This Was A Good Summer

I’m trying to get more pictures and videos added to this blog. Make it sparkly. I probably need to switch over to a .org at some point—my understanding is that WP.orgs give you way more options in customizing your site—but that will have to wait. I do not have the moneys.

In the meantime, I can still post this goodie. This is a compilation of my time on The Nina a few years ago, crewing the Mississippi River. After I left the crew, I edited all my footage together on imovie. I think I’ll add a section to this site of all my grand adventures, and make this the crown jewel.

Captain Morgan, who built The Nina, passed away a few weeks ago. Let this post be in his memory.

Who Am I?

This blog was never supposed to be about screenwriting.

Well, maybe a bit. Because I write screenplays. But when I first created davidperlis.com, my goal was to write wandering David Perlis thoughts, and post David Perlis photos, and talk about David Perlis art and ideas and experiences.

Instead, it somehow turned into a full-force commentary on dramatic structure in screenplays. And I think that explains to a great extent my anxieties and self-doubt and overall directionless feeling these days. By the way, I’ve been filled with anxiety and self-doubt and directionless these days.

Somewhere along the way, I decided I was going to be a screenwriter. Beyond that, I started defining myself as a screenwriter. What do you do? I’m a screenwriter. What do you do for fun? I write screenplays. Wanna go to a concert this weekend? Can’t, working on a screenplay. This blog seems to be pretty good evidence of how singly I started viewing myself.

So it’s no wonder I’m feeling lost and down all the time. I’ve defined myself as something that has hardly panned out at all. No work. No pay. No WGA card. I don’t really understand dramatic structure (I don’t believe anyone who says they do), and what’s more—my enthusiasm for writing has waned considerably! I mean, I love it yes, but these days I’m far more likely to stress over a scene doesn’t work than celebrate those that do. And if these things have just become a symbol of myself, then it’s no goddamn wonder that I’m in such a rickety place.

I’ll be thirty in a few months. The twenties are a great time to explore paths and opportunities and fail…but thirty! Those who are older than I are sure to say, “Pah! You never stop learning or failing or trying new paths!” Thanks guys. But I’d still like to get some stuff figured out. Lemme tell ya, when you leave a comfortable job with wonderful people making decent money with benefits to move to Los Angeles and live out of your car eating green beans from a can for six months, you kinda question if you made the good choice.

I wonder if this whole idea of defining yourself by your job is an “American” thing. Isn’t there some old saying about American’s live to work, and everyone else works to live? Is that the problem? Anyway, I’m going to stop saying I’m a screenwriter, because the first person I need to convince is myself. That’s a literal statement. I have convinced myself I’m on a track that is my only track. I’m going to start with this blog. I’m going to post my nightly musings, and talk about my swing dance classes, and rage against the political madness going on right now. I’ll post essays and paintings, and I’ll remind myself that I like doing lots of things.

I’m not going to stop screenwriting—in fact, as soon as I hit publish on this post, I’m going to open up Final Draft and work on another project that I’ve got cooking. But it’s got to be for me. Even as I write this, I know I haven’t convinced myself of a word I’ve said, but it will be here, just a click away, for me to come back to and read if I need a reminder. Maybe you all need reminders, too.

I’m going to hit publish now. I haven’t looked back over this posting at all to revise or edit. That makes me cringe. But it’s time to let go and get on with things. So let’s get on with it.

Write Conflict that Counts

The night is cold. In the moonlight, the leafless branches appear like arthritic fingers, poised to drag aimless wanderers into the underworld. The four hobbits hide in the dirt, careful not to even breathe as the Ring Wraiths creep by. If they’re seen it’s all over—what are our heroes to do?

They remember the nearby Bucklebury Ferry, and if they can make it, they just might live to tell their tale. They race for the dock, but the Wraiths have noticed them, and they’re galloping towards our powerless heroes. Frodo, with the ring, has begun to lag. Ahead, his friends have already set the ferry adrift. They scream for him to hurry—a Wraith is hot on his tail. Frodo’s heart pounds as he tears down the dock with all his might. His legs ache. His chest burns. It’s too far. He’s too tired! There’s no way he’ll make it.

