MINERS
So you've started to dread holidays because you're still not a famous actor.
And it's becoming just too painful to explain why you're still not, "...after all this time?"
In fact, every time you try to justify your thus-far-anonymous existence in LA or New York to your family, well, you always leave such conversations feeling worse than when you entered them --and you enter into them, as your family does, with the best of intentions. Yet attempts to make them understand the path you've chosen result in frustration, disappointment, and, sometimes, isolation and pain.
It's not your loved ones' fault: in recent years they've been so inundated with information (and misinformation) about the inner workings of Hollywood that they engage in such discussions assuming a knowledge that they actually lack. Honestly: did you ever imagine you'd be discussing box-office grosses with your parents? And eventually the prospect of reciting your padded resume to all who ask, followed by a series of humiliating "I-know-what-you-should-do" conversations prompted by some invariably unflattering comparison to a co-worker's relative who also acts, cause you to contemplate spending your holidays alone. And that ain't right.
Next time, try offering this analogy:
You're a gold miner.
Like all gold miners, you're a dreamer. (But you don't have to tell them that. And don't ever be ashamed of it. The world needs dreamers.)
Dreamers climb the highest mountain; Gold miners mine the richest mine. Otherwise, as any dreamer will tell you, what's the point?
So, like all real miners, off to Alaska you go. That's where the gold is. Being the best gold miner in Nebraska is a tin crown, at best.
And until the world hears otherwise, you're just another schmuck on the mountain. When you strike gold, you'll let them know.
In the meantime....
Don't try to share with those back home the specifics about your days. Your little ups, your little downs. People who've never been on the mountain don't understand it up there and never will. Not their fault; they can't.
(A rare exception: some miners leave behind those who truly believe in their dream-- better, those that believe in their ability to achieve it. If you're such a fortunate soul, you can --and should-- ask your supporters for whatever support they can offer. In helping you stay on the mountain they're dreaming, too. And they're the first people you pay back when you strike it rich. And, sure, tell them about your victories, cry with them about your defeats. But tell them not to spread it around.)
As to the rest: don't listen to their story of their friend, "the lawyer," who goes down to the local creek with a plastic pan on Saturdays ("...and really, he's pretty good at it. You two should meet."). He's not a gold miner, he's a lawyer who likes to play around with the pan, which is fun and not at all risky if, like him, you know that come Monday morning you're going to be at your desk and not along a crowded riverbank in freezing water with your pants rolled up.
You know the difference; they never will. They're afraid of the mountain, and for good reason....
Life on the mountain sucks. It's cold, or blistering hot; you spend what little money you have on mining supplies; worse, because it's a mining town, prices are gouged on everything else. Eventually you will have to take all manner of demeaning work merely to survive. No Carribbean Christmas, no 401-K, no health insurance for you, no, you need that money for a seventy-dollar trip to the grocery and coin-op laundries that charge six dollars a load. On the mountain, among the other miners, this is an accepted part of the bargain; down in the valley it sounds like failure. Remember: keep the day-to-day to yourself.....
And don't ever, ever, be swayed by the advice of those next to you along the river. No one knows exactly where the gold is, especially not them. And advise they will-- on the size of your pan, the shape of your pan, your sluicing technique, your position on the river (yet they will never, ever tell you if they hear rumor of a better spot); if you listen, you'll begin to doubt your every move, and quickly grow discouraged. Remember: if any of their suggestions were effective, they wouldn't be knee-deep in mud next to you.
Any advice whatsoever from anyone who's never been on the mountain is worse than useless.
On the other hand, advice from those few who actually walk off the mountain wealthy can be invaluable, but all they'll really tell you is this: keep at it. Because they know...
There is no justice on the mountain. Some pan for years, only to see those who stake claims yards away strike it rich; others find gold their first day out. This can be crippling to old-timers still chipping away.
And sometimes those who strike a little gold can be the harshest of all on their fellow miners. That's okay; they're just afraid their vein will dry up. And they're ashamed of all their days as a failure, which is a pity (more on this later).
All miners are, more or less, offered the same deal: in most cases, the mountain will win. (But you know that long odds never deter the true dreamer.) What your friends in the valley will never know is the cruelty in that bargain, how, as time goes on, every day becomes difficult. Every day there's a summoning of energy that must occur for you to crawl outside and return to the river. Every day you'll curse your tiny, decaying tent, you'll find it harder to smile when someone just above or below you strikes gold; every sunny card from friends and family not on the mountain announcing a new home, a new birth, will cut a little deeper, and every day you'll find it a little harder to ignore the gnawing thought that perhaps it isn't the mountain, it's you. And if you manage to survive up there for years without even a nugget (and you might) a funny paradox takes root inside you, paralyzing you as it grows: the longer you're on the mountain, the harder it is to stay or leave. If you stay, the hardships are harder, the sacrifices seem more meaningless; at the same time, well, you've been up here this long, and so you cling to the miner's one life-preserver thought: just one big strike and all this will be worth it. Then, if I want to, I'll leave.
And yet every day you'll see fellow miners leave the mountain. Some just walk off at night, under cover of darkness; others, overcome with exhasstion and grief, must be carried by family who load them into Volvos and Audis, triumphant in their sympathy. Young miners will scoff at such sites, for surely, they think, they share nothing with this weakling who simply doesn't "have it;" older miners either stand quietly, offering a moment of understanding and respect, or turn away, haunted by the thought that that spectacle should be, and perhaps soon will be, them.
And once in a great while, one of two things happens: the first, of course, is signaled by a banshee whoop!, an animal cry instantly understood by all miners: someone hits it. This is followed by a breathtaking stampede of hangers-on, well-wishers, gold-diggers, photographers, even, all wanting nothing more, ultimately, than proximity to the Winner and with it the possibility that some of that gold dust will rub off onto them-- or at least will buy them some six-degrees-of-fame free drinks or sex at the saloon. Depending on a fellow miner's frame of mind that day, such spectacles can be heartening ("see, it does happen"), or heartbreaking ("... but not to me.").
