4

Discovering and Exploring a Main Character

Callie Khouri chose the journey structure to tell her story. Thelma and Louise is a direct descendant of such films as Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and Bonnie and Clyde, just as these are descendants of classics like They Drive by Night. The originality of the film and much of its energy stem from its humorous, sympathetic, and totally unsentimental portrayal of Khouri’s protagonists, the two characters whom she discovered and explored, her “two women on a crime binge.”

On Character as Habitual Behavior

In his work on psychology, Aristotle described character as “habitual behavior.”² You are what you ordinarily do—that is, until some occurrence leads you to do something you would not ordinarily do. In general terms, this is what makes for a dramatic situation.

In the scene that follows, which is from the first pages of the second draft of Thelma and Louise, we are given in a few well-chosen lines a good deal of important information about each of the main characters.³ (In this excerpt, “b.g.” means “background,” and “V.O.” stands for “voice-over.”)

Louise’s well-groomed appearance as she slams dirty dishes around at the end of a heavy work day (ask anyone who’s had a similar job) is more indicative of character than the fact that she is pretty, because it speaks of strength of will. That she hums along with the “country muzak” tells us that she is cheerful, at least at this moment, for whatever reason. The cut from her energetic activity to Thelma in a nightgown, dumping dishes into a sink full of dirty dishes, immediately establishes a link between the two women—they are both doing “women’s work,” though under very different circumstances.

We go back to Louise, who goes to the restaurant’s pay phone and dials a number she knows by heart, then again to Thelma’s kitchen, where the telephone rings. Thelma answers, “hollering” to someone offscreen that she’s got it. The dialogue that follows gives us more information about each character in an exchange indicative of their relationship through most of the screenplay. It also sets up what is supposed to happen next, and with great economy— always a virtue in screenwriting. In the lines that follow, note that just as a character’s dress, gestures, and surroundings can indicate what kind of person that character is, so too can his or her manner of speaking. The script cuts back to Louise at the pay phone:

Meanwhile, Thelma is cutting out coupons from a newspaper, pinning them onto a bulletin board covered with recipes and more cuttings. Here we get a first glimpse of Thelma’s characteristic mode of passive resistance: she may feel a little guilty about procrastinating, but she’ll still do things her own way. At this point, and for most of the script, the two women’s relationship is that of irresponsible little sister and responsible big sister. The tension between them ebbs and flows, and the balance of power shifts with changing circumstances. It is one of the more suspenseful and engaging aspects of a very action-oriented script.

As for Louise, the tone of her speech makes it clear that she has more at stake in their going on this trip than her friend does. Her clipped sentences, used here to get the lackadaisical Thelma moving, are used elsewhere, and characteristically, to guard against giving anything away about her private life.

More on Behavior Defining Character

In his treatise known as the Poetics, Aristotle defines dramatic action as “the movement of spirit or psyche that produces a character’s behavior.” Film and theatre director Elia Kazan, in his notebook for A Streetcar Named Desire, remarks that “finally directing consists of turning psychology into behavior.” Substitute the word “screenwriting” for the word “directing,” and Kazan’s statement would still hold true. A character’s desires or needs, that movement of the psyche to which both Aristotle and Kazan refer, can be expressed only by his or her behavior. The accomplished screenwriter selects those few details, out of all that come to mind, that will best describe the essence of the character to the director and actors, as well as to the producer, the director of photography, the costume designer, and the set designer—to name a few of the creative people involved in bringing any script to life on the screen.

Another Example of Screenplay Shorthand

Screenwriter Robert Towne has a distinctive, ironic, and rather leisurely descriptive style. Nonetheless, he condenses a great deal of information into a few lines on this first page of a late draft of Chinatown. The script opens with close-ups of a series of snapshots of a man and woman making love. These visuals are accompanied by the sound of anguished moans and a male voice crying out, “Oh, no!” At this point, we cut to the following scene:

This first glimpse of Gittes is of a private eye who is also very much the successful small businessman, as evidenced by the shiny desk, the white linen suit, and his special lighter. He is alert to his distraught client’s every move, because Curly is very large and very upset, a dangerous combination in a nicely furnished new office.

The next lines describe the sobbing Curly, who rams his fist into the wall and kicks a wastebasket. The scene goes on:

Curly is not just comic relief in the film but a secondary character who plays an important role in the last third of Chinatown. The emotionalism and lack of guile we see here and in the rest of this first scene make him an ideal target for Gittes’ manipulation later, when the detective desperately needs help in arranging a getaway.

