Directing Screen Performances 9781350096363, 9781474249591, 9781474249621, 9781474249607

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DIRECTING SCREEN PERFORMANCES

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DIRECTING SCREEN PERFORMANCES Robert Klenner

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BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC Bloomsbury Publishing Inc 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK BLOOMSBURY, BLOOMSBURY ACADEMIC and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published in the United States of America 2019 Copyright © Robert Klenner, 2019 For legal purposes the Acknowledgments on p. ix constitute an extension of this copyright page. Cover design by Louise Dugdale Cover image © powerofforever / Getty images All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Inc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Klenner, Robert, author. Title: Directing screen performances / Robert Klenner. Description: New York : Bloomsbury Academic, 2019. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2018040741| ISBN 9781350096363 (hardback : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781474249591 (paperback : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781474249607 (ePDF) | ISBN 9781474249614 (eBook) Subjects: LCSH: Motion pictures—Production and direction. Classification: LCC PN1995.9.P7 K555 2019 | DDC 791.4302/32—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018040741 ISBN :

HB : 978-1-3500-9636-3 PB : 978-1-4742-4959-1 ePDF : 978-1-4742-4960-7 eBook: 978-1-4742-4961-4

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This book is dedicated to Monika—with much love

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Contents Acknowledgments

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Introduction

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1 The Director

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Director as genius

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Director as leader

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Director as storyteller

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Director as storyworld creator

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Interview: Todd Solondz

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2 The Actor

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Overview of the process

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Evaluating screen performance

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Theater versus screen acting

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The System

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The System and the Method

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Interview: Sam Neill

3 Pre-production

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Script analysis

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Casting

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Rehearsal

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Pre-visualization

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Interview: Miranda Harcourt

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4 Production

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Shooting procedure

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Collaboration with the Director of Photography

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Collaboration with the sound department

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Collaboration with actors—working with emotional dynamite

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Happy accident

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Interview: Cate Shortland

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5 Post-production

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Picture editing

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Sound design

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Music

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Color grading

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Interview: Mark Warner

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Conclusion

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Sources

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgments With thanks for their contributions and help: Martin Armiger Australian Film, Television and Radio School Pristine Cartera-Turkus Ben Chea Dany Cooper Liz Cooper Rachel Cormack Giovanni De Santolo Gary Donatelli Paul Goldman Miranda Harcourt Laura Käding Olek Krupa Rachel Mackey Luke Marsden Igor Nay Sam Neill Mika Nishimura Julian Rosefeldt Cate Shortland Todd Solondz Katerina Stratos Te Puia, the Centre for New Zealand’s Ma¯ ori Culture and Geothermal Wonders Paul Thompson Graham Thorburn Mark Warner Adric Watson Henryk Zimak Special thanks to: Michael Arndt for giving me permission to quote from the Little Miss Sunshine script. Very special thanks to: David Balfour for his unfaltering support. Finally, thanks to Bloomsbury, particularly Erin Duffy, Katie Gallof, Georgia Kennedy, Susan Krogulski, and James Piper for their expertise and patience.

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Introduction There is an anecdote about legendary Hollywood director George Cukor directing Jack Lemmon in his first film, It Should Happen to You (1954). After one energetic take, Cukor was supposed to say to the actor, “Jack, could you give me less?” Lemmon did, but it wasn’t enough for Cukor, who wanted even less. This went on for several takes, after which the actor exasperatedly said, “If I gave you any less, I wouldn’t be acting.” Cukor replied, “Exactly!” Does that mean that actor’s craft is not needed in creation of screen character, only his voice and likeness? There are directors who regard actors as mere elements to be arranged; like a car, a tree, or a gun. That is not the approach of this book. In this book we will examine what it takes to create engaging screen performances. It all starts with character. The very concept of character is an elusive one, though. Characters are created through the combined efforts of the writer, director, and actor. But it doesn’t stop there; whenever you read a book, watch a theater production or a film, you are inexorably involved in the formation of characters. And your Macbeth, Gregor Samsa,1 or Ricky Roma2 will be unique, colored by your cultural, social, and educational conditionings. There is a ménage à trois between the initial storyteller (Shakespeare, Kafka, Mamet), their creations (Macbeth, Samsa, Roma), and us, the viewer/listeners. All three contribute to the ultimate shape of the character, and all three require their fair share in the final creation. Too much voice of the storyteller and the character is in danger of becoming a mouthpiece for the director’s social, cultural, or political beliefs (Jake Sully in Avatar); too much emphasis on the performance and the character can appear self-indulgent (Lieutenant Dunbar in Dances with Wolves); and too much latitude for the viewer’s emotional projection and the character can turn insipid (the title character in Johnny Mnemonic). The process of creating characters is particularly complex with film, the most collaborative of all arts. It is not only the director and actor’s interpretation of the script; there are many more people creatively involved: there is the cinematographer illuminating and framing the actor, the production designer providing visual context, the sound designer adding aural vista, or the editor constructing the narrative, to name a few. Not to mention the composer, the color grader3 or special effects people (one of the titles in the credits of Avatar is “character designer”!). They all have substantial impact on our perception of the screen character. The editor is a particularly significant player here. The Oscar and Emmy winning actor Frances McDormand highlights editing in the process of filmmaking:

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Central character in Franz Kafka’s novella The Metamorphosis. Central character in David Mamet’s film Glengarry Glen Ross (dir. James Foley). 3 Color grading is the process of manipulating colors’ hue, saturation, or value for technical or aesthetic reasons. 2

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To know that a director is thinking about how it’s gonna be edited, that’s what I learnt from Joel and Ethan.4 Then I know what I’m serving. I do not believe that it’s an actor’s medium nor director’s medium, I believe it’s an editor’s medium, so as an actor if I’m serving the final edit of the film, which I believe storyboards prepare you for; then I know the person knows what they’re doing. If someone comes to me and says, “this director is really great with actors” I don’t care. Because I know how to do my job, I don’t need them to help me do my job. Do they know how to edit the film? I’d love to work with them. DELIN, 2016

It is not only the juxtaposition of shots that tells the story, defines the character, and stimulates the viewers’ projection of their thoughts and emotions; the activity within the frame is of equal importance. There is scientific evidence that watching actions of others activates regions in the viewer’s brain involved in performing equivalent actions; for example, seeing someone eating or kissing triggers the same regions in our brain as when we ourselves are eating or kissing. So, by projecting their own thoughts and emotions onto the images of the person on the screen, the viewer forms his or her own unique perception of the character. Knowing that gives the director a reference point against which to check the emotional impact the character’s actions are likely to have on the viewer. Too much acting can disrupt the viewer’s engagement with the character. French minimalist director Robert Bresson went so far as to argue that the very concept of performance doesn’t belong to film: Actor. The “to-and-fro of the character in front of his nature” forces the public to look for talent on his face, instead of the enigma peculiar to each living creature. BRESSON, 1996

Bresson worked with amateurs whom he called models, and directed them so that their facial expressions and body language were stripped of any semblance of performance, effectively providing a blank canvas on which to paint emotions. This book doesn’t propose to take the concept of viewers’ empathy that far. Rather, it offers step-by-step guidance to work with the actor while incorporating all aesthetic and technical elements that add up to effective screen character. Directing screen performance is directing the whole frame, not only the actor. The process starts well before the actor is cast, and concludes well after the last slate is shot. This book examines the key work a director and an actor need to undertake. Then it follows the typical production path—pre-production, production, and post-production. This book is meant to give practical help through understanding the theories, concepts, and practices of directing screen performances. It shows how to analyze a script; brief the casting director; rehearse the actors; decide on visual treatment that infers subtext; direct effectively on set; and finesse the character in the edit. Every step in the director’s process is illustrated with case studies and photographs. In this way we can see how a contemporary practitioner applies theory and practice. There are exercises that help consolidate the new knowledge, and interviews with screen practitioners sharing the workings of their craft. 4

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McDormand is married to Joel Coen and has starred in several films by the Coen brothers.

DIRECTING SCREEN PERFORMANCES

1 The Director The film director is first and foremost a storyteller. As such, he or she has to grip the viewers’ attention and guide them to create an experience in their own minds that entertains, inspires, and educates. You might say the same applies to a novelist or a short story writer. This is true, except the writer usually creates her book alone, sitting in front of a computer screen or writing longhand. The film director on the other hand has to deal with lots and lots of people to tell her story. Iron Man 3 reportedly had over 3,000 crew members, and Avatar had more than 200 people working in the art department alone! Even the most modest student film production involves the creative and technical contribution of several people, not counting the cast. There is no science to directing actors—and non-actors for that matter. There are no rules or recipes that successful directors follow. Directors come from different social backgrounds: Buster Keaton was a vaudevillian; Krzysztof Kies´lowski son of an engineer in provincial Poland; and Mike Leigh was born into anglicized Jewish intelligentsia. Directors follow different educational paths: Quentin Tarantino attended acting classes, Kathryn Bigelow studied fine arts, and Roman Polan´ ski completed the Łódz´ Film School. They each present a different approach to directing actors: Robert Bresson worked exclusively with amateurs; John Cassavetes believed that camera should be the slave to the actor; and Jane Campion creates an environment where it’s okay to fail. It takes a special person to navigate all the creative egos in the process of constructing a cinematic story that is stylistically coherent, engages the viewers intellectually and viscerally, and, most importantly, makes them believe in and care for the film’s characters. Such a person is an effective leader, efficient communicator, has a unique creative voice, and is an expert storyteller. This chapter will investigate all these qualities. It will guide the reader to develop the set of skills necessary to effectively lead the production crew in order to be able to concentrate on the very core of film directing—working with actors.

Director as genius In her 2009 TED (Technology, Entertainment and Design) talk, the author Elizabeth Gilbert, talked about the concept of genius. After her 2006 memoir Eat, Pray, Love: One Woman’s Search for Everything Across Italy, India and Indonesia became an international bestseller, she found that people were empathizing with her that she’d never be able to write another book matching the success of Eat, Pray. She recalled that when she announced, as a teenager, that she wanted to be a writer, people asked very similar questions—wasn’t she afraid she’d never have any success and the rejection would kill her? Yes, she was afraid as a teenager, and even more so as a star writer.

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In order to stay alive and keep working, Gilbert decided she had to create some kind of protective psychological construct: a way of distancing herself as a writer from the anxiety she naturally had about the readers’ reaction to her new work. Searching across cultures and history for ways creative people managed the inherent emotional risks, she found out that in ancient Greece and ancient Rome people did not believe that creativity came from human beings. Creativity was a divine spirit that came to human beings from some unknown distant sphere. The Greeks called this spirit daemon and Romans genius. Genius would occasionally descend to an artist’s studio and assist in shaping the outcome of the artist’s work. That was Gilbert’s Eureka moment, the fruit of her quest—a legitimate psychological paradigm to protect the artist from the results of his or her work. Now Elizabeth Gilbert can’t be blamed if her consecutive books are not at the level of Eat, Pray nor can she take all the credit for the success of that book. It’s her collaborator genius that should share the glory but also take some of the blame. As simple as that (Gilbert, 2009). Australian director Peter Weir shares similar sentiments. In his 2010 David Lean Lecture, Weir recalled his encounter with a Japanese master potter, Shigeo Shiga. Shiga contemplated the differences between the Japanese and Western artistic traditions. In Renaissance Europe, the role of religion as the focus of all cultural activities was somewhat diminished and the artist, rather than that artifact, became the hub of attention—a painter or a sculptor was elevated to the role of the demiurge. In Japan, it’s the opposite; first, it is pottery that takes center stage. “Secondly,” Shiga said, “you spend your lifetime as an apprentice. And you make utilitarian objects: bowls and cups and plates. And you make them with all the skills and craft you’ve acquired in the course of your learning. In the old days, you didn’t sign it. And as you make them, every now and again the gods will touch your hands. That will be a work of art” (Weir, 2010). It might be worthwhile to define what we mean by creativity and talent, and what the connection between the two is. Do you have to be talented to be creative? Talent is understood as an intrinsic ability to do something really well, to excel in something. Mozart was a talented composer, Michelangelo was a talented sculptor, and Michael Fassbender is a talented actor. Creativity, on the other hand, is about using imagination and original ideas to create something that transcends existing rules or patterns. Creativity occurs when something new is brought into existence—be it technology, invention, or artistic treatment, things like the invention of the light bulb, Pablo Picasso’s contribution to the fine arts, or D. W. Griffith’s expansion of the language of film. Talent and creativity are related but not interdependent; you can be very talented and not creative (think of the amount of talent that goes into creation of many a Hollywood blockbuster), and you can be creative while not being especially talented (Leo Fender, the inventor of the world’s most popular electric guitar, could not play the instrument). Pablo Picasso noted that “Every child is an artist. The problem is how to stay an artist when you grow up” (Picasso, n.d.). Everyone is born curious about the world and eager to experiment. Children are naturally motivated, imaginative, embrace challenge, and are open to new experiences. These are all qualities of a creative person. It is only when they enter formal education, with its emphasis on standardization, that some of these qualities fade. But the good news is that the creative muscles can be strengthened through practice.

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How do you revive the creativity of your inner child? Curiosity Curiosity about the world around us is a good starting point. A preschooler asks about 100 questions a day. You should cultivate curiosity—question, and be surprised by things you see, hear, or read about. Open wide your eyes and ears—watch and see, and listen and hear. These abilities will be crucial in the rehearsal room and on set.

Quantity not quality You must have passion and determination. In analyzing a script, developing a character, devising rehearsal strategy, or solving logistical or narrative problems, you need to produce a number of potential solutions, the more the better. Most of them will be bad. But you will accumulate a lot of material to select the best ideas from, and you will get better at it. In his 2008 book Outliers: The Story of Success, Malcolm Gladwell claims that it takes about 10,000 hours of practice to achieve greatness in any field. He came to this conclusion after studying the lives of exceptionally successful people, among them the Beatles. In 1960, still an unknown British rock band, the Beatles went to Hamburg to play in local clubs. They were underpaid and had to play many gigs to survive. As a result, they were getting better and better, and the audiences demanded more performances, which meant more practice. By 1964 the Beatles had played over 1,200 concerts together, more than an average band today in their lifetime. The Beatles were ready to conquer the world (Gladwell, 2008).

No right answers Embrace the notion that in the creative endeavor there are no right answers. Frida Kahlo (1907–54) was a Mexican painter. This is how she saw herself:

Figure 1.1 (see plate section) Frida Kahlo, self-portrait dedicated to Dr. Eloesser, 1940.

And this is how a contemporary American folk artist, Pristine Cartera-Turkus, sees the artist:

Figure 1.2 (see plate section) Mexican artist Frida Kahlo. Courtesy Pristine Cartera-Turkus.

The paintings depict very different Frida Kahlos. Is one of them more truthful then the other? Is the self-portrait more legitimate? I don’t think so; we cannot see ourselves objectively. Each painter uses different techniques and emphasizes different character traits of the subject. They are both honest and both equally valid. And what about a dramatic character, say Hamlet? Grigori Kozintsev depicted an individual enslaved by the totalitarian system:

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Figure 1.3 Hamlet, director Grigori Kozintsev (1964).

Franco Zeffirelli showed brooding Mel Gibson in an action adventure film:

Figure 1.4 Hamlet, director Franco Zeffirelli (1990).

And Kenneth Branagh’s Hamlet was a character in a revenge play:

Figure 1.5 Hamlet, director Kenneth Branagh (1996).

Again, all are legitimate propositions, and all represent the director’s point of view.

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Environment Sitting at the desk in front of your computer is not the most creatively stimulating environment. Look at how Lego organizes their working environments:

Figure 1.6 Lego. Courtesy of LEGO PMD // Rosan Bosch Studio // 2010 // Photographer Anders Sune Bjerg.

Your finances probably won’t allow you to be that extravagant, but you can always find ways of making your working area more creatively simpatico. When working on a script, surround yourself with pictures, found objects, pieces of fabric, photographs of people, landscapes, or textures that you associate with the film and its characters. Anything that triggers your imagination and reflects the mood of the piece will enrich your journey and open new ways of accessing the film’s characters. When working with actors, don’t limit yourself to an indoor rehearsal space. Let’s assume one of the characters in your film describes how her handbag was snatched at a marketplace. Go with her to a market and have another actor snatch her bag. This simple exercise will give the actor an experience she can use in the scene. She won’t have to imagine it, resort to a Stanislavskian “magic if,”5 or search memory for an equally upsetting event. You will have equipped her with a distinct event; all she will have to do is to report it.

Experiment Observe how children build a block tower. Everything goes, as long as the tower gets taller. There are no rules. They combine blocks that are seemingly incompatible.

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Konstantin Stanislavski (1863–1938) was a Russian theater practitioner and theorist. We will look into his system of actor training and role preparation techniques in Chapter 2.

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Figure 1.7 Children playing with blocks. Illustrator Henryk Zimak.

This is in fact one of the creeds of creativity—thinking inclusively, gathering all possibilities, however dissimilar, unrelated, or apparently irrational. It provokes different thinking patterns in your brain and leads to novel ideas. So, let your imagination roam free. Combine the incompatible. The tower will collapse every now and again but will be rebuilt. Failure is also part of the process. Fail fast, fail early, and fail forward, as they say. Your creative muscles will strengthen.

Talk to people The director is a storyteller. Tell your story to people you trust and who are willing to listen. Talk to your friends about your characters. The more you do it, the clearer the picture of the character will emerge in your imagination. When you see the person’s eyes glaze over, you will know that this part needs further work.

Handwrite Instead of typing, handwrite your notes and stick them on the walls (contributing to your creative environment). Handwriting stimulates a different part of the brain called the reticular activating system (RAS ), which is responsible for sorting out from millions of bits of information we are constantly bombarded with, the ones that deserve your focus. Handwriting will boost your creativity. Some writers alternate between the two: handwriting for the creative, free-flowing part of the process, and word processing for construction and editing. Julia Cameron, a writer and an educator, asks her students to handwrite “morning pages” in order to retrieve their creativity. What are morning pages? Put simply, the morning pages are three pages of longhand writing, strictly stream-ofconsciousness: “Oh, god, another morning. I have NOTHING to say. I need to wash the curtains. Did I get my laundry yesterday? Blah, blah, blah . . .” They might also, more ingloriously, be called brain drain, since that is one of their main functions. There is no wrong way to do morning pages. These daily morning meanderings are not meant to be art. Or even writing. CAMERON, 2002

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Apparently, by sticking to the task for several weeks her students overcome the internal censor that keeps criticizing everything we do as artists, and gain fuller access to the freewheeling, creative right brain. Cameron’s students aren’t allowed to read their morning pages for at least eight weeks, just write them, put them into an envelope, and store them in the drawer.

EXERCISE—AUTOMATIC WRITING This exercise should give you a taste of what it feels like to access your unconscious mind. You need a quiet room and twenty minutes. You can do the exercise by yourself or in a group. Putting on some peaceful music is helpful, perhaps some Pärt, Bach, or Chopin. Write in longhand for ten minutes without stopping, as fast as you can so that you outrun your inner censor. Start each sentence with “I wish.” For the next ten minutes write, in longhand again, and again without stopping, in a stream-of-consciousness mode, but this time start each sentence with “I feel.” It is likely that the exercise will conjure some emotions: don’t fight them; they are part of the creative process. Chances are that at some stage you will feel that the writing “writes itself” and you are just a medium through which the sentences flow. This is the state of mind you should be aiming for when gathering ideas (see above, “Quantity not quality”). If you are doing the exercise in a group of people you trust and feel comfortable with, share your writings by reading them out loud.

Creative process The cliché goes that creation is 10 percent inspiration and 90 percent perspiration. Let’s have a look at how to organize the perspiration part. It has been generally accepted that the creative process develops along the following pattern: ➔ Let’s assume you are to direct a short film. You enthusiastically immerse yourself with the subject. You formulate a central idea or pose a question. ➔ You look at films dealing with similar issues or of similar genre, read books, surf the internet, make copious notes, and talk to people. You conduct research. ➔ You feel saturated with the gathered data, up to the point when you start dreaming about your subject; you might even feel like it’s not going anywhere. In fact the opposite is true—you gestate. The ideas are developing, be it outside your consciousness. You might find that from time to time they come to the surface, and that you make unusual connections. ➔ There come moments when things seem to click into place: Eureka moments. They often happen when you are just about to fall asleep, when you first awake, have a shower, or when you’re on the toilet. These are little flashes of enlightenment. ➔ Then comes the doing . . .

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➔ The testing . . . And . . . ➔ Sharing the outcome with wider community. These stages don’t necessarily happen in linear progression, but it is important to recognize them when they come. It is particularly important to acknowledge the third step, as it is easily misconstrued as a creative block. At that stage, it’s best to engage in something totally removed from your creative challenge—sport, travel, hiking, dancing. It is common for feature film directors to immerse themselves in some all-absorbing activity after the shoot in order to clear their minds. Hiking is particularly popular. They need space and time before they are ready to immerse themselves in editing.

Director as leader Come to the edge. We might fall. Come to the edge. It’s too high! COME TO THE EDGE ! And they came, And he pushed, And they flew. CHRISTOPHER LOGUE (1926–2011)

The worst kind of leader is one people fear. The next is the one people love. Even better is the leader the people respect. But the best kind of leader is the one about whom, when the job is done, the people say, “We did it ourselves.” LAO-TZU (sixth century BC)

It is possible to read the above quotes as disparate interpretations of the notion of a leader. Christopher Logue paints a charismatic leader—a person with a strong vision who is able to make people believe he or she will provide decisive leadership. Charismatic leaders are extrovert, enjoy power, exude self-confidence and enthusiasm, and thrive on pressure. They exert particularly powerful effects on followers by virtue of their commanding self-belief and vision. Director Elia Kazan (On the Waterfront, A Streetcar Named Desire), an unquestionably charismatic leader, said of his style, “I think there should be collaboration, but under my thumb” (Kazan, n.d.). Lao-tzu describes a different type of leader; let’s call him an invisible leader. Like his charismatic counterpart, the invisible leader has a strong vision but his way of bringing it to fruition is different. He actively seeks people’s contribution and allows them seemingly unlimited creative freedom. I say “seemingly” because he ensures the group will arrive at the desired outcome through setting creative challenges all the way throughout the process. What do I mean by “creative challenges”? Try the following:

EXERCISE—CREATIVE CHALLENGES Choose a feeling to work with, for example “joy.” You will visualize that feeling in three different ways.

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Find ten photos (search the internet, magazines, or personal collection) that illustrate your chosen feeling.

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Using only three color-pencils, create an abstract artwork that will symbolize the same feeling.

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Look at your immediate surroundings and find up to three objects that will, in juxtaposition or in isolation, represent that feeling.

If you do this exercise, you’ll see that each challenge invites a different way of thinking and different ways of expressing the idea. Setting challenges, the director obviously won’t know the outcome of the exercise but, providing the constraints sit within the realm of the film’s premise, it will bring new material to play with and help to consolidate the vision.

To put it in the context of the director–actor relationship, the invisible leader would come to the rehearsal with comprehensive knowledge of the character but instead of inspiring the actor to realize his particular interpretation, he would create an environment in which the actor discovers the character. The director would only gently probe (“Have you thought of . . .”; “What would happen if . . .”; “Could we assume that . . .,” or even “I don’t know”) rather than seek unquestioning realization of his ideas. Of course, the division between the charismatic leader and the invisible leader is an artificial one. In reality, directors have attributes of both types, and fit somewhere in between the two. As the leader of the cast and crew, the director has to be able to . . .

Recognize her own value There will always be people brighter and more articulate than you. But you are a learning, creative, and growing individual. And you are exceptional—there is no other you among more than seven billion people that currently occupy our planet. What you have to offer is therefore unique. Feeling good about yourself has a great impact on your collaborators.

Assemble a balanced team When you assemble your cast and your creative team, aim for diversity: diversity in terms of what the people bring to the team, and diversity of opinions. Letting in people that might provoke you generates creativity. A team of “yes” people, who will agree with you on everything, will inevitably asphyxiate the creative process, perhaps even without your being aware. The opposite—a team of people that unanimously challenges your every decision— will poison the project. Do your homework: learn about your collaborators—watch their work, see how they think, how they operate, what makes them tick. In order to make a creative contribution, or even communicate effectively with someone, you need to learn the rules and content of their domain. It doesn’t mean you need to be an expert, but it does mean you need to know what you want and if that is feasible. Ultimately, you need a team that will be ready to engage in a robust but honest discourse.

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Take responsibility for her co-workers It is like being a parent. Great parents want to give their children good education and opportunities to fail in a safe environment, build their self-confidence, but also give them clear boundaries and discipline them when necessary.

Loosen control and create an atmosphere of mutual trust Effective leaders leave space for individuals to research and experiment. They encourage the participants to claim responsibility for their respective contributions, and don’t interfere with the processes. The director of Lore and Berlin Syndrome, Cate Shortland, has a very effective approach: Talking to the collaborators, first I talk about the characters and try to gage what’s in their head fresh, before I put anything in their head because I don’t want to pollute their ideas. And then we’ll start dialogue. I’ll start probably by asking questions: What did you think about this character? What do you think the feel of this scene should be? What do you think the heart of this scene is for you? Sometimes, if it’s very different to my ideas it might make me question what I’m doing and we come up with something better. Because two brains is always better than one brain . . . So, it’s about getting the best from the people around you instead of shutting it up. And then feeding more ideas and putting it on a more specific road. SHORTLAND, 2014

Provide constructive feedback A good starting point is practicing the art of the Feedback Sandwich. It goes like this: ➔ Identify positive aspects, e.g. “It was great to see you actively pursuing your objective.” ➔ Coach, e.g. “The action you’ve chosen appears to be to insist. Could you experiment with actions that are more open, for example to unhinge? ➔ Conclude by combining the initial praise with coaching, e.g. “It will build on your impulse but give you deeper material to play with.”

Take courage Take courage to step outside the norm, to take risks, to be non-conformist. It is scary: consciousness naturally resists anything unconscious and unknown. A “civilized” man erects psychological barriers to protect himself from the shock of facing something unknown. It is not a coincidence that memorable performances are often described as courageous. Great actors probe areas of their psyche that are normally hidden in their unconscious mind.

Use sense of humor Actors are like racehorses—they can sense the mood of the director and are acutely affected by it. A healthy dose of humor can do wonders. Self-deprecating humor is a safe way to go.

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Director as storyteller It is not the actor’s job to tell the story. This is a fairly important statement, so let me say it again—it is not the actor’s job to tell the story. The actor’s job is to be present—to live fully and truthfully in the imaginary world the director creates. The director is the storyteller. Cate Shortland is an astute communicator yet she doesn’t usually reveal to her actors the fruit of her meticulous preparation; instead, she lets them discover the depths of their characters. Of course, they discuss the intended meaning of the film, the style, and the logistics. The characters’ attributes, however, the minutiae of their dramatic journeys, and the intricacies of their relationships are for the actors to discover. The director will guide them when she sees them painting themselves into a corner, but for the most part she remains an observer. Her sheer presence and the atmosphere of trust and empathy she generates encourage actors to take creative risks. They fly without being pushed. Not every director works that way but it is arguably the most effective tactic to develop unique screen characters. By letting the actors claim control over the development of their characters the director is rewarded by imaginative and often surprising results that, once filmed, give her rich material to shape the screen character in the editing suite. Does that mean the director is the ultimate author of screen performance? The question of authorship of screen performance is almost as old as the cinema itself. The Soviet Montage Theory developed in Russia in the 1920s postulated that it is the juxtaposition of shots that creates meaning in film. To prove the idea the filmmaker Lev Kuleshov conducted several experiments. In one of them he synthesized a body of a woman from shots of different subjects: the lips of one woman, legs of another, a back of another, and eyes of yet another. Edited together, the film depicted a woman sitting in front of a mirror, applying make-up and tying up her shoes. That’s all fine, you might say, but it doesn’t deal with the psychology of the character. Well, my answer to that would be that the director’s most famous experiment, the Kuleshov Effect, addressed exactly that: Kuleshov cut together a close, neutral shot of the idol of the day, Ivan Mozzhukhin, with three shots depicting various objects that, shown together, elicited strong emotional responses. The audiences “saw” what the character thought and felt. Sadly, the original footage doesn’t exist anymore, but there are several replicas available on the internet (including Alfred Hitchcock’s one).

Figure 1.8 Still from the Kuleshov Effect.

Figure 1.9 Still from the Kuleshov Effect.

Figure 1.10 Still from the Kuleshov Effect.

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Here’s one (Kuleshov Effect, n.d.), a close-up of an actor followed by his Point of View shot depicting a bowl of soup, which, in turn, is followed by the same close shot of the actor made the audience read the feeling of hunger on his face.

Figure 1.11 Still from the Kuleshov Effect.

Figure 1.12 Still from the Kuleshov Effect.

Figure 1.13 Still from the Kuleshov Effect.

The same close-up juxtaposed with a shot of a reclining woman, which made the audience project the feeling of lust.

Figure 1.14 Still from the Kuleshov Effect.

Figure 1.15 Still from the Kuleshov Effect.

Figure 1.16 Still from the Kuleshov Effect.

And finally, the very same neutral close-up of the actor put against the shot of a child in a coffin convinced the viewers that the character was grieving. The power of the cinematic grammar led some directors, writes eminent Russian filmmaker and theoretician Vsevolod Pudovkin, “to use the living man, the actor, merely as one component in the film, side by side with and equivalent to other components . . . The actor became, so to say, shuffled, sorted out, used, in effect, like an airplane, a motor-car, or a tree” (Pudovkin, 1968). Robert Bresson (1901–1999), one of the most influential directors of the second half of the twentieth century, resisted using professional actors in his minimalist films. Instead, he introduced the concept of “models”—amateurs, who Bresson directed so that their facial expressions and body language were stripped of any semblance of performance. Performance, according to Bresson, was the domain of theater. In film, acting disrupted the viewer’s engagement with the character. He explains in his Notes on the Cinematographer (Bresson, 1996), “Actor. The ‘to-and-fro of the character in front of his nature’ forces the public to look for talent on his face, instead of the

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enigma peculiar to each living creature.” Echoing Kuleshov’s sentiment, Bresson argues that models facilitate the viewer’s engagement by providing a blank canvas on which to paint emotions: “Model. Over his features thoughts or feelings not materially expressed, rendered visible by intercommunication and interaction of two or several other images.” American writer and director David Mamet expresses similar sentiments and advocates strict directorial control in the construction of screen character. He writes: Now, if the film is a record of what the protagonist does, it had better be interesting. That is to say, this approach puts the director in a position of shooting the film in a novel way, an interesting way, and he or she is constantly wondering, “what’s the most interesting place to put the camera to film this love scene? What’s the most interesting way I can shoot it plainly? What’s the most interesting way that I can allow the actor to behave in the scene in which, for example, she proposes to him?” That’s the way most American films are made, as [a] supposed record of what real people really did. There’s another way to make a movie, which is the way Eisenstein suggested a movie should be made. This method has nothing to do with following the protagonist around but rather is a succession of images juxtaposed so that the contrast between these images moves the story forward in the mind of the audience. ... You always want to tell the story in cuts. Which is to say, through a juxtaposition of images that are basically uninflected. Mr. Eisenstein tells us that the best image is [an] uninflected image. A shot of a teacup. A shot of a spoon. A shot of a fork. A shot of a door. Let the cut tell the story. MAMET 1992

It is not only editing that contributes to the construction of the screen character. Michelangelo Antonioni (1912–2007) relied more on mise-en-scène. He considered actors as elements in the frame, of equal importance to the setting and props. Frank P. Tomasulo explains: “Certainly, all film directors shape the performances of their actors by utilizing wardrobe, hair style, and props. What sets Antonioni apart is that he relies [on] découpage, camera angles, color, lighting, set design, sound track articulations, music, and pared-down performances to construct . . . characterization” (Tomasulo, Baron, and Carson, 2004). Illustrating the key role played by staging and design elements in Antonioni’s Blow-Up (1967), Tomasulo notes that in the aftermath of the erotic photo shoot with model Veruschka von Lehndorff (playing herself) and David Hemmings as Thomas the photographer, the film cuts “to a view of Veruschka sprawled out on the floor as the photographer lies collapsed on the sofa in the background. A phallic wooden beam appears to emerge from the woman’s crotch, suggesting the impersonal, ‘wooden,’ and unconsummated nature of their make-believe ‘intercourse.’”

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Figure 1.17 Blow-Up, director Michelangelo Antonioni (1967).

Objects and props can carry emotional baggage and provide effective visual shortcuts educating the viewer about the character.

Figure 1.18 Dirty Harry, director Don Siegel (1971).

Can you imagine Dirty Harry without his .44 Magnum?

Figure 1.19 The Piano, director Jane Campion (1993).

Or Ada McGrath without her piano?

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Figure 1.20 The Fellowship of the Ring, director Peter Jackson (2001).

Or Frodo without the ring? Another area that must not be underestimated in the creation of film character is cinematography. The choice of lenses, for instance, significantly influences the viewers’ relationship to the character, as the following stills illustrate:

Figure 1.21a Face photographed with 15mm lens. Courtesy Australian Film, Television and Radio School (AFTRS , 2013).

The 15mm lens distorts facial features but used skillfully makes us feel physically and emotionally close to the character.

Figure 1.21b Face photographed with 28mm lens. Courtesy Australian Film, Television and Radio School (AFTRS , 2013).

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The 28mm lens reflects the way we perceive objects in real life most naturally.

Figure 1.21c Face photographed with 75mm lens. Courtesy Australian Film, Television and Radio School (AFTRS , 2013).

Long lenses isolate the object from surroundings and make for a slicker image, but the distance from the subject is palpable. It is not accidental that Alejandro González Iñárritu shot The Revenant with such wide lenses. We experience the film in a very visceral way and feel very close to Leonardo DiCaprio’s Hugh Glass, which indeed we are—look at the proximity of the lens to the actor’s face. Working with such wide lenses is challenging for the actor.

Figure 1.22 The Revenant, director Alejandro González Iñárritu (2015).

Figure 1.23 The Making of The Revenant, director Eliot Rausch (2015).

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Another aspect of cinematography that impacts on both performers’ and the viewers’ perception is lighting. The way a scene is illuminated creates a specific atmosphere. Actors are not immune to it and consciously or subconsciously modify their performances to fit the ambiance. Similarly, audiences are affected by the atmosphere and project their emotional responses back onto the characters in frame. Dugly Habits, a German film collective, created a video illustrating how different lighting can transform the same room: a brightly lit space invites sanguinity and lightness in performance; darker, formal lighting will suggest a different body language and delivery; and predominance of black shadows coupled with a key light from below creates the feeling of dread.

Figure 1.24a Lighting Tutorial, Dugly Habits (2015).

Figure 1.24b Lighting Tutorial, Dugly Habits (2015).

Figure 1.24c Lighting Tutorial, Dugly Habits (2015).

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Developing the screen character Now let us have a closer look at the other end of the process of character creation—the way audiences process the audio-visual information projected onto the screen. We have already mentioned the human mirror neuron system that fires up the same areas in our brain whether we pursue an activity or observe someone do it. This already predisposes us to empathic engagement with the screen character. On top of that framing, lighting, editing and soundtrack, all stimulate the viewers’ perception of the character. So how is the screen character created? And where does it actually exist—is it the dialogue and the description of actions in the script? The adage “character is action” would suggest that it is, indeed, the domain of the scriptwriter. On the other hand, Vito Corleone is Marlon Brando, Ellen Ripley is Sigourney Weaver, and Forrest Gump is Tom Hanks. So it must be the screen presence of the actor? But what about opening sequences: “A film by Quentin Tarantino” or “A Steven Spielberg Film”? Most opening titles include a page assigning the authorship of the film to the director; surely the author of the film is the author of the film’s characters? Here is how I see it: ➔ The script contains a character that was envisioned by the scriptwriter. The description of the character’s appearance, his/her actions, including dialogue, provide the director with clues to form a concept for the character. ➔ The script analysis leads to discovery of the various elements that make up the character. ➔ During rehearsals, the director and the actor investigate and develop these elements and form a mental image of what the character will be like in the final film. ➔ In the production phase (the shoot) the character is pulled apart again by the sheer discontinuity of the shooting process: the character’s actions are shot in short, nonsequential parts that provide the raw material (dailies or rushes) for the editor. ➔ The editor, in collaboration with the director, reconstructs the character by tying up his or her actions into a coherent, cause-and-effect through line. ➔ Finally, the viewer watches the character’s actions on the screen and forms an idea of the character. The job of a director in this process is to inspire her collaborators, provide continuity, and make sure that the heart of the film stays intact. First, you have to create the atmosphere of trust. Let your creative partners know they have autonomy within their respective domains, that their input will be respected, and that they should feel safe to experiment. Building mutual trust takes time but there are exercises that can accelerate the process. Here is one of them.

EXERCISE—EXPLORING SPACE You will need an area to explore: interior, exterior, or, best, a combination of both. Divide the group into teams of two members. One team member is designated as the leader, the other is the follower. The follower is blindfolded and the leader is to take

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them on a five-minute journey of discovery. The leaders are responsible for their followers’ safety and their experience. No verbal communication is allowed. The best way to direct the follower is for the leaders to put their right hand on the small of their follower’s back and with their left hand hold their follower’s left hand as shown below:

Figure 1.25 Leading blindfolded.

The journey will start with a slow walk around the area, followed by faster walk, and a run. When the leader feels their follower is ready, they can limit the physical contact and ultimately let go altogether, but they have to be prepared to resume contact at any time. It is up to the leaders to invent their charges’ experience and include as many sensory encounters as they feel appropriate. After ten minutes the roles are reversed and the leader becomes the charge. On completion of the exercise, hold a discussion. Was it difficult for the charges to trust their leaders and if so/not, why?

Director as storyworld creator Directors work intensely in pre-production to define and communicate their vision for the film. To get the best from their collaborators, they need to lay out parameters and rules that govern the world of the story. Think about the style of acting in The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014, director Wes Anderson) as opposed to Foxcatcher (2015, director Bennett Miller). The specific treatment of the characters was in both cases the result of meticulously planned storyworlds. The best way to understand the concept of a storyworld is to look in depth at one film. The storyworld of Little Miss Sunshine (2006, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris) might go as follows:

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The story It is a story about a dysfunctional family of self-absorbed individuals who are forced to work together and in the course of their ordeal discover that their differences, rather than providing an endless source of conflict, can instead be used to complement each other. It is also a story about a person obsessed by his will to win, who learns that the emotional support he can give his family provides a greater fulfillment than any material achievements.

Theme Winners and losers. The very first line in the movie is “There are two kinds of people in this world, winners and losers.” This theme permeates every scene and every character.

Characters Impoverished lower middle-class, eccentric, solipsistic, and deeply flawed personalities: ➔ worn-out but loving mother, ➔ her suicidal brother, ➔ career-obsessed father, ➔ rebelling teenage son, ➔ ugly duckling innocent daughter, and ➔ cocaine snorting, sex-obsessed grandfather.

Genre Comedy/road movie. There is a gap between how the characters perceive themselves and the audiences see them. This distance allows us to laugh at their misfortunes without losing empathy. The film subverts the typical tropes of the road movie and paints a comical voyage of discovery.

Setting Contemporary suburban America: Arizona and southern California. The gaudy world of the child beauty pageant.

Color The suburban setting at the beginning of the film is beige (not café au lait!); the climactic sequence at the beauty pageant is predominantly red with gold glitter.

Time frame Two days.

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Tone There is a reproduction of a still life by the Italian recluse Giorgio Morandi (1890–1964) hanging in the dining room of the Hoover family. It says a lot about the characters in the film, the film itself, and the creators of the film. Morandi painted everyday, utilitarian objects. His colors are muted, compositions inconspicuous, and the pictures are devoid of any contrast or highlights. He spent years painting the same humble objects in subtly different configurations and color palettes. And yet, far from boring, Morandi’s paintings intrigue and evoke a certain mystery. Their open simplicity invites contemplation and deeply engages the viewer. Figure 1.26 (plate section) shows one of his still lives. It is not a coincidence that we see a Morandi in the Hoover’s house as it reflects the very heart of the film—behind the façade of the mundane, “beige” lives of the protagonists lie profound universal truths and values.

Figure 1.26 (see plate section) Giorgio Morandi, Still Life (1955).

Hero prop A core image that captures the heart of the film—here in Little Miss Sunshine it is the yellow VW T-2 microbus.

Figure 1.27 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Directorial treatment The audience isn’t aware of the director’s hand. The cinematography serves the story in the most inconspicuous way, and the viewers are in step with the characters; they aren’t given any more or less information than the characters. The storyworld helps the director to keep the work of all the departments on track. It gives a point of reference to make sure that everyone works “on the same film” as the cliché goes. Naturally, the storyworld is not rigid and if needed can be rewritten at every step, even in

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post-production. Filmmaking is an organic process, and particularly prone to Murphy’s Law, but still, a well thought-out storyworld gives a solid foundation. Let’s assume that the actor playing Frank in Little Miss Sunshine offers an idea that Dwayne’s crisis after he’d learnt of his color-blindness triggers Frank’s psychosis. The actor argues his case convincingly and you, the director, can see some advantages in this approach—the whole third act would potentially gain in poignancy: Frank loosing contact with the real world would not only contribute to the theme of the film (“winners and losers”) but also emphasize the surreal world of child beauty pageants. And the scene with Frank and Dwayne at the seashore would be more edgy:

DWAYNE Frank? (Frank looks over) What’d feel like when you cut your wrist? Frank takes a breath. FRANK You know, I wish I could tell you I felt bad. But I didn’t. I was... outside the world, y’know? It was very peaceful. (beat) But, I’m feeling that way now, too, so... And so on . . . But a quick glance at the storyworld would have made you realize that such interpretation does not belong to the story you are telling. In fact, it would unsettle the film’s heart (the emotional support one gives his family makes one a winner). As a storyteller, you have some serious obligations to your audience. First, you have to pin their bums to their seats. They have spent their money on the tickets, not to mention the babysitter and the parking fee, and they give you their time. It is a big deal—it is time that will never be recovered; by the end of the movie they’ll be two hours closer to their deaths; it had better be time well spent. Why do people watch movies? To experience the extraordinary, to go places they’ve never been and to see the world through the eyes of others, and above all, to be moved. The directors of Little Miss Sunshine know how to trigger our emotions.

The “invisible” director The following is a scene about forty-two minutes into the film: The Hoover family are on their way to Redondo Beach in California where Olive is to compete in the Little Miss Sunshine pageant. The family spends the night in a motel and Olive shares the room with Grandpa, who has choreographed her routine.

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INT . MOTEL ROOM THIRTEEN —NIGHT Grandpa tucks Olive—in pajamas—into bed. It’s quiet—we can’t hear Sheryl and Richard fighting. GRANDPA There you go. Snug as a bug in a rug. OLIVE Grandpa...? GRANDPA Yeah? She hesitates. OLIVE I’m kind of scared about tomorrow. GRANDPA Olive, you’re gonna blow ’em out of The water. I guarantee it. They Won’t know what hit ’em. She smiles. He’s about to leave her when... OLIVE Grandpa...? He turns back. She hesitates again. Something’s really bothering her. GRANDPA (cont’d) It’s okay. What’s the matter? OLIVE I don’t want to be a loser. GRANDPA You’re not a loser, Olive! Why do You say that?! OLIVE Because...! Dad hates losers. That’s what he said! GRANDPA But you’re not a loser! And your Dad would never hate you, ever!

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OLIVE But what if I lose tomorrow? She is on the verge of tears. He takes her hand. GRANDPA Whoa, whoa, back up a second. You can’t lose. You know why? Because a real loser isn’t someone who doesn’t win. A real loser is someone who’s so afraid of not winning they don’t even try. That’s not you! You’re in the contest! You’re gonna dance! So even if you win, or you don’t win, you’ve already won! See? You see? You-see-you-see-you-see? He tickles her. She squeals. He stops, brushes her hair. GRANDPA I think you’re gonna have fun Tomorrow. You think? (she nods) Okay. I’m gonna get ready for bed. Goodnight. Sleep tight. OLIVE Don’t let the bedbugs bite! He gives her a kiss, turns off the lamp. In the film, the scene starts with a close-up of Grandpa growling lasciviously

Figure 1.28 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

(What’s going on here? we ask ourselves), intercut with a close-up of Olive, also growling.

