The Whale part 1

THE WHALE

from Moby-Dick by Herman Melville

ONE

(Ahab’s cabin, night. There is a scream, off. Starbuck, Stubb and Flask carry in a thrashing Ahab, who has just been fished out of the ocean. He lacks a leg. They put him into his bed.)

AHAB. Aaaagh! Aaaagh!

STARBUCK. It’s all right, Captain. You’re all right.

AHAB. Is he dead? Did I kill him?

STARBUCK. He got away, captain.

AHAB. Got away? Got away?

STUBB. He’s a big fish, sir, he –

AHAB. We have to go after him! Set sails!

FLASK. We’re not going anywhere tonight, sir –

STARBUCK. Just lie down, captain.

AHAB. He, he smashed by boat! Is my harpooneer –

STUBB. He’s fine.

STARBUCK. Just lie down, sir –

AHAB. Did you see him? Did you – tell me you saw him!

FLASK. We saw him.

STARBUCK. We’ll go after him tomorrow.

AHAB. He, he, he thought he had me. But he didn’t. He thought he did but he didn’t.

STARBUCK. No sir.

AHAB. Bastard thought he had me. But not Ahab. He didn’t have Ahab. No.

STUBB. No sir.

AHAB. There isn’t a whale alive who can get Ahab. No one – AAGHH! WHERE’S MY LEG?! WHAT HAPPENED TO MY LEG?!  MR. STARBUCK? WHAT HAPPENED TO MY LEG?!! AAAAGH!

(Blackout.)

TWO

(Ishmael addresses the audience.)

ISHMAEL. So I thought I’d go to sea. There’s nothing “weird” about that, nothing “strange”, nothing “peculiar” about that. People go to sea. Men are drawn to the sea. The sea, water –

New York City, lunch hour. What happens? Battery Park, people go and stand by the water. Look at a map: where do they put the cities? By the water. Guy paints a picture, nice bucolic landscape, what’s in the middle of the picture? A lake. A stream. A pond. Why not?

So I thought I’d go to sea. Big deal. It was either that or kill myself. Or kill somebody else.

But that’s not the thing. The thing, the thing is, I am crazy about whales. I am nuts, I am gaga, I am absolutely round the bend about whales. Can’t get enough of them whales. Stories, pictures, books, scrimshaw, if it’s whales I like it.

So perfect: I go to Nantucket to get myself booked on a whaling boat. Me and my new best friend Queequeg – he’s from the South Pacific (it’s a long story) – we decide on this ship the Pequod.

(Lights up on the Pequod. The deck bustles with activity.)

It’s an amazing ship. Not the biggest, not the nicest, not the fastest, but definitely the coolest. Everything on the ship is made of whale-bone! The pins are teeth, hammered into boards of bone. The tiller is a jawbone. It’s a death ship. The thing is a death ship, a cannibal ship, it’s a monster, it’s a flesh-eating zombie ship. It’s a death-ship, and that’s the kind of ship I want to be on.

THREE

(A cabin on the Pequod. Peleg at a desk. Bildad reads the bible.)

ISHMAEL. Are you the captain?

PELEG. What if I was?

ISMAEL. I want to join on.

PELEG. You’re not from Nantucket.

ISMAEL. No.

PELEG. You know whaling?

ISMAEL. No sir. But I’m a quick study. I was in the merchant marines…

PELEG. Merchant marines my ass. Talk to me about the merchant marines, I’ll rip off your leg, I promise. What are you, a pirate? A wanted man? You robbed your last captain? You get to sea, you murder your officers?

ISHMAEL. No sir. No.

PELEG. Then why whaling?

ISHMAEL. I – I don’t – I like – I want to see whales. I want to see whaling.

PELEG. You want to see whaling. Have you seen Ahab?

ISHMAEL. Who?

PELEG. Ahab.

ISMAEL. Who is that?

PELEG. Christ. – Ahab is the captain of the Pequod.

ISHMAEL. I – I’m sorry. I thought you were.

PELEG. Christ no. I’m Peleg – this is Bildad. We own the ship. And before you get all hopped up about
“whaling”, I suggest you take a look at Ahab.

ISHMAEL. W-why is that, sir?

PELEG. You’ll know when you look at him.

ISHMAEL. I-I see sir.

PELEG. He’s got one leg, how’s that?

ISHMAEL. Oh. Really. What happened to the, the – what happened to him?

PELEG. Why don’t you take a guess.

ISHMAEL. Um…a whale? Um, took it?

(Pause.)

PELEG. Ate it. A whale ate it.

ISHMAEL. Yes. Well. Accidents happen, sir.

PELEG. It wasn’t an accident.

