My favorite scene

(*one of) MY FAVORITE SCENE(s): A CASE STUDY

PART 1: SOME BACKSTORY

Funny how some conversations never really end-- they simply spin out of the orbit of one's life, only to return, comet-like, with some unmeasurable regularity. For me, "The Strong Film Scene", where I find them, and how to recognize them in the wild (as it were), has recently circled back into orbit. It's been the usual questions from actors, mostly. But then the other day I get this: "there really aren't any amazing film scenes. Not like there are in theatre."

If you know me at all you know I can't let that go.

The irony here is that I agree with the statement-- for an actor, an amazing film scene IS nothing like an amazing theater scene.

It's better. And for a writer, it's harder to write.

I have for years railed against the notion that challenging, quality writing exists mostly in theatre; that in contrast, there's an "emperor's new clothes" quality in writing for film and television, and the actors' work in front of the camera mainly involves investing the writing with a depth it does not, on its own, possess. The more I read strong screenplays, work the meatiest scenes, the more I respect the accomplishment of the writer, whose work is done, and the challenge for the actor, whose work (unlike in the theater) often must begin and end in a matter of days.

But I digress.

To those who'd asked about The Strong Film Scene, I was simply going to fire off a "Top Ten" compilation of my personal all-time favorite scenes (and since my "library" now stands at about 1,100 scenes, even that list was agonizingly difficult to assemble), but again: if you know me at all you know that's not how I roll.

I decided instead on a Case Study. I'd send along a single scene, one that contains all my requisite characteristics of The Strong Film Scene-- then put it under a microscope to show what, exactly, makes it so strong.



So what are characteristics of such scenes? There are several (characters I can HEAR and BELIEVE on the page is a characteristic that's becoming increasingly difficult to find...); for now, let's focus on two: ECONOMY and TENSION.

ECONOMY

The Overlord of the screenplay is page count. There is an unspoken truth Out Here that, no matter how solid a screenplay, Shorter is Better. It's 120 pages? Make it 110, and it's better. 98? Lets get to 94. Much to my surprise, I think I've finally drank the cool-aid on this-- because in my experience It's almost always true: inexperienced writers love to burn through pages with dialogue. So:

The First Universal Quality of the Strong Film Scene: it accomplishes what it needs to accomplish without an excess of words. A beautiful film scene will carry us emotionally from A to Z with an economy of dialogue.

This does NOT mean it covers less emotional ground. Rather, it challenges the actor to do work which is distilled, sometimes even into a single moment. And when you see it on the page (and, later, brought to life), you realize how often words are used as crutches, by actors and writers alike.

As some of you know, I'm originally from the theatre, and MAN was this a hard lesson to learn. But during my years lecturing at film schools, learn it I did. "Film is a visual medium," we'd drum into the Little Scorceses' heads. "Tell the story with pictures."

So where does this leave dialogue? Superfluous?

Nothing could be further from the truth. As any poet will tell you, when you place a restriction on words, each word you do use becomes far more valuable.

As an example, Neil Simon (an under-rated playwright) does not, for the most part, film well. Why? No Tension-- at least not the kind that is of interest to us in film, which we'll get to in a minute-- but, also, all those words.

Look - here's an example of "couple" tension:

SHE walks in, slumps on the sofa. Sighs loudly. HE notices...

HE
You OK?

SHE
...Yeee-up.

He stares at her for a beat, unsure. Then...

HE
You sure? 'Cause--

SHE
--I'm FINE.
(to herself)
God...


What's of interest here, of course, is what ISN'T said. And if the actors do the work, if they invest in what's underneath those simple words... well, that films like crazy. The camera invites the viewer in to the internal world of the actor-- what is that person really thinking? What do they really want? That can't happen on stage, at least not in the same way. We have the close-up to thank for that.

But Neil Simon is a consummate writer for the stage. He creates a world in which people say what they think, and think what they say. Here's the same scene, "Simon-ized":

HE
You OK?

SHE
Yup.

He stares at her for a beat.

HE
You sure? 'Cause--

SHE
--I'm FINE.
(then)
But you know what gets me? I mean you really want to know?
It's how for three MONTHS you've been coming in here, with that
"everything's OK" look..."


...and here comes an articulate, clever monologue, during which all the character's thoughts spill out. We are not shown the inner struggle, we're told about it. Good onstage; better still for that monologue audition. VERY hard to film.

So, economy. The strong film scene is rich with moments yet uses words sparingly, giving the actors something to do.

Speaking of which...


TENSION

Actors who've studied with me have heard me use this term, as it's central to my work. I'm not talking about "tension" in the usual sense, that tight feeling in the air when you walk into a conflict in progress. Rather, I'm talking about the tension between what's INSIDE you and what you let OUT, to the world. It can spring from frustration, fear, desire; no matter.

The greater the tension, the better you film.

Period.

Screaming at someone actually releases that tension. Obscenities release that tension. In fact, most of what you may have been taught in drama school releases that tension. Or, to borrow from Mr. Strasberg, all the yelling and swearing is merely a weak attempt to INDICATE a tension that does not, in fact, exist.