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Figure 1.29 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

(What on earth is going on?!). And then Grandpa matter-of-factly compliments Olive on her performance and tucks her into bed.

Figure 1.30 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

With such a prelude, what happens next in the scene has an even greater emotional impact. These two might have a very peculiar relationship, but they sure are very close. The filmmakers build on that and add yet another beat after Grandpa’s line, “They won’t know what hit ’em.” Grandpa is about to leave the room when Olive suddenly asks, “Grandpa, am I pretty?” Grandpa sits on her bed: “Olive, you are the most beautiful girl in the whole world.” Olive: “You’re just saying that.” Grandpa: “No, I’m not; I’m madly in love with you. And it’s not because of your brains and your personality. It’s because you’re beautiful inside and out.” The addition wasn’t really required story-wise. The love between the granddaughter and her grandfather is palpable. But this declaration of love makes Olive’s subsequent teary revelation of her anxiety supremely poignant. My guess is that the adjustments to the script are the result of rehearsals, as it is very much an actor-driven scene. It is photographed very unassumingly: initial close-ups trigger our interest, a wide shot establishes the geography, and then a shot-reverseshot sequence follows. We are not aware of the camera and focus solely on the performances.

The interacting storyteller But there is also a different way of engaging the viewer, and Dayton and Faris employ it in the opening sequence of the film. Here, we are invited to participate in the very act of the creation

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of the character; we are made to think and draw conclusions rather than passively witness performance. Similarly to the scene quoted above, the directors elicit intrigue (What’s going on?) and curiosity (What will happen next?), but the roles assigned to the actor, the camera, and the sound design are significantly different.

Shot one Before we see anything, we hear pulsating, almost hypnotic music. Cut to a big close-up of a child’s eyes behind oversized spectacles. There’s a reflection of a television screen in the glasses. The music gradually fades under. We hear applause, a drum roll, and the voice of an unseen announcer: “The winner of a thirty thousand dollars scholarship . . .” Judging by the shape of the glasses and the little we see of the child’s face, we, the audience, figure out that it is a girl, perhaps five–eight years old. Apparently she is watching television, some kind of a contest. We are immediately intrigued—who is this girl? Why is she watching this particular program? What does she look like? Where is she? The music seems to indicate the girl is in a trans-like state. So far, the director has given us very little information; we want to know more.

Figure 1.31 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Shot two A close-up of a television screen with visible pixels. The music continues. On the screen, there is a close shot of a beautiful, if somewhat plastic woman wearing big sparkling earrings, smiling nervously. Behind her there is a crowd of skimpily attired, Barbie doll-like women. The announcer continues: “. . . is Miss Louisiana Erica Schwartz!” The woman opens her mouth in the all too familiar from reality TV “OMG ” expression and works up to a hysterical display of happiness. The voice-over announcer continues “And the new Miss America . . .” So the girl is watching a Miss America show. We still haven’t really seen her but the closeness of the previous shot (big close-up of eyes), the tightness of the present shot, complemented by the spellbinding music, paints an image of what Stanislavski would call a small circle of concentration: the world has disappeared, there is only this little girl and Miss America. What can be so important about the contest for the girl?

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Figure 1.32 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Shot three The same big close-up as shot one: the girl’s eyes. The voice-over announcer continues “. . . is Miss Kansas Tara Dawn Holland.” The music becomes more prominent. Although we know close to nothing about the girl, the selection of shots accompanied by the music makes us identify with her. Like the girl, we are seduced by the hypnotic quality of the television.

Figure 1.33 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Shot four Close-up of the screen again. A green “PAUSE ” sign appears on the upper-left corner, the image freezes, then is rewound. The sound of the television program recedes, the pulse of the music taking its place, making us identify with the girl even more. On the one hand, The illusion is broken—we thought we were watching a live broadcast. It is clear now that the girl actually studies the program; she wants to see the moment again. Perhaps she has seen it many times already? The intrigue escalates—why would she want to do that? We want to know more about her. We want to see her, for a start!

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Figure 1.34 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Shot five A low-angle medium shot of Olive, her left hand on her plump belly, the right outstretched, holding a remote control. Olive sports a red singlet worn on top of a frilly pink undershirt. Her hair is carelessly combed close to her skull, making her glasses look even bigger. There are multicolored sweat wristbands on her wrists. The camera pulls in to medium close-up. The music develops into a simple dance melody whilst retaining the electronic pulse. Finally, we see Olive, a typical suburban, next-door girl, apparently involved with some physical exercise. Is it to lose her puppy fat? The low angle, as if from the television’s point of view, emphasizes her connection with the recorded program. The music deepens our identification with her. And the little we see of her surroundings fits well with her plain appearance: it’s a bland, “beige” room that must belong to a suburban house.

Figure 1.35 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Shot six Close shot of the television screen, and we see Miss Louisiana again. The announcer continues “. . . [s]cholarship is Miss Louisiana . . .” In case we had any doubts about the nature of Olive’s activity, here it is reinforced—she is studying the Miss America pageant. The question remains—why?

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Figure 1.36 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Shot seven A different angle of the room. Olive is framed in profile in a medium shot, facing a big television set. She puts the remote control down. The announcer continues “. . . Erica Schwartz . . .” Our earlier guess that Olive is in a suburban house is confirmed—the room is the epitome of suburban boredom.

Figure 1.37 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Shot eight A close-up of the television screen. We witness again the young, heavily made-up woman, presumably Erica Schwartz, performing surprise again. The announcer continues “. . . and the new Miss America . . .” The pulse of the electronic music continues. Our curiosity grows—what is going on with Olive and the recorded Miss America show? At the same time, we start sensing the tone of the film. The repetition of the ridiculous displays of emotions signpost its comedic nature.

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Figure 1.38 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Shot nine A low-angle medium shot of Olive (the same set-up as shot five); Olive smiles and brings both hands to her cheeks. The music swells. The announcer continues “. . . is Miss Kansas Tara Doll Holland!”

Figure 1.39 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Shot ten A close-up of the TV screen—in a tight shot, we see the exact gesture Olive performed, this time repeated by the new Miss America. It is clear now that Olive has been mimicking the behavior of the pageant’s winner—her pose, her facial expressions, and her gestures. We still don’t know the reason behind it and can only speculate—is the young girl looking for a role model?

Figure 1.40 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

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Shot eleven A new angle—a medium shot of Olive, seen from the back, facing the television set. We can now see simultaneously Miss America’s performance on the screen, and in front of it Olive aping her gestures.

Figure 1.41 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

This is the final shot in the sequence that introduces Olive. It is uncannily reminiscent of the final shot in the opening sequence of Ingmar Bergman’s Persona (1966), a film dealing with trauma, eroticism, and denial of human recognition—the themes “Little Miss Sunshine” is also concerned with.

Figure 1.42 Persona, director Ingmar Bergman (1966).

It is evident that the directors carefully designed the above sequence in order to escalate our curiosity and involve us with the process of constructing the character of Olive. Each shot provides enough new information for us to connect it with what we’ve seen before, and speculate on its cumulative meaning. At the same time, we are curious as to what happens

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next: we want to know more about Olive and figure out what is actually going on. And, importantly, we are amused. Note that the directors use purely cinematic language to this end. It is the visual information contained in each shot, and the juxtaposition of these shots, that deepen our understanding of Olive. Abigail Breslin’s performance is very neutral except perhaps in shot nine in which Olive smiles—but even that is very subtle. Now compare the above with the script:

ECU —VIDEO PIXELS Five young women stand side by side, waiting to be judged — breathless, hopeful. A name is announced. Four hearts break. The camera ZOOMS across the smiles of the losers to find a winner. She bursts into tears, hugs the nearest runner up. Begin CREDITS . MUSIC — quiet and melancholy — plays over all the opening scenes, leading to the Title card. The Contest Winner cries and hugs the Runners-up as she has the tiara pinned on her head. Then — carrying her bouquet — she strolls down the runway, waving and blowing kisses. INT . BASEMENT REC ROOM – DAY A six-year-old girl sits watching the show intently. This is OLIVE . She is big for her age and slightly plump. She has frizzy hair and wears black-rimmed glasses. She studies the show very earnestly. Then, using a remote, she FREEZES the image. Absently, she holds up one hand and mimics the waving style of Miss America. She REWINDS the tape and starts all over, Again, Miss America hears her name announced, and once again breaks down in tears — overwhelmed and triumphant. Michael Arndt, the scriptwriter, provides minimal information: who, where, and what. Olive, a six-year-old, slightly plump, bespectacled girl watches intently the Miss America contest on television in a basement room. There is no indication of how Olive should be portrayed, except for one adverb, “intently.” The script could be translated into visuals in a few shots:

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Figure 1.43 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

A close-up of the television screen.

Figure 1.44 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

A close-up of Olive “watching the show intently.”

Figure 1.45 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

A medium shot of Olive in the basement room pressing the remote control.

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Figure 1.46 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

A close-up of the television screen showing the rewind sign and the subsequent reaction of the winner.

Figure 1.47 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

A close-up of Olive mimicking the gesture. These five shots would sufficiently present the plot as outlined in the script. What we would lose, however, is the intrigue, the speculation, the suspense, and, arguably, the film’s inherent humor. What the above example illustrates is another director’s obligation to his or her audience. The directors of Little Miss Sunshine acknowledge that both the film and the audience are bigger than themselves. They don’t show off; they remain in the wings simply assisting the story to speak for itself. What they do is make sure that all levels of the story are present: the plot is clearly presented, the causality is effective, the subtext indicated, and the tone of the film apparent. Interestingly, by doing so they also reveal themselves; you can sense their humanity. It is evident that they believe in and care about the values the film advocates. In order to get to that level of cinematic storytelling the director has to begin by discovering the heart of the story: the values hidden in the script that he or she shares, and is prepared to fight for. The director’s job is to illuminate that core meaning in a way that is not didactic but evokes powerful emotions. How do you go about uncovering the heart of the film? Read the script.

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Repeatedly. Your first encounter with the script should be “naive”—approach it with trust and no preconception. It is important that your first reading happens in a place that is private, quiet, and where you will not be interrupted. Lock the door, turn off the telephone, and announce that you won’t be available to anybody for the next couple of hours. Make yourself comfortable, and read purely for pleasure. When you’re finished, write down your first impressions. Don’t censor yourself: these notes are only for you, not for sharing. These thoughts are very precious, as they won’t (obviously) ever appear again. Then let the story sit with you for a while. Sleep on it. Come back to the script the following day if you can afford the time, and read it again. This time be more systematic, make copious notes on characters and story, and note your associations, however far-fetched they may be. Again, don’t censor yourself; what you are doing is preparing the ground for the central idea that will eventually arrive, asking to be tested. This idea will unify all components of the story. Some call it “premise.”

Premise Premise is an argument, a proposition for which the story delivers evidence. It is your insight into the experience of being human, and deals with universal values like love, courage, duty, or freedom. It’s like a spine or a keel of a ship—you don’t see it but you can definitely sense it is there. Often, premise appears in a form of a common aphorism: love conquers everything (Romeo and Juliet); jealously kills the one we love (Othello); blind ambition leads to destruction (Macbeth). Note that all these examples consist of two key ideas: love and everything; jealousy and love; blind ambition and destruction, that are linked by an active verb: to conquer, to kill, and to lead. An effective premise should contain three elements: the main theme, or thematic idea of the film; the transformative action; and the fulfillment of the idea that reveals the storyteller’s point of view It is imperative that you commit to a point of view. The attitude I have to change what you, the viewer, believe in must lie at the center of your every directorial endeavor if you aspire to be an artist. The audiences might agree with your convictions or not, but your storytelling will have magnitude, and will make them reassess their own set of values. Without a valid premise and commitment, your film will be vacuous. Let’s try to formulate a workable premise for Little Miss Sunshine.

Thematic idea This identifies the central conviction at the core of the film. The line There are two kinds of people in this world: winners and losers outlines the core preoccupation of the film: what makes a winner and what makes a looser. What does it really mean to lose and what does it really mean to win?

Transformative action This is the action that aligns with the filmmaker’s own set of values and is expressed by the actions of the protagonist, for example to sacrifice your personal interests for the good of your family.

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Fulfillment of the idea This manifests the storyteller’s point of view, for example you are a real winner when you are able to let go of your dreams in order to secure harmony in your family. The premise for Little Miss Sunshine read as follows: A real winner finds the courage to sacrifice his dreams of personal success for everyday, unglamorous struggle for harmony in his or her family. Or more succinctly: A real winner is the one who finds happiness in sacrificing his dreams of personal success for serving others. Another way to discover the premise is to list all the psychological and moral weaknesses the protagonist displays at the beginning of the story. Then look at how he changed by the end of the film. What was he fighting for in the course of the story? What was the moral choice he had to make? Finding a premise is hard—it’s possibly one of the hardest steps in the process of making a film—but the director has to be able to articulate his or her creative vision first to themselves, and then to their collaborators. Without a clearly articulated premise we are simply shooting a script, as opposed to making a film.

EXERCISE—TESTING A PREMISE Choose a film that speaks to you and arrive at a workable premise. By “workable” I mean one that aligns with your own set of values, and unifies all aspects of the story: the plot, the characters, their goals, and their actions. Test your findings against the following criteria: Does the thematic idea identify the subject matter that is at the heart of the story? Does the transformative action confirm your own philosophical point of view? Is it expressed through the actions of the protagonist? Does the fulfillment of the idea demonstrate your own opinion on the central issue that is being explored?

You might work on the same film as some of your colleagues and arrive at a substantially different premise. That would be absolutely okay. More than that, it would illustrate the power of interpretation and the validity of your own, personal, directorial voice. Uncovering the premise is all the more satisfying in that it makes you learn about yourself as an artist and articulate your own values and beliefs, as well as honing your craft. It helps you formulate your vision for the film.

Vision This has a lot to do with premise: it deals with the moral fabric of the story, and it is what the audiences will take away from the film. Vision is highly subjective—different directors would present the same material differently precisely because they are different people with a

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different upbringing, different cultural conditioning, different emotional make-up, different sets of values, and different prejudices and faults. Consequently, a large part of the director’s vision is subconscious; in other words, they are not aware that their work reveals their hidden values. Vision can be worded in various ways as long as it honestly reflects the director’s worldview. Ultimately, it is the heart of the film. Once you know what the film is really about, once you have formulated its premise, you need to be able to articulate the way the story is going to unfold in time and space. In this context, the director’s vision is about imagining the way the story will be told—in other words creating the storyworld. In the final step, the director decodes this imaginary world and turns it into practical realities. The storyworld will be broken down into its elemental parts. For example, in order to get Little Miss Sunshine in the can we’d need a house exterior that will play the Hoovers’ house, the interior of the house (location or studio set), the exterior and interior of the motel, the exterior and interior of the Redondo Beach hotel, VW camper van (actually, a few of them), a low loader, we’d need to be able to control traffic, ascertain how many hours a day the child actor can be on set, the shoot would probably take about six weeks, and so forth. Naturally, the directors wouldn’t have to do it all by themselves—they’d get help from the production office— but the point is, the director (the leader) has to balance the creative side with the practical one.

Story We have looked at your obligations as a storyteller, as a leader with strong vision, the importance of your personal commitment, and the power of telling stories through juxtaposition of shots. But what is a story? What are its nuts and bolts? While there are plenty of theories on storytelling, we will only look at concepts that are relevant to the construction of screen performances. First, what is a story? A story is an account of causally linked events that lead to a conclusion, fulfilling its reason for having been told (the premise). The phrase causally linked is particularly important as this is what differentiates a story from a narrative, which might go, “This happened and then that happened, and then another thing happened . . .” A simple exercise will illustrate the point.

EXERCISE—SO . . . BUT . . . You need a partner. One of you starts with a simple sentence, for example: “Last night I really wanted to go out, so . . .” It is important that you finish with “so.” Your partner has to complete the sentence and then in turn finish with “so.” Keep taking turns and make sure each of you finish every sentence with “so.” More than likely you will create a succession of meandering proceedings (“Last night I really wanted to go out, so I had a shower and put on some cool clothes. So, I left the house . . .,” etc.) Now start again, but this time alternate “so” with “but” at the end of the sentence, e.g.:

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➔ Last night I really wanted to go out but . . . ➔ I had to finish my assignment, so . . . ➔ I gave myself thirty minutes to complete it; my head was buzzing with ideas as I set to work, but . . . ➔ my roommate decided to practice his flugelhorn, so . . . And so on. You will find that the story springs to life. It might not be the most riveting tale in the world—but it flows. This is because you introduced causality—each new sentence is in response to what happened before. There is yet another level to this game. Try adding every now and again “and to my surprise.” Compare the sentence “My roommate decided to practice his flugelhorn, so . . .” with the sentence “My roommate decided to practice his flugelhorn and to my surprise . . .” Immediately we are on a launching pad to some intrigue. This is called reversal—a turn that shifts the story into a new direction and elevates the stakes.

But what about drama, is it the same as story—a chain of events glued together by causality? What makes a story dramatic? The essential ingredient that has to be thrown into the mix is conflict; where there is no conflict, there is no drama. Drama therefore can be defined as a quest of the protagonist to overcome whatever stops him or her from achieving their goal. Frank Daniel, the eminent Czech filmmaker and academic, claimed that drama can take the form of either a chase—someone wants something badly but is having trouble getting it—or an escape—someone badly wants to get away from something but is having trouble escaping (Gulino 2013).

The three-act structure The conventional mainstream film follows the three-act structure: beginning, middle, and end. There are other models, but for our purposes the three acts will do just fine.

Act one—the beginning or the set-up In this section, we introduce the world of the story and its main characters, including the protagonist—the character who will manifest the film’s premise. Act one culminates in an inciting incident—an event that upsets the status quo (state of affairs) and forces the protagonist to take action. The inciting incident in Little Miss Sunshine happens on page 20 when Olive learns that she has secured a place in the Little Miss Sunshine contest:

INT . KITCHEN —DAY Olive and Sheryl listen. JEFF (O.C.) (filtered) ...something about diet pills, but anyway that means that Olive won the regionals,

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so now she has a place in the State contest in Boca... BEEEP. Over the above, Olive reacts with involuntary spasms of shock, disbelief, and then pure, unadulterated euphoria. She waits—trembling—to hear the whole message. When it ends, she puts her hands to her temples. OLIVE Aaahhhhhhh!!! Aaahhhhhhhhhhhhh!!! Little Miss Sunshine! Little Miss Sunshine! Little Miss Sunshine! She goes out running into the dining room. OLIVE (O.S.) (cont.d) Little Miss Sunshine! Little Miss Sunshine! Little Miss Sunshine! Sheryl closes her eyes. SHERYL Fuck...! It is a big deal and something has to be done about it. They can’t proceed the way they’ve been doing so far. Olive has to attend the contest. The incident spurs two dramatic questions: “Will Olive get to the pageant?” and ultimately “Will she win the contest?” But we know that there are a lot of obstacles, lack of finances among them, preventing Olive from getting to Redondo Beach. We move on to page 25:

RICHARD Sheryl, wait. Olive, come here. Have a seat. Olive walks over and sits next to Richard. RICHARD (cont’d) Now, there’s no sense in entering a contest if you don’t think you’re gonna win. Now, do you think you can win Little Miss Sunshine? Sheryl starts to object, but Richard raises his hand, cutting her off. Olive doesn’t seem so sure. RICHARD (cont’d) Yes or no, Olive. Are you gonna win? Olive thinks it over. Then, with white-hot determination:

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OLIVE Yes! Richard smiles and slaps the table. RICHARD We’re goin’ to California! It is Richard who makes the decision. And it is Richard who, in the course of the film, undergoes the transformation that illustrates our premise. Now, Richard’s mission is to get Olive to the Little Miss Sunshine pageant. He is “someone that wants something badly.” His aim provides the backbone for the story and the base of the dramatic question: “Will Richard be able to get Olive to Redondo Beach in time?”

Act two—the confrontation We are on our way. This is where the bulk of the story occurs. The protagonist “wants something badly but is having trouble getting it.” In other words, he or she encounters increasing obstacles. Richard on his quest to get Olive to the Little Miss Sunshine contest has to deal with: ➔ The VW clutch breaking down, and the fact that it cannot be fixed for several days (and Olive has to be in Redondo Beach the following day!). ➔ The death of Grandpa and the hospital refusing to let them leave the body, nor take it across the state line. ➔ Being pulled over by the Highway Patrol officer and searched, with the Grandpa’s body in the trunk. ➔ Dwayne refusing to continue the journey when he discovers he is color-blind. These obstacles make us fear that Richard won’t be able to get Olive to Redondo Beach in time for the pageant, and at the same time hope against hope that, somehow, he will manage to accomplish his mission. This “hope and fear” duality is an essential factor of drama. The family arrives at the hotel four minutes late and the official absolutely refuses to register Olive: the schedule is locked off, the computer shut down, and the matter is closed. This is the worst of the worst—Olive won’t compete. Richard falls to his knees.

Act three—the resolution Our emotional pendulum swings higher and higher. From the lowest point (Olive won’t be registered for the competition) to a high again—she is on stage . . . performing a stripper routine Grandpa had secretly choreographed! The audience is horrified and the organizers demand that she be removed from the stage. Instead, in a bravura display of solidarity, Richard and the whole family join her and perform the burlesque dance. This is the highest point of the story—its climax. In the third act the story gets resolved—we learn what happens to the main characters and all the loose ends are tied up. The characters either achieve their goals or not. Or they might not achieve what they wanted but get what they really need, which is the case with Richard.

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He didn’t get his book contract; more than that, by losing the competition Olive failed to prove his “Refuse to lose” theory. But Richard no longer cares about losing or winning. All he cares about is his daughter’s happiness. He gained what he needed. Syd Field, an American writing guru, called the three-act structure the paradigm of a screenplay and presented it as a diagram:

Figure 1.48 Syd Field’s diagram of the three-act structure.

More storytelling terms There are several terms that I have used that might need further explanation, and several I haven’t used that should be introduced.

Plot This is a term often used interchangeably with story. As a storyteller, however, you need to be aware of the different meaning of the terms as they inform the way you will direct your actors. Remember, it is your job to tell the story, not the actor’s. All the actor needs to do is to perform truthfully. So, what is the difference between story and plot? Earlier, we defined a story as an account of causally linked events that lead to a conclusion, fulfilling its reason for having been told—the premise. This is quite a big concept—it is about ideas, as well as what is actually happening. Also, not everything that belongs to the world of the story has to be explicitly revealed on the screen—the pleasure of watching movies lies in filling in the gaps and drawing conclusions. Remember the opening sequence of Little Miss Sunshine? It consists of sparse snippets of information out of which we form our individual image of Olive. Now, if you think about the whole film, the same rule applies—we are given pieces of information out of which we build the whole story. The plot consists of naked events presented to the viewer. You can think about the plot in terms of our voyeuristic engagement—we witness the unfolding events; and think about the story in terms of our empathetic engagement—we draw conclusions about the protagonist’s journey: The queen died and then the king died = plot. The queen died and then the king died of grief = story.

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Character Characters are not the same as people. People are unpredictable and often difficult to understand; in short, they lack cohesion. Characters on the other hand are structured, condensed forms of a human being who have a purpose to their existence—all their actions are united in the pursuit of a singular goal. It is useful to think about characters in terms of archetypes—models exemplifying important characteristics of a particular kind of person. For instance Grandpa in Little Miss Sunshine is a Trickster, a character who adds humor to the story, and Frank plays the part of Mentor to Dwayne. And what is the difference between archetype and stereotype? A stereotyped character (to be avoided) turns general characteristics of an archetype into predictable clichés. In short, while both draw from a “type” (the hero, the caregiver, the rebel, the sage, etc.) to create character, archetype uses the template as a starting point, and stereotype uses it as the end point. Marilyn Monroe = archetype. Dumb Blonde = stereotype.

Protagonist This is your hero, your main character, whose actions and transformation illuminate the story’s premise. The word has Greek origins: pro¯tago¯nisto¯s, from pro¯t- (first) + ago¯nisto¯s— one who contends for a prize, a competitor at games, combatant, actor. He is the one who “wants something badly and has trouble getting it.” Every protagonist has a psychological flaw, a weakness that can potentially lead to his or her downfall. It is the recognition of the flaw and the struggle to subdue it that makes the protagonist grow and transform. When we first meet Richard in Little Miss Sunshine we see a prude, an obsessed doctrinaire whose mantra, refuse to lose, can be translated into refuse to see. Richard is blind to the people around him; he can only see them as cases validating his theory. In the course of the film, Richard confronts his flaw, redefines the meaning of the words winner and loser, and ends up appreciating the values of solidarity, caring, and love.

Figure 1.49 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

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We first see Richard delivering a lecture outlining a method to achieve success in life. We assume he is a motivational speaker, probably successful, as success is the topic of his presentation. That is, until we see the reverse angle.

Figure 1.50 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Okay, so Richard is a person who teaches how to be successful, but he is anything but.

Figure 1.51 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Next time, we see him at home, on the phone to a publisher who, apparently, is not available. From the way Richard acts, we deduce that it is not the first time this has happened, and that the deal is very important to him.

Figure 1.52 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

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At the dinner table, Richard lectures Frank, his deeply depressed brother-in-law, about his system, “Refuse to lose”. He tells him, ‘you have to decide to be a winner and not a loser’.

Figure 1.53 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Later, Richard’s daughter Olive learns that she’s qualified for a beauty contest. Richard makes her promise that she will win the competition.

Figure 1.54 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

The Hoovers are on their way to California where the pageant takes place. At a diner on their way, Richard persuades Olive not to eat ice cream, “Let me ask you this: those women in Miss America—are they skinny or are they fat?”

Figure 1.55 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

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After the meal, Richard calls the publisher again—to discover that his book deal fell through.

Figure 1.56 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

He hunts down the publisher to no avail: “No one’s heard of you. You had your shot, it didn’t fly, move on.”

Figure 1.57 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Richard refuses to accept that. He will fight on.

Figure 1.58 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

The Hoovers arrive for the pageant four minutes late and the official won’t allow Olive to compete. Richard falls to his knees and begs.

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Figure 1.59 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Unbeknown to the family, Grandpa choreographed Olive in a stripper routine. Her performance causes havoc.

Figure 1.60 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Richard has to get her off the stage.

Figure 1.61 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

What will he do?

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Figure 1.62 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Richard joins Olive on stage and shakes his hips! The filmmakers only gave us snatches of Richard’s life, but it’s enough for us to fill in the gaps, form opinions, and witness his transformation. Human beings are hard-wired for story—we consciously and subconsciously search for causality.

Goal This is the protagonist’s aim, their quest. There are four common goals: ➔ to win (Olive wants to win the competition); ➔ to escape (Dwayne wants to escape the horror of suburbia); ➔ to stop something (Sheryl wants to stop Richard indoctrinating Olive); ➔ to retrieve something (Grandpa wants to retrieve his zest for life).

Conflict We have already established that conflict is an essential ingredient in dramatic storytelling. What is particularly relevant to directing performances is the fact that conflict generates emotion. There are several plains of conflict, and truly satisfying storytelling makes the protagonist confront them all.

Figure 1.63 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

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The world at large—all agents that aren’t interested in the protagonist’s welfare. This can include time (a major force of antagonism in Little Miss Sunshine), social norms, forces of nature, and inanimate objects.

Figure 1.64 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

The social sphere—colleagues, the law, the police.

Figure 1.65 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Personal—people known to the character.

Figure 1.66 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

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Internal—the character himself. Richard battles his own inner obstacles: his egocentric obsession and his blindness to the needs of his family. It is worth noting that this level of conflict is not easily discernible as it usually manifests itself in an ambivalent or apparently illogical behavior. It requires the audience’s engagement to uncover the character’s internal struggle.

Stakes This is what the protagonist has to lose should they fail. The stakes continue to escalate in the course of the story. At the beginning of Little Miss Sunshine all Richard has to lose is his face; by the climax he can lose Olive’s respect and any chance of unity in his family.

Suspense Suspense is the condition of being insecure or uncertain, a state of feeling anxious. In storytelling it is the quality that arouses excited expectation and anticipation regarding an outcome. Alfred Hitchcock talked about suspense in terms of the amount of information the audience is given: Suspense can only be achieved by telling the audience as much as you can. I don’t deal in mystery, I never make who-done-its because they’re intellectual exercises; you’re just wondering, you’re not emoting. My old analogy of the bomb [is] an example. We could be blown up this minute and the audience would get five seconds of shock. But if we tell them five minutes ahead of time that there is a bomb that’s going to go off, that would get five minutes of suspense. HITCHCOCK 1966

Suspense is closely related to the concept of dramatic tension—and with the distribution of information: ➔ The audience knowing less than the character creates mystery (What is happening? Why is she doing that?). ➔ The audience knowing as much as the character lies at the foundation of hope and fear (I hope that Richard will succeed in his quest to get Olive to Redondo Beach in time, but I fear that the mounting obstacles will prevent him from achieving his goal). ➔ The audience knowing more than the character creates suspense, as described by Hitchcock (Get out of there! There’s a bomb under the table!).

Subtext Subtext is hard to define—we know it’s there when we don’t see it. It responds to the iceberg principle—90 percent of it is submerged deep in the water, unseen to the eye. It is the meaning implied by the creator and deduced by the viewer. Subtext can be communicated by an image (e.g. a close shot of a glass of water, its surface disturbed by an earthquake); a juxtaposition of images (as in the Kuleshov Effect); a line of dialogue whose implied sense differs from the literal meaning; the intonation the actor puts on a line of dialogue; a music score that introduces an emotional color absent in the images; or the way the director tells the story. In essence, whatever means is employed to generate subtext, it is always

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co-created by the audience. There is no subtext without the viewer’s emotional and intellectual engagement. *

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The function of the storyteller hasn’t changed from the beginning of time when people gathered around the flickering fire. The flicker of the screen might have gone with the advent of the digital era, but the role of the storyteller remains the same: to amaze, entertain, reflect, educate. We need stories to face our fears and “dry run” scenarios we are anxious about; to wrestle with things that could be dangerous in real life in the relatively safe environment of a movie theater or a living room. Stories give shape to our lives and reassure us that we are not alone. And when the director—the audio-visual storyteller—touches the hearts of his or her audiences, the story will stay with them.

Interview: Todd Solondz

Figure 1.67 Todd Solondz, courtesy of Indiana University Cinema and Toth Media LLC.

Todd Solondz is one of the most original and provocative independent American directors today. His bleak comedies examine the dark side of American middle-class suburbia. The performances Solondz draws from his actors are daring, utterly honest, and funny. Robert Klenner (RK ): What makes a director? Todd Solondz (TS ): I suppose a certain tenacity because it’s such an unpleasant process. You must really want to do it. It is very stressful. It takes time to grow up; some people are faster than others in getting the handle on how to express through the medium. There aren’t any rules about it, though. People of all sorts and types and backgrounds can have all different kinds of levels of success. RK : What is directing about? TS : I don’t know if I can define it . . . it’s all about time management. You have only so much time and money, and you have to figure out how to use it wisely. I have a story to tell, I have a

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point of view, and I try to make everyone to understand what I’m trying to achieve. And then they do the best they can to give me ideas that are better than my own. RK : What is good acting? TS : I suppose good acting is when you don’t know they’re acting; you forget they’re acting. And beyond, I suppose certain actors have a certain kind of magnetism that moves, that stirs you, affects you in ways that’s ineffable. RK : You have a very distinctive voice. Who would you consider as your antecedents—are there any storytellers or particular filmmakers that have influenced you? TS : You know, everything in life has varying degrees of influence; we’re all shaped by everything we experience. And it just takes time to figure out how to transform this experience into something that has meaning for others. RK : How do you prepare for the shoot—do you use storyboards, do you shot list? TS : I don’t use storyboards unless there are special requirements involved, like stunts for example; a kind of scene that is more technical. I never have the need for them otherwise. But you go over everything with all your key collaborators, so that everyone’s aware of what’s needed, so that when things fall apart you have a plan B and a plan C in place. You always have to have lots of alternative plans and you have to, as I said, you always have to be open to things that happen that you didn’t plan for, that may be in fact, instead of being assaultive, maybe they’re actually good for the movie. That’s really nice if that happens. RK : Casting is one of the most important stages in making a film. How do you approach the process? TS : I get a casting director and she brings people to me and I find who is available, and I try to cast the ones that I think are best for the parts . . . I always treat my auditions as rehearsal because we never have budget for rehearsal and so if I need more rehearsal I get a call-back, and if I still need more I get another call-back. Because as soon as you hire the actor then it costs money to rehearse. RK : There is this anecdote about you casting Philip Seymour Hoffman for Happiness. They say you kept calling him back and after the third time, when you spent an hour and a half with him, his agent called you asking if he got the part. TS : He only came twice and believe me it wasn’t an hour and a half, but it sounds like a good story so maybe the story is better. It doesn’t matter if it’s true. RK : How do you rehearse if you do have rehearsals? TS : Well, that’s my rehearsal—the audition is the rehearsal. And then you meet them on set a few months later and they have an understanding of what you have in mind, and you have an understanding of what they are capable of, and you take it from there; that’s everything, you just have to work fast. It’s just, you have only so much time. So very little of the time you have you get to spend working with actors because there just isn’t time for it, it’s too expensive. But really, I don’t even know what I’d do if I had more time . . . I mean, you just have to cast

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the right person. If you cast the wrong person there’s not much you can do. There’s really not much. You have to cast the right person or you’re really screwed. RK : Let’s talk about working with actors on set. How do you approach the process of shooting a scene; what actually happens? TS : I leave things always very fluid, very open, and then I see what happens. The job of the actor is to ground things in recognizable reality so the audience can make a connection with this character. You see what you get from the actor and you respond to that, and then he responds to you; it’s back and forth like that. You try to keep things very simple—“What’s going on here? What is it that the character wants?” Sometimes you may not want an actor to know a key piece of information; sometimes you want them to figure things out on their own, sometimes you give a direction whose purpose may not be so apparent to others, but everything is in the service of getting the result that you want. We always give ourselves away, even as we are unconscious of how we give ourselves away. So, it’s up to you to identify, and to capture those moments from your actors. RK : How do you give directions—do you involve all the actors in the scene or do you talk to them individually? TS : Usually, I talk to actors one on one but there may be times when you want to speak to them both at the same time. Again, it depends . . . a lot of the time I wish I could have the time to rehearse and to figure this out but you just don’t have the time. And sometimes you’re disappointed, and sometimes an actor does something that is unexpected and you think, “Oh gosh, I’m glad, it’s better than what I wrote.” RK : Your dialogue is beautifully crafted. Is there much scope for the actors to contribute to its final shape? Do you improvise on set or request the lines to be delivered exactly as written? TS : Children are very good at knowing their lines. They nearly always memorize the words precisely as they’d been written. But adults are often not so skilled at memorizing their lines. For a bunch of reasons, sometimes it could be laziness; it usually is laziness, I think, because really that is what they’re paid to do. But so often they don’t memorize their lines and sometimes I even have to write cue cards for them. So that’s always the challenge to contend with. If an actor gives me a better line that would be nice but I don’t tend to get better lines from my actors. Since you mentioned Philip Seymour Hoffman, he was very prepared. He knew his lines and he was very diligent in that regard. But sometimes actors like to improvise, and I like sometimes to improvise as well, but sometimes it’s just that they don’t know their lines and it’s often been a problem. Sometimes I have to change the coverage of a scene because they don’t know their lines. It’s very tiresome but unfortunately it happens more often than I wish it would. RK : And how do you work with children? You said they are very good at knowing their lines; isn’t there a danger they start reciting them mechanically? What is your secret in drawing such truthful and captivating performances? TS : It the same thing [as with adult actors]: the moment you audition the kid that’s when you see what the kid can do; they are no different from the adults. You have to respect the skills and

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the participation of the child, just as you do of the adults. If they perform well in the audition they don’t suddenly become robotic on set, it never happens. They’re very good with direction, they just take it; they love to be directed. Your job is to bring out the best in your actor and whatever that takes is what you do: if it means that you need to keep more of a distance, if you need to hold hands, if you need to give a line reading—whatever it is, it’s all a form of artifice. It’s just what is it that’s gonna be most effective for this particular actor at this particular moment. RK : Do you work off the monitor or do you stay next to the camera? TS : It depends: you have to see what’s on the monitor but sometimes there may be reasons you have to be near the camera, sometimes near the actor. It’s good to be near the monitor to see what’s happening there in the frame. RK : Feedback after every take? TS : Well, there has to be a reason why you’re doing a second take and you have to articulate that reason, so that people you’re working with can maybe do it better or differently; [so they know] what you want for the second time. RK : If you are satisfied with the take do you still give feedback or just say, “happy, next set-up!” TS : You always say nice things, you know, you have to be positive, but I would never use the word “happy” describing how I feel; I’m always in a state of uncertainty. I never know until I’m in the cutting room. RK : Your cinematic language is very simple, you often leave your camera static, you don’t employ any cinematic equilibristic . . . TS : A lot of my material is very extreme and so I try to keep everything restrained and simple because you don’t want to overstate what’s already in the text. RK : How do you work in the post-production—do you brief the editor and leave him or her to do their thing or are you in the room with them negotiating every cut? TS : I’m there in the cutting room every day. I like cutting because the hours are better, the food is better, and I’m in control of everything in ways that I’m not when I’m on the set. And that’s where you find the movie, you discover what it is that you were doing. Because you really don’t know what you are doing until it’s too late. So, you hope your unconscious is working for you. Once you’re in the editing room it’s not the script anymore, you know, it’s something else. You’ve got to rewrite and rethink everything that you thought you had figured out when you were at the devising stage. My life would have been so much easier if I could have known in advance all the things I wouldn’t be needing, all the things I wouldn’t be using. RK : Let me reiterate my first question—what makes a director? TS : You have to be always present and alive to what’s happening, as best you can. RK : Any other advice to budding filmmakers? TS : I think people who have careers have one thing in common—that’s tenacity; that drive without which you don’t have much hope.

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2 The Actor In very general terms an actor is a person who participates in something or does something. When we talk about drama we might say that an actor is a person who by doing something presents her interpretation of a character. The character that we see on the screen is never the fruit of the actor’s work alone—the writer, cinematographer, editor, composer, set and costume designers, and the sound designer all contribute to our perception of the screen character. But it is the actor that is the director’s main collaborator. In this chapter, we will look at the tools actors employ in the construction of a character and modulation of performance, and the language they use in the process. We will explore the following: ➔ An overview of the process of screen character creation. ➔ How to judge a performance including: The features that make acting convincing. The differences between stage and screen acting. ➔ The main aspects of the Stanislavski System—the foundation of most contemporary approaches to acting. ➔ Recent modifications and interpretations of the Stanislavski System. Does the director need to know all that, you might ask—isn’t the director’s job to cast well and tell the story cinematically, leaving the character creation to the actor? Isn’t that what some great directors do? Clint Eastwood is famous for not interfering with the actors’ processes, and so is Woody Allen. Sure, but both have considerable experience in front of as well as behind the camera. Ignorance leads to the trap of result directing—telling the actor what they should play. Such an approach usually produces mechanical, unconvincing performances. The knowledge of the actor’s process helps you communicate effectively and facilitates rewarding, creative collaborations.

Overview of the process The following is a chart map of a typical actor–director collaboration in the course of film production: Pre-production ➔ The director and the actor individually analyze the text—look into the character’s history, behavioral traits, deduce his or her goals, and so on. In other words, they deconstruct the character.

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➔ During rehearsals the director and the actor work together exploring and developing the various aspects of the character they discovered through analysis in order to construct a cohesive image of what the character will be like in the final film. Production ➔ The character is deconstructed again by the very nature of the shooting process—the character’s actions are shot out of sequence and often in short spurts. The actor and the director collaborate very closely to achieve authenticity, causality, and an appropriate tone for the performance. Post-production ➔ The director works with the editor reconstructing the character from the shot material. The actor’s job is done. Release ➔ The viewer watches the completed film and, in the act of final interpretation, forms his or her own image of the character.

Evaluating screen performance Theater actors enjoy instant spectators’ feedback—they know when the performance affects the audience (or not, as the case may be) and are able to modify it. The screen actor does not have such an advantage. His work will only be appraised months after the performance took place, and after it has undergone a number of post-production manipulations outside the actor’s control. The only person on set that the actor can turn to is the director. It is the director who has to, scene by scene and take by take, evaluate the quality of acting and figure out how the filmed fragments will fit into the overall picture of the character, which at this stage exists only in his or her imagination. What are the criteria that a director can apply in determining whether the performance is any good? Our perception of acting is very subjective and, as in any artistic pursuit, a lot of the director’s work is instinctive. We know when something works and when it doesn’t. But what do we do when our instincts elude us, when we can’t really put our finger on the effectiveness of a piece of performance? A set of objective criteria is therefore very important.

Criterion 1: The actor is prepared to expose the parts of him/herself people usually try to hide Look at Steve Carell in Little Miss Sunshine. About nine minutes into the film, Frank, Carell’s character, recalls the circumstances that led to his failed suicide attempt. Carell’s acting is subdued, the means of expression minimalistic, and yet the performance is very moving— we witness the actor’s probing into dark sides of his psyche. Yes, we see Frank the fictitious character written by Michael Arndt, but at the same time we see the actor Steve Carell sharing something very private.

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Figure 2.1 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Criterion 2: The actor listens Good actors listen. They don’t think about their performance, try to remember their next line, or wait for their cue—they are absolutely focused on who they’re performing with, and allow themselves to be affected by their partner’s actions. Here is Greg Kinnear—Richard Hoover in Little Miss Sunshine. At about thirty-four minutes into the film Richard receives some bad news.

Figure 2.2 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Figure 2.3 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

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Figure 2.4 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Look at his eyes—in the first picture Richard clearly visualizes the person he is talking to, and in the last one his gaze is visibly turned inward as he tries to grasp the consequences of the news. The frame in between shows Richard taking in the information. His body language is also telling: uplifted and smiling in an effort to project an image of confidence and enthusiasm, in the course of the scene he literally deflates. The eyes and the body language are great signifiers of the authenticity of performance, on a par with, if not more important, than the delivery of the lines. Incidentally, the above is a good example of a simple but effective structure of an acting sequence. Greg Kinnear could have played the beginning of the scene in a neutral state; after all, it is the instance of receiving the news that’s dramatic. The impact of the final blow, however, would not be as strong. The lesson is to look at the end of the scene and encourage the actor to play the opposite state at the beginning.

Criterion 3: The actor’s actions are unexpected People are unpredictable in their reactions to stimuli. There are endless ways to react to new information; the news of winning a lottery might make one person laugh uncontrollably and another person cry. If the actor is truly prepared to lend his body and soul to the character the results will be unique, and consequently unexpected. Here is an example: in about one hour and four minutes into Little Miss Sunshine Dwayne, a teenager determined to make a career as a jet pilot, learns that he is color-blind—he won’t be able to fly. The script stipulates that reacting to the news Dwayne “seems to implode in on himself, curling up in a ball.” But that is not what happens in the film. Instead, Paul Dano, who plays Dwayne, starts to violently bang his head against the car window.