ISHMAEL. Excuse me?

PELEG. It wasn’t an accident.

ISHMAEL. Uh, right.

PELEG. You’ve never been to sea –

ISHMAEL. Yes sir I have. Four trips in the merch –

PELEG. Fuck the merchant marines! You want to go whaling?

ISHMAEL. Yes sir!

PELEG. You’re ready to pitch a harpoon down a whale’s throat and jump in after?

ISHMAEL. If it comes to that, yes. Although I’d rather not waste the harpoon.

PELEG. Good answer. Bildad!
(Bildad grunts.)
You readin’ that damn book again? You been readin’ scripture for thirty years now, how far ya got?
(Bildad looks up from the book.)
Guy here says he’s our man.

BILDAD. Yes?

PELEG. Says he’s the one we want. What do you think?

(Pause.)

BILDAD. He’ll do.

(He goes back to reading, murmuring with the text.)

PELEG. Well then that’s that. Sign here. Now: your wage. Bildad?
(Bildad grunts.)
His lay.

BILDAD.(not looking up) One seven hundred seventy-seventh. “Where moth and rust do corrupt, but lay…”

PELEG. For Christ’s sake, Bildad! You want to swindle him?

BILDAD. One seven hundred seventy-seventh. “For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also…”

PELEG.(sighs) He’s ridiculous. I’ll put you down for three hundred. (to Bildad) Three hundred.

(Bildad looks up. Pause.)

BILDAD. Well aren’t you a kindly old fool. And whose money is that you’re so generously giving away? Yours? Mine? No. It belongs to the widows and orphans who have shares in this ship. Your act of benevolence toward this boy you’ve never seen before in your life takes
bread out of their mouths.

PELEG. God damn it Bildad! If I did everything you told me to, I’d have a conscience heavy enough to sink a ship!

BILDAD. Mr. Peleg, the weight of your conscience is not my concern. I suspect, however, from your lack of penitence, that it is heavy enough to drag you down to the fiery pit.

PELEG. Fiery pit! Fiery pit! So I’m going to Hell. Is that it? Go on, say it again. Say it again, I’ll swallow a live goat with his hair and horns on! God damn you! God damn you! (Pause. To Ishmael –) Well. That’s over. I’ll put you down for three hundred.

ISHMAEL. Thank you sir. Could I – do you think maybe I could see Captain Ahab?

PELEG. Why? You’ve already signed on –

ISHMAEL. I know. I just want to – you mentioned –

PELEG. You want to see Ahab?

ISHMAEL. Yes.

PELEG. Well you can’t.

ISHMAEL. Oh.

PELEG. He’s sick.

ISHMAEL. What’s the matter with him?

PELEG. I don’t know. He won’t come out.

ISHMAEL. If he’s sick –

PELEG. He’s not sick –

ISHMAEL. No?

PELEG. No. But he’s not well. He won’t see me, he sure won’t see you. He’s a – he’s a strange man. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a great guy. A great, God-fearing, Godless, Godly son-of-a-bitch. Doesn’t talk much. But when he talks, you listen. He’s done it all, knows colleges and cannibals. He knows things deeper than the ocean. And his lance is the sharpest on the island. He’s not a Peleg and he’s not a Bildad. He’s Ahab. Another Ahab was king, you know.

ISHMAEL. Uh, yes. A, a very bad king, if I remember correctly.

PELEG. Yes. Well.

ISHMAEL. I mean, a really bad king.

PELEG. Come here, boy. Here. Listen: Ahab did not name himself. His mother named him. And she was crazy, died a year after he was born. And maybe that means something and maybe it doesn’t. But I’m telling you Ahab is a good man. Okay: last trip, he went a little crazy; so what? He’d lost his leg, you know? So he’s a little moody. A lot moody. All right, he’s a savage. But I’d rather sail with a moody captain than a laughing one. Besides, he has a wife! Beautiful, and a son, a little boy. So how bad could he be?

(Blackout.)


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There Will Be Blood part 4

In which I wrap up this far-too-long chunk of character analysis.

spoilers!

There Will Be Blood part 3

In which I talk about Daniel Plainview’s family issues.

spOILers

There Will Be Blood part 2

  has taken a firm stand — Daniel Plainview’s primary motivation, he feels, is greed. There is no doubt that DP is a greedy man — not to mention a pathological liar and a homicidal maniac — but I think he’s more complicated than that, as I will hope to demonstrate as I move forward in my analysis. Yesterday I got as far as the end of Act I, and today I’ll be moving on from there.

