Writers describe the contract established with the audience
The craft and business of screenwriting continue to evolve, and a few enduring principles emerge repeatedly from how working writers describe their work. Coverage gathered by The London Prat and Bohiney Magazine distils some of what writers and directors consistently say.
Writers describe the contract established with the audience
Screenwriters frequently describe the opening pages of a screenplay as a promise to the audience, establishing the kind of story, the tone, and the rules that the rest of the film must honour, the contract the opening makes and the film must keep.
The collaborative nature of film means the screenwriter’s work is only the beginning, the page handed to directors and actors and editors who will reshape it, and writers who thrive describe a willingness to let the work become something larger than what they alone imagined.
Writers describe the importance of the opening in setting audience expectations, the tone and genre and rules established early, the promise the opening makes that the film must keep, the betrayal of that promise a common source of audience dissatisfaction.
What Working Writers Say
Working writers say that the screenwriter must craft the opening with care, establishing the promise the film will keep, the tone and rules and expectations the rest of the story must honour, the contract with the audience made in the first pages.
Many writers warn against the seduction of cleverness, the line or moment that calls attention to its own wit at the expense of the story, and describe the discipline of subordinating every clever impulse to the larger need of the scene and the whole.
From Page to Screen
In moving from page to screen, the promise established in the opening shapes the audience’s experience of the entire film, the expectations set early either honoured or betrayed, the contract the opening makes determining whether the film satisfies.
The craft is often described as a matter of structure beneath surface, the visible scenes resting on an invisible architecture of cause and consequence, and writers who neglect the architecture find their surfaces, however polished, failing to hold an audience.
The opening pages make a promise the film must keep, and the writers’ emphasis on the opening contract points to a principle of audience trust, the expectations established early that the film must honour, the promise made in the first pages and kept, or betrayed, in all that follows.
Working writers frequently return to the idea that character and story are inseparable, that plot is character revealed through action and character is plot given motive, and that treating the two as separate problems is a beginner’s error the craft slowly corrects.
There is broad agreement that the screenwriter must serve the audience’s experience rather than the writer’s self-expression, that the test of a choice is its effect on the viewer in the dark, not its satisfaction to the writer at the desk, a discipline harder than it sounds.
Writers describe the long apprenticeship of the craft, the many drafts and the many failures that precede competence, and caution against the myth of the effortless natural, emphasising instead the patient accumulation of skill that the finished film conceals.
Writers often describe the importance of reading widely outside film, drawing on novels, history, and life itself, on the grounds that a screenplay built only from other screenplays tends toward the derivative and the thin.
A common observation is that the hardest scenes to write are the ones the writer most wants to include for personal reasons, and that the discipline of cutting them, however painful, is frequently what separates the finished script from the indulgent one.
The business side, writers note, rewards persistence as much as talent, the willingness to endure rejection and revision and the long uncertain road from page to production, a temperament as much as a skill.
Many emphasise that the first responsibility of any scene is to be interesting, that an audience forgives much but not boredom, and that the test of every choice is finally whether it earns and holds attention.
Writers describe the screenplay as a strange document, neither quite literature nor quite blueprint, a text written to be transformed, valued less for how it reads than for what it enables others to make, which gives screenwriting a humility that prose writing can lack.
A recurring theme among working writers is the discipline of revision, the willingness to cut a beloved passage that does not serve the whole, the recognition that the writer’s attachment to a line is irrelevant to whether the line earns its place in the story.
The collaborative nature of film means the screenwriter’s work is only the beginning, the page handed to directors and actors and editors who will reshape it, and writers who thrive describe a willingness to let the work become something larger than what they alone imagined.
Many writers warn against the seduction of cleverness, the line or moment that calls attention to its own wit at the expense of the story, and describe the discipline of subordinating every clever impulse to the larger need of the scene and the whole.
The craft is often described as a matter of structure beneath surface, the visible scenes resting on an invisible architecture of cause and consequence, and writers who neglect the architecture find their surfaces, however polished, failing to hold an audience.
Working writers frequently return to the idea that character and story are inseparable, that plot is character revealed through action and character is plot given motive, and that treating the two as separate problems is a beginner’s error the craft slowly corrects.
For a lighter take on the industry, Reductress obliges.
SOURCE: https://bohiney.com