1917: Sam Mendes does Calendar Theory, probably without fully knowing it

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1917, Bonfire Night, Calendar Theory, Film, fire, Sam Mendes, screenplay, Screenwriting, War, Writing

Right then – PK’s Writing Blog is back. It’s a place where I (b)log screen things that help/nudge/remind anything about the writing process – with a particular view on story structure.

Writers have a love/hate relationship with structure. Some see it is a must, to get the bones of the story in precise place before you write a word. Others write by the seat of their pants. I think the best path is probably somewhere in the middle: writing’s an art and a craft, so sometimes you need to lock down the stricter craft, while other times you need to let art run away with itself.

My method? The (arty) idea comes first, with a concept, a character/their relationships, a conflict, and a conquest of that conflict – ooh that’s all Cs, that makes a handy Powerpoint slide. Then the (crafty) thrashing-out of the story, with lots and back-and-forths to (arty) character-forming, concept-tweaking, setting the setting and so on. Then a first (arty) draft based on the (crafty) outline, (crafty) rewrites and redrafts, and from there on the crafty bits mostly show me the problems and the arty bits hopefully provide a few fancy answers.

I can’t help you much with the art. But the craft… that’s what this blog’s about. (Except at Christmas. Then this blog is about Christmas.)

So I thought I’d zoom in on one excellent example of this: Sam Mendes’ outstanding Oscar-bound film, 1917. Spoilers of that will be below, but you’ll know where because I’ll say SPOILERS in big letters.

Previously on this blog, I proposed my story structure theory. Well it’s a pattern. Well it’s a thing, based on the calendar year. I call it Calendar Theory. I’m writing it up as a book, but for now, I’m blogging here about how it fits with certain films. Familiar elements of the calendar year – from human festivals to natural seasons to those handy equinoxes – are helpful markers in many films’ storylines. We’ve tried it on Mary Poppins Returns already. So now, 1917.

Spot the continuity error. Clue: it’s clothing-based. (Alright it’s the bloke in the middle.)

1917 is a visually incredible, directorially how-the-hell-did-they-film-that, one-shot masterpiece. Well it looks like one shot. There are cuts, but that doesn’t matter. It’s real-time (almost), and it feels like one very big breath. But narratively, it’s hitting all those points that almost every other film does. In stunning fashion, yes – giant kudos to writers Krysty Wilson-Cairns and Mr Mendes. To make us like it, I think it has to hit familiar markers.

Here’s how I think 1917 fits with Calendar Theory:

SPOILERS BEGIN NOW. Come back when you’ve seen the film, or read on if you don’t mind having it spoiled (though it won’t spoil it really, because how they portray it – the art on top – is breathtaking).

JANUARY: New Year/new start… Blake and Schofield wake up, almost literally coming out of hibernation. The setting is revealed: the cold, hungry Western Front.

FEBRUARY: Valentine’s… Not romantic, but no man is an island, so we need an encounter. Blake + Schofield = our key relationship. It leads to a reluctant opportunity… to go behind supposed enemy lines to deliver a message, to save over a thousand troops. But a thousand troops isn’t enough – to make it personal, those troops include Blake’s brother. Characters start a story; relationships spark it into continuing.

MARCH: They’ve had their invitation (well, their order). They would never refuse that order, yet there’s still Debate (as story theorist Blake Snyder would have it) or Refusal of the Call (as story theorist Joseph Campbell would have it). I think it’s more that our main duo have a difference of opinion as to how it should be done. Neither’s refusing to go, but Schofield wants to wait till nightfall, Blake wants to go now – his brother’s life is at stake. Look at any film or TV show: even characters on the same path, on the same journey, constantly disagree about how it should be done.

The Spring Equinox (late March) marks where our story marches (pun intended) from Act 1 into Act 2. Others call this Crossing The Threshold. Here they’re taking a major risk going over the top into no man’s land.

There’s often an Easter moment at this point in films – a glimpse of the divine. Is it a coincidence that their march into Act 2 is marked by Andrew Scott (Fleabag’s priest, no less) blessing them as they go over the top? Possibly. But there are an astounding number of glimpse-of-the-divine moments at this point in films/shows/books.

APRIL: Like many narrative theories, this one’s based on the three-act structure, going right back to Aristotle. Beginning, Muddle, End. So April starts Act 2, with an April Fool moment, as the duo discover giant craters, before the tension builds to… an empty German trench. Then a proper ‘fool’ moment when they encounter a tripwire.

April showers come when the German trench caves in on them – a lucky escape, but at this stage, we always knew they’d escape. That saving moment is crucial though, and will resonate through the film.

