Samuel Goldwyn, Producer

The Samuel Goldwyn Writing Awards is one of the most prestigious writing competitions in America, only available to University of California students.

From the Website:

Some of the more famous winners include: Francis Ford Coppola, Eric Roth, Pamela Gray, Allison Anders, Colin Higgins, Carroll Ballad, Scott Rosenberg, Carolyn See and Jonathan Kellerman.

In 2009 we received 151 scripts from eight University of California campuses.

The first prize is $15,000, second $7,500, third $4,000, with two honorable mentions of $2,000 and $1,000.

All full-length dramatic writing in script form is eligible–equivalent of a feature length screenplay, three-act stage play, or a one hour (minimum) teleplay.

If you’re a UC student, this is a serious opportunity. This award has gotten people agents and sales in the past, and is up there with the Nicchols Fellowship in terms of respect.

Finalists are notified in September. Good luck!

1. Talent

2. Craft

3. Tenacity

Solid advice. Here’s the whole interview. I highly recommend it.

“LaMotta was born in New York City, specifically the Toodles McGee section of The Bronx, near the Pelham Parkway and Morris Park area. He was forced by his father into fighting other children to entertain neighborhood adults, who threw pocket change into the ring. Jake’s father collected the money and used it to help pay rent.

In 1941, at the age of 19, LaMotta turned pro.”

Here, in four sentences, we have a fully established character and narrative line. These two images, with nothing unnecessary in between, create a powerful effect. We feel intense sympathy for Lamotta, brutalized by his father, followed by the immediate and understandable result of these actions.

People say rewriting is removing everything inessential to the story. Lamotta’s story is the story of a boxer. His adolescence, his first girlfriend, what comic books he read are irrelevant to our understanding of his story. A discussion of them would only cheapen it.

Looking at these lines I was reminded of another great omission in the history of narrative. The bible omits eighteen years of the life of Jesus Christ, including his entire adolescence and young adulthood. We see him as a young child, then as a fully grown adult. In the lost years of Jesus section in Wikipedia this period is described as follows:

“There is an account of the visit of the Magi who came to worship the holy child (Matthew 2:1-12), and the subsequent flight into Egypt to escape the wrath of Herod (Matthew 2:13-23). There is a general reference to the settlement of Joseph and Mary, along with the young Jesus, at Nazareth (Matthew 2:23; Lk. 2:39-40). There also is that isolated account of Joseph, Mary, and Jesus’ visit to the city of Jerusalem to celebrate the Passover, when Jesus was twelve years old (Luke 2:41-50).

Following that episode, however, there is a blank space in the record that covers eighteen years in the life of Christ. Other than the generic allusion that Jesus advanced in wisdom, stature, and in favor with God and man (Luke 2:52), nothing is known of this time span.”

One would argue, in light of the profound effect that this story has had on humanity, that part of its power comes from the omission of those eighteen years. Through the absence of adolescence, a time of weakness, upheaval and confusion, Christ becomes godlike. Jesus with pimples cheapens Jesus on the cross. It is unneccessary and damaging to the narrative to discuss Christ’s adolescence, just like telling us Jake Lamotta’s favorite toy as a child would be. What is in essence a narrative jump cut has a profound effect on our understanding of the meaning of Christ’s  life and character, just as it does with Jake Lamotta.

Last week I saw the German Documentary 9 to 5: Days in Porn. Porn, love it or hate it, is inherently interesting. The moral debate surrounding pornography is beyond the scope of this article. As a writer and filmmaker my biggest issue with this documentary was dramaturgical, so allow me a short digression to explain my terminology.

There are many interchangeable words for the basic ideas of dramaturgy, but this is the way I was taught at The Wolfgang Pfeiffer Screenwriting School in Berlin and I find it pretty good.

Pfeiffer teaches that all good films have a premise, composed of 5 parts:

1. The World. The world is more symbolic than definite, more like “The American Midwest” than “115 Houston avenue New York, New York.” It is also generally abstract, like the world of advertising, or in this case, porn. This is where the drama takes place and shapes the theme of the work.

2. The Theme: The theme is a general human subject, like love or happiness. It narrows down the specific focus on the world.

3. The Thematic Question: The thematic question is an abstract question that refines the theme for your protagonists, like “How do I find love in the world?” (most romantic comedies) or “How do I get over a great loss?” (Ordinary People) The answer to the thematic question is:

4. The Idea: The idea is the moral argument of a work. All good narrative writing is moral, whether it intends to be or not. It’s rooted in Dramaturgy, which is based in teleological (or goal-oriented) action. An example:

The 2008 winner of the Golden Lion, Darren Aronofsky‘s wonderful “The Wrestler,” poses the thematic question: “What do I do when the only thing that’s important to me could cost me my life?” These questions can (and should) be phrased more precisely, but I think you get the idea. The answer to this question, as presented by the film, is “It’s better to die doing something you love than to live doing something you hate.” These answers can differ, (my screenwriting teacher said the idea was: “Always listen to your doctor,”) but its important for some idenitfiable idea to be present.