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Figure 2.5 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Evidently, the actor truly committed to the character and that was his spontaneous reaction: he surprised himself, surprised his directors, and surprised the audience. Gold. Both reactions—imploding, as per the script, and the violent reaction Paul Dano presents— are equally valid. But if the actor played, for example, reconciliation with the bad news, it would jeopardize the story. The lesson for the director is to create space for the unexpected while at the same time monitoring the integrity of the story. Creating the atmosphere of trust and permission to experiment greatly increases the chances of getting unexpected behavior (we will look at ways of achieving this in the following chapter). The tactic some directors use is surprise—announce during the shoot that the scene that was going to be shot next week will be done next, for example. The actors don’t have the time to mentally prepare and have to make do with what’s available: spontaneity, accepting the here and now. A note of caution here though: if you do it too many times, the actors will sense the manipulation, and the most cherished asset of collaboration—trust—will be gone forever. Russian director Andrei Tarkovsky used another strategy to get unexpected reactions: When I am making a film, I try not to wear down the actors with discussion, and am adamant that the actor should not connect any piece he plays with the whole, sometimes not even to his own immediately preceding and following scenes. In the scene in Mirror, for instance, where the heroine is waiting for her husband, her children’s father, sitting on the fence and taking puffs of a cigarette, I preferred Margarita Terekhova not to know the plot, not to know whether he would ever come back to her. The story was kept secret from her so that she would not react to it at some unconscious level of her mind, but would have lived through that moment exactly as my mother, her prototype, had once lived through it, with no foreknowledge of how her life would turn out. TARKOVSKY, 1987

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Figure 2.6 The Mirror, director Andrei Tarkovsky (1975).

Criterion 4: The character doesn’t anticipate The unpredictability of an actor’s actions is closely related to this criterion—the character doesn’t know the future. The actor obviously does know what happens in the scene and yet he mustn’t let his character know it. It is a particularly difficult task, and even the most seasoned actors can fall into the trap of anticipation. Let’s have another look at the scene between Olive and Grandpa in the motel. Olive is anxious about the upcoming beauty pageant. Grandpa has just tucked her in and makes for the bathroom when Olive calls him. This happens twice. When you watch the scene (about forty-two minutes into the film), observe Alan Arkin’s body language—on both occasions, but especially the second time round, Arkin clearly expects the call; his body is not even fully turned toward the bathroom in anticipation of the call.

Figure 2.7 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

How can an actor know the future and at the same time not know it? He’s read and reread the script ad infinitum and he knows the story backwards. How then can he be spontaneous? The very notion of spontaneity implies not knowing the future—this is the prerequisite, isn’t it? Does it then mean that a good actor is a person who knows what’s going to happen but can skillfully pretend that he doesn’t? But pretending is what we want to avoid; we want

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truthfulness and honesty in performance. What is the way out of the paradox? The answer lies in the next criterion.

Criterion 5: The actor is in the moment The combination of all the above aspects—focus on the partner, not knowing the future, surprising actions, and vulnerability—make acting believable. They can be summed up in one sentence—the actor is in the moment, or the actor functions moment to moment. Someone very wise at our film school in Sydney decided that all new students should perform a jump from a great height as part of their initiation to the school. If they are able to face their fear of heights, the thinking went, they would be able to confront their fear of the unknown—new place, new peers, new things to learn, the fear of performance and of making a fool out of themselves. A stunt coordinator was engaged, safety mats procured, and the students were trained in ways to land safely. The whole process took about an hour. By the end of that hour they were all jumping from a twenty-foot-high scaffold, both rolling forwards and throwing themselves backwards. The most interesting point in the whole exercise was to see the faces of people just before they threw themselves backwards—the nervous smile or the mask of false confidence gave way to the face of absolute concentration: you could see the wider world disappearing and it was only them and the task they had to perform that mattered. They were truly present in the moment. There are numerous instances in our lives when we are fully alive and function moment to moment—maneuvering the car out of a life-threatening situation or falling in love are classic examples. Children, before education wipes it out of them, live constantly in the moment, and so do animals. Perhaps that is why the old actors’ adage goes “Never work with children and animals.” Their authenticity is bound to expose any less than authentic performances by their adult partners. A well-cast child actor is a true blessing for a film. Little Miss Sunshine owes a lot of its success to young Abigail Breslin who plays Olive. Earlier I referred to Steve Carell’s vulnerability when his character recalls events that led to his failed suicide attempt. Here is Breslin’s Olive listening to Frank.

Figure 2.8 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

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Figure 2.9 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Moments later she learns that she has secured a place in the Little Miss Sunshine competition.

Figure 2.10 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Breslin’s spontaneity and alertness are overwhelming; there is not a single frame in that sequence that isn’t bursting with her vitality—she looks and sees, and she listens and hears; she lives completely in the here and now. To be in the moment is much easier said than done. Even in our private lives we feel more comfortable dwelling on the past or thinking about the future. It is only our bodies that remain constantly in the present; it takes a considerable effort to make our mind join in. For the actor, the condition is even more intense. Imagine performing in front of the camera. Your mind would be bombarded with thoughts drawing you to the past—“Oops, I didn’t hit my mark,6” or “Why did the director look at me like that?” or “I stuffed that line again!”—and the future—“My objective is to win him over,” or “My next action is to allure,” or “Will the director like my performance?” Either state of mind takes the actor right out of functioning moment to moment. To be in the moment the actor has to fully acknowledge what is happening here and now, and stay in tune with the other person. Acting is what happens in that magic space between

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A mark is a placement on the floor where the actor must stand during various points throughout the scene.

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people, not inside each of the players. The authors of A Practical Handbook for the Actor came up with a very apt illustration of the point; they call it The Squeaky Door Theory. It goes as follows: If your action involves sneaking unnoticed into a room and the door squeaks as you open it, coping with the noise is the true difficulty you face in executing your action. If you ignore it because you feel it inappropriate for the scene, the audience will instantly see you are ignoring the truth of the moment. In effect, by ignoring the noisy door you stop acting and beg the audience’s indulgence until you find a suitable moment to resume. BRUDER et al., 1986

Needless to say, the same principle applies to dealing with the fellow actor—their mood, the way they try to influence you, their body language. These might be minute, almost imperceptible signals, but the audience somehow senses a lack of response and the magic of make-believe is gone. Arguably, the biggest obstacle actors face in residing in the present is the script. It is much easier to enter “the moment” when we are not locked into predetermined lines and actions. Here is the proof.

EXERCISE—1, 2, 3 Find a partner and stand facing each other. The two of you will keep counting to three. Start with one of you—let’s call you A—saying, “one.” The partner, B, continues, “two.” A then says “three,” and B goes back to “one,” and so on: A One, B Two, A Three, B One, A Two, B Three. Simple, isn’t it? Keep the numbers flowing: one, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, three . . . Go faster. Once you feel comfortable with the pattern, substitute a clap for “one”: Clap! Two, Three, Clap! Two, Three, Clap! Two, Three . . . like so: A Clap!, B Two, A Three, B Clap!, A Two, B Three. Once you feel comfortable with this new pattern, substitute a hop for “Three.” The sequence now goes: A Clap!, B Two, A Hop!, B Clap!, A Two, B Hop! The next stage is not to face your partner and walk around the room while keeping the connection and rhythm flowing. The exercise is very simple and yet makes you absolutely focused on your partner. You cannot start thinking about anything else, nor can you intellectualize the process, as this will break the flow. You simply have to attend, to be in the moment. Incidentally, it is a very useful exercise for rehearsals or even while shooting, when you detect the actors are not genuinely connecting.

The question remains as to how can the actor spontaneously respond to his or her partner while being bound by a predetermined text? What is the way out of the contradiction?

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There are several answers to that question; all to do with the way the actor works with text in preparation for rehearsals and shoot. Script analysis is the subject of the following chapter and there are various ways actors can approach it, but for the sake of the argument here let’s assume she has scrutinized it in terms of what the character is literally doing—no complications, no subtexts, no objectives, simply stating what is happening in a scene moment by moment. Here is a simple scene from, you guessed it, Little Miss Sunshine: Sheryl arrives at the hospital to pick up her brother Frank after his failed suicide attempt.

INT . HOSPITAL ROOM —DAY Sheryl and Doctor enter. Frank barely reacts. SHERYL Hey, Frank... FRANK Sheryl. Fighting tears, she goes and hugs him. SHERYL I’m so glad you’re still here. FRANK Well. That’s one of us. That’s the end of the scene. Now let’s dissect it:

Sheryl and Doctor enter. Two people, Sheryl and the doctor, enter the room that Frank is in. They open the door, step through, and close the door. Or not. Does the doctor stay in the room or does he let Sheryl and Frank have some privacy and withdraws after letting Sheryl in? Why is Sheryl here? To pick up her brother. How does she feel about it? Let’s not go there: this is what is supposed to happen in the moment. For the time being all we know is that Sheryl is Frank’s sister, Frank can’t stay in the hospital any longer, Sheryl is apparently his next of kin and has to take care of him. Later on we can speculate on the relationship between the siblings and the back-story; for now, let’s stick to the bare facts.

Frank barely reacts. Frank is not oblivious to their presence, or his sister’s presence, if we assume the doctor has left them; he must know that Sheryl is here to take him home. Not his home, as he is not allowed to be left alone—Sheryl will take him to her house. Frank does not greet her.

SHERYL Hey, Frank...

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Sheryl greets her brother. She obviously reacts to the fact that Frank is “barely reacting” to her presence. She takes in the room, the circumstances, and the atmosphere. She has to say something so she simply greets him. The ellipsis suggests she trails off; she wants to say more but doesn’t.

FRANK Sheryl. Frank returns the greeting. He is reacting to Sheryl’s greeting, conforming to the convention.

Fighting tears, she goes and hugs him. Forget the tears: they might happen, might not, it’s not the issue. The fact is that, in response to Frank’s greeting, Sheryl approaches and hugs her brother. The impulse to do it, or the very act of hugging, might release emotions but the actor mustn’t feel obliged to produce any.

SHERYL I’m so glad you’re still here. Sheryl is hugging her brother who wanted to kill himself. She sees him for the first time since the event took place. She reacts to her own act of hugging Frank. As I said above, do not complicate things by imposing any subtext or actions here; Sheryl simply states that she is glad that Frank is still among the living.

FRANK Well. That’s one of us. Frank is reacting to Sheryl’s line and to the hug. Is she still hugging him? We don’t know. Let’s leave it for the rehearsal and see what happens. It is interesting that after “well” there is a full stop and not a comma. It means that there are two independent thoughts here, two sentences. Why? We don’t know that either; it might become clear during rehearsals. Anyway, Frank informs Sheryl that, unlike her, he is not happy to still be on this earth. So that’s the scene in a nutshell. The following is a simple way of exploring the scene moment by moment. (Incidentally, it is also a good method for actors to learn their lines; they absorb them organically, not mechanically.)

EXERCISE—MOMENT BY MOMENT The facilitator of the exercise will have prepared two sets of cards and put them face down in front of the actors—Sheryl’s cards in front of the actor playing Sheryl, and Frank’s cards in front of the actor playing Frank. Each card contains a single moment—one line of dialogue or one action that the character performs. The cards are stacked in sequential order. Here are Frank’s cards: Card number 1 Frank barely reacts. Card number 2 Sheryl. Card number 3 Well. That’s one of us.

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And here are Sheryl’s cards: Card number 1 Sheryl enters. Card number 2 Hey, Frank . . . Card number 3 She goes and hugs him. I’m so glad you’re still here. The facilitator will indicate who starts the scene. The actor playing Sheryl, let’s call her A, uncovers her first card and reads: “Sheryl enters.” The actor playing Frank, let’s call him B, takes in her action and responds to it. It might be a verbal response (a line of dialogue), or physical action, but it should be a spontaneous reaction, not a calculated one. Having done that, the actor turns his card over and reads his scripted action: “Frank barely reacts.” A reacts to B’s neglect to acknowledge her presence. Again, it might be a line of dialogue or an action, or both, as long as it is acting on impulse and not a calculated response. Having done it, she uncovers her card and reads: Hey, Frank . . . B in turn reacts to her line of dialogue and only then uncovers his card and reads: Sheryl. A responds to that either through physical action or speech, then uncovers her consecutive card and reads: “She goes and hugs him.” I’m so glad you’re still here. B responds to her action, then uncovers his last card and reads: Well. That’s one of us. It doesn’t matter if the spontaneous reactions don’t match the script. The important thing is that the actors were genuinely responding to their partner’s actions, as opposed to delivering learnt lines while pretending spontaneity. As in real life, they didn’t know what would happen at any given moment, and were forced to react to the stimuli provided by their partners. This in fact is the very essence of acting— responding truthfully to stimuli.

Major new stimuli (unexpected pieces of information) provide stepping stones in the character’s journey. Any character’s journey can be mapped out based on taking in, evaluating, and responding to a new stimulus. It goes like this: 1

Status Quo. The character is going about his or her life, pursuing some action.

2

Surprise! A new, unexpected piece of information disturbs the Status Quo. In the very first instance the character feels that something is not right but cannot yet define what it is.

3

Aha! The character can articulate what the new information means.

4

What now? The character evaluates the new information and deliberates on the best way to respond.

5

Okay. Having made the decision, the character embarks on a new action. A new Status Quo is established.

Until . . . Surprise! A different piece of information disturbs the re-established Status Quo . . . and so on. A simple, mundane example will illustrate the point:

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1

Status Quo. You are at home doing final preparation for a dinner with your boyfriend/ girlfriend. The doorbell rings. That’s him/her! You open the door and . . .

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Surprise! It doesn’t look like him/her . . .

3

Aha! It is someone else.

4

What now? Shut the door? Talk to the person?

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Okay! You decide to enquire what the person wants.

As banal as the described situation is, our brain always follows this pattern. In this case the whole incident might only take several seconds but what if the surprise was much bigger? What if when you opened the door there was an elephant standing there? Stages 2, 3, and 4 would take much, much longer, and in all likelihood you would swing between them. You would probably question your sanity, and have a hard time making a decision. When a surprise is too big for our brain to process we get into the state of shock and need external assistance to regain the sense of reality. For Dwayne, the news that he wouldn’t be able to fly was obviously too big to handle and his reaction was irrational—he was shocked. Here is another example of processing new stimuli: On their journey to the Little Miss Sunshine pageant the Hoovers stop at a gas station. Grandpa asks Frank to buy him some porn magazines. Frank obliges.

Figure 2.11 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Status Quo. Frank selects the magazines for Grandpa. Suddenly . . . surprise! Someone calls him. The voice sounds familiar . . . Frank turns.

Figure 2.12 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

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Even though he can see the person, momentarily Frank can’t really compute—it cannot be happening, it cannot be him; I must be hallucinating.

Figure 2.13 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

But he isn’t hallucinating—it is his former lover who has left him for his nemesis.

Figure 2.14 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

What is Frank supposed to do? Here he is—broke, having failed to commit suicide, of which the ex must have heard, and buying some hetero porn magazines. What is he to do?!

Figure 2.15 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Frank thinks hard. Time is running out. The only thing he can come up with is . . .

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Figure 2.16 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

. . . to put on a brave face: “I’ve been fine.” Steve Carell is a very authentic and giving actor, prepared to expose his vulnerability for the camera to record. Watching the scene, we really feel for Frank—we hope he’ll survive the encounter with his integrity intact but at the same time we fear it might exacerbate his fragile mental state; we are emotionally engaged. Tony Barr, an actor, director, and educator, defined acting as responding to stimuli in imaginary circumstances in an imaginative, dynamic manner that is stylistically true to time and place so as to communicate ideas and emotions to the audience (Barr, 1997). The question of whether the actor’s role is to feel or to make the audience feel has followed actors for centuries. French philosopher Denis Diderot (1713–84) postulated the latter: What, then, is the true talent? That of knowing well the outward symptoms of the soul we borrow, of addressing ourselves to the sensations of those who hear and see us, of deceiving them by the imitation of these symptoms, by an imitation which aggrandizes everything in their imagination, and which becomes the measure of their judgment; for it is impossible otherwise to appreciate that which passes inside us. DIDEROT, 2010

Deceiving the audiences by imitation of symptoms? Isn’t that the absolute opposite of what we are striving to achieve—authenticity and truthfulness? Yes and no. Imagine you go to the theater. Unfortunately, you are late and the usher quietly leads you to a seat far away from the stage. No matter. You watch the first act and are absolutely enthralled; the intensity of emotions emanating from the stage gives you goose bumps. This is what acting is all about, you tell yourself. The interval seems to last forever; you can’t wait for the second act. Finally, you take the seat you booked—in the front row! You are ready for an emotional feast. The curtain goes up and the second act begins . . . and you cannot believe your eyes. What from the distance looked like emotionally charged performance, up close turns out to be an arrangement of empty gestures and contrived inflections. You feel emotionally manipulated. But isn’t that what the craft of filmmaking is all about—contrivance and manipulation? Of course, I’m not advocating filming vacuous performances (even if you might get away

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with it in a wide shot)—I’m talking about the principle. There is an anecdote about Rouben Mamoulian directing Greta Garbo in the final scene of Queen Christina, Garbo’s most memorable performance. Allegedly when she asked the director how to play the scene, Mamoulian advised her to think of nothing and feel nothing and, if she could, not to blink.

Figure 2.17 Greta Garbo in Queen Christina, director Rouben Mamoulian (1933).

Mamoulian echoed Diderot: it was the audience that was supposed to do the thinking and the feeling. More than eight decades after the film’s release, the scene still delivers its emotional punch, and the principle still applies—good directors employ the means they consider best for telling the story. At times it involves purely cinematic treatment (e.g. a slow pull in from a wide shot to a big close-up in the final scene in Queen Christina); at other times the camera simply records what unfolds in front of it (e.g. Olive and Grandpa’s motel scene in Little Miss Sunshine). The first tactic will incite audiences’ projection of emotions, and the second will stimulate empathy with the characters. Whatever approach we adopt, we need technically skilled actors delivering authentic and believable performances.

Theater versus screen acting Are there any significant differences between acting on stage and acting for the camera? If so, what are they? The common perception is that acting in theater has to be big and screen acting small. This book starts with the anecdote about director George Cukor instructing Jack Lemmon to make his performance smaller and smaller until Lemmon complained that he didn’t feel he would be acting at all. Only then was the director happy (Musto, 2012). However, this big versus small perception doesn’t hold up to real examination of a wide variety of powerful performances on screen. In Little Miss Sunshine, is Abigail Breslin’s performance “small?”

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Figure 2.18 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

What about Dano’s?

Figure 2.19 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

How then do we describe the difference? At the heart of this book is this belief: film performance is about being authentic and truthful; or put another way, performance is living truthfully in imaginary circumstances (Meisner and Longwell, Sanford Meisner on Acting, 1987). And yet, this can apply as much to stage as it does to screen acting. However, we should remember the following points.

1. Film is forever Theater performance is ephemeral. It happens then disappears, and exists only in the audiences’ memories, photographs, and descriptions. The actor can have brilliant nights and not so brilliant nights. She might not be at her best at the beginning of the performance but make up for it in the second act, and triumph in the third, and the audience will leave the theater with the memories of her bravura performance. Not so in film. A dud take is a dud take and will forever be a dud take. And you might have to use it in the edit because of narrative needs. Moral for the director—it is easy to forget this point in the fervor of shooting. It is your job to get the best out of your actors.

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2. The screen actor doesn’t have the benefit of instant audience feedback A theater performance is akin to a ritual where spectators play an active role—they don’t simply witness the act but send a tangible vibe of empathy back to the stage, and the actors in turn respond by modeling their performances in harmony with the spectators’ mindset. The screen actor doesn’t have such rapport. Not only that, she has to invite the camera to scrutinize her face and her actions while at the same time striving to forget its proximity. Acknowledging the presence of the camera would kill the illusion (unless it is a part of the film’s style: Woody Allen’s Annie Hall, the Coen Brothers’ The Hudsucker Proxy, or Michael Haneke’s Funny Games all subvert the convention). Moral for the director—be aware of the difficult circumstances in which the screen actors work, and facilitate optimum working conditions: silence on set, no one in the eye-line of the actors, and only the required crew on set. And if possible, stand next to the camera during the take rather than at the video monitor. The actors will feel your empathetic presence.

3. The performance is recorded out of sequence It is very rare for a film to be shot in chronological order (Alfred Hitchcock’s The Rope, Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining, and Alejandro González Iñárritu’s 21 Grams are among notable exceptions; the last one, interestingly, ending up as a non-linear structure). There are two schools of thought on how to deal with the inherent consequences: some say that the actor ought to be thoroughly familiar with the screenplay, the character’s overall arc, and the position of each scene within the story, consequently delivering a performance that will appear consistent when the film is edited. The other school advocates totally relinquishing any such concerns to the director and concentrating instead on sincerity of performance from moment to moment. Moral for the director—have the final shape of the film, and the emotional temperature of every scene, firmly imprinted in your head, as each character’s journey will ultimately be constructed in the editing room under your guidance.

4. The final shape of the screen character is created long after the actor’s job is finished The actor’s work will be manipulated in post-production: chunks will be edited out, the rhythm adjusted, his voice equalized, and the soundtrack will affect the audience’s emotional perception of the character. The actor doesn’t know which take will be used in the final cut of the film. That, as we discussed earlier, is the director’s job. And he or she has to have a clear vision of how the character will appear on the screen, and what footage needs to be gathered. Director Peter Weir working with Robin Williams on The Dead Poets Society had the comedian improvise each portion of a scene with a different “take” on the character of John Keating, from very serious to broad comedy. Weir moderated William’s performance by nods and winks: “turn it up” or “tone it down.”

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Moral for the director—giving actors leeway to “improvise” within the limitations of continuity and the story’s context will reward you with footage presenting shades and variations out of which to construct richer screen characters. Technically, the screen actor has to take into consideration several factors: ➔ Voice projection (only as far as the actual position of the microphone). ➔ Continuity (once established in the master shot, the choreography of movement and props handling has to be adhered to in all subsequent shots). ➔ Blocking precision (actors are often required to move to a precise spot in order to catch a pre-set lighting arrangement). ➔ Working on set the actor is often required to use a means of communication subtler than in real life, as they are magnified by the lens of the camera, and, perhaps most importantly . . . ➔ Modulation of gesture, expression, movement for the shot. ➔ The size of the frame.

Figure 2.20 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Wide Shot (WS ) sets the scene, explains the geography, and answers the question Where are we? The theater equivalent would be playing for a sizeable audience, say between 800 and 1,000 spectators.

Figure 2.21 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

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Long Shot (LS ), sometimes also called Full Figure, answers the questions Where are the characters in relation to their surroundings? Where are the characters in relation to each other? The theater has grown smaller, catering for between 200 and 400 people.

Figure 2.22 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Mid Shot (MS ) is more about the characters’ relationship. What do they do to each other? What does their body language say? In the theater equivalent, the actors would be playing for a very small audience.

Figure 2.23 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Medium Close Up (MCU ) is about the individual character’s psychological journey. What does she think? What decision will she make? There is no real theater equivalent for this shot size unless the spectators use binoculars.

Figure 2.24 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

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MCU continued. Showing the character from behind changes the quality of the audience’s engagement—instead of straight empathy, we project our own feelings onto the character.

Figure 2.25 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Close-up (CU) answers the same questions as MCU, but with more emphasis; we are closer, both geographically and emotionally, to the character. CU is strictly screen performance domain.

Figure 2.26 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Extreme Close Up (ECU ) or Big Close Up (BCU ) is the most powerful shot in the filmmaker’s arsenal. In ECU , the sheer tightness of the shot provides the intensity of the engagement. The last two frame sizes—CU and BCU —call for total authenticity as we observe performances from a closer distance than we ever can in real life. With such proximity, we can see the truly spontaneous, uncensored emotional responses to stimuli. These facial expressions can be very brief, sometimes lasting only a fraction of a second, and yet they are the golden moments in performance because they give us a rare glimpse into the character’s subconscious. Or is it the actor’s subconscious—her true face devoid of any social masks? And if this is the case, and I believe it is, how does one train to arrive there? How does one train the actor to access his subconscious? Traditionally, actors learnt their craft by mimicking masters. There were some publications on acting techniques, such as Diderot’s 1883 The Paradox of Acting quoted above, but it was not until the early twentieth century that the first psychologically-based approach to training actors was developed.

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The System

Figure 2.27 Konstantin Stanislavski

Konstantin Stanislavski (1863–1938) was a Russian actor and director who devoted his life to the development of a process that would facilitate the creation of a three-dimensional, psychologically credible character. The approach is known as the Stanislavski System and has been the foundation for most major twentieth- and twenty-first-century schools of acting. Stanislavski himself never considered the System to be sacrosanct and spent his life developing it in an unremitting search for the most efficient acting tools and processes. Stanislavski recognized the inherent challenge in that, unlike artists of other disciplines, actors don’t have access to a distinct instrument to work with. Sculptors have their clay or stone, painters have canvas and paints, photographers the camera, which give them creative distance and space for reflection; actors can only use their own bodies. Moreover, almost every other artist can create when their muse awakens; actors have to come up with the goods on call. Stanislavski’s strategy to help actors involved embracing these challenges—he searched for ways to make the actor and the character one. There was to be no separation between the person and the writer’s creation; actors should experience the role as it is unfolding, not unlike real life, and spontaneously interact with their fellow actors. Stanislavski called this living a role. Notice the language—Stanislavski doesn’t talk about a character, which implies a separate entity, but a role—a function the actor fulfills. The Shorter Oxford Dictionary defines an actor as “one who acts, or takes part in any action,” and acting as “performing temporary or special duties” (Shorter Oxford English Dictionary, 1959). There is no magic involved, no mystery, and no pretending—the actor is simply someone who temporarily fulfills the duties of a character. And Stanislavski formulated a set of strategies designed to assist in accomplishing the duties set by the writer and director. But it is not only the unique approach that makes Stanislavski’s legacy useful for the twentyfirst-century screen director. There are many contemporary texts that deconstruct the processes involved in performance and offer working tools for both actors and directors. It is the language that Stanislavski developed that provides the most effective means of

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communication between the director and the actor. In her book The Complete Stanislavski Toolkit, Bella Merlin aptly sums up the System: Suppose my objective is “I want to seduce you”: that objective in itself is one of my “interesting, affecting conditions”, as it involves my inner desires and it’s bound to provoke some psychological ACTIONS (such as “I entice you”, “I delight you”, “I amuse you”, “I enthuse you”). But I’m not going to worry too much about these psychological ACTIONS . Instead, I’m going to put my hand on your knee. Achieving that “simple physical problem” may be easy enough: who knows? It’ll depend on your COUNTER OBJECTIVE : you might quite enjoy the hand-on-knee encounter (and so you facilitate my OBJECTIVE ) or you might find it deeply intrusive of your personal space (and so you counter my OBJECTIVE ). But let’s not worry about that too much, either. Instead, let’s wrap the scenario up in a few more “interesting, affecting conditions” by throwing in some GIVEN CIRCUMSTANCES to spice up my OBJECTIVE and my psychological ACTIONS . Let’s suppose we’re in a crowded restaurant: this GIVEN CIRCUMSTANCE in itself will add some danger to my “simple, physical problem”. But the stakes can be even higher if we add a heap more GIVEN CIRCUMSTANCES : maybe you are married and so am I; maybe you are a famous football coach and I’m an undercover journalist. Each little detail will crank up the creative energy and the performative fun . . . MERLIN, 2007

Each of the emphasized terms provides a practical and exciting instrument. Let’s have a closer look at each of them.

Objective Objective answers to the question For what reason? It concerns the reasons behind the character’s actions; it’s about what happens between the scenes, or perhaps what happened in the past that motivates the character. For what reason does Richard Hoover want to have his “Refuse to lose” system published? To get recognition. For what reason does he want recognition? To leave something meaningful behind him. For what reason does he want to leave something meaningful behind him? To give his life meaning, and so on. Uncovering the reason helps to stimulate imagination and clarify the objective, bringing reverberation beyond the given text. Why are you doing what you doing? What is your aim? What do you want? How do you want to influence your partner; how do you want to change him? Objectives provide the character’s psychological drive. They have to be active. I want to be loved is not going to cut the mustard; it is too general. You might transform it into I want to win her love or, even better, I must win her love, giving it focus and energy. Objectives have to be attractive to the actor, they have to excite her and at the same time remain relevant to the role the actor is playing. Stanislavski recognized three types of objectives: the external or physical, the rudimentary psychological and the inner or psychological. He elaborated:

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Suppose you come into the room . . . and greet me, nod your head, shake my hand. That is an ordinary mechanical objective. It has nothing to do with psychology . . . A different case . . . is holding out your hand and trying to express sentiments of love, respect, gratitude through your grasp and the look in your eye. This is how we execute an ordinary objective and yet there is a psychological element in it, so we, in our jargon, define it as a rudimentary type. Now here is a third way. Yesterday you and I had a quarrel. I insulted you publicly. Today, when we meet, I want to go up to you and offer my hand, indicating by this gesture that I wish to apologize, admit that I was wrong and beg you to forget the incident. To stretch out my hand to my enemy of yesterday is not a simple problem. I will have to think it over carefully, go through and overcome many emotions before I can do it. That is what we call a psychological objective. STANISLAVSKI, An Actor Prepares, 1980

Super-objective The super-objective is the objective that defines a character’s journey throughout the film. It provides a spine for the role, and objectives that are applied to each scene are like the vertebrae of the spine.

Counter-objective This is an obstacle; it is the objective of our protagonist’s opponent, preventing her from achieving her objective. It is the fundamental building block of dramatic conflict. For Richard Hoover, the super-objective is I have to prove that my method is the key to success, and each scene’s objective aligns with it.

Figure 2.28 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

I must make Olive declare she’s going to win (which, when she wins the competition, will validate the effectiveness of my “Refuse to lose” program).

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Figure 2.29 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

I have to make Stan swear he’ll publish the book (which will prove the effectiveness of my “Refuse to lose” method and make me a success).

Figure 2.30 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

I must make the judge let Olive compete (so that her win will validate the effectiveness of my method).

EXERCISE—THE TWO DOORS In his book Acting and Reacting, Nick Moseley offers the best exercise I have ever come across to illustrate the potency of Objective: Two actors face each other in the middle of the space. The space has two exits. The actors can only leave the space together; but one wants to use Exit A, the other Exit B. The task of each actor is to persuade the other. Actor 1 may only use reasoned argument and verbal logic. Actor 2 may not use reasoned argument or logic, and is instructed to work mainly through physical offers and vocal; sounds rather than words. Neither may use physical or verbal violence. Both must be prepared to submit if they run out of strategies. The aim is to win, but not by blocking the other

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person. However, it is better to lose than to reach stalemate. Both actors, but especially Actor 2, should experiment with physical as well as verbal strategies MOSELEY, 2013

Action Action answers to the question How are you going to achieve your objective? Screenwriters often say that character is action. What they mean is that behind every physical action there is an inner psychological motivation that propels it. The audience builds an image of a character by the action he or she undertakes in the course of the film. Actions can be: ➔ Psychological, usually expressed by a transitive verb, e.g. to threaten, to entertain, to aggravate, etc. ➔ Physical, an activity, e.g. to embrace, to push away, to stop, etc. Actions are the primary element of the art of performance, and the decision on what actions to play defines who and what the character is. Actions are always directed toward another person. To remember or to ponder therefore aren’t very effective as they are inward directed and can easily lead to self-indulgence. Actions have to be about affecting the other. While the decision on what action to play belongs to the actor, the director should be able to offer guidance when needed. Let’s say the actor decided on to master, but you, the director, don’t see the evidence of that action being pursued in the playing. Perhaps your understanding of the verb is to govern, and the actor leans towards to overpower. Quick suggestion of a related verb would work much more effectively than a long discussion about character intentions or semantics. Carry a thesaurus. There is even one designed especially for actors and directors: Actions, The Actor’s Thesaurus by Marina Caldarone and Maggie Lloyd-Williams (London: Nick Hern Books, 2014). In his portrayal of Richard Hoover, Greg Kinnear played, among others, the following actions:

Figure 2.31 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

to cajole

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Figure 2.32 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

to confront, and

Figure 2.33 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

to beg—all linked to his super-objective and the scenes’ objectives. Units of action are defined by: ➔ a character entering or exiting; ➔ a change of a subject matter in dialogue; ➔ a change of a character’s attitude. Stanislavski compares script analysis to carving up a turkey. You cannot eat a turkey in one go, he says; you have to cut it up into smaller bits: legs, breasts, wings, and so on, and then into even smaller bits. If a script were a turkey, scenes would be the smaller parts (legs, wings), and these in turn would be broken down into even smaller bits: Stanislavski called them “bites.” These bites are the units of action. Stanislavski suggested identifying each one of them by succinct descriptions that would engage the actor on a visceral level, for example “getting ready for the battle,” “sinking your teeth into it,” “up the ante,” and so on. Another way of defining units of action is by assigning each one a single verb—an action. About forty-seven minutes into Little Miss Sunshine, Richard confronts Stan Grossman about the latter’s failure to finalize the publication of his (Richard’s) book. The scene can be broken down into the following units of action:

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1. The attack (Richard’s action: to confront)

Figure 2.34 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

RICHARD You said it would sell...! STAN GROSSMAN That’s what I thought! At the time! RICHARD But it’s a great program! You said yourself! I don’t understand...! STAN GROSSMAN It’s not the program, Richard, it’s you, okay? No one’s heard of you. Nobody cares. Richard exhales, shakes his head, gathers himself.

2. The plea for help (Richard’s action: to petition)

Figure 2.35 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

RICHARD So what’s the next step?

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STAN GROSSMAN There is none. We had our shot. It didn’t fly. We move on. RICHARD You mean give up? STAN GROSSMAN Richard...

3. The provocation (Richard’s action: to goad)

Figure 2.36 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

RICHARD One setback, you’re ready to quit. STAN GROSSMAN Richard, listen — I pushed this thing hard, okay? I rammed it down their fucking throats, all right? No one bought it. Now, I know the market. It’s time to move on. You’re not gonna win this one. Richard stares at Stan, absorbing this. Then he speaks with a strained nonchalance, nodding and smiling.

4. The parting shot (Richard’s action: to assault)

Figure 2.37 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

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RICHARD Okay...! Good! I’m glad. You Know why? This is what the Nine Steps are all about... STAN GROSSMAN Richard! Jesus...! RICHARD You blew it, Stan. You’re out!

Emotion For Stanislavski, an actor becomes a character when he feels the feelings the character feels: the character and the actor fuse into one. There is no doubt that Greg Kinnear in the above scene feels the feelings of his character Richard Hoover. Notice that the words feeling and emotion haven’t been used in the description of the Stanislavskian tools we talked about so far. That’s because the premise of the System is that, as human beings, we are not capable of conjuring emotions at will. The only control that we can exercise over emotions is to block them altogether, and that’s not very helpful in performance. Asking an actor to play an emotion can result in a navel-gazing, clichéd representation of the surface symptoms of the emotion she was asked to portray. While most actors can translate a result-orientated direction into “actor’s speech,” channeling objectives and actions, there will be an aftertaste of resentment, which doesn’t foster effective collaboration. Emotions arise when: ➔ we are confronted with obstacles—someone or something prevents us from getting what we want (negative emotions); ➔ someone or something makes the realization of our goal easier (positive emotions). For example:

Figure 2.38 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Dwayne dreams of becoming a jet pilot. He learns that he is color-blind—he won’t be able to fly. His physiological deficiency prevents him from achieving his goal. The news is too big to handle—Dwayne’s in a rage.

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Figure 2.39 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Richard is desperate to get Olive to Redondo Beach in time for the pageant. The car won’t start. The defect blocks Richard from achieving his goal. Richard is stressed and frustrated.

Figure 2.40 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Olive has been consumed by self-doubt. Grandpa offers her emotional support. Grandpa’s encouragement makes Olive regain self-confidence and consequently boosts her chance of winning the contest. Olive is overwhelmed by love, gratitude, and regained courage.

Figure 2.41 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

The family’s late arrival jeopardized Olive’s participation in the contest, but Kirby the technician remedies the impasse by offering to bypass the procedure. In other words he clears the pathway to Olive’s success. Olive is happy and grateful.

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The emotions you see are genuine because they came into being as a result of the actors truthfully pursuing their actions. Emotions arise as a by-product of the actor’s activity. It is the director’s job to facilitate this process, both in rehearsal and during production. Objectives and actions are the most fundamental parts of the Stanislavski System but there are many more tools to put into your toolbox.

Given circumstances These are all the facts stated and implied in the text, together with the world the director imposes on the text (see “Director as storyworld creator” in the previous chapter). Suppose we are building the character of Sheryl from Little Miss Sunshine. We would start with gathering facts about her and the world she inhabits that are stated in the script. The first five pages provide the following: ➔ Sheryl has a six-year-old daughter, Olive, who is “big for her age and slightly plump” and repeatedly watches a television broadcast of a beauty contest. ➔ Sheryl is married to forty-five-year-old Richard who wears sport clothes for work and lecturers on success strategies at a community college. ➔ Sheryl drives a car. ➔ She’s a smoker but keeps her habit secret. ➔ She buys junk food for her family. ➔ She wears office attire and a name tag. ➔ She wears a necklace with a cross. ➔ She has a brother named Frank, a middle-aged university professor who recently attempted suicide by cutting his veins. ➔ She fights tears when she first meets Frank in the hospital. This initial phase of gathering facts should be devoid of any interpretation. For example, the fact that Sheryl wears a cross might indicate a lapsed Catholic, and her fighting tears at the hospital might mean she’s very close to Frank. On the other hand, Sheryl’s fingering the cross on her necklace might indicate her superstitiousness, and her tears at the hospital demonstrate her fragile emotional make-up. It’s too early to draw any conclusions. It is only when all the facts, both from the script and the storyworld, are put together that we can speculate and start filling in the gaps: what does Sheryl do for a living, for example? She wears a name badge—is she a waitress, a theater usher, or a supermarket retail assistant? What is her relationship with Frank—is he her only brother? And so on. This second stage in creating a set of given circumstances requires another pillar in the Stanislavski System, imagination. Given circumstances is a simple yet powerful tool in directing. You can change the tone of performance by simply suggesting to the actor “Just imagine that instead of the scene taking place in a sunny afternoon it’s 3 am and there’s a howling wind outside.”

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EXERCISE—WHAT ARE YOU DOING The exercise involves two players, Character A and Character B. There is a simple dialogue: A: “What are you doing?” B: “Waiting.” A: “What for?” B: “A bus.” Assign the players given circumstances, for example: ➔ A is a nurse from a psychiatric hospital, and B is a fugitive patient. ➔ A and B are lovers. A woke up this morning to discover B has disappeared. Later A accosts B at a bus stop. ➔ A and B have been married for sixty years. A wakes up in the middle of the night— no sign of B. A walks into the living room to find B fully clothed, sitting on a sofa. Your imagination is the limit to how many variations you can come up with. You will be astounded how differently the text sounds when delivered in a different context. You can also experiment with giving the players two incompatible given circumstances without them knowing what their partner is playing. For example, A was given the first scenario and B the second. Incidentally, giving actors incompatible directions on set can often lead to fresh and unexpected performances. After all, the audiences are not going to question the legitimacy of the directions; all they care about is the believability and spontaneity of the characters’ behavior.

This idea of creative incompatibility has wider usage in creating verisimilitude. Say, two actors in your film play siblings—inevitably one’s understanding of the words “mother,” “father,” or “home” will be different from the other one’s, and when they talk about them, they have totally different images in their minds. And yet, if the actors have done their homework and fully commit to their respective images, the viewers will absolutely believe that the characters are talking about the same person. Indeed, it would be counterproductive to try to manufacture a common image; it would result in a disingenuous performance.

Imagination Stanislavski considered imagination indispensable for the actor. He writes: The dramatist is often a miser in commentary. In his text, all that you find may be “the same and Peter”; or “exit Peter”. But one cannot appear out of the air, or disappear into it. We never believe in any action taken “in general”: “he gets up,” “he walks up and down in agitation,” “he laughs,” “he dies.” Even characteristics are given in laconic form, such as “a young man of agreeable appearance, smokes a great deal.” Hardly a sufficient basis for creating his entire external image, manners, a way of walking. STANISLAVSKI, An Actor Prepares, 1983

Imagination equals personal experience plus observation; for example, you might not have gone through a divorce but you’ve experienced a break-up of a relationship, you may have seen documentaries about the pain of divorce, and chances are you know someone who

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experienced it. Actors tend to get better with age precisely because they accumulate life experience, which means they have more material to draw upon. Imagination, however, cannot be used indiscriminately; it has to maintain logic and psychological coherence. Stanislavski illustrates: Tortsov (Stanislavski’s alter ego in An Actor Prepares) asks one of his students to describe his bedroom starting from the moment he opens the door. When Kostya confidently paints the layout of the room, Tortsov invites him to actively inhabit the space—do something. The boy comes up with the objective “to convince himself that he is a tragic actor.” In order to do that he decides to commit imaginary suicide, and proceeds with the preparation, but soon his imagination dries up. Tortsov pinpoints the flaw: “Your plot was not logical. It would be most difficult to arrive at a logical conclusion to commit suicide because you were considering a change in your acting. It was only reasonable that your imagination should balk at being asked to work from a doubtful premise to a stupid conclusion” (Stanislavski, An Actor Prepares, 1983). Preparing a role requires detective skills (digging out all relevant information from the script) and a healthy dose of imagination to creatively fill in the gaps left by the writer. The actor has to be able to find satisfying answers to the following questions: ➔ Who am I? ➔ Where am I? ➔ When am I? ➔ Why am I here (what are the circumstances that brought me here)? ➔ For what reason am I here (what do I want to achieve—what is my objective)? ➔ How am I going to get it? What actions will I employ? Additionally, the actor has to add something personal to trigger her desire to take action. She has to find something that she cares passionately about or is really interested in.

EXERCISE—THE IMAGINARY ROOM Unlike Tortsov’s exercise with Kostya, this one involves more than one person, and requires physical engagement. There can be as many players as there are people in the rehearsal space. Ask the players to come to “the stage” one by one, and help furnish an imaginary room. The first person might simply open the pretend door, walk inside, have a look around, and exit. The second player has to acknowledge whatever has been established by the predecessor, and add a new element. For example, if the first player closed the door behind her, the next player will have to take that into account—open the door, walk inside, and, say, open an imaginary window before exiting. The third player will open the door, close the window (or draw the curtains) . . . etc. If there aren’t too many players, each one can have two or three rounds. The important thing is that everyone acknowledges all the elements established by their predecessors before introducing a new one.

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The magic “if” What if? What if I were a gay Proust scholar who fell in love with one of his students? What if the object of my affection fell for my arch-nemesis, another Proust scholar? What if my subsequent irresponsible behavior resulted in my dismissal from the university? What if my nemesis was granted a scholarship I felt belonged to me? And what if, to add insult to injury, my suicide attempt failed? What if? Stanislavski recognized the extraordinary power of if as a springboard from imagination into given circumstances—so much so, that he coupled the conjunction with the adjective magic. “Now with my magic if I shall put myself on the plane of make-believe” he wrote (Stanislavski, 1983). The magic if connects the inner world of the actor with the outer world of the text. The beauty of this tool lies in the fact that it doesn’t require the actor to believe in the world of the film. He knows he is an actor in an artificially constructed reality, perhaps performing in front of the green screen, which does little to assist suspension of disbelief. But the simple question “What would I do if I found myself in these circumstances?” allows the actor to access his own self with its truthful response, while fully acknowledging the artificiality of the situation. There is no need for pretense or lying. Everything is above board. Stanislavski called it “scenic truth” and we might paraphrase it as “cinematic truth”; it is the truth underpinned by the storyworld and it deals with what could happen as opposed to what’s actually in existence. The magic if is particularly useful for the director—it is succinct and goes straight for the acting jugular. Let’s take the first scenario from the “What are you doing” exercise (A is a nurse from a psychiatric hospital, and B is a fugitive patient). What if A is/was in love with B? It creates a particular atmosphere, doesn’t it? Let’s try something different—what if B were A’s parent? Different again. What if B was naked? In each instance, the scene is radically different even thought the given circumstances and the dialogue remain the same.