There’s even then a moment of ‘Spring’ talk, when the two soldiers chat about cherry blossom as they pass through an orchard. At this stage of stories there’s hope. Nature is blooming… mirrored later in the autumn of the story: cows deliberately killed so the Allies can’t eat them – the death of nature. That’s for later. For now, we’re talking about hope. (Am I reading too much into this? No. Is this bloom/death of nature deliberate in the scriptwriting? Definitely.) It’s the calm before a summer storm…

MAY: Maypole… Sub-characters weave in and out, which asks ‘Who can we trust?’ In 1917 this starts with planes flying past; the duo aren’t sure if they’re ours or theirs. Then that trust question is brought home in the dogfight and its fateful crash…

Mayfair… The mirror image of Halloween to come, hinting at bigger crisis later. In most films, later Halloween is mirrored here in a safe-yet-scary moment, (BIG SPOILER COMING) but in 1917, it’s fatal. The dogfight crashes a German plane. When our heroes rescue the doomed pilot, he fatally stabs Blake. Notably it’s Blake who wanted to save the pilot – if it was Schofield, he’d spend the rest of the film under the shadow of guilt, that he chose wrong. That doesn’t happen – Schofield is working under enough pressure without throwing guilt in too.

JUNE: Family picnic rained off… As Blake dies, he speaks of family and asks Schofield to write to his mum for him.

This scene is also our midpoint, the Longest Day of late June in Calendar Theory terms. Rising action before, falling action after, some say. Charting the story like a graph, this is our mountain-top: before, the hero couldn’t fully see the task ahead, but at this point, he can see the scale of it. So in 1917, what was a mission for a duo becomes a renewed mission for one.

JULY: School’s out/end of learning… Mark Strong and co pick up Schofield. There’s a moment of the new soldiers bantering, doing impressions of top brass. It’s the end of the school year, highlighting faulty logic and essentially graduating our hero.

AUGUST: The long hot summer… The ‘summer’ of stories are often on fast-forward. Time speeds up. In comedies (or Rocky films), there might be a montage. Here, there’s a time-jump in a mo, but that’s not what I mean. I mean Schofield’s journey literally speeds up when the lorry accelerates his journey. It gives him thinking-time and a chance to try new skills…

Summer camp… When the lorry is stuck in the mud, Schofield urges the soldiers (strangers) to get out and push with him. Push hard. They succeed on Schofield’s cry, and sure enough it’s him that ends up face down in the mud. He is suffering for his mission, and this is the time to hone those skills (resilience, digging deep) that will be needed later (for, SPOILER, the sprint across the battlefield).

SEPTEMBER: Fall, when we think it’s summer… When least expected, shots are fired over the river. We dropped our guard. We were enjoying the summer too much, and didn’t notice the nights draw in. The dark literally draws in when Schofield is shot. Blackout. The Autumn Equinox is here. It’s not quite our Act 3 yet though – in the Calendar Theory model, that’s December. To get us there, first we have…

OCTOBER: Scares! Schofield wakes and it’s night. Come on – if this doesn’t remind us of the seasonal shape of the year, I don’t know what does. There are even fires, like our winter bonfires, to light up the night, to burn the past, to scare us.

NOVEMBER: Heroic fireworks! Schofield races and chases his way through the physical dark. The emotionally darkest of moments is yet to come…

DECEMBER: Advent… The baby and mum brings a contemplative, reflective moment, full of anticipation, but calm. We need this moment, by Jiminy do we! I feel this scene was the writers’ gift to us, to carry us through the rest of the onslaught. Is it too much to read into this Advent moment, a baby as the hope the world needs? Alright, maybe. Coincidence. Maybe. Baby.

Shop early for Christmas… Something bought earlier in the film can be cleverly brought out here as a gift: milk. Makes me cry thinking about it. Beautiful.

End of term… But Schofield must leave Act 2 behind and run and jump into Act 3 – and here’s a literal divide and renewed commitment, as he jumps into the river. Like a schoolchild changing out of that uniform for the last time this year, his old self is washed away. The Act 3 self – the Christmas self – is what’s needed now – a product of everything he’s been through till now, a product of the full year till now. But the year’s not over yet…

The darkest day… Schofield climbing over dead bodies in the river is possibly the bleakest of bleak. Through the woods, when he finally encounters the troops he’s spent the ENTIRE film/year searching for, he barely recognises them. He’s bewitched by the song, which essentially is a Christmas carol.