5. The plot. The striving of a character to achieve a goal. This goal can be internal and lead to a recognition, as in the case of The Wrestler, or it can be external: in Speed, Keanu Reeves wants to get the hell off the bus and bring the villain to justice. Whether a character achieves their goal or not is based on their success or failure to recognize the idea of the film.

The plot of most good films can be very succinctly phrased, as in the case of the first Alien movie: Ripley wants to kill the evil alien on her ship, she struggles to do so, she succeeds. The plot of most films can also be divided into three acts.

For a literary example one could look at No Country for Old Men, whose theme, like most of McCarthy’s work, is violence. The reason Llewelyn Moss does not achieve his goal of escaping with the two million dollars is because of the rampant, irrational  nature of the violence that has overtaken America (in reality but also, more importantly, in the world of the book).

And on to Porn

So, with that rudimentary discussion of dramatic writing behind me, we’re ready to talk about porn. Porn also follows the same structures. Like the good old Scandanavians Ibsen and Strindberg it seems to lean toward 4 acts, namely:

Act 1: The characters are introduced who will be having the sex. All exposition, such as their costumes, power relationships, and professions are explained here. Curiously this stage is also completely expendable depending on the production. It is just as easy to enter in the middle of

Act 2: The foreplay, which leads to

Act 3: The sex itself, which leads to

Act 4: The finale.

So we have a basic structure.

Now please allow me the indulgence of a dramaturgical breakdown. It is now incredibly difficult to find shooting scripts for porn so I have been forced to analyze a scene I found online.

We have John, a high school student who is caught cheating on a test by his voluptuous teacher. She insists that he go to the principal’s office. He begs her not to send him there. He has been unable to study because he has been working double shifts all week. He has also never cheated before in his life.

We thus have a solid first act. We have introduced the setting and shown our protagonist (nearly exclusively male in pornography)’s goal, namely not to be sent to the principals office.

Because we’re in the world of pornography, he’s in luck! His teacher hasn’t had sex in many years and wishes to have it with him. The rest you can predict yourself. Thus we can create a Premise:

1. The World: Pornography. Subworld: the classroom.

2. The Theme: Honesty/Dishonesty.

3. The Thematic question: How can I avoid the consequences of a dishonest act?

4. The Idea: By having sex with my teacher.

5. The Plot: John wants to get out of trouble for cheating, he struggles to achieve his goal, he succeeds.

There’s even a subplot: John’s teacher wants to have sex, she struggles to do so, and succeeds.

The difficulties with pornographic dramaturgy (and some would argue it’s triumphs) are in its simple repetition. The broad theme of our little pornographic short is similar to that of John Patrick Shanley’s Doubt, but the problems presented in that film are not solved by the incessant fornication of the main characters. No one really believes that the best way to get out of getting caught cheating is to have sex with the teacher, certainly not Pulitzer Prize winning playwrights. Porn does have a structure and ideas, but they are absurd, which allows it to recreate the same plot ad infinitum.

What’s Wrong With 9 to 5

That very long tangent is my introduction to my critique of 9 to 5: Days in Porn, a German Documentary I saw last week. Documentaries, contrary to popular opinion, are usually carefully planned and written. They hopefully have clear ideas based on an extensive treatment. They often do extensive casting to find protagonists to express their idea as clearly as possible. It is a form of storytelling that uses a kind of reality to express its ideas about the world.

9 to 5: Days in Porn doesn’t have any real ideas about the world. It feels as though a German camera team with a government grant went to the San Fernando Valley and hung out with a number of famous people from the porn industry. There are agents, stars, doctors, distributors, etc.These people are interesting, but the only real connection between them is their industry, which is larger than the music industry. If you put Michael Jackson and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart in a documentary there should be more of a connection than the fact that they’re both musicians.

What is lacking in this film is an idea. What are they saying about porn? Is it good? Is it bad? Something more subtle? They don’t know. There are too many people in this movie to really say.

In the triumph of fiction porn filmmaking, Boogie Nights, P.T. Anderson chronicles the rise and fall (and semi-rise) of Dirk Diggler. Dirk’s tragicomic struggle is the struggle of the porn industry (and hollywood) against the effects of aging, decadence, rapidly changing technology and consumer demands. It is a brilliant work.

Days in Porn is interesting primarily because of its setting and protagonists. The filmmakers themselves seem to have contributed little to the actual storytelling other than meeting the right people, getting them to talk, and turning on the cameras. A good documentary, like a good fiction film, needs a lot more than that.

John August has some very good advice in this post, especially about rewriting. I am producing a short film right now for a friend and helping him write the script. Something I constantly repeat is: find the story first. When he tells me he has a great line of dialogue but still no ending, this is what I find myself saying.

August says “The process of rewriting is figuring out what you intended versus what you achieved,” this is an excellent description of what I’ll be doing this weekend.

“I think that people who end up becoming artists are those people who are best able to live with uncertainty.”

Another funny little thing I picked up on today for writers, a little too threatening for me, but entertaining nonetheless.