ACT II: DP has set up his business in Signal Hill. His success in Signal Hill has attracted a young man, Paul Sunday, to him. Paul has told him about a ranch, his family’s, where oil bubbles up through the ground.

The act begins. DP and HW travel to the Sunday ranch, pretending to be campers hunting for quail (DP’s lies are not restricted to his words — he’s also fully capable of lying with actions). He meets Paul Sunday’s identical twin Eli, and here’s where DP’s Gap presents itself. Everything in the movie up to this point has gone pretty much as DP expected it would, a couple of accidents and an impromptu adoption aside (more on that adoption later). DP is caught short by the appearance of Eli, who he first suspects is actually Paul pretending to be someone else.

DP and HW discover oil on the Sunday ranch. They sit on a hillside at sunset and DP tells HW his plans. In a Disney movie, this would be the place for the “I Want” song — “Just Around the Riverbend” or “I Just Can’t Wait to Be King.” DP has a vision of his future, involving digging for oil in Little Boston and piping it to the coast, thus avoiding the railroad’s shipping costs.

So here we have another motivation, not just greed but a need to “prove” something to somebody. It seems endemic to American businessmen, and maybe all pioneers, to not just “succeed” but to prove that they are smarter, wilier and more forward-thinking than those in power. For DP, it’s nice that he’ll save some money by not using the railroads but it seems more important to him to show Standard Oil and the railroads that he’s smarter than them.

And so this circles back to DP’s being alone at the beginning of the movie. He, and he alone, dug the hole that found the silver that made him the money to hire the crew to dig for oil — he’s done it all through hard work and sacrifice (some of it even his own) and he’ll be damned if he’ll let a bunch of three-piece-suited businessmen come along and profit from his hard work (of course, he sees nothing wrong with dramatically underselling the local residents so he can do all this on their land).

DP offers to buy the Sunday ranch, telling the father that he needs a place with dry weather for HW’s health. We’ve now heard three sales pitches from DP, each one tailored to the prejudices of the mark. DP is, essentially, a con man with a talent for digging.

The father is on the hook, but Eli steps in, and here DP’s Gap bursts wide open. Eli, it turns out, thinks of himself as a preacher, divinely chosen to lead people. As much as DP was caught short by Paul Sunday having a brother, he’s struck dumb when Eli announces that he has a church. When he has gathered his wits, he looks Eli in the eye and says “That’s good. That’s a good one.” What he means, of course, is that he recognizes Eli as a fellow con man, who has a good con to play.

In any case, soon DP has bought almost the entire town and “shown” the big oil suits how smart he is. He meets a colleague at the train station and advises him to “look east” for more oil. He says he’d rather his friend drill there than those guys from Standard Oil he hates, but I’m not so sure. We haven’t seen the friend before, and given the way DP treats his competition (with one curious exception, as we shall see) I’d be willing to bet that DP is sending his colleague on a wild goose chase just for laughs.

In his most focused speech yet, DP tells the townsfolk of Little Boston that he and his business are going to transform the town. He’s going to provide roads, employment, agriculture, schools, even bread. DP presents himself, in fact, as a kind of father figure — “Don’t worry about anything, folks, I’m going to take care of everything.” He presents his sales pitch not as “I will take all your valuable resources,” but as “I will give you everything you need.” As the movie goes on, we see that none of his promises are kept in any perceivable way. The town becomes busier, true, but it’s just full of dust and workers and smoke — we never see a school built, a local employed or a farmer’s field bloom.

Eli, of course, sees a missing piece in DP’s plan — he sees that DP’s industry will bring money into the town, which will create sin — drinking and whoring — and thus create a spiritual void. He, essentially, horns in on DP’s con, blows DP’s angle, hoping to make his own fortune from the profitable blight that DP brings with him. DP makes gestures toward providing a spiritual cushion — he promises to build a road to Eli’s church and even says a prayer at the opening of the new well, but they’re only gestures — he not only has no spiritual core, he’s making the gesture to steal Eli’s thunder, lessen his impact on the community, essentially treating Eli as another competitor for the town’s attentions.

In any case, the well is dug and the derrick is put into operation. To sum up the plot for the act:

DP, acting on a tip from Paul Sunday, comes to Little Boston, tries to con the Sunday family out of their ranch but is thrown off by Eli, who sees exactly who DP is and is running his own con. DP promises to buy Eli off, buys the ranch, buys most of the rest of the town, convinces the townsfolk that he’s their new daddy and they’re all going to be a big happy family, and sets about building his first derrick (to seal the deal, he names it after Eli’s sister Mary).

