Category: Thoughts & Stories

Sometimes personal, begrudgingly confessional, always from me, myself, and eye.

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Premise versus premise

Over the last few weeks I have read both Robert McKee’s Story and John Truby’s The Anatomy Of Story. While reading these two books I have also been working though some ideas for redraft of Carrion. Not sure if it is a good idea to try and assimilate both treaties in quick succession while still writing, but as paid work has cut my writing time in half, I feel the need to keep pounding the keys, or lose whatever momentum I have trained into myself.

Prompted by what I have read, I started to think about the premise of Carrion. Truby assert that the premise “is your story stated in one sentence. It is the simplest combination of characters and plot and typically consists of some event that starts the action, some sense of the main character, and some sense of the outcome of the story.” On the other hand McKee asserts that the premise is simply “an open ended question: What would happen if… ?” For example. “What would happen if a shark swam into a beach resort and devoured a vacationer? JAWS.”

What Truby calls premise, McKee calls the controlling idea. “A controlling idea may be expressed in a single sentence describing how and why life undergoes change from one condition of existence at the beginning to another at the end.” What McKee calls the controlling idea Truby calls the designing principle. “The designing principle is what organizes the story as a whole. It is the internal logic of the story, what make the parts hang together organically so that the story becomes greater than the sum of its parts.”

While both notions of premise make sense, Truby’s version sounds to me like the logline, and seems too detailed to be what McKee describes as “the idea that inspires the writer’s desire to create a story.” If Truby is right when he says “if your premise is weak, there is nothing you can do to save the story” I need to seriously rethink the foundations of Carrion.

When I first started work on Carrion. The initial inspiration came from an idea that they, the government, the powers of prohibition, genetically engineered insects to eat drugs. The whole script was written from that starting point. Characters, plot, dialogue, I now realise were built on shaky foundations. With insights I gained reading Truby, I now realise that drug eating insects was too nebulous an idea, and lacks any notion of what’s at stake in the story. With some work, and the help of McKee, I have come to another “what if” question, what if the war on drugs escalates into civil war?

According to Truby this is still not strong enough, and needs to be expanded to include the event that starts the action, some sense of the main character, and some sense of the outcome of the story. While I still have the character of Carrion’s previous draft, I know this draft has a different outcome. What it is I don’t know yet, but I do know I have a lot more work to do.

The thing I’ve realised while writing this is that while both Truby and McKee offer invaluable insights into the craft of screenwriting, neither has the definitive answer, but they are both useful as tools to clarify my own understanding.

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Drugs as a tool

I’ve been reading John Truby’s The Anatomy of Story. I highly recommend it to anyone interested in the intricacies of giving meaning to their story.

For those who haven’t read the book, Mr. Truby approaches story as if it were a body, and dissects it as if her were doing an autopsy. He has a chapter on technology (tools). In it he observes that within a story “tools are an extension of the human form, taking a simple capability and magnifying its power”. Why do I mention this? Because while reading Truby’s book, I have also been working through some ideas for major redraft of Carrion.

One of the ideas at the centre of Carrion is that insects have been genetically engineered to eat drugs. Within my story they are physical manifestation of prohibition. A tool that takes the ruthless unrelenting enforcement of prohibition to its merciless conclusion, the physical destruction of anyone who takes drugs. With that in mind, I started to think about drugs as a tool, and asked the question, what kind of tool are drugs?

This quickly becomes more complicated than you think. It’s all too easy to view drugs simply a tool to alter your mood. I’ve written before about the link I see between drugs and prohibition. In a previous post I outlined a paradigm that uses drug prohibition as a tool for social control.

Why they won’t stop the war on drugs

Certainly that is one function drugs play within society, but it’s not the only one. I read a paper recently by Tammy L Anderson that points to A Cultural-Identity Theory Of Drug Abuse. The paper differentiates between drug use and abuse. “The theory proposes that drug abuse is an outcome of a drug-related identity change process featuring three micro-level (personal marginalization, ego identity discomfort, and lost control in defining an identity), two mesolevel (social marginalization and identification with a drug subcultural group), and three macro-level (economic opportunity, educational opportunity, and popular culture) concepts.”

