Copyright 2018 by Gary L. Pullman
A rule of thumb is that
one page of a screenplay equals one minute of screen time. The cost
of filming is expensive, so, ideally, each foot of film is vital to
the story. It helps to set the scene, establishes the mood,
introduces a character, presents a significant conflict, symbolizes
or underscores the theme, or otherwise advances the plot or the
movie's overall purpose.
Of course, the opening
scene* of a motion picture also bears the burden of “hooking” the
audience, of capturing their interest, of making them want to see the
rest of the movie.
The primary language of
film is imagery, the organized sequences of pictures that appear on
the screen. Imagery is often supplemented and complemented by sound,
including dialogue. The language of film is rich and powerful, primal
and rousing, but it is also limited. Written language can tap more
than sight and sound; it can get inside readers' minds, evoke (or
represent) thought, reflection, and consensus or disagreement between
characters (or between characters and readers), as well as
characters' and readers' emotions. Although movies may occasionally
awaken the mind, motion pictures mostly elicit feelings. They're
directed, first and foremost, at the heart.
The language of film—image
and sound—is limited in another way as well. It relies almost
entirely upon suggestion, or implication. Unless a director resorts
to a rather heavy-handed use of exposition, telling audiences, rather
than showing them, what something means or how action should be
understood, all a movie can do is to show images, have actors comment
upon events, and leave it to audiences to put two and two together
(and to read between the lines, so to speak) in order to infer the
meanings of the images and sounds presented to them. Written
narratives can and do use exposition (although they do so less
frequently today than in the past). Sometimes exposition is provided
for pages at a time. By this means, omniscient narrators go directly
inside characters' heads or explain the meanings of incidents,
scenes, or, in some cases, entire short stories or novels.
It's important to
remember that the language of film requires directors to imply and
audiences to infer. With this in mind, let's take a look at the
opening scene of a well-known slasher flick.
First, we describe the action shown to us by the camera. Then, in blue font, we provide an inference or two to represent those which are likely to be made by audiences who see and hear each sequence of images. In our examples, viewers mostly see, rather than hear, what follows.
First, we describe the action shown to us by the camera. Then, in blue font, we provide an inference or two to represent those which are likely to be made by audiences who see and hear each sequence of images. In our examples, viewers mostly see, rather than hear, what follows.
Halloween
(approximately five minutes of screen time)
As our eyes travel from
left to right across the front of a porch, we see the white wall of
the front of a clapboard suburban house, the front door, vague human
shapes moving behind a window curtain, and a Jack-o-lantern on a
porch rail, among dense, dark foliage. The foliage ends, its leaves
casting shadows upon the house's wall.
It's
Halloween. Who are the people inside the house? What are they doing?
Are they residents? Home invaders? Cat burglars?
Inside the house, through
the window, we see a young couple. The girl is seated on a couch, the
boy sitting beside her. She holds him around the waist, as he kisses
her, his hands holding the sides of her head. Hearing something, they
pause and listen. The boy lifts a mask to his face, pressing it into
the girl's face as he kisses her. She shoves him away, and he removes
the mask, grinning at her. We have become—or
have been made to become—voyeurs. We watch the young couple make
out on the couch.
Whose
house are they in? Probably hers. What have they heard? Despite
having heard something, their playfulness suggests they're
unconcerned about the sound or noise they heard a moment ago.
They embrace, kiss again,
and the boy leaps to his feet. The girl joins him, and they leave the
room, dashing upstairs together.
The
couple probably plan to make love.
Outside, the porch flashes
past, from left to right. We see the Jack-o-lantern on the porch rail
among dense, dark foliage, the white wall of the front of the
clapboard suburban house, two windows fronting the porch—our gaze
rises; above the eaves, we see a pair of lit windows on the right;
the pair on the left are dark. The light in the windows on the right
go out. We are not the only voyeurs. The point of view, resumed a
second time, as the observer retraces his or her steps, indicates
that there is a watcher present.
Another doorway leads into a hallway, where a staircase banister appears. There's a ceiling lamp, and, on the wall above the staircase, a painting. Near the top of the stairs, a boy, tugging a shirt down his naked torso. He bounds down the stairs—the same boy who was making out with the girl on the couch a few moments ago. At the front door, he pauses, looks back, says goodbye to someone—the girl, we assume. The door closes.