Toward the end of the act HW informs DP, apropos of nothing, that Mary Sunday is beaten by her father. After the derrick opens, there is a celebration and DP hugs Mary to him and tells her, in full view of the father, that there will be “no more hitting.” He repeats this a few times, which makes me think that DP was abused as a child. Given that he’s a cold-blooded sociopath, it’s not surprising, but DP has a peculiar relationship with children all through the movie. To all appearances, he seems to have genuine affection for HW, his adopted son (although he denies it later). He confides in HW and tries to teach him the tricks of the trade, and tomorrow I’ll talk about where I think his affection for HW comes from.

DP pledging “No more hitting” to Mary Sunday, of course, will come to have terrible repercussions later, but I’ll get to that in time.
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There Will Be Blood part 1

Faithful reader Kent M. Beeson has asked my advice on how to present a character’s motivation in a screenplay. This is a tricky situation — the best thing to do is not present motivation but rather action, and let the audience wonder about motivation. But motivation does lie close to the heart of the question, the question being, of course, What Does The Protagonist Want?

As Mr. Beeson was composing his question, I, coincidentally, was re-watching There Will Be Blood, in anticipation of a blistering attack from longtime friend and PT Anderson-hater

   . Blood presents us with a protagonist who plays his cards very close to his vest — perhaps so close that not even he knows exactly what he’s holding.

Daniel Plainview is not an easy character to figure out. He devotes a fair measure of his energy to concealing his motivations from other people and those people, it follows, includes us.  We could say with some certainty that, to an extent, Plainview’s motivations are a mystery even to himself. To suss out the motivations for his actions, we have to add up the clues in his actions and see what we get. As this fine motion picture is still in theaters, I urge my readers to go see it before reading the following.

There Will Be Blood, obviously, has a great deal to say about capitalism, sin and and soul of the United States. What I want to do here is forget about all that to the extent that I can. Daniel Plainview may be some kind of metaphor for the American character, but you can’t write a character as a metaphor and an actor can’t play one. The only way to write a good, three-dimensional character is to be as specific as possible and then have the actor play it as specifically as he knows how. Both of these tasks are performed quite well in There Will Be Blood, which I think is why most people recognize its excellence even if they can’t quite figure out what it’s on about.

First of all, let’s see if we can divide Blood up into coherent act breaks. I count six, and they go like this:

ACT ONE: “Plainview makes a name for himself as an oil man.” We see him dig for silver, find silver, dig for oil, strike oil, then set up his oil business. At the end of this act, Paul Sunday shows up in his office and presents to him the discovery that will ultimately make Plainview his fortune.

ACT TWO: “Plainview sets up operations in Little Boston.” We see him travel to this godforsaken town in the middle of nowhere, con some simple folk out of their land, deal with Paul’s brother Eli and his burgeoning church and get his first well underway.

ACT THREE: “Plainview loses his son.” We see Plainview’s well gush, which brings him great wealth but makes his adopted son deaf.

ACT FOUR: “Plainview replaces his son with his brother.” Henry Plainview arrives in Little Boston, claiming to be Plainview’s brother. Plainview takes Henry into his confidence and sends his son HW off to a special school in San Francisco. Plainview is approached by Standard Oil for his land, but he has plans of his own. He and Henry plot out a pipeline, walking 100 miles to the sea, to sell their oil to Union Oil. While at the beach, Plainview realizes that Henry is not his brother but an impostor. He kills him and buries the body.

ACT FIVE: “Plainview gets his son back.” Daniel, having learned his lesson, completed his work and made his fortune, fetches HW back. Eli uses his influence to pressure Daniel into a situation where he (Eli) is able to humiliate Daniel in public. HW grows up and marries Mary Sunday, Eli’s sister.

ACT SIX: “Plainview has the last laugh.” It is some time later. We see Plainview, wealthier and older, disown HW for undergoing what he considers a competitive business venture. Eli, who has beenlaid low by the intervening years. comes to Daniel for a favor. Daniel drinks his milkshake and bludgeons him to death with a bowling pin.

(These last two acts are rather brief, only twenty minutes apiece. This would, ordinarily, suggest that they are, in fact, one act, except that a good deal of time passes between Act V and Act VI, and Act VI is too long, and too explosively climactic, to be considered an epilogue.)

ACT ONE: It is 1898. Daniel Plainview (DP), a grizzled prospector (looking not unlike this guy), digs a hole, alone, in the middle of nowhere, in the desert. In a movie rife with Kubrick references, DP, covered with hair and dirt and swinging his pick, looks like 2001‘s Moon-Watcher with his bone.