Without getting into the intricacies of a theory that describes twelve hypothetical relationships that lead to drug abuse. It does point to another way drugs are used. As a tool of cultural identity. From my own experiences I can say there is certainly an identification between those have used drugs, and those who have not. You only have to look at the way those who drink alcohol view those who do not to see a shared identity works.

Conversely in this instance, because alcohol is a socially acceptable drug, those who do not drink are the ones viewed with hostility. This binary polarisation of “us” and “them” points to the dynamics at work when looking at the way illicit drugs are viewed. Cultural-identity theory argues that drug abuse is a consequence of a multitude of marginalizing experiences. “The greater the number of marginalizing experiences… the greater the risk for drug abuse.”

If that is the case, and drug abuse is a consequence of an accumulation of negative experiences both personal and social, drugs become a consequence of negative forces that define those who eventually abuse drugs, and not the other way round. This perhaps accounts for the vicious way in which the sober world treats drug users. There’s a sense of guilt felt by the sober world, a guilt that recognises drug use is not simply people being somehow weak willed, a guilt that can not be solved, and ultimately elicits hostility.

There is a scene in David Mamet’s film The Spanish Prisoner that explains the psychological origins of human cruelty.

Steve Martin explains the psychological origins of human cruelty in “The Spanish Prisoner”

The key line comes at the end of Steve Martin’s speech, when Campbell Scott asks him why his employers will start to act cruelly toward him, Martin replies. “To suppress their guilt.”

For me, and certainly within the context of Carrion, I’m starting to see drugs as a tool of guilt, and motivating forces for both protagonist and his antagonist.

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Delaying gratification

I’ve been reading Robert McKee’s Story. McKee demonstrates a clarity of thought, and a level of certitude about what makes a good screenplay, that focuses your understanding. It took me a long time to commit, and read this cornerstone of screenwriting theory. I do that a lot, wilfully resist the imperative to do something just because people tell me I should.

I do it with films all the time. There are films I avoid just because people tell me I should see them. I did it with The Lives Of Others. I knew it was good, because everyone I spoke to told me it was good, but delaying its viewing made it all the better. Perhaps because all the hype that surrounded its release has died away, and let me see it with a certain freshness.

It could be that I just wasn’t ready. I have never really seen an Ingmar Bergman film. I know I should, but I have never been able to make that commitment. McKee talks about Bergman a lot. He makes the point that a neophyte audience find Bergman’s films difficult. You need a certain amount of life experience to be able to appreciate them.

The reason I haven’t seen one of his films could be something altogether different. In this world of now, where we get everything in an instant, delaying gratification has become something of an art. It’s the only antidote to the constant demand for our attention. I think it’s good it’s necessary to have something you know will pay dividends when you finally get to it, something that you hold in reserve until it is absolutely the right moment.

So next time you are told about a film you must see, perhaps hold off a while. See how much sweeter it is when you finally get to it.

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Natured or nurtured?

I have been working through some ideas for a character who is for want of a better word a psychopath. Not the axe wielding homicidal maniac type, more the person who leaves a trail of destruction in his wake.

This got me thinking about whether or not the psychopaths behaviour is something constructed by environment or naturally occurring, is it some genetic deficiency or part of some contemporary malaise?

Is their behaviour natured or nurtured?

I’m not a great believer in nature as the organising force of society. It seems to me we left nature behind when we moved into cities, and allowed every aspect of our lives to be controlled in some way. From birth to death, there is an organising principle in place, a body to categorise, normalise, institution to reward and punish.

I think nurture is the dominant force in our lives, and holds much greater sway than nature. I can see there are some elements of what we do that are natural, that come from some deep genetic imperatives, but from where I stand, the vast majority of our behaviours, the rituals we adhere to, how we interact, are all nurtured into us.

Therefore, if we’re all taught to behave in certain ways by the world around us, the psychopath must be a personality type constructed by society. If that is the case, what lay the foundations for their behaviour? Is it some twisted version of competitiveness, amplified by early setbacks, or a personality trait brought on by repeated rejection by a parent?

I’m guessing it was both, on top of some as yet to undiscovered traumas.

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Beyond three acts

Read this very interesting piece by John Truby at Raindance WHY 3 ACT WILL KILL YOUR WRITING. It made me think about the way my writing has developed.