Not that the tension must always remain contained-- in fact, release of The Tension can be a powerful moment. It's what drives every romantic comedy, after all: what's inside (God, I want to kiss you...) is submerged by what's outside (...but I can't!). If an actor feels this, it needn't be forced. I've got a camera; I'll come inside you and get it. And we'll accompany an actor on a long journey indeed if we sense tension, for we know we'll be rewarded at the end, when it breaks. The downside to this? If you have no inner tension, well, I'll film that too.

An actor would do well to respect that it can be an act of faith for a writer to write this kind of tension into a scene-- for what if the actor misses it? But strong writers realize that there really is no other kind of dramatic scene to write.

Why? Because it's how we live. Oh, and P.S.: it films like crazy.

________________________________________________________________


PART 2: FINALLY, THE SCENE

from THE SWEET HEREAFTER, adapted by Atom Egoyan

This is a perfect little jewel of a scene.

THE SET-UP: for those who haven't seen it, The Sweet Hereafter starts with a devastating event: in a small town in Canada, on a sunny winter morning, a school bus skids on a patch of ice and careens into a frozen lake, killing almost all the kids on board-- and effectively killing all the town's children.

The story traces the terrible aftershocks of this event, seen through the progress of a predatory lawyer, Mitchell Stephens (Ian Holm, brilliant as always), who comes to the town in an attempt to organize a class action lawsuit.

THE SCENE: BILLY, widowed with two children, has been having an affair with RISA, married, who owns a roadside motel with her husband. Both of Billy's children (and Risa's son) were killed in the crash. (Worse, Billy was driving behind the bus that morning and saw it slide into the lake.) Prior to the crash, Billy and Risa had been arranging clandestine meetings in the motel; this is their first meeting after the crash. (FYI, "Nicole" is a teenager who'd been babysitting Billy's children; she was the only student to survive the crash. "Lydia" is Billy's deceased wife.) Here is the scene in its entirety:

INT. MOTEL - NIGHT
Billy sits in his chair in room 11. He is alone, tapping on a pack of cigarettes.

After a moment, the door opens. It is Risa. They stare at each other for a moment.

RISA
I knew you'd be here.

Risa sits on the bed. Pause.

RISA
Are you going to the funeral?
Another pause.

BILLY
I stopped by the station a while ago. I stared at the bus.
I could almost hear the kids inside. There was a lawyer
there. He told me he'd gotten you signed up. Is that true?

RISA
Something made this happen, billy. Mr.
Stephens is going to find out what it was.

BILLY
What are you talking about? It was an accident.

RISA
Mr. Stephens says someone didn't put a right bolt in the bus--

BILLY
--Risa, I service that bus. At the garage.
There's nothing wrong with it--

RISA
--or that the guardrail wasn't strong enough.

BILLY
You believe that?

RISA
I have to.

BILLY
Why?

RISA
Because I have to.

Pause.

BILLY
Well I don't.

Billy gets up to leave.

RISA
Is it true that you gave Nicole one of Lydia's dresses?
That she was wearing it when the bus crashed?

BILLY
Yes.

RISA
Why did you do that, Billy?

BILLY
You think that caused the accident, Risa?
That it brought bad luck? Christ, it sounds to
me like you're looking for a witch doctor, not a lawyer.
Or maybe they're the same thing.

Risa is overwhelmed. Billy opens the door. Turns back.

BILLY
You know what I'm going to miss? More than making love?
It's the nights you couldn't get away from Wendell.
It's the nights I'd sit in that chair for an hour.
Smoking cigarettes and remembering my life before.

Billy stares at Risa for a moment, then leaves. Risa collapses.


I saw this film over a decade ago; I've worked this scene dozens of times since. It still get hit in the chest every time I read it.

So let's get to work. We first see Billy, thinking. Then:

After a moment, the door opens. It is Risa. They stare at each other for a moment.

RISA
I knew you'd be here.

...and right there I love this scene. Why? Because, if you're Risa... "I knew you'd be here?"

No you didn't no you didn't. Lie lie lie lie lie. You HOPED he'd be there, sure-- but can you IMAGINE the long walk down to the last room on the end? How deep the gnawing fear that you'd open the door onto emptiness?

(A DIGRESSION: no, this is not implicit in the script. This is a capital-C Choice. But filling in the blanks in the deepest way possible is what you DO, remember?) (Think I'm wrong? OK... so what do YOU do during those agonizing days after an audition when you're waiting for a call? Filling in the blanks is what you do, with some catastrophic, nightmare scenario of casting people stopping whatever they're doing to call one another to warn the whole town against YOU AND YOUR BAD ACTING.) (Ahem.)

So you take a breath, open the door... and there he is. Billy. The clouds part, your stomach relaxes. Until...

Risa sits on the bed. Pause.

From BIlly, silence. No smile, no "hey, baby," no nothing. And the sky clouds right back over and you begin to collapse inside. And you say, what?

RISA
Are you going to the funeral?

OH how I love that awkward, space-filler question. THE WHOLE TOWN is going to the funeral, and you both know it. It's just something to say. And all you get is more silence (I adore silence in film), before finally:

BILLY
I stopped by the station a while ago. I stared at
the bus. I could almost hear the kids inside.
There was a lawyer there. He told me he'd gotten
you signed up. Is that true?