The second thing? That's the rarest of all:
someone walks down off the mountain, empty-handed. And smiling.
Something happened to them, one night.... maybe the newest young miner to earn the affections of the local suppliers did them in,,, or the latest baby shower invitation from a friend down in the valley... something... and some switch flipped, deep inside them, and they realized, awake in their raggedy tent as the sun comes up, the secret the mountain holds closest and reveals only to those who can become still enough to hear it: although they're leaving empty-handed, they didn't fail. And even though they can never explain this secret to those in the valley, they won't have to. That this strange, draining, heartbreaking life that they knew, this struggle, had its own awful beauty that those who stayed in the valley (and even those who struck gold right out of the gate) can never know. Bittersweet, too, that all those days that they'd cursed themselves and bullied themselves and agreed with all the whispers of failure that seemed to surround them, they'd failed to understand that they'd already won. They won the moment they'd staked their claim and set up their tent and waded into that cold water not even knowing how to hold the damned pan.
Or, maybe, they won the moment they stepped onto the bus to Alaska.
What did they finally, finally hear from that quiet voice that morning as they watched the sun come up? That through those scorching, humbling days and freezing nights, they'd been living a dream, and that dreams have lives, too, and deaths. And that while their dream slipped gently into the night, it lived a full life, and that smile they wear as they walk the trail off the mountain comes from a lack of regret, and peace.
None of us has any way of knowing whether we'll leave the mountain rich or poor; my hope is that either way you walk off happy, or at least content. In the meantime, whenever friends or family or boyfriends or girlfriends or neighbors ask "how's it going," tell them this:
"Think of me as a gold miner. When I strike it rich, I promise you, you'll know. Until then, you don't even have to ask. Just assume I'm still on the mountain with a pan in my hand, digging around in the mud for a dream. Wish me luck."
Peter Kelley
New York, NY
November, 2002
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Some tardy (non-acting) thoughts on the Fourth.
They look so small from up here. Smaller even than you'd have thought.
Yeah yeah I know. I gotta back up.
Perhaps because it's an expectation-free holiday, I have a fondness for the Fourth of July. I love Christmas, too (I am the Christmas Ho, after all), but we want Christmas to go a certain way. The tree, the gifts, the music, we need it all to be just so; for Christmas, we even make requests of the weather (snow!).
But not the Fourth. You can go to a barbecue, or not; head away for the weekend, or not; gather with family or simply stay put. Up to you.
Me-- well, you know. I love fireworks. Love 'em. But this year I'd decided to head to LA for the weekend, and the return fares on the Fourth itself were simply to cheap to pass up. Since arrival in JFK in time to make a fireworks display would have meant leaving LA at an ungodly hour, I decided to gamble on the next best thing: a late afternoon flight that, if the route was right and the weather held, just might put me over some fireworks. It'd be a new perspective, and fun.
We push off fifteen minutes late, have a long taxi (TWO Delta flights get the call in front of us! Why? Why??), and aren't wheels-up until almost five. I curse American Airlines as I feel my plan slipping away.
But I do have a tendency to struggle against trusting in Faith.
The sun sets as we cross the Rockies... we clear a cloudy stretch... and we're somewhere over the Heartland (Iowa?) when I first see it: a small cluster of lights which can only be a town. (Thanks to the pervasiveness of the Sodium-Halogen streetlight, there's a distinct look to urban areas, even minor ones, from up here.) Then, just off to one side... there... no bigger than a single spark from a sparkler, really, so small I'm not even sure... until there's another. And this one's red. A tiny bright pin-pop that quickly fades.
Fireworks.
And I suddenly ache to be there, wherever There is: some baseball diamond, some fairground outside of the town, sitting on a blanket, looking up at the night. The town's now sliding underneath the wing and out of view, but no matter: here's a slightly larger town, and over there, another... and if you let your eyes sort of... drift... these tiny, colorful puffs dot the land below. Pop, fade. Pop, fade. Happy Birthday, America. Happy Birthday, us.
Now, an incredible turn of good fortune: in the distance but coming up fast, Chicago! What are the odds? A major city, at just the right time-- and on a clear night! I'm gonna get my Big City fireworks after all.
I notice two concentrated bursts that are busier than the others --the big displays-- but, funny thing: from here, they're not that much different than the smaller ones. Not much at all. Still I watch, for the Grand Finales will be impressive, surely. And they do get a bit brighter... but then they simply stop.
I settle back in my seat. I'm depressed, a little, let down, a little... but there's something else, a thing I've felt before; a vague feeling of what I can only call profundity that's making itself known. And since I am a religious person I believe that to be the gentle nudging of God.
"Oh, come on, what--" I think, "can't I just sit here and feel depressed?" Fine. OK, Universe, I'll bite: what am I missing? Think, Peter.
Personally, I go back and forth on the whole There Are No Accidents concept. But tonight, well, the timing could be chalked up to chance (but that delay at the gate...), the clear sky, to predictable weather patterns...
...but the good stuff outside the window is NEVER on my side of the plane.
So. I got the Big Show, like I requested... but from up here, there really wasn't much difference...
Ah. Got it. I'm a little slow sometimes, but in the end I get it.
It's one of my great flaws, see, this Wishing I Was Somewhere Else. And I can imagine myself on that rural baseball diamond, pining for Chicago (or that plane flying way up high), not appreciating what was lighting up the sky right over my head, losing the moment while not realizing that, depending on your seat, that change-everything difference isn't such a difference at all.
Which leads to: is it like this about everything? Beauty, wealth, accomplishment? When you're Up Here, far enough from it, do all our seemingly-important differences grow narrow? All these distinctions we measure by, and value so highly-- success or failure, rich or poor, hot or not?