Most fiction films, comedy as well as drama, tend to portray a particular character (or characters) in a challenging situation: something unexpected happens to someone—how does that person react? Does he or she struggle to change or, instead, try to turn away from what has happened, to find a way back to things as they were? If the main character engages us, that struggle—which is, in essence, the story of the film—will most likely engage us, too. Even in slapstick shorts, whose heroes remain unchanged as one wildly improbable situation follows another, character is paramount. As an audience, if we don’t care, why should we watch?

Jake Gittes is not an immediately attractive character, nor is he meant to be. He is a cynical private eye who has seen it all—or thinks he has. His client’s real pain moves him only to a wisecrack; the glass of cheap whiskey he shoves at Curly is simply an efficient way to help the big guy to collect himself. (Note that there is a variety of whiskies in the cabinet to serve to a variety of clients.)

Chinatown was released in 1974. While seventies audiences might well anticipate Gittes’ jaundiced viewpoint, because of its similarity to such forties and fifties private-eye classics as The Maltese Falcon and The Big Sleep, none of these would have prepared them for Gittes’ elegant white suit (he’s a prosperous businessman who doesn’t have to dirty his hands) or the fancy, bourgeois office.

Yet Gittes engages our interest from the very first page of the screenplay. How? By his nonchalance, his mocking humor, and an air of easy authority that speaks of the consummate professional.

Examples from Student Scripts

Here is a description of the protagonist of Christian Taylor’s Lady in Waiting, a ritual occasion script, the first time we see her:

Beyond the somewhat detached description of Miss Peach and the sigh, the box marked “auction” and the bare dining room set a feeling-tone that expresses in visual terms something about her inner state. In a metaphorical sense, the screenplay is about how that empty inner space becomes furnished. Note the different style of the language Taylor uses to describe his antagonist on her first appearance. Miss Peach is alone in the elevator of a Manhattan high-rise:

Very shortly, battle is joined between these two unlikely combatants. It is important that we have been given Miss Peach isolated in the elevator before Scarlet bursts in, because we then identify with her in her shock, rather than with the newcomer. Also, a small but telling word in the description of Scarlet’s big bag is “leather”—she may be dressed flamboyantly, but not cheaply.

Another example comes from the opening of Lisa Wood Shapiro’s Another Story. Two little girls, perhaps the protagonists, are at the window of a country cottage, gazing out at the rain:

This is another case in which a character is described not just by the way in which she is dressed, though that is nicely done in few words, but by the feeling-tone of her surroundings. The cottage is hers; its furnishings— including the fire—are used to express her character. That she is dressed in fashionable clothes and wears “intricate earrings” while making hot chocolate for two granddaughters tells us immediately that this is not “good old Granny,” as usually depicted.

Sixth Assignment: More on Describing A Character

Read in their entirety the first three student scripts in Appendix B: Another Story, Lady In Waiting, and Sleeping Beauties.⁷ Pay special attention to the way in which characters are described the first time you meet them. After you have read each script, go back to evaluate these descriptions. How well do they function, in light of what you now know of the character’s behavior? Is there particular information you weren’t given about a character that would have been helpful? If there is change or growth in a character, how does the writer show this? (Try to be specific.)

These are the kinds of questions that screenwriters ask themselves on rereading a first draft, preparatory to going on to the next. (Screenwriting, for the most part, is about rewriting.) As you read these scripts, note that script format is not a straitjacket but is flexible enough in its outlines to accommodate the very different writing styles of Towne, Khouri, Shapiro, Taylor, and Kusama.

When Appearances are Deceptive

In one of his aphorisms, Oscar Wilde, the Irish playwright and dandy, turned a general belief upside down by suggesting, “It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances.” We laugh at this deft reversal of what is commonly held to be true, and we may even agree that it makes a kind of topsy-turvy sense. However, if you reflect upon it, the witticism also makes straightforward sense: in life, people unconsciously give themselves away all the time. What is revealed to the acute observer may seem very much at odds with what one first notices, with what the sociologist Ervin Goffman has called their “presentation of self.” That brings us full circle, back to the Wilde quotation.

You can understand, therefore, that the first step in learning to develop characters for a screenplay, long or short, is focused observation of the ways in which particular human beings behave in particular situations. The great Russian acting teacher/director Konstantin Stanislavski has said that art is never general, it is always specific. Although he was addressing actors, he might as well have been speaking to directors and scriptwriters.

As you go about your day, try to take note of any incongruous details of people’s clothing: the handsome silk blouse with a button missing, the well-tailored business suit worn with scuffed shoes, the street person with a jaunty hat, the workman in ironed blue jeans. (Remember the man-sized briefcase toted by the small boy in The Red Balloon: while it doesn’t tell us about his character, it certainly informs us about his situation.) On the other hand, if the character’s appearance is “perfect,” as is Louise’s in the excerpt above from Thelma and Louise, that too is useful information.