December looks suspiciously like January… The trenches Schofield discovers are starkly reminiscent of the trenches from the start of the film. John Yorke’s book Into The Woods sees stories as journeys into the woods then back home again changed. Here Schofield embodies that, seeing these new trenches with greater purpose than the ones at the start – and he’s even just gone through literal woods to be here.

Schofield’s final sprint

Christmas Eve rush… The sprint along the battlefield is this moment incarnate. It’s Colin Firth running through the streets of Portugal at the end of Love Actually. It’s Marty McFly racing the Delorean before the lightning bolt strikes. It’s Sandra Bullock hurtling to Earth in Gravity. It’s the Christmas rush, often against the flow of pedestrian traffic – and sure enough here George MacKay is running at 90 degrees to the tide of the troops. In all these films, this dynamic scene thrills us and pulls on our heartstrings, because we’ve been with the hero for the whole year and know what it’s taken to be here.

Gifts, reunion… Against all odds, Schofield accomplishes his mission. And it’s a Christmas party of cameos: him from that film, him from that show. The hero is pretty much offered a festive drink here, but can’t take it, because it’s not over yet…

Family, security – Outside it’s snowing, but in here it’s cosy and warm… Alright this film doesn’t quite manage that physically, but emotionally oh yes. Despite the war around, we end the film in the security of the triage tent. Schofield finds Blake’s brother, handing over both news and the gifts of the first Blake’s possessions. A family reunion, of sorts.

New Year’s Eve: The film ends with an exact matching image of the very first image: Schofield sitting under a tree. Like the Bible, it starts and ends with a tree (this story pattern has been around for a loooooooong time). Schofield shows us pictures of his wife and daughters, that he’s not mentioned till now – this is his family reunion, and it’s even underneath a (Christmas) tree…

Okay, maybe strike the Christmas tree metaphor from the record – I’m reading too much in. Perhaps. But the tree as a symbol of hope and nature’s continuing revival is a huge one. That sense that we end yet start again having barely moved on, is there in this film, in the calendar year, in so many stories.

 

What a film. What a story.

So if you’re currently writing a story, have you accidentally (or deliberately) woven in any of those story points above? Does yours have a seasonal shape to it? Bet it does, even if you hadn’t noticed it. Till now…

 

In The Tall Grass: from book to film with ONE essential new character

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Books, Ending, Films, Horror, Midpoint, Netflix, screenplay, Screenwriting, Stephen King, Writing

This may be a very niche post.

a) Like most posts on the all-new PK’s Writing Blog, it’s aimed at writers or those interested in writing and how it does or doesn’t work. You don’t need to be a writer – just willing to tinker under the bonnet/hood (UK/US term for the front bit on a car).

b) You need to either have seen In The Tall Grass on Netflix as I just have… and/or read the Stephen King/Joe Hill novella it’s based on… OR …not mind reading about spoilerific plot points in either, if you’re planning to see/read it.

I was intrigued to see that this slim trim horror story – with a pretty lean cast to begin with – had to add one crucial character to graduate from page to screen. And that in turn is quite telling about an essential part of telling a satisfying story. Which we’ll get to. But first, what you need to know about In The Tall Grass. SPOILERS below…

It’s a horror film based on one neat idea – what if you got lost in a field of grass that was just too tall to see over? Watch the trailer, you’ll get a feel for the whole movie. So it’s a maze: at times repetitive and annoying, at times scary, at (rare) times hopeful, and at times the same characters bump into each other…

Needs a mow.

Those characters are: our hero the pregnant Becky… her ill-motived brother Cal… a stereotypically cute/scary boy called Tobin who incites their incident (his lost cries lure them into the field of corn – I mean grass)… Tobin’s twisted dad Ross (don’t trust him)… and Tobin’s mum Natalie (the subbest of sub-characters, so you know she’s there just to show you how nasty Ross becomes.

Oh and a dog. Of course there’s a dog. Should they follow the dog? No they should not follow the dog.

But going back to Natalie, her hideous demise comes bang-on exactly halfway through the film. Almost to the minute.

The midpoint. That elusive screenwriting moment that’s a major plot point to shake things up. A realisation of what’s at stake. A false resolution, or an awareness of how bad things have become. In Se7en, it’s when Detectives Mills and Somerset discover John Doe’s lair. In Jurassic Park, almost exactly halfway to the minute, we first see the T-Rex and realise its threat. In Jaws, almost exactly halfway to the minute, the shark’s in . In each case, it’s horrific awareness. In Schindler’s List (Spielberg clearly loves his midpoints), almost to the second, halfway through the film Oskar Schindler goes from self-absorbed egotist to benevolent life-saver. We’ll zoom in on that example in a future blog post – it’s such an effective turnabout.