And I wonder if this is how it will be when we Depart: a flight that doesn't follow the curve of the earth but flies straight, soaring off while behind us everything slowly... fades. What's that? What kind of car did I drive? From up here you can't even recognize cars. (Although a bit of practical advice from a lot of night flying: have bright headlights.) So, maybe, none of this matters so much.
No. It's this: ALMOST nothing matters. For as I think on it, I come back to where I always come back: love.
I'll miss that a whole lot. I wouldn't have a panicky urge to claw out of my plane just to jump back down to get my car; I'd want to get back to the people. Sure, I'd want to experience a little more. But I've experienced plenty. Really, I'd want to feel a little more. That's what I'm gonna miss.
None of us have taken that particular flight yet, though we all have a reservation. But we already know that the feelings won't fade. As for the rest... perspective.
So, Universe, thanks for this-- and, ya know, worth the Holiday flight. A new experience, and a lesson learned.
But next year, I'm going to a Big Show.
Yeah yeah I know. I gotta back up.
Perhaps because it's an expectation-free holiday, I have a fondness for the Fourth of July. I love Christmas, too (I am the Christmas Ho, after all), but we want Christmas to go a certain way. The tree, the gifts, the music, we need it all to be just so; for Christmas, we even make requests of the weather (snow!).
But not the Fourth. You can go to a barbecue, or not; head away for the weekend, or not; gather with family or simply stay put. Up to you.
Me-- well, you know. I love fireworks. Love 'em. But this year I'd decided to head to LA for the weekend, and the return fares on the Fourth itself were simply to cheap to pass up. Since arrival in JFK in time to make a fireworks display would have meant leaving LA at an ungodly hour, I decided to gamble on the next best thing: a late afternoon flight that, if the route was right and the weather held, just might put me over some fireworks. It'd be a new perspective, and fun.
We push off fifteen minutes late, have a long taxi (TWO Delta flights get the call in front of us! Why? Why??), and aren't wheels-up until almost five. I curse American Airlines as I feel my plan slipping away.
But I do have a tendency to struggle against trusting in Faith.
The sun sets as we cross the Rockies... we clear a cloudy stretch... and we're somewhere over the Heartland (Iowa?) when I first see it: a small cluster of lights which can only be a town. (Thanks to the pervasiveness of the Sodium-Halogen streetlight, there's a distinct look to urban areas, even minor ones, from up here.) Then, just off to one side... there... no bigger than a single spark from a sparkler, really, so small I'm not even sure... until there's another. And this one's red. A tiny bright pin-pop that quickly fades.
Fireworks.
And I suddenly ache to be there, wherever There is: some baseball diamond, some fairground outside of the town, sitting on a blanket, looking up at the night. The town's now sliding underneath the wing and out of view, but no matter: here's a slightly larger town, and over there, another... and if you let your eyes sort of... drift... these tiny, colorful puffs dot the land below. Pop, fade. Pop, fade. Happy Birthday, America. Happy Birthday, us.
Now, an incredible turn of good fortune: in the distance but coming up fast, Chicago! What are the odds? A major city, at just the right time-- and on a clear night! I'm gonna get my Big City fireworks after all.
I notice two concentrated bursts that are busier than the others --the big displays-- but, funny thing: from here, they're not that much different than the smaller ones. Not much at all. Still I watch, for the Grand Finales will be impressive, surely. And they do get a bit brighter... but then they simply stop.
I settle back in my seat. I'm depressed, a little, let down, a little... but there's something else, a thing I've felt before; a vague feeling of what I can only call profundity that's making itself known. And since I am a religious person I believe that to be the gentle nudging of God.
"Oh, come on, what--" I think, "can't I just sit here and feel depressed?" Fine. OK, Universe, I'll bite: what am I missing? Think, Peter.
Personally, I go back and forth on the whole There Are No Accidents concept. But tonight, well, the timing could be chalked up to chance (but that delay at the gate...), the clear sky, to predictable weather patterns...
...but the good stuff outside the window is NEVER on my side of the plane.
So. I got the Big Show, like I requested... but from up here, there really wasn't much difference...
Ah. Got it. I'm a little slow sometimes, but in the end I get it.
It's one of my great flaws, see, this Wishing I Was Somewhere Else. And I can imagine myself on that rural baseball diamond, pining for Chicago (or that plane flying way up high), not appreciating what was lighting up the sky right over my head, losing the moment while not realizing that, depending on your seat, that change-everything difference isn't such a difference at all.
Which leads to: is it like this about everything? Beauty, wealth, accomplishment? When you're Up Here, far enough from it, do all our seemingly-important differences grow narrow? All these distinctions we measure by, and value so highly-- success or failure, rich or poor, hot or not?
And I wonder if this is how it will be when we Depart: a flight that doesn't follow the curve of the earth but flies straight, soaring off while behind us everything slowly... fades. What's that? What kind of car did I drive? From up here you can't even recognize cars. (Although a bit of practical advice from a lot of night flying: have bright headlights.) So, maybe, none of this matters so much.
No. It's this: ALMOST nothing matters. For as I think on it, I come back to where I always come back: love.
I'll miss that a whole lot. I wouldn't have a panicky urge to claw out of my plane just to jump back down to get my car; I'd want to get back to the people. Sure, I'd want to experience a little more. But I've experienced plenty. Really, I'd want to feel a little more. That's what I'm gonna miss.
None of us have taken that particular flight yet, though we all have a reservation. But we already know that the feelings won't fade. As for the rest... perspective.
So, Universe, thanks for this-- and, ya know, worth the Holiday flight. A new experience, and a lesson learned.
But next year, I'm going to a Big Show.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
A few thoughts about home (what else?)
"Do you mean to tell me, Katie Scarlett O'Hara, that Tara, that LAND doesn't mean anything to you? Why, land is the only thing in the world worth workin' for, worth fightin' for, worth dyin' for, because it's the only thing that lasts."
--Gone With The Wind.
Nine PM. Back at Terminal Four at LAX. And, indeed, where better to finally write to you than the Admirals Club?
