Avatar (The Screenplay)

For someone constantly striving to hone world building skills, there are certain resources that tower above the others in terms of usefulness. Up near the top, with a respectful nod to Tolkien of course, is Avatar, the highest grossing film in cinematic history and the stimulus of a 3D renaissance. It has been praised for its visual genius and mocked as a cheesy version of "Dances with Smurfs," but its success and the fact that it has spawned so much dialogue is extraordinary, especially as a science fiction film taking place in a world that is not our own, a genre that traditionally caters to a niche market. The true magic of Avatar rises from its visual elements, but in order to spawn such breathtaking cinematography, the foundation had to first be laid in print. Examining this foundation has been very enlightening, and even inspiring, on the following levels.

The world of Pandora shares much in common with Earth in that there are plants and animals, which interact with each other in a systematic and occasionally predatory way. However, on a cinematic level, these worlds differ fundamentally, starting with lighting. Unlike the planet, Earth, Pandora is a moon, orbiting around a gas giant, which provides most of the planet's lighting through reflection. Pandora's ecosystem then compensates for the lack of light through ubiquitous bioluminescence, the element which contributes most successfully to the dreamlike nature of the world. Additionally, the lower gravity of this moon and the presence of "unobtanium" in the soil, have permitted massive growth among the fauna and flora, further diminishing the importance of puny humanity and thus turning the dream world into a nightmare.

A note on unobtanium: the film doesn't really clarify what "unobtanium" really does or why it's worth so much to humanity. The name "unobtanium" sounds ridiculous, and so it seems a haphazardly planted element in an otherwise elegant world. The screenplay describes it as a magnetic material producing a maglev (magnetic levitation) effect, designating it as an important raw material for anti-gravity technology, something understandably useful to space-age humanity. However, there is one brilliant aspect to this omission in the film, which is all but impossible to see on screen. On page 30, Grace picks up a copy of Dr. Seuss' The Lorax from a school desk, an act of little to no significance in a quick camera shot. However, the central conflict of The Lorax, which was initially banned from television, comes from the destruction of the Truffula trees to produce Thneeds, which have no function at all but are in high demand. Thus, by omitting the use of unobtanium, the filmmakers have created a useless MacGuffin, for which the greedy are willing to destroy anything, making their actions even more barbaric to the viewer.

Conversely, there were quite a few thematic elements to the screenplay that enriched the reading experience but felt sadly lost in the viewing. The first instance comes from the distinction between the human connection to machines, one of distance and utility (e.g. Quaritch's controlled Wushu kata while hooked up to an ampsuit), and the Na'vi connection to the creatures they ride, one of intimacy and brotherhood (e.g. linking up to the banshees, which then bond to their riders for life). The contrast between these two relationship styles serves to highlight a rapid social retreat from personal intimacy in favor of the mechanical, which is easier to discard. We can see this in the futuristic Earth, all but destroyed and littered with what has been discarded (like Jake), a way of life that the colonists of Pandora believe will serve them well on all worlds. Therefore, we have the cultural conflicts of destruction/disdain and life/respect, a theme addressed in the film but more succinctly described in the script.

The allure of the Na'vi culture and the negative effects of the conquering human worldview on Jake's psyche come across much more clearly in the screenplay than in the film. Jake comes from this cold, hostile world of machines and people, but it is on Pandora, among an alien culture of respect and intimacy, that he is able to find his humanity. It is literally drawn out of him and absorbed into a new body to the point that he is more human as an alien than he ever was among other humans. His transformation thus invites the viewer to question the limits of his or her own humanity, though it's doubtful how many viewers left the theater questioning their human natures.

Thematic elements can be dreadfully difficult to visualize without inserting bad lines of exposition, so I make no judgment there. However, the creation of this world with its vast zoological population required a lot of exposition, the technique of which I badly want to learn. James Cameron (who, for some reason, just can't fit into one name like "Spielberg") introduces his menagerie of alien creatures in a dual manner: in the scene descriptions, they are known by Mendelian Greek names (e.g. leonopteryx), while the characters in the film refer to them exclusively by their Na'vi nomenclature (e.g. toruk). This makes it easier for the reader to keep track of creatures without spending unnecessary time trying to pronounce the names, while on screen, the viewer has a visual guide to the creature and thus does not care what it's called anyway. The writing sets up this visual guide simply, focusing on one or two specific traits: teeth, leg count, colors, crests, horns, what Earth animal it might represent, and what Earth animal it could rip apart. The characters then add details of the creatures' ecological importance (human) or cultural importance (Na'vi). In the end, it only takes us a few lines to understand each creature's role in the world and to let it be absorbed into the backdrop without forgetting what it is when it returns later.

