CHAPTER 5 Scenes: Exploring and Exploding Moments

BY TAL MCTHENIA

There's a scene that tears me apart in Peter Bogdanovich’s The Last Picture Show (written by Bogdanovich and Larry McMurtry). Sonny is a teenager in a bleak Texas town in the 1950s. He's had an affair with Ruth Popper, the forlorn middle-aged wife of the high school coach. Eventually Sonny abandons Ruth to chase after a pretty blonde his own age, but after life batters him around, he returns to pay Ruth a visit.

Ruth answers the door, a ghost in a bathrobe. Manic laughter roars from a comedy show on TV. Sonny asks if he can come in for coffee, and Ruth apologizes for not being dressed in the middle of the day. Her hand shakes crazily as she tries to pour the coffee, and at last, she just can't keep it together. She hurls the cup and then the coffee pot against the wall. Coffee streaks down the wall and the wet grounds clump atop the refrigerator.

Then Ruth tears into Sonny—his sudden absence, his pursuit of the blonde girl—finally speaking her mind for what might be the first time in her life: "I guess you thought I was so old and ugly you didn't owe me any explanations."

And then Ruth goes silent. Sonny, because he's ashamed of himself and relieved at her anger, offers her his hand. Ruth, because she's fond of the feeling of his young skin, takes it. She uses his hand to caress her face, then wipe away her tears.

Sonny remains mute. But by coming to see her, he's asked without asking if they can resume their affair. And now he waits for her answer.

Ruth tries to speak and fails, but we know what she's thinking. Yes, Sonny has ruined their love and yes, of course, he'll leave her again. There's no good choice here. Would she rather open up to fleeting warmth and inevitable abandonment or just wither up and die? This is the film's final scene, and Ruth's answer is ambiguous. Her face now lifeless, she straightens Sonny's collar, and says gently: "Never you mind, honey. Never you mind . . ."

In mere minutes, this scene paints a breathtaking view of the human heart. The scene explores the complex silence between these two people and then explodes with the emotion it finds inside. And that's what scenes are all about: the exploration and explosion of moments. At the level of scene, we writers explore our characters most intimately—who they are, what they want, how they behave in every situation. And during that exploration, very often, the event explodes: rage, passion, anguish burst out of the characters, unexpected by writer or audience, like a coffee pot hurled against a wall.

Through this process emerge vivid moments that sear themselves into the audience's heads and hearts. A forgotten silent film star visits the set of a modern "talkie," shoos away the microphone that destroyed her career, and basks in the fleeting spotlight of an old electrician who still remembers her (Sunset Boulevard). A neurotic environmentalist and a hothead firefighter slam each other in the face with a rubber ball, over and over again, to achieve a delirious state of existential bliss (I -179321885 Huckabees). A young woman plays horror-movie trivia with a killer on the phone, driven to such unbearable heights of terror that her death comes as a relief (Scream). A bruised-up Brooklyn boy rides the subway all night in his white disco suit, realizing it's time to grow up (Saturday Night Fever). These are moments in film that we'll never forget.

When we join scenes together, moment to moment, we create a larger, unified story. And that's what a movie is: a continuous flow of moments. A progression of scenes.

What a Scene Is

A scene is a unit of story that takes place in a single location during a continuous period of time. Movies usually have forty to sixty scenes. That might sound like a lot, but remember that, technically, a scene shifts any time the place or time shifts, even just a bit. So, many scenes are quite brief. The multitude of scenes lets movies have motion, fluidity, visual variation, and a broad sweep of time and place.

Scenes are often part of a sequence—two or more scenes connected to tell a mini-story. For example: In one scene, a slovenly bachelor shops for exotic produce in the grocery store; in the next, he struggles to cook the produce in his kitchen; in the next, he shaves his overgrown soul-patch in the bathroom; and in the final scene, the doorbell rings, and he kicks a pair of dirty socks under the couch on his way to the door. This four-scene sequence tells a mini-story: Slovenly bachelor prepares for a date.

Scenes come in varying lengths, anywhere from an eighth of a page to three, four, or more pages. In contemporary film scripts, scenes almost never run more than three pages, and while every scene should justify it's length, that's particularly true of longer ones. Some movies, like Tootsie, which unfolds almost like a play at times, lend themselves more to longer scenes. And some movies lend themselves more to shorter scenes; an action movie like Die Hard never stays still for very long. In general, though, a movie should consist of a fluid blend of short, medium, and (perhaps) a few long scenes.

No matter the length, every scene must have three essential elements in order to contribute effectively to the story.

Now, lets see how these concepts work in some actual scenes.

Here is a short scene from Tootsie. Michael's agent has just told him that no one in the business wants to work with him. Michael takes this as a personal challenge and then we see . . .

EXT. MADISON AVENUE - DAY

Teeming with people, coming and going. The focus gradually forces us to notice one woman moving toward us unsteadily on high heels. She is Michael.

That's it, the whole scene.

Next, a medium-length scene, running about a page, from Thelma & Louise. The night before, Thelma has had earth-shattering sex with the handsome hitchhiker, and she's eager to tell Louise all about it over breakfast at the coffee shop. But when Thelma reveals that she has just left the hitchhiker alone in the motel room—alone with the money—Louise bolts out, panicked, with Thelma right behind her.

EXT. MOTEL PARKING LOT - DAY

They run across the parking lot around to the back of the room. The door is ajar and no one is inside the room. Louise goes in and Thelma stays outside the door.

THELMA

Goddamnit! I've never been lucky. Not one time!

Louise comes back outside. She doesn't say anything. She is stoic, fighting back tears.

THELMA (CONT'D)

Shit. That little sonofabitch burgled me.

I don't believe it.

Louise sits down on the sidewalk in front of the room. Thelma comes and sits beside her. Neither one says anything for a moment.

THELMA (CONT'D)

Louise? Are you okay?

Louise shakes her head no.

THELMA (CONT'D)

Louise . . . It's okay.

Louise? I'm sorry.

I mean it.

Louise has seen the end of the tunnel and there is no light.

LOUISE

It's not okay, Thelma. It's definitely not okay. None of this is okay. What are we going to do for money? What are we gonna buy gas with?

Our good looks? I mean . . . Goddamn, Thelma!

Louise quietly falls apart. This causes Thelma to leap into action.