And, no, not gloating. At all. The kind of chap who's a gloater, see, would have MADE that 4:20PM flight, and not had to spend his last few hours in LA gazing out at at incoming and outgoing air traffic.
Anyway. Sorry for dropping off the radar for a bit. I've been working on two (!) Scene-of-the-months (and they're winners), and I didn't want to write 'til they were done... but here I am. Thinking. (...and, in truth, drinking as well. Never good, but free wine will do that to a man.)
I am by ancestry Irish, mostly. And as such, am a member of a culture for whom bonding to a place, a home, is a defining link in the DNA.
But I currently pay rent on three storage facilities. I am having mail held in two cities. My car keys are with a friend. I offer a quick nod of acquaintance to the ID kid at the TSA line at LAX (who, I SWEAR TO CHRIST, is the twin of Jake Gyllenhal), and he says: "where you been?" I have not boarded a plane in about two months and realize that is my longest flight-gap in over three years.
And standing here, gazing into the mirror of the admittedly lovely restroom in the Admiral's Club... I look tired. (When it didn't matter, I was often called "young-looking." Really, who gives a shit? Now, an embarrassing truth: I do. And I'm not, any more.) I don't think people are meant to live like this. At least not people like me.
But... what if I'm wrong? I never thought I'd get good at this life, but. No matter what it is, we get good at what we do. And I don't know how it happened but this is what I do.
Is there ever a moment? When a person looks in a mirror and realizes that, perhaps, This Is It, For Me? (and, if so, shouldn't such a moment have come earlier in life?) Is there a too-yong part of me fighting this, protesting that no, there's Something Else?
Besides. Amongst us humans there are nomads-- entire cultures defined by their ability to never put down roots. As one of the Concord Poets (Emerson?) pointed out, migratory birds never return to last year's nest. Thing is, how does one know such a thing about one's self?
Do you?
Outside, in a ballet of slow-motion, whale-like grace, a Quantas 747 is pushed onto the taxiway. Strange, how silent it is behind glass. In truth, I love this part. I love wondering where that plane is going, what lives are moving forward. I do love forward motion.
And now, quietly in the background, Miles Davis. Flamenco Sketches, off "Kind of Blue." One of the most beautiful pieces of music ever recorded.
Again: what is it, exactly, with life? How can it be beautiful and mysterious and lonely and hard and joyful all at once? I thought only women possessed that capability...
I owe you an apology, I think, because this was heading somewhere when it started (I swear it was). But it ended... here.
So. I'm in NYC for a month or so, with a few Boston weekends in the mix. I'd love to see you-- so if you're looking for a class in NYC or Boston let me know.
Actually, shoot me an email either way. I'd love to hear your thoughts on all this. I really would.
Thanks for reading,
PK
--Gone With The Wind.
Nine PM. Back at Terminal Four at LAX. And, indeed, where better to finally write to you than the Admirals Club?
And, no, not gloating. At all. The kind of chap who's a gloater, see, would have MADE that 4:20PM flight, and not had to spend his last few hours in LA gazing out at at incoming and outgoing air traffic.
Anyway. Sorry for dropping off the radar for a bit. I've been working on two (!) Scene-of-the-months (and they're winners), and I didn't want to write 'til they were done... but here I am. Thinking. (...and, in truth, drinking as well. Never good, but free wine will do that to a man.)
I am by ancestry Irish, mostly. And as such, am a member of a culture for whom bonding to a place, a home, is a defining link in the DNA.
But I currently pay rent on three storage facilities. I am having mail held in two cities. My car keys are with a friend. I offer a quick nod of acquaintance to the ID kid at the TSA line at LAX (who, I SWEAR TO CHRIST, is the twin of Jake Gyllenhal), and he says: "where you been?" I have not boarded a plane in about two months and realize that is my longest flight-gap in over three years.
And standing here, gazing into the mirror of the admittedly lovely restroom in the Admiral's Club... I look tired. (When it didn't matter, I was often called "young-looking." Really, who gives a shit? Now, an embarrassing truth: I do. And I'm not, any more.) I don't think people are meant to live like this. At least not people like me.
But... what if I'm wrong? I never thought I'd get good at this life, but. No matter what it is, we get good at what we do. And I don't know how it happened but this is what I do.
Is there ever a moment? When a person looks in a mirror and realizes that, perhaps, This Is It, For Me? (and, if so, shouldn't such a moment have come earlier in life?) Is there a too-yong part of me fighting this, protesting that no, there's Something Else?
Besides. Amongst us humans there are nomads-- entire cultures defined by their ability to never put down roots. As one of the Concord Poets (Emerson?) pointed out, migratory birds never return to last year's nest. Thing is, how does one know such a thing about one's self?
Do you?
Outside, in a ballet of slow-motion, whale-like grace, a Quantas 747 is pushed onto the taxiway. Strange, how silent it is behind glass. In truth, I love this part. I love wondering where that plane is going, what lives are moving forward. I do love forward motion.
And now, quietly in the background, Miles Davis. Flamenco Sketches, off "Kind of Blue." One of the most beautiful pieces of music ever recorded.
Again: what is it, exactly, with life? How can it be beautiful and mysterious and lonely and hard and joyful all at once? I thought only women possessed that capability...
I owe you an apology, I think, because this was heading somewhere when it started (I swear it was). But it ended... here.
So. I'm in NYC for a month or so, with a few Boston weekends in the mix. I'd love to see you-- so if you're looking for a class in NYC or Boston let me know.
Actually, shoot me an email either way. I'd love to hear your thoughts on all this. I really would.
Thanks for reading,
PK
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Some thoughts on my last day at 601
the view from my ex-officeI saw your picture today.
Yes, sir, yours. In black and white. You're sporting that full, proud head of hair in your headshot, staring out at the world with your best "you know you want this" look.
Now, you're a little... older. And thicker. And bald. It happens.