EXERCISE—TESTING THE TOOLS—OBJECTIVE, ACTION, GIVEN CIRCUMSTANCES, MAGIC IF The participants are randomly paired as A and B and asked to draw from three hats: one containing notes with objectives, the second one actions, and the third one given circumstances, so that at the end of the process each player has his or her set of three notes—Objective, Action, and Given Circumstances. Here are the hats: OBJECTIVE

ACTION

GIVEN CIRCUMSTANCES

To get him/her to agree to go out with me tonight

To lure

A and B are lovers

To get him/her to have sex with me

To conspire

A and B are siblings

To make him/her say he loves me

To inspire

A and B are work colleagues

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To charm him/her into marrying me

To conquer

A and B are inmates

To get him/her to agree that we are better off as friends

To unmask

A is a psychoanalyst, B is his/ her patient

To get him/her to give me hope

To implore

B is a psychoanalyst, A is his/ her patient

To get him/her to help me feel better

To uncover

A is a film director, B is an actor

To make him/her my ally

To infect

B is a film director, A is and actor

To make him/her wrong so I can be right

To guide

A is a university professor, B is his/her student

To save him/her from her pitiful debts To repair

B is a university professor, A is his/her student

The players read their notes but don’t reveal the content to their partners. The random combination of objectives, actions, and given circumstances might create bizarre scenarios, for example B might draw the objective “to make him my ally,” the action to achieve the objective “to unmask,” and the given circumstances “B is a psychoanalyst, A is his patient.” So, B is a psychoanalyst who has to make A his ally and in order to achieve that B unmasks A. Unknown to B, A might be assigned the role of film director (who thinks that A is an actor), whose objective is “to charm A into marrying her” and in order to achieve that will try “to infect” B. The players are then given the following dialogue: A: B: A: B: A: B: A:

Will you? I don’t know. Will you? Yes. You’re sure? Yes. No. But you will. Won’t you?

Give the participants a couple of minutes to learn the dialogue then play the scene. You will find that the incongruity of the characters and their respective objectives, actions, and given circumstances create a welcome unpredictability in performance and imply a rich subtext. And it’s fun to play and watch. Discuss the results and the players’ feelings about the experience, but ask them not to reveal their respective sets of rules, as there is another layer to the exercise. They are asked to draw from the fourth hat containing the Magic If: ➔ What if the action was taking place in a speeding car pursued by police. ➔ What if both A and B were intoxicated. ➔ What if A was a pathological liar and B was aware of it.

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➔ What if B was a pathological liar and A was aware of it. ➔ What if A was on a death row. ➔ What if B was on a death row. ➔ What if A had won lottery but B didn’t know about it. ➔ What if B had won lottery but A didn’t know about it. ➔ What if A was a mass murderer and B knew about it. ➔ What if B was a mass murderer and A knew about it. Now our hypothetical B is a psychoanalyst, and a pathological liar who has to make A his ally, and in order to achieve that he unmasks her. Play the scene again and take note of the changes in the tone of the scene.

Emotion memory The use of emotion memory is the most contentious component of the Stanislavski System and he abandoned it as an effective tool in his later years. However, some actors find it very useful, especially those trained in the Method—an interpretation of Stanislavski’s teachings developed in the United States in the mid-twentieth century and which we will look at in more detail later. In An Actor Prepares, Stanislavski divides affective memory into two kinds: ➔ Sense memory is the memory of sight and sound and, to a lesser degree, taste, touch, and smell, in order to induce sensations here and now. ➔ Emotion memory involves recalling emotionally loaded past experiences in order to conjure up emotions needed for the scene. The process is more complex than a simple emotional recall. Stanislavski writes: We retain . . . only outstanding characteristics that impressed us and not their details. Out of these impressions one large, condensed, deeper and broader sensation memory of related experience is formed. It is a kind of synthesis of memory on a large scale. It is purer, more condensed, compact, substantial and sharper than the actual happenings. STANISLAVSKI, An Actor Prepares, 1980

Stanislavski’s assumption was that emotions stored in memory could be isolated from their original triggers, recalled at will, and applied to the circumstances of the play. We now know that memory is not a solid entity stored somewhere in the brain. In fact, the brain that initially recorded an event is not the brain that accesses the memory. Memory is fluid: it’s a creative, imaginary reconstruction of events from the past. We are not “reliving” the event—we are making up a new experience each time we recall memory. More importantly for the actor, the very act of recollection is an introspective movement, for example I need to remember the circumstances surrounding the first time I said, “I love you.” It goes against the rest of the System, which promotes concentration on the other, for example I want to make you give me a job (objective) therefore I’ll convince you I’m the best person for the position (action).

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The risk involved in using emotional recall is that the actor might concentrate on accessing and sustaining emotions instead of concentrating on the other and playing actions. The result can initially be quite seductive but pretty soon we can see its self-indulgence. Interestingly, actors often don’t realize that this is what is happening to them. Rather than pointing it out, which inevitably conjures up self-consciousness, a good director asks actors about their objectives and actions—the shift of focus usually remedies the situation. This is not to say that memory doesn’t have a place in the actor’s process. On the contrary— it is one of the most effective tools in the actor’s toolbox. Using memory, the actor can bring the text to life.

EXERCISE—BUILDING INTERNAL LANDSCAPE Give participants a simple text, for example: It was night when father came back from his business trip. We lay in bed and listened to our parents’ voices in the kitchen. And in the morning there were treats for us on the kitchen table. Each participant has to recall images from his/her past that would communicate with each of the text’s elements: people, places, objects, and circumstances: 1

Night—the actors have to recall a particular night from their own childhood. Was it summer? Winter? Was it raining? Snowing? A windy night? Late or early?

2

Father—it has to be the participant’s father, they have to recall his face. What was his occupation? Had he ever gone on a business trip?

3

Bed—what was the bed like? The players have to recall the bed of their childhood.

4

Parent’s voices—recall parents’ voices

5

Kitchen—how far was the kitchen from the bedroom? How clearly could you hear the voices? Could you recognize the words or only the voices?

6

Treats on the kitchen table—what were they? What was the kitchen table like?

When the participants place all the images in their minds, an internal landscape is formed. Saying the lines, they don’t have to “imagine” anything as everything is already in place, and no “acting” is involved; all they have to do is report the event.

Circle of attention The Circle of attention is just that—an area around the actor that defines the borders of her attention. It’s like an imaginary ring around the actor. Stanislavski compares circles of attention to circles of light. A single lamp casts a small circle that includes only the head and the hands (Stanislavski called it Solitude in Public—being alone while being watched). The medium circle “illuminated a fairly large area, with groups of several pieces of furniture, a table, some chairs with students sitting on them, one corner of the piano, the fireplace with a big arm-chair in front of it” (Stanislavski, An Actor Prepares, 1983), and the large circle floods the whole room with light.

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Of course, the size of the circle is negotiable and doesn’t have to be constant within a scene. Imagine two people meeting in a restaurant. They used to be lovers but haven’t seen each other for a long time. Initially, they might be aware of the whole room—a large circle of attention. Soon though they become so absorbed with each other that they forget about their surroundings—a small (-ish) circle of attention including only the two of them—until one of them raises their voice in an emotional moment, and instantly their attention widens to include everyone in the restaurant. In 2010, as part of her Museum of Modern Art retrospective, artist Marina Abramovic´ was doing an art performance that consisted of sharing one minute of silence with complete strangers. At one point her former lover sat opposite to her. They had broken up more than thirty years before and this was the first time they had seen each other since then. See how palpable the circle of attention is here:

Figure 2.42 Ulay and Marina Abramovic´.

Figure 2.43 Marina Abramovic´.

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Figure 2.44 Ulay.

The concept of circles of attention is particularly useful for film actors who have to deal with crews and technology invading the illusion of the storyworld.

EXERCISE—WHO ARE YOU? Reprise Abramovic´’s act and ask participants to sit opposite a person they know least about and maintain eye contact for one minute in silence. Soon, the circle of attention embracing the partners will become apparent. After one minute, one person from each couple asks their partner a question—“Who are you?”—and listens in silence to their response for seven minutes. After that time, the question is asked back and the former listener talks for seven minutes about him/ herself. This exercise will not only illustrate the power of the circle of attention but also strengthen the bond between players and boost the atmosphere of trust.

Subtext Subtext occupies the gap between the apparent meaning of the text and its hidden, true meaning, between what the characters say and what they really mean. Stanislavski elaborates: It is the manifest, the inwardly felt expression of a human being in part, which flows uninterruptedly beneath the word of the text, giving them life and a basis for existence. The subtext is a web of innumerable, varied inner patterns inside a play and a part, woven from “magic ifs”, given circumstances, all sorts of figments of imagination, inner movements, objects of attention, smaller and greater truths and beliefs in them, adaptations, adjustments and other similar elements. It is the subtext that makes us say the words we do in a play. STANISLAVSKI, Building a Character, 1981

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Subtext is closely linked to objectives and actions. No action is truly alive without subtext. Subtext is the very reason people want to watch a performance. It makes them an active participant in the story; it involves their hearts as well as their brains. Imagine the following scenario: John and Daniel work together. Last night John discovered that Daniel is having an affair with his wife.

INT . CORRIDOR . DAY John arrives at work and bumps into his boss, Daniel. JOHN Good morning Daniel. DANIEL Good morning John. Does John really wish Daniel a good morning or do the three words carry a different meaning? Another scenario: John and Daniel have been working for several months on a plan to embezzle $20 million. Today is the day to make their first move.

John arrives at work and bumps into his boss, Daniel. JOHN Good morning Daniel. DANIEL Good morning John. Suddenly, it is a very different scene despite an identical script. Sometimes subtext leaps out of the page, as in this Wilder and Chandler passage from Double Indemnity:

His eyes fall on the anklet again. NEFF I wish you’d tell me what’s engraved on that anklet. PHYLLIS Just my name. NEFF As for instance? PHYLLIS Phyllis. NEFF Phyllis. I think I like that. PHYLLIS But you’re not sure?

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NEFF I’d have to drive it around the block a couple of times. PHYLLIS (Standing up again) Mr. Neff, why don’t you drop by tomorrow evening about eight-thirty. He’ll be in then. NEFF Who? PHYLLIS My husband. You were anxious to talk to him weren’t you? NEFF Sure, only I’m getting over it a little. If you know what I mean. PHYLLIS There’s a speed limit in this state, Mr. Neff. Forty-five miles an hour. NEFF How fast was I going, officer? PHYLLIS I’d say about ninety. NEFF Suppose you get down off your motorcycle and give me a ticket. PHYLLIS Suppose I let you off with a warning this time. NEFF Suppose it doesn’t take. PHYLLIS Suppose I have to whack you over the knuckles. NEFF Suppose I bust out crying and put my head on your shoulder.

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PHYLLIS Suppose you try putting it on my husband’s shoulder. NEFF That tears it. Neff takes his hat and briefcase. NEFF Eight-thirty tomorrow evening then, Mrs. Dietrichson. PHYLLIS That’s what I suggested. They both move toward the archway. This seemingly effortless banter is a good illustration of the power of subtext: the dialogue is the proverbial tip of an iceberg. Let me reiterate—subtext is the gap between the intrinsic meaning of the dialogue and the meaning created by the context that excites the viewer. Good actors know that and build on the tension between the lines and the intention behind them.

Thought, feeling, and will Throughout his working life Stanislavski maintained that brain, heart, and body (thought, feeling, and will) are of equal importance in the acting process, but changed their positions. In his early work he states that intellectual understanding of text stimulates emotions, which in turn produce will to take action. Later, he thought that it was the emotional response to text that awakened the intellect that aroused the will into action. Toward the end of his life he acknowledged that sometimes it is the body (will) that initiates the sequence. The order of the troika varies from actor to actor and from director to director, but if we want to bring the written character to life, all three have to be present.

The System and the Method In 1923, Stanislavski’s company, the Moscow Arts Theater, toured the United States. The visit had enormous and lasting influence on American theater, and later on the film industry. The concept of acting as a systematic art discipline, and the naturalistic performances of the Russian actors, inspired their American counterparts to adopt the technique for the local context. While there were many practitioners contributing to the development of the new school of acting, Lee Strasberg (1901–1982), Stella Adler (1901–1992), and Sanford Meisner (1905–1997) are universally considered the pillars of the Method. Their respective interpretations of the teachings of Stanislavski differed and all put emphasis on different aspects of the System: Strasberg concentrated on the psychology of performance, Adler on sociology and imagination, and Meisner on spontaneity. While it can be argued that Strasberg’s

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experiments with emotional memory constitutes the main difference between the System and the Method, the point is moot. The important thing is that the language developed by Stanislavski allows constant growth of the tools available to actors and directors. Below we revisit some Stanislavskian concepts viewed through the prism of his successors.

Objective The Webster Dictionary defines objective as “something aimed at or striven for” (Guralnik, 1980), and in the context of acting, it is something the character wants of the other person. Declan Donnellan, an English director and author, developed a concept of the target. The target can be another character or a circumstance. It is always external, active, ever changing, and already existing before the actor enters the scene. In fact, everything to do with acting can be distilled into the relationship between the actor and the target. Donnellan also believes that at the foundation of all dramatic text lies the simple dictum I want to change what you believe (Donnellan, 2005). Consequently, acting is never about me; it is always about the other. As the fundamental prerequisite for naturalistic performance is the actor’s state of unselfconsciousness, the tool Donnellan offers is simple and effective: the very act of changing the beliefs of a shape-shifting target requires so much psychophysical effort that there simply is no room for self-consciousness.

Action Action is at the heart of all major twentieth- and twenty-first-century psychologically based approaches: “What do you do in order to achieve your objective?” Sanford Meisner had an interesting take on action: “Don’t do anything unless something happened to make you do it” and “What you do doesn’t depend on you; it depends on the other fellow” (Meisner and Longwell, Sanford Meisner on Acting, 1987). To illustrate these points, Meisner allegedly gave one of his students a simple line of dialogue and asked him not to do anything until something happens to make him do it. He then approached the man from behind and gave him a big pinch. The student shouted the line, jumping away from the teacher. The anecdote became known as “the pinch and the ouch theory”—the pinch justifies the ouch. In other words, there is no ouch if there is no pinch. Practical Aesthetics, the acting technique developed by the playwright David Mamet and the actor William H. Macy, defines action as “the physical pursuance of a specific goal” and adds two significant elements to the concept: action has to be fun for the actor to do, and action has to have a “cap.” The cap is that specific thing you are looking for that will mean that you have succeeded in your action. For example, “to get a friend’s forgiveness” is an action with a cap. You know when your partner has forgiven you by his behavior toward you (Bruder et al, 1986). Similarly to Sanford Meisner technique, Practical Aesthetics emphasizes being in the moment: you can’t execute your action in general—you must stay in tune with the responses you are receiving. This requires a great deal of bravery, due to the fact that you can never know exactly what is going to happen next (Bruder et al, 1986).

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Emotion The adjective “emotional” has pejorative connotations (unstable, weak, neurotic). Western culture teaches us to be afraid of emotions or at least to be ashamed of them. And yet this is exactly what brings audiences to the cinema—they crave seeing screen characters dealing with their emotions and want to be emotionally aroused themselves. The early rendition of the System offers means conducive to the emergence of emotions, but in his later years Stanislavski abandoned any direct interference with the actor’s emotional make-up, considering the practice unsafe, and concentrated on physical actions instead. After all, emotions occur as a result of pursuing actions. Sometimes they arise, sometimes they don’t. But what can an actor do when the script explicitly calls for emotions? When the partner says, “Let me wipe your tears,” or “Stop laughing, it isn’t funny,” or “Why are you so angry?” The actor has to be teary / laughing / angry. He or she has to find a way to get there, and get there quickly. It is the actor’s responsibility to build an arsenal of emotional prompts. For some people, it might be a piece of music, for others a gesture or an object that holds emotional baggage. Sanford Meisner devoted a whole chapter in his book to emotional preparation, and advocated using imagination. Lee Strasberg, taking the opposite view, built the Method around emotional memory. Strasberg believed that actors should only work with remembered emotions, as we don’t have any control over real emotions. Remembered emotions, on the other hand, can be shaped and recalled when needed. Strasberg would ask actors to recall the most emotionally charged event from their lives. The event would have had to have to occurred at least seven years prior to the exercise, and shouldn’t be revealed aloud. The participants were to explore the event through sensual aspects only; for example, what was the place—indoor or outside, what was the weather like at the time, what did the place smell like, was the person alone or with someone else, do they associate the event with any taste, were there any special features the participant will never forget, and so on? The goal of the exercise was to trigger sensations, not the emotion itself. If the sensations were honest, the emotion would follow.

Private moment Building on Stanislavski’s notion of solitude in public (Stanislavski, An Actor Prepares, 1983)—being alone while being watched—Lee Strasberg developed an exercise he called the Private Moment. The actors were asked to perform in front of their peers an activity that they would normally only do in private. Strasberg differentiated “personal” from “private”—a personal activity is something that we might continue if someone entered the room; private activity on the other hand is something we don’t want to share with anyone and would stop doing in this circumstance. The aim of the exercise was to assist actors in overcoming the inner censor that prevents behaving in an authentically private way in front of an audience. If successfully executed, the exercise would also give the actor access to feelings that, due to inhibitions, he or she wouldn’t normally share. A more contemporary practitioner that uses private moment is Susan Batson. While Strasberg’s private moments might amount to singing in the shower or dancing with

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abandon, Batson urges actors to use the most intimate behavior that they can summon: “Anything short of masturbation or going to the toilet is fair game” (Batson, 2013). Batson’s technique is interesting in that it is founded on three basic concepts: public persona, need, and tragic flaw. ➔ Public persona is a mask that we all carry throughout life—it is the face that covers our true inner self, and which we present to society. Great acting, according to Batson, delves into the area beneath public persona—the naked self we used to have as children. ➔ Need is also something common to all human beings—depending on individual circumstances, we have the unfulfilled need to be loved, or to belong, or to be special, or to be appreciated, and so on. ➔ Tragic flaw occurs when unfulfilled need can no longer be suppressed by the public persona. If we were to “psychoanalyze” Richard Hoover from Little Miss Sunshine we might define his public persona as to dominate, and his need—to be appreciated. Richard’s need collides with his public mask due to the arrival of Frank, a genuine scholar (as opposed to Richard’s peddling a pseudo-scientific recipe for success), and Olive’s unexpected entry into the Little Miss Sunshine pageant. Richard’s unconscious need starts to show through the cracks in his public persona. Batson applies her paradigm to both dramatic characters and actors. Her take on the private moment guides the actor to discover his own personal need and gain courage to expose his intimacy.

Imagination Stella Adler emphasizes the importance of the actor’s imagination and the necessity of research into the background of the character: the social, historical, and cultural environment that clarifies for the actor the differences between the character’s circumstances and his/her own: Once channeled . . . through acting, the actor quickly realizes the unlimited powers of imagination. A blossoming of emotional range follows this realization. Plays are no longer read for amusement; they are studied to learn about life. The world is no longer an occasional space for vicarious being; it is a constant staging area for vital engagement. The actor ceases to be an observer on the fringe of life but feels permission to investigate, audaciously, life’s every nook and cranny. Everyday reality is no longer enough for the actor. Only an art form will do to express the reality of life. ADLER, n.d.

Given circumstance—as if Sanford Meisner (and, following him, Practical Aesthetics) introduced a tool similar to the Stanislavskian magic if. They are both based in imagination and serve as a shortcut to the

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given circumstances. However, while the magic if poses a question—What would happen if I found myself in this situation?—the actors using as if ask themselves what situation could conceivably arise in their life that might awaken the need they identified in the scene. It is a mnemonic device that reminds the actor what the action means to them on a personal level. It helps the actor to own the text; it transfers the ownership of the character from the writer to the actor. Meisner wrote that as if is “your personal example chosen from your experience or your imagination which emotionally clarifies the cold material of the text” (Meisner and Longwell, Sanford Meisner on Acting, 1987). About twelve minutes into Little Miss Sunshine, Frank is about to reveal to young Olive the details of his suicide attempt. For Greg Kinnear, the actor playing Olive’s father Richard, it could have been as if his sexual excesses at a drunken orgy were about to be revealed to his mother.

Figure 2.45 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Later on, in the film, at about one hour and four minutes, Dwayne learns he is color-blind—his dreams of flying are crushed. For Paul Dano, who plays the character, it could have been as if he had to undergo surgery to remove his vocal chords.

Figure 2.46 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Given circumstances—preparation What happened just before the characters enter the scene, the remnants of the world outside the frame that the characters bring with them, can be as important to the viewer’s experience

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as what happens within the scene. Sanford Meisner called this part of the actor’s work preparation and insisted that it is charged emotionally. Here is a report of Meisner working on a scene: “What happens before this scene begins?” “Our little brother has seen two dogs mating and Bette has told him the facts of life.” “Such as?” Meisner asks. “What mating’s all about,” Joseph says. “And I’ve taken him under my wing, trying to educate him about life and the world—” “You see how intellectual this talking is?” Meisner says, interrupting Joseph. “It’s very logical. What if I said to you, ‘That bitch of a sister of mine, who hates sex, saw two dogs mating and pointed out to my little innocent brother—innocent!—how dirty it was! I could kill her!’ What’s the difference?” “You’re talking about the difference between emotion and what you said was logical.” “So, when you come in to talk to her. Are you logical?” “No, I’m emotional.” “In other words, you’re in rage, and that’s your preparation.” MEISNER and LONGWELL, Sanford Meisner on Acting, 1987

Given circumstances—the atmosphere Michael Chekhov worked closely with Stanislavski before migrating to England and then to the United States. While his technique features several innovations, two are particularly worth mentioning: the role of atmosphere in performance, and the psychological gesture. Every landscape, every street, every building, points out Chekhov, holds its unique atmosphere: the atmosphere of a restaurant is vastly different to the atmosphere of a church, or a forest. Morning brings a different atmosphere to twilight, and summer’s inherent atmosphere is different to that of winter; a musical concert evokes a different atmosphere to a site of a car accident. The atmosphere affects us all, and all of the time. However, while the atmosphere envelops the entirety of an event, people’s individual feelings differ. Take an example of a car accident: someone’s defense mechanism can render them cold, while another person might feel relief it hasn’t happened to them; there might be a wholeheartedly empathetic person, while a police officer would be totally preoccupied with managing the situation. And yet all of them are players within the same, specific atmosphere. Chekhov argued that, “The idea of a play produced on the stage is its spirit; its atmosphere is its soul; and all that is visible and audible is its body” (Chekhov, To the Actor, 1985). The notion of the atmosphere in the context of film production is twofold: it is the director that creates the atmosphere in the rehearsal room and on set, and its quality inevitably finds its reflection in the performances. On the level of the actual film’s aesthetics, the director creates the atmosphere through a variety of tools—color palette, lighting, framing, and music, as well as the performance’s rhythm within the frame and in the edit. Chekhov’s writing referred to

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stage performances, but the maxim holds equally well for the screen—the atmosphere is the soul of the film.

EXERCISE—TANGIBLE ATMOSPHERE Select a place that exudes a strong atmosphere, for example a museum, a cathedral, a busy marketplace, a library. Put aside at least thirty minutes to spend at the place, sit down, clear your mind, and observe: ➔ Note how the atmosphere permeates the place, how it fills in every corner and spreads in the air. ➔ Observe the people’s behavior: Do they surrender to the atmosphere? Are they indifferent? Do they seem to fight the atmosphere? Does the atmosphere modify their body language and the rhythm of their movements? Does it influence the way they speak? ➔ Observe how it influences your behavior and perception of your surroundings. After completing that observation, find another space that has a much subtler ambiance (a gas station, a suburban street, a post office), and examine its atmosphere applying the same criteria.

Psychological gesture The conventional method of building a character involves script analysis, research, and the actor’s subsequent choices on the character’s objectives and actions. Such an intellectual approach equips the actor with the ability to evaluate the character and justify his actions, but by the same token poses the risk of weakening the actor’s spontaneity, his very ability to act. Chekhov offers an alternative approach, which bypasses the analytical route and explores the character through movement. He calls it psychological gesture. Chekhov recognizes two kinds of gesture: an everyday, natural gesture and an archetypal gesture, “one which serves as an original model for all possible gestures of the same kind” (Chekhov, To the Actor, 1985). The archetypal gesture occupies the whole body and effectively stimulates emotions: You can easily prove it to yourself by trying to make a strong, well-shaped but simple gesture. Repeat it several times and you will see that after a while your willpower grows stronger and stronger under the influence of such a gesture . . . we may say that the strength of the movement stirs our willpower in general; the kind of movement awakens in us a definite corresponding desire, and the quality of the same movement conjures up our feelings. CHEKHOV, To the Actor, 1985

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To find the appropriate psychological gesture, Chekhov suggested that the actor triggers his imagination by asking questions. For instance, if the character is a lost soul, the actor might ask, What is the character’s desire? To prove he is in control. How would he prove he is in control? By dominating those around him. How would he dominate? Perhaps by ordering them about.

Figure 2.47 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Figure 2.48 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Figure 2.49 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Of course, there is no evidence that Greg Kinnear used the technique.

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Eintopf Eintopf is a German stew consisting of various ingredients cooked together in one pot. There are as many Eintopf recipes as there are cooks in Germany—each will choose their favorite ingredients. Similarly, every director will eventually develop his or her own toolbox for directing performances. To arrive there, directing students need to try as many techniques as they can get their hands on. With time, they will discover processes that their actors respond to, and they themselves feel excited about.

Interview: Sam Neill

Figure 2.50 Sam Neill.

Sam Neill is a New Zealand actor best known for his roles in Steven Spielberg’s Jurassic Park (1993) and Jane Campion’s The Piano (1993). He performed in over 120 film and television productions, playing opposite Meryl Steep, Judy Davis, Susan Sarandon, Kristin Scott Thomas, Cate Blanchett, and Helena Bonham Carter, to name a few. Robert Klenner (RK ): Sam, what is your definition of acting? Some people say it is about revealing your true self . . . Sam Neill (SN ): I don’t think you reveal anything about yourself when you’re acting. I went to see Alan Cumming7 speak at the Aotea Centre in Auckland and there was one phrase that really struck me; he said, “acting is pretending to be someone else, but really, really meaning it.” I don’t think it’s of any value to bring anything of yourself deliberately to a part. Of course, you share the same “shell” and the same brain matter as the character. But if you’re just being yourself you may as well go home and be yourself there. RK : What about John Wayne—he was always playing John Wayne? SN : Yeah, well, he was good at being John Wayne—but there’s only one John Wayne. I think you need to have some utility as an actor, you need to be able to play different characters. 7

Alan Cumming is a Scottish American actor, singer, writer, and activist.

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There’s only very few parts written for John Wayne. You need to be able to be someone from another culture, someone with a different upbringing, someone with a different voice. RK : And how do you get there? What’s your process? SN : I familiarize myself with the script. I probably read it two or three times, and then I hand it over to the director—it’s now his responsibility. But I like to think that I have some kind of a partnership with the director. And I like to meet a director and see if I like him, because twice in my life I ended up working with directors that I found absolutely loathsome human beings, and that was a really horrible experience. So, I like to find someone who I think responds to me; who’s going to be enthusiastic. Enthusiasm is the quality I want most from a director. If I feel that he’s discouraged by what I’m offering, that’s very depressing. Even if he doesn’t care for the take that I’ve done, I like it if he comes up to me, or she—some of the best directors I’ve worked with have been women, so I’m just using he in sort of a generic sense. But if a director comes up and says, “That’s great—let’s try something else,” that’s the best note you can get. And you think, “Yeah, that’s a good idea, let’s have a go at that,” and if it works it works and if it doesn’t there’s no loss, you’re not eating up miles of Kodak film these days. I would really encourage directors to talk to actors. A lot of directors think, “Well, we’ve got Matt Damon, he knows what to do” and forget that Matt Damon, like anyone else, responds to direction. All actors respond to direction, that’s what they really crave and it’s not good enough to just sit behind the monitor and say, “Good, go again, go again, go again.” There’s nothing, there’s no feedback, so if I’m getting that—I’ll go over and say, “Listen, what do you want? Is there something . . .”—“No, it’s fine, just go again,” that’s really frustrating. Why go again if it’s fine? RK : What would then make an ideal director—someone that communicates? SN : I really like directors that know what they’re after in terms of visual style, the mood they’re trying to establish, their approach to cinema—and if I understand that, if they can communicate that, I can really contribute to that. And it’s a wonderful feeling for an actor to be valued; you don’t want people blowing smoke up your bum—that’s not useful—but if you feel that you’re a part of the process and you’re making something valuable together then that’s great. If you’re just churning out another film, or television episode with a hack, that’s a dispiriting thing. And some directors can turn into hacks, it happens a lot in series television in America. You meet some really good directors and some people who are so lazy you cannot believe that they’re still employed. Those people are dispiriting to work for. But someone who still has enthusiasm for his craft, who loves actors, they’re the greatest fun of all. RK : What if a director surprises an actor on set, arranges something or says something that was never discussed or agreed on; is that manipulative, overstepping the mark? SN : Look, I think if you can provide a surprise for an actor on a set that’s great, and it’s very important to leave room for spontaneity, and to allow things to happen, in an ideal world. Most of the time you just don’t have time for that, but if you’ve got the luxury of time then fantastic. Sometimes, of course, things can be manipulated unpleasantly. But if a director comes up and says to an actress, “You know . . . [whispers],” and you’re surprised by something, that can be very revealing and trigger something that can be terrific.

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RK : What about blocking? You’ve worked with directors who, I assume, had very different approaches to choreographing a scene. What works for you? What doesn’t work for you? SN : I like to know where I’m going, I like to know what the camera’s up to—I think you should always regard [the] camera as your friend. I don’t particularly like working with long lenses, because I don’t quite know what’s going on; I like it when the camera is intimate with me. The camera is another presence in the room, and if you feel that the camera is intruding then you’re in the wrong room. The camera is there to love you. So, I like to have a relationship with the camera and with the camera operator, as well as with the director. I’ve been around cameras for fifty odd years now so I know my way about the camera. It’s all pretty simple working on film; you just have to hit your marks. But I love directors that are really inventive with the camera. If it’s going to be, you know, “let’s do wide shot and then two reverses,” which is sort of standard fair, it’s dull stuff. But if someone wants to get involved, and you’re doing this [demonstrates complex camera move]—Z˙uławski’s film8 is the best example of that; that was just manic use of camera, manic use of actor, and a manic director. And when it works it’s incredible; [it] doesn’t work all the time, but when it works it’s like nothing you’ve seen before. RK : How do you hold on to the character shooting out of sequence? SN : I have a fallback position to get myself back into the skin of the character, which is like a mantra. I’ll invent a mantra for that character. When I was doing The Piano,9 my mantra was something like, “don’t touch me I have no skin,” and that seemed to work. For Peaky Blinders,10 it was something like, “I’m Chester Campbell, don’t fuck with me,” and that was all I needed and—boom!—I was back in the character. It’s always out of sequence, that’s just bread and butter for me. That’s as much as anything the director’s job to remind you and say, “Don’t forget your wife was run over two scenes ago,” “Oh shit, yeah, that’s right—wasn’t very nice either, was it?” “No, it was horrible—you were watching,” “Oh god, OK , thanks very much for reminding me.” It’s not just the actor’s responsibility to remember where he is in the story, because the director at the end of the day is the storyteller. You’re not the storyteller. RK : Who then, in your opinion, is the author of the screen character? SN : The scriptwriter. But the scriptwriter has to understand that he’s to let his creation go, and it’s going to become something else. And it’s very much dependent on who’s cast, and what that person does with it, and how the director treats it, and it’ll end up something completely different. But it’s what’s on the page that’s the most important—that’s the blueprint. RK : You said before that as an actor you serve the director’s vision. Do you ever feel betrayed—“that’s not the character I played”? Sam refers to Possession (1981) by Andrzej Z˙uławski, a director known for his innovative approach to cinematic storytelling. Critic Jake Cole described Z˙uławski’s use of camera: “the director chiefly relies on elegant, elliptical tracks that typically place characters in long shot, generating a disconnect that leaves gulfs of tense, charged space around the increasingly vicious squabbles and, later, the full descent into mania” (Cole, 2012). 9 The Piano (1993, director Jane Campion). The film won the Palme d’Or at the Cannes Film Festival and three Academy Awards. 10 A British television crime drama (2013). 8

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SN : The only thing that disappoints me, really, is, because you are responsible for your own performance at the end of the day, there’s always some material that’s dropped, and in just about everything I’ve done there’s been a scene where I thought, “Oh, that was so critical.” I did that film, a very good film I think, called The Daughter11 in Australia a couple of years ago. And when you read a script, there are always a couple of scenes that really speak to you and you think, “I absolutely love that.” And there was a little scene, where I get on the school bus with my granddaughter and she’s grumpy for some reason and doesn’t want to sit beside me. She’s embarrassed to sit beside her grandfather. And I’m [a] little embarrassed that she’s embarrassed, and I say, “Well, sit over there, if you want” and I sit away from her. And it was a very poignant little scene, and it was only, you know, thirty seconds long. But they cut it out and I thought, that was one beat I really wanted to see in the film, and it’s gone. That’s the only thing that ever upsets me—is when scenes get dropped. And there’s always stuff that gets dropped; people always shoot films that are supposed to be one hundred minutes and end up being a hundred and seventy minutes, so it’s inevitable that things are going to go, you just have to be a bit philosophical about it. Doesn’t stop me getting upset. RK : Simon Stone, the director of The Daughter, is quite inventive in the way he works with the cast. SN : He’s very good with actors; theater background. He also does something that I think is a very good idea: shot the film, went away, directed an opera, forgot about the film, came back, started cutting the film about four or five months later. And the problem is often, I think, that directors address their own material too quickly. If you go away and have a holiday, you will come back with fresh eyes, because sometimes those shots that you’re so attached to because they were so hard to get are really not the best shots to use. So, to get a little objectivity on your own material is a good idea. Taika Waititi12 does a very interesting thing— he cuts his film and then he takes it to Los Angeles. He’s got a woman there, who is a really great editor, who doesn’t know anything about the film, and she looks at it objectively and recuts it, “that’s not funny, this is funny, we need more of that, that’s bullshit” and Taika is horrified, and then takes it away and goes, “Yeah, she’s probably right about that—but I’m going to put this little bit in because . . .” Getting some objective opinion about your work is really critical as a director. And one thing, a trap that can happen to directors when they get very important, and big and famous—is they start to lose the people that give them objectivity. That the people they work with go “Oh my god—that’s brilliant! It’s brilliant—I know its two hours forty-five minutes long but don’t lose a minute. That is crazily good. In fact, I’d like to see another three hours, I could sit in here for five hours!” So, it’s important to remember when you become very successful that you need an objective voice. A cold eye. And it’s easy to lose that.

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The Daughter (2015, director Simon Stone) is a loose adaptation of Henrik Ibsen’s The Wild Duck. Taika Waititi directed Sam Neill in Hunt for the Wilderpeople (2016).

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3 Pre-production If I had nine hours to chop down a tree, I’d spend the first six sharpening my ax. The above saying, attributed to Abraham Lincoln, could well be applied to film preproduction. The process which, depending on the length and scale of the production, might take from one week for a short film to over a year for a big budget studio film, is an intense period for the director—she has to select her cast and crew, rehearse the actors, find locations, and negotiate with the heads of departments (camera, production design, sound, often special effects and editing) in order to best prepare for the shoot. The director has to attend endless meetings and make hundreds of decisions that will determine the shape of the future film. Making time for thinking is a challenge. How you organize your creativity will be vital to the success of the film shoot. In this chapter, we will explore pre-production in a number of ways. It can be useful to separate the three main areas needing attention: logistics, research and creative work, and work in shifts. Logistics (meetings, negotiations, developing the schedule, answering emails, problemsolving) naturally occur in the middle of the day when your collaborators are available to work with. Consequently, depending on whether you are a morning or an evening person, you devote mornings to creative work and evenings to research (or the other way around), so your working day breaks into three stages: ➔ Morning: reading the script and making notes on the story and the characters, noting down visual and sonic ideas—in short, immersing yourself in the world of the story. ➔ Midday: logistics. ➔ Evening: watching films for visual and auditory references, watching other visual material (paintings, photographs, graphic novels), reading around the subject matter, research into psychology, political and social life surrounding the characters—in short, immersing yourself in the context of the story. Cate Shortland (Somersault, Lore, Berlin Syndrome) works in a very organic way: I read the script. Listen to a lot of music. Then read it again. And I start to look at photography, and watching films, and really start dreaming about it while I’m walking about, so that I’m part of the world but I’m really separate to the world because I’m starting to inhabit the world that I’m going to create. So it’s with me all the time. And then I use the tools I learnt at film school: I go through the script scene by scene and it’s really methodical, if it is a feature film it’d probably take me three weeks. I look at what each character is doing in a scene, really specifically what the character is doing, what

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they want. And little moments will pop up in my head—visual moments—I write them down. But I haven’t yet started to shot-list or anything like that. And once that work is done (script breakdown, script analysis) I spend probably two or three weeks shot-listing. During that time, I would have started talking to the production designer and cinematographer and sound designer, even hopefully I’d have ideas about music and I would have cast the film. Then it’s about refining everything you’ve done—you have to edit it and edit it. So that it’s the bare bones. And all that work that I’ve done for about six weeks on my own is not communicated to the actors. Unless they ask a question, and sometimes you don’t need to tell them even. Sometimes you’d need to say, “actually, you’re probably worried that you have bad breath, and you’re late for work” and see what they do. But what you’re thinking is, I want them to be agitated and paranoid because of this, this and this. So, for me it’s really like “join the dots”. It’s half technical stuff and half being really free and let yourself wander around in that movie, thinking. SHORTLAND, 2014

Script analysis The director doesn’t need to be able to write scripts but she has to be able to recognize the building blocks of a story and the anatomy of a screen character. One has to go together with the other—the story will suffer if the characters aren’t credible, and the character will malfunction in a badly told story. During all stages of production—preproduction, production, and post-production—the director will guide the actors and heads of departments through their respective processes to ensure the resulting screen characters’ cohesiveness and credibility. The journey starts with script analysis. The clarity of the story, casting decisions, production design, wardrobe and make-up choices, lighting and framing, the scope of performances, the rhythm of actors’ delivery and the rhythms of the edit, the choice of music and sound treatment—they all have roots in script analysis. The director has to know the script inside out. Script analysis is about asking questions. It is not so much about finding the ultimate interpretation of the story as, at least initially, about generating material for inspiration, questioning your own values, and forming a common language between you, the writer, and your cast. Judith Weston writes: The goal of script analysis is to fall in love with the story and the characters. Anytime you find yourself thinking characters are shallow and uninteresting, you just don’t know them well enough. When you give them detailed attention they will surrender their secrets and become fascinating. WESTON, 2003

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The first read The first reading of a script is a special moment and should be treated as such. The first step is to find and protect the time given to the task of reading. It is about forming a significant relationship that will last for months, sometimes years. It demands time and total attention: read the script in one sitting, preferably out loud but without inflection—that way you will absorb the text through two senses, not one, and get the taste and rhythm of the dialogue. Read at a comfortable pace, and make sure you read everything, including the scene headings and the writer’s directions. Let the film run in your head: see the events, hear the dialogue, and sense what is unseen and unsaid. Straight after the read, note down your impressions. These are invaluable—you only have the first impressions once. If you wait before committing them to paper (or your computer), they will fade away. Write how you feel. Tap into what is touching about the story. Respond emotionally. Only emotionally. The directorial vision is about the emotional experience you have and want to pass on to the audience. Read the script again. This time make notes as you read, but still don’t censor yourself: record free associations, images, sounds, references to films or works of art, literature; write whatever springs to mind. Now put all those notes aside. You will find them helpful later, when you come to forming your interpretation of the script.

Scene by scene In her book Directing Actors, Judith Weston suggests dividing script analysis into two stages: ➔ Discovery, where you distill all the facts from the script, ask questions, note down words and lines that you find unclear, and nominate emotional events; and ➔ Interpretation, where you decide on your characters’ objectives and actions. Let’s deconstruct a scene from Little Miss Sunshine using those tools. Grandpa has died on the Hoovers’ way to Redondo Beach and the family is to deal with lengthy official procedures that will prevent them from getting to the pageant in time. Richard has just asked the hospital official if they could see the body.

INT . INTENSIVE CARE ROOM —DAY They enter. It’s quiet. There’s a body under a sheet. Richard walks over and peers under it, then puts it down. He turns away and faces the wall. He starts hyperventilating— choking down the emotion. He doesn’t want to lose control, and he’s not comfortable showing his feelings. RICHARD (under his breath) Goddam it, Dad. Goddam it.

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(beat) Stupid, stupid, stupid ...!!! He shakes his head and takes a few sharp breaths, getting himself under control—still facing the wall. Sheryl hugs Olive, stroking her hair. Olive is dry-eyed—this is all new to her. Sheryl bends down and whispers: SHERYL We’ll do Little Miss Sunshine next year. Okay, honey? Next year. Olive nods. No one says anything. Finally, Richard turns around. He is very determined. RICHARD No. We’ve come seven hundred miles. I’ll be damned if I’m not making that contest. SHERYL Honey...We can’t leave him! RICHARD We’re not going to leave him. Richard dumps the paperwork in a wastebasket. He opens the door, glances into the hallway. He closes the door. RICHARD (cont’d) Fuck...! He looks desperately around the room. He sees the window. He goes to the window, opens it up.

Discovery Identify facts Write down all the facts, however trivial; do not embellish, explain, or interpret them. Interpretation at this stage would only infiltrate bias and muddle the image. After all, the actors (not to mention your other creative collaborators) will probably bring different readings of the scene. Distilling the scene to its objective essentials that defy interpretation gives the director a solid foundation of the story, and will assist in finding the true heart of the scene—what Weston calls its emotional event. Here are the facts: ➔ Richard, Sheryl, Dwayne, Richard, and Olive enter the intensive care room with Grandpa’s remains covered with a sheet. ➔ Richard uncovers it, peers, covers it again, and moves toward a wall, facing away from the rest of the family.

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➔ Sheryl hugs Olive, strokes her hair, and promises they’ll do the competition the following year. ➔ Richard curses, shakes his head, announces they’ve traveled 700 miles and he’ll be damned if he is not making that contest. ➔ He then throws the paperwork into a wastebasket, opens the door to the room, curses, and then opens the window.

Ambiguous lines These are lines that for whatever reason don’t make immediate sense, or their meaning is obscure. Often, ambiguous lines are non sequiturs—statements that do not logically follow from the previous line. Like here:

RICHARD (under his breath) Goddam it, Dad. Goddam it. (beat) Stupid, stupid, stupid ...!!! What is the nature of the leap between Goddam it, Dad. Goddam it (presumably Richard is venting his frustration at his father’s death occurring at the most inconvenient moment) and Stupid, stupid, stupid. .!!!?—What happens in the beat? And to whom is Richard referring in the second line? Was his father stupid for choosing to die now or is he, Richard, stupid for getting himself into the whole Little Miss Sunshine mess? Or is he stupid for not seeing that his father’s drug use might cause a disaster such as this? 1

The words/expressions you don’t understand Do your “line work”—go through the script word by word and sentence by sentence with a fine comb to ensure you understand everything. Don’t take the first meaning of a word for granted, or the meaning you are familiar with. If there is more than one meaning to the word, you have to find it out which one is appropriate. The same applies to idioms.

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Questions Question everything. The more questions you ask the better, and come up with at least three answers. Don’t focus on getting it right; it is not about that—it is about searching for possibilities. For example, in the script Olive nods in response to Sheryl’s promise that they’ll do Little Miss Sunshine next year. It makes perfect sense—it is a nod of agreement—of course Grandpa’s death is far more important than a beauty contest. But is it really just a gesture of agreement? Isn’t such interpretation projecting our adult viewpoint onto a child? What are other probable reasons behind Olive’s nod? Perhaps she is so overwhelmed by the experience that the nod is just a reflex, or a way of communicating, “Whatever, leave me alone,” or just the opposite, “Please stay with me, and help me come to grips with what’s happening.”

Here are some other questions you might ask about the scene: ➔ Why doesn’t Richard “want to lose control?” Because losing control defines losers and he is not a loser.