THELMA

Come on. Stand up! Don't you worry about it. I'll take care of it. Just don't you worry about it. Get your stuff.

Louise is still sitting on the sidewalk.

THELMA (CONT'D)

Come on! Damnit, get your stuff and let's get out of here!

Louise slowly gets to her feet.

THELMA (CONT'D)

Move!

(to herself)

Jesus Christ, take your damn time.

Thelma is hauling stuff out of the car.

And, finally, here is a longish scene, running about three pages, from Sideways. Miles and Jack have been hitting the California wineries, and for Miles, winetasting is serious business. But what Jack wants more than anything is to get laid before his wedding the next week.

INT. FOXEN WINERY - DAY

The pourer, a brunette in her early thirties, breaks away from a BORING COUPLE down the bar. This is STEPHANIE.

STEPHANIE

Hey, guys. How's it going?

JACK

Excellent. My friend and I are up here doing the wine tour, and he tells me that you folks make one hell of a Pinot.

STEPHANIE

That's what people say.

MILES

You gotta excuse him.

Yeserday he didn't know

Pinot Noir from film noir.

JACK

But I'm learning fast.

Stephanie laughs. It's clear she likes big good-natured lunks like Jack.

MILES

I'm trying to teach my friend here some basics about wine over the next few days before he goes off and

WHOMP! Under the bar Jack stomps on Miles's foot. Miles winces. Stephanie slides two glasses in front of them.

JACK

That's right — I'm here to learn. I never had that much interest in wine before, but this trip has been very enlightening. Always liked wine, of course, but I don't know. Always more of a beer man. Microbreweries and such.

She THUMPS the cork off a bottle of Chardonnay.

STEPHANIE

Well, no better way to learn than tasting.

She pours almost flirtatious amounts.

JACK

Now there's a girl who knows how to pour. What's your name?

STEPHANIE

Stephanie.

Jack swirls the wine as though he were by now a sommelier. They look, they smell, they taste.

STEPHANIE (CONT'D)

So what do you think?

MILES

I like it. Tastes great.

Oaky.

Stephanie reaches for another bottle and pours. Jack's eyes never leave her.

STEPHANIE

Cabernet Franc.

(as they taste)

This is only the fifth year we've made this varietal.

It's from our Tinaquaic Vineyard. And it was also Silver Medal Winner at the Paso Robles wine festival last year.

MILES

Well, I've come to never expect greatness from a Cab Franc, and this one's no exception. Sort of a flabby, overripe, thin —

JACK

(ignoring him)

Tastes pretty damn good to me. You live around here, Stephanie?

STEPHANIE

Just outside Santa Ynex.

(low, to Miles)

And I agree with you about Cab Franc.

JACK

Oh, yeah? That's where we're staying. Windmill Inn.

STEPHANIE

Oh, yeah.

JACK

You know a gal named Maya?

Works at the Hitching Post?

STEPHANIE

Sure I know Maya. Real well.

JACK

No shit. We just had a drink with her last night. Miles knows her.

MILES

Could we move on to the Pinot, please?

STEPHANIE

Chomping at the bit, huh? Sure.

As she turns to reach for the right bottle, Jack winks at Miles. Miles shakes his head. Stephanie pours each of them a full HALF GLASS.

JACK

You're a bad, bad girl, Stephanie.

STEPHANIE

I know. I need to be spanked.

She notices the boring couple, visibly annoyed that she has been monopolized.

STEPHANIE (CONT'D)

Excuse me.

As she wanders down the bar, Jack turns to Miles, his mouth wide open.

JACK

Yeeeah. I'm going to get this whole thing lined up.

MILES

What whole thing?

JACK

You. Me. Stephanie. Maya.

MILES

Do you know how often these pourers get hit on?

Especially the cute ones?

JACK

Please.

They glance down the bar at Stephanie. She smiles back.

Relevance

Every scene should be relevant enough to a story so that without it, we'd feel like something was missing.

Many scenes give us an essential "beat" of the plot—a key event or moment that moves the story forward, escalates conflict, shifts the balance in the film's overall struggle. A change, either positive or negative. If these scenes weren't included, the story simply wouldn't make sense. Thelma and Louise getting robbed escalates conflict: If it didn't happen, then they wouldn't need to resort to theft, which makes them look much more like outlaws. It's one in a cascade of mounting misfortunes that push them closer to the edge. In Sideways, Jack and Miles's encounter with Stephanie represents a key shift in Jack's hook-up scheme—from all talk to direct action—and it puts in motion the date and romance with Maya to follow.

Some scenes are important, but not as crucial to the plot. In Tootsie, Michael's first drag scene isn't strictly essential to the plot—after all, we see him in drag in the audition to follow—but it provides dramatic punch. It allows us a moment to absorb his makeover before seeing where he's going with it. Sometimes we need short scenes like this to hammer home a story or character change in a single moment.

Sometimes scenes don't feel essential to the plot as they're happening, but later they pay off. In the opening of Die Hard, McClane's nervousness on the plane might seem like an expendable character detail, but it leads to the advice about taking off his shoes, which is what causes him to be caught barefoot when the building comes under siege. And his barefootedness is one of the most pernicious obstacles of the film.

Some scenes aren't necessary for the plot, but they enhance our understanding of character and character change in a significant way, like the early scenes of Thelma and Louise packing. What and how they pack tells us a lot about who they are, which helps to highlight the changes they will soon undergo. The scene is our way of keeping track of overall character growth.

But note that even in those packing scenes, Thelma and Louise aren't simply "being." They are "doing." They are packing to go somewhere; they are pushing the story forward. And that's the thing. The best scenes move both plot and character ahead at the same time.

Screenplays need to be so compressed that you should seize any chance to let a scene multitask. The Thelma & Louise motel scene is crucial to the plot, but it also shows a profound shift for Thelma. She goes from being careless to responsible, and right here, for the first time, she takes care of Louise, instead of the other way around. And in the Tootsie scene, the plot advances (Michael is walking to his audition) and the character changes (his desperation for work reaches new heights) all in the very same screen moment.