Why is he alone? Wouldn’t the job of digging a deep, deep hole in the middle of nowhere be easier, not to mention safer, with a crew or at least a partner? And yet DP goes it alone. Perhaps he’s seen Treasure of the Sierra Madre and knows better than to tell anyone where he’s digging, or it could simply be that he, like Garbo, prefers to be that way. And indeed, we will learn later that DP doesn’t particularly care for people. It is not a “good” or “bad” quality — it is just, we would say, Who He Is.

We could say that this DP is pure DP. Miles away from anyone, his life is not a performance. His actions are simple and direct and uninflected. He’s not asking to be loved or trying to prove his superiority. He’s digging a hole and climbing a ladder and hauling a winch and blowing up some dynamite. PT Anderson, like Kubrick, is interested in examining systems: this is how an atom bomb gets delivered to its target, this is how a group of teenage boys are turned into killing machines, this is how a shuttle docks with an orbiting space station, this is how one gets precious materials out of the ground. We could say that this first part of the movie shows DP in his element. We could say that this is when he is happiest, alone and accountable to no one and on no one’s schedule.

(Speaking of elements, three of the four classical elements get real metaphorical workouts in this movie — Earth, Water and Fire all make dramatic appearances. And I suppose Air gets blown around too, whenever one of the principles needs to sell something to somebody.)

DP finds silver in the hole he’s digging, which gets him enough money to get started in what will be his life’s work, digging for oil. We see him next with a small crew of men, digging another hole in another middle of nowhere. They strike oil — whether through intent or by accident isn’t clear to me. One of the men has a baby boy, HW, who is baptized with the newly found crude.

(This is the first we see of oil-drilling as a kind of belief system, which will become important later.)

A few scenes later, HW’s father is killed in an accident. This is the second accident in the movie — DP broke his leg in the first hole, now HW loses his father in the second hole. To quiet the sobbing infant HW, DP feeds him whiskey. The significance of this becomes important later (and has nothing to do with milkshakes). Oil struck in this hole, DP moves on with HW to greener pastures.

We see DP with HW on a train. HW, though an infant, seems to like DP and DP seems to like HW. So it seems that DP is not a wholly antisocial creature; given the opportunity, he will be nice to a defenseless infant.

Fourteen minutes into the movie, we get our first dialogue. It is 1908 and DP is seen trying to sell his drilling operation, which as grown considerably, to a group of townspeople. The tools of his speech to the townspeople are crucial. He uses words like “family” and “community” and “trust” and “friendship” when what he’s really talking about is stealing these people’s land so he can turn it into an oilfield and make a ton of money. So while DP may prefer to be alone, he apparently has learned somewhere how to work a crowd. Public speaking, the most common of fears, does not seem to slow down DP. When the town meeting breaks down into argumentative shouting, DP gets up and walks out. “Too much confusion,” he says, limping out to his car.

The next thing we see is DP in the kitchen of a middle-aged couple, negotiating to buy their land. He lies to them about HW’s parentage and his status as a family man. This scene, up against the previous one, confused me until I read the screenplay (which can be found here), which indicates that DP, through buying the middle-aged couple’s land, is getting the same oil he would have been getting by leasing the land of the argumentative townspeople of the previous scene. He doesn’t explain it there, but the issue is “drainage,” the same concept he ends up explaining with the “milkshake” metaphor in Act VI. He could, apparently, lease the whole town, which would benefit everyone but involve dealing with a large group of people, or he could lease the land of just the middle-aged couple, get all the same oil eventually, and not have to talk to anyone.

Through this first part of the movie we see that yes, DP is a greedy capitalist, but he is also not afraid of hard work, risking his life and limb, or getting his hands dirty to achieve wealth. He’s even willing, up to a point, to be fair to people — unless there are too many of them with too many agendas, in which case he’d rather just withdraw and make a deal that screws everyone. That is, he’s greedy but his greed is secondary to, I think, his prime motivation — his dislike of people.

In any case, DP gets his well in Signal Hill and takes over the house of the middle-aged couple he was dealing with (this is another tidbit I got from the screenplay. DP transforms the Signal Hill house with so much construction as to make it unrecognizable). It is his success in Signal Hill that brings Paul Sunday to his office. Paul Sunday, a poor but apparently wily young man piques DP’s interest in a tract of land near a town called Little Boston, which brings us to the end of Act I.

So, in plot terms, what we have so far is: DP, alone, digs for silver, which leads to DP making a small fortune, which leads to DP and a crew of men, including the infant HW, digging for oil, which leads to the death of HW’s father, which leads to DP’s adoption of HW. The success of the well that killed HW’s father leads to DP’s business expanding to include, among other sites, a successful well in Signal Hill, which leads to Paul Sunday seeking DP out to offer him his family’s ranch as a potential drilling site. This series of events all lead to DP heading out to Little Boston and the Sunday Ranch, which is where Act II begins.