Then he leaps from the dock, lands safely, and they’re on to the next leg of their journey.

And you’re basically left to wonder: what was the point of any of that? The way our characters conveniently escape this ostensibly inescapable danger—doesn’t it almost seem like a neatly disguised *gasp*—deus ex machina?! Well, it may not quite fit that definition, but the tidy resolution of a conflict like this is only a half-step above that sin of all dramatic sins. And yet we see this all the time—even in cinematic classics! How is this possible? And how can we avoid it?

Writing drama often gets reduced to “add conflict.” Where’s the conflict?  Start with the conflict! Put conflict in every scene! We get it: conflict is important—paramount! But not all conflict was created equal, and without direction, this generalized rule can lead our plots towards shallow obstacles. So I’ve stopped asking, “How can I add conflict?” and started asking, “How can I give characters choices? And how can I give those choices consequences?”

This is the result:

Frodo races for the ferry—there’s no way he’ll make it! But his legs have found a momentary strength he never knew they had, and they catapult him safely onto the ferry.

He can relax.

But a funny feeling overtakes him—a lightness he didn’t have a moment ago. He checks his neck. The ring is gone…fallen off during his jump, and as he looks back towards the dock, he sees it sitting at the Wraith’s feet. He could almost puke as he watches the hooded figure pluck it up and disappear with it into the night.

Their escape comes at a price. The stakes have been raised. And now our heroes are forced to take action. But wait—there’s more!

Frodo is so distraught, he hardly notices the gasping, sputtering Sam beside him. Looking over, he notices Sam has been badly wounded in the escape—a sword straight through the belly. If they don’t get him to a doctor immediately, he’s surely dead.

We’ve exited  the scene, but we’re neck-deep in plot. Does Frodo go after the ring, or does he save his best friend? He can choose either (and his choice will reveal who he is as a character), but here’s the really important part: whichever path he takes, more consequences should follow.

You don’t have to focus so exclusively on choice and consequence, but it’s a method I’m comfortable relying on to turn gratuitous action into purposeful plot points—because conflict that doesn’t forward your plot or test your characters really isn’t drama at all. Compare the following scenes—both from Spielberg flicks:

1. Dashing archaeologist is afraid of snakes, so—naturally—he falls into a pit of snakes. He hesitates. Then he navigates past the snakes and on to the next lurking danger.

2. A man’s children have been captured by his pirate nemesis. To save them, he need only climb one-hundred feet of ratlines—but he has an immobilizing fear of heights. Try as he might, he chickens out. His children are subsequently brainwashed by his sworn enemy.

Which one involves choice? Which one has consequences? Which one compels you to dive headfirst into the story? Only the second. To which you scoff. “Raiders of the Lost Ark is beloved! Iconic! And far more successful than Hook ever was.” Well, yes. But was it more dramatic? It’s here that I think you’ve got to concede that movies are a collaborative art—from the set design to the stunt department. A desperate escape from a giant boulder is just as visually stunning and fun to watch as a Ring Wraith chasing a hobbit through a forest—particularly with a fantastic score and state-of-the-art VFX. But do you want to be the writer that relies on other departments to compensate for your sloppy beats? Or do you want to write the most tightly woven, compelling script you can? If it’s the latter, drama is your number one concern. Well, it’s my number one concern, anyway. And I’m of the belief that a conflict that can be safely removed without affecting the story is really just a waste of time, and a missed opportunity to test your characters. Yes—that includes giant boulders.

And I think you’ll agree. In today’s market, in which the writing is the best it’s ever been, does Raiders’ stunt-filled opening still compete? Are you more compelled to watch Indy narrowly outrun a boulder, only to narrowly escape a closing tomb, only to narrowly flee a jungle ambush…or to watch Walter White choose to let Jane die? For me, the choice is clear—though I fear Lawrence Kasdan will take vengeance upon me for saying so.

Then again, he may just write me a narrow escape out the window.