The combined script and film are rich in detail, though the latter unfortunately takes a turn toward the cliché through ad libbing. Nonetheless, the details of this world drive the whopping 152-page screenplay and three-hour film in the form of smaller adventures and simple moments of awe at the bioluminescence, the floating mountains, or the wonders of flight. The world provides conflicts and lessons aplenty, leaving us no chance to be bored and only a little opportunity to be confused. The Avatar screenplay is a great reference for creating a world that is not only spectacular and innovative but also relatable.

In the Loop (The Screenplay)

I'm going to forget my reference here. I can't remember who it was exactly who told me they were tired of pretentious, cinema-nut screenplays with rapid-fire dialogue, bad attitudes, and a heap of swearing and pop culture references to cover up their confusing plotlines being nominated for Academy Awards. In any case, those are the criteria that I would use to classify In the Loop.

That is not to say, of course, that I did not enjoy the read for the most part. Of course, without character introductions of any kind or really any lay-person/British-novice explanations, it took a while to figure out what exactly was going on, who these people were, and that this was actually meant to be a comedy. Right? For the most part, I enjoyed a some of the lines and trivial conversations - I really appreciated the fact that Karen Clark had dental problems, and I got a kick out of Toby and Simon resorting to shark documentaries in order to get off without having to hold a press conference - but good lord, apart from these few moments, the repetition of humor styles became unbearable! By the end, there were two to four movie titles or character puns thrown at us per page! I got tuckered out after about forty pages of Malcolm's viciously caustic put-downs of everyone within hearing range, and I became annoyed with Simon and Toby's utter spinelessness. In fact, most everyone in this script except for Malcolm and Jamie had no backbone at all, which leaves us with a really uncomfortable message: that our governments are run by bullies.

I suppose the film could provide a useful lesson for standing up to bullies, no matter how old or how powerful they may be. The bad guys get their way in this one, and the good guys bend over and take it, but perhaps the viewer's frustration at their utter uselessness could serve as a motivator to do more to resist this kind of system. Then again, they'd actually have to be able to pick out the message amid the barrage of government titles and threats of a war against an unknown enemy that's been brewing for who knows how long and is somehow threatened by a lower-ranking politician who really seems to have no real clout to begin with. Considering the Oscar nominees I've read thus far, I can't quite understand why this was nominated, except for its portrayal of our world as a screwed up place, but it's serving as a very useful learning tool for tailoring a script to the high-testosterone crowd.

A Single Man (The Screenplay)

I'm going to abandon technical analysis for a moment and talk about how I'm feeling. Yeah. Whoa. Reading A Single Man left me feeling sad and sentimental. How did it do that? I couldn't see any of the characters' faces. I couldn't hear their voices or their sniffles as they cried. How, then, were these written words able to produce such distinct emotions without these visible and audible stimuli? There is much to be learned from an Oscar-nominated screenplay.

We'll start with the basics. Lost love is universally relatable, whether directly or vicariously, and the death of a loved one is the epitome of this sort of loss. In this case, we enter the grieving process of a man, George, who has recently lost his partner of 16 years, Jim, to a car accident. We get this through flashbacks played in reverse from Jim's death to their first meeting, the increasing happiness of the memories a parallel to George's own improving mood, but this parallel is irrelevant here. It is the contrast of the happiness of these flashbacks to the quiet, somber world that George now inhabits that stirs the emotion inside as we realize the extent of what George has lost. Through this contrast, the reader cannot help but reflect on or speculate about one's own losses. Relating = feeling.

While loss of love can be experienced oneself or through others, the pain of alienation is something that attacks the very core of the social animal. Right off the bat, George gets a call from Jim's cousin, with news about the car accident and the upcoming funeral. The loss hurts, but the reiteration that the funeral is for "family only," is a much sharper sting. Throughout the story, George reflects on how he and Jim were invisible, cut off from the increasingly savage world embodied by his beastly neighbors. He teaches a class that does not care, watches a world of mediocrity sprouting around him, feels so out of place and out of touch. The drowning motif, while a bit heavy-handed, is fitting. It is only when he befriends his student, Kenny, that he is allowed to surface.

Finally, George's doom touches our hearts. We know from the beginning that he will ultimately die: he buys bullets for a gun, withdraws his possessions from the bank, and leaves his will out on the table for someone to find. We envision someone whose heart has been deeply cracked, who lacks the means or the understanding to repair it. Our sadness comes from seeing how his attempts have failed and how he has slipped into complete isolation and anonymity. It is when we trip in the pursuit of happiness that we fall into the character's sadness.

Through this wave of melancholy, we catch breaths of air in the memories and the happy moments. George recollects in his final words that he has "lived [his] life on these moments" even though they fade. Yet, it is his acknowledgment that everything must fade that ultimately sets him free. He is able to look at what has been and what can be. He can acknowledge that there may be more moments to anticipate. He has a few friends and at least one who understands him. It is a quiet way to end, satisfying without yelling or sobbing but a quiet gasp.