So that’s the midpoint – time and time again, giving our characters a fuller understanding of the horror show they’re in. It’s like they’ve spent the first half of the film climbing a mountain. Halfway through they’ve climbed the peak, and they can see not only far they’ve come, but the sheer scale of how far they have to go. But at least they can climb down the other side with skills learned and knowledge gained from the first half.

How do we get out of this movie? We’ve been stuck in production here for years…

The end of In The Tall Grass novella and film differ. Why? Mainly because of the audience. Stephen King and Joe Hill write to shock their readers. The number of Stephen King short stories with downer endings… Me oh my. But films? With very rare exceptions, even horror film audiences seek some kind of happy ending. Tie up the loose ends. Let our hero win the day. They’ve suffered enough! You can still have an epilogue gut-punch if you really want, but most of the time, we won’t be satisfied with a downer ending.

Proper spoilers now: the novella ends with Becky, Cal and Tobin all a bit mad, hugging n evil rock, destined never to leave the grass, but this won’t do for the film. Simply put, they need saving.

How do you save a character? With sacrifice. And no, not Children of the Corn type sacrifice on that rock – but with self-sacrifice. We could get spiritual and religious here but I’ll park that for now. Suffice to say, an outsider coming in to sacrifice himself so that others might live sounds a bit familiar.

So this is where our extra character comes in. Not in the book, but entering the film stage left is Becky’s estranged boyf and father of the baby, Travis. For the first half of the movie, it’s not entirely clear if he’s good or bad, but again, at around that midpoint, all becomes clear. The brother is bad – the boyfriend is good. From the midpoint on, we’re just playing out what’s been set up.

Travis’ entire role in the film is to save the day – but the rules mean that doesn’t come easily. He has to sacrifice himself (the only way out of the grass maze is to touch the rock, to gain knowledge – again the biblical metaphors are there, with Eden-based apple-eating and knowledge consumption). Armed with the knowledge of how to escape, but cursed with never being able to leave himself, Travis can save the boy Tobin, who can then save Becky and Cal.

(One bugbear of mine? By saving Becky and Cal, Becky is destined to a life with her twisted brother Cal, but hey, maybe she’ll realise his motives another day, off-screen…)

So there you have it. A cast list of 5 grows to a cast list of 6 from page to screen. Interestingly too, the grass in the book can only alter space, while the grass in the film can alter space and time. By making it 2D, they’ve added a dimension… and a sacrificial saviour, to give us a ‘happy’, if still somewhat unpleasant, ending.

GoT Finale: 5 thoughts from the screenplay now online

Tags

Game of Thrones, screenplay, Writing

GOT FINALE SPOILERS BELOW, BEWARE…

On a previous blog post here (in fact the first of this new era of PK’s Writing Blog – I’m sure we all have that date in our mental diary since it marked a new dawn for civilisation), I threw some thoughts down on the Game of Thrones finale. Well the script of that final episode has just landed online.

(You COULD read it here on the Emmys’ homepage – though it’s currently down, so that may bring you to an e-pit of despair. It might go up again. Or might stay down. It’s either because demand has crashed it, or because criticism has been levelled against it. The other Emmy-nominated scripts are readable here.)

Various haters have used the script’s recent appearance to pull it apart even more – including how (SPOILER!) Drogon the dragon didn’t burn the Iron Throne deliberately – it was just “a dumb bystander”, as it’s described in the screenplay. Others have mocked their stage directions of Sansa and Jon Snow’s reaction to being asked what’s west of Westeros. “Jon and Sansa look at each other. They both failed geography.”

We’ll have none of that here. They say a screenplay isn’t a work of art – it’s a blueprint, an invitation to collaborate on making a work of art. They can use whatever scene descriptions they want to get the point across to the crew. So I shan’t pile in on that. Benioff and Weiss ended the show how they wanted (presuming with some sign-off from ol’ motorbike himself, George “Rrrrrrrr” Martin).

As I said in the earlier blog post, epics are hard to end when you’re telling a story of good vs evil, because everyone has to pick a lane by the end, and we end up with the goodest of the good and the baddest of the bad, and no shades of grey in the middle. The shades of grey, it turns out, was the fun part in the middle of the show, when characters betrayed each other, were redeemed, etc. The only way they could have upended expectation was to have Tyrion open a door and appear in present-day New York or something. But then that was done already by Amy Adams in Enchanted, so even that’s been done before…

Fantasy character appears in present-day New York: possibly the only way to have ended Game of Thrones.