How do we know if a scene belongs or not? Most writers write a whole bunch of scenes that don't make the final draft of their script. And often the final draft includes scenes that don't make the final cut of the film. Early in the script of Tootsie, there are scenes of Michael's failed auditions, a scene of him as a waiter taking the order of his ex-girlfriend, and a painful birthday party scene, all of which effectively communicate that he's not gotten so far in his acting career. In the final film, the ex-girlfriend scene is cut. Why? Likely because, when taken with these other scenes, it felt like one too many character moments, leaving the plot to idle.

But lest you think this example gives you license to be lazy ("just throw in all of my choices and let the director or editor sort them out later"), watch out. Too many of these "maybe/maybe not" scenes and the whole script starts to feel "maybe/maybe not." You can write lots of extra scenes in early drafts (exploring character, taking plot detours, covering the same beat in different scenes) but by the final draft, compress and refine your scenes so that most, if not all, advance plot and character together, in ways that are unique from the other scenes around them.

Conflict

Virtually every scene needs to have conflict, tension, struggle, the clash of opposing forces. And that conflict always relates to some aspect of the overall plot. In early scenes, conflict builds toward the film's major dramatic question, as in those first audition failures in Tootsie: a series of small life struggles (to succeed as an actor) that carry us to the central film struggle (to succeed as an actor, in drag). Once the protagonist's goal is defined, then each and every scene should be a chapter in that struggle, a step toward that goal. The movie is the war, and the scenes are the battles.

Scene conflict usually comes down to a struggle between two things—objective and obstacle.

Most of the major players in a scene should have something they want in the moment, an immediate objective. The scene objective is clean, clear, and concrete. It's what the characters work toward, via every line of action and dialogue, throughout the scene. It's their total purpose. When actors prepare a scene, they scour the text to locate their character's scene objective—the thing they're after, the specific reason for what they do and say. And it is our job as screenwriters to make that objective apparent on the page.

The opposite of the objective is the obstacle: what is standing in the way of the character getting what he or she wants. The obstacle can be purely a physical thing, like bare feet on broken glass, or a fireball roaring up an elevator shaft. More commonly, the obstacle comes from another character in the scene. In fact, the obstacle for one character is usually linked to the objective of another character in the scene. Then you get opposing objectives. A character can also struggle with an internal obstacle. But internal conflict all by itself is difficult to show on film for more than a moment or so, and it usually needs to be externalized in some way—through conflict with something physical or another person.

In the Tootsie scene, the conflict is entirely physical. Michael simply wants to get down the street. He's on his way to audition for a part that he wants to win, but in this particular scene his objective is to just get down the street. His obstacle, believe it or not, is those damn heels. Yes, it sounds silly, but if you're a man who's never worn high heels, try walking down a busy city street in them.

In the Thelma & Louise scene, there's some early conflict over the stolen money. But the real conflict in the scene is between the two women. Thelma's objective is to overcome Louise's paralysis, and Louise wants to fold up and die. Opposing objectives.

Usually, one character "leads" the scene, with the action slanted toward his or her side of the struggle. And often, that character is the one whose objective is more concrete and active. Thelma drives the motel scene. At first, she tries to get Louise to be Louise again, the one in charge, by apologizing and showing concern. But her effort falls flat. Seeing Louise isn't going to snap back, Thelma takes charge and tries to get Louise up and back on the road.

Within this struggle between Thelma and Louise there is also intense internal conflict for both characters—Louise is sinking into despair, and Thelma is racked with panic and a sense of "bad luck." The internal conflict works here because it is externalized by the interaction between the women. An image of Louise weeping on the floor wouldn't be interesting by itself; it's a more interesting scene with Thelma trying to pull her up, out of the despair.

In the scene from Sideways, we have a three-way conflict, with Jack in the "lead." His objective is to pick up the flirtatious Stephanie, and he pursues this with his usual gusto. His main conflict comes from Miles, who wants Jack to shut up and Stephanie to pour, so they can all stick to the agenda of winetasting. Finding Miles immovable, Jack shifts tactics midstream by including Maya in the pick-up deal, hoping that this will get Miles on board (which it doesn't). Stephanie's objective (she is at work, after all) is to make sure both her customers, Jack and Miles, are satisfied. She's having fun flirting back with Jack, but she also reaches out to Miles with generous pours and some wine chat. When you have three or more characters in a scene, it's important to keep the objectives and obstacles of each character active and focused.

Notice that in each of our three scenes, the scene objectives relate directly to the overall goals or desires for the characters. The goal for Thelma and Louise, for example, is to get to the border of Mexico. In the scene, that goal feels remote and impossible. But by getting Louise back on her feet, Thelma takes a key step toward making the goal of Mexico possible again. This scene is a battle in their war.

Structure

Like the film as a whole, most scenes and sequences have a beginning, middle, and end. They have a mini-three-act structure that tells a unified story.

In Thelma & Louise, the three acts might be described as: 1) discovery that the money has been stolen; 2) Thelma trying to deal with Louise's defeatism; 3) Thelma getting Louise going. Even the three-sentence Tootsie scene has a distinct three acts: 1) we see a vast anonymous crowd; 2) we see one particular woman in that crowd; 3) we realize that the woman is Michael.

In the Sideways scene, the first act is Jack putting on the charm, culminating with Stephanie's "almost flirtatious" pours—the signal that she's flirting back. The game is on. The second act is where the full conflict plays out. Jack steps up his advances, Miles fights back with his wine critique, and Stephanie plays it cool, but not really. The tension builds as Jack works up the double-date plan, which Miles doesn't seem to like at all. The turning point comes when Stephanie hints that she's into the idea. Her line "I might need to be spanked" is pretty much a clincher, right? This marks a change that will affect things beyond the scope of this scene. Then the third act deals with Miles trying to pour cold water on Jack's hot ambitions. It's too late, though. It's become a different kind of trip now.

Notice how these scenes grow, from line to line and action to action, beginning to end. Each moment is new and vital, with no repetition or backpedaling, and that's because the conflict isn't simply maintained. It is escalated. The three-act structure demands that tension and momentum constantly build.

How do we achieve that build? Keep the objectives out of reach by keeping the obstacles strong. Don't let the characters get what they want, and force them to shift tactics. Louise won't get up, so Thelma dons the "take-charge" attitude and gets physical. No matter how hard Jack and Stephanie try to loosen up Miles, he won't relent, so Stephanie has to "conspiratorially" agree with his snarky wine critique and Jack has to bring up Maya. They adjust their tactics and push harder.