A Serious Man (The Screenplay)

I'm playing a little catch-up here. This is one of last year's Oscar noms, but I still feel I should get through last year's before I can get on to this year's. In any case, A Serious Man definitely fits in with the Coen Brothers' style of really strange comedies (see Burn after Reading). It isn't so much laugh-out-loud funny, but it is so bizarre that it can't help but be charming.

Having not yet seen the movie, I'm going to stay technical here. The first thing that struck me stylistically about this screenplay (and in fact, all of the Oscar noms I've read so far) is a complete divergence from the standard code of formatting. There were no INTs or EXTs, no DAYs or NIGHTs, no CONTINUOUSes, no (V.O.)s, and above all, no (CONT'D)s. The latter intrigued me most. When a character spoke over half a page, interspersed with action, there were no additional character headers to announce the return of dialogue. It was just a steady flow throughout. On one hand, this improved flow dramatically, and I can only imagine how much space this saved (despite the script being 133 pages long). On the other hand, there were moments when I found this a bit confusing in rooms of multiple characters. Still, the technique is worth considering. To paraphrase my roommate, "Write a good script. Then worry about formatting."

I enjoyed the patterns of humorous repetition (e.g. Uncle Arthur's "Out in a minute," Sarah's "I'm going to the Hole," and Danny's endless whining about the picture quality for F Troop). These completely apathetic, self-obsessed meshuggenehs built up a delightfully awful, apathetic, self-obsessed world... and it was funny!

As with many of their films, the Coen Brothers are masters of ambiguous, unfulfilling, and debatable endings. They take, in the purest sense, a slice of life with no beginnings or conclusions, and present it for the audience to speculate on its meaning (see No Country for Old Men or aforementioned Burn after Reading). Is ambiguity the key to being nominated for an Oscar? I have as yet to see the new True Grit, but if it ends as ambiguously, there may be the answer. Good read. Check it out.

Writing Update

I've finally found a New Year's Resolution that's working: write for two hours per day. By telling myself "Oh, it's just two hours and you'll be productive," I'm much more likely to sit down and do it than if I freak out and say "Ah! You have to get 15/30 pages done today! Eight hours in front of the screen! Now! Now! Now!" I'm finally adding new pages after nearly four months on Act 1. The feeling is glorious. I'm looking forward to pressing on again tomorrow.

Coraline (The Screenplay)

Not having seen Coraline yet, I'll base this response on what information I was able to glean from it and whether I would be likely to see the movie. I will try to keep my response independent of reviews from friends and my own enjoyment of stop-motion animation.

While I feel that I didn't learn as much from this script as from the Inglourious Basterds screenplay, I did get another useful glimpse into taking one's time to let the story build, instead of just trying to rush the exposition out of the way and race through the rest of the story. The story really only takes place in two locations: the Pink Palace and the Other Pink Palace, which means that the story had to focus entirely on Coraline and her miserable, attention-starved life. There is a lot of time spent wandering in the garden and interacting with neighbors in seemingly trivial manners that provide entertainment and foreshadowing for their significance later in the story. Nonetheless, in this wandering, we learn a lot about Coraline and relate to her.

Structurally, we have a very distinct first turning point, where Coraline decides to return to the Other world, though it comes fairly late, around page 40 or so. We have a spot-on midpoint, where Coraline realizes that this fantasy world is actually hostile, and finally, our second turning point marks Coraline's need to return to the Other World for the final time to finish off the witch that took her in the first place. Littered throughout are imaginative images and fun characters, my favorite being mad Mr. Bobinsky, set up according to the rule of threes, which adds variety to Coraline's interactions up until Act 3 when all three mini-worlds have to come together.

I'd watch the movie for the sheer imagination of it. I think it has a unique message, that while life may be dull and empty at times, it sure beats having one's soul devoured by a witch with buttons for eyes. I'd like to see how it comes across on the screen, so I'm adding it to my Netflix queue.

Writing Progress

You could call it ironic how little I write about writing. I guess sometimes it just seems superfluous. Nonetheless, I should add a small update here on current projects.

I'm not working well under pressure. Now, when I say I'm not working well, I don't mean I'm not working diligently, but rather the product is not turning out as I'd hoped, largely because of panic. My current script has been lagging behind for quite some time, due to an obsession with deadlines. The pressure takes away my creative concentration. Therefore, I need to do one of two things. Either I need to get rid of the pressure or learn to blend creativity with it.

A lot of this will probably require a learning of patience, lots of patience. I noticed today that I've been getting really impatient with certain sections because they were running too long. It was only after I went back and looked them over that I realized that the sections themselves weren't long at all; it was the time I'd spent on those sections that had made them seem so arduous. It may also be time to learn how to push on and rewrite after, though, to be fair, I would like to have an excellent Act 1 ready to show before I press on to the remainder, because frankly, that's where the hook lies. Today, I shall press on past the twenty-page mark, finally. Fingers crossed that the pattern will continue into the coming week.