Oh, I saw yours too, missy-- you too with the hair, the leather jacket, and nothing but a lacy black bra underneath(!), looking for all the world like The Hot Extra in a Van Halen video.
Now you've got a different last name, a kid (two?), and don't really act much anymore. It happens.
And I saw you, too, my friend. I wasn't really prepared to see you today. You were alive then.
Now you're not. It happens.
I moved out of my office this weekend. As some of you know, my awesome and entirely too lenient landlords at 601 W. 26th in Manhattan had, when I shifted my base of operations to LA, offered me a sweetheart deal on my office, with the understanding that if a "full-price" taker came along, well, that was that.
How come we never, ever think these things will come to pass? I'm still in LA, mostly, and simply cannot justify full freight on my amazing office, so it was time to go. (But I will be back.) I'd been slow to respond, and February's a short month-- next thing you know I'm realizing that I've got ten days to clear out. Oh, I was prepared for the hassle: if you're an actor, chances are you're a "mover" too (funny, the things we get good at)... but.
What I was not at all prepared for was how difficult it would be inside.
My mom's a hoarder. Foolishly, I thought I was immune to this; I am cured of that misconception when I open a desk drawer and find it stuffed to capacity with paper napkins. (Hey-- they give 'em to you every time you get, like, anything at the commissary on the 8th floor-- and, ya know, Free Napkin! It just seems like a waste to chuck 'em.) (I'm right about this, BTW, and NOT crazy.) It takes about ten minutes to realize that A) I've been in this office longer than I'd thought, and B) there's been a whole lot of hoardin' going on. Time for some hard decisions. A little tough love.
So I labor. I agonize over each keep-it/chuck-it moment, and there are hundreds of them (How is this possible in a 10X10 office??). And in the midst of this Hoarder Hell... I finally arrive at my headshot files.
You should know this: if you have ever, ever walked into my office with a headshot, in any city, at any time... I still have it. I resolve to thin this herd by at least a half. It's ridiculous, really, all these crates. (As a side note, I'm saddened by the gaps in my recent collection due to the lazy proliferation of "oh let me just send it to you electronically." Do yourself a favor: print your headshot. Pay the money. Get the richest, most vivid headhsots you can, and carry them with you, and give them to people like me. It will pay off.)
So I spend the rest of the day staring. At you. So many headshots. Each one the representation of a dream. All these little triumphs, little heartbreaks.
Here's something I bet you think isn't true, but it is: I remember you. Whether we met on Harrison Ave or Babcock Street or East Broadway or South Street or Greene Street or 440 Lafayette or 6th Ave or Greenwich street or any of the other countless rooms I've rented over the years... I remember you.
And in remembering you then, I remember me then, too. Who I was. The sky I saw. The world I lived in.
And here's what I realize, as today's sky darkens and the lights of Manhattan outside my gorgeous window (sigh) twinkle to life and I'm still sitting, overwhelmed, amongst a sea of headshots: I'm proud of you. Because in the end, whatever the result, I think it is the attempt that counts. I believe that. I do. And I was a part of that and I'll bet I didn't say thank you but I am. Thankful. More than you know.
It's fully dark when I come to realize one more thing: I'm keeping your headshot. In fact, I'm not throwing out a single one.
IN those rare moments that I share, I sometimes tell people that what I want most in my life --my deepest fantasy, my porn-- is photo albums. Or, more to the point, to have a life where photo albums would exist. And every day I carry a little ache with me that I don't.
But sitting in that dark office I realize that I do.
You're my photo album.
601 W. 26th St.
Feb 28, 2011
Monday, November 29, 2010
Some thoughts on Thanksgiving. And Thankfulness, and friends
When you live this Nomadic Life, it happens now and then: you vanish.
Everyone in your life --at least everyone who thinks to wonder about it-- assumes that you're somewhere other than where you actually are. At that moment you could be anywhere, or nowhere at all. The wind of life has calmed and you are, for the moment, adrift: your course, for better or worse, is yours alone.
Where I am is Del Mar, a sleepy surf town turned chi-chi beach community north of San Diego (and home, over the years, to various Kelleys). I'd come down for the holiday and realized, once here, that I wasn't really needed in LA until noon on Monday. We've got a spare house on the hill (long story), and, after saying my familial good-byes, rather than heading back up the coast I chose to stay.
But something's not quite right, and it takes me a minute to place it: I'm walking funny. I'm moving fast, hands dug into packets, tilting against a sharp wind. It's a New Englander's walk, this, and its strange dislocation brings a thought I've not thought in years: it's a "cliffe-y" day. The phrase arrives as a memory; it brings a smile and warms me in that way that only nostalgia can. It's from years ago, learned from a grad school chum back in Boston who'd done his undergrad at Harvard, and the "cliffe" is meant to reference Radcliffe girls. Like Radcliffe girls, you see, a "cliffe-y" day is Bright But Cold. Ahem.
One so seldom gets these days in Southern California. The vivid blue sky, the ocean a foreboding slate grey, flecked with whitecaps hair-tussled by the wind. It strikes me that the day and I are both out of place: we're Here, yes, but we're a better fit Back There. The thought brings a vague ache, which I trace back, as I so often do, to family. After all, it's Thanksgiving, and the iconography of the holiday has always run deep in me: the fire, warming against a shortening day, the day-long aroma of the great meal-- and, of course, family, gathered close.
One of the wonderful advantages of family --one's actual, flesh-and-blood relatives--- is the ability of such relationships to endure a certain amount of what can best be understood as a kind of laziness: you love 'em, you don't; you're speaking to each other, you're not; no matter. They're still family and nothing will change that. And while we should nurture those relationships, well... even if we neglect them, come Thanksgiving, there's still a seat at a table, somewhere.
But as one ages, one wants to create one's own table. (It's what your parents did, after all.) And if you live a life like mine you may not have yet succeeded in doing so. And if you haven't, you learn something else: the incredible generosity of a seat at a table, any table, that is set aside for you by friends. And when a seat at the table of friendship is be the only seat available, one's friendships grow valuable indeed.