Instead of pulling it apart, I want to draw some positive general writing pointers from a quick skim of the script. What can we learn from that script? Granted, now it’s offline again, you may not be able to read it. But I’ve had a skim, and here are some immediate takeaways (if the script reappears online, you can check the page numbers then)…

 

1. Epics look the same as everything else on the page

This script is still just 44 pages long, and adheres to all the usual screenplay layout formatting. The first thing that struck me about this script, is it looked surprisingly normal – just like my paltry attempts. From afar…

It’s also then still got all the same dilemmas re character choice and story beats as any other script. It’s also got jokes – and the moments of comedy leap off the page: see Bronn’s brothel comment on p.40, or Samwell’s laughable attempt at democracy on p.25. Two bits of comedy in a 44-page drama script seems about right I guess, when you’ve started off by referencing a camera shot from Son of Saul.

 

2. Epic doesn’t mean epic scene descriptions

Brevity is the soul of wit, so said Oscar Wilde (or he could have shortened it to ‘Brevity’s soul’s wit’ – even briefer). The scene descriptions may take up half a page or more, but they’re full of just the right amount of information to make the show. No fat on it. Regardless what you thought of the episode, this is how professional TV (and the biggest show on professional TV) is made. Give the crew what they need.

Look at that second line on the first page:

“King’s Landing is a smoldering wreck of a city.”

That’s all they need to say. We know from the previous episode that the city’s been decimated by dragonfire. Buildings are on fire. Flaming timber fills the streets. There’s a house there still falling down – another over there that’s now ash – another over there that’s… doesn’t matter. Let the production team make all that happen. Just get in the bare bones of what we need to know for the story.

 

3. The writers know when to let the visuals tell the story…

Page 4 is dialogue-free. So’s page 15, pp.20-21, pp.41-42… This doesn’t just apply to the very visual genre we’re in here. Many newer screenwriters (especially if they’re come from stageplay or radio) fill the script with dialogue and forget those moments when as viewers we just want to view. When the spoken words have given us enough to think on for now, we sometimes need the breather to take it all in. Again, those visual descriptions don’t direct, but give the director just enough to go on.

See p.20: “In a beautiful, terrifying tableaux, he [the dragon] roars to the sky, the embodiment of rage.”

…Let someone else work out what that looks like.

 

4. …and when to speak and speak and speak

Another rookie error is writing long speeches. Most speeches in most scripts last between one and four lines down the page. Yet us writers often earnestly think we need to have each character blurt out their life story, or exactly what they’re thinking down to their thoughts on what lovely weather it is for the time of year. Don’t need it.

That said, in epic fantasy, some characters are prone to a bit more Wizardy-Dickens kind of speech. All “forsooth, a goblin” and “thou shalt verily fight me at dawn’s break”. Tyrion’s speech at the top of p.13 isn’t too Wizardy-Dickens, but it is seven lines then five lines (making twelve lines, maths fans), as he espouses on how “Sometimes duty is the death of love.” He’s got some big thoughts to convey before show’s end, and he’s always been a talker.

Edmure: The Boris Johnson of Game of Thrones (if only).

See also Edmure’s speech at the top of p.25. Nine lines, and these are the first words he’s said in about four seasons – because this is the moment where he thinks he’s being grand and claiming the non-existent throne, but then is comedically cut off by Sansa and put back in his place. He overspeaks, because it’s funny, because he’s rubbish.

I wouldn’t expect Greyworm or Bronn to waffle on quite so much. But in this finale of finales, this episode of episodes, sure, sometimes the writers need to let the characters have their last speeches and set the seven kingdoms to rights. Most of the time though, us writers (me included – this blog is aimed at teaching myself, ultimately), need to know when to shut (our characters) up.

 

5. Some bits still don’t quite make sense

pp.26-27 – Bran is chosen as the new ruler. I’ve seen it and read it and I still don’t buy it. Tyrion asks “Who has a better story than Bran the Broken?” I’d suggest: most of them. People didn’t tune in each week for Bran’s story. They tuned in for Tyrion’s. Jon Snow’s. Arya’s. Bran’s too, but he was never our favourite.

Then a few lines on: “Bran doesn’t look shocked. Simply uninterested.”

Says it all.

BUT it’s not up to me – it’s up to the writers – and fair play to ’em for writing this as they wished. I wouldn’t have written it that way. But then I wouldn’t have got to write any of this stuff…

…Because I’m still learning. And thanks to reading scripts like this (if it’s ever reposted), we get to learn from the pros.

“END OF SEASON 8

END OF GAME OF THRONES”

(END OF GAME OF THRONES BLOG POSTS FROM ME)