And this has gone on long enough for one day, I will pick it up anon.


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iTunes catch of the day: Cassandra’s Dream and “The River in Reverse”

Few have ventured to see the new Woody Allen movie, so most are unaware that Allen has, for one of the few times in his career, commissioned a score for his soundtrack, from an actual living composer, Philip Glass, no less. And what a corker! I buy all of Glass’s soundtracks whether I’ve seen the movies they’re in or not, and this one has quickly vaulted to the top of my list of favorites. Stormy, melancholy, brooding and propulsive. If you like Glass or have an abiding interest in soundtrack music, this is a real treat. Can’t say I like the cover. You can listen to little bits of it either at iTunes or Amazon.

Meanwhile, Elvis Costello has knocked off a handful of his songs in solo settings for the iTunes market. I enjoy all of these renditions, they are some of my favorites of his songs, but the new recording of “The River in Reverse” is just stunning. I enjoyed the album of the same title when it came out, but to hear Costello snarl his way through this searing, scathing reading is a remarkable experience, even coming from this longtime snarler. His insistent, plangent solo guitar sets lyrics like “In the name of the father and the son/in the name of gasoline and a gun” in bold relief and elevates this song to a classic to stand with “Pills and Soap” in its withering social criticism.

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Today is Super Tuesday

hit counter html codeWhich means that if you, like me, are a citizen of the United States, there’s a good chance that you live in a state with a presidential primary. If you, like me, are a patriot, I urge you to perform your civic duty and vote. If you, like me, are a registered Democrat, I urge you to vote for Barack Obama.

I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about the campaign. I don’t listen to the speeches, I don’t watch the debates. I know from long experience that a candidate will say and do whatever it takes to be elected and that the various media outlets will spin all that to their own ends. I know it’s all a big circus, so I don’t pay it that much attention.

I’m voting for Obama tomorrow because, of everyone who has stepped forward to claim their place in the spotlight, he’s the only one who doesn’t make me sick to my stomach when I look at him.

McCain and Romney have given the United States their solemn oath to continue down the disastrous trail that George W. Bush forged, and Clinton, although more in my ideological arena, has run a brutal, vicious campaign that, to my mind, has shown her to be an oily, cynical political animal, willing to stoop to whatever level necessary to gain power. I think we’ve had enough of that.

Finally, if you, like me, can occasionally be influenced by a cheesy, sentimental music video, I urge you to watch this:

How good is No Country For Old Men?

It’s now apparently winning golfing trophies, that’s how good.

Screenwriting 101: The Gap

One of my favorite terms that I got from reading Robert McKee’s Story is The Gap.

The Gap is simply the distance between what the protagonist thinks is going to happen and what actually happens. The wider The Gap is, the more interesting your story will be.

Example: you’re at the water cooler, and a fellow employee says “Let me tell you about my morning.” He goes on to tell you about how he ate some toast, watched Good Morning America, got dressed, checked his email and then went out to get the bus. This is a protagonist with no Gap at all, and thus his story isn’t very interesting.

(On the other hand, if you are the protagonist in this story, your Gap is a teeny bit wider because what you expect to happen is that your co-worker will tell you a worthwhile story and what actually happens is he’s a crashing bore.)

If your co-worker says that he bit into his toast and discovered there was a dead mouse baked into the bread, his Gap just got appreciably wider. If he says that he turned on the TV and started a fire because he has too many appliances plugged into his outlet, his Gap is wider still. If he says that he sat down to watch Good Morning America and found they were broadcasting his obituary, his Gap is about as wide as it’s probably going to get.

Since Cloverfield happens to be on my mind, and has an exceptional example of The Gap, let’s look at that narrative for a moment:

Rob in Cloverfield is in love with Beth but can’t bring himself to tell her so. He’s moving to Japan soon and doesn’t want to deal with his newfound emotional detour. What Rob expects to happen is that he will move to Japan, as scheduled, never deal with Beth again, and eventually get on with his life. What actually happens is that Rob’s friends throw a surprise going-away party for him, Beth shows up with another guy, Rob finds all his feelings for her coming to the surface, and then a giant monster comes along and destroys Manhattan.

That, speaking as a professional, is some freakin’ Gap.

Clarice Starling in The Silence of the Lambs is an FBI trainee who is asked by her superior, Jack Crawford, to interview Famous Creepy Guy Hannibal Lecter, in the hopes that she will get him to shed some light on a serial-murder case that’s troubling him. What Clarice expects to happen is that Lecter will creep her out, but ultimately help her in her pursuit of her goal, which is to curry favor with her superior. What actually happens is that Lecter creeps her out to a level far beyond what she would have thought possible, and draws her into a web of intrigue so personal and disturbing that it turns out that Clarice, and Clarice alone, is able to capture and kill the serial killer that’s troubling Jack Crawford.

