This weekend, I was back in the small Wisconsin town where I grew up, which currently claims title to both Home and Not-Home. It’s Home because it’s where I spent my first eighteen years on earth, from conception (and believe me, this is information I did NOT need to know) to the summer after high school graduation. My mother still lives in the same house on Main Street, in front of which I learned to ride a bicycle, to rollerskate, to chalk an elaborate hop-scotch course, to hit black walnuts into the street with a wiffle bat. To write: after school I would climb the ash tree, settle on a branch a third of the way up with my back against the trunk, and scribble in my notebook. I liked to spy on people who walked, unknowingly, beneath me. I recorded their conversations and the way they travelled, hurriedly or leisurely, striding or strolling.
And of course, it’s Not-Home, because I haven’t lived there in a decade. Where once it was impossible to run a simple errand without seeing someone I knew – my teenage classmates staffed every store in the strip mall, the grocery store, the Ben Franklin, the video rental store, the Hallmark, the Subway, the Hardees, the hardware store – now I can push my cart around the grocery store for an hour and see no one familiar (aside from a weathered woman who looked like an older, shrunken version of my fourth grade reading teacher). I drive around town and compulsively explain the differences between then and now: “This whole neighborhood is new… when I was a kid this was all cornfield… when I was little these roads didn’t connect… this park was full of wooden equipment and an awesome merry-go-round that they ripped out after the third kid in a year broke her arm….”
I move through town with less ease now, feeling like an outsider. My partner and I made up an imaginary movie in which a long-gone townie returns to find everything different – not an uncommon theme – and kept referencing moments that would go into the movie. Our prodigal townie would be a friendly outsider whose every joke falls flat. The moment in the grocery store where we tried to joke with the guy handing out wine samples and he just stared at us – in the movie. Joking about the notices hanging on a community bulletin board – failing miserably at dog park small talk – navigating bizarre road construction – teasing teenagers at the petting zoo – all in the movie. As we described it, the movie wouldn’t even have a plot, really; it would just be a wild collection of moments, a long montage of homecoming awkwardness.
Film can be such a rich medium for storytelling, because it naturally lends itself to comparison in juxtaposition. You show a scene where a character moves through the grocery store with ease, laughing and chatting with everyone she encounters. In the very next scene she’s older and every attempt at conversation falls flat. You don’t have to explain that something has changed: the juxtaposition speaks for itself. Also, film almost forces you to engage setting in the story. After all, you can’t film a scene in a vacuum. Every scene has to take place somewhere. As such, film is a great medium for evoking place and its impact on character.
When they make the movie of my life, this weekend will probably look like a cross between Grosse Point Blank and The Big Chill, funny and twisted and a little sad, with an 80s soundtrack and a bunch of hilarious cameos. In the meantime, I’m going to use the principles of filmmaking to inform my fiction, focusing on place and juxtaposition to enrich my story.
Interested in Filmmaking? Check out our Screenwriting I class, Thursdays, September 18 to November 13; 6:30pm to 9pm. Call 773.477.7710 or email for more information.
This weekend, I was back in the small Wisconsin town where I grew up, which currently claims title to both Home and Not-Home. It’s Home because it’s where I spent my first eighteen years on earth, from conception (and believe me, this is information I did NOT need to know) to the summer after high school graduation. My mother still lives in the same house on Main Street, in front of which I learned to ride a bicycle, to rollerskate, to chalk an elaborate hop-scotch course, to hit black walnuts into the street with a wiffle bat. To write: after school I would climb the ash tree, settle on a branch a third of the way up with my back against the trunk, and scribble in my notebook. I liked to spy on people who walked, unknowingly, beneath me. I recorded their conversations and the way they travelled, hurriedly or leisurely, striding or strolling.
And of course, it’s Not-Home, because I haven’t lived there in a decade. Where once it was impossible to run a simple errand without seeing someone I knew – my teenage classmates staffed every store in the strip mall, the grocery store, the Ben Franklin, the video rental store, the Hallmark, the Subway, the Hardees, the hardware store – now I can push my cart around the grocery store for an hour and see no one familiar (aside from a weathered woman who looked like an older, shrunken version of my fourth grade reading teacher). I drive around town and compulsively explain the differences between then and now: “This whole neighborhood is new… when I was a kid this was all cornfield… when I was little these roads didn’t connect… this park was full of wooden equipment and an awesome merry-go-round that they ripped out after the third kid in a year broke her arm….”
I move through town with less ease now, feeling like an outsider. My partner and I made up an imaginary movie in which a long-gone townie returns to find everything different – not an uncommon theme – and kept referencing moments that would go into the movie. Our prodigal townie would be a friendly outsider whose every joke falls flat. The moment in the grocery store where we tried to joke with the guy handing out wine samples and he just stared at us – in the movie. Joking about the notices hanging on a community bulletin board – failing miserably at dog park small talk – navigating bizarre road construction – teasing teenagers at the petting zoo – all in the movie. As we described it, the movie wouldn’t even have a plot, really; it would just be a wild collection of moments, a long montage of homecoming awkwardness.
Film can be such a rich medium for storytelling, because it naturally lends itself to comparison in juxtaposition. You show a scene where a character moves through the grocery store with ease, laughing and chatting with everyone she encounters. In the very next scene she’s older and every attempt at conversation falls flat. You don’t have to explain that something has changed: the juxtaposition speaks for itself. Also, film almost forces you to engage setting in the story. After all, you can’t film a scene in a vacuum. Every scene has to take place somewhere. As such, film is a great medium for evoking place and its impact on character.