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Because he feels he doesn’t have control over his life, so at least he should have control over his feelings. Because he feels losing control now would jeopardize his promise to get Olive to the competition. ➔ Why is Richard “not comfortable showing his feelings?” Because he was raised with the notion that men don’t show their feelings. Because he is not comfortable exposing his vulnerable side to his family, ergo he is not comfortable being himself with his family (and what can be the reasons for that?). What are those feelings, anyway? He was always treating his father coldly in front of the family. But there was a moment of genuinely accepting his father’s sympathy when he was rejected by the publisher. Does that mean that father and son were really close but unable to express their feelings toward each other? ➔ Why does he shake his head? It is the natural stage in the grieving process—shock and denial. He is refusing to accept his father’s death. He is frustrated because Grandpa’s death prevents them from attending the competition. He gets a headache and tries to shake it off. ➔ Why does he dump the paperwork in a basket? He’s decided not to proceed with the formalities. The paperwork is a tangible reminder of father’s death—the fact he is refusing to accept. He needs to have his hands free.

Emotional event The simplest way to describe drama is something happens to someone. Consequently, that someone is not the same person at the end of the story as they were at the beginning; they are transformed by the events. This applies to the whole film, as it does to every scene—we have to discover the moment that encapsulates the transformation, the moment that changes the nature of the characters’ attitude toward each other: are they closer together or further apart? The moment of change that affects everyone in the scene occurs after Sheryl tells Olive that they’ll do Little Miss Sunshine the following year:

Finally, Richard turns around. He is very determined. RICHARD No. We’ve come seven hundred miles. I’ll be damned if I’m not making that contest. Soon, the whole family will embark on Richard’s plan to smuggle Grandpa’s body out of the hospital. It will be a significant step toward changing the nature of the family relationships: from a collection of estranged individuals into a close family unit we see at the end of the film.

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By the way, notice Richard’s choice of words, I’ll be damned if I’m not making that contest. He is not fully transformed yet: there’s still a long way to the end of the film, but it is the first chink in the armor. The Discovery phase is now done: we have gathered enough information to move to the next stage—interpretation.

Interpretation Objectives and actions Reflecting on the collected facts, questions, and the emotional event, the director formulates the most logical objectives for each character in the scene, and possible actions the characters will need to play in order to achieve their objectives. Let’s try to discover Richard’s objectives using the general paradigm for a character’s journey, outlined on page 42 when we talked about building the character. 1

The character is pursuing his or her objective—in our case Richard has been trying to get Olive to Redondo Beach for the Little Miss Sunshine competition. That’s our status quo.

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An unexpected piece of new information disturbs the status quo—Richard learns that the formalities connected with Grandpa’s death will put the journey in jeopardy.

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The character articulates the meaning of the information—Richard realizes that there is no way Olive will arrive on time for the competition.

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The character evaluates the information and deliberates on the best way to respond. That’s where we find Richard at the beginning of the scene—at the stage of absolute gridlock: he has to get Olive to the pageant, and at the same time he has to stay with the remains of his father. There is no way out. Eventually he comes to a decision: he wants to make his family help him smuggle Grandpa’s body out of the hospital. That’s his objective for the scene.

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In order to achieve his objective, Richard needs to pursue a new action.

Richard’s first action might be to cajole Sheryl, and when that doesn’t work (Sheryl refuses to collaborate by stating that they cannot leave Grandpa) he provokes everyone to collaborate by throwing the paperwork into the wastebasket and physically searching for the way out of the room unnoticed. Of course, there are endless other actions the character might employ to achieve his or her objective. The most appropriate actions emerge through rehearsal and negotiations with the actor playing the role. However, deciding on a logical action, or, even better, several potential actions, gives the director much needed ammunition for rehearsals.

What the story is really about The above process gives the director a lot of material to work from. Practically, she is ready to direct her cast. As a storyteller, however, the director needs to take a step back

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and look at the script holistically before zeroing in on its characters again. Only then will she be able to create an organic film with three-dimensional characters that naturally inhabit its world. It is now time to read your initial impressions and the notes taken during the second read. Also, look through the questions you posed in the scene-by-scene examination of the script. Chances are you’ll find some images, themes, words, or even sentences that are in continuum. Try to distill them into a sentence that captures the essence of the story. In other words, define the film’s premise. You need to extrapolate: ➔ the main character; ➔ the nature of the conflict; ➔ the resolution of the story; ➔ your point of view. While all the above are vitally important (the protagonist acts as the audience’s guide; the type of conflict illuminates the theme; and the resolution exposes the meaning of the story), it is the filmmaker’s point of view that really makes the film. It is the reason we make films, and it is the reason people go to the cinema. I am not so much interested in a film iteration of Wuthering Heights or Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland as I am in what Andrea Arnold and Tim Burton have to say about the world through their respective adaptations. We watch films of the Coen brothers, Jane Campion, or Edgar Wright because they give us an insight into their minds. Your aim as a filmmaker is to prove to the audience the validity of your contention. The premise is not only the heart of your film; it is also its lighthouse. It will show you the way when you stray in the convoluted journey through pre-production, production, and post-production. You might find yourself in a situation where a character’s action or an entire scene, although effective in itself, somehow doesn’t feel right. Ask yourself then—does it align with the premise of the film? If not, perhaps it requires some structural adjustments, or it’s time to kill your baby and delete the scene. You can also think about premise as a collective skeleton for the characters populating the story, especially the character whose journey illuminates your point of view—the film’s protagonist. For example, if we accept that at the heart of Little Miss Sunshine lies the conviction that people can find happiness in sacrificing their dreams of personal success for serving those around them then Richard, the film’s protagonist, has to shift his worldview from egocentric to altruistic: he thinks he wants success but what he really needs is to wake up and see the people around him. Look at Richard at the beginning of the film:

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Figure 3.1 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

He calls his self-help program “Refuse to lose,” he denigrates his wife’s suicidal brother as someone who “gave up on himself, which is something that winners never do,” and he exhorts his daughter to declare she will win the “Little Miss Sunshine” competition, something she is evidently not capable of achieving. Now look at Richard at the end of the film:

Figure 3.2 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

When the pageant’s organizer demands that he stops Olive’s stripper routine and get her off the stage, Richard not only endorses Olive’s “kicking ass” but in an act of solidarity joins her in her performance and inspires the rest of the family to join in. He is a person transformed.

Scene analysis So far, we have found the heart of the story (the film’s premise), the characters’ superobjectives and scene objectives, and the actions they play in order to achieve their objectives. We now need to look at each scene in terms of: ➔ Point of view—How does the scene illuminate the film’s premise? ➔ Plot—How does it move the story forward? ➔ Causality—How does it relate to the previous scene, and the following one?

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➔ Character development—What new do we learn about individual characters and their relationships? ➔ Form—How does the scene feel rhythmically? ➔ Information distribution—What will be communicated through dialogue, what through visual language, and what through soundtrack?

Character With all of the above information, you can focus again on the character. Be careful not to judge characters (she is a bitch, he isn’t very smart, she is power-hungry) and don’t let the actors judge their characters—it has a destructive effect. You’ll find the actors patronizing their characters. People don’t usually judge themselves: they just go about their lives—and so should screen characters. They need to feel like real people: we think we know them but they keep surprising us. The process of creating screen characters is not unlike bringing up children—in order to foster their growth, the director must give them some slack but also know when to exercise discipline. So where do you start? You can read and reread the script and let the characters with all their idiosyncrasies and contradictions enter your consciousness via osmosis. That’s a valid approach. Anthony Hopkins is said to read a script a few hundred times prior to production. Evidently the method works for him. Alternatively, you can start with a more systematic approach by finding out: ➔ what the scriptwriter says about the character; ➔ what does the character say about herself; and ➔ what other characters say about her. Of course, you have to be mindful that script characters, like all people, can fib or be biased. Also, not all information will be available in the script: some will be apparent, some implied, and some you’ll have to make educated guesses about. In his book The Art of Dramatic Writing, Lajos Egri argues that we can’t take characters on their face value: “A sex pervert is a sex pervert, as far as the general public is concerned. But to the psychologist he is the product of his background, his physiology, his heredity, his education” (Egri, 2004). Egri proposes three basic dimensions that determine the character: physiology, sociology, and psychology. He calls his approach “the bone structure” of the character. Let’s have a look at the bone structure of Frank.

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Figure 3.3 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Physiology Sex: Male. Age: Forty. Height: Five feet, nine inches. Weight: 170 pounds. Color of hair: Black. Color of eyes: Green. Skin: Light. Posture: Straight. Appearance: Average. You wouldn’t call him athletic or good-looking. He blends into the background until you have a closer look into his eyes—they are very alert, intense, some would even say piercing. He wears a neatly trimmed beard. Health: Physically fit, leads healthy lifestyle. Depressed, after recent suicide attempt. Birthmarks: None. Abnormalities: None, unless we consider predilection to depression as abnormality. Heredity: His father was a closeted homosexual. Frank inherited his hypersensitive constitution from his mother.

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Sociology Class: Lower middle class. His father was a purchasing manager in a local factory and mother stayed at home. Both parents felt unfulfilled in their lives—father, an amateur trumpet player, dreamt of musical career, and mother wanted to be a physician. Occupation: Academic. Fired from the university after a scandal involving a fellow Proust scholar and a student he was in love with. Education: PhD; speaks Latin and French. Home life: Both parents are dead. Sheryl, his sister, is Frank’s only relative. Theirs was a religious, small-town family. As a boy, Frank was bullied for being Jewish. In his teenage years, he was convinced he was not normal and was deeply ashamed of his attraction to boys. He kept his sexual orientation secret until his university years. Never promiscuous, Frank had few relationships. Josh, his student lover who left him for his nemesis, was his biggest love. Currently, Frank is staying with Sheryl and her family: husband Richard, Dwayne—Richard’s son from his previous marriage—their daughter Olive, and Richard’s father who’s been expelled from a retirement community for lewd behavior. Frank shares a bedroom with Dwayne. I.Q.: 150. Religion: Frank was born and raised Jewish. He left the religion in his teens. Community: A member of the Association of Literary Scholars and Critics, and a member of a board of directors of a semi-professional theater company. Political affiliations: While disenchanted with the current political climate, Frank regards the Democratic Party as the lesser evil. Amusements: Mid-twentieth-century European cinema, theater, coffee, people-watching, reading. Reading: Proust, of course, professional periodicals, philosophy, graphic novels.

Psychology Sex life: Non-existent at the moment. Frank’s teenage confusion about his sexuality, and the subsequent feeling of shame and estrangement, followed him for most of his adult life. It’s only when he fell in love with Josh that he started feeling comfortable with himself and his place in the world. That is, until it turned out that Josh was simply exploiting his position as a noted scholar. Morality: Live and let live. Ambition: Frank is the most highly regarded Proust scholar in the U.S. He recently applied for the MacArthur Foundation’s Genius Grant. It was to buy him time to write the ultimate scientific dissection of In Search of Lost Time. Frustration: The MacArthur Foundation grant was awarded to Frank’s nemesis, Larry Sugarman. Currently Frank is unemployed and practically homeless. Temperament: Tends to bottle down his frustrations. Outwardly, he appears well balanced and gentle, but the smallest mishap or negative remarks hurt him deeply. He gets depressed easily.

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Attitude: Tolerant. Complexes: Inferiority complex. Superstitions: None. Imagination: Rich. Building a screen character is a process in flux—you will find that the “bone structure” might make you want to revisit the character’s objectives and actions, and possibly even reevaluate the film’s premise. Your initial impressions might come to the surface as the most influential element of your emerging vision for the film. Remember that script analysis is not a science, and its goal is “to fall in love with the characters and the story.” And the more different angles you approach the script from, the better prepared you will be for the rehearsal and the shoot.

EXERCISE—SCRIPT ANALYSIS We are going to put into practice what we have learnt so far. First, you will need to put aside enough time to read the following script without interruptions. Once you have finished reading the script, you will find a series of instructions that will guide you in how to conduct a director’s script analysis.

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WOLF Written by Liz Cooper Blue Shooting Script: 10.03.2016 Financed in association with Screen NSW Emerging Filmmakers Fund © Staple Fiction Pty Ltd +61 413 304 082 http://staplefiction.com/

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1. EXT . SUNSHINE SHELTER YOUTH REFUGE . NIGHT WOLF, 15, strong bodied, fierce, storms down the corridor, her sight a focus of furious, blind rage. WOLF Ya wanna go? Ya wanna fuckin go? Fuckin’ come on. You fuckin’ dog. KY, 16, a girl similar in look to Wolf at the end of the corridor stands her ground, holding a defensive stance. Wolf shoves Ky violently in the chest. Ky shoves Wolf back. In a blink Wolf’s on her. Wolf is rage. Ky fights back hard, gives as good as she gets but Wolf is too strong, too fast, too angry. Wolf forces Ky to the ground. She kicks Ky in the back, jumps on her, they brawl. Wolf punches Ky hard with her fists. Abruptly Wolf feels herself ripped off Ky. It is MICHELLE, 45, refuge worker, holding her back. Wrenching herself out from Michelle’s tight grip Wolf kicks into the stomach of a curled-up Ky. Michelle pulls Wolf away from Ky and drags Wolf down the corridor. Wolf spits at Ky as she battles Michelle’s strong grip. WOLF (CONT ’D) Ya fuckin’ dog. Wolf furiously breaks free and goes again for Ky, but Michelle forces her back. Wolf snarls. MICHELLE Wolf. Wolf. Time out...you’ve got a bed here tonight. Stay calm. Wolf pushes up against Michelle, who holds her back. MICHELLE (CONT ’D) ... you know you break your probation if you leave. So keep calm. Wolf’s eyes grow dark, she leans in close to Michelle’s face. WOLF You done nothing for me, go fuck yourself. Wolf swings around, and storms off out into the dark night.

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Title: WOLF 2. INT . SQUAT MAIN ROOM (ABANDONED BUILDING ). DAY Morning light smashes in through a broken window. It hits the small part of Wolf’s face exposed from under a dirty blanket. Her phone RINGS. Shrill and demanding. She snatches it up, jumps up from the rotten mattress, she snatches up her plastic bag stuffed with clothes. WOLF (ON PHONE ) Hey...yeah I got that many... I reckon I could meet ya in 15, 20...no worries. See ya. Wolf throws the blanket off. With pace she packs a bong and fiercely sucks it down hard, knuckles raw and bloody. She exhales the smoke hard into the grotty room. The sound of a BABY’S CRY abruptly bounces in all around her from somewhere in the abandoned building. Wolf snaps her head around towards the noise and freezes. It is a painful, aching, hungry HOWLING CRY that echoes all around her. A frown creases her forehead as she listens to the WAIL . 3. INT . SQUAT . DAY Wolf darts down the stairwell of the abandoned building. The BABY ’S CRY begins again. Painful, hungry. As she descends, the CRY grows louder. Wolf reaches the bottom. A crusty pram and a male knee sticks out from under the stairwell. Wolf pauses. She listens to the MAN and WOMAN’S voices as they argue above the sobs from their hiding spot under the stairwell. WOMAN (OS ) You fuckin’ hold her ya dick head. MAN (OS ) Just leave her in the pram. WOMAN (OS ) I’m try’en take me shot. Stop her fuckin’ cry’en’.

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As Wolf steals past, she catches a glimpse of the 6 MONTH OLD BABY howling, red faced, trapped tightly in the pram. 4. EXT . PITT ST / RAGLAN ST PARK . DAY Wolf talks on the phone as she strides down the street at an unstoppable pace. An inner city park appears in the near distance. WOLF (ON PHONE ) ... nah I only got four on me...200,...yeah, Crown and Oxford, yeah maybe 10, 15 ay. She hangs up. Arriving at the park she spots JARAD , 17, a scabby faced junkie sitting on the opposite side of the park. He jumps and runs to meet her. As Wolf walks towards him, she pulls something out of her mouth. She reaches the Jarad, they swiftly shake hands, in a welloiled exchange, money for drugs. Deal done. JARAD Oi, I heard you broke Ky’s nose. WOLF Yeah? JARAD Cops were looking for ya all night ay. Michelle will get ya locked up. He starts to laugh. Wolf snarls slightly. WOLF Yeah fuckin’ try and lock me up cunts. Her PHONE starts RINGING, she answers the call, walks off again in her unstoppable pace. WOLF (CONT ’D) Hey...yep, nah I got 3 left... 5. INT. APARTMENT DOOR/STAIRWELL WATERLOO HOUSO BLOCK. NIGHT Wolf exits an apartment. Wolf bounds down the stairs counting money. Mid level, she sees a pram, alone on the landing.

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It’s the pram from the squat. Wolf freezes and stares down. Inside the pram the baby gently WHIMPERS . Wolf looks around. The door of the flat is open ajar. The baby’s WHIMPER bursts into a CRY . Her jaw tenses. The baby starts to HOWL and SCREAM , hysterical. Wolf darts past to the SOBBING baby. Wolf runs fast down the stairwell. Escape. The BABY ’S SCREAMS become softer as she descends. 6. EXT . OUTSIDE HOUSO BLOCK WATERLOO . NIGHT Wolf slams open the glass door into the street. Her jaw tight, she looks back to the flats. She turns and walks, her pace fast to escape the crying baby. The sound of her sneakers hit the footpath, her heavy angry breath in the air, the streetlight like a full moon. Agitated. Tense. The BABY’S HOWLS seem to chase her. Her feet break into a run. The night, the lights, the road turn into a blur. Her breath forced out by her bursting lungs. Panting hard and loud. Driven by the burning anger searing through her veins. 7. INT . SQUAT . NIGHT Wolf cocooned in the blanket, she chugs down cheap whiskey. Her lips stinging, wet, she sucks back a bong. Exhaling the heavy smoke into the empty room. Drugged, she stares at the street light outside the cracked window— a fake moon—the closest she gets to dreaming. The squat empty. Her cave. She is alone. The city street sounds echo into the empty rooms silence. 8. INT . SQUAT . DAY The baby HOWLS from the room below. Wolf jolts awake. She cringes at the awful sound.

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She buries her head under the dirty blanket. The CRY loud. WOLF YA FUCKIN ’ DOGS . SHUT THAT KID UP . The baby SCREAMING . Painful, hungry. 9. INT . SQUAT . DAY Wolf storms into the empty room below. In the corner is the HOWLING pram. Alone. She looks around. WOLF Oi. Hey? Anyone? The squat is empty. Just her and the baby. Wolf paces. The baby SOBS . Her PHONE RINGS , she pounces on it. WOLF (CONT ’D) Hey...oh hey, yeah...2, yep. 5 minutes. Wolf slams it shut. She scowls at the CRYING pram. 10. EXT . SQUAT . DAY Wolf clambers out of the squat. Baby’s HOWLS behind her. She walks fast to get away. The baby CRIES out as if to Wolf. Wolf shoves her hands to her ears, her pace fastens. The SOBS are loud. Gut wrenching. Frightened. She stops. 11. EXT . PITT STREET /RAGLAN ST PARK . DAY Wolf steams along, pushing the crusty pram. The baby CRIES . The aggressive pace of her walk is rhythmic and after a few moments, the baby STOPS CRYING. Wolf looks down into the pram. The baby’s face is red and wet but no longer howling.

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12. EXT . RAGLAN ST SHOPS REDFERN . DAY Wolf roughly pushes the pram fast down towards the corner shops. Her phone starts ringing. She sees a COP walk out of the corner shop. Wolf instinctively swings the pram around and turns back the way she came. Her pace fastens as she answers the phone. WOLF Oi, yep, nah bruvva...yeah I can do that for ya. Just holding one for... She glances back over her shoulder to makes sure the Cop isn’t following her. He is not. WOLF (CONT ’D) Yeah... Wolf continues talking as she walks away. 13. EXT . MOREHEAD APARTMENT CAR PARK . DAY Wolf strides along, little SOBS coming from the pram. She turns into the car park, and spots Jarad leaning on a concrete pillar. Wolf whistles out to him. They both walk into the depths of the car park. JARAD That gear you gave me last time was shit. The baby SOBS from the pram. WOLF What was problem? The weight? Jarad peers into the pram. JARAD There’s something wrong with that kid. It’s all red. He leans into the pram, his hand reaches out to touch the baby. Wolf roughly shoves him aside. WOLF Don’t touch fuckin’ her.

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Wolf wrenches the pram away but the BABY starts HOWLING again. 14. EXT . STREET . DAY Wolf storms along with the pram. The baby CRYING, her phone starts RINGING. 15. EXT . STREET . DAY Wolf pushes pram, forging ahead. The baby HOWLS . Wolf looks grimly at the CRYING baby. She frowns. Wolf knows what she has to do. 16. INT . SUNSHINE SHELTER YOUTH REFUGE . DAY Wolf tentatively walks into the warm welcoming reception area of the sunshine shelter, baby red faced, whimpering, in her arms. Michelle sits at a desk behind a glass barrier but on seeing Wolf with a baby she jumps up and comes out. MICHELLE Wolf? WOLF They fuckin’ left her. MICHELLE Who? WOLF Some junkies, just left her in the squat. MICHELLE Ok, I’ll call the police and Family Services. Wolf looks panicked. Michelle knows why. MICHELLE (CONT ’D) I have to. Wolf’s PHONE RINGS . Michelle frowns. MICHELLE (CONT ’D) They will want to talk to you. Wolf shakes her head.

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WOLF Nup. I can’t. I’ll get done. MICHELLE You have to tell them what you know. Wolf jaw tenses. Shakes her head. Her PHONE still RINGING . MICHELLE (CONT ’D) Please just stay here while I call. Michelle moves into an office area that is behind glass. Wolf watches her call but we don’t hear any sound. Wolf tries to answer her phone, but the RINGING stops. WOLF Fuck. The baby starts to CRY again. Wolf frowns. Michelle returns. WOLF (CONT ’D) She won’t fuckin’ stop. MICHELLE Wolf she probably needs a nappy change...and some food. Wolf tries to hand the baby to Michelle but she ignores this. MICHELLE (CONT ’D) I’ll find some spare nappies to change her. We always have emergency supplies. WOLF You’ve got nappies? MICHELLE You know how many girls here with their little ones. Michelle goes to find nappies, leaving Wolf alone with baby. Wolf looks down at the baby. She is like an alien in her arms. She sees the baby’s face properly for the first time. The baby looks up at Wolf, it’s cute sniffing little face.

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Wolf fixes up the blanket around the baby’s face to keep her snuggled. Her bruised knuckles contrast the baby’s skin. Michelle returns with a nappy. MICHELLE (CONT ’D) OK here we are. Michelle lays down a rug on the ground. Wolf gently places the baby on the rug. Michelle kneels down and starts to change the nappy. Wolf crouches beside them. Michelle makes the baby laugh while the nappy is being changed. Wolf’s eyes light up, she has never seen the baby laugh. She is mesmerized. WOLF How do you know how to do this? MICHELLE Years of practice. I’ve got 3 kids. Wolf looks at her, with a new look, she didn’t know this. Nappy change finished. Michelle picks up the baby and puts her back in Wolf’s arms. MICHELLE (CONT ’D) Here you go. She likes you. Wolf doesn’t know what to say. She just stares at the baby, completely captivated. MICHELLE (CONT ’D) Why don’t you sing to her? Wolf looks confused. MICHELLE (CONT ’D) Maybe a song your mum sang to you. Wolf shakes her head, she doesn’t know any. Michelle gently puts her hand on Wolfs arm and starts to sing. MICHELLE (CONT ’D) Sotto la luna stanotte, sotto la luna stanotte dolce bambino che ride... As Michelle sings baby, the lullaby is soft and sweet, Wolf is utterly entranced with the baby and the baby with her.

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MICHELLE (CONT ’D) Dolce delizia di tua mamma Vieni vicino, vieni vicino si fanno le stelle cantano vivo... The baby grabs Wolf’s bruised finger. Wolf’s face softens, a smile breaks across her face. A warmth radiates from Wolf that we’ve never seen from her before. Michelle stops singing. Wolf looks up to her. Michelle is looking out the front door of the shelter. MICHELLE (CONT ’D) The police are pulling up. The spell is broken. Wolf looks at the baby, she decides. WOLF I’ll stay. I’ll tell them what I know. MICHELLE Wolf, really? Wolf nods her head, knowing its right. She takes a deep breath ready for what is to come. MICHELLE (CONT ’D) Get out of here. WOLF What? MICHELLE Go out the back. Go before I change my mind. Wolf jumps up. She hands Michelle the baby, and runs out. 17. EXT . SHELTER . BACK ALLEY DAY Wolf breaks out into the open air of the back alley. Noise, garbage. Street rough again. She bolts around to the side of the building. Grabbing onto the brick she climbs up to a small window. Peering through the window she sees the TWO POLICE walk in followed by a FACS WORKER.

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Wolf stares hard, trying to keep sight of the baby but all the care workers crowd around and Wolf struggles to see her. The FACS Worker holds out a folder to Michelle. She signs a form. Michelle hands the baby over to the Welfare worker. The baby is now in care. A slight frown creases Wolf’s forehead. Her phone starts to RING . Shrill and demanding. Wolf ignores it glued to watching as the police escort the welfare officer and baby out. The baby is gone from her sight. She jumps down. The phone RINGING . Wolf doesn’t answer. 18. INT . INSTITUTIONAL / PRISON . DAY Wolf walks down the corridor of a prison, head down. 19. INT . PRISON . DAY Wolf sits, wringing her bruised hands together as she waits. A noise makes Wolf looks up. An ARMED GUARD walks in with a woman. Her MUM , she is dressed in a prisoner uniform. Wolf watches as her mum sits down at a table beside Wolf. As her Mum slowly lowers herself into the chair, Wolf’s eyes glide over her Mum’s old track marks to a faded tattoo of a wolf’s snarling face. Wolf lifts her eyes slowly up to her Mum’s face. Mum stares at Wolf. GUARD Are you aware of the rules? Wolf nods. GUARD (CONT ’D) No contraband items, mobile phones, drugs. No contact and either party can terminate the visit at any time. They stare at each other in tense silence. MUM Thanks for comin’.

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Wolf’s leg starts to bounce angrily. Her rage is restless. But then through Wolf’s angry glare big hot tears well up in her eyes. She fights this feeling, her leg bouncing faster. MUM (CONT ’D) I missed ya love. Wolf’s eyes drop to the ground, a tear falls, her leg stops bouncing. Wolf roughly throws her arms around her mum’s waist and buries her head in her lap. Mum, taken aback for a moment, but ever grateful, she soothingly strokes Wolf’s hair and places a kiss on her head. The end.

Now that you have read the script you may start your analysis by following the instructions below. You will need a pen and paper. ➔ Note your first impressions, and any images, associations, and references (books, films, photographs, paintings, music) that spring to mind. ➔ Note and find meaning for all words that aren’t familiar. ➔ Note all ambiguous lines and provide three possible meanings for each. ➔ List all the facts. ➔ Ask questions the script raises in terms of characters, relationships, and plot, and provide three answers for each. ➔ Describe the heart of the film—what is it really about? What is the film’s premise? ➔ Character work: what does Wolf say about herself? What do other characters say about her? What does the writer say about her? ➔ Create a bone structure for Wolf. ➔ Define Wolf’s super-objective. ➔ Define Wolf’s objectives for each scene. Remember that objectives need to be: Specific and directed at other characters, e.g. I want to be wealthy is too general and doesn’t directly involve other characters. On the other hand, I have to make you repay the debt is both specific and directed at another character. Achievable within the course of the scene, e.g. I want you to make you kiss me is potentially achievable; I want to make you fall in love with me probably isn’t. ➔ Allocate actions for each objective.

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Casting It has been said that casting is 80 percent of the director’s job, and the remaining 20 percent is fixing up casting mistakes. One badly cast actor can destroy your story. Casting is hard. It is forensic—you look at the quality of a human being in a very specific way. You watch everything the actor has done, read their interviews, read reviews of their performances, talk to fellow directors who worked with them, and agonize: are they right for the role? You watch their showreel ad nauseam, discuss it with people you trust—about the actor’s qualities versus the qualities of the character, their relationship with other characters—and you talk about what the audiences have to believe. You cannot always judge an actor by their past work; it might be that right now he or she is in the moment in their life that perfectly aligns with the character. Like peeling the onion, you strive to get to the essence of the actor you consider for the role—you are casting a soul not an actor, a person, not their craft: does this person have it? And if they don’t have it as written on the page, are they going to bring something original and fresh that you haven’t considered? Think about the casting session as the beginning of the actual process of making the film. It is the first time the director encounters the dialogue alive, and a good actor can uncover aspects of the character the director hasn’t suspected were there, or show the character in a completely different light. But beware of being seduced by a charismatic performance that doesn’t actually support the premise of the story. Perhaps an even greater danger is that of the director searching for the embodiment of the picture they had built in their head. That is never going to happen—you are never ever going to find an actor who totally fulfills your imaginary portrait of the character. That’s why it is so important for the director to know . . . ➔ what story they want to tell; and ➔ what the function of the particular character is. There are many ways to skin the cat: you can adapt the script, change the character’s social background, age, gender even, but you mustn’t compromise the heart of the film.

Typecasting This term’s negative connotation should be redressed—as should the term stereotype. Let’s look at the etymology of the word: it derives from the Greek stereos, meaning solid, and typos meaning impression. Stereotype actually means “solid impression”—and isn’t that what we are after when casting? We do cast types, especially in film and television where, contrary to theater, the rehearsal period is brief, sometimes non-existent. It is not possible in this short (or non-existent) time span to create a fully-fledged, three-dimensional character that sits totally outside the actor’s psychophysical make-up. If, for example, we need a cop, we’ll do well with someone like Sylvester Stallone. If, on the other hand, we need a teacher, Sylvester Stallone wouldn’t quite fit the bill; Robin Williams would be a much better choice. There are, of course, exceptions:

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Meryl Streep was equally convincing as a Polish Holocaust survivor (Sophie’s Choice) and a British Prime Minister (The Iron Lady), while Gérard Depardieu was equally believable as a refined writer (A Pure Formality) and a selfish slob of a waiter (Green Card). The other category of typecasting is that of casting people for what they are, for the baggage they bring to the role. It is as if we were getting, gratis, the character’s backstory. Leonardo DiCaprio will always be in the audience’s eyes Leonardo-DiCaprio-the-star first, and Jay Gatsby or Jordan Belfort from The Wolf of Wall Street second. And Cate Blanchett will always upstage Galadriel or Bernadette Fox from Where’d You Go, Bernadette. We cast a star and the audiences know exactly what they’re getting even before they enter the movie theater or stream the film. Alfred Hitchcock was said to cast stars so that he could jump-start the story instead of spending twenty minutes building the audience’s empathy for the protagonist.

Cast relationships, not individual characters We have all heard actors comparing the experience of shooting a film to being part of a family. Cliché it might be, but it is useful to think about your ensemble of actors as a family, that is a group of individuals who . . . ➔ have common experiences; ➔ share common values; ➔ provide each other with unconditional, non-judgmental support. I’m referring here to your work family, where you need as harmonious and supportive an environment as you can get—filmmaking is stressful, hard work. It’s a different matter with the characters the actors are going to embody. There you will in all probability lean toward dysfunctional relationships: characters that don’t share common values and don’t provide reciprocal support, as the very core of conflict lies in transgression. It gets even more complex when you look at the relationships between actors and their characters. Let’s have a look at two characters: Olive played by Abigail Breslin, and Grandpa played by Alan Arkin. Already, we have four personalities:

Figure 3.4 Alan Arkin and Abigail Breslin.

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And here are their relationships: Grandpa with Olive; Alan Arkin with Abigail Breslin; Alan Arkin with Olive; Alan Arkin with Grandpa; Abigail Breslin with Alan Arkin; Abigail Breslin with Grandpa; Abigail Breslin with Olive.

Figure 3.5 Alan Arkin and Abigail Breslin.

While the relationship between Olive and Grandpa ended up on the screen, all the combinations came into play in the process of making the film, and all impacted on the final shape of the screen characters. ➔ Actor with his/her character Alan Arkin’s relationship with Grandpa would have been influenced by his emotional and intellectual response to the script, his script analysis, research, and collaboration with the directors and fellow actors. Abigail Breslin’s attitude to Olive was probably less complex. As a child she wouldn’t have had the sophisticated tools of a professional actor—her relationship to her character would have been much more intuitive. Working with children and non-professional actors we focus on their qualities as people and their ability to genuinely connect with their partners. When cast well and set in convincing imaginary circumstances, children and amateurs will genuinely be “in the moment”; so much so that professional actors can find it challenging to equal their authenticity. In either case the director needs to steer towards a balance between an intuitive and emotional approach, and intellectual construction. A purely cerebral approach runs the risk of producing a dry performance, at times even marred by the actor commenting on the character: I’m not really an unpleasant person, I’m just playing one. Too much emphasis on the emotional side on the other hand might lead to selfindulgence, where the actor concentrates on inducing emotions rather than playing actions.

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➔ Actor with the partner’s character Abigail Breslin may have treated Grandpa very similarly to the way she related to Alan Arkin—the sheer difference in age and the warmth of Arkin’s character would have conditioned the child actor’s attitude. Alan Arkin probably reciprocated with paternal feelings toward Olive who, I imagine, was not too distant from Abigail Breslin. The inherent risk in the relationship between an actor and his or her partner’s character lies in the said character not corresponding to the actor’s perception of the character, for example if Olive, as portrayed by Breslin, was not what Arkin thought Olive would or should be. The actors are then tempted to direct the other character: “If your character played x then my character would be able to play y.” These tendencies need to be monitored closely as they kill spontaneity: we cannot tell anyone in real life how they should respond to stimuli. ➔ Actor with his/her partner Arguably, this is the most important relationship in the constellation. The best illustration of its gravity is the scene between Olive and Grandpa in the motel room. Of course, all four of them—Olive, Grandpa, Arkin, and Breslin—are in the room, and of course, all the combinations are at play, but it is the vulnerability of Olive/Breslin that moderates Arkin’s playing of the scene. That is not to say that Arkin resigns all his control, on the contrary, he lets Grandpa immerse himself in the moment but the actor makes sure that the consistency of the character is maintained. While it is impossible to predict how the various personalities will manifest themselves in rehearsals and on the screen, it is important for the director to consider all combinations when casting, and facilitate genuine relationships between the people.

Casting brief Whether you are working with a casting agent or casting yourself, you need to be able to clearly articulate your requirements. What type is your character? Is she a hero (someone the audiences will admire)? Is he a boy next door (someone the audience will sympathize with)? Is she a lost soul (someone the audience will feel pity for)? What about their qualities? ➔ Physical—sex, age, appearance, health, any abnormalities. ➔ Psychological / Emotional—temperament, ambitions, frustrations, superstitions, complexes. ➔ Social—class, family life, education, occupation. ➔ Intellectual—for example, witty, smart, highly intelligent, slow, bi-polar. ➔ Ethical—morality, values, political / religious affiliation. Looking at your characters from that angle will also assist with selection of appropriate audition scenes to accompany the casting brief. The scenes, apart from presenting the key character traits, should also differ in atmosphere; you want to see the character in different circumstances, encountering different obstacles.

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The brief, apart from your contact details, synopsis of the film, and shooting dates, should include: ➔ Style of film: genre and/or performance style, for example horror, thriller, comedy, improvisational, non-naturalistic, and so on. ➔ Character description: addressing the physical, psychological, socio-economic, intellectual, and ethical traits, and any special skills required. ➔ Character inspiration: was the character written with an actual person as catalyst, for example a historical or contemporary public figure? ➔ Actors who inspire: any actors, however unlikely, you dream would play the part, even names like Benedict Cumberbatch or Jennifer Lawrence will give the casting agent good food for thought.

EXERCISE—CASTING PACKAGE Prepare a casting package for the title role of Wolf, including: ➔ Synopsis. ➔ Style of film/character description/character inspiration/actors who inspire. ➔ Two scenes showing different sides of Wolf’s personality.

Audition By now you will have a clear picture of what it is you are looking for, while remaining flexible. Essentially, we cast a person within the actor, and we cast relationships and not individuals. It is also important that as a director you feel comfortable with the actors you are going to work with, and you feel similar vibes emanating toward you. Mind you, most actors can “act” and their goal at the audition is to get the part, and the action they play is to please the director, so you have to watch and see, and listen and hear. There is a lot to learn from body language and small talk—are they alert and keen, or nonchalant? Do they cover up their nerves with overconfidence? Do they fill the room with their presence or give the impression that they don’t want to impinge on the surroundings? The more you learn about the actor’s instrument and his/her personality, the easier it will be to make decisions and create your ensemble. Other questions you’ll be asking yourself in evaluating the candidates include: ➔ How well do they respond to directions? ➔ What about their technical skills—voice, control over their body, ability to listen? ➔ Do they present some insight into the character? ➔ Do they have a sense of humor? ➔ Are they courageous, prepared to plunge into the unknown? ➔ Do they share values with the character?

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Above all, casting is instinctual, you simply need to be a human being observing another human being: are you intrigued? Do you want to know more about them? Do you want to spend time with them? While there are no set rules on how to structure a casting session, I would suggest spending the standard fifteen minutes as follows: ➔ Small talk. 2 minutes. Research the auditioning actors prior to the audition: watch their films, listen to radio plays they’ve recorded, watch their showreels, read interviews they have given, talk to directors they have worked with, talk to the casting agent about them. And as they enter the room and the introductions are done, engage in small talk: weather, traffic, common acquaintances, current films, or theater performances are all good conversation starters. Follow with a question that shows your appreciation of their career, for example a detail about an obscure role they performed years ago; but you must be genuinely interested—actors have a very acute internal lie detector. Ask how they like to work, what they need from the director, what approach to building a character they follow. What you are trying to do is to demonstrate that you are genuinely interested in them, and are here to help them get the part. ➔ Line run. 1 minute. Invite the candidate to run the lines with the reader—no interpretation; just making sure that they’re both on the same page. By the way, try to get the best reader you can afford. The nerves are bad enough, but acting with an ineffectual partner doubles the actor’s frustration and consequently you won’t get the full picture of his potential. After the line run, ask the actor if there is anything in the scene that needs explaining. They usually say, “no” (playing the action to please the director), but if you think some ambiguous lines or circumstances need elaborating, do it. ➔ First recorded read. 2 minutes. Don’t give the actor any directions prior to the first read; see what they bring to the role. After the take, thank them with some positive remark. Sometimes a simple but genuine “thank you” is enough; at other times you might want to elaborate on a particular aspect of their interpretation. Engage—ask how they felt, put them at ease, and offer another take if it becomes apparent that the actor didn’t feel he hit all the notes. Incidentally, when I say read, I mean prepared interpretation of the scene played with the reader, not literally reading. Sporadically, you might ask the actor for a cold read of a brand-new scene when you consider them for another character. ➔ Second recorded read. 3 minutes Now is the time to evaluate their ability to adjust the interpretation in response to direction. The simplest way to do it is to alter the scene’s given circumstances. For example “Imagine it’s two o’clock in the morning and you are on a windy beach” or in relation to action, “The action I read from your playing was to coerce. Can you try to disrupt this time?” Sometimes the most interesting results come from playing illogical action. For example, a love scene might benefit from an actor playing to unnerve or to shock rather than the conventional to court, to entice, to tempt, or to lure.

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Record the scene and, again, encourage the actor to reflect on the experience, and offer another take. Then repeat the process with the second scene and voilà—your first candidate is done.

Name actors Well-known actors won’t audition. However, if they like the script they will agree to a meeting. For that, you need to prepare even more thoroughly than for a regular audition: research, research, and research some more (see “small talk” above). In the course of the fifteenminute meeting you want to achieve the following: ➔ Gain their trust. ➔ Excite them about the film. ➔ Evaluate if they are right for the role = make them drop their mask. Trust builds over time and you only have fifteen minutes to create the realm of psychological safety—a tall order. It is your time to perform: be honest, be humble, and be prepared to show emotions. Ask pertinent questions. And listen. This is a vital skill for the director—to be able to really listen. Use the Stanislavskian circle of attention (see page 94, above): draw an imaginary circle around your interlocutor and yourself, and disregard the world outside—it is only you and them, and your attention is completely and utterly on them. Make them feel they are the most important person in the world for you. People then open up. The key to gain trust is to present balance between competence and vulnerability. Articulating the film’s premise, why the story needs to be told, and how it’s going to be told will establish your competence. Talk with passion. It is contagious, and you want to enthuse the actor. The next thing is to demonstrate your humanity. Self-deprecating humor goes a long way, a moment of embarrassment works even better—try dropping the script so that the loose pages fly everywhere and you have to chase them, or spill coffee on yourself. It will work a treat: you will evoke their empathy and gain insight into their humanity. Sarah Gavron, the director of Suffragette (2015), took a different approach. She met several well-known actors en masse to get a sense of who was “out there” who could play the roles, how enthusiastic these people were about the proposed film, and was able to present her vision. This informal meeting resulted in several of the actors ending up in the film.

Children Casting children is particularly challenging and time consuming. Local drama schools and actors’ agencies specializing in child actors are a good starting point, but to find a real raw talent you might have to cast your net wider. Searching for the lead for his 2002 film Rabbit Proof Fence, director Phillip Noyce criss-crossed Australia by light airplane, four-wheel drive, and a boat to remote Aboriginal communities that were still in touch with traditional ways before he found the extraordinarily charismatic eleven-year-old Everlyn Sampi. Your quest might not be as dramatic, but still, be prepared for an arduous task.

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As with all non-actors, don’t expect the child to play a role that is significantly outside their innate character. Look for charisma—the elusive “it” that makes you unable to take your eyes off them, and that the camera will love. The auditioning process should follow similar principles to those applied in the casting of professional actors: ➔ Gain their trust. ➔ Test their imagination. ➔ Evaluate how close they are to the written character. To gain their trust, talk honestly; tell them about the film you are going to make, invite questions, crack a joke (best at your own expense). Ask open questions (questions that cannot be answered with a simple one-word answer), for example, “Describe your last birthday” or “How can you tell when someone is lying?” To test their imagination you might simply call in the middle of the conversation, “Catch!” and throw an imaginary ball at them. If they look baffled, think twice about casting them. If, on the other hand, they spontaneously reciprocate and throw it back to you, it’s a good sign. In fact, I would pursue the game: “Now it’s a balloon,” “Now a cannon ball,” “It’s a bauble,” “It’s made of ice,” “It’s an egg,” “It’s a cat,” and so on. A similar exercise that tests imagination involves giving the child a simple object and asking them to use it in any way they want except what it’s been designed for; for example, a comb can be used as a time travel machine but not to comb hair. You wouldn’t ask a child to read a scene, especially a child of a pre-school age. Improvisations will give you all the information you need: start by painting the circumstances, for example: “Have you ever been ill? How do you think your mother was feeling then? Was she worried? Can you show me your worried mother?” Watch the child’s performance, make notes of the level of their commitment, and the depth of their imagination. Of course, there are countless scenarios (a parent happy about the child’s achievement, sibling rivalry, nosey neighbor, stubborn pet, etc.)—what you’re looking for is the child’s ability to observe and put herself in the shoes of another person. Finally, give the child a simple but strong action to perform. For example, ask them to imagine that there is a fire in the building and they have to make you (or everybody in the room) leave immediately. Naturally, you would make the task hard by pretending you are deaf, or don’t believe the child, or that you have to attend to something vitally important. A truly committed child can astound you with their determination. Again, there are countless scenarios (at the weekly shopping with Mom they are desperate to get the new taste ice-cream; they want to stay past their bedtime to watch a TV series everyone is talking about; they broke a window pane playing football and the neighbor is on his way to tell their parents, etc.). You as the director are in the best position to decide what will best expose the qualities you are after.

