Screenplay Rhetoric v. Fiction Rhetoric


Among my students, writers with fiction backgrounds have the hardest time with screenwriting. This is because the rhetorical universes of these two narrative forms are so far apart. Consequent, when they begin screenwriting, students with fiction backgrounds greatly overwrite everything that goes into the action element: descriptions of place, descriptions and movement of characters. Moreover, they wallow in getting into their characters' heads, something that is rarely done, if ever, in screenwriting.

Let me emphasize the difference between the two forms of writing by showing you the same scene as written in a short story and as written in a screenplay based on the short story. The story/movie is In the Bedroom.

Andre Dubus' wonderful short story "Killings" is the basis of the movie. Here is the scene when the grieving father takes the murderer of his son at gunpoint into the murderer's bedroom:

	"Where's your suitcase?"
	"My suitcase?"
	"Where is it."
	"In the bedroom closet."
	"That's where we're going then. When we get to a door you stop and turn on 
the light."
	They crossed the kitchen, Matt glancing at the sink and stove 
and refrigerator; no dishes in the sink or even the dish rack beside it, 
no grease splashings on the stove, the refrigerator door clean and white. 
He did not want to look any more but he looked quickly at all he could 
see: in the living room magazines and newspapers in a wicker basket, 
clean ashtrays, a record player, the records shelved next to it, then 
down the hall where, near the bedroom door, hung a color photograph of 
Mary Ann and then two boys sitting on a lawn -- there was no house in 
the picture -- Mary Ann smiling at the camera or Strout or whoever held 
the camera, smiling as she had on Matt's lawn this summer while he waited 
for the charcoal and they all talked and he looked at her brown legs and 
at Frank touching her arm, her shoulder, her hair; he moved down the 
hall with her smile in his mind, wondering: was that when they were both 
playing around and she was smiling like that at him and they were happy, 
even sometimes, making it worth it? He recalled her eyes, the pain in 
them, and he was conscious of the circles of love he was touching with 
the hand that held the revolver so tightly now as Strout stopped at the 
door at the end of the hall.
	"There's no wall switch."
	"Where's the light?"
	"By the bed."
	"Let's go."
	Matt stayed a pace behind, then Strout leaned over and the room 
was lighted: the bed, a double one, was neatly made; the ashtray on the 
bedside table clean, the bureau top dustless, and no photographs; 
probably so the girl -- who was she? -- would not have to see 
Mary Ann in the bedroom she believed was theirs. But because Matt was 
a father and a husband, though never an ex-husband, he knew (and did 
not want to know) that this bedroom had never been theirs alone. Strout 
turned around; Matt looked at his lips, his wide jaw, and thought of 
Frank's doomed and fearful eyes looking up from the couch.
	"Where's Mr. Trottier?"
	"He's waiting. Pack clothes for warm weather."
	"What's going on?"
	"You're jumping bail."
	"Mr. Fowler--"
	He pointed the cocked revolver at Strout's face. The barrel 
trembled but not much, not as much as he had expected. Strout went to 
the closet and got the suitcase from the floor and opened it on the 
bed. As he went to bureau, he said, "He was making it with my wife. 
I'd go pick up my kids and he'd be there. Sometimes he spent the night. 
My boys told me." [REF]

Here is the same moment of the scene from the screenplay:

                           MATT
               Where's your suitcase?

Richard almost turns around.

                           RICHARD
               My suitcase?

Matt grips the gun tighter, straining to keep it from trembling.

                           MATT
               Where is it?

                           RICHARD
               In the bedroom closet.

                           MATT
               That's where we're going then. When we get 
               to a door you stop and turn on the light.

They cross the kitchen.

Matt can't help but glance at the sink and stove and refrigerator: no 
dishes in the sink or even the dish rack beside it, no grease splashings 
on the stove, the refrigerator clean and white.

Matt becomes momentarily preoccupied with one of Duncan's drawings taped 
to the door.