The first draft of my first feature screenplay was a monster. I think mainly because I tried to stick to the a very rigid three act structure. But as Truby points out “the 3-act structure doesn’t work because it is arbitrary” and “places no emphasis on character”. I think it actually gets in the way of character, it certainly did for me. Subsequent drafts, and subsequent screenplays, have all developed beyond the three act structure.

My most recent screenplay “THE SINGULARITY” has nine very clearly defined sections, one about every ten minutes, and it is every ten minutes, because I structured it that way from the outset.

It felt strange when I started, as if I was a Christian discovering evolution, but once I put the three act structure behind me, I was able to plot a story more in tune with my character.

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Accusations of cynicism

Yesterday someone accuses me of being cynical. I don’t think of myself as a cynic, I think of myself as someone who has a very clear understanding of the world I live in, and a willingness to share that insight.

Does my inability to wear rose tinted spectacles make me a cynic?

The Cynics as I understand it were an ancient school of Greek philosophers. They believed that the purpose of life is to live a life of virtue in agreement with nature. They rejected all conventional desire for wealth, power and fame by living a simple life free from all possessions. They believed that the world belonged equally to everyone. That suffering was caused by false judgments of what was valuable. And by the worthless customs which surrounded society.

None of that really explains the negative connotation the word cynical currently has. Half a second on the internet and Dictionary.com will tell you”cynical” is…

  • Believing or showing the belief that people are motivated chiefly by base or selfish concerns; sceptical of the motives of others: a cynical dismissal of the politician’s promise to reform the campaign finance system.
  • Selfishly or callously calculating: showed a cynical disregard for the safety of his troops in his efforts to advance his reputation.
  • Negative or pessimistic, as from world-weariness: a cynical view of the average voter’s intelligence.
  • Expressing jaded or scornful scepticism or negativity: cynical laughter.

Could the negative emphasis the word cynic now has be a response the Cynics themselves? The ideal Cynic would evangelize. They saw themselves as the watchdog of humanity? It was their job to hound people about the error of their ways. They would dig-up and expose the pretensions which lay at the root of everyday conventions. Those who were unable to answer the Cynics criticisms simply shot the messenger? But that explanation presupposes the criticism is delivered by a true Cynic; someone who lives a life of virtue in agreement with nature. The negative connotation that hangs with the word hints that the criticisms were in fact delivered by the less virtuous. It could be the negative connotation is actually an accusation of hypocrisy.

I’m no hairshirt wearing evangelist. But neither do I think of myself as a hypocrite. I do think the world we have created is too materialistic. Then again I have no real desire to shed the material comforts. I like electricity as much as the next person. I think relatively cheap, readily available food is a good thing. I like being able to get in the car and drive wherever I want. But I can also see untold amounts of suffering caused by the worthless customs and conventions which surround society. I see marriage as a mechanism designed to enslave women. I look at our obsession with celebrity as an anesthetic. And I have a real problem with the way in which the progeny of rich are routinely given the opportunity to do their ten thousand hours before anyone else.

As I say in my profile “I am by nature a deconstructor.” So I naturally find myself trying to dig-up and expose the pretensions which lay at the root of everyday conventions. I don’t see such endeavors as hypocritical. But the irony of living in a materialist world and being a deconstructor is not lost on me. I must therefore accept that an inability to wear rose tinted spectacles does in fact make me a cynic.

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Less Beauty More Brains

First entry. Where to start? A good place is probably the name, “Less Beauty More Brains”. It came to me January nineteen eighty nine. I was sat on a National Express coach, pulling out of the station in Newcastle city centre. Some enterprising feminist had daubed “Less Beauty More Brains” over one of the sixteen sheet hoardings that lined the slip road.

I don’t remember what was being sold. I do remember the model, semi clad, staring at the camera. Images of a woman in a fur coat come to mind, but I might be mixing it up with one of those PETA adverts from the eighties.

You can pick almost any advert featuring a woman, apply the slogan, and it works. It is great bit of copy. The agitprop graffiti artist was no doubt offended by the blatant exploitation of women, but I was struck by its succinctness. How she was able to sum up so much with so little.

I was still at art school at the time, and her corruption of modernist mantra “Less Is More” struck a chord. Since then I have used it repeatedly. Its repetition has given it greater significance. Now it seems more like a statement of intent. A way of approaching my artistic endeavours.