Because unlike family, friendship is always a choice. And like any relationship of choice, if left untended, it will simply fade. And that's a pity, but it seems epidemic of late. It has become so easy to simply not return the call, to blow off the party-- but as we do, bit by bit those wonderful friendships fade.
This is what I'm thinking about as I drive along the coast later: my friends. Who have so often, over the years, become a fill-in family when I needed one most.
If you know me, you know I've got a love-hate relationship to all that San Diego represents (when I lived here, I was a small, pale, druggie kid who didn't tan or surf well, a decidedly bad combination in the Land of the Beautiful). But this stretch of of the PCH, from Torrey Pines Park through San Diego's coastal north, late in the afternoon when the sun is low, grows only more beautiful to me over time.
I'm headed to the E Street Cafe, a little coffeehouse in Encinitas that's retained the raggedy, surf-town vibe that most places in Fashionable North County have lost: hippie kids, elderly couples, and a few leathered, weathered Lost Causes that one sees in beach communities. On the drive up, I wasn't really sure why I came, but once I walk inside the place I know: I've got something to write.
There's a singer, see, a portly fellow best described as a San Diego Cowboy --a kind of Wilfred-Brimley-by-way-of-David-Crosby, if that makes sense-- and as I walk in, he's singing a Beatles tune: "With a Little Help From My Friends."
I do not think this coincidence. I am certain it is evidence of God. But to talk of God at a moment like this, it's best to talk first of Gratitude, and Thankfulness, especially as we're at the tail end of a holiday meant to honor the giving of thanks.
Gratitude seems to have come into vogue lately. A good thing, to be sure, but in so doing it is often confused with thankfulness, which may not be quite the same thing. I've always understood thankfulness as an inter-human notion: I am thankful that you gave me a ride, or that you called me when I was feeling down. Gratitude is a deeper, less concrete notion; it has at its core, I think, an appreciation for What Is, for life itself as much as one's things in it, and requires an accompanying acknowledgement of one's incredible fortune to be a part of All That Is. As such, I think it's impossible to contemplate Gratitude without some acceptance of a Higher Power. Here's why:
It could be argued that it's simply a matter of coincidence that I find sunsets beautiful. After all, it's only a sunset, nothing more than a refracting of light as the sun dips below the horizon-- it would occur without humanity to bear witness to it. I could be indifferent to it, I could be made nauseous at the sight of it. Instead, it brings me a kind of quiet joy. You too, I'm guessing.
A fortunate coincidence? That we just happen to exist on a planet that happens to have this phenomenon that we happen to find beautiful? Perhaps... but. That feels to me wrong. In some way that I cannot articulate, it makes sense that the setting sun would please us. It feels right when I contemplate it; "righter" still when I experience it.
I'd respectfully submit that the "right-feeling" is the presence of God inside me. And I'm grateful for that. I'm grateful for the day that I've been given, for the God that produced it.
So. Thankfulness and Gratitude. And friends.
For all my wonderful friends, who are so crazy and baffling and loyal and wonderful that I may not even deserve them, I am thankful. More, I fear, than they know. And to God (or The Universe, if that helps), I am Grateful for the ability to care so deeply and appreciate my friends so very much. It is something that does not get said enough, I think.
It's dark out now. The cold snap that has settled over Southern California remains. Or maybe it's me-- maybe it's simply that my blood has finally grown thin. Either way, I'm already bracing for the quick walk to the car. But tonight, even in the chilly dark, I think I'll leave the top down.
Speaking of thankfulness: thanks for reading.
PK
Del Mar, CA
November, 2010
Everyone in your life --at least everyone who thinks to wonder about it-- assumes that you're somewhere other than where you actually are. At that moment you could be anywhere, or nowhere at all. The wind of life has calmed and you are, for the moment, adrift: your course, for better or worse, is yours alone.
Where I am is Del Mar, a sleepy surf town turned chi-chi beach community north of San Diego (and home, over the years, to various Kelleys). I'd come down for the holiday and realized, once here, that I wasn't really needed in LA until noon on Monday. We've got a spare house on the hill (long story), and, after saying my familial good-byes, rather than heading back up the coast I chose to stay.
But something's not quite right, and it takes me a minute to place it: I'm walking funny. I'm moving fast, hands dug into packets, tilting against a sharp wind. It's a New Englander's walk, this, and its strange dislocation brings a thought I've not thought in years: it's a "cliffe-y" day. The phrase arrives as a memory; it brings a smile and warms me in that way that only nostalgia can. It's from years ago, learned from a grad school chum back in Boston who'd done his undergrad at Harvard, and the "cliffe" is meant to reference Radcliffe girls. Like Radcliffe girls, you see, a "cliffe-y" day is Bright But Cold. Ahem.
One so seldom gets these days in Southern California. The vivid blue sky, the ocean a foreboding slate grey, flecked with whitecaps hair-tussled by the wind. It strikes me that the day and I are both out of place: we're Here, yes, but we're a better fit Back There. The thought brings a vague ache, which I trace back, as I so often do, to family. After all, it's Thanksgiving, and the iconography of the holiday has always run deep in me: the fire, warming against a shortening day, the day-long aroma of the great meal-- and, of course, family, gathered close.
One of the wonderful advantages of family --one's actual, flesh-and-blood relatives--- is the ability of such relationships to endure a certain amount of what can best be understood as a kind of laziness: you love 'em, you don't; you're speaking to each other, you're not; no matter. They're still family and nothing will change that. And while we should nurture those relationships, well... even if we neglect them, come Thanksgiving, there's still a seat at a table, somewhere.
But as one ages, one wants to create one's own table. (It's what your parents did, after all.) And if you live a life like mine you may not have yet succeeded in doing so. And if you haven't, you learn something else: the incredible generosity of a seat at a table, any table, that is set aside for you by friends. And when a seat at the table of friendship is be the only seat available, one's friendships grow valuable indeed.
