Present Tense Exposition

In every story, the characters and their world existed before the film began. Some of the elements of their history are necessary pieces of information for understanding what happens between Fade In and Fade Out. Much like how characters meeting each other is an opportunity to stage a revealing conflict, the presentation of expository information has its own opportunities and challenges.

Here are a few examples of how others took their backstory and wove it in to the present tense action of the film.

The Adventures of Tintin

After becoming suspicious about the model ship that he’s just purchased, and how several people were eager to try and take it off his hands, Tintin heads to the library to read up on the history of The Unicorn, the ship the model was based on. While a person reading aloud from a book doesn’t sound like a thrilling set piece, there are a few tactics used to add tension and conflict to the moment.

There’s a small beat before the scene in the library where we see an unknown figure watching Tintin and Snowy through a pair of binoculars. Those binoculars watch them leave and retrain on the model of the Unicorn in Tintin’s apartment. This plants questions in the audience’s mind: Who was watching him? What’s going to happen to this model? It also reinforces the earlier question, why is this model ship so important? These bits of unresolved tension carry us into the scene in the library.

While in the library, Tintin’s research reveals that The Unicorn was a ship that sank with a secret cargo. This isn’t a direct conflict within the scene, it posits another question to the audience: What was the secret cargo? This mystery is useful in how it suggests a connection to the questions already asked of the audience. Could the people interested in the model of the ship be interested in this secret cargo? How is the model connected to that?

The scene cuts from Tintin reading to an overhead shot of a man skulking about in the shadows, watching him. We’re reminded that Tintin is under surveillance. The surveillance beats sandwich the new information, helping to the audience to interpret that these things are related, and that while we just spent a little over a minute listening to somebody read aloud from a book, that information is crucial to what’s coming next.

Children of Men

Taking place in a future with some key differences from our present, this film has some serious world building to do. Over the opening credits, the audience is treated to audio from the intro to a TV news broadcast. The patter sounds familiar, helping to bridge the gap between our world and the imagined future of the film, but the stories that they discuss are dystopian and extreme. Then we come to the kicker: A reporter informing us that “Baby Diego,” a man in his twenties who was the youngest person on the planet, has just died.

This is a straight infodump, but it’s effective because the information it gives is layered and shocking. In that one moment, we’ve learned that there are no new people being born, and that the chaos teased at the beginning is directly connected to the conditions arising from a world without birth.

Alright. So we have our information. We’re done, right? Not by a long shot.

In walks Theo, trying to push through the the people watching the news report in a coffee shop to get his order. It’s a small conflict, but it helps to define his character. A world is in shambles, human biology has been halted, people are mourning the death of a celebrity symbolizing the planetary crisis, and Theo just wants everybody out of his way so he can have his morning coffee.

The Departed

Billy Costigan is called in to be vetted for undercover work. This could be a cut and dry scene discussing resumé items, but what elevates it and disguises the exposition is the dialogue of Det. Dignam.

Dignam doesn’t sit behind a desk. He doesn’t stop moving for more than a few seconds at a time. And every time he reveals something of Billy’s backstory as part of the interview process, he does it in the form of a verbal attack. For example, “You have different accents? You did, you fuckin’ snake. You were like different people!” or “You got 1400 on your SATs. You’re an astronaut, not a statie.”

Yes, we’re being directly told the backstory, but there’s a clear motivation for it being delivered this way: It’s a test. Dignam is trying to figure out if this guy is cut out for the job. Costigan’s going to have to stand up under even more intense scrutiny and pressure if he’s going to go undercover, and Dignam’s interrogation is the a hint of how personal history and characters trying to get a read on each other is going to be crucial to the rest of the film.

If you can read this, you are not writing

You are reading this sentence instead of writing one of your own.

You are continuing to read despite the suggestion that your time would be better served writing.

This is not a blog post meant to offer a piece of advice or a strategy. This is an alarm clock. Every time you move on to the next sentence instead of closing your browser to work on your writing, you’re hitting the snooze button.

Wake up.

Nothing is clear or obvious

Words like “clearly” and “obviously” in action and description lines work against script clarity. They are an assumption that something should be understood without specifying how it could be.

Take these examples:

  • The room is obviously a pediatric dentist’s office.
  • Margaret is obviously interested in what Dana is saying.
  • This exchange clearly took place in his imagination.

These are all missed opportunities.

