer to remain focussed on what s/he is trying to say in every scene. The best strategy is clear, constructive communication.
Another important deliberation when we are considering a project is whether the project is achievable for a budget commensurate to its likely audience. Similarly, we may decide to pass or discontinue developing if we feel the filmmakers have an unrealistic expectation of budget level for their film or they are unwilling to work on reducing the budget to an appropriate level for the film they are making.
This is the last section of the report and, if it is intended for the writer, this is where the main points of the report should be briefly summarised and some comment made on its feasibility in terms of ‘market’. It is not the script reader’s job to guess at the budget or the difficulties associated with locations or special effects, and it is inappropriate to expect readers to do this. However, the consideration that the reader has given the script does mean they are best placed to raise questions for the writer to think about in terms of development required and market potential. The main job of the conclusion is to be clear about the priorities for the next draft – the most important issues to address if it is to find an audience.
And that concludes the script report.