Richard Kimble in The Fugitive comes home one evening to find his wife being murdered by a mysterious one-armed man. That’s a pretty freakin’ wide Gap right there, but that’s not really the Gap of Richard’s narrative. What Richard expects to happen is that he, sober, bearded vascular surgeon, will simply tell the police what happened and the police will then diligently pursue his wife’s killer. What actually happens is that Richard finds himself accused of his wife’s murder, and is thrown into jail, tried and convicted.

Marion Crane in Psycho steals some money from her employer and high-tails it out of town to make a new life for herself. What she expects to happen is that she will probably be arrested, but almost certainly she will calm down, return the money and get her life organized. What actually happens is she gets so murdered by a guy in a dress that the rest of the movie isn’t even about her, which is probably the widest Gap in the history of movies.

The Ticking Clock is one of the most celebrated of all plot devices, but The Gap is sometimes overlooked, which is a shame. Take Alien for instance, a brilliant motion picture which, brilliance notwithstanding, not only takes its sweet time announcing a protagonist (you would be forgiven for thinking it’s Tom Skerrit for the first half of the movie) but, until the goddamn thing bursts out of John Hurt’s chest, The Gap between what the protagonist expects to happen and what actually does doesn’t seem that wide to me. The team is called to a desolate planet to investigate a distress call, and nobody wants to do it, because they all expect to find something horrible. Which, indeed, is what happens. The Gap comes later, when they think they’ve figured out what the nature of the thing they’ve found is, figuring which turns out to be dreadfully, dreadfully inaccurate.

One way to successfully install a Gap in your screenplay is to have a good idea about who your protagonist is, and a good idea of where you want him to end up, and then look at that protagonist and that ending and see if there’s a way to tweak it so that the protagonist is expecting anything other than where he’s going to end up. If Richard Kimble came home to find his wife being murdered by a one-armed man, and immediately thought “I’ll bet my best friend Pharmaceutical Industry Guy is behind this!” he wouldn’t have much of a Gap. And if Clarice Starling was asked by Jack Crawford to go interview Hannibal Lecter and thought “Aha! I’m going to hijack this case from my superior and kick this guy’s ass!” her character wouldn’t have anywhere to go. And if Rob had just gone ahead and told Beth he loved her that day in Coney Island, he probably could have saved everybody a great deal of trouble.


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Some more thoughts on Cloverfield

A Great Cinema Fan has taken the time to write a long response to my post on Cloverfield. As he has done me the courtesy of articulating his thoughts, I decided to take the time to further articulate mine. As GCF does not choose to be affiliated with one sex or another, I will use the traditional “he.”


I could not disagree more with you regarding this film. It’s baffling how you can compare this to Godzilla and the Posiedon Adventure…both those films had a disaster that the storytellers at least attempted to explain.

It is true that the writers of both The Poseidon Adventure and Godzilla attempted to explain the disasters central to their narratives. For the record, the explanation of the disaster in The Poseidon Adventure is “an underwater earthquake” and the disaster in Godzilla is caused by a very large lizard, awakened by an h-bomb test in the Pacific ocean.

Here’s the thing about “explaining the disaster”: the audience doesn’t care. We don’t care what caused the tidal wave, we don’t care why Godzilla is awake. The explanations have absolutely zero dramatic impact. The scenes in both Poseidon and Godzilla where serious-looking men furrow their brows and discuss the science behind their disasters are not only the least interesting scenes in their respective movies, they are some of the least interesting scenes in all movie history. And that goes for King Kong (including the remake), The Towering Inferno, The Day After Tomorrow and especially the American remake of Godzilla. These are the scenes any child skips over to get to “the good parts,” and any Great Cinema Fan would be embarrassed to be caught watching.

Let me ask you this; which do you think is more plausible; That the studio execs greenlighted this because of some high minded notion of introducing NY post 9/11, or, that they said “let’s throw the statue of liberty around and put a monster in the film and not explain how it got there, because that would take too long and we want a small runtime to run more screenings per day and up our box office take”

I don’t think either of these scenarios are remotely plausible. The studio greenlit Cloverfield because they thought it would make money, true, but “throwing the statue of liberty around” and “not explaining how the monster got there in order to cut down on the running time” were not factors in their decision.