You'll often find that the accumulation of smaller moments of conflict leads to a turning point at which the dynamic changes dramatically. Frequently, turning points come at the end, but a scene can certainly have more than one.

Often the best turning points surprise us and catch us off guard. There's a scene in Die Hard, when Hans and McClane finally meet face to face. Hans strives to convince McClane that he's actually a hostage, while McClane tries to tell if Hans is lying. The scene reaches a shocking turning point when McClane hands a gun to Hans. It seems that all is over. But the scene spins around again when Hans tries to shoot McClane only to discover the cartridge is empty. Turns out McClane was still suspicious. The unpredictability of this scene is what keeps us riveted.

Sequences

Most contemporary screenwriters construct their plots more through sequences than through stand-alone scenes. Once again, a sequence is a collection of scenes (with a shift in location and/or time) that tell a complete mini-story. In years past, films tended to have lengthier scenes in a single location, more like a play, because filmmakers were limited by budget and technology, and perhaps audiences were more patient. Not the case today, as films utilize sequences to create a brisk, lag-free pace and evoke a broader sense of time and place.

Here's a sequence from Die Hard. McClane has been up on the thirtieth floor of the Nakatomi building, joining the party and arguing with his wife. Then, downstairs . . . all hell breaks loose.

INT. BUILDING LOBBY - SAME TIME

The Guard at the front desk notices the Emory truck on his monitor. The Guard continues to watch the Emory truck and only half notices as a Mercedes pulls up in front of the building and two extremely well-dressed BUSINESSMEN (late twenties) climb out and start up the stairs for the door. As they cross the lobby to the Guard's table to sign in, we hear their conversation.

MAN #1 (THEO)

(animatedly)

. . . So Kareem rebounds —

listen, this is a great play

— feeds Worthy on the break,

over to A.C., to Magic, back

to Worthy in the lane and —

Suddenly the other man pulls out a Walther pistol with a silencer and aims it at the Guard's forehead. Before the Guard can react he pulls the trigger.

THEO

(dryly)

Boom . . . two points.

The speed with which the murder takes place sets the tone for the rest of the action. The killer moves behind the desk, stepping over a small pool of blood from the Guard.

His name is KARL, big, with long blond hair like a rock drummer. Karl takes off the silencer and looks at the video monitor of the Emory truck. The first man, Theo, opens his briefcase, takes out a portable CB radio and speaks into it.

THEO (CONT'D)

We're in.

ON THE SCREEN

The driver nods at the security camera as several men climb out of the rear of the van and begin unloading wooden crates by the service elevator.

INT. ELLIS'S OFFICE - NIGHT

McClane looks at all the lavishness around him and picks up a phone by the toilet. He opens his wallet and takes out the phone number Argyle gave him. A photo of his children stops him.

It's of Holly, the two children, and himself in happier days: six months ago, before Nakatomi came calling to Holly's door. McClane flips it over. On the back in crude but painstaking hand of a five-year-old it says: WE MISS YOU, DADDY. LOVE LUCY (and in more primitive letters) JOHN.

McClane returns the photo to his wallet, dials the number.

INT. BUILDING OPERATIONS CONTROL ROOM

Theo enters the small control room and comfortably sits behind the maintenance keyboard. Whistling a vaguely familiar tune, he TYPES in some commands and locks down the passenger elevators up to the 30th floor. Then with several more computer commands, systematically causes:

THE HEAVY STEEL GATES TO THE PARKING GARAGE CLOSE

THE ESCALATORS TO THE GARAGE COME TO A STOP

CONTROL ROOM - SAME

Theo finishes typing and disconnects the keyboard and pulls out the wires from beneath the panel.

INT. LOBBY - SAME

The doors to a service elevator open to reveal HANS GRUBER, impeccably dressed, lean and handsome, he steps out into the lobby like he owns the building — and in a way he does.

Theo steps to the door of the control room and tosses Hans a computer card.

Hans goes to the front door, waves the card over a magnetic plate. An LED blinks and the door LOCKS with a THUD.

Hans looks out at the street. Appropriately enough, "not a creature is stirring." Century City is quiet.

An elevator door opens revealing TEN MORE MEN, all armed with Kalashnikov machine guns and carrying canvas kit bags. One of them, EDDIE, a rugged American in his twenties, goes to the dead guard and immediately begins changing into his clothes. Meanwhile:

A.) Karl takes a tool case from the elevator and joins his brother TONY, first playfully grabbing him. They head for the basement stairwell;

B.) Theo leaves the control room and nods to Hans;

C.) Eddie finishes adjusting buttons and snaps on his pilfered uniform, takes his position behind the front desk.

HANS

Looks at his watch and seems pleased. He steps into the service elevator with the others and presses the button for the 30th floor.

This sequence, comprised of four scenes, tells the story of the terrorists taking control of the building. Like a single scene, this—and all effective sequences—contain the three key elements of relevance, conflict, and structure.

The relevance is obvious. This first breach of security sets in motion the entire story and provides key information about these dastardly villains. Structurally, there is a very clear beginning, middle, and end: 1) the shooting of the guard; 2) the infiltration in full swing; 3) mission accomplished.

The sequence's conflict isn't as obvious. The struggle we see is between the terrorists and the building (the front desk guard, the security measures). But that's a lopsided battle, with the building offering little resistance; that poor guard gets blown away before he can blink. Sometimes, and this is one of those times, there is no overt conflict erupting in a scene, but a kind of simmering sense of conflict to come. In this particular sequence, we feel the tension between the quiet Christmas Eve in Century City, where "not a creature is stirring," and the very un-Christmasy sight of guys with machine guns stalking through the lobby. To amplify this tension, the writers spliced in a short scene of McClane thirty floors up, oblivious to the terror that's now rising in the elevator.

Sequences can cover a small span of time and space, or a larger one. Small-scale sequences take what could be a single, continuous scene and "blow it out." In Sideways, for example, there is a sequence where Miles lets it slip that Jack is getting married and Maya freaks. This could easily have played as a single scene. But it's been split into a sequence, carrying the conversation from their grassy picnic to a chase in the parking lot to a drive in the car and to a final parting outside Maya's apartment. The movement makes the encounter more visually dynamic and gives the sense that the argument builds for even longer than the "highlights" we're seeing.