As the invader starts to enter the hallway, the teenage boy who was necking with the girl on the living room couch runs down the stairs, pulling on a shirt. He says goodbye before leaving.
Into the hallway and up the stairs, past the painting, into the darkness. At the top of the stairs, a hallway. A right turn. A hand reaches into the hallway to pick up a toy. Clothes and a bag on a bed. The invader does not pursue the boy.
Our conclusion is borne out by the fact that he climbs the stairs.
The
unseen watcher is interested in the lit window of the room into which
the young couple appear to have retreated to make love.
We see the porch sweep
past, we turn a corner, and we spot the open back door. Entering the
kitchen, we see shelves, cabinets, a mixer. A light comes on, and we
see the stove; the sink; a vertical rack of dishtowels, an orange one
at the front; the tile floor.
The
observer has found an entrance to the house and entered the
residence. He or she moves through the kitchen.
Because the camera
represents the invader's point of view, in watching him or her, we
accompany this person.
An arm clad in the sleeve of a camouflage shirt is extended; its hand grips the handle of a butcher's knife, removing it from the drawer. Decorative plates hang on the wall near the stove. To their left, a doorway leads into the dining room: table braced with chairs and set with a linen tablecloth and silver candlesticks bearing long, slender tapers; a side table; a silver tureen on the doily atop the side table; pictures on the wall above the side table. The invader, knife in hand, enters the dining room.
An arm clad in the sleeve of a camouflage shirt is extended; its hand grips the handle of a butcher's knife, removing it from the drawer. Decorative plates hang on the wall near the stove. To their left, a doorway leads into the dining room: table braced with chairs and set with a linen tablecloth and silver candlesticks bearing long, slender tapers; a side table; a silver tureen on the doily atop the side table; pictures on the wall above the side table. The invader, knife in hand, enters the dining room.
His
or her targets are likely to be the young couple making love upstairs.
Another doorway leads into
the living room: a television, a rocking chair, a pole lamp, a sofa,
a painting on the wall—the same room in which the young couple were
necking.
The
invader seems intent on following the path of the young couple. The
knife he or she has acquired suggests harm is intended.
Another doorway leads into a hallway, where a staircase banister appears. There's a ceiling lamp, and, on the wall above the staircase, a painting. Near the top of the stairs, a boy, tugging a shirt down his naked torso. He bounds down the stairs—the same boy who was making out with the girl on the couch a few moments ago. At the front door, he pauses, looks back, says goodbye to someone—the girl, we assume. The door closes.
As the invader starts to enter the hallway, the teenage boy who was necking with the girl on the living room couch runs down the stairs, pulling on a shirt. He says goodbye before leaving.
He
and the girl have finished making love. He's going home. The girl is
alone in the house, unaware of the invader.
Into the hallway and up the stairs, past the painting, into the darkness. At the top of the stairs, a hallway. A right turn. A hand reaches into the hallway to pick up a toy. Clothes and a bag on a bed. The invader does not pursue the boy.
He
or she is after the girl.
Our conclusion is borne out by the fact that he climbs the stairs.
At a vanity, the girl,
naked but for her panties, brushes her hair. Her bed is rumpled. The
girl, sensing she is not alone, turns, shocked and frightened. She
covers her breasts, ducking away.
The
half-naked girl is startled by the invader's arrival.
As the eye holes of a mask
look into the room, at the girl, we see the room and the girl from
the invader's point of view.
The intruder is masked.
A flashing knife stabs
downward, again and again. The girl falls, lying still on her back.
He
or she has killed the girl.
The eye holes look back
and forth.
The killer searches the room.
The staircase. The front
door, seen through the eye holes.
He
or she is going downstairs.
The door opens. Darkness.
Night.
The killer is intent upon escape.
A car's headlights. A dark
car. A man and a woman exit the vehicle. The man lifts a mask from a
boy dressed as a clown and holding a knife—the same knife as
stabbed the girl. He blinks. The knife is bloody. The killer is
unmasked; we see the action from an objective, omniscient point of
view. The killer is a child, dressed as a clown.
