It's Only Temporary: The Good News and the Bad News of Being Alive by Evan Handler Page A
Authors: Evan Handler
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I pointed out that the length of scenes and the pace of the final script could be shaped and sculpted in the rewriting process, allowing for the freedom I depended on to create…well, creatively.
“I’m not prepared – in fact, I won’t be able – to write my own adaptation, of my own book, of my own life story under your supervision, to your word-for-word specifications. That’s not what I signed on for. That’s not what we agreed to.”
This was the first half of day one. The second half consisted of my being scolded – complete with reddened face and bulging jugular – for having “deliberately disobeyed” him by writing a draft of the script on my own. I received a recitation of elementary principles of screenwriting from books and lectures I’d read and attended myself. I also heard, for the first time, the doctrine he intended to govern our work from that point forward. Growing more and more agitated, he told me that, whatever I wrote, the film that ultimately resulted would be his film, no one else’s film, and while he’d certainly take my feelings and opinions into consideration (thank you very much), he alone would choose what went into it, and how every moment would be rendered. Regardless of whatever assurances had been made, it became clear that (in spite of the lovely surroundings and Kristin’s super-intuitive expertise in amply supplying my favorite fruits, nuts, and cereals – yum!) I was in deep trouble.
From there things got worse. Every morning, out came the index cards.
“Scene twenty-seven, the hospital hallway. How many pages?”
“I don’t know.”
“Give me a number.”
“How can I give you a number, Tim? I haven’t written it yet. None of it’s been written. None of it’s likely to come in at the length we’ve assigned so far.”
And then the screaming would start again.
“You can’t write without a blueprint!” I was told, as if I didn’t know this already.
“Writing a script is the same as building a house; you need a foundation!” Which is true.
“When you’re in the paradigm, you can’t see the paradigm!” (from Syd Field’s book
Screenplay
).
“Every movie is about one idea!” (from Robert McKee’s
“
Story Structure
”
seminar).
“The rhythm and tempo have to accelerate as the act climax approaches!” (Robert McKee, again).
Those are my attributions. Tim spoke as if these insights were his own. I’m not arguing against any of them. I simply wasn’t happy having them shouted at me by someone no more qualified than myself. (I would like to point out that even Mr. McKee states that “Any of these rules can be broken, if something more important is put in its place.” I know because it’s in my notebook from when I attended his seminar. Underlined. Twice.)
By now Tim would be leaning inches from my face, enraged, rabidly screaming.
“You’re being deliberately uncooperative! I’m the captain of this ship!” (
Mutiny on the Bounty
, I guess, Charles Laughton, 1935).
“There’s going to be one captain, and it’s going to be me!” (Cap’n Crunch, 1972?)
Faced with his tantrums, I usually tried to summon the calmest demeanor I could.
“Listen,” I’d say softly. “You’re going to have to stop screaming at me. I understand that you’re the one who’s going to direct the movie. But I’m going to write it. And I’m not going to write it, word by word, here under your watchful eyes.”
“So you’re refusing. You’re refusing to work with me.”
“No. I’m saying I’d like you to tell me what scenes you want from the book. Tell me what scenes you want that aren’t in the book. I’ll write them. Then you can give me notes. I’ll rewrite, incorporating the notes as best I can, and we’ll work from there.”
“I can’t have you writing without me. That’s a waste of time. If you write by yourself, you’ll just write things that don’t work for me, and we’ll be right back where we started.”
Then he
“I’m not prepared – in fact, I won’t be able – to write my own adaptation, of my own book, of my own life story under your supervision, to your word-for-word specifications. That’s not what I signed on for. That’s not what we agreed to.”
This was the first half of day one. The second half consisted of my being scolded – complete with reddened face and bulging jugular – for having “deliberately disobeyed” him by writing a draft of the script on my own. I received a recitation of elementary principles of screenwriting from books and lectures I’d read and attended myself. I also heard, for the first time, the doctrine he intended to govern our work from that point forward. Growing more and more agitated, he told me that, whatever I wrote, the film that ultimately resulted would be his film, no one else’s film, and while he’d certainly take my feelings and opinions into consideration (thank you very much), he alone would choose what went into it, and how every moment would be rendered. Regardless of whatever assurances had been made, it became clear that (in spite of the lovely surroundings and Kristin’s super-intuitive expertise in amply supplying my favorite fruits, nuts, and cereals – yum!) I was in deep trouble.
From there things got worse. Every morning, out came the index cards.
“Scene twenty-seven, the hospital hallway. How many pages?”
“I don’t know.”
“Give me a number.”
“How can I give you a number, Tim? I haven’t written it yet. None of it’s been written. None of it’s likely to come in at the length we’ve assigned so far.”
And then the screaming would start again.
“You can’t write without a blueprint!” I was told, as if I didn’t know this already.
“Writing a script is the same as building a house; you need a foundation!” Which is true.
“When you’re in the paradigm, you can’t see the paradigm!” (from Syd Field’s book
Screenplay
).
“Every movie is about one idea!” (from Robert McKee’s
“
Story Structure
”
seminar).
“The rhythm and tempo have to accelerate as the act climax approaches!” (Robert McKee, again).
Those are my attributions. Tim spoke as if these insights were his own. I’m not arguing against any of them. I simply wasn’t happy having them shouted at me by someone no more qualified than myself. (I would like to point out that even Mr. McKee states that “Any of these rules can be broken, if something more important is put in its place.” I know because it’s in my notebook from when I attended his seminar. Underlined. Twice.)
By now Tim would be leaning inches from my face, enraged, rabidly screaming.
“You’re being deliberately uncooperative! I’m the captain of this ship!” (
Mutiny on the Bounty
, I guess, Charles Laughton, 1935).
“There’s going to be one captain, and it’s going to be me!” (Cap’n Crunch, 1972?)
Faced with his tantrums, I usually tried to summon the calmest demeanor I could.
“Listen,” I’d say softly. “You’re going to have to stop screaming at me. I understand that you’re the one who’s going to direct the movie. But I’m going to write it. And I’m not going to write it, word by word, here under your watchful eyes.”
“So you’re refusing. You’re refusing to work with me.”
“No. I’m saying I’d like you to tell me what scenes you want from the book. Tell me what scenes you want that aren’t in the book. I’ll write them. Then you can give me notes. I’ll rewrite, incorporating the notes as best I can, and we’ll work from there.”
“I can’t have you writing without me. That’s a waste of time. If you write by yourself, you’ll just write things that don’t work for me, and we’ll be right back where we started.”
Then he
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