Because unlike family, friendship is always a choice. And like any relationship of choice, if left untended, it will simply fade. And that's a pity, but it seems epidemic of late. It has become so easy to simply not return the call, to blow off the party-- but as we do, bit by bit those wonderful friendships fade.
This is what I'm thinking about as I drive along the coast later: my friends. Who have so often, over the years, become a fill-in family when I needed one most.
If you know me, you know I've got a love-hate relationship to all that San Diego represents (when I lived here, I was a small, pale, druggie kid who didn't tan or surf well, a decidedly bad combination in the Land of the Beautiful). But this stretch of of the PCH, from Torrey Pines Park through San Diego's coastal north, late in the afternoon when the sun is low, grows only more beautiful to me over time.
I'm headed to the E Street Cafe, a little coffeehouse in Encinitas that's retained the raggedy, surf-town vibe that most places in Fashionable North County have lost: hippie kids, elderly couples, and a few leathered, weathered Lost Causes that one sees in beach communities. On the drive up, I wasn't really sure why I came, but once I walk inside the place I know: I've got something to write.
There's a singer, see, a portly fellow best described as a San Diego Cowboy --a kind of Wilfred-Brimley-by-way-of-David-Crosby, if that makes sense-- and as I walk in, he's singing a Beatles tune: "With a Little Help From My Friends."
I do not think this coincidence. I am certain it is evidence of God. But to talk of God at a moment like this, it's best to talk first of Gratitude, and Thankfulness, especially as we're at the tail end of a holiday meant to honor the giving of thanks.
Gratitude seems to have come into vogue lately. A good thing, to be sure, but in so doing it is often confused with thankfulness, which may not be quite the same thing. I've always understood thankfulness as an inter-human notion: I am thankful that you gave me a ride, or that you called me when I was feeling down. Gratitude is a deeper, less concrete notion; it has at its core, I think, an appreciation for What Is, for life itself as much as one's things in it, and requires an accompanying acknowledgement of one's incredible fortune to be a part of All That Is. As such, I think it's impossible to contemplate Gratitude without some acceptance of a Higher Power. Here's why:
It could be argued that it's simply a matter of coincidence that I find sunsets beautiful. After all, it's only a sunset, nothing more than a refracting of light as the sun dips below the horizon-- it would occur without humanity to bear witness to it. I could be indifferent to it, I could be made nauseous at the sight of it. Instead, it brings me a kind of quiet joy. You too, I'm guessing.
A fortunate coincidence? That we just happen to exist on a planet that happens to have this phenomenon that we happen to find beautiful? Perhaps... but. That feels to me wrong. In some way that I cannot articulate, it makes sense that the setting sun would please us. It feels right when I contemplate it; "righter" still when I experience it.
I'd respectfully submit that the "right-feeling" is the presence of God inside me. And I'm grateful for that. I'm grateful for the day that I've been given, for the God that produced it.
So. Thankfulness and Gratitude. And friends.
For all my wonderful friends, who are so crazy and baffling and loyal and wonderful that I may not even deserve them, I am thankful. More, I fear, than they know. And to God (or The Universe, if that helps), I am Grateful for the ability to care so deeply and appreciate my friends so very much. It is something that does not get said enough, I think.
It's dark out now. The cold snap that has settled over Southern California remains. Or maybe it's me-- maybe it's simply that my blood has finally grown thin. Either way, I'm already bracing for the quick walk to the car. But tonight, even in the chilly dark, I think I'll leave the top down.
Speaking of thankfulness: thanks for reading.
PK
Del Mar, CA
November, 2010
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Acting 101: A tale of Two Entrances
People sometimes ask what, exactly, I do on set. By way of an answer, here's a story - and a little Acting 101 brush-up. Which everyone needs, sometimes.
DAY ONE of a new episode is always interesting. Everyone's shaking off the cobwebs of the previous episode (which we were working on 12 hours earlier), everyone's getting warmed into an entirely new story. As a result, we're often on the soundstage (the "Operations Center") on Day 1-- it's a controlled location, crews know their way around the space, and things can move quickly.
This new episode is bookended by two scenes between Callen, our lead, and Hetty, the wizened "boss" of the investigators. More, they're set in the same location, and the staging is almost identical in each. Since they're both relatively simple "gets" involving only two characters, we'll start day one with these two scenes.
But here's the thing: due to a number of logistical considerations, they'll be shot in reverse order. And since the story in the script covers a single day, that means that Callen's first entrance (a shot that will go off at 7:30AM, give or take) is meant to be at the tail end of a long, wearying day that ends the episode; as soon as that scene's done, we'll shoot the very first shot of the story, when none of the day's violent events will have yet occurred.
Same actor, same entrance, completely different emotional moments. Two hours apart. Think it's easy? Try it.
So we start with the wide. All looks good, except Callen is not quite entering with that heavy, "end-of-a-long-day" energy that the moment requires. In the focused momentum of getting that first shot, we've skipped a commonly overlooked part of an actor's prep:
The Moment Before
It's a concept borrowed from the theatre, to be sure: essentially, the actor must ensure that the energy of their entrance is in keeping with the circumstances of the moment-- or, more specifically, the moment just before one's entrance. Hence, "Moment Before." (Some of you may have learned this as "Given Circumstances", but it's the same concept. ) It's a simple idea-- but mastery of it is so, so much more critical to a film performance than theatre.
Why? Two reasons: first, we often shoot the place you're leaving days after the place you're going to, and without doing this work you will never maintain continuity. Second, often a film or TV scene is so short that the entrance IS the scene, or a big part of it. Think: how many entrances and exits does a character make in a play, and how many in a film? So call it what you want-- Given Circumstances, Moment Before, makes no difference. The key to mastering it is the same:
remember that every entrance is an exit, and every exit is an entrance.
