The Odd and Transitory Existence of Screenwriting as an Art Form

The Odd and Transitory Existence of Screenwriting as an Art Form

Writing is an inherently personal endeavor. Secluding oneself with nothing but a pen and paper (or more likely in the modern world, a laptop) and letting the innermost machinations of your mind spill onto the page. Whether you’re writing an instruction manual or the next great American novel, the end goal is always the same: a finished work of art.  [And, yes, I would argue there is absolutely an art in writing an instruction manual.]

As a result, it seems perhaps second nature to understand that the writing itself is the final form – a direct conduit between the author’s brain and the reader. However, there is one specific area of writing in which this is decidedly NOT the case… at least not in the same way.

The screenplay.

Intro to Writing 101

So, while I won’t waste much time discussing the actual act of writing and all it entails – many articles and indeed entire books have been devoted to as much – I do find that there is at least a certain amount of attention that must be paid to this topic. After all, it is the task of writing that lies at the very heart of this discussion. The ability for a person to sit down and transcribe their thoughts into a physical form. Or, at least, physical if they’re printed…

In any case, I don’t believe it would be controversial to say that writing is a uniquely human enterprise. [For the moment, let’s set aside any discussions about AI and its ability to “write things.” That’s a discussion for another day. A big one.] It’s the ability to convey thoughts, information, and ideals from one individual to limitless others. Rather than being hamstrung by the requirement to transfer this ethereal information via spoken language to those in your immediate vicinity, writing allows ideas to live on forever. To be passed around a community and transferred from one generation to the next.

Admittedly, in the case of the instruction manual for a printer, this is perhaps less likely… though, no less invaluable to the individual looking at trying to set up this printer. [Don’t even get me started on my frustrations regarding printers… the cruelest of all technology.]

The point is: writing allows the free and unfettered transmission of ideas from one brain into another, translated through the unique lens of the author.

An End unto Itself…

Much like every middle school teacher who has ever tried to lead a class of disinterested youngsters in a creative writing exercise, I’m here to tell you that the very act of writing is an end unto itself. That both the process of writing – and the finished result – are the point.

Writing allows you to think critically. It allows you to examine and interpret the world around you. To convey your perspective on it and thereby influence it – a never-ending cycle of continually adding to the totality of the information around us. There is, in point of fact, a very “Zen” center to this particular Tootsie Pop.

I also don’t think it’s a stretch to say that most people like to be heard. Be that in a relationship, at work, or even in the world at large – we like to feel that we are important. That people care about what we have to say. That we can add benefit via our perspective or our creativity. That we can help, entertain, convince, convey, or convert…

Writing is but the medium in which these goals are achieved.

But that particular medium also happens to be an art form in and of itself – respected, appreciated, analyzed, and preserved into the future [as if one needed another example, as to why book burning was a bad thing]. The way that a particular author uses prose to enrapture the imagination. The way that she captures the reality of speech between friends. The way he can weave a compelling story that sets the mind alight – all while making easy it on the eyes and simple to read.

These are but a few of the qualities that allow the best writing the ability to thrive and expand throughout its lifetime: To become a literary classic, serving as inspiration for both writers and readers alike… or pull at our heartstrings, causing us to feel for both the fictional characters and actual people at the heart of their narratives.

Much like the Statue of David, a finished manuscript – be it for a novel, a short story, an essay, or even a tweet [no… it’s not an “X,” no matter how hard you try] – is a work of art on its own. Capable of being understood, analyzed, and enjoyed in its final form.

This does not mean, however, that these things cannot be adapted into other mediums… But just that the medium in which they began (text) was already their intended home. The way in which they were meant to be experienced.

Despite this, and in antithesis of everything we have discussed so far, the same cannot be said for the screenplay…

A Transitory Medium

I don’t think anyone would be surprised to learn that nearly every piece of visual media we consume – television, film, Internet video, commercials, short films – is all based, at least, in part, on a script. It’s just common sense. It’s how the creators crafted the message they were trying to put forth. How the actors, both voice and physical, knew what to say.

I would also argue that the majority among us… particularly if you happen to be reading this particular article… have watched at least one or two movies or shows in their life. They’ve laughed at the antics of a sitcom or cried at the end of Old Yeller. They’ve been taken on a journey to Westeros, or wish they could return to a galaxy far, far away…

And despite the wide array of praise that’s often heaped onto the on the performers, the special effects department, the director, and so many other integral parts of the process…. one particular area remains uniquely opaque to the general public. You guessed it… The screenplay.

Don’t get me wrong, most people can appreciate a story well told. They are cognitively aware that someone (or someones) was responsible for writing what they just saw. But, yet, there remains a dissonance. After all, viewers often have favorite characters who leap off the screen for them. Sequences that blew them away and plot twists that surprised them. But they usually attribute those things not to the writer, but to the actor saying the line, the Director of Photography who shot the sequence, or (in the case of many plot twists) to the “general unfurling of the narrative universe.” Rarely do they take the time – particularly in the midst of engaging with a story – to think of the individual whose creative work from whence all of this sprang: the writer.

Now, to be clear – that’s OKAY. Preferred, even. After all, if the audience was constantly disconnecting from the movie (as an example) to analyze the underlying structure, an argument could absolutely be made that their investment and immersion would be difficult to maintain – if not entirely broken.