Non-actors It is a good policy to cast non-actors close to the written characters; for example, if the script calls for a nurse, why not cast a nurse? It would make your life so much easier; not only

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would he authentically perform any professional procedures, he’d also be able to advise you on the minutiae of the job, and point out any inconsistencies in the script. All you would need to do during the shoot is to use the Stanislavskian magic if (e.g., “What if the patient was hitting on you,” “What if she was extremely smelly,” “What if you were certain the doctor misdiagnosed,” etc.). The main task at the audition is to make the candidates lose self-consciousness. There are numerous ways to address this. The initial small talk is all-important. You can use the imaginary ball trick, as it would work either way: if they are “yes” people (people with a healthy inner child that are open to adventures) and reciprocate, you are already winning. If they are more of the uptight variety, it might serve as your moment of embarrassment and would work towards gaining their trust (providing you’ve already established your competency). You can also request that the candidates bring a small personal object of sentimental value to the audition. Don’t mention the object initially; proceed with the first read of the prepared scene. After recording and feedback, remind them about the object and invite them to share the story behind it. The very nature of these stories often triggers emotions and you need to be patient, listen attentively, and thank them for the privilege. Now, for the second read, ask them to hold the object while performing. It should produce an emotionally charged interpretation. Improvisations are very effective in evaluating the candidates’ power of imagination and ability to operate within imaginary circumstances. For example, you might try the following scenario. You give the person a fictitious lottery ticket and say that it is a birthday present they’d received from a stingy aunt. “She always gives you the same present and, of course, you’ve never won a single dime. Anyway, you’re on your lunch break, reading a newspaper, and think you might as well check the results. And I can tell you that this time you’ve won.” And hand them the newspaper. (The made-up ticket matches the major win printed in the paper.) If the person is willing to engage with the given circumstances, you will see them taking their time to find the relevant page in the paper, studying the printed numbers and cross-checking them with the ticket, and when they finally find the number they will display all the symptoms of genuine surprise (disbelief, evaluation, and deciding on a subsequent action). They concentrated on the task at hand rather than on their performance. Chances are, they will be able to follow directions.

Callbacks It is not enough to get the best person for the role if they are not relating to anyone else in the film. Callbacks are intended to test the relationships: do they look like a couple? Can you sense any chemistry between them? How do they relate as people? The structure of these sessions could be as rigid or as free as your instincts tell you. You can record reading a couple of scenes, play theater games, or use improvisations. Any exercises that require active cooperation between the couple will give you a glimpse into their potential screen relationship.

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EXERCISE—CONNECTIVITY Try the following sequence with a couple of colleagues: 1

LEAN WALK . The players A and B walk around the room side by side, leaning against each other’s shoulder. They try to keep their feet as far apart from each other as possible.

2

WHEELBARROW. A on the floor leans on his hands, B takes him by the legs and pushes him about like a wheelbarrow. After a while the players swap places.

3

BACK MASSAGE . The players stand back to back and each tries to massage the partner with their back.

4

DROP. The players stand opposite each other at arm’s length. A holds a small object in each of her hands (e.g. a key or a wallet), raised to shoulder level. Without warning she lets go of one of the objects and B tries to catch it before it reaches the ground. Repeat a few times, then swap—B is now the object holder.

5

WHAT ARE YOU DOING ? A mimes a simple activity, for example combing her hair. B asks, “What are you doing?” A answers by naming any activity except the one she is performing, for example, “I’m cycling.” B has to immediately start miming the said activity (in this case cycling). A in turn asks, “What are you doing?” “I’m flying a kite” B might answer, and so on.

6

FREEZE . A strikes a pose and freezes (for example fishing). B must instantly produce a complementing pose (for example fish). A then unfreezes and creates a pose that complements B’s pose (for example chips). And so on.

7

ONE WORD AT A TIME . Tell a story one word at a time, for example: A—Once B—upon A—a B—time A—there B—was . . . You get the idea.

These exercises are fun to perform and you should see your colleagues noticeably more open to each other. Used as a prelude to reading scenes at a callback session, they will inform the interpretation and elevate the level of intimacy between the actors. Another good exercise that promotes connection is “Who Are You?” (see above, page 96).

Of course, it is not always desirable for the actors to meet their future partners. If your characters are meeting for the first time, and you subscribe to the notion of film as the art of capturing reality in flux, then you might want the actors not to know whom they’re going to meet in front of the camera. In Captain Phillips (2013), director Paul Greengrass kept the Somali actors playing the pirates away from the rest of the cast until they filmed the

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storming of the bridge on the ship. The resulting performance of newcomer Barkhad Abdi won him numerous awards, including the BAFTA for Best Actor in a Supporting Role and the Screen Actors Guild Award for Outstanding Performance by a Male Actor in a Supporting Role.

Decision time The auditions are done. Now is time for decisions. Don’t rush: watch and rewatch the audition recordings and consult with friends you trust. Put their photographs on the wall and keep coming back to it—is the constellation still working after you’ve slept on it? The actors you will chose are not only those who you like most but also those who can appreciate your way of working. Often, you’ll end up casting not the best actor but the best person for the role. And speaking of the role, you will need to attend to the script—there most probably are elements of the character that need adjustment now that you have your cast.

Rehearsal There lies in the nature of every gifted actor the seed of every human feeling and sensation. One only needs to find the right bait to arouse them. KONSTANTIN STANISLAVSKI

Screen productions can’t usually afford the amount of rehearsal time given to theater plays. Also, the function of each is different: theater rehearsals aim at creating fully developed characters that will appear night after night for the course of the play’s season. In contrast, screen characters are built from small fragments of time recorded over several weeks or even months. Therefore, the rehearsal period has to be utilized differently. Rather than attempting to form complete characters, the screen director concentrates on building an atmosphere of mutual trust, and unlocking each actor’s creative potential. To that end the director has to exercise particular sensitivity, as each actor is different and requires a different approach: some thrive on analysis and construct their characters intellectually; others follow the psychological stimulation of the Method; yet others find the truth of the character through physicalization. The director has to carefully navigate through all those techniques (and egos) in order to arrive at some shape of a homogenous ensemble. First, do no harm. The director’s primary role when working with actors is that of empathetic witness. Observing actors during rehearsals, the director has to be able to determine if they are best left alone or need assistance. And if they do need help, the director has to know when to intervene and in what capacity. Simply bearing witness is powerful and effective. Sometimes guidance is needed. Sometimes provocation. Sometimes “I don’t know” will ignite the actor’s invention. The best way for the actor to create a character is through selfdiscovery rather than through imposition of the director’s ideas. Who knows, they might arrive at something more interesting than what you had in mind. Rehearsals are about probing the material, testing relationships, and asking questions—the actors will gestate the ideas in the

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period leading to the production. The best outcome of the rehearsal period is for the actors to feel secure in their characters but “under-rehearsed” when shooting. The rehearsal process itself might involve reading the script, analysis, discussing backstories, and games and improvisations. Improvisations can be utilized in two ways: to further develop the script, or to inform the characters and give the actors shared experience. Whatever the rehearsal approach, the chief ingredient must be the genuine, personal interest of all involved in the material and its premise. This is the engine that will power the production process.

Read-through The read-through takes place before any rehearsals. It is a major stepping stone in the process of any screen drama production. Not only does it signal that the film is actually going to happen, it is the first (and possibly the only) time that the director can see and hear the whole cast performing the script in its entirety. Hearing the actors breathe life into the script gives the director a fresh insight into the storyworld. The effectiveness, or otherwise, of plot progression, rhythms, and character traits become apparent. As do any casting mistakes. For big-budget films, the read-through is a formal affair attended by all major stakeholders: financiers, executive producers, and producers, but also by the director’s closest collaborators—the writer and the heads of departments. Small-budget productions might not have the means to assemble everyone, but I would recommend inviting as many of the cast and crew as possible. It will make them feel they belong and not just lending their services; consequently, they will all strive to make “the same film,” as the saying goes. Customarily before the read everyone present introduces themselves and their role on the production, and the director briefly outlines his or her vision for the film. The read-through is also a tremendous communication shortcut for the director. In future negotiations with her collaborators, she won’t have to explain to everyone individually her motivation behind the film’s aesthetics every time an important decision has to be made, as it would have been laid bare during the read-through. It is a good idea to arrange for an actor not involved with the production to read the “big print”—the scene headings and action descriptions. After the read, all present are invited to share their impressions, following which the director would discuss any possible adjustments to the script with the writer.

Scene analysis—third-person read Script analysis, as outlined above (see pages 112–136), is something the actors should do in their own time prior to rehearsals. What I’m proposing below is a collective way of probing the script in the rehearsal room. To illustrate the process, let’s examine a couple of short scenes from Little Miss Sunshine. Sheryl has collected her brother from the hospital and they enter the Hoovers’ home:

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INT . HALLWAY —DAY She leads Frank down the hallway. He follows passively. SHERYL Down here. We have you with Dwayne. She knocks and pushes open the door to Dwayne’s bedroom. Dwayne is on the bed, reading THUS SPOKE ZARATHUSTRA. He sits up. SHERYL Dwayne? Hi, Uncle Frank’s here. Frank hesitates. He gives Sheryl a look: “You are kidding.” SHERYL (cont’d) He doesn’t mind, Frank. We talked. Frank makes a half-gesture toward the rest of the house. SHERYL (cont’d) We can’t have you sleeping alone. The doctors said... (he looks at her) I’m sorry. I have to insist. Dwayne gets up and exits the room, pushing past them and avoiding eye contact. Sheryl enters the bedroom. INT . DWAYNE ’S BEDROOM —DAY Sheryl goes and brushes off a cot. Frank remains outside. SHERYL You’ll get along fine. He’s really quiet. Look, I set up a cot. (he hesitates) Please, Frank? Please? Very unhappily, Frank enters the room and just stands there. SHERYL (cont’d) Thank you. I gotta start dinner. Come out when you’re settled? And leave the door open. That’s important. (beat) I’m glad you’re here. She gives him a kiss on the cheek, then departs.

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Frank sits on the cot in his nephew’s bedroom. On it is a Muppet sleeping bag with Cookie Monster eating a cookie. Frank glances at the sleeping bag, then averts his eyes. This is pretty much the worst moment of his life. Start with an objective report of all the information given by the screenwriter. Actor A is responsible for reporting all information relating to Sheryl—both her dialogue and the directions. Actor B will do the same with Frank, and Actor C with Dwayne. What we are after is absolutely no interpretation of the text, no suppositions, purely the information as printed on the page: what happens first, what happens next, and next, and next: Actor A: Sheryl leads Frank down the hallway. Actor B: Frank follows passively. Actor A: Sheryl directs Frank toward a door and says that they have him with Dwayne. She pushes open the door to Dwayne’s bedroom. Actor C: Dwayne is on the bed, reading Thus Spoke Zarathustra. He sits up. Actor A: Sheryl greets Dwayne and says that Uncle Frank is here. Actor B: Frank hesitates. He gives Sheryl a look saying, she’s kidding. Actor A: Sheryl addresses Frank, saying that Dwayne doesn’t mind and that they talked. Actor B: Frank makes a half-gesture toward the rest of the house. Actor A: Sheryl says that they can’t have him sleeping alone. That the doctors said . . . Actor B: Frank looks at her. Actor A: With apology, Sheryl says that she has to insist. Actor C: Dwayne gets up and exits the room, pushing past Sheryl and Frank, avoiding eye contact. Actor A: Sheryl enters the bedroom. She goes and brushes off a cot. Actor B: Frank remains outside. Actor A: Sheryl tells Frank that he and Dwayne will get along fine. That Dwayne is really quiet. She draws Frank’s attention to the cot saying that she set it up. Actor B: Frank hesitates. Actor A: Sheryl asks Frank repeatedly to enter the room. Actor B: Very unhappily, Frank enters the room and just stands there. Actor A: Sheryl thanks him, then excuses herself saying that she gotta start dinner. She asks Frank to come out when he’s settled, and to leave the door open—says that that’s important. She pauses, then says that she is glad he is here. She gives him a kiss on the cheek, then departs. Actor B: Frank sits on the cot in his nephew’s bedroom. On it is a Muppet sleeping bag with Cookie Monster eating a cookie. He glances at the sleeping bag, then averts his eyes. This is pretty much the worst moment of his life.

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As you can see, we have “translated” the dialogue from the first person to the third person, that is, Actor A, instead of reading direction pertaining to her character followed by her first line of dialogue (“Down here. We have you with Dwayne”), reads the directions as written but reports the dialogue, “. . . says that they have him with Dwayne.” The actors might find it confusing initially but with repetition will get used to it. The third-person read makes the actors learn the story, and not their lines. In fact, if you decide to use this model, ask the actors not to learn their lines prior to rehearsals. Next, reinforce each character’s individual story. Referring to the script, they only report their individual journey through the scene: Actor A: Sheryl leads Frank down the hallway. He follows her passively. She directs Frank toward Dwayne’s door and says that they have him with Dwayne. She opens the door and sees Dwayne sitting on the bed, reading Thus Spoke Zarathustra. He sits up. Sheryl says hi and adds that Uncle Frank is here. Frank gives her a look saying, she’s kidding. Sheryl tells Frank that Dwayne doesn’t mind and that they talked. Frank makes a half-gesture toward the rest of the house. Sheryl says that they can’t have him sleeping alone. That the doctors said . . . at that moment Frank looks at her. Sheryl apologizes but says that she must insist. At this point Dwayne gets up and exits the room, pushing past her and Frank, avoiding eye contact. Sheryl enters the bedroom and brushes off a cot while Frank remains outside. Sheryl reassures Frank that he and Dwayne will get along fine, that Dwayne is really quiet, and says that she set up the cot. Frank hesitates, so Sheryl pleads with him. Finally, very unhappily, he enters the room and just stands there. Sheryl thanks him, then excuses herself saying that she gotta start dinner. She asks Frank to come out when he’s settled, and to leave the door open—says that that’s important. She pauses, then says that she is glad he is here. She gives him a kiss on the cheek, then departs. Actor B: Frank passively follows Sheryl as she leads him down the hallway. She indicates a door, and says that they have him with Dwayne. She opens the door to reveal Dwayne on the bed, reading Thus Spoke Zarathustra. Seeing them, Dwayne sits up. Sheryl greets him and adds that Uncle Frank is here. Frank hesitates. He gives Sheryl a look saying, she’s kidding, to which she says that Dwayne doesn’t mind and that they talked. Frank makes a halfgesture toward the rest of the house but Sheryl says that they can’t have him sleeping alone. That the doctors said . . . Frank looks at her. She apologizes but insists he shares with Dwayne. At this point Dwayne gets up and exits the room, pushing past him and Sheryl avoiding eye contact. Sheryl enters the bedroom, goes and brushes off a cot. Frank remains outside. Sheryl tells him that he and Dwayne will get along fine and that Dwayne is really quiet. She says that she set up the cot. Frank hesitates and she pleads with him. He enters very unhappily and just stands there. Sheryl thanks him, then excuses herself saying that she gotta start dinner. She asks Frank to come out when he’s settled, and to leave the door open—says that that’s important. She pauses, then says that she is glad he is here. She gives him a kiss on the cheek, then departs. Frank sits on the cot, glances at the sleeping bag covering the cot—it’s a Muppet sleeping bag with Cookie Monster eating a cookie. This is pretty much the worst moment of his life. Actor C: Dwayne is in his bedroom sitting on the bed, reading Thus Spoke Zarathustra. There is a knock to the door, then the door opens. It’s Sheryl and Frank. Dwayne sits up. Sheryl

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says hi, and that Uncle Frank is here. Frank hesitates and gives Sheryl a look saying, she’s kidding. Sheryl addresses Frank, saying that Dwayne doesn’t mind and that they talked. Frank makes a half-gesture toward the rest of the house but Sheryl says that they can’t have him sleeping alone. That the doctors said . . . at which point Frank looks at her. Sheryl apologizes and says that she has to insist. Dwayne gets up and exits the room, pushing past Sheryl and Frank, avoiding eye contact. Now that we have the same story told from three different points of view, let’s try to articulate in one simple, objective sentence what each character is doing in the course of these two scenes. What heading would encompass all the activities the character is performing, bearing in mind that we are still not attaching any interpretation to the actions? Perhaps something like: ➔ Sheryl introduces Frank to the fact that he will have to live under constant supervision. ➔ Frank resists accepting his fate. ➔ Dwayne leaves the room. If we accept the above, we can start working on the interpretation of the text. This part should be negotiated between the actor and the director: what does each character want, what do they do in order to achieve their objective, and how will they know their actions brought the desired effect? Let’s start with Sheryl—what would be the ideal outcome for her? Frank is her suicidal brother that she just collected from the hospital; she feels responsible for him—we can safely assume that she loves him and wants him to get better. What then does she want of him in this scene—how does she want to influence him? Does she want to make him obey her? It could work—she finally makes him enter the room. But somehow it doesn’t feel right . . . Does she want him to accept the fact that he won’t have much privacy— would that work? Yes, it would—the fact that Frank enters the room is the proof of that. What about, she simply wants him to enter the room? Again, it works—he does, but why then does the scene continue? Why does she say she’s glad he’s there, and gives him a kiss? And how do all the above wants tally with the film’s premise (A real winner is the one who finds happiness in sacrificing his dreams of personal success for serving others)? All of them illuminate the film’s premise. Let’s agree on Sheryl wants Frank to accept the fact that, for his own good, he won’t be able to enjoy much privacy. And her action? It can be to persuade, to cajole, to reason, to assure . . . whichever verb resonates strongest with the actor. What about Frank? What does he want of Sheryl? What tactic can he effectively use, and how will he know that he has achieved his objective? Perhaps Frank just wants Sheryl to let him be—allow him to settle somewhere out of sight. To achieve that he can beg, implore, or use a more aggressive tack and shame her, blackmail her emotionally. Frank would know he succeeded if Sheryl put him in a separate room. Dwayne wants to spare himself the embarrassment of seeing Sheryl and Frank squabbling in front of him and leaves the room.

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The third-person read has a very beneficial effect on the atmosphere in the rehearsal space as actors’ default position of looking at a scene solely from their character’s point of view gives way to objective examination of the story. There is no obligation, and therefore no stress, to “get the character right.” In fact, there is no mention of “characters”—there are people’s actions described in the script, that’s all. The actors are now ready to get the scene up on its feet.

EXERCISE—THIRD PERSON READ Test the process with two actors, one playing Wolf, the other Michelle. 1

Read the scene:

INT . SUNSHINE SHELTER YOUTH REFUGE . DAY Wolf tentatively walks into the warm welcoming reception area of the Sunshine shelter, baby red faced, whimpering, in her arms. Michelle sits at a desk behind a glass barrier but on seeing Wolf with a baby she jumps up and comes out. MICHELLE Wolf? WOLF They fuckin’ left her. MICHELLE Who? WOLF Some junkies, just left her in the squat. MICHELLE Ok, I’ll call the police and Family Services. Wolf looks panicked. Michelle knows why. MICHELLE (CONT ’D) I have to. Wolf’s PHONE RINGS . Michelle frowns. MICHELLE (CONT ’D) They will want to talk to you. Wolf shakes her head.

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WOLF Nup. I can’t. I’ll get done. MICHELLE You have to tell them what you know. Wolf’s jaw tenses. Shakes her head. Her PHONE still RINGING . MICHELLE (CONT ’D) Please just stay here while I call. Michelle moves into an office area that is behind glass. Wolf watches her call but we don’t hear any sound. Wolf tries to answer her phone, but the RINGING stops. WOLF Fuck. The baby starts to CRY again. Wolf frowns. Michelle returns. WOLF (CONT ’D) She won’t fuckin’ stop. MICHELLE Wolf she probably needs a nappy change...and some food. Wolf tries to hand the baby to Michelle but she ignores this. MICHELLE (CONT ’D) I’ll find some spare nappies to change her. We always have emergency supplies. WOLF You’ve got nappies? MICHELLE You know how many girls here with their little ones. Michelle goes to find nappies, leaving Wolf alone with baby. Wolf looks down at the baby. She is like an alien in her arms. She sees the baby’s face properly for the first time. The baby looks up at Wolf, its cute sniffing little face. Wolf fixes up the blanket around the baby’s face to keep her snuggled. Her bruised knuckles contrast the baby’s skin.

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Michelle returns with a nappy. MICHELLE (CONT ’D) Ok here we are. Michelle lays down a rug on the ground. Wolf gently places the baby on the rug. Michelle kneels down and starts to change the nappy. Wolf crouches beside them. Michelle makes the baby laugh while the nappy is being changed. Wolf’s eyes light up, she has never seen the baby laugh. She is mesmerized. WOLF How do you know how to do this? MICHELLE Years of practice. I’ve got three kids. Wolf looks at her, with a new look, she didn’t know this. Nappy change finished. Michelle picks up the baby and puts her back in Wolf’s arms. MICHELLE (CONT ’D) Here you go. She likes you. Wolf doesn’t know what to say. She just stares at the baby, completely captivated. MICHELLE (CONT ’D) Why don’t you sing to her? Wolf looks confused. MICHELLE (CONT ’D) Maybe a song your mum sang to you. Wolf shakes her head, she doesn’t know any. Michelle gently puts her hand on Wolf’s arm and starts to sing. MICHELLE (CONT ’D) Sotto la luna stanotte, sotto la luna stanotte dolce bambino che ride... As Michelle sings baby, the lullaby is soft and sweet, Wolf is utterly entranced with the baby and the baby with her.

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MICHELLE (CONT ’D) Dolce delizia di tua mamma Vieni vicino, vieni vicino si fanno le stelle cantano vivo... The baby grabs Wolf’s bruised finger. Wolf’s face softens, a smile breaks across her face. A warmth radiates from Wolf that we’ve never seen from her before. Michelle stops singing. Wolf looks up to her. Michelle is looking out the front door of the shelter. MICHELLE (CONT ’D) The police are pulling up. The spell is broken. Wolf looks at the baby, she decides. WOLF I’ll stay. I’ll tell them what I know. MICHELLE Wolf, really? Wolf nods her head, knowing it’s right. She takes a deep breath ready for what is to come. MICHELLE (CONT ’D) Get out of here. WOLF What? MICHELLE Go out the back. Go before I change my mind. Wolf jumps up. She hands Michelle the baby, and runs out.

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2

Ask the two actors to describe the events: referring to the script, they are to translate their respective portions of the scene into a third-person report, as described above. Actor A reports on Wolf’s actions and dialogue, and B on Michelle’s actions and dialogue. Directions that incorporate both characters— for example, “Michelle goes to find nappies, leaving Wolf alone with baby”—will be split: the first part read by the actor playing Michelle and the second part by the actor playing Wolf.

3

Repeat until the story flows seamlessly.

4

Ask the actors to report their actions and dialogue individually.

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5

Together, arrive at a simple, objective description of what they are doing in the scene.

6

Negotiate with the actors their respective wants, the tactics they will employ in trying to achieve their objectives, and tangible evidence of success of their actions (the cap).

7

Read the scene (in third person) again.

8

Putting the scripts away, the actors improvise the scene. By now they are intimately familiar with the plot progression, their respective wants and tactics, and evidence of success. The fact that they don’t have their lines down pat means they’ll have to really listen to each other.

Improvisation Improvisation is a very useful rehearsal tool, provided it is well planned. The director has to set concrete rules—who, what, why, when, and the time frame. Unstructured improvisations, à la “Let’s get these characters together and see what happens,” only lead to rambling and frustration; it is counterproductive and kills creativity. In the above example the improvisation following the third-person read assists with bringing authenticity to the scene, and building a relationship between the actors. Other benefits of well-structured improvisations include: ➔ providing characters with a common past; ➔ constructing individual characters; ➔ constructing spontaneity; ➔ creating “what happened just before”; ➔ creating emotional entry points.

Providing characters with common past Assigning actors tasks they have to perform together, problems they have to resolve in collaboration, or even playing games creates a bond that will pay off when shooting the film as the actors will genuinely relate to each other. And while the internal landscape may differ from actor to actor, the key events common to characters’ past are best created through improvisations.13 The experience of improvising the first date, moving in together, the first fight, the birth of a child, or the death of a parent will deeply inform performances and tighten the bond between the actors.

13 For example, fifteen minutes into Little Miss Sunshine Sheryl refers to Dwayne’s father and Olive’s cousins. Even though we never see them, the actors playing Sheryl, Dwayne, and Olive have to come up with vivid images of their relatives, if their performances are to be authentic. Interestingly, it doesn’t matter if the actors’ images differ; Toni Collette’s image of her ex- might be absolutely different to Paul Dano’s image of his father—it is the emotional connection that matters. The audiences will still buy it as the same person.

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EXERCISE—FIRST MEETING It is apparent that Wolf and Michelle in Liz Cooper’s Wolf share a common history. Improvise their first meeting. Provide clear parameters for the actors: WHO are the major players? Wolf and Michelle of course, but are there any police officers also present? What about inhabitants of the youth refuge? WHAT is actually happening? Is it Wolf seeking refuge or perhaps it’s the police that brought her in? If it is the police, why choose that resource as opposed to, say, a watch house? WHAT does Michelle want? What does Wolf want? What stops them from getting what they want? WHY ? If it’s Wolf who needs to seek refuge, what brought her to that decision? How desperate is she? WHEN is it happening—mid-morning, afternoon, or the middle of a night? Give the actors five minutes to achieve their goals.

Constructing individual characters If we accept that the dramatic character’s arc consists of the inner journey of transformation, we need to examine the source of their initial dysfunction. For instance, at the beginning of Little Miss Sunshine Richard’s obsession with success blinds him to the needs of his family. Why does he behave that way? What weakness does his arrogance cover? Perhaps subconsciously he wants to prove to his father that he’ll be a better person than him? We know that Grandpa was a womanizer and a drug user in his mature years—what was he like when Richard was a child? What had scarred Richard so badly that he adopted such a harsh façade? Acting coach Susan Batson proposes confronting the perpetrator of the character’s flaw in a telephone conversation. These building blocks of a character are worth exploring through improvisation.

EXERCISE—THE PHONE CALL IN BATSON, S. (2013). TRUTH. The protagonist of Wolf is a deeply flawed character. Examine the script with an actor and assist her in defining the nature of Wolf’s main flaw—what is the dominant malfunction in her psychological make-up? Once you’ve established Wolf’s flaw, speculate on what triggered it in the first place— was there a singular person that caused that? What actually happened? Encourage the actor to be very detailed in her account. Next, ask the actor to confront, as Wolf, the perpetrator in a telephone call. Give her a generous time frame, as the call is likely to cover vast terrain and a complex emotional journey.

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Another useful tool in constructing character through improvisation is the Stanislavskian solitude in private, later developed by Lee Strasberg into the private moment, and finally divided by Susan Bateson into the personal private moment and the character private moment (see above, page 105). While Strasberg’s private moment exercise aimed at assisting actors to overcome their personal inhibitions in front of an audience, Batson’s character private moment applies the principle to the character, not the actor. The exercise helps to infuse the character with the actor’s own intimacy.

EXERCISE—CHARACTER PRIVATE MOMENT Use Wolf as the base material for the exercise. First, the participant closely examines the script and arrives at an educated guess as to a place in which Wolf would feel truly private. She needs to build a very clear and detailed picture of the space—its location, the way it’s furnished, the colors and textures that dominate the place, its smell, temperature, the quality of light permeating the room, and the soundscape around the location and within the room. Once that is established, the actor chooses three activities she (the actor) would perform in private but never do in public. Perform the exercise for ten minutes.

Actors who totally commit to the exercise experience the character viscerally and gain an authentic blend of their own intimacy with that of the character. Perhaps the most famous cinematic character private moment is Robert De Niro’s “You talkin’ to me” scene in Taxi Driver.

Constructing spontaneity The biggest paradox in acting is the fact that the actor knows the future (it’s in the script!) and the character doesn’t. In real life we don’t know what’s going to happen from one moment to the next. Consequently, our responses to new stimuli are always spontaneous. Not so in performance—second take? tenth take? How can the actor retain spontaneity? The moment

Figure 3.6 Taxi Driver, director Martin Scorsese (1976).

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by moment exercise (see above, page 67) will provide the foundation for characters’ spontaneous behavior. Another way of combating actors’ anticipation is experimenting with the moments of choice embedded in a scene. Let me illustrate: about thirty-two minutes into Little Miss Sunshine there is the following exchange between Richard and Frank:

RICHARD ... So I start pitching “The Nine Steps” to Stan...Two minutes in, he stops me, says, “I can sell this.” FRANK Wow. RICHARD This is a guy who knows how to do it—you start with the book; media tour; then corporate events, consulting, video series, direct buys on TV ...There’s a science in how you roll these things out FRANK Interesting...! RICHARD So he’s at the Expo in Atlanta he’s been hyping it up, building the buzz—he’s gonna send it out, do a ticking clock auction. FRANK How about that...! RICHARD And I can detect that note of sarcasm, Frank... FRANK What sarcasm?! RICHARD ... But I just want you to know—I feel sorry for you. FRANK You do? Good. RICHARD Because sarcasm is the refuge of losers.

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FRANK It is?! Really?! RICHARD Sarcasm is just the sour grapes of losers trying to pull winners down to their level. That’s Step Four. FRANK Wow, Richard! You’ve really opened my eyes to what a loser I am! Say, how much do I owe you for those pearls of wisdom? RICHARD It’s on me, buddy. It’s on me. After Frank’s line, “How about that,” Richard confronts him and the conflict escalates. But what if he chose to ignore the remark? What if he decided to convert Frank to his philosophy? How would the interaction proceed? And what about Frank? It is apparent from the beginning of the conversation that he has absolutely no interest in Richard’s story. When Richard accuses him of sarcasm, Frank retaliates with fake bewilderment. But what if he acknowledged that his remarks were inappropriate and decided to show genuine interest in Richard’s ideas? After all, he himself admitted that he’d lost on all fronts; perhaps Richard’s program would offer a way out of his predicament?

EXERCISE—MOMENTS OF CHOICE Use a dialogue two-hander scene. The actors read the scene out loud without any interpretation, Actor A reading his part, including directions pertaining to his character, and Actor B attends to her character. Incidentally, such a plain read should always be the starting point when working on a scene. Any premature interpretation hampers the process of discovering the meaning of the text, which by the very nature of creative collaboration is very elusive and will evolve via the encounter of different personalities at a particular location and a particular point in time. Next, ask the actors to read the scene quietly to themselves, searching for the first moment where their character, upon receiving a new piece of information, makes a decision as to how to deal with it—the moment of choice. The actors must not share their discoveries with the director or their fellow actor. Instead, they decide on a new objective, radically different to the one the character makes in the scene. The actors read the scene aloud again. The moment one of the actors arrives at his or her character’s moment of choice, they deviate from the script and improvise, actively pursuing the new objective. The job of the partner is to bring the scene back to its original intentions.

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Let the improvisation run for half a minute to one minute to give both actors the experience of the unpredictable. Then start from the beginning again with a straight uninflected read until the other actor arrives at his or her moment of choice and a new improvisation ensues.

Creating “what happened just before” For a scene to ring true, characters need to bring with them remnants of the outside world, both external—that is, where are they coming from—and internal—the emotional and psychological baggage. Both can benefit from improvisations. Take the opening scene from Wolf: in a youth refuge shelter, fifteen-year-old Wolf assaults the sixteen-year-old Ky. The script describes Wolf as being in a “blind rage.” The question that immediately springs to mind is what triggered Wolf’s aggression? An improvisation exploring that will bring specificity to the scene. As with every improvisation, the director starts by establishing the parameters: 1

The actors act as themselves in the given circumstances, they explore the scene from their own personal emotional perspective before trying to get into character.

2

WHAT is the bone of contention?

3

WHEN is the confrontation happening? Immediately before we cut to the scene (in which case it would be beneficial to run it during the shoot) or some time earlier?

4

WHERE does the first scene take place? In the corridor or somewhere else?

Creating emotional entry points The ending of Wolf has the protagonist visiting her mother in prison. In the course of the scene we see significant emotional shifts in both characters. For Wolf especially it is a transformative moment; she enters a new chapter in her life:

Wolf’s leg starts to bounce angrily. Her rage is restless. But then through Wolf’s angry glare big hot tears well up in her eyes. She fights this feeling, her leg bouncing faster. MUM (CONT ’D) I missed ya love. Wolf’s eyes drop to the ground, a tear falls, her leg stops bouncing. Wolf roughly throws her arms around her Mum’s waist and buries her head in her lap. Mum, taken aback for a moment, but ever grateful, soothingly strokes Wolf’s hair and places a kiss on her head. Reading the script, the actor can deduce the reasons behind Wolf’s reaction: Wolf’s

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wound was most probably caused by her mother’s inability to give her love in her childhood, consequently causing Wolf’s flaw of blocking any emotions with anger and physical aggression. Her mask of a tough, streetwise survivor had served her well until the confrontation with the utter vulnerability of a baby. Then it cracked. Wolf needs parental love. And what about Mum, what’s her story? Why wasn’t she able to provide Wolf with the fundamental need of any child? Was it due to poverty? Drugs? And what persona has she adopted to cope with the inevitable pangs of conscience? That’s the cerebral approach. But rational analysis might not be sufficient for the actor to enter the level of emotional openness needed for the scene. The actor playing Wolf needs to generate an emotional loading that the character brings to the scene, and which finally shatters her façade. More often than not, it is the end of a scene that gives us clues as to what the nature of that loading is. Sanford Meisner illustrates it with an anecdote: “Let’s imagine I have a short speech in a play, which I’ll deliver in a moment. It’s hard for me to laugh but here goes.” Instantly Meisner looks as if he is delighted by something wondrous and clasps his hands in pleasure. My speech begins, “I was in the worst taxi accident in my life! Two people were killed!” then, after more laughter and more words, I get to the last line, which is, “But I came out safe and so did my companion!” The emotional essence is in the last line, and once you have prepared that gaiety, then you start the speech, even though the first line of it is, “I was in the worst taxi accident in my life!” MEISNER and LONGWELL, 1987

Of course, Wolf won’t display her hunger for maternal love at the beginning of the scene, but the potential of that has to hover just under the surface, nudging at her restless rage. How can the actor create these emotions? Through daydreaming. Daydreaming is very useful for actors; it is evocative but doesn’t involve the emotional pain often associated with affective memory, as it doesn’t deal with the actor’s intimate memories. It is a “What if” without its specificity—the very nature of daydreaming is free association; you never know where you’ll end. And you certainly loose self-consciousness. The director negotiates with the actor what kind of daydream would be most effective for the scene—perhaps a moment from childhood when Wolf was rejected by her mother. Or the exact opposite—a rare occasion when Mum gave her love. Give both actors time to daydream. They aren’t to share their roaming with you, just indicate when they are ready. Improvise the scene, preferably without any dialogue.

Blocking rehearsal Blocking is where you map out actors’ movements in a particular scene in relation to each other and to the camera. Generally, it is not advised to block scenes at the pre-production rehearsals. In most cases the actual locations haven’t yet been finalized or the studio sets built, and the process ends up being a conjecture upon speculation leading to mechanical choreography devoid of life. Additionally, blocking that early might project a message of the director’s insecurity, which is not a desired image.

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However, there are exceptions to the rule—sitcoms recorded in front of live audience, sequences involving stunts or special effects, or scenes to be shot at what is known as the “magic hour” (the short period of time just before sunset, during which the quality of light is particularly attractive). A well-prepared director comes to blocking rehearsals with a clear concept of how they want to visually present the subtext of the scene. Previously, we looked at the Little Miss Sunshine scene in which Sharon first meets Frank after his suicide attempt. Despite its brevity and sparse dialogue, upon closer investigation the scene turns out to be quite complex. One would be tempted to shoot extensive coverage with close-ups capturing all the emotional shifts and subtleties. Instead, the scene is covered in a single shot:

Figure 3.7 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

The unbalanced, static frame and the awkwardness of the hug in the scene’s climax provide abundant information about the nature of the siblings’ relationship. Any additional shots would diminish, not enrich, the impact of the image. About one hour and seven minutes into the film, Dwayne refuses to continue the journey. This scene has extended coverage but its essence is captured in the following frame:

Figure 3.8 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

The visual metaphor for the film’s premise is evident, and it is likely that the coverage of the scene was built around this central image.

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Of course, it does not mean that the director arrives at the rehearsal with a sequence of rock-solid compositions on his storyboard and executes the choreography by adding the in-between movements. What it does mean is that the director did the thinking about the essence of the scene in visual terms: the choreography will develop organically in the process of collective discovery. And more often than not the actors’ instincts as to when and where to move will conform to the pre-visualized plans. Music can be a very powerful form of communication between director and actor. Music provides a very effective tool to access a scene’s emotional undercurrent. Playing a piece that conveys the looked-for atmosphere will give the actors permission to let go of selfconsciousness and allow the music to stimulate the physical shape of the scene. The directing then becomes “correcting”—adjusting and fine-tuning—the best directorial practice there is. Actors who prefer a more cerebral approach will respond to the following process: 1

Read the scene and define its units of action, for example the first one might be titled “Packing up for an overseas business trip.”

2

List all the physical activities you have to perform; for example, find the suitcase, select the wardrobe, call the taxi, find the passport, and so on.

3

Silently, test the sequence and arrive at the most effective way of accomplishing the given aim. Strive for clarity and simplicity.

4

Repeat the process with all units of action in the scene.

Naturally, the process can be applied to any scene.

EXERCISE - UNITS OF ACTION Break scene sixteen from Wolf into units of action, give each a title, and list all the activities Wolf and Michelle need to perform in them.

Stillness can be as powerful as movement, and often it is the juxtaposition of the two that creates the most effective visual rendering of the scene. Movement needs only to occur in context—the character moves because she has to accomplish something, change something, or influence someone. It applies to substantial moves—for example, she crosses the room to open the window because she is suffocating—and minute movements—for example, she lowers her head because she wants to hide her tears. I would compare blocking to dialogue: the difference between everyday conversation and dialogue is that dialogue is edited and fulfills a specific function. Similarly, blocking appears natural, but it is movement that is edited and fulfills a specific function.

Short rehearsal It is not uncommon to have little to no rehearsal time prior to production. Being prepared for this scenario is incredibly important. This section details some key approaches you might undertake if this is the case.

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Crucially, the key outcome of a reduced rehearsal period is to develop mutual trust and a common language. This can range from agreeing on the meaning of the terms used in the process (Is it “goal,” “aim,” or “objective”? Is it “strategy” or “action”?) to finding out each actor’s particular needs. Some actors crave intellectual deliberation, others work from a visceral response to the text. Some actors work from the inside out, others discover their characters through their physicality. You will learn about the individual methods through most conventional approaches, for example reading the scene “flat,” discussing the nature of the conflict, and improvising a key moment from the characters’ past. The more variety you can introduce to rehearsal the better. Here are some ideas: ➔ Interview the actors about their characters. “Who would your character like to be?” “Who would she be afraid to be?” “Describe your un-character.” ➔ Ask the actors to switch characters (for example, Olive plays Dwayne and vice versa). ➔ Get the actors to play actions that are in exact opposition to any logical choice; for example if the character’s goal is to chat up a girl, ask the actor to play the action “to repulse.” ➔ One actor speaks the lines and the partner tells the subtext: “He says that but what he really means is . . .” ➔ Play the scene twice as fast, retaining all intentions, pauses, and so on. ➔ Play the scene twice as long. ➔ Encourage the actors to search for their characters’ archetypes and surrender to them— chances are they will find that a lot of work has already been done. Is he the Jester? The Caregiver? The Creator? Or perhaps Il Dottore from Commedia dell’Arte? Is she the Lover? The Creator? The Rebel? Or perhaps Columbina? ➔ Perform the “Who are you?” exercise (see above, page 96). In her book A Screen Acting Workshop, Mel Churcher offers excellent ideas for improvisations. Below are two exercises particularly useful for building relationships in a short period of time (Churcher, 2011).

Circling with a partner 1 ➔ Find a phrase that expresses your need in relation to your partner in the scene—for example, “I want you to forgive me,” “I need you to confess your sin,” “I want you to show me you love me,” and so on. ➔ Your partner also chooses a phrase that embodies their need towards you. ➔ Now forget the context of the scene, and using all the available space and complete physical freedom, repeat these phrases to each other, making sure you keep trying different ways to get your needs. You can do anything, provided you don’t hurt each other or wreck the room! ➔ Stick only to your decided phrase. Do not use any other words. ➔ At first, consciously try a different action each time to get what you want—for example, flirting, pleading, bullying, loving, consoling, teasing, and so on. (This is to get the exercise going—soon you will just follow your instincts and respond to your partner.)

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➔ Don’t give yourself time to prepare between repetitions—go with the impulse. ➔ You are allowed genuine silences that come out of the need, and you can go out of order if you want to repeat the line again before your partner’s. ➔ Don’t let yourself off the hook. Go past the point where you can’t bear to repeat any more. ➔ After a while, by a kind of osmosis, you will find yourself drawn back into the situation of the scene. ➔ When that happens, obey the context—look at each other, touch each other, and gently whisper the wants a few more times or do anything that the scene demands. But do it quietly without any sense of “pushing.” ➔ If your needs change dramatically within the scene you are to play, you can repeat this game again with the new “wants.” ➔ When you have reached the point where you feel in direct communication with each other, that everything is happening spontaneously of its own volition, and that the “acting” has gone out of it, pull gently away from each other. If the scene is about a break in the relationship, pull away abruptly and turn your back on each other. ➔ Now return to the full text and play out the whole scene.

No rehearsal When there is no budget and/or no time for rehearsal, adopt Todd Solondz’s strategy and utilize auditions for that purpose. In all seriousness, though, audition is your first rehearsal— this is when you discuss the essence of the character, and plant ideas that actors take away and develop. If you have the actor’s email address, you can follow it with visual references, articles, or any material you find inspiring. Meet them over a coffee. Keep the line of communication open.

Pre-visualization The discoveries made during script analysis help the director with formulating the image of the film’s characters, both in terms of their psychological make-up and their external features. A significant part of that work takes place in collaboration with the costume designer, makeup artist, and art director. Have a look at the following photographs:

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Figure 3.9 Julian Rosefeldt, Manifesto, 2015 © Julian Rosefeldt and VG Bild-Kunst, Bonn.

Figure 3.10 Julian Rosefeldt, Manifesto, 2015 © Julian Rosefeldt and VG Bild-Kunst, Bonn.

Figure 3.11 Julian Rosefeldt, Manifesto, 2015 © Julian Rosefeldt and VG Bild-Kunst, Bonn.

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Notwithstanding Cate Blanchett’s extraordinary talent for transformation, the costume, hair, and make-up design, and the furniture and props surrounding the characters all influence the actor’s performance: she moves, feels, and thinks differently wearing a jumper and a beanie and operating a puppet, and differently sitting in an office chair talking facts and figures on the phone. The viewer is informed about the character’s profession, social status, and even their values. The Costume Designer and Cinematographer of the viewer’s eye—they direct their gaze to the parts of the picture that are most relevant to the story at any given moment. A good Costume Designer is like a magician conjuring up the aura that is only perceived subconsciously. The viewer reads the character as familiar—“I know someone just like that”—unaware of the artifice and the abundance of information about the character’s psychological, social, political, economic, or cultural context hidden beneath the surface. Is the character educated? What social strata does she belong to? Is she socially savvy or inept? Does she have a sense of humor? What about her eccentricities, or interest in fashion? There is nothing more satisfying than seeing an actor putting on a piece of clothing or a pair of shoes and dissolving into the character. Their whole body posture changes and the actor disappears, giving way to a character. That’s a sign of a great Costume Designer’s work. On a more practical level, a well-designed costume can hide any unfavorable aspects of the actor’s body and bring attention to their strong features, making the actor feel comfortable and safe, ready to take on challenges set by the director. Costume design actively contributes to storytelling; it can illuminate a character’s backstory and plant a character trait or a plot point that will be exposed later. It should evolve in the course of the film, reflecting the character’s inner journey (for example, Richard Hoover starts with a formal outfit and ends up wearing a soft polo shirt). And aesthetically, costume supports frame composition through texture, shape, and color. Color conveys emotions as efficiently as music score; our response to it is intuitive, which makes for a powerful cinematic storytelling tool—the viewer sees the character differently depending on the color palette that surrounds her. Figures 3.12–3.17 in the plate section illustrate the correlation.

Figure 3.12 (see plate section) Orange and grey: orange can evoke feelings of comfort and security, but also—withdrawal. Grey has no psychological properties—it is neutral, but with the right tone can enhance the surrounding colors. Here the grey background connects with the model’s eyes drawing attention to her inner world.

Figure 3.13 (see plate section) Changing the background to green produces an unexpected result. Green is usually associated with peace and balance but contrasting it with the model’s orange hair creates a vibrant, convivial glow.