As we've made clear,
moviemakers are restricted to images and sound; with these tools,
they must imply meanings, which audiences must then infer. Short
story writers and novelists can describe sights and sounds, but they
can also appeal to the senses of touch, smell, and taste. In
addition, by using interior monologues and narrative exposition,
among other techniques, short story writers and novelists can also
directly represent characters' thoughts, feelings, attitudes,
beliefs, values, and other subjective states and qualities, without
the need to have readers infer much of anything. What such writers
gain is offset by the loss of the directness of communication typical
of imagery and sound, which create the impression that events are
actually transpiring before the audience's very eyes (and ears).
There's always a distance between short story writers or novelists
and their readers—the distance of the written word.
There are a few ways by which writers can approximate the directness with which movies communicate with their audiences:
There are a few ways by which writers can approximate the directness with which movies communicate with their audiences:
Describe
what a camera shows. The camera can be a video recorder, the source
of “found footage,” as in The Blair Witch Project, or
surveillance cameras that have recorded crimes or otherwise
unsettling behavior or events, as in 13 Cameras.
Such footage may also be provided by videos taken of vacation trips
or by home movies.
Describe
the images in a dream as the dream occurs. A Nightmare on Elm Street takes
this approach, although, of course, the film shows the dream images
directly, rather than describing them.
If the horror movie also involves science fiction, a person's consciousness, projected as images on a screen, through a brain-computer or other interface, could be described. (This may become an actual reality in the near future!)
If the horror movie also involves science fiction, a person's consciousness, projected as images on a screen, through a brain-computer or other interface, could be described. (This may become an actual reality in the near future!)
Describe the imagery transmitted by a camera mounted on
a drone.
Describe what a sniper sees as he or she trails a target
through his or her weapon's scope.
None
of these techniques will provide the directness that a motion picture
camera provides; at best, each is merely an approximation of such
directness. Nevertheless, such techniques are likely to make the
communication between the writer (or his or her narrator) and readers
more direct than it would be otherwise.
For Edgar Allan Poe, the
short story's form is superior to that of the novel, because the
former's compact structure, greater unity, and better coherence
results in a greater emotional effect on readers than the latter's
longer, less unified and less coherent development. In a short story,
which, according to The Annotated Poe,
Poe defines as taking no longer than an hour to read, all narrative
elements contribute to the payoff at the end of the tale, making the
story's conclusion, whether that of the comedy's denouement
or that of the tragedy's catastrophe, seem inevitable, given what has
transpired before it.
* * *
According
to Forbes,
reading speed increases with education and (presumably) experience,
but the “average adult” reads at a rate of about 300 words per
minute. In 2.34 minutes, therefore, the average adult reader reads
about 702 words, or about 2.81
pages if each 6 x 9-inch printed page bears 250 words) or 2.55
pages (if each 6 x 9-inch printed page bears 275 words). In other
words, if we base our calculations on 275 words per page, a short
story writer or a novelist has about 2.55 pages, or 701 words, in
which to accomplish the task that Halloween's director, John Carpenter, accomplishes in the five minutes of his film's opening scene.
*However,
the film's opening scene does not comprise the whole of the movie's
beginning, which is significantly longer and more complex. For a more
accurate contrast of the differences between cinematographic and
linguistic modes of communication, the actual beginning of the movie
and the beginning of a short story or a novel should be considered in
detail. As defined here, the beginning of a film, short story, or
novel, using Gustav Freytag's model of dramatic structure, would
consist of the first act, the exposition, which begins with the start
of the story and ends with the inciting moment that initiates the
rising action, or the second of the five acts of the story, during
which the basic conflict is complicated.
For
the movie Halloween,
the beginning of the story runs to Michael Myers's escape from the
sanitarium to which he was confined after stabbing his sister,
Judith, to death. His escape, which occurs at about 10 minutes and 41
seconds, or about 8.5 percent, into the 129-minute film. (It is
Judith whom he saw, as a boy, making out with her boyfriend in the
living room of their home while his parents were away.) By
comparison, 8.5 percent of the 166-page novel Halloween,
which is based on the movie, equals about 14 pages.
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