Notice the many different ways in which human beings express weariness, uneasiness, impatience, or contentment when they are unaware of being observed. Notice also the way this can change when they become aware of the presence of a stranger who interests them, or of an acquaintance, or a friend. Reflect on your own behavior, private or public, if you can do so without becoming self-conscious or uncomfortable.

Exercise 7: Finding Characters

Go to a public place—café, park, train station, supermarket—wherever you can watch someone who might engage you as a possible character without being noticed doing so. (Don’t choose anyone you know.) Try to memorize quickly the person’s appearance and general style; then find a place where you can scribble down a list of items that seem characteristic or revealing about this person. Be as specific as you can where it seems important—for instance, not “glasses” but “big tortoise-shell glasses”; not “knapsack” but “battered plastic knapsack.” Give us some idea of your subject’s age. Now, underline the items that seem essential to giving a sense of your character as you see him or her at this point.

Find another subject, not necessarily in the same location, who intrigues you, and follow the same procedure. Put both lists aside to mellow and, unless you feel inspired, wait a day to go on to the next related exercise.

About the Catalyst

Catalyst is a term borrowed from chemistry, where it refers to any substance that precipitates a chemical reaction. In dramatic narrative, the catalyst (or agent for change, or inciting incident) is the occasion or character that sets events in motion, precipitating the dramatic action of the protagonist. Let’s say that the main character learns that a former gunslinger has just ridden into town, or unexpectedly glimpses a former lover at a train station, or suddenly loses a job—any of these events could be a powerful catalyst moving the protagonist into action, into change. In a short film, we are usually introduced to the protagonist before the catalytic event occurs, so that we will have a chance to identify with him or her. Such an introduction is often, though not always, quite brief. (The first assignment at the end of Chapter 1 gave two examples of brief “treatments,” up to and including possible catalysts.)

Something unexpected happens to someone—how does that person react? Does he struggle to change the way he does things, or does he instead turn away from what has happened, trying to get back to the way things had been? Does he do first one and then the other? How does any or all of this psychological activity manifest itself in the character’s behavior, so that the audience has some idea of what is going on?

Seventh Assignment

Read Dead Letters Don’t Lie, in Appendix B.⁸ Then look over all four scripts again; in each of them, try to locate the catalyst that sets things moving in a new direction for the main character or characters. In order to do this, you must first try to determine which of the characters is the protagonist. (Short films often begin and end with a focus on the protagonist.)

Exercise 8: A Simple Interaction

Take out your lists from Exercise 7. Without too much thought, choose one of your locations and visualize both characters in it. Begin to write, starting with brief character descriptions culled from the underlined items on your lists, using simple declarative sentences. This should not take more than several minutes. Then give us the setting, in a few words (a Greenwich Village café, a drive-through McDonald’s, the Chicago Amtrak station, etc.).

Although triggered by your observations of real people in a real setting, what you are going to write will be fictional. You will be transforming the people you observed into characters—your characters—so feel free to adjust the descriptions as you go. Set your timer for 2 minutes and close your eyes, so that you can imagine both characters in the setting you have chosen, placing them in relation to one another in that space. Are they side by side, or facing one another? Are they close to one another, or at a distance? Are they in line, one behind the other?

Once your characters are in place, your objective will be to write at least a couple of short paragraphs describing a silent interaction between them. Remember that this is only an exercise; there is nothing to be lost, and much to be gained, by letting your characters do the work.

Now set your timer for 10 minutes and begin to write. Don’t reread, just keep going. If you lose the thread, close your eyes again to visualize your characters. When the timer goes off, finish the sentence you’re writing and jot down the answers to the following questions from Exercise 2, first for one character, then for the other:

Put this away with Exercise 7 and leave both in your portfolio for another 24 hours. At that time, go through both exercises, underlining the phrases or sentences that best describe your characters and their interaction, especially in light of your answers to the questions above.

If you already have a catalyst, make note of it. If not, find one before going on to the next assignment.

Eighth Assignment: Writing A Character-Based Opening

You are now going to revise Exercise 8, with the result put in proper screenplay format. Use your thesaurus, if necessary, to find words that convey what you see in your imagination, words that will make your characters come alive for the reader. Once again, it would be helpful to have your teacher, classmates, or knowledgeable friends respond to what you have written—essentially the first draft of an opening for a possible short script.

Film Discussed in This Chapter