Other sequences encompass a greater span of time and space. In The Shawshank Redemption, for instance, one sequence tells the story of Brooks's release from prison and attempted reentry into the outside world. We travel to various locales and cover what occurs probably over the course of several weeks. We see: Brooks leaving Shawshank; watching traffic and planes whiz by; struggling to keep up at his grocery store job; feeling lost and alone in his boardinghouse room; and then hanging himself. Each scene in this sequence is very brief, but together they deliver this man's heartrending struggle to find his way in the free world.

Another variation on the sequence is the montage—a series of brief images (rather than whole scenes) that tell a story. Tootsie has montages galore: Michael shopping for clothes, Michael becoming Dorothy, Dorothy becoming America's new cover girl. The montage is a quick, visual way to convey the essence of a cluster of related events, usually without dialogue.

How do you know if an event demands a single scene or a whole sequence? Let yourself experiment with this question, either on paper or in your head. Check back with your three core scene elements—conflict, relevance, and structure—and decide which choice, scene or sequence, most cleanly delivers all three of those elements. Suppose the slovenly bachelor from our earlier sequence example is the hero of a fast-paced spy caper, and the date ringing the doorbell is actually an assassin. As much fun conflict as there might be in seeing him clean up and cook, and as much as the prep sequence tells a structured three-act story, is it really relevant to the plot? Or might it be more efficient simply to have him kick the socks under the couch (for a dash of character) and answer the door, leading into the essential "date-turns-deadly" moment to come? Alternately, in the Shawshank example, a single scene of Brooks in his room preparing to hang himself would certainly deliver the relevant beat of his post-release demise. But in terms of conflict and structure, it would feel rushed, abrupt, unmotivated, and significantly less dramatic. Instead, the writer lets the event expand out into a sequence, with each mini-scene working almost like a distinct "act" in Brook's growing despair.

I'm guessing that the writers of Tootsie played around with a whole sequence of Michael getting dressed and made-up as Dorothy before settling on the single scene of him, already as Dorothy, on the street. That single scene surprises us more than a sequence would and it gives us the pleasure of imagining a whole earlier sequence in our minds. Also, later in the script, we do get to see Michael agonizing over Dorothy's outfits, so if we'd seen it already, it wouldn't be as funny later on.

In Die Hard, the writers could have hacked out the whole siege sequence and zeroed in on the initial "we're in" moment, leaving the details of the infiltration to our imagination. But without a full sequence, we wouldn't really know our enemy. We wouldn't see how utterly terrifying and skilled they are, and we wouldn't feel that all-important dread.

And that's, ultimately, one of the best ways of deciding between scene and sequence: How will the audience feel as they're watching it? Do we want a dawning realization (sequence of Michael becoming Dorothy) or a quick-punch surprise (scene of Michael already as Dorothy)? Do we want a glimpse of intrigue (scene of Hans and team arriving) or a no-holds-barred "shock and awe" campaign (complete siege sequence)?

Take a Shot

Imagine a character who plans a dinner party with high hopes, only to have it turn into an utter disaster. Map out how you would tell this mini-story in a sequence of four scenes. Give some thought as to which four scenes related to the dinner party will best tell the story. Then write the sequence in screenplay format, conveying only what is seen and heard.

Other Key Elements

Once you're pretty sure your scene or sequence has the three core elements—relevance, conflict, and structure—it's time to push further. From rough sketch to vivid painting, let's explore several other storytelling techniques that can help make your scenes become fully lived-in moments.

Visuals

Some movies may slant more toward pure visual storytelling and some movies may include lots of dialogue, but virtually all movies utilize both the visual and the verbal. The art of writing a good scene involves knowing when and how to use these two elements.

That short scene from Tootsie has no dialogue whatsoever, but for many people, that's the very scene they remember most out of the whole film.

Single-character scenes like this are a great place to mine for images and behavior—story we can "see" rather than hear. This can be particularly true of private single-character scenes, like Thelma and Louise each packing alone in their rooms. Almost like studying animals in their natural habitat, these "observations" allow us to find hidden character shadings within physical behavior, and they do so far more efficiently and effectively than spoken dialogue.

But just because you have more than one person in a scene doesn't mean you need a lot, or any, dialogue. The Die Hard sequence has only a few words of dialogue and those don't have much to do with what is actually going on. What we see the characters doing is where the real drama lies.

In the scene from Thelma & Louise, there are plenty of spoken lines, but the visuals are still primary. Louise never says the money was stolen; her look says it all. Watch how she crumples. What words could ever say despair as well as that action? And Thelma's tugging makes her new "take-charge" persona concrete and physical. What the characters do tells the emotional story almost as clearly as what they say, and the scene might play just as effectively with the volume turned all the way down.

Sideways is definitely more of a dialogue-driven film, but even in the wine-tasting scene, look at how rich the visuals are. The actions of Stephanie's pours (bigger and bigger) are like unspoken lines of dialogue in her flirtation with Jack. And the wine gives Miles, who often remains silent, plenty of physical behavior that lets us in on what's happening for him emotionally: his anger, his fear, his need for control.

When you're drafting scenes, there's a temptation to write it all out in dialogue form first, or at least to allow dialogue to guide the process. To wait for later to fill in the visuals and the action, mostly just as "punctuation," or, as they say in theater, "business." But film is first and foremost a visual medium, so challenge yourself to let the visuals lead. Ask yourself: How can this moment of story be expressed through images and actions? Think of images and actions more than dialogue.

Visual storytelling is often a matter of finding the physical tasks and props to activate the scene. Michael trying to walk in high heels. Thelma needing to get Louise up and on her feet. Stephanie pouring the wine. "Live" in the scene in your imagination to find the props and tasks that emerge naturally from the environment and situation. But don't pick just any prop or task at random. If you think about it, each of these examples of visual elements cuts right to the heart of what the scene is about.

Visual thinking can also help you unlock innovative scene-writing techniques. In Thelma & Louise, for example, Thelma robs a convenience store. We see her go in the store, and then we see her come out of the store with a wad of money. But we don't see the robbery occur as it happens. Instead, we see Darryl and the police/FBI guys watching the robbery via playback of the black-and-white surveillance video. It's an arresting way to show this action and it also lets the scenes multitask—we learn about the robbery and we see that the authorities have also learned about the robbery, all in one fell swoop.