However, after the fact, they can discuss their favorite moments. They can freeze-frame the DVD on a particularly gorgeous shot and gush over it. They can admire the stunt man who threw himself down a flight of stairs or the spellbinding visual effects that allowed a spaceship to leave a planet’s atmosphere. They might even be able to quote their favorite lines…

But one thing they CAN’T do is appreciate the screenplay – after all, they never saw it. The only thing THEY saw was an adaptation of it for another medium. They saw the “final” work of art but not the “steps” in between…

From a certain line of thinking, this makes perfect sense. J. K. Rowling never let people read half-finished manuscripts, but instead insisted that they wait for the finished book. But that’s also not quite an apropos analogy… after all, people did get to read the Harry Potter books before the movies came out. While each is telling the same basic story, each has a unique and equally valid way of doing so. One does not supplant the other. They live in harmony and in conversation. You can love one and hate the other. You can love them both or hate them both. They are able and meant to be experienced separately, on their own terms.

The Invisible Art

Much like the long-form writing found in a novel, the process of writing a screenplay involves adhering to certain structures and rules. Over nearly a century, consensus has formed around the best ways to write for the screen: Capitalized scene headers. Dialogue centered on the page. Brevity and visual flare.

Much like any other art form, there are (and have been) a nearly endless number of books, videos, and articles written to help the uninitiated learn the art and science of screenwriting. Rules that must be obeyed… Rules that can be broken but only once you understand them… Mandatory page lengths… Ways of calculating how those pages will transfer in terms of runtime…

Often enough, these many rules and oddities make the act of reading a screenplay quite the unnatural experience for the uninitiated. After all, where a novel can spend pages upon pages detailing the minutia of a room – how the light from the window, the flowers, or the scents affect the protagonist in their the childhood bedroom -, a screenplay must cut to the quick. It must, efficiently and with as little wasted space as possible, convey what the audience will see and hear. How they should feel. What it shouldn’t do is concern itself with details that are beyond the scope of the story itself… details that will be filled in by the various artisans across multiple departments farther down the line. It should also not – as a general rule – tell us things that an audience can’t know from merely watching the eventual movie. It must concern itself with only auditory and visual things that comprise a motion picture.

It is, in many ways, merely a blueprint for a piece of visual media. In much the same way that architectural designs allow the hundreds of workers the ability to put together a bridge that is both aesthetically pleasing and functional, a screenplay allows the entire rest of production to happen. It specifies the color of an important dress or the sequence in which events must transpire. It is, much like a printer manual, a functional document.

But unlike a printer manual, it must also be a literary document. After all, people will be reading this to be taken on a journey. To feel the emotion of the scene, be that happiness or sadness. To be enthralled into the story, despite the “limitations” of the structure. Whether they’re a producer deciding whether or not to move forward with the idea, an actor attempting to learn their lines (and the heart of the character), or the prop department attempting to find specific objects that will need to be purchased, quite a number of people will end up reading this story. It will inform them on how to translate it for an audience… of how to bring it to life in a completely different medium.

To do so, it must also engage them. It must entertain them. It must bring them to tears if need be. Much like the novel written as the end goal, it must be an enjoyable and effortless experience.

If these two goals seem at odds… it’s only because they are.

The screenplay is asked to straddle both worlds. To be both architect and creation. To be an end unto itself, and yet only a stepping stone.

Gone… and Forgotten

The sad reality is that even the best screenplays eventually fade from history, replaced only by the films they helped facilitate. Sure, the curious among us might be able to track them down… Usually for learning purposes [after all, reading an excellent screenplay is one of the best ways to improve your own skill at the art], but the general public will have no more knowledge of them than the early and unpublished draft of Harry Potter.

Screenplays are rarely provided to the public for all but the most prestigious films, nor is there much appetite for them. After all, after the movie has been made, the final product now exists. There is no need to read the “blueprints” when one can merely drive across the bridge. Its purpose, in many ways, has been fulfilled.

The experience of reading it might remain just as enjoyable as it was to the first producer whose eyes ever crossed the page, but it has been effectively supplanted. Its existence lasted only long enough to fulfill its purpose – creating a movie. Like the cicada that lives only a few weeks with the purpose of breeding before returning to the earth from which it came, the screenplay has an expiration date. The irony, of course, being that the better the screenplay, the shorter its lifespan (as it will be more quicklyconverted into its final form: the movie, the TV show, or short film).

It’s an odd and transitory existence for any art form, particularly one so personal as writing. Because while the viewer no doubt sees the director’s vision of the words on the page, they will never actually read those words. Never know what might have been “lost in translation” or added later down the line. They will only know the movie itself.

Conclusion

Much like the parent who wants their child to have a better life than their own, the screenplay fades into oblivion so that the movie can live. So that it can accomplish more (and reach far further) than the screenplay ever could. It is simultaneously a building block and also a castle: an art form born only to die… or, rather, to metamorphose into something else. The caterpillar whose value lies not in itself, but in the future butterfly that it will never meet.

Despite this, it’s often said of life that its brevity gives it meaning: That the fact that we one day no longer exist makes our experiences all the more important. Impactful.

If that’s the case, one could most certainly argue that screenwriting is the art form that most mirrors life itself: an indeterminate amount of time to exist, wherein great things might be accomplished before we fade into history… replaced by what comes next.

Life is short  – so get writing.