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Figure 3.14 (see plate section) As with all matters creative, there are no rules. Brown is the color of stability, warmth, and nature. Combined with the notion of refreshment and balance associated with green, it should conjure up feelings of warmth and trust and yet in this example the opposite is true. The model appears to be hiding something.

Figure 3.15 (see plate section) Blue: the color of serenity and reflection definitely affects the way we view the subject. He appears trustworthy and open to communication.

Figure 3.16 (see plate section) Black can create a barrier as it absorbs all the colors, and is usually associated with grief and sadness, but also heaviness and menace. There is definitely no menace in this picture; the subject’s delicate bone structure surrounded by black evokes empathy.

Figure 3.17 (see plate section) The juxtaposition of black with red and orange imbues the model with strength and masculinity and produces a feeling of excitement. Red grabs our attention, as it appears to be nearer than any other color.

Color script One of the challenges the director faces during production is the ability to hold the whole film in his or her head: every character needs to develop in harmony with the plot progression and the premise of the film. The task is further complicated by the commercial reality of shooting out of script continuity. Mapping out in advance the color, lighting, and mood of the film provides an invaluable reference document during the shoot. It isn’t just costumes that need to evolve to reflect the evolution of the characters: the whole color palette has to grow with them. Color script, a tool first developed by the Pixar designers, helps to keep the look and feel of the film consistent. If Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris, the directors of Little Miss Sunshine, together with the Production Designer Kalina Ivanov were to create color script for the film, it could have looked like Color Figure 3.18 (plate section). Color Figures 3.19–3.21 (plate section) analyze the film’s color progression using particular frames. Figure 3.18 (see plate section) Color script shows the progression of the color scheme throughout Little Miss Sunshine.

Figure 3.19 (see plate section) The film starts with shades of brown and grey with highlights in black, sangria and turquoise.

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Figure 3.20 (see plate section) It progresses to softer colours: yellows, sienna, rouge and blue.

Figure 3.21 (see plate section) And climaxes in rich scarlet, crimson, orange, yellow and black.

Cinematic language We’ve already talked about the impact of the choice of lenses on the viewer’s relationship with the character, and the impact of lighting on creating the film’s atmosphere. But lighting does more than that; it virtually shapes the character. It can be said that the cinematic experience lies in the combination of what the actor does with his or her body and face, and what the cinematographer does with light and frame composition. It starts with the placement of the source light:

Figure 3.22 Bronson, director Nicholas Winding Refn (2008).

The top light obscures the eyes of the subject inhibiting full connection with them. Handled well, it intensifies the engagement—the viewer pines to get to know the character.

Figure 3.23 The Evil Dead, director Sam Raimi (1981).

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Low placement of the main source of light is uncommon in nature. Associated with campfires and ghost stories, it amplifies and distorts facial features and produces a sense of anxiety and terror.

Figure 3.24 The Babadook, director Jennifer Kent (2014).

Direct hard sidelight is also rare in nature. It evokes the uncanny feeling of displacement and dread.

Figure 3.25 Magnolia, director Paul Thomas Anderson (1999).

Front light flattens the image. The actor’s work is unadorned by cinematography.

Figure 3.26 Hugo, director Martin Scorsese (2011).

Backlight sculptures the figure and makes it stand out from the background. At its extreme it produces silhouette, which calls for greater use of body language.

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The quality of light also impacts on the way we read the character:

Figure 3.27 Sin City, directors Robert Rodriguez, Frank Miller, and Quentin Tarantino (2005).

Hard light illuminates every detail of texture, particularly on the face, and produces crisp shadows with lots of contrast lending itself to gritty realism or noir.

Figure 3.28 Edward Scissorhands, director Tim Burton (1990).

Soft light wraps around the edges and is more flattering—this is the type of light we see in most conventional films. Frame composition also augments the work of the actor:

Figure 3.29 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

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Cinematographer Tim Suhrstedt shot Little Miss Sunshine with soft light and followed the rule of thirds when composing the frame, all in line with the naturalistic performances of the ensemble. The rule presupposes that viewers’ eyes go to the intersection points of the imaginary lines that divide a picture into nine equal parts. People are usually aligned with a vertical line – when looking camera left, the person will be placed on the right line, as in the picture featured (and vice versa), and their eyes align with the horizontal line.

Figure 3.30 Ida, director Paweł Pawlikowski (2013).

Ida (2013, director Paweł Pawlikowski, directors of photography Ryszard Lenczewski and Łukasz Z˙ al) is a much more stylistically poised film. Shot in a rare three by four aspect ratio and in rich black and white, the frame is divided into four, rather than the conventional nine parts. The empty upper half of the frame acts like an ever-present witness to the characters’ actions and dictates less inflected performances.

Figure 3.31 The Grand Budapest Hotel, director Wes Anderson (2014).

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The bold colors, symmetric composition, and use of wide lenses amplifying the vanishing point make The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014, director Wes Anderson, Director of Photography Robert Yeoman) a vehicle for stylized performances reminiscent of the comedies of the golden age of Hollywood. Both the style of lighting and the approach to frame composition need to be discussed in the pre-production meetings with the Director of Photography as it predetermines, to a large degree, the director’s approach to performance. Naturally, the stylistic parameters agreed upon have to be constantly moderated during the shoot. When the actor’s work evokes a particular mood, the director, together with the cinematographer, has to decide whether to augment that feeling or remain neutral and let the performance take the lead. Conversely, lighting and framing can express so much about the character’s inner life that any articulation of emotions from the actor creates unnecessary tautology, risking the viewer turning off.

Blocking Effective blocking conveys both the spatial configurations of the characters and the inner workings of the scene. Silent cinema perfected blocking, since all the information had to be expressed by choreography and gestures. Script analysis provides the foundation for blocking—who wants what, what stands in their way, what they do in order to secure their goal, and how the conflict is resolved. Moment by moment, the viewer witnesses the characters’ actions, in turn hoping they’ll achieve their objective, and dreading that they won’t. This escalating succession of tension and release is an essential ingredient of cinematic storytelling and has to find its reflection in blocking. Some movements and body positions suggest a “winning” streak, others the opposite, placing the character on the losing side. Standing up, raising an arm, straightening up, putting weight on the forward foot, or moving toward the camera will make the character look strong while the opposite movements—sitting down, slouching, putting weight on the back foot or moving backwards—renders the character as losing the fight. These principles help not only to delineate the character’s arc within a scene, but also define their social status.

Figure 3.32 The Godfather, director Francis Ford Coppola (1972).

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It is not only Marlon Brando’s posture that makes the godfather appear so powerful, but also the body language of the people around him.

Figure 3.33 The Last Emperor, director Bernardo Bertolucci (1987).

And little Richard Vuu wouldn’t appear regal if it wasn’t for the hundreds of submissive extras in the background. The quality of movement is another factor that contributes to the viewer’s perception of the character—in the examples above it is the deferential attitude of the people surrounding the central character that elevates their status. On an individual scale, combinations of strong and weak movements colored by contrasting attitudes can create an unlimited number of meanings, for example character A might move hesitantly forward while character B confidently moves back. The way we move reflects our inner, unconscious world and conversely, the movement itself can evoke a particular emotion. Awareness of this gives the director greater vocabulary in designing the kinetic shape of the scene, as well as another way of communicating with the actor. Rudolf Laban (1879–1958), a choreographer and movement theoretician, developed a taxonomy of human movement in relation to its psychological frame and surrounding space. His framework can be a very useful reference tool for directing screen performance. In simple terms, according to Laban, movement can be studied by considering: 1

What we move—is it the whole body or only a part?

2

How we move—Laban identified four movement qualities: ➔ Flow (linked to feeling)—spontaneous and free (unbound) or formalized and rigid, bound. ➔ Space (linked to attention)—can be direct or flexible (indirect) and relates to the way a person inhabits the world. ➔ Weight (linked to intention)—can be strong or light. ➔ Time (linked to decision-making)—can be sudden or sustained.

3

Where we move—relates to the awareness of a moving body in space; for example, are we moving in our personal space (direct) or wider arena (indirect)?

The movement itself Laban categorized as effort actions, identifying eight of them:

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Figure 3.34 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Punch

Figure 3.35 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Slash

Figure 3.36 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Float

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Figure 3.37 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Glide

Figure 3.38 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Wring

Figure 3.39 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Press

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Figure 3.40 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Flick

Figure 3.41 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Dab Here is how all the qualities fit together: ACTION

TIME

WEIGHT

SPACE

FLOW

Punch

Sudden

Strong

Direct

Bound

Slash

Sudden

Strong

Indirect

Bound

Float

Sustained

Light

Indirect

Unbound

Glide

Sustained

Light

Direct

Unbound

Wring

Sustained

Strong

Indirect

Bound

Press

Sustained

Strong

Direct

Bound

Flick

Sudden

Light

Indirect

Unbound

Dab

Sudden

Light

Direct

Unbound

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Movement should also be considered in terms of its position in the frame. In the examples above, movement is mostly centrally framed, with the exceptions “Wring” and “Dab.” However, even with the relatively small area Grandpa’s hand occupies in the frame, were it a moving image, the dabbing motion would immediately draw your attention. We are genetically programed to see movement first; it’s to do with our survival instinct (there might be a mammoth in the bushes!). Arguably, it is the spatial relationships that are the strongest signifiers of the scene’s subtext and the characters’ respective arcs—are they closer to each other at the beginning of the scene than at the end or is it the other way around, they are apart to start with and gradually get more intimate? And how close, and how far apart? Edward T. Hall, an American anthropologist, defined four distance zones humans of the Western cultures operate in: 1

Intimate space, between less than 6 inches (15 cm) to 18 inches (46 cm) is reserved for those with whom one is intimate. Embrace, touch, or whisper belongs to this sphere.

2

Personal space, between 18 inches (46 cm) and 4 feet (122 cm) is where family members and close friends operate.

3

Social space, between 4 feet (122 cm) and 12 feet (3.7 m) is for social encounters, interaction between acquaintances or work colleagues.

4

Public space, between 12 feet (3.7 m) and 25 feet (7.6 m) or more is used for public speaking.

Figure 3.42 Distance zones.

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Of course, the camera can distort the distances between characters, but Hall’s chart is a good starting point. The director can play with the various spaces and experiment with crossing the boundaries. For example, a stranger entering the intimate space of our protagonist would instantly create anxiety without the antagonist needing to play any intimidating actions. The same movement by her lover would evoke a totally different emotion. The vertical plane is an equally effective tool in setting the character’s state of mind (High, elated? Low, depressed?), status, and authority—the very fact that Pu Yi in the still from The Last Emperor is placed in an elevated position gives him the position of power. Both planes are explored in the following scene from Little Miss Sunshine.

Figure 3.43a Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Figure 3.43b Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Shot 1.

EXT . SIDE OF THE INTERSTATE —DAY The bus pulls into the break-down lane beside the highway. The door slides open and Dwayne gets out onto the grassy slope by the side of the road. He walks off with his head in his hands. This is the first time we’ve heard his voice. DWAYNE Fuck (beat) Fuck The others get out of the car and watch him. SHERYL What happened? FRANK He’s colorblind. He can’t fly. SHERYL Oh, Jesus. Oh, no.

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Thirty yards away Dwayne falls into his knees, buries his hands and face in the grass, and SHRIEKS like a wild animal. There’s an out-of-control quality to his behavior that is scary and disturbing. Finally, Dwayne rolls to a sitting position, his hands covering his face. He sits there crying. The others don’t know what to do. Richard glances at Sheryl. He points at his watch and shrugs. SHERYL (cont’d) Let’s give him a second. WS . The VW pulls in. Dwayne runs away from the bus, toward the camera. The shot develops to a Group Shot showing the current emotional relationship—Dwayne versus the rest of the family. We are in Public Space territory. Dwayne’s final position at the bottom of the frame (vertical plane) reflects his state of mind. This is the Master Shot: it covers most of the scene and includes its key image—Olive putting her hand on Dwayne’s shoulder (shot No. 17). Shot 2.

Figure 3.44 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

In the background, the VW keeps honking like some demonic beast—mocking Dwayne’s helplessness. Finally, Sheryl approaches Dwayne. WS . The profile orientation accentuates the distance, both emotional and geographical, between Dwayne and the rest of the family. Public Space.

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Shot 3.

Figure 3.45 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

SHERYL (cont’d) Dwayne? Honey? I’m sorry. He says nothing. He sighs. SHERYL Dwayne...Come on, we gotta go. DWAYNE I’m not going. SHERYL Dwayne... DWAYNE I’m not! I don’t care! I’m not getting in that bus again! SHERYL Dwayne...For better or worse: we’re your family... Group Shot—Dwayne’s emotional state prevents Sheryl from getting any closer. She stays within Social Space. It is, however, more intimate than the initial Public Space. The spatial structure of the scene conforms to the general rule of drama—in turn tightening and releasing tension. Shot 4.

Figure 3.46 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

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Dwayne stands up and screams at them. DWAYNE You’re not my family! I don’t want to be your family! I hate you! OS (Sheryl), Dwayne. Reverse angle. We are still in the realm of Social Space. Shot 5.

Figure 3.47 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

(he points at them) Divorce! Group Shot. Dwayne turns around and the shot now favors Sheryl. Social Space. Shot 6.

Figure 3.48 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Bankrupt! Suicide! OS (Sheryl) Dwayne. Dwayne points to the rest of the family. Social Space.

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Shot 7.

Figure 3.49 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

You’re losers! You’re fucking Losers! 3S (three-shot) Olive, Frank, Richard. Even though technically not a POV shot (point of view), the placement of the shot in the middle of Dwayne’s speech makes it feels that way—we are watching the family from Dwayne’s perspective. The distance has increased and we are back in Public Space. Shot 8.

Figure 3.50 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

DWAYNE (cont’d) Just leave me, Mom. Please? Just Leave me here. 2S (two-shot) Dwayne, Sheryl. The full frame emphasizes the distance between mother and son. Social Space.

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Shot 9.

Figure 3.51 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

WS . Dwayne turns away from Sheryl, sits down. Even though the distance between Dwayne and Sheryl remains in Social Space, the frame itself puts us in the Public Space again, releasing tension. Shot 10.

Figure 3.52 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Sheryl gets up and walks back to the others. Group Shot. We are back in Social Space; tension increases. Shot 11.

Figure 3.53a Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Figure 3.53b Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

OS (Sheryl), Dwayne. Sheryl leaves frame, the shot lingers on Dwayne. Social Space, but Sheryl’s leaving widens the distance.

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Shot 12.

Figure 3.54 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

SHERYL I don’t know what to do. Group Shot. Moving away from us, Sheryl approaches Olive, Frank, and Richard. Public Space. Shot 13.

Figure 3.55a Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Figure 3.55b Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

RICHARD We’re gonna be late. Can we leave somebody here with him? FRANK I’ll stay. SHERYL No, we’re not doing that. MS Sheryl—the shot follows her to form a tight profile Group Shot. Interestingly, there is a big shift here: from Public Space straight into Personal Space. The emotional temperature increases despite the fact the story reached stalemate.

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Shot 14.

Figure 3.56 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

RICHARD Olive, you want to talk to him? Group Shot. The framing of the shot (same as in shot 7) makes us watch it from Dwayne’s perspective—Public Space. Shot 15.

Figure 3.57a Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Figure 3.57b Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

SHERYL No, Richard. There’s nothing to say. We just have to wait. A beat. Then Olive walks over... Group Shot—follow Olive as she climbs down the escarpment. Personal Space.

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Shot 16.

Figure 3.58 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Single Shot Dwayne. Even though there is no reference to any other character, the framing was used in the encounter with Sheryl—Social Space. Shot 17.

Figure 3.59a Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Figure 3.59b Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Figure 3.59c Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

... and sits down next to Dwayne. Dwayne’s face is red and snot is dribbling from his nose. She puts her arm on his shoulder. They sit quietly. Then Dwayne stands up. DWAYNE Okay, let’s go. Group Shot. This is the most significant part of the scene, both dramatically (Olive’s silent gesture makes Dwayne change his mind) and pictorially—it illustrates the intimacy between the siblings. Starting with Public Space, the shot reaches its climax in Intimate Space.

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Figure 3.60 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Shot 18. 2S Dwayne, Olive. Dwayne helps Olive up the escarpment. Intimate Space again. Interestingly, this time it is Dwayne who makes the intimate gesture, reciprocating Olive’s previous initiative. Shot 19.

Figure 3.61 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

DWAYNE I apologize for the things I said. Group Shot. Social Space. Notice Richard’s position at the periphery. Shot 20.

Figure 3.62 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

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I was upset. I don’t really mean them. MS Dwayne—Reverse angle. Social Space. Shot 21.

Figure 3.63 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

SHERYL It’s okay. C’mon. Let’s go. Group Shot. Social Space. Shot 22.

Figure 3.64a Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Figure 3.64b Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Tight MS Dwayne—follow Dwayne to form 2S Dwayne, Sheryl. Intimate Space. The blocking of the scene reflects its subtextual undercurrent: it establishes Dwayne as the protagonist and moves from Public Space—the most distant spatial relationship—to Intimate Space, as Dwayne reconciles with Sheryl. The floor plan (mud map) for the scene would depict the characters’ positions and movements:

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Figure 3.65 Mud map, artwork © Luke Marsden.

The final edit of the scene amounts to twenty-two shots, but the number of executed shots and set-ups (camera positions) would have been smaller: ➔ Master Shot covers shots 1, 3, 5, 10, 12, and 17. ➔ WS (profile orientation) covers shots 2 and 9. ➔ OS (Sheryl) Dwayne (over Sheryl’s shoulder on Dwayne—the character over whose shoulder we’re looking is indicated in parenthesis) covers shots 4, 6, 11, and 16. ➔ 3S Olive, Frank, Richard (three-shot, called that because there are three characters in frame) covers shots 7 and 14. ➔ 2S Dwayne, Sheryl (two-shot, as there are two characters in frame) is only used once: it is shot 8. ➔ MS Sheryl, which follows her to form Group Shot (shot 13) is used twice: a) Shot 15 is the continuation of shot 13 – it starts a Group Shot and develops to single shot of Olive as she climbs down the escarpment (the exact opposite of shot 13). b) Shot 18 (2S Dwayne, Olive) follows Dwayne as he carries Olive up the escarpment. ➔ MS Dwayne, that develops to OS (Sheryl) Dwayne (shot 22) was shot from the same camera position (the same set-up) as shots 13, 15, and 18, only on a tighter lens. ➔ Group Shot (over Dwayne’s shoulder) covers shots 19 and 21. ➔ Shot 21 (MS Dwayne) is only used once. Of course, arriving at the most effective blocking for a scene isn’t based on dry calculation: it is a synthesis of the director’s preparation, the logistics of the location, and the contribution from the actors and the Director of Photography. It can be a largely intuitive process of collective discovery led by the director.

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Interview: Miranda Harcourt

Figure 3.66 Miranda Harcourt, photographer Nicola Edmonds.

Miranda Harcourt is a New Zealand actor, director, and acting coach. She has prepared actors from age six to age eighty-six to deliver powerful performances on a range of international and New Zealand films including Bridge to Terabithia (2007, director Gabor Csupo), Bright Star (2009, director Jane Campion), The Lovely Bones (2007, director Peter Jackson), Home By Christmas (2010, director Gaylene Preston), Soul Surfer (2011, director Sean McNamara), Top of the Lake (2013, director Jane Campion), Lion (2016, director Garth Davis), and The Changeover (2016, directors Stuart McKenzie and Miranda Harcourt). Robert Klenner (RK): What does the job of the acting coach entail? Miranda Harcourt (MH): To help the actor and the director to achieve their shared vision. The first thing to do for the actor and me is to read the whole script and to find out the key members of the team—the director and the cinematographer, and then to watch some examples of the cinematographer’s work, and some examples of the director’s work in order to help the actor get a gauge on what the work might look like, and what the tone of the film might be. I also bring a lot of references to bear, things to think about: visual art, film references, music references, photographic references, to feed into where the actor layers up their interaction with the role; it brings a richer experience to the preparation of the role. RK: You mentioned script analysis—how do you analyze the script? MH: A lot of people analyze the script by “breaking it down,” for example identifying the beats and naming them, and although I think those tools are very useful, that’s something that the actor can do him or herself. My work as an acting coach is more in the esoteric realm than the concrete facts-and-figures kind of realm. Sometimes I talk about my work

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as not in the maths and science department—it’s in the philosophy and humanities department. I’m very interested in matching craft and spirit. So, some of my work is about craft, and that’s where I’d use those tools that come from Judith Weston or Mike Alfreds14 for example, two directors whose work I use a lot—that’s in the area of craft. The part of the journey that I’m finding most rewarding though is intuition and spirit because that’s the smell, the sense, the aroma that comes off the screen for the audience. I’m interested in finding ways to help the actor to find that, and make it intriguing and alive. RK: What’s the most important part of the actor’s job? MH: I would say—to feel. This is a good example of craft and spirit: in terms of spirit I think it’s most important to feel, closely followed by the craft tool of trusting that the camera reads your tiniest thought, and to value the space and time that you open up for the camera in order for the audience to also feel what it is that you’re feeling. I’m very interested in John Keats’ idea of Negative Capability, which he says is when man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason. And that’s for me a great line about acting—to exist in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts on behalf of the character is the actor’s job. The audience wants to keep watching you on the journey because you’ve resisted “any irritable reaching after fact and reason.” I think often actors and directors think that it’s up to them to define things and stamp a mark on something and put it into a little box and apply structure to the playing up of the drama. And the directors that I really admire, for example Jane Campion, she’s just interested in . . . it’s all in the preparation and the rehearsal, and then on set it’s about finding ways to open yourself to the wonderful exigencies that chance brings. RK: And what’s the most important part of the director’s job? MH: What comes first to my mind in response to that question is—to love the actor. And to trust the actor. And that partly comes from casting, obviously, but I think it also comes from trusting yourself, trusting your own choices, trusting that the actor will go further, and trusting that your job is not just to tell the story. The job of the film is to live inside the story, find ways for the story to be completely intriguing in a way that you draw the audience in because they’re experiencing a life that is lived. You’re not just watching a whole bunch of actors who willingly shoulder the burden of the narrative in order to pass on the story like a baton in a relay race. It’s more than that. So, I guess when I say to love the actor I think that the director and the actor have to have a great fellow feeling with each other so they can experience the feeling of the story together. That is not to say they have to be friends of course! RK: Directors’ sins—what’s the worst thing the director can do?

14

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English theater director and educator.

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MH: Telling. The verb to tell is a cardinal sin because the director and the actor should find the way to experience together through the application of a number of experiential, or feelingoriented rehearsal techniques early on in the piece. I’m very interested in finding rehearsal and acting-structures that are not necessarily from the world of acting and directing but can be applied to that world. A good example is the quantum physics’ idea of the parallel universe; I find very useful translating that concept into the world of acting where we ask, “what if it ended in a different way?” Come up with three different ways that the scene might end: she laughs instead of cries, they don’t remain together; she reveals she is pregnant etc. then improvise the scene with those alternative endings, and then come back to the scene the way it’s written and realize that our assumptions can sometimes make the scene feel bound by a sense of inevitability because the actor knows what’s going to happen even though the character doesn’t. So that’s a good example for me of bringing a structure from one world, the world of science, and applying it to the world of acting. And Robert you know that I’ve got similar exercises around white space,15 I’ve got exercises around internal landscape,16 I’ve got exercises around creating connectivity.17 15 White Space is about allowing the pauses and thinking time on the page to have their moments too. It is not just the black letters on the page that tell the story; the white space around them reveals a very different tale. The psychologist Edgar Rubin’s vase illustrates the concept:

Figure. 3.67 Rubin’s Vase.

The image in black depicts one concept and the image in white another. However, both exist in the same frame, and complement each other. Telling the story, the job of the director and her collaborators, is the black area. The actors’ job is to exist in and enliven the white spaces on the page. About forty-seven minutes into Little Miss Sunshine, Richard Hoover learns that his book is not going to be published. Stan Grossman delivers the news: “It’s not the program, Richard, it’s you, okay? No one’s heard of you. Nobody cares.” Here is how Greg Kinnear (Richard) reacts before his next line:

Figure 3.68a Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Figure 3.68b Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

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Figure 3.68c Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Figure 3.68d Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Figure 3.68e Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Figure 3.68f Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Only now is he able to respond, “So, what’s the next step?” 16 Working on text the actor creates internal landscape by assigning real places, objects, and people to scripted places, objects, and characters. The effects of engagement with internal landscape are palpable. Here is Toni Collette (Sheryl Hoover) delivering the line, “This is our sister”:

Figure 3.69 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

It is evident that the actor has a specific person in her mind; even her attitude toward her “sister” is unambiguous. What you can also see in Toni Collette’s eyes is that, although she is looking at Frank, part of her gaze is turned inward. And here is Frank saying, “I fell in love with someone who didn’t love me back”:

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Figure 3.70 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006). Often when we recall a person, place, or incident from the past, we avert our gaze and turn to the image in our mind. Clearly, Steve Carell visualizes a particular person when he (Frank) mentions the object of his affection. 17 Connectivity, as the name suggests, is about feeling connected to the acting partner, and putting attention on them in the course of the scene, i.e. “it’s not about you, it is always about the other . . . reverse the flow” To achieve that, Miranda uses a variety of tools, a lot of them children’s games: ball games, clapping games, and exercises that provide actors with shared, memorable, and interactive connections.

Another good example of bringing science to play with acting is the work of Dr. Arthur Aron at Stony Brook University in the US , who has defined 36 questions, which will maximize the participants’ opportunity of finding intimacy with each other. And of course, that is a fantastic actor’s tool and I’ve used it to great effect. RK: If you have a relatively long rehearsal period, say ten days, what do you do? MH: Going back to the idea of Dr. Aron, he also explores the impact on intimacy of putting two people in a dangerous situation and seeing how that might advance or intensify their relationship. Say you have two characters that fall in love some way through the film. Exposing them to a controlled risky situation is more useful than sitting in the room at a table talking about the script. So, for example, I’d get the actors to cross a rocky swing bridge together, or do bungee jumping together—I would ask the actors to do something unusual and physicallybased together which binds them and starts to build shared experiences. That’s why I try, right from the kick off, doing something active, like going for a walk in the bush together, like painting each other’s portraits, like hug to connect where the actors just spend two minutes hugging each other, or another tool, hongi, which is a Maori tradition of sharing breath with the noses gently pressed together,18 so the actors are genuinely sharing breath, and that’s a fantastic tool because bringing your face that close to another person’s face is taboo. We don’t usually do that unless we’re about to kiss them. So there is something about sharing breath together in a non-invasive way that frees up the space between the actors and allows them to achieve freedom in space and freedom in relationship. RK: What if you have a short rehearsal, let’s say three to five days, what happens then? MH: I don’t feel I have really answered your question about the long rehearsal, as many of my tools are designed for very short rehearsal periods. But something else I would definitely do with any rehearsal period, long or short, is allow the actors as soon as possible to visit the locations that they will be living and working in as their character in [the] film. Experiencing 18

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Figure 3.71 Hongi. © Te Puia, the Centre for New Zealand’s Ma¯ori culture and geothermal wonders.

locations for me is very important. We all see images in our head as we read, so the actor develops a picture in their head of what they expect the interior of their home would be, and then they’ll go to the location on the day of shooting and go, “right . . . okay . . . this is not my vision, this is a vision of the production designer and the director. This does not chime with what I have imagined . . .” So, let’s get the actors to those locations as early as possible in the rehearsal period so everyone is operating in a shared vision, everyone has the same picture inside their head of the way the character lives, where the light comes from in the kitchen. Rehearsing the dialogue? I don’t know whether that’s particularly useful until just before shooting, but using a sliding time scale and applying improvisations between the actors, like key events: when they met, their first fight, the first time they realized they’re going to spend the rest of their life together—what are those conversations like? Using improvisation along the sliding time scale of the characters’ lives is an absolutely vital rehearsal tool. So, I think those are big spinal building blocks of the rehearsal process—experiencing location and experiencing each other in terms of building [a] relationship. And if there are key events in the film, for example the two lead characters go to an ice-skating competition, then, obviously, the actors should go to [an] ice-skating competition. They should experience the environment and the particularities that their characters are experiencing in the story. Of course, if the characters experience a massive earthquake or a volcanic eruption then one has to find a metaphorical way of the actors experiencing that sensation. RK: Now you only have a couple of days—what can be done? MH: If you only have a couple of days that seems to me you are very close to shooting, so the environments are actually more accessible to you. So I’d say, if you possibly can go to the exterior or the interior of the location and do your improvisations and your connective exercises in that situation. I’m very allergic to rehearsal rooms, for me they are an absolute passion killer. You have to be very strong as a director to wrangle a situation where your actors are prepared to rehearse and really commit to a rehearsal because, I think, sometimes

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rehearsal rooms say to actors, “you’re just going to waste your seed here, so hold your horses till you get to set.” One idea I have suggested to actors who might be in different countries to each other that they might post each other letters in pre-production, before the brief rehearsals start (if the film is set in the 1930s for example) or emails of course, or that they might send each other a little gift, a stone from the beach or a simple bracelet or a bar of chocolate. They are sending out signals to connect to each other even before they meet. This just opens a space between them. It sparks a gentle curiosity, it allows them to hold a secret between them that starts to build a relationship. RK: What if there’s no rehearsal? MH: Well, I’m from New Zealand and that’s often the situation we often find ourselves in; there’s no rehearsal because the budgets are low and the ambitions are high. And I’m a specialist in developing fast, on-set tools to achieve physical and emotional connectivity with very little time. And in that situation, I would certainly use hongi, hug to connect, or the tool from Dr. Aron where the actors spend four minutes looking into each other’s eyes. But even four minutes is a long time on set. I like to have . . . all of my exercises are two minutes long: I have a conflict tool called “fuck you fuck you,” which is a very brief tool to allow people to develop courage in aggression between the two scene participants.19 Or clapping games. I use a lot of clapping games in my work with actors, partly because it’s always fun, and partly because it’s a hard challenge and so they really have to find a way to work it out between each other. You can’t play a clapping game by yourself, you have to do it with the other person. Which is just like a scene, you can’t play a scene all by yourself while simultaneously the other universe is spinning in its own, completely individual place. But often people do, often actors manage to play the same scene but completely separately, and what I’m trying to do is to get actors to play the same scene but to do it together. RK: What are actors most afraid of and how can a director address that?

19 The actors stand facing each other, extending their right hands. Holding eye contact, Actor A slaps Actor B’s hand and says, “Fuck you!” Actor B reciprocates. The exchange should be limited to three or four rounds, starting softly and escalating in effort and volume from quiet to loud. The intensity of the slap should be matched to the volume of the spoken words— from a low tone/low impact to a shout/hard hit. Typically, the feeling of aggression surfaces almost instantly.

Figure 3.72 Kintsugi. © Kyoto Ware, Kumagai, 2018.

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MH: Oh, what are actors most afraid of . . . failure and success, I think. Often actors are frightened of achieving the heights of what they can achieve because they know that it will be painful, it might even be dangerous, and they might have to lose themselves, and lose control. And, of course, the fear of failure, the fear of not achieving for yourself and for the director what you set out to achieve. So in the balance between those two ends of the spectrum—fear of failure and fear of success, the director has to find a way to encourage the actor to feel safe inside the structure of the crew, safe inside the structure of the narrative, and safe inside the structure of the relationships, so the actor can really go the extra mile and really have the courage to lose control. There’s a wonderful Japanese idea that I often mention to actors and they love it. It’s the idea Kintsukoroi; it’s the art of mending something broken, like a pottery bowl, with a gold or silver alloy, and reminding oneself that the broken parts are the most beautiful parts.20 The ancient mystic and poet Rumi has a quote “the wound is where the light gets in” which Leonard Cohen also quoted. And I think for creative artists it’s very reassuring to know that what people want to see are the broken bits. Audiences don’t want to experience somebody who is completely bulletproof, who’s got so much “craft” that the light can’t get in, to quote Rumi. We can value the broken parts of ourselves, the wounds and failure, disappointment, pain, discomfort, embarrassment, shame—all of those elements of the actor are as valuable for the character as the bits we always think about—success, beauty, all of those elements.

20

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4 Production Directing the shoot is about being in the moment—engaging with people and physical settings, and making countless decisions. It is challenging, stressful, and exhilarating. You may find that once you start production you enter a kind of trance—in daytime you are not really awake and at night not fully asleep. There is an ongoing confrontation between your original vision for the film and the film you discover on the way. Working with a team of creative independent personalities, you are constantly searching for ways to tell the story with a united voice. This chapter will start with a description of the typical forms of shooting procedure and then examine the production process in terms of collaboration with the camera department, the sound department, and then most crucially the cast. The primary function of the director during the shoot is to provide the actor with the support and stimulus the stage performer gets from her audience: active watching and listening. The director is the only person on set able to do that: the cinematographer looks at lighting, the sound mixer listens to the clarity of the dialogue, the script supervisor monitors continuity, and so on. It is only the director that can evaluate the quality of performance. So how do you get an actor to do what you want? Alexander Mackendrick says, “You don’t. What you do is try to get the actor want what you need” (Mackendrick, 2004). Shooting is not about recording the perfect performance, however. At this stage, the director is simply generating raw material—the final shape of the character will be created in postproduction when you shape the performance through editing. It is only then that you will be able to imbue the character with all its subtleties, as it is only then that you will have the benefit of the full context of the story. We will spend more time to investigating this critical area later. During the shoot, we need to be able to see, objectively, what is really unfolding in front of the camera (as opposed to what we think we’re seeing or what we would want to see). We need to unlearn the habit of allocating value and instant interpretation to the perceived reality and see it for what it is—forms, actions, and their relationships.

EXERCISE—UPSIDE-DOWN DRAWING Let’s get started with an exercise devised to develop your observation skills. The ability to observe without being colored by your emotions or limited by your preconceptions from your planning is a key skill required of the director during the production period. This exercise was devised by an American art teacher and author Dr. Betty Edwards.

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You will be asked to draw a copy of an image that is presented to you upside-down. When an image is upside-down the visual prompts no longer apply; we cease to see actual objects with their inherent meaning. We see forms and lines. Instructions: ➔ Look at the drawing below (Figure 4.1). Resist the temptation to turning it upsidedown until you have finished copying the image. ➔ Spend time just contemplating the lines, how they fit together, and how they shape the space between them. Notice where they’re placed in relation to the edge of the picture. ➔ Copy the drawing, starting from the top, replicating line by line. Don’t try to guess what body part you are drawing. In fact, when you recognize a feature—a hoof, a leg or a hand—put this out of your mind and concentrate even harder on the lines and their interrelation. ➔ The task should take about twenty minutes. The chances are that you will be surprised how well you can draw. Edwards explains the phenomenon by referring to the double brain theory: the left brain being rational and the right one creative. Presumably, the left hemisphere, confused and blocked by

Figure 4.1 Cavalryman after Piotr Michałowski. © Luke Marsden.

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the unfamiliar image and unable to name or symbolize as usual, turned off, and the job passed over to the right hemisphere (Edwards, 1989). In other words, you recorded an unprejudiced perception of the image. As directors, we strive for equally objective perception of the material we are gathering during production.

Shooting procedure The mechanism of film production is not dissimilar to the workings of a family. There are general rules to obey but every family develops its own modus operandi—its ways of going about the daily business and following family traditions, rituals, and customs overseen by the matriarch or patriarch (read: director). You can’t totally determine how your production family will operate, but you can try to be aware when it isn’t moving in a helpful direction. As a director, you will have some critical choices to make in how the day runs. Let’s start with general template for shooting a scene:

1. Lines run The actors read all their lines and the director or the script supervisor, a.k.a. “Continuity,” reads the big print (the directions included in the script). The point of this step is to make sure that the actors are familiar and comfortable with the dialogue and the narrative of the scene. The wording of the dialogue can be adjusted and any ambiguous lines are explained. Some directors prefer to run lines and block-through with only the cast present, while others involve the Director of Photography, script supervisor, and sound recordist, and others still like all the crew members to attend all stages of preparation. Working exclusively with the cast promotes the atmosphere of trust that can lead to a freer and more creative process. Involving the crew, on the other hand, makes everyone feel part of the team as opposed to simply being technicians fulfilling their roles. Consequently, the atmosphere on set becomes more collegial and supportive.

2. Rough block-through The function of this stage is to check the positions of the actors for lighting, sound recording, positioning of key props, and shot construction. This is very much a technical rehearsal and the actors are not performing at the full level. There are two basic approaches to blocking: (a) pre-visualized, and (b) organic. Pre-visualized blocking consists essentially of actors following the director’s template. This might include the floor plan, storyboard, and shot list. The three documents for the scene between Grandpa and Olive in the motel room would have looked as follows:

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Storyboard

Figure 4.2a Storyboard © Luke Marsden.

Figure 4.2b Storyboard © Luke Marsden.

Figure 4.2c Storyboard © Luke Marsden.

Figure 4.2d Storyboard © Luke Marsden.

Figure 4.2e Storyboard © Luke Marsden.

Figure 4.2f Storyboard © Luke Marsden.

Figure 4.2g Storyboard © Luke Marsden.

Figure 4.2h Storyboard © Luke Marsden.

Figure 4.2i Storyboard artwork. © Luke Marsden.

Floor plan

Figure 4.3 Floor plan artwork. © Luke Marsden.

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Shot list 1

CU Grandpa.

2

CU Olive.

3

2S Grandpa, Olive (profile two-shot at the head of the scene, follow Grandpa as he tucks Olive in).

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OS Olive (Grandpa), form single Olive as Grandpa leaves frame, and back to OS as he re-enters.

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Tight MS Grandpa standing at the foot of the bed, develop to CU as he sits down.

6

2S Olive, Grandpa (both in profile Mid-Shot size).

Naturally, there is always room for adjustments—the layout of the set and the furniture arrangement might require modifications in choreography, the actors’ natural impulses can offer organic alternatives, the Director of Photography might see a more economical way of covering the scene, and so on. This doesn’t mean that the pre-visualization was a waste of time. On the contrary, having contemplated every move and every shot in terms of their contribution to the meaning of the scene, the director is in a better position to evaluate what changes will express the scene’s subtext more succinctly. In organic blocking the actors are actively involved in finding the physical shape of the scene. They immerse themselves in the moment and spontaneously respond to the surroundings and their partners. The choreography evolves naturally and it is only after the choreography is established that the director, together with the cinematographer, break it down into individual shots.

3. Lighting The actors leave the set for the cinematographer and his crew to set the lighting. Now is the time for the director to spend time with the cast—to talk motivations, actions, backstories, and, if there is a private space and the actors are willing, do some improvisations or play theater games. You have to be sensitive to actors’ individual needs though: some actors prefer to be left alone to prepare mentally for the upcoming scene and any interference might only hamper their spontaneity on set.

4. Stop-start rehearsal Sometimes also called a line-up, this is a technical rehearsal for the camera crew to check specific focus points and fine-tune the lighting. The actors (or stand-ins) walk through the scene and every now and again the focus puller asks them to stop as he or she sets the focus while the second assistant camera marks their critical positions on the floor. Some directors prefer to give actors the freedom to move spontaneously. John Cassavetes proclaimed “the camera the slave to the actor” and planning “the most destructive thing in the world” (Cassavetes, n.d.). If you decide your film lends itself to a similar approach, make sure you work with a camera crew that are experienced in documentary.

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5. Final rehearsal The final rehearsal should contain all elements that will appear in the shot, and all the props are to be handled the way they will be during the take. The exceptions are the elements of choreography that involve potential safety issues, damage, or costume change: for example, spilling liquids, tearing the wardrobe, breaking a glass, and so on. Performance-wise, the actors should still save full engagement for the take, but the voice volume and the tempo-rhythms should approximate full performance. This allows the grip (the crewmember responsible for camera movement) to rehearse the speed of camera flow, the camera operator to maintain the framing, and the focus puller to gauge the variations in focus throughout the shot.

6. Take As shooting a scene involves close collaboration of numerous crewmembers, there is a strict standardized procedure that assures clear communication. 1

The first assistant director (1st AD —responsible for supervising all activities on set, the safety of people, and maximum shooting efficiency) makes sure that the cast, the director, the camera department (operator, grip, and focus puller), and the sound department (sound recordist and boom operator) are all ready for a take.

2

She then calls out “Roll to record” or “Turn over.”

3

Camera operator turns on the camera and responds, “Rolling.”

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Sound recordist responds “Speed” (in the pre-digital world it took the sound tape a few moments to reach steady speed).

5

Second assistant camera (2nd AC , a.k.a. clapper loader, operates the clapperboard (slate) at the beginning of each take) holds the clapperboard in front of the camera, calls out the shot number, and claps the clapperboard.

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Camera operator calls “Frame” or “Set” (announcing correct framing, as he or she might have had to reframe after the clap).

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1st AD or the director calls “Action!”

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The shot plays out.

9

Only the director calls “Cut!”

After “cut” is called the set remains in standby position. The director might want to go again because of some technical issues, a need to adjust performance, or simply seeking a variation. The director considers what to do next and instructs the 1st AD . The 1st AD may then announce “We’re going again!” Actors move to their opening positions and props are renewed or repositioned, and the process starts anew. The director should use this time to give any notes to actors about their performance. Otherwise, if the director and heads of departments are satisfied, the 1st AD will call “Moving on!” and announce the next shot.

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7. Wild lines At times, it is not possible for the sound department to achieve crisp recording of the entire dialogue. If that’s the case, record the required portions of dialogue straight after accepted take—it will ensure the authenticity of performance that is much harder to achieve in ADR . (ADR , or Automatic Dialogue Replacement, a.k.a. “looping,” is a post-production process of re-recording portions of dialogue that are deemed unusable for the final sound mix. We will look at ADR in more detail in the next chapter.) There are few things worth remembering about the shooting routine: ➔ The process of shooting has inherent inertia While the described ritual of getting ready for a take creates a welcome atmosphere of concentration, the moment the crew hears “Cut, we’ll be going again” this mood instantly dissipates; the DP starts fiddling with lighting, the sound recordist adjusts lapel mikes or resets the boom operator’s position, wardrobe and make-up rush in with their adjustments, and actors relax and wait for feedback. It takes a while to recover that quiet concentration needed for a take. It is like turning the car engine off and starting it again— the momentum is gone. Therefore, if there is something minor that needs adjusting, or you feel that the actors are almost “there” and you want to build on what’s just happened, don’t call out “Cut!”; instead, say quietly but firmly, “Keep rolling . . . keep the energy, it’s going very well” and then briefly state what needs changing. And at the end of the take if you are happy with the shot, call “Tail slate!” or “End board!” The 2nd AC will then clap again, this time holding the clapperboard upside down. This is so that the editor knows that the slate relates to what was recorded prior. ➔ Actors peak at different times Some actors are best in their first take; others keep getting better and better. In wide shots, the quality of performance is perhaps less crucial, as the shots are more about spatial relationships and production values—but keep their individual strengths in mind when deciding whose close shot to shoot first and who should be the last. ➔ Taking notes and feedback There are no perfect takes. No, I’m lying: they do happen and are absolutely magic, but they’re very rare. Watching the unfolding take, the director has to make a lot of mental notes, and simultaneously compartmentalize them: notes for the camera department, sound department, props, wardrobe, and so on—and notes for the cast. You can see, for example, an actor fluffing a line (mental note 1: It’s probably okay, I’m likely to be on the reverse shot), then camera tilt is badly timed or executed (mental note 2: It should be okay, I’ll be on different angle prior to that and can adjust the timing in the edit), then there is a moment of magic connection between the actors (mental note 3: Yes! Brilliant!—your adrenaline level shoots up), but shortly after that you see an actress’s stray hair catching the light (mental note 4: Is it that bad? Don’t they say, “If they’re watching the hair they’re not watching the drama”?). After another minor hiccup, you are almost praying for something else to go wrong. And here it comes—an actor masked his partner for most of her line: “Cut! Going again!”