Stylistic trickery like this, however, isn't something you impose on a scene simply to "jazz it up." It's something that helps tell the story more dramatically or efficiently. But storytelling style must come from within the story itself. Thelma & Louise has lots of characters in lots of different locations; the scene with the surveillance video comes out of the story's essence. Sideways, on the other hand, is a simpler story, so it's told in a more straightforward, unadorned style.

Challenge yourself to find the most powerful moments of your film through images. Embrace those images that will burn into our minds, those images that cut right to the thematic and dramatic heart of the film. Thelma and Louise kissing, holding hands, the Thunderbird sailing over the Grand Canyon. The story of these images is exactly what the whole film is about. In The Last Picture Show, the wet, wasted coffee grounds atop the refrigerator—that's Ruth Popper's soul.

Setting

Don't underestimate the power of your scene's location. Where the scene takes place should have a profound effect on the action itself, so choose locations that maximize the scene's conflict or underscore the moment's emotion. In the Tootsie scene, we could have seen Michael walking down a quiet Greenwich Village lane. But that's nowhere near as challenging (or visually striking) as seeing him walk down a "teeming" Madison Avenue. Brooks's boardinghouse room in Shawshank is up a steep flight of stairs and is described as "small, old, dingy." A perfect room for suicide.

You may be envisioning scenes that take place in an intimate private space, such as a house or a car or a quiet table at a restaurant. These locations may make your characters feel safer, but is safer more dramatic? Move your scene from private to public. Relocate the characters to a church pew or a china shop; open up the windows on the car and put them in traffic; better yet, make them walk down a crowded street. And in that restaurant (or café or bar), pull them out of that quiet corner and exploit the latent dramatic power of the strangers all around them. These "extras" don't need lines; they can bring a scene alive by their mere presence. After all, crazy things happen to people in public; they feel anxious or watched or emboldened. All good things for maximizing conflict.

Even the choice of interior or exterior is important. Exteriors can add a sense of visual breadth. Interiors often feel claustrophobic and muted. Which vibe is more appropriate to a scene? As you move from inside to outside (and your script should definitely mix it up throughout), let the contrast work for your drama.

Sometimes it will be obvious where a scene must be set. In our Sideways scene, for example, it needs to be in a winery. But you can still make the most of the location, exploiting what would naturally be part of the environment. In that scene, pay attention to that "boring couple down the bar." They reinforce that we're in public, which adds a little spark to the flirtation, and their need to be attended to adds a nagging tension to Stephanie (and the scene). It's a little thing that adds a lot.

Subtext

In a good scene, there is more going on than what we actually see and hear. There's something happening underneath the events and action, something unspoken and unseen, something that we feel. Let's call this deeper layer the subtext of a scene, the meaning beneath the surface. Subtext is an important concept in dialogue, and one that will be covered in the following chapter, but let's examine how it applies to a scene as a whole.

In the Tootsie scene, the subtext is the new layer of Michael that emerges when we see him in drag: "This guy will stop at nothing!" In the Die Hard sequence, the subtext is the awe and dread the terrorists invoke: "These guys are really bad news." Simple enough.

You have to dig a little more to see the subtext of the Thelma & Louise scene, but it's very much there: Louise is shedding her caretaker role, and Thelma is finally taking charge. In the overall scope of their friendship, this is a momentous shift of power. In the Sideways scene, Jack's flirtation is so overt that it can't really be called "subtext," right? But watch Miles closely and you'll sense the scene's subtext: Miles treats Stephanie with unnecessary coldness; he's closing himself off to women altogether; he is scared.

Think of subtext as a scene's secret, the hidden story, and usually the clues to it are in the script. In fact, however muted its revelation, the subtext is often the most important thing we take away from the scene. And the subtext of a scene reverberates throughout the movie. From one scene to the next, these subtextual messages form a current of deeper meaning that we follow and process as the film progresses.

Take a look at that unforgettable scene near the end of Sideways, when Miles drinks a bottle of wine out of a Styrofoam cup along with his fast-food hamburger. The scene is brief, contains no dialogue, and yet it is brimming with subtext. On the surface, all we see is a guy pathetically sipping wine in a burger joint. But when he refills his cup we catch a glimpse of the label on the wine bottle—Cheval Blanc. (Yes, that glimpse is in the script.) We remember the scene much earlier when he told Maya about owning this incredibly valuable bottle, which he was saving for a special occasion. We remember Maya telling him, "The day you open a '61 Cheval Blanc, that's the special occasion." Suddenly the scene explodes with dramatic meaning. We, the viewer, put two and two together and realize the subtext; after anguishing over some mythic perfect future, Miles is finally accepting his life as it is, on its own terms. And because of the subtextual emotional journey we've taken with Miles in scenes leading up to this one, this moment is overwhelming in its potency.

Audiences relish subtext because it pulls us out of simple passivity, engaging us in a sense of discovery. We make a special connection with the scene's meaning because the film allows us to find it for ourselves. Cringe for a moment as you imagine the Sideways scene with a voice-over memory of Maya's "special occasion" line. That's speaking the subtext, saying it aloud, and as soon as a scene starts doing that, it loses much of its power; audiences sag back in their chairs and wait to be told how to feel. Subtext, then, is a story that we whisper into our scenes, not one that we yell.

Focus

In that short Tootsie scene, we don't see Michael get off the bus on Madison Avenue, start walking, then eventually round a corner and disappear. We see him walking only as long as it takes for us to fully register that its him. The scene gets to the point, and does it fast, which is a key quality of effective storytelling.

Always make your scenes get to the point, quickly.

Okay, well, how do you know what the "point" of your scene is? Sometimes it's obvious enough—Michael walking to the audition in drag, the terrorists killing the security guard. Sometimes, though, it's a trickier question. Sometimes there is a more intriguing point lying beneath or between the obvious actions of the plot. (And, yes, often this intriguing point is closely related to the scene's subtext.) For instance, in the Thelma & Louise scene, the most overt action is the discovery of stolen money. That's what "happens" in the plot, but it's not the focus of the scene. Concrete events such as this are our story guideposts, to be sure, and in the early stages of planning they might be what we think the scene will be about: "Thelma and Louise discover the money's missing and get on the road again, more desperate than ever."