However, if the studio made a decision to make Cloverfield a half-hour shorter than a conventional action-horror movie by cutting out the scenes where scientists and military commanders stand around in a dramatically-lit room and discuss, with furrowed brows, the science of the thing that’s wreaking havoc upon Manhattan, I congratulate the studio for their acute cinematic acumen. But I suspect that these decisions were made by the moviemakers.

Godzilla was a dinosaur. This was a minotaur on steroids. My powers of suspension of belief are strong, which is a help because I enjoy sci-fi films, but this is another monster altogether.

It seems that the makers of Cloverfield have frustrated GCF by creating a monster with little basis in known morphology.

No explanation of what it is that’s destroying NY. No explanation of how it got there. Nothing. Just disaster.

I’m sorry that Cloverfield didn’t work for GCF, but the movie’s mysteries surrounding the creature and the reasons for its appetite for destruction are exactly the reasons the movie works so well. It explores “just disaster” in exactly the same way that most people experience it — frightening, chaotic and completely meaningless.

What I have learned from this film is not that the majority of people are extremely easy to please, it’s that a great many of the movie going public who like this rubbish are representative of a potion of American cinema today; a true lowest common denominator film.

I’m not sure what most of this sentence means, but I do agree that Cloverfield is a “lowest common denominator film” — anyone can enjoy it, no specialized knowledge is required.

It saddens me to learn that you as a screenwriter praises this film in the way that you have. I can only imagine other screenwriters feel the same.

This happens to be true — many other screenwriters do feel the same.

From a technical delivery point of view the movie treads water well, but from a screenwriters point of view it is absolutely atrocious.

This depends, I suppose, on one’s definition of screenwriting. The ambitions of the screenplay for Cloverfield may be modest, and it delivers no wisdom greater than “hold on to the ones you love,” but it achieves its goals with great skill and dexterity, and that, on any scale, is no atrocity.

I can at least take comfort from the fact that it is experiencing 60% plus drops weekend on weekend, which in movie business parlance means that it has no worthy word of mouth to help this “high point of American cinema” pass the hundred million dollar mark.

I thank GCF for his insights into “movie business parlance,” but in current marketing schemes, a 60% drop indicates only that the marketing people did their job well — everyone who wanted to see the movie in the first weekend was able to. The movie business, to a large extent, is driven by opening weekends, which are engineered for maximum hugeness. Even with its relatively precipitous drop, Cloverfield has managed to make back almost three times its budget in three weeks, which, in movie business parlance, is a big, big hit.

Hopefully it’s ineptitude to perform well at the box office post it’s advertisement laden initial release will serve to remind Hollywood that making movies is about storytelling, the true foundation of great cinema.

As noted above, Cloverfield has performed just fine at the box office. GCF is correct that movies are about storytelling; it seems that I have a broader definition of storytelling than him. I find the storytelling in Cloverfield compact, efficient and streamlined — the moviemakers tell us what we need to know, and leave out everything else, and tell their story in a way that’s stylish, surprising and keeps things moving at a breathtaking clip.

Releasing a movie absent of any story should reveal what these studio execs really think about you the viewer.

I have seen movies with weak stories.  I have even seen movies with nonexistent stories.  Stan Brakhage’s Mothlight, for instance.  Cloverfield‘s story is simple, but it is not weak, nor nonexistent.

By the by, I’m not quite certain of the stats to date but if I remember correctly this will be the lowest grossing film at the box office as a function of its opening weekend, in the action genre, in over 25 years. Check out HSX.com or boxofficemojo.com for the stats if you’re so inclined.

I believe I will.

Box Office Mojo, the site I find most efficient for these things, lists Cloverfield as “Action Horror,” but does not have a list of Action Horror grosses that I can find, nor plain Action (which strikes me as odd). Cloverfield currently ranks #117 of all opening-weekend grosses in history ($40 million), ahead of such comparable movies as Alien vs. Predator ($38 million), Armageddon ($36 million), Minority Report ($36 million), Lethal Weapon 4 ($34 million), Live Free or Die Hard ($33 million), Lethal Weapon 3 ($33 million), Blade II ($32 million), The Sum of All Fears ($31 million), Saving Private Ryan ($30 million), Constatine ($30 million), and about ten billion other action/adventure/horror titles.  So “lowest grossing film at the box office in the action genre” seems to be a pretty poor description of Cloverfield.  It is also the biggest January opening in history. With a well-spent budget of $25 million (I shudder to think what the marketing budget was), it will most likely end up being one of the most profitable movies of the year, if not the most profitable.

I understand that some people don’t like Cloverfield, and its hard for me to believe that a movie this simple and direct went “over their heads,” so once again I have to assume that there is something else about the movie that does not sit well with this rather vocal minority.


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