In the first, the slug line can take care of informing the reader of what location we’re in, making the sentence wasted text. Additionally, details about the room could help to show what makes it a pediatric dentist’s office, and those items could be used to strengthen our understanding of how being in this location relates to the larger plot. If our protagonist is 12 1/2 years old, sitting in a waiting room looking at a poster of a child with a big grin and missing teeth while Nick Jr. plays in the background, that suggests a conflict.

Or in the second, how it’s essentially a sentence telling us that Margaret is listening to Dana. The details of how we would understand she’s interested in the conversation while watching the finished film could be used in place. Margaret’s body language or her end of the conversation would be stronger ways to help the reader intuit Margaret’s interest.

The third is something of a double whammy. It’s in past tense, which is a different red flag in that this particular instance sends the reader looking back over what they just read instead of continuing to move their eye down the page. But, for the purposes of looking at the use of “clearly,” this line misses out on the chance to establish the cues and rhythms that would come from a story where fantasy and imagination play a part. There are any number of ways to set a dream or fantasy sequence apart from reality (consider the vast difference between how Scrubs and Inception handle this concept).

We are not inside your head. Everything the reader understands about your story comes from the page. You must convey, specifically, every element you want to make sure that we understand.

Go Be Awesome

At some point while writing your script, you will want to give up. For whatever reason it is, you will look at what you’ve done so far and decide that nothing you can do will make it any better.

There are any number of inspirational quotes I could refer you to at this point which would make a great addition to your workspace. Something to remind you that you should persevere. Maybe Churchill, Gandhi, or Goethe.

Instead…

“When I’m sad, I stop being sad and be awesome instead.”

-Barney Stinson

Pop culture is chock full of wisdom if you’re willing to accept it.

So, you want to give up on your screenplay? Fine. Start another one.

You want to give up on writing entirely? Fine. Go raise goats and make artisanal cheese, or start a non-profit to lobby for and promote the safety of bike riders in major metropolitan areas, or run for your local city council.

Giving up is just like anything else: You need to fully commit to it. If you’re just going to half-ass giving up, don’t give up.

If you truly want to give up, go do something else.

If you can’t cut yourself off completely from what’s giving you grief, then maybe you don’t actually want to give up. If that’s the case, it’s up to you to push back and push through.

There is nothing wrong with walking away if it leads you to something that works better for you, but don’t hold yourself in limbo. Don’t make complaining a strong part of your skillset.

Go be awesome.

Unique and Relatable

A strong premise has elements that are both unique and relatable. One way of looking at the unique/relatable balance is the relationship between the protagonist and the world of the story.

For example, consider stories with a relatable protagonist, but a unique world:

  • Jurassic Park, where Alan Grant (a man who likes getting his hands dirty, doesn’t trust technology, and isn’t horribly fond of kids) travels to an island full of cloned dinosaurs.
  • Harry Potter, where a lonely, bullied boy finds out that he belongs in a hidden world of magic.
  • Back to the Future, where an 80s teenager who has a difficult relationship with his parents finds himself displaced to the past, where he encounters not only a vastly different world than the one he’s used to, but the teenage version of his parents, who are different people than he expects.

Now let’s look at the other side of the coin, where it’s a unique character in a relatable world:

  • A History of Violence, where a seemingly average family in a sleepy little town is turned upside down with the revelation of the father’s violent past and the further violence he deems necessary to keep his family safe.
  • The 40-Year-Old Virgin, where the title character attempts to navigate the dating world and its relatable series of pitfalls, but seen from his specific perspective.
  • Grosse Pointe Blank, a professional hitman going through an existential crisis attends his high school reunion while on assignment.

The clash between the relatable and unique elements of the premise gives a story narrative friction. That friction between protagonist and world gives us conflict to propel the story.

If a character and their world are both relatable, we’re not only missing out on a unique element to hook the audience into the story, but we’re losing the potential for conflict. If a protagonist has nothing unexpected to come up against, what are they going to spend their time doing?

Or, if a unique character exists in a unique world, what gives the audience a foothold to understand what’s happening? If all elements are attempting to be different from the world and the people we know, what gives the story the connective tissue it needs to grab the audience and bring them in?

This doesn’t mean that every story needs to be an easily explained high concept piece. Even in smaller, character-driven and intimate narratives you can see the friction between the unique and relatable. For example, The Squid and The Whale and Kramer vs. Kramer both take place in the relatable world of a family going through divorce, but their unique characters create two very different stories.

Look at your premise. Ask yourself what elements make your story unique and relatable. Do you see the friction? Do you see potential to make that friction more clear?