Like so many things in acting, you can notice this in action in life: when you're entering your apartment, you're leaving the hall. When you're entering a restaurant, you're leaving the sidewalk. And if you pay attention to the entrances and exits of others, you'll notice just how much of the "Moment Before" they carry with them.
In this case, our work required no more than a 20-second conversation to shift Chris' emotional focus from where he was entering (the gymnasium) to where he was leaving (his office, at the end of a draining day). Since we'd already worked the scene itself, that "scene energy" would take over when it happened. There was no need to focus on the upcoming moment.
Which seems counter-intuitive to some actors, but: imagine walking out of your apartment, fresh off a phone call with a debt collector, and now you're late, and life just really really sucks.... when there's Megan Fox (or Johnny Depp), passed out naked in front of your door.
Suddenly, that crappy phone call doesn't seem so important.
So if that's your scene (and if it is, LUCKY YOU), you don't open the door with "here comes Megan/Johnny, can't wait!"; rather, you open it with "well, THAT sucked..." The sight of Megan/Johnny will then carry you into the present moment.
It is understandable that an actor with a long day might overlook this. It's even more understandable that the director, who's rightfully focused on not getting behind on Day 1, is not going to slow down because of an entrance on the wide that may or may not even be used. The truth? If the actor hits their marks, connects on their lines, and all of the technical land mines that can sabotage a shot are avoided, then everyone will be happy, and we'll move on.
Which is, on one level, as it should be: taken on its own, the specific energy of any single entrance a character makes is a minor thing, to be sure. But minor things add up. "So what," you say - "who will notice?"
You will. The audience will. And over the arc of a season you'll notice that the show is demanding just a little less of you.
But at 7:30AM on Day One, it's possible that everyone might miss it. Except the guy who's hired specifically to watch for these things.
And if you don't have one of those guys --and chances are you don't-- then it's your job to remember: context. On an entrance, remember where you're coming from. On an exit, think about where you're going to.
Because we'll notice.
DAY ONE of a new episode is always interesting. Everyone's shaking off the cobwebs of the previous episode (which we were working on 12 hours earlier), everyone's getting warmed into an entirely new story. As a result, we're often on the soundstage (the "Operations Center") on Day 1-- it's a controlled location, crews know their way around the space, and things can move quickly.
This new episode is bookended by two scenes between Callen, our lead, and Hetty, the wizened "boss" of the investigators. More, they're set in the same location, and the staging is almost identical in each. Since they're both relatively simple "gets" involving only two characters, we'll start day one with these two scenes.
But here's the thing: due to a number of logistical considerations, they'll be shot in reverse order. And since the story in the script covers a single day, that means that Callen's first entrance (a shot that will go off at 7:30AM, give or take) is meant to be at the tail end of a long, wearying day that ends the episode; as soon as that scene's done, we'll shoot the very first shot of the story, when none of the day's violent events will have yet occurred.
Same actor, same entrance, completely different emotional moments. Two hours apart. Think it's easy? Try it.
So we start with the wide. All looks good, except Callen is not quite entering with that heavy, "end-of-a-long-day" energy that the moment requires. In the focused momentum of getting that first shot, we've skipped a commonly overlooked part of an actor's prep:
The Moment Before
It's a concept borrowed from the theatre, to be sure: essentially, the actor must ensure that the energy of their entrance is in keeping with the circumstances of the moment-- or, more specifically, the moment just before one's entrance. Hence, "Moment Before." (Some of you may have learned this as "Given Circumstances", but it's the same concept. ) It's a simple idea-- but mastery of it is so, so much more critical to a film performance than theatre.
Why? Two reasons: first, we often shoot the place you're leaving days after the place you're going to, and without doing this work you will never maintain continuity. Second, often a film or TV scene is so short that the entrance IS the scene, or a big part of it. Think: how many entrances and exits does a character make in a play, and how many in a film? So call it what you want-- Given Circumstances, Moment Before, makes no difference. The key to mastering it is the same:
remember that every entrance is an exit, and every exit is an entrance.
Like so many things in acting, you can notice this in action in life: when you're entering your apartment, you're leaving the hall. When you're entering a restaurant, you're leaving the sidewalk. And if you pay attention to the entrances and exits of others, you'll notice just how much of the "Moment Before" they carry with them.
In this case, our work required no more than a 20-second conversation to shift Chris' emotional focus from where he was entering (the gymnasium) to where he was leaving (his office, at the end of a draining day). Since we'd already worked the scene itself, that "scene energy" would take over when it happened. There was no need to focus on the upcoming moment.
Which seems counter-intuitive to some actors, but: imagine walking out of your apartment, fresh off a phone call with a debt collector, and now you're late, and life just really really sucks.... when there's Megan Fox (or Johnny Depp), passed out naked in front of your door.
Suddenly, that crappy phone call doesn't seem so important.
So if that's your scene (and if it is, LUCKY YOU), you don't open the door with "here comes Megan/Johnny, can't wait!"; rather, you open it with "well, THAT sucked..." The sight of Megan/Johnny will then carry you into the present moment.
It is understandable that an actor with a long day might overlook this. It's even more understandable that the director, who's rightfully focused on not getting behind on Day 1, is not going to slow down because of an entrance on the wide that may or may not even be used. The truth? If the actor hits their marks, connects on their lines, and all of the technical land mines that can sabotage a shot are avoided, then everyone will be happy, and we'll move on.
Which is, on one level, as it should be: taken on its own, the specific energy of any single entrance a character makes is a minor thing, to be sure. But minor things add up. "So what," you say - "who will notice?"
You will. The audience will. And over the arc of a season you'll notice that the show is demanding just a little less of you.
But at 7:30AM on Day One, it's possible that everyone might miss it. Except the guy who's hired specifically to watch for these things.
And if you don't have one of those guys --and chances are you don't-- then it's your job to remember: context. On an entrance, remember where you're coming from. On an exit, think about where you're going to.
Because we'll notice.
Monday, October 18, 2010
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
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
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