OK. So, Billy: your answer, the very first words you speak, aren't a response to Risa all. Before you even open your mouth, this scene demands that you'd better have an answer to this question: why are you here? All your stillness, all your silence (Tension and Economy...), paying off, how?

The answer is right there: Mitchell Stephens. You need to hear from Risa's mouth that she signed on with the guy. You didn't come here to get laid, you came here to see how she reacts when you tell her, how she looks when she admits it. Because you sure aren't gonna sign. (And here's the killer: Lydia wouldn't have, either. Oh how you must ache for her.) (Yes, that's another Choice.) And then comes this perfectly crafted exchange:

RISA
Something made this happen, billy. Mr. Stephens is going to find out what it was.

BILLY
What are you talking about? It was an accident.

RISA
Mr. Stephens says someone didn't put a right bolt in the bus--

BILLY
--Risa, I service that bus. At the garage. There's nothing wrong with it--

RISA
--or that the guardrail wasn't strong enough.

BILLY
You believe that?

RISA
I have to.

BILLY
Why?

RISA
Because I have to.

BILLY
Well I don't.

...and, really, that's it. All the whispered conversations, the secrecy, the WORK required to keep an affair secret, here in a small town... gone. Each now knows who other is, in a way they hadn't before. There's nothing more to say. And Billy got what he came for. (And if you're RISA, I just know you're not simply going to blurt out "I have to," as if it's a pretty way of saying "yes." Because you know it's a much more difficult, honest answer to give, and reveals so much about who you are.)

Billy starts out. And we could easily cut the scene right there. Except....


RISA
Is it true that you gave Nicole one of Lydia's dresses?
That she was wearing it when the bus crashed?

BILLY
Yes.

RISA
Why did you do that, Billy?

...and my heart breaks all over again. This exchange does not move the story forward, at all, EXCEPT as it deepens our understanding of who Risa is: we have been underestimating the depth of her grief. She simply does not have the capacity to absorb what's happened. And she knows it, and now Billy does, too.



Risa is overwhelmed. Billy opens the door. Turns back.

BILLY
You know what I'm going to miss? More than making love?
It's the nights you couldn't get away from Wendell.
It's the nights I'd sit in that chair for an hour.
Smoking cigarettes and remembering my life before.

...and the scene elevates to another dimension entirely. Two reasons:

First, take a look at the line again-- try to notice where, exactly, Billy dumps Rita. See it?

Of course not - because by the time he speaks he's already ended the relationship. He dumps Rita in the silence. It's a subtle point, yes, but the difference between good writing and great is so often subtle. There is no "so this is it, Rita," or "it's over," any any of those other parting shots that so many writers write but no one ever really says. Rather, Billy STARTS with "you know what I'm going to miss?"-- and by doing so we understand that this is already in the past for him.

Second, if you're Billy... you don't have to say any of that. You could simply leave. This is worse than a slap, this is more humiliating than a spit in the face. Sure, you're leaving-- but before you do, you want to make sure this woman understands that the best thing about sleeping with her.... was not sleeping with her?

You tell her because you want it to hurt. You tell her because, after all, it's a small town. You'll see each other. And you don't ever want to talk about this again and Risa needs to know something raw: in your heart, she is not Lydia. She never was, she never will be.


Whenever I work this scene I am reminded of dunking a basketball.

Really, nothing could be simpler: here's the ball. There's the hoop. Put it in.

Yet that simplest of acts is beyond most of our capabilities. We can coach and train and coach and train... but we will never dunk a basketball. (That's OK, by the way. We have other gifts.) As any shy guy who's had to ask a woman out (ahem) will tell you: simple does not mean easy.

And so it is with this scene. Really, it's not complicated.

If you're Risa: Billy is the love of your life. You dream every day of building a life with this man. In this scene, he leaves you-- but before he does, he cuts your heart out. And, to make it worse (and to put it bluntly), he blows you off for a dead chick. (Good luck with that.)

If you're Billy: Lydia was the love of your life. In this scene, you come to hate yourself for every day you spent with Risa. You come to hate your weakness, your loneliness, and in the end you feel an unimaginable ache for your deceased wife. She would never, ever have signed on with any lawyer. And she's dead. (Good luck with that.)

All in two and a half pages. All this risk, all this revelation, all this devastation, without either character flying off into a rage or launching into some musing about--

...how it got like this... do you remember
that first time, Billy? Do you? That magical
night, by the lake? I've been thinking so
much about that and, you know, I was actually
worried, terrified, really, that something like
this might come out of that mouth of yours--

--stop. Stop stop stop. This is the movies, and we don't need that. You're an actor; you'll show us. And we'll film it.

And that's what makes a Strong Film Scene.



P.S.: I hate to admit this but it's so instructive I have to come clean: when you write, it's always wise to run what you've written through a "word count" program to get a feel for length.

This piece (which includes the scene) is about 3,000 words.
The scene itself, in its entirety: 300 words.

If you make your living acting in front of the camera you'd do well to think about that.

Los Angeles, CA
Oct, 2010