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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