But as we explore the scene, we begin to discover that the real dramatic "meat" comes more from the character development than the simple plot event. Thelma & Louise isn't a "wild girls on the lam" pulp-action picture; rather it's the story of two women growing together as they grow apart from the world. Hence, the true point of this scene is Thelma changing and taking charge, a key juncture in Thelma's evolution. And notice how efficiently the scene focuses on that aspect. We don't spend a long time watching the women search for the money. They discover it's gone right away and Louise promptly falls apart. The bulk of the scene is in seeing what Thelma will do. And as soon as Thelma pulls Louise to her feet, the scene is over. Thelma's handling of the situation is the scene's real focus.

"Getting to the point" requires you to focus the scene's true conflict very specifically. It's about zeroing in on the most significant physical and emotional struggle within the plot event. It's about asking and re-asking (from draft to draft to draft) why and how this scene is an important building block in the particular story you're trying to tell.

Sometimes we have to write what we think the scene is about to get to what the scene is really about. It is quite possible that the Thelma & Louise screenwriter had to first write a desperate search for the money in the motel room in order to figure out what the more important conflict was: the power shift after the money search. The writer had to live in that panic and hopelessness, to push and go deeper into the conflict between the two women; she had to explore the moment and let it explode.

Once you know the most important conflict of a scene, you can apply a key screenwriting technique: Enter a scene late and leave it early. Start the scene not when the conflict is brewing on the horizon, but—bam!—right when it's staring us in the face, maybe even when it has already reached fever pitch. End the scene as soon as that conflict has been resolved, and not a moment later.

For a beautiful example of how "enter late/get out early" can work, take a look back at the long wine-pouring scene from Sideways. The script shows the complete encounter between Stephanie and Jack/Miles. But watch that scene in the movie. The filmmakers cut the intro part of the conversation, entering the scene when Stephanie slides the glasses to Miles and Jack. And we leave the scene as soon as Stephanie wanders away from the guys. This puts the last turning point—Stephanie showing real interest in Jack—at the very end of the scene, the climax. The long version is perfectly good, but the scene is made even better by entering when Jack's advances are already under way and ending as soon as it's clear he's successful. As soon as Stephanie really flirts back, the battle is over. In the truncated version, the scene still retains a nice three-act structure, but it's been centered around a more focused vision of the scene's conflict. (Also note that in neither of these versions do we actually see Jack making the date with Stephanie, which is the concrete plot event.)

By focusing the conflict, you can propel one scene into the next with greater drive. The scenes build on top of each other and gain increasing momentum, and the script moves from battle to battle, without delay. Just as the scenes remain focused on a specific and significant conflict, so too does the story as a whole.

Transitions

As important as it is to build an effective scene, it's just as important to build clear and engaging links from one scene to the next. Frequently, this means paying attention to the unwritten space between your scenes.

In real life, there's nothing left out from one moment to the next. A person opens his eyes, gets out of bed, puts on clothes, goes downstairs, makes coffee, waits for the coffee to brew, guzzles the coffee, drives to the office, hurries to his desk, and gets to work.

But that's not what normally happens on film; its boring, too literal. The art of cinematic storytelling comes from the choices we make about what to leave out, offscreen. We create meaning by connecting scenes that don't happen in a continuous flow: A person opens his eyes in bed, then gets to work at his desk. The meaning created via those two linked scenes might be: "Every waking moment is about work." The flow of events still makes sense, and that's certainly a key function of transitions—maintaining logic as we leap through time and space. Equally important, though, is engaging the audience by allowing them to piece the story together on their own.

The Tootsie scene is a classic example. The agent tells Michael his career is doomed. He retorts, "Oh yeah?" And then we see him in drag. We piece together his whole process of coming up with the drag scheme, and imagining that in our head is great fun.

Sometimes scenes tease a question or pose a challenge like this ("Oh yeah?") that is literally answered in the next scene, like a call and response. The screenwriter can even have sly fun with this kind of cut, as in this example from Die Hard:

McClane slowly lets out breath, praying softly:

MCCLANE

Argyle. Tell me you heard the shot. Tell me you heard the shot and you're calling the police right now . . .

INT. LIMO - PARKING GARAGE

Argyle is on the phone. The music is playing.

ARGYLE

I'm working, honey. Working hard. 'Course I'll be by later to pick you up, have I ever lied to you? My boss? He thinks I'm cruising to Palm Springs . . .

Another technique of teasing out tension between separate scenes is cross-cutting—shifting back and forth between one scene and another. In the Die Hard sequence, we see McClane mooning over pictures of his wife and kids while the terrorists are wreaking havoc downstairs. The contrast between these two emotionally disparate moments tells a bigger story than each moment does on its own. When done carefully, cross-cutting can bring a sequence's conflict right off the page.

A precious few times in your script, transitions can be simply to start a new section of story afresh. A significant break in time. A new strand of plot. But don't think of these moments as giving your audience a "breather." The rule of sustained conflict still applies. In Sideways, Jack's objective to pick up Stephanie is accomplished, and so, immediately, in the very next scene, he's preparing for the date. When advancing warriors win a battle on one hill, they don't linger and gloat over the fallen enemies. Their eyes are already on the next battle on the next hill, one step closer to the castle. In this way, the resolution of one scene's conflict determines the beginning of the scene to come.

Perspective

As in fiction, a screenwriter chooses a perspective from which to tell the story. Usually, that's a choice between showing only scenes with the protagonist, which is like a first-person point of view, and including scenes where the protagonist is not present, like a third-person point of view.

Sticking with the protagonist makes sense for some movies, if you want a really intimate portrait of a character. We experience the entire story alongside the protagonist; we know only what he or she knows. In Sideways, it might be tempting to see Jack caught in bed with the waitress by her gigantic husband, but this story stays very close to Miles, dramatically and emotionally. So it's better to patch the story together with Miles as Jack recounts it, and then to live with Miles through the full hideous terror of the later encounter with the waitress and husband.