                           MATT
                Wait.

Richard stops.

Matt looks conflicted. Doubt has crept into his face. For a moment he 
seems to have lost his resolve.

                           RICHARD O.S.
	              (irritated)
                ...Jesus.

Matt looks to Richard with a renewed sense of purpose.

                           MATT
                ...keep going.

LIVING ROOM

A light flicks on. They take the hall past the living room.

Matt doesn't want to see anymore of Richard's life. But he can't help 
himself. He takes it all in.

Magazines and newspapers in a wicker basket, clean ashtrays, a stereo, 
CD's neatly shelved next to it.

They continue down a hallway. Richard stops outside a door.

                          RICHARD
                There's no wall switch.

                          MATT
                Where's the light?

                          RICHARD
                By the bed.

                          MATT
                Let's go.

Richard steps into the darkness. Matt is careful to stay a pace behind. 
Richard leans over by the bed. Matt braces. Click. A small bedside lamp 
turns on.

The bed, a double one, is neatly made, the ashtray on the bedside table 
clean, the bureau top dustless, and no photographs; probably so the girl -- 
who is she? -- won't have to see Natalie in the bedroom she believes 
is theirs. But because Matt is a father and a husband, though never an 
ex-husband, he knows (and does not want to know) that this bedroom has 
never been theirs alone.

Richard turns around: Matt looks at his lips, his wide jaw.

                         RICHARD
                I wanted to work things out with her. 
                Try to get together with her again. But 
                I couldn't even talk to her. He was always 
                with her, Dr. Fowler. I'm going to jail 
                for it. I am going to jail. If I ever get 
                out, I'll be an old man. Isn't that enough?

                          MATT
                You're not going to jail. Pack clothes for 
                warm weather.

                          RICHARD
                What's going on? You're not gonna let me
                go!

Matt looks away. He doesn't answer.

                          RICHARD
                Dr. Fowler?

                          MATT
                You're jumping bail.

                          RICHARD
                ...Dr. Fowler.

Matt points the pistol at Richard's face. The barrel trembles a little.

Richard reaches up into his closet and pulls out two large canvas bags. 
He places them on the bed. He pulls a third bag, a small, red woman's 
suitcase, Natalie's no doubt, next to the others.

He moves to the bureau.

                          MATT
                 It's the trial. We can't go through that, 
                 my wife and me. So you're leaving. I've 
                 got you a ticket. My wife keeps seeing 
                 you. I can't have that anymore...

                          RICHARD
                 He was making it with my wife. I'd go 
                 pick up my kids and he'd be there. 
                 Sometimes he spent the night. Duncan 
                 told me. [REF]

Let me say from the beginning that the screenplay version of this scene is over-written a tad, no doubt because of its faithful treatment of the material, even incorporating some exact phrasing. But the writing beginning with "probably so the girl..." is not what you usually find in a screenplay -- it's getting into the character's head, after all.

This aside, notice how much more simply the writing is in the screenplay. For the most part, short, simple sentences are used. There is no sense of literary style here, none of the great lyrical moments of Dubus' language. The action on the screen is described in simple sentences.

Note, too, that there is more dialogue in the screenplay -- this, too, is an exception. The "extra" dialogue, for the most part, comes from other parts of the short story -- it's an economical way to communicate the same character feelings.

Notice an interesting addition in the screenplay: the child's drawing on the refrigerator, and Matt's saying, "Wait." What is this about? It's about making the hesitancy and uncertainty that is communicated in Dubus' literary style, delving deep into Matt's thoughts, external so we can see it on the screen. Often this is what adapting fiction to film is all about: making the internal external, so we can see it on the screen.

Most spec screenplays today are written even more crisply than the example above, which, as I noted, captures some of the exact language of the source. But even this example is leaner and more simple in its rhetoric than the rich prose style of Dubus, and that is the point.

The rhetorical universes of screenwriting and fiction writing are very far apart.


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05/02