When they make the movie of my life, this weekend will probably look like a cross between Grosse Point Blank and The Big Chill, funny and twisted and a little sad, with an 80s soundtrack and a bunch of hilarious cameos. In the meantime, I’m going to use the principles of filmmaking to inform my fiction, focusing on place and juxtaposition to enrich my story.
Interested in Filmmaking? Check out our Screenwriting I class, Thursdays, September 18 to November 13; 6:30pm to 9pm. Call 773.477.7710 or email for more information.
Although everyone’s probably seen “The Dark Knight” (it did gross a record-breaking $155 million its first weekend), I’ll be careful not to write any spoilers or give away any major plot points.
To me, The Dark Knight was really a movie about the Joker – Batman, while important, seemed more like a secondary character. Perhaps that’s because of Health Ledger’s scene-stealing performance (there’s talk about giving him a posthumous Oscar nomination). But I do think the Joker is the more intriguingly drawn character, a character whose philosophy of chaos drives the entire film.
The writers of The Dark Knight accomplished so much – they compel us with a character we know very little about. We never know the Joker’s motivations because he lacks motivations. We never know anything about his origin, and the stories we do get about his past (i.e. his facial scars) are contradictory. His face paint, too, unsettles – we never know why he wears it, but are constantly reminded of its presence as it runs, smears, and fades mid-scene.
In writing, we are always told to give our characters motivation. Why do they do the things they do? Where do they come from? What is their past and their history? The Joker contradicts all this, and yet still compels us, still draws us in. Perhaps he is so intriguing because he violates these expectations.
First of all, if you haven’t seen this movie yet… you should. I almost never go to the movies ($8 for a matinee? For REAL?), but last week we cut out early and went to the picture show, excessively high ticket prices and all. I love Pixar, but I’ve only seen one other Pixar film in the theater before this. (The Incredibles in case you’re wondering, but I wish I’d seen Finding Nemo in the theater. It’s so pretty.) Wall-E is certainly one of those films you want to see on the big screen. Visually, it’s absolutely stunning. The rendering of Earth with towers of garbage standing alongside the tallest skyscrapers is both bleak and strangely beautiful. Scenes that take place among the stars rival any Imax movie.
Wall-E would be worth seeing just for its beauty, but because you’re a writer, you have another reason to see it: it’s a perfect exampleof character wants (Robert Olen Butler would say yearning) and gesture driving a plot. If you’ve ever taken a class with Jill, you know these are two of her favorite topics: Wants and Gestures. (Maybe we should get her to teach a single session class on them!) 
Jill’s always saying that every character should want something in every single scene, even if it’s just a glass of water. In Wall-E, this little robot has one simple, profound want that carries much of the plot. He just wants to hold Eve’s hand. That’s all. You could extrapolate abstractions from this want: he wants to connect, he wants to find companionship, he wants love. But at its most simple, Wall-E just wants to hold her hand.
…Which brings me to Jill’s other favorite topic, Gesture. We’ve all heard the axiom “Actions speak louder than words” a million times, but in the case of narrative, it’s almost always true. After all, Hamlet doesn’t get credit for planning to kill his uncle. Romeo & Juliet wouldn’t have been such a tragedy if Mercutio hadn’t stepped in front of Tybalt’s sword, and it wouldn’t have been such a romance if Romeo hadn’t pressed his palm to Juliet’s. Wall-E is a brilliant study in the importance of gesture, as it has almost no dialogue in the first half of the film. In the absence of dialogue (both external and internal) to learn about character, we have only gesture. Incredibly, it works, and we feel we understand the little robot perfectly.
When (not if) you see this movie, pay attention to the way character is realized through gesture, and plot is carried by character wants. It’s a wonderful lesson in storytelling.
Have you seen Wall-E? Agree with me? Want to gush? Fervently disagree? Want to bash? Throw in your two cents in the Writer’s Lounge
I’m currently a member of the Gene Siskel Film Center. Just last week, I saw The Price of Sugar. This documentary highlights the current state of human trafficking violations and slave labor that are occurring in the Dominican Republic in the production of cane sugar.
Growing up I had never eaten sugar until I turned seven; which initially wasn’t even supposed to happen (my aunt decided it would be wonderful to give my sister and I some Kool-Aid without consulting my mother.) Since I also grew up in a household where natural, organic and farm raised was always held paramount; I am also a home grown vegetarian - I was never really turned on by sugar. It just wasn’t a necessary part of my daily agenda. About seven or eight years ago when I attempted “vegan” I discovered “raw” sugar. It was a turn off in iced drinks, but in my tea it did very well. Since those days I’ve been hooked, and have only used refined white sugar when the raw wasn’t one of the options.
I understand the current human struggle of being more diligent in knowing things like, Fair Trade, Direct Trade and Sustainable Agriculture to help and guide us in making better choices at restaurants, coffee shops, and the grocery store. So, of course, after watching this film I was left aghast as to how I would now avoid at all cost, refined sugar. Yet, in so many ways - it’s nearly improbable! For instance, reading the ingredient list of my Wheat Thins “sugar” is one of the first listed. I couldn’t believe it.
The Price of Sugar isn’t for the light of heart - but I think we as a nation need to be more aware of what it is most of us stir into our coffee cups each morning.