Other movies let us see things more broadly. In Thelma & Louise we cut freely between the two women and everyone chasing them down. In Die Hard we see McClane alone, the villains, and all the people affected by the events—a perspective I call "action movie omniscient." If we were exclusively with McClane, things wouldn't be nearly as exciting. In such cases, we know more than what the protagonist knows. And the contrast between the various characters' different experiences of the same events adds a crucial layer of dramatic tension.

By finding the right perspective for your film, you can decide which scenes to include and which to leave out. So you should consider this question early in the process. At the same time, don't be afraid to consider a change of perspective as you're writing, if you find that much of the good stuff is happening offscreen, between or beyond the scenes on paper. Perspective shapes story, and story, in turn, shapes perspective.

Assembling the Pipeline

From an aerial photo, an above-ground pipeline appears to be a single, unified apparatus that carries water, oil, or liquid chocolate from one place to another. But look closer. The pipeline is actually a lot of smaller pieces of tube. Lengths of pipe fitted together, one after another, from beginning to end. These are like a film's individual scenes. And as polished and memorable as individual scenes or sequences may be, they are not meant to stand alone. They need to work as chapters of the whole script. A piece of pipe only matters when it's joined together with all the other pieces, doing their job collectively. If one scene ruptures or veers, the dramatic flow is impaired. Water spills out onto the desert floor, and the city is miserably thirsty.

Therefore, it is a major part of the screenwriter's job to figure out which scenes are essential to the overall story. And that's no small feat. At a certain stage of writing, it feels like all kinds of scenes could fit, and there's no clear way of winnowing down those choices. Do we show the first time they meet or jump in after they already know each other? Do we need to see him get fired from his job or can we just refer to that? We shouldn't be writing elaborate scenes for every little beat of the story, but on the other hand, if we leave too many gaps, it will feel like something's missing.

We also have to figure out where these scenes fit, where they make the most sense. Each scene should feel like it belongs exactly where you've put it in the script. Placement, as much as content, is essential to the effective unfolding of the story. And that's a pretty daunting task, too.

Even experienced filmmakers futz around after the film is shot, in the editing process. Take Sideways, for example. The finished film is pretty close to the script (the director was one of the co-writers), but if you watch the movie with script in hand, you'll find that some scenes were cut. You'll even notice that the order of some scenes was rearranged. This is a perfectly natural part of filmmaking. Drama takes on a whole new life when the cameras start to roll, and we can't expect to create a "change-proof" script. But we can and should make the flow of drama, from beginning to end, as seamless on paper as possible.

It's tempting to just start writing, finessing nifty transitions from scene to scene, creating a reasonable enough illusion of dramatic flow. But what's needed first is a coherent sense of the scenes' place in the larger story. Lay the lengths of pipe where you think they should go before welding them together. This is where outlines come in handy: a picture of the overall pipeline path. If you're writing with a reasonably thorough sense of the story's flow from one major event to the next, you'll have clearer guideposts. And you'll have a better sense of what you have to accomplish in roughly what amount of time. So begin with a chart of the film's major events.

The next stage of your outlining will usually involve a beat sheet, a list of every event (beat) you envision. A beat doesn't necessarily have to correspond to a single scene or sequence; it often does, but a beat may include numerous scenes that are part of the same general situation. For example:

The next day, Thelma starts to tell Louise about sex with J. D., but Louise asks about the money: it's still in the room, with J. D. They race to room and the money's gone. Louise crumples, Thelma takes charge.

Police, FBI set up camp at Thelma's house, tapping phone.

Thelma robs convenience store. Police, FBI see it on video. Thelma, Louise feel thrill of being outlaws.

Like all outlining methods, the beat sheet is for your eyes only, so make the form work for you. It can definitely help to push your beat sheet beyond the "what" (the concrete events) and include notes to yourself about the "why" (the emotional motivations and significance). For example:

They race to room, discovering money gone. Louise crumples, Thelma takes charge. (Here dynamic shifts, with Thelma leading the way more and more.)

At some point, you might want to progress to a "step outline" where you actually break the beats into scenes (steps), like so:

INT. COFFEE SHOP - DAY

Thelma tells Louise about orgasm. Louise realizes J. D. left alone in motel room with money.

EXT. MOTEL ROOM - DAY

They race to room, discovering money gone. Louise crumples, Thelma takes charge.

If you're like me, you'll get tired of staring at the computer screen during the outlining process, and you'll want to see something more tangible and physical. This is where you can break out those old-fashioned index cards. You can map out the plot of your script—beat by beat, scene by scene—on index cards, which are tacked, glued, or taped to a wall, poster board, or bulletin board. The beauty of index cards is that you can scribble in added details for a particular beat or scene, you can tape on new clusters of ideas around scenes, and, most important, you can arrange and rearrange to your heart's content.

Let the process get messy before it gets clean. Early on, your outlined script may resemble lots of little clusters of pipe sections scattered in the desert. At some magical point, though, they start coming together, looking like that seamless tube in the aerial photo.

But don't let yourself sit back and admire for too long. Rather, scan/scour the whole arrangement over again, paying critical attention to how you feel as you move through the story. Is each scene an important battle in the script's war? Is it an important step in the growth of an important character? Does it represent a positive or negative change? Does one scene flow into the next, in terms of action and subtext? Is that flow engaging, connecting the dots but not overconnecting or repeating them? Is momentum building?

Sometimes you won't have the best answer until you are actually in there writing. You might write a perfectly beautiful scene, but then it doesn't seem to have a place. Or it seems to be holding up the momentum. This might mean axing it altogether. Conversely, you might start writing a scene that was supposed to be very minor, or maybe wasn't even supposed to be there, and you find it taking on a life in a way that is absolutely central to the story. An essential gem that's turned up in the unlikeliest of places.

That surprise discovery, when you're in the middle of a scene, is one of the deepest joys of screenwriting. In the back of your mind, you've got that sense of overall character growth, that map of overall story arc. Consider this your safety net. And with your safety net in place, you're free to do all kinds of stunts. You're free to explode within the scenes, to explore between the scenes. You are free to live fully, with characters and story, in moment after moment.

Stepping-Stone: A Visual Scene

Pick a scene that will probably appear in your movie. It'll work best if this is not one of the movie's "big" moments. Write the scene with no dialogue whatsoever, telling the story solely through visuals (and perhaps some sound). Then write the scene again, this time adding dialogue where necessary, but using what you discovered the first time to keep your new scene visual.