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Keeping all those points in mind, before the next take, move from department to department giving notes. In the above scenario, I would start with the masking problem, as it might require a short rehearsal, then hair and make-up, as it is likely to take some time, then remind the camera operator about the timing of the tilt, and finally ask the actor whether the line is awkward to articulate and needs amending. And of course, you need to reassure both actors that things are going well and that you saw genuine connection between them. ➔ Shoot for the edit When you know what parts of the shot will be used in the edit and what the cutting points are, everyone’s job will be easier. You’ll be able to quickly evaluate the usefulness of a take and you’ll be able to brief the script supervisor as to when to pay special attention to continuity. ➔ “Cheat” As cinematic storytelling is all about communicating visual information, the natural spatial relationships often need to be modified in order to achieve clarity. For example, you need to inform the audience that a character is reading a book. Let us assume that for whatever reason the action has to be covered in a close shot. The natural distance between the book and the readers’ eyes would place the book outside the frame, so you will have to ask the actor to hold the book unnaturally close:

Figure 4.4 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Similarly, strangers would often encroach on each other’s personal spaces because the director needs a tight 2 shot to tell the story:

Figure 4.5 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

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Linda, the hospital administrator, is definitely closer to Richard than four feet—the minimal distance for a formal encounter. ➔ Pick-ups When the majority of the shot works well but there is a moment of imperfection (masking, fluffed line, dip in focus, etc.), you need to make a decision whether to do another take or reshoot only the flawed portion, a pick-up. Be mindful that a pick-up needs enough leeway for the actors to get into the rhythm and the emotional temperature compatible with the original take—at times it is simpler to do another take. On the other hand, the shot construction might have been technically complex and you risk not getting it in one go—and there is nothing worse than being bogged down in several additional takes, none of which is any better than the initial one. You watch time slipping away and despair. A tough decision. The note on time management comes into play (see below). ➔ Time management Shooting is about time management as much as gathering the best material for the edit. There are hundreds of decisions that the director has to make in the course of a shooting day, and deciding when to say “Cut” is a major one. Let’s say that you have to shoot five scenes, each one consisting of six shots, each shot lasting approximately one minute. If you shot three full unusable takes for each shot, you would have wasted ninety minutes in a day. That’s ninety minutes that will never come back. Wouldn’t you rather spend this time getting richer coverage or finessing performances? Lighting, and seamless execution of the shots? Call “cut” as soon as you deem the shot unusable. ➔ Sound recordist The director’s optimum position on set is where they can monitor the performances and frame composition (usually via a video split monitor), and visually communicate with the sound recordist. It is only the sound recordist who can evaluate the quality of the recorded sound. You might hear an airplane or heavy traffic in the background, but it is the recordist who knows how much of it spills into the dialogue track, and if it’s fixable in the post-production. And vice versa, the sound recordist might hear a sound interference at a point you know won’t make it to the final cut. A thumb-up from the director in response to the recordist’s anxious look (“I’m not worried about the fluff, I’ll use another shot for that line”) or the recordist’s index finger sliding over his throat (“Cut!”) when a neighbor’s dog barks over the dialogue will save you a lot of time. ➔ Start at the end Check the end framing first, especially if it is a “oner”—a long, developing shot. The final frame will determine the lens and the position of the actor in relation to the camera. Then see what framing the selected lens will give you at the beginning of the shot and adjust the actor’s opening position accordingly. Let me illustrate on a shot at about seventeen minutes into Little Miss Sunshine:

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Figure 4.6 Floor plan artwork. © Luke Marsden.

Figure 4.7a Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

The camera follows Sheryl and Richard into the kitchen—MCU size.

Figure 4.7b Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

It develops to deep 2S Richard, Sheryl, as she turns around and leaves the kitchen. 210

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Figure 4.7c Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

We follow Richard to the sink, widening the frame to MS size.

Figure 4.7d Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Richard then follows Sheryl to the living room. The camera pivots around him—this is the closest framing . . .

Figure 4.7e Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

. . . and forms OS (Richard) Grandpa. The final frame composition serves the story well and my hunch is that the camera operator set this frame first before rehearsing the whole shot. The other critical moment in the shot construction, which would have helped determine what lens to use, is shown in the still above—Richard’s proximity to the camera in profile CU. ➔ Coverage There are three fundamental ways of shooting a scene, each posing different demands on the actors:

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1

Master shot followed by coverage. The actors have to replicate their performance from the master shot. Advantages: this is the safest way of covering a scene, as you can always cut to the master if anything doesn’t work in the coverage. Disadvantages: the visuals can become predictable. The dinner sequence in Little Miss Sunshine is constructed around the master shot interspersed with close ups and two-shots

Figure 4.8 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Figure 4.9a–f Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

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Overlapping shots—portions of the scene are shot separately with the action overlapped. The advantage with this method is that the visual development, coupled with developing performances, creates a more immersive experience. The disadvantage is that the actors don’t have the opportunity to perform the whole scene, and the approach gives fewer opportunities for manipulation in the edit. We are locked into a visual pattern: there is no master shot to fall back on. The second scene in Little Miss Sunshine is a good example of this approach:

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Figure 4.10 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

We are introduced to Richard in a low angle CU (reminiscent of heroes from Russian propaganda films from the 1920s, perhaps?).

Figure 4.11 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

New information—we’re introduced to the surroundings.

Figure 4.12 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

A square-on close-up makes us feel closer to the character and evokes empathy.

Figure 4.13 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

New information—the front-on wide shot describes what Richard is on about.

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Figure 4.14 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

New information—the reverse angle delivers . . . a reversal; a cinematic punch line leading to . . .

Figure 4.15 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

. . . the dénouement (note: no longer low angle)—we laugh, but at the same time feel pity for the character. 3

Long shot—the scene is covered in a single shot (a “oner”). The advantage with this shot is that the actors perform in real time and the camera captures spontaneous reactions. The disadvantage is that this style of coverage gives no opportunities to adjust duration or rhythm in the edit. Additionally, the technical virtuosity required to execute such a shot can draw attention to itself, putting form before content. While Little Miss Sunshine doesn’t feature a full scene executed that way, the shot following Richard into the kitchen and back into the dining room, finishing on MS Grandpa, gives a good taste of such cinematic treatment. Masters of the long shot worth studying include Max Ophüls, Andrei Tarkovsky, and Steven Spielberg.

EXERCISE—ONE SCENE THREE APPROACHES Design shooting plans for the scene below in the three described modes: master shot and coverage, overlapping shots, and long shot. To effectively cover the scene, you need to start with analysis:

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➔ What is the scene really about; how does it illuminate the film’s premise? ➔ What new do we learn about the characters of Wolf and Jarad? ➔ What are their respective objectives and actions and how are they manifested? ➔ What is the emotional event? ➔ How is the above information distributed—what do we learn through dialogue, what through visual language, and what through soundtrack? Shoot the three versions. ➔ You may start your preparation with a storyboard. It will help you crystallize the construction of each shot. What needs to be seen and when? ➔ Some people prefer to start with a floor plan. What would the most logical choreography be? Where would you put the camera for you master shot? I suggest you start with the master shot technique. It will stand you in a good stead to identify the core dramatic elements of the scene. Your second iteration—overlapping shots—will be a natural progression of joining the key elements with a bit of leeway on each side. And finally, the oner is where you have to be very decisive about what is in frame at any given time. The exercise is not about production values, crystal clear dialogue, or perfect editing; you can shoot it on your smartphone. And you can move the scene to a more feasible location. It is the visual interpretation of a dramatic event that we are testing, not your faithfulness to the script. Reflect on the differences in terms of creative decisions you had to make to ensure the clarity of the story and the intended viewer’s engagement. How different is the story in the three iterations?

4. EXT . PITT ST / RAGLAN ST PARK . DAY Wolf talks on the phone as she strides down the street at an unstoppable pace. An inner city park appears in the near distance. WOLF (ON PHONE ) ...nah I only got four on me... 200,...yeah, Crown and Oxford, yeah maybe 10, 15 ay. She hangs up. Arriving at the park she spots JARAD, 17, a scabby faced junkie sitting on the opposite side of the park. He jumps and runs to meet her.

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As Wolf walks towards him, she pulls something out of her mouth. She reaches Jarad, they swiftly shake hands, in a well-oiled exchange, money for drugs. Deal done. JARAD Oi, I heard you broke Ky’s nose. WOLF Yeah? JARAD Cops were looking for ya all night ay. Michelle will get ya locked up. He starts to laugh. Wolf snarls slightly. WOLF Yeah fuckin’ try and lock me up cunts. Her PHONE starts RINGING, she answers the call, walks off again in her unstoppable pace. WOLF (CONT ’D) Hey...yep, nah I got 3 left...

Collaboration with the Director of Photography The visual language used to tell the screen story will significantly influence the nature of the director’s collaboration with the actor, and the way the viewer perceives the character. The style of the film grows out of the director’s pre-visualization and the input of her closest creative collaborators, the Director of Photography and the production designer. The triumvirate controls the pre-production: the locations are selected, the sets built, the color scheme, tone, and textures established, the lenses chosen, the quality of lighting agreed on, and the mise-en-scène founded. Come the production it is the Director of Photography (DP ) that’s the director’s right hand. Working with the DP is in many regards similar to working with the actor: ➔ Both start with the examination of the script: it is the script that tells the actor how it wants to be interpreted, the director how it wants to be directed, and the cinematographer how it wants to be photographed. Any imposed interpretation, be it performative or stylistic, will be counterproductive and doomed to fail. ➔ Effective collaboration in both cases starts with the search for the meaning of the story and its subtext, and the discovery of common values, both with the collaborators and the screen characters. Gradually, the work gravitates toward forming the most appropriate means of visual presentation.

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➔ In both instances trust and an ego-less approach are of the utmost importance. In the case of working with actors the equation reads director = actor = work, meaning it is the work that counts; too much focus on directorial signature can be as destructive as an overstated prominence of the actor’s creation. Collaboration with the DP should adhere to the analogous formula: director = DP = work. If any aesthetic divergences are qualified by the needs of the story, the chances are the solutions will strengthen the film’s integrity.

Pre-visualization collides with reality In pre-production, the DP would have responded to the script with some ideas about the way the characters should be photographed, both in terms of lighting and framing. As a consequence of creative discussions with the director and the production designer, these ideas would be molded into a more tangible stylistic framework, for example:

Figure 4.16: 8½, director Federico Fellini (1963).

Federico Fellini’s 8½ is a story about a famous Italian film director suffering from “director’s block.” To envision the protagonist’s anxieties, the cinematographer, Gianni Di Venanzo, used hard lighting that often obscured Marcello Mastroianni’s eyes. Krzysztof Kies´lowski’s Three Colors: Blue (Figure 4.17 in plate section) and Spike Jonze’s Her (Figure 4.18 in plate section) both relied on color treatment. Figure 4.17 (see plate section) The first of Krzysztof Kies´lowski’s Three Colors Trilogy, Blue, follows Julie (Juliette Binoche) in her quest to rebuild her life after the tragic death of her husband and daughter. To portray Julie’s recurring feelings of the presence of the departed, cinematographer Sławomir Idziak employed sweeping camera moves accompanied by flooding the frame with the color blue.

Figure 4.18 (see plate section) The classical framing and limited color palette created by Her’s creative team (director Spike Jones, DP Hoyte Van Hoytema, and production designer K. K. Barrett) invite contemplation on the nature of humanity.

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The reality of shooting a film, however, means confronting technical and logistical issues, especially at the beginning of the process. In a way, these challenges are what makes filmmaking so exciting, as you discover your film growing into something different, usually more complex, than what you initially envisaged. After a few days of shooting, the film will tell you the way it wants to look and the tempo-rhythms in which it wants the story to unfold. You only have to listen. Andrzej Wajda (1926–2016), the director of the Academy Award nominated The Maids of Wilko, talked about the difficulties of tuning into the rhythm of the film: I wasn’t ready for this picture, and when I first saw the dailies I was in utter despair. It all seemed to drag, the performances were too slow, and I couldn’t calm down. Truth be told the scriptwriter Zbigniew Kamin´ski drew my attention to the fact that Iwaszkiewicz’s story [The Maids of Wilko is an adaptation of a short story with the same title by Jarosław Iwaszkiewicz] requires such rhythm, but it was my wife Krystyna Zachwatowicz, who uncovered the true nature of my anxiety—my previous film, Man of Marble, was a political film, and a political film is action, action! I had to calm down and forget about that film, she said, and start afresh with new, pure imagination. And that actually happened after some time, and I must say that at the end of the film I even managed to shoot a scene, of which I am proud. It is a scene in which Julcia and Jola eat cucumbers dipped in honey and are solely occupied with each other, even though opposite them sits the man of their lives. In the scene, I was able to show to what extent women are detached from the world of men, who can only witness unfolding events.

Figure 4.19 The Maids of Wilko, director Andrzej Wajda (1979).

If I had calmed down earlier, if I understood how different are the needs of a political film to the requirements, to the rhythm, in which the maids of Wilko live, I probably would have managed to shoot many more such scenes. WAJDA, 2003

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Balance of psychology and storytelling Every director is different on set: some are fully preoccupied with performance while others are mostly interested in shot construction. Some, like Ridley Scott, Steven Soderbergh, or Michael Mann in his early films, go as far as operating the camera, while others remain seated in front of the monitor. Generally, though, the director would either look at the shot through the monitor, or stand beside the camera—the latter preferred by many actors, as the proximity of the director gives their performances the sort of emotional feedback that a theater actor gets from a live audience. As an added bonus, standing next to the camera makes the operator take full responsibility for the shot’s effectiveness, as there is no double-checking with the director at the monitor. Paradoxically though, watching the shot on the monitor gives the director a fuller picture of the performance in its visual context: in a way, she is closer to the action. In the end, it is up to each director to choose the optimal spatial relationships on set. Cinematographers by and large see their role as supporting the director in telling the story and allow for ways of communication that are most comfortable for the director.

Blocking with DP You might find most affinity with the organic way of collaborating with the actors. If that is the case, I suggest you include the DP in the process. Clear the set and allow the actors time to find their way in the space within the structure of the scene. While this is happening, let the DP wander around with his or her viewfinder, searching for the scene’s visual shape. When effective, the process turns into a kind of dance with several partners, each responding to everyone else’s moves. And the result can be electrifying: just look at films directed by Cate Shortland, who employs this process of working. Jill Soloway, director of the TV series Transparent, takes the process even further. She refers to her collaboration with the DP as “feeling seeing” and describes the practice: Our cinematographer Jim Frohna, when he is holding the camera . . . he’s not capturing, he is actually playing an action like the actors. I’m whispering in his ear, while he is shooting, between takes; he’s playing the action of melting, or oozing, or allowing. He’s feeling something in his body that we have chosen together, while he is holding the camera. And so, you may notice when you see this kind of filmmaking that you feel more, or, as the Millennials would say, “you get the feels”. SOLOWAY, 2016

Direct the camera as you direct actors Cinematographers crave direction, especially at the beginning of the shoot. Spending time giving them guidance is important. At times, they can be so caught up with the beauty of a shot that they forget about the main task of film photography, which is telling the story. The heart of the shot needs to contribute to the narrative or inform the character, ideally both, and the director has to be the guardian of the story.

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There are several approaches you might adopt in communicating what you need. On the one hand, don’t be afraid to describe the shot’s visual content in detail, for example “I want to see Richard following Sheryl to the kitchen, reveal her at the fridge as he crosses to the sink, at which point I want to see the two of them, then let her leave the frame, tighten on him at the sink and then pivot around as he moves back to the dining room, and frame over his shoulder on Grandpa, seeing Sheryl crossing in the background, and then let Richard leave the frame and finish on a single shot of Grandpa.” This is visual storytelling; this is giving the cinematographer a creative challenge. On the other hand, you might prefer talking aesthetics and narrative, for example “I want to see the growing gap between Sheryl and Richard, I want to see how their respective preoccupations impact on their relationship, and I want to see how Grandpa, seemingly the least reliable member of the family, provides the only solid reference point.” This kind of note is a different challenge for the cinematographer, as she’ll have to find a means of translating intellectual concepts into visual language.

Watching dailies In feature film production, the first few days of watching dailies are about learning about yours and the DP ’s sensibilities and tastes; finding out what each other wants, whether mutual expectations are met and if there are any surprises, happy or otherwise. They can be nerve wrecking for all parties. Fortunately, nerves in filmmaking don’t last long: they are normally gone in a few days and the horse is galloping—the film starts making itself. You just need to commit to the process.

Cinematic grammar While the director doesn’t need to be an expert in cinematography, a knowledge of fundamental cinematic grammar will inform direction of performances a great deal, and help communication with the DP.

Lenses In Chapter 1, I talked briefly about the impact of lenses on the audience’s perception of the character: the wider the lens on close-up, the closer the viewer feels to the character—no surprise there, as the camera is actually physically closer to the actor. But it is about more than just physical distance. The proximity of the camera to the actor creates an atmosphere that translates into the quality of performance. Tom Hooper exploited that in his direction of Colin Firth in The King’s Speech: I wanted to start not on a wide shot, but on a close up of Colin. And I was also shooting on a wide lens so the camera was probably eighteen inches from his face and so Colin was facing on [the] first day, the first set up, a ten-minute close-up.

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Figure 4.20 The King’s Speech, director Tom Hooper (2010).

My theory was: That is what stammering is like, having the ultimate performance anxiety. It was like being under so much incredible pressure, and so I designed everything on that first day to put him under more pressure than he would normally be as an actor . . . Colin said later that it was incredibly helpful to be thrown in the deep end in that way, because I thought there was a psychological link. And I think it’s fascinating about how you get a performance and how the placement of the camera reflects the psychology of an actor. KAGAN, Directors Close Up 2, 2013

A close shot on a wide lens feels thrilling and uncomfortable at the same time—we encroach on the personal space of strangers, something taboo in real life. It’s the “peeping Tom” aspect of cinema. Where else are we allowed to scrutinize people’s physiognomy so intimately with impunity? Now compare the above close-up shot of Colin Firth with another close shot from the same scene—this time from a more oblique angle:

Figure 4.21 The King’s Speech, director Tom Hooper (2010).

The shot appears to have been executed on the same lens, but the camera angle coupled with wider framing creates a distance from the character. Another aspect of wide lens is its ability to describe, in shorthand, the character’s background; it provides a kind of visual exposition. No backstory is needed—the mise-enscène says it all. Just look at this shot from No Country for Old Men:

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Figure 4.22 No Country for Old Men, directors Joel Coen and Ethan Coen the Coen Brothers (2007).

Kathy Lamkin’s character of Desert Aire Manager doesn’t need any introduction: her hairdo, costume, and surrounding paraphernalia say all we need to know about the character and the world she lives in. Little Miss Sunshine directors and their cinematographer Tim Suhrstedt vary lenses to best suit the context of the scene and mediate the viewer’s engagement with the characters. Let’s examine how they do it: about one hour into the film, Richard is pulled over by a state trooper.

Figure 4.23 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Opening the sequence with a wide lens shot involves us viscerally—we are as apprehensive as Richard.

Figure 4.24 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

The initial exchange with State Trooper McCleary seems to be shot on a slightly longer lens—we are still close to the action but are now put in the role of an objective observer.

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Figure 4.25 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

When McCleary discovers the porn magazines, however, the filmmakers switch to long lens, effectively casting us as voyeurs spying on the action.

Eye-lines Most fiction films feature scenes between two characters covered in a shot–reverse shot sequence. Characters looking at each other create an “eye-line”—an imaginary line between their eyes. The closer the camera is positioned to this line, the more intimate the viewer’s connection is with the character and the less emotional projection required from the actors. This is not to say the actor’s job is easier; on the contrary, the closeness of the camera to the partnering actor makes it difficult to exclude it from the imaginary circle of concentration. Little Miss Sunshine features, for the most part, a conventional, understated approach to framing and eye-line, as seen in the example above, and the following one:

Figure 4.26 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Figure 4.27 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

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The characters are classically framed, conforming to the rule of thirds, and the eye-line is relatively tight, but not as tight as to make us feel that we are invading their privacy. We are observing the exchange from a safe distance. Compare it to the shot–reverse shot sequence that opens the scene between Olive and Grandpa in the motel room:

Figure 4.28 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Figure 4.29 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Here the characters are framed centrally, and looking almost straight at the camera. The effect is of immediacy; as if we were in the room with them, a partner in the scene. Director Jean-Pierre Jeunet and cinematographer Bruno Delbonnel use the combination of tight eye-line with wide lens to great effect in their 2001 film Amélie: the vulnerability of the title character instantly pulls us into the world of her subjective reality; so much so that when Jeunet makes Tautou look straight down the lens, the effect is overwhelming.

Figure 4.30 Amélie, director Jean-Pierre Jeunet (2001).

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Even though breaking the fourth wall makes us aware of the artifice of the medium, paradoxically we feel intimately close to Amélie. The success of Jeunet’s direction is built on several factors: his mastery of cinematic language, the ability to marry discerning stylistic devices with authentic performance, and his gift for winning the actor’s ultimate trust—Audrey Tautou displays great courage in allowing the camera to peer deeply into her soul.

Static camera, moving camera While the camera is the tool for cinematic storytelling, usually we don’t want its presence to be felt. The very notion of a suspension of disbelief implies no mediators between the story and the audience: we know the camera is there but don’t want to be reminded of its existence. One way of achieving this is to keep the camera still. In today’s cinema of rapid editing rhythm and unrelentingly mobile camera, we rarely see films executed with static shots. A notable exception is Paweł Pawlikowski’s Ida, photographed by Ryszard Lenczewski and Łukasz Z˙al. Set in 1960s Poland, the film follows Anna, a young novice nun about to take her final vows, who suddenly learns about her Jewish ancestry.

Figure 4.31 Ida, director Paweł Pawlikowski (2013).

The black-and-white film is executed in tableau-like overlapping shots, and in a 4:3 aspect ratio evocative of Polish films of the era (aspect ratio defines the relation between the images width and its height). The framing suggests the wider world outside, and colors the performances with the sense of alienation and loss. Lenczewski commented, “We designed the unusual compositions to make the audience feel uncertain, to watch in a different way. We trust intuition first. Then we come to intellectual thinking, but in the end, we come back to intuition” (Doperalski, 2016). Moving camera can also remain “invisible,” as long as its movement is motivated, either externally or internally. A movement of a subject which the camera follows to keep it in frame is an example of an externally motivated movement. Such movement is so prevalent in movies that we don’t notice it anymore.

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Figure 4.32 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Moving POV (point-of-view) shots are also such an integral part of the cinematic vernacular as to remain unnoticed by the viewer. Here is an example: about forty-seven minutes into the film, Richard spots Stan Grossman in a hotel foyer.

Figure 4.33 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Figure 4.34 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Both shots are moving, the first leading Richard as he approaches Grossman and his coterie, and the second tracking toward the group as the representation of his gaze, and yet our emotional engagement renders the movement “invisible.” Internal motivation for a camera move is a curious phenomenon as there is no movement of an external object for the camera to follow. Instead, it is the inner life of a character that is expressed by the physical motion of the camera—usually a pull-in.

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Interestingly, when executed properly, the move is so integral to the characterization that the artifice remains invisible to the viewer. Dayton and Faris utilize this type of camera movement several times in Little Miss Sunshine. One such moment occurs about forty-two minutes into the film: the Hoovers are on their way to Redondo Beach and stay overnight at a motel. Dwayne lies on his bed listening to Sheryl quarrelling with his stepfather Richard in the adjoining room. The camera, placed overhead de-elevates from MS to CU .

Figure 4.35 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Figure 4.36 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

This is purely cinematic storytelling: the sheer movement of the camera stimulates the viewers’ emotional alliance—we empathize with Dwayne and project our own feelings onto the character. Very little is required from the actor. In fact, the more uninflected the performance, the greater the scope for our involvement. One might even argue that Paul Dano’s performance in the scene, although very subtle (only the shadow of a smile), is still too pronounced, and limits the viewer’s engagement. Used skillfully, camera movement can do much more than add production values—it can also bring the scene’s subtext to the surface. One of the masters of mobile camera was Max Ophüls (1902–57). Let’s have a look at an excerpt from his 1949 noir melodrama Caught. The film tells the story of Leonora, a young department-store model who leaves her multimillionaire husband when he turns violent. She finds a job at the modest medical clinic of Dr. Larry Quinada who soon falls for her. But one day Leonora disappears. The director’s choreography of the camera makes the absent Leonora the central player in the scene.

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INT . SURGERY —NIGHT The scene opens on a shot of Leonora’s empty desk. We hear an electric buzz.

Figure 4.37 Caught, director Max Ophüls (1949).

Prompted by the sound, the camera moves anticlockwise until it discovers Larry’s partner standing at the door to his cabinet, electric shaver in hand. Leonora’s desk remains in the foreground. Out of vision, we hear . . .

LARRY What’s new?

Figure 4.38 Caught, director Max Ophüls (1949).

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HOFFMAN Uhm...a nine pounder this afternoon. Boy. LARRY Congratulations. It was a madhouse today. As soon as we establish Hoffman, the camera moves in the opposite direction, again registering Leonora’s empty desk . . .

HOFFMAN Rat race. LARRY Mrs Higgins’ little boy swallowed a dime. . . . and finds Larry at the door to his cabinet (Leonora’s desk firmly in the foreground), just in time for his line:

Figure 4.39 Caught, director Max Ophüls (1949).

No news from Leonora? HOFFMAN No. Maybe she isn’t feeling well. She’ll be back tomorrow. LARRY No. I dropped by her place on the way from the hospital. She’s moved. Gone. Ophüls cuts here for the first time in the scene.

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Figure 4.40 Caught, director Max Ophüls (1949).

HOFFMAN Where to? And cuts again.

Figure 4.41 Caught, director Max Ophüls (1949).

LARRY Long Island, the landlady said. There is a metallic sound coming from the ceiling. Larry looks up.

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LARRY (cont’d) (re sound) Y’know, these pipes are on the brink again, we ought to send for a plumber. The scene then continues in the shot–reverse shot mode.

HOFFMAN It’s a matter for the landlord. LARRY Ah, we’ll never catch him. (Pause) I was out with her last night. HOFFMAN Oh. Did she say anything? Now the framing tightens. Ophüls keeps intercutting.

Figure 4.42 Caught, director Max Ophüls (1949).

LARRY About leaving? No. HOFFMAN Did you criticize her again? LARRY No, I proposed to her, as a matter of fact. I thought I’d run out to Long Island.

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HOFFMAN Oh. Larry, was last night the first time you went out with her? LARRY Yes. HOFFMAN Long Island. Hmm...I don’t know. LARRY I’d look pretty silly anyway. All I could get out of her was that she was a paid companion to somebody rich. HOFFMAN Nice work if you can get it. We jump back to the original wider framing as the camera first moves toward Larry (note Leonora’s empty desk in the foreground) . . .

Figure 4.43 Caught, director Max Ophüls (1949).

LARRY I can just hear the conversation, “God evening Mr So-and-so, I’m Dr Quinada. Are you by any chance keeping one of my former employees, Ms Leonora Eames?” HOFFMAN Yeah... . . . and then pivots around, to settle on Hoffman for his line.

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Figure 4.44 Caught, director Max Ophüls (1949).

HOFFMAN (cont’d) Well, why don’t you forget her? The camera starts moving, and we anticipate seeing Larry again . . .

LARRY You think so? HOFFMAN Yeah. LARRY Uhm... Instead, Ophüls brings us back to the scene’s opening frame and the last exchange is heard off screen:

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LARRY Good night. HOFFMAN Good night, Larry. Simple, elegant and effective.

EXERCISE—FILMING SUBTEXT Design visual treatment for the following scene from Wolf. You should aim to make the baby’s cry the dominant dramatic element of the scene. First, use static frames. Then do another version, this time moving the camera. Create floor plans with Wolf’s and camera positions and moves annotated, and also use storyboards (photographic or drawn).

2. INT . SQUAT MAIN ROOM (ABANDONED BUILDING ). DAY Morning light smashes in through a broken window. It hits the small part of Wolf’s face exposed from under a dirty blanket. Her phone RINGS. Shrill and demanding. She snatches it up, jumps up from the rotten mattress, she snatches up her plastic bag stuffed with clothes. WOLF (ON PHONE ) Hey...yeah I got that many... I reckon I could meet ya in 15, 20... no worries. See ya. Wolf throws the blanket off. With pace she packs a bong and fiercely sucks it down hard, knuckles raw and bloody. She exhales the smoke hard into the grotty room. The sound of a BABY’S CRY abruptly bounces in all around her from somewhere in the abandoned building. Wolf snaps her head around towards the noise and freezes. It is a painful, aching, hungry HOWLING CRY that echoes all around her. A frown creases her forehead as she listens to the WAIL .

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Collaboration with the sound department The role of sound in the creation of screen character is often undervalued; the acoustic means of expression is regarded as inferior to the visual ones, and sound design is often discussed only after completion of the principal photography. This is regrettable since it is one of the most powerful tools; truly cinematic character construction embraces sound design on a par with dialogue, framing, or costume from the very conception. Such is the case with Shine (1996). The film tells a true story of David Helfgott, a piano prodigy whose turbulent childhood, latent schizophrenia, and pressures of rising fame led to a mental breakdown. Jan Sardi’s script and Scott Hick’s direction marry sound design with visual treatment to create a memorable cinematic rendition of an artist slipping into madness. The pivotal scene depicts young David performing Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 3 in D minor, regarded as one of the most difficult concertos in the classical repertoire.

INT .

CONCERT HALL

DAY

We watch the orchestra as tempo builds.

Figure 4.46 Shine, director Scott Hicks (1996).

David’s hands glide through the most difficult sequences. The sequence starts conventionally—close shots of David (Noah Taylor) develop to, or are intercut with, close-ups of his hands on the keyboard, with diegetic sound.

Parkes sits forward, his good hand willing David on. Viney is amazed.

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Figure 4.47 Shine, director Scott Hicks (1996).

Close-up on David. He doesn’t hear music, he hears sounds...the noise of the other instruments. It’s a weird, nerve-shredding cacophony. Sweat drips off him onto the keyboard. The silence is surreal, heightened slow-motion as David endures the pain and the anguish in his body, his hands descending onto the keys, his feet pressing the pedals...sounds like deep rumbling explosions... We are still in cinema’s conventional mode but the closeness of the shot coupled with strong backlight and dripping sweat produces an eerie atmosphere. The non-diegetic sound reflects David’s subjective perception of the circumstance.

The audience is caught up in the spell.

Figure 4.48 Shine, director Scott Hicks (1996).

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All David hears is a thudding, clattering, sound—the hammers inside the piano, which is taking on the life of its own, like a mechanical beast he has to subdue before it swallows him up. The percussive sounds of the hammers and the groaning of the piano under assault are deafening. David tries to block them out as he plays on... Delving even deeper into David’s state of mind, the camera appears to take on a life of its own—no longer obeying the rules of objective narration, it glides around haphazardly. The sound is non-diegetic.

Figure 4.49 Shine, director Scott Hicks (1996).

Figure 4.49

Resume sound: the music is divine, the audience entranced as they watch David pour his whole being into it. And as it builds into [the] finale, the camera swirls around David dizzyingly. The contrast between the uncanny tranquility of the previous section and the sudden explosion of sound catapults us to a state of euphoria, but with a strong undercurrent of dread. The sound is diegetic again, but its editorial placement and juxtaposition with the unbalanced framing renders it highly subjective. We fear that David is pushing himself beyond the realm of sanity.

He begins to fall backwards—in slow motion, in silence until his head hits the stage. His spectacles fly off.

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Figure 4.50 Shine, director Scott Hicks (1996).

Figure 4.51 Shine, director Scott Hicks (1996).

Eyes wide open, he stares at the bright swirling lights. Silence. Then, a phone rings and rings and rings on. The non-diegetic soundscape coupled with the camera upsetting the spatial orientation, and the point of view of the spectacles, seal the harrowing dénouement of the sequence.

Collaboration with actors—working with emotional dynamite The intensity of shooting and the myriad decisions that need to be made (often decisions that will determine the future shape of a scene) puts the director in “the zone.” Enraptured and

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highly focused on the quality of footage she is getting, the director might not fully appreciate the sensitive nature of the actor’s process. Bryan Cranston, Walter White in Breaking Bad, recounted shooting a scene where Walter finds his protégé Jesse strung out on heroin with his junkie girlfriend Jane at his side. Walter tries to shake Jesse awake and the movement flips Jane on her back, and she starts choking on her own vomit. Walter’s first impulse is to save her, but then he stops himself: this woman was trying to blackmail him and is likely to cause Jesse’s death by introducing him to heroine. The scene concludes with Walter watching her die. Preparing for a scene like that Cranston imagines all the possible decisions the character could make in the circumstances and writes them down. Once these options, and their emotional outcomes, are committed to paper, the actor lets them out of his conscious mind; shooting the scene, Cranston didn’t try to implement any of his imagined scenarios. Instead, he let the reality of the moment take over. In this instance, the experience was devastating: I could see this young girl slipping away. And all of a sudden, her face was replaced by the face of my real daughter, Tyler, and I saw, for the briefest moments—maybe a couple of seconds—I saw my daughter’s face choking to death, and I was watching that horror. And we cut and I just started crying and Anna Gunn who plays my wife Skyler hugged me, and it was traumatic. CRANSTON, 2016

Watching the scene, one cannot but be overwhelmed by the authenticity of Cranston’s performance. We see him reaching for the woman in the character’s initial impulse.

Figure 4.52 Breaking Bad, series 2, episode 12, “Phoenix,” director Colin Bucksey (2009).

And then stopping himself.

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Figure 4.53 Breaking Bad, series 2, episode 12, “Phoenix,” director Colin Bucksey (2009).

The internal conflict—the instinct to save a life versus cold reasoning—is palpable.

Figure 4.54 Breaking Bad, series 2, episode 12, “Phoenix,” director Colin Bucksey (2009).

The reasoning wins and Walter watches her die.

Figure 4.55 Breaking Bad, series 2, episode 12, “Phoenix,” director Colin Bucksey (2009).

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Clearly, it is a traumatic experience, and performance-wise it is difficult to distinguish between the actor and his creation. The final shot of the scene, however, is very telling:

Figure 4.56 Breaking Bad, series 2, episode 12, “Phoenix,” director Colin Bucksey (2009).

You can see Cranston’s gaze turning inward; he is no longer a character reacting to external stimuli—he is a human being facing his internal nightmare. Impressive as the performance is, it is also a record of the actor experiencing trauma. The argument about “where the character finishes and the actor starts” is moot. What is indisputable is the director’s responsibility for the actor’s emotional wellbeing. Put simply, the director’s role in collaboration with the actor is threefold: to assist in preparation for performance; to inspire during the shoot; and to facilitate the cooling down after performance—and this can range from a sincere “Thank you” after a take to arranging proper counseling. Part of the actor’s craft—unfortunately in large measure unacknowledged by both performers and directors—is the ability to negotiate the distance between the characterization and the actor’s own life. They can position themselves all the way on the spectrum from unreserved immersion with an experience to complete emotional removal. Total immersion caries the risk of emotional hurt, while too big a distance can result in a dry and unengaging performance. The trick is in finding the golden middle, and that varies from individual to individual. Some actors are inherently resilient and benefit from the director pushing emotional triggers, while oversensitive types require much more considered interaction.

Director’s role Once on set, the director directs, be it explicitly or implicitly—her mood, the tone of her voice, and her body language all have a significant impact on the performance of the cast and crew. A good director is a skillful performer: even panicking inside, she oozes an aura of quiet confidence, knowing that the atmosphere she creates will be reflected in the quality of the dailies: stressed actors aren’t at their creative best. She controls her energy levels—seeing a particularly apathetic actor she infects him with her enthusiasm; an over-energized actor

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relaxes faced with her serenity. She is a good strategist—she will schedule particularly emotional scenes later in the day when the actors are tired. Fatigue makes us lower the guards protecting our persona and we’re more accessible emotionally. There are two basic requirements for an effective actor–director relationship: trust and selfexposure. Actors are prepared to put themselves on the line emotionally and psychologically providing the director is also willing to go places that make him uncomfortable. The actor needs to trust the director and vice versa; the director who doesn’t trust the actor won’t achieve superior performances. Actors are particularly vulnerable during the shoot. Taking the responsibility for telling the story off their shoulders gives them a sense of creative freedom: they don’t have to “accomplish” anything, as there is nothing to accomplish, at least in terms of the narrative (their characters still have to strive to achieve their objectives). A non-judgmental, lenient atmosphere, giving the actors permission to experiment and fail, results in richer, unpredictable performances.

Director blocks a scene Before the shoot, try to spend time alone on the studio set (or location) where the scene will be shot. Given time, you’ll become aware of the place’s influence on your psyche—you will feel its atmosphere. In Chapter 2 we talked about Michael Chekhov’s concept of atmosphere being the soul of a play (and, by default, a scene). The tangible atmosphere exercise on page 105 could well be applied to your preparation for blocking: have a conversation with the space, allow it speak to you. On the day, it’ll help you facilitate a connection to space for the actors that will let them discover the choreography by themselves. Blocking a scene is like learning a song: it’s not really about the lyrics, it’s about the feelings and the rhythm. Using music on set can be very effective as you set a non-verbal mode of communication and the actors will absorb the rhythm and the mood of the scene as if by osmosis, bypassing the analytical brain. Music speaks to the heart.

EXERCISE—FINDING THE SOUL OF THE SCENE Re-read the last scene from Wolf and answer the following questions. 1

What is your visceral response? How does it make you feel? What is the atmosphere it conjures up for you?

2

What are the rhythms the scene unfolds in?

3

How does the scene fit in the whole film in terms of the protagonist’s emotional journey?

4

What would you like the audience to feel watching it?

5

What would you like the actors to feel playing it?

Feelings can be difficult to explain. Robert Plutchik (1927–2006), an American psychologist, identified eight principal emotions: anger, fear, sadness, disgust, surprise,

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anticipation, trust, and joy. Figure 4.57 in the plate section depicts following is his Wheel of Emotions, a graphic representation of how emotions are related and their varying degrees of intensity. It can help you to define the emotions you want expressed.

Figure 4.57 (see plate section) Wheel of Emotion.

And here is the scene:

INT . PRISON . DAY Wolf sits, wringing her bruised hands together as she waits. A noise makes Wolf looks up. An ARMED GUARD walks in with a woman. Her MUM, she is dressed in a prisoner uniform. Wolf watches as her mum sits down at a table beside Wolf. As her Mum slowly lowers herself into the chair, Wolf’s eyes glide over the old track marks to a faded tattoo of a wolf’s snarling face. Wolf lifts her eyes slowly up to her Mum’s face. Mum stares at Wolf. GUARD Are you aware of the rules? Wolf nods. GUARD (CONT ’D) No contraband items, mobile phones, drugs. No contact and either party can terminate the visit at any time. They stare at each other in tense silence. MUM Thanks for comin’. Wolf’s leg starts to bounce angrily. Her rage is restless. But then through Wolf’s angry glare big hot tears well up in her eyes. She fights this feeling, her leg bouncing faster. MUM (CONT ’D) I missed ya love. Wolf’s eyes drop to the ground, a tear falls, her leg stops bouncing.

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Wolf roughly throws her arms around her Mum’s waist and buries her head in her lap. Mum, taken a back for a moment, but ever grateful, soothingly strokes Wolf’s hair and places a kiss on her head. The end. Now find a piece of music that reflects the mood you’d like to evoke and the rhythm you’d like to set. While the style and genre is up to you, stay away from lyrics, as they bring another layer of meaning that is outside the remit of this exercise. Also, bear in mind that the function of the music you are looking for is to inspire the actors; it is not the kind of music you’d like to use to as the scene’s underscore. We’ll be talking about sound design and music score in the next chapter.

The process of blocking a scene starts in the right brain, driven by instinct (e.g., “Let’s listen to music and see what happens”) and finishes in the left brain when the choreography is set and we turn our attention to the logistics of shot construction. Hitchcock’s maxim that “drama is life with the dull bits cut out” applies not only to plot but also to dialogue (the “dull bits” are cut out and only the ones that move the story forward and describe the character are left in) and choreography. We can’t have the characters move willy-nilly about the set: every move and every gesture has to serve the story. For the director, blocking is about creating clarity in the narrative, illuminating the scene’s subtext, and systematically revealing new facets of the character. And this is best accomplished by non-verbal behavior: the way the character moves, gestures, or handles props. The director can discreetly guide the cast in these respects by choice of location, placement of furniture and props, and the type of activity the characters are to perform. In life, dialogue most often occurs simultaneously with actions:

Figure 4.58 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Feris (2006).

we push a car . . .

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Figure 4.59 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Feris (2006).

attend to evening toilet . . .

Figure 4.60 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Feris (2006).

handle heavy objects . . .

Figure 4.61 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Feris (2006).

or attend to an urgent business. Incidentally, have another look at the scene with pageant official Jenkins above (about one hour, eleven minutes into the film)—she doesn’t really need to move as much as she does, but can you imagine what impact the scene would have with less dynamic blocking? It wouldn’t have the sense of urgency, it wouldn’t have the wonderful juxtaposition of the

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fluttering flowery dress with her staunch, patronizing attitude; the actors would face each other saying their lines. How boring. What happens when we attend to something while holding a conversation is that in critical moments we stop, involuntarily. This breaks the established rhythm and automatically loads the received information with gravity. In performance, it translates as the spontaneous behavior of the actor and lack of an unwelcome pushing of the dialogue. Using props has other benefits: it diverts the actor’s attention from the dialogue, which makes the less experienced ones escape self-consciousness. Furthermore, the manner in which the props are handled says a lot about the character, and we learn this through their body language rather than facial expression, which might in fact belie the body. How interesting. In Chapter 3 we talked about emotional distance zones as a possible starting point for devising choreography. But what if the script calls for two mutually exclusive emotions, for example admiration and loathing? Do you leave it to the actor? While the experienced ones will embrace the challenge, for the less experienced actors, blocking would need to allow for separate moments of admiration followed by moments of disgust. In real life, we usually hide our true feelings: we nod politely when patronized by a superior, or pretend to show interest when bored at a party. In a face-to-face situation, we avert our gaze, protecting our vulnerability. This can serve the director well, as the audience will respond to the emotional triggers and project their own feelings. However, if the story requires an instance of genuine openness, stage the moment in such a way that both characters face the camera rather than each other. See how the directors of Little Miss Sunshine handle such a moment. About thirty-seven minutes into the film, Richard Hoover learns that his book deal fell through. Not only is it a major financial blow for the family; it undermines the very core of his “Refuse to lose” theory. Richard is devastated. Seeing this, Grandpa reaches out with a gesture of moral support.

Figure 4.62 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

His sincere action and Richard’s vulnerability create a poignant moment. The volatile nature of the father–son relationship wouldn’t allow such an exchange to take place had they looked each other in the eye.

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Before the take The director’s task is to bring the actors from their lives to the lives of their characters. An effective way of managing this is to greet them in the morning, have an informal conversation about the priorities for the day, talk about the characters but not in a heavy, analytical way— this is an informal chat, a you-know-what-occurred-to-me-last-night kind of conversation. Invite them to tell you about themselves. Stories are revealing and you’ll have material to draw from when shooting. Adjusting performance, you can refer to one of the stories, “Remember when you told me about such and such? It’s like that.” No matter how much work you’ve done on the script together and how many rehearsals, the actor who arrives on set might be a different person to the one you last met; he might be going through a rough time in his personal life, recovering from an illness, or have started working with a fashionable acting guru. Sensing an emotional state, you will be able to adjust your directing approach accordingly. Actors’ experience on set can be summarized as “Hurry up and wait,” and the waiting can be particularly draining. To get them into the here and now, try physical activities: clapping games and ball games are effective. Whatever the actors do prior to shooting will affect their performance. The nature of the scene you are about to shoot will help you decide what it is you need to do—engage in robust discussion, rehearse the mechanics, or perhaps improvise. Mark Travis devised a very effective before-the-take improvisation that focuses the characters on their individual points of view. Each character selects (or you select for him) a specific attitude about the other character, the content of the scene, or an issue between the two characters. They speak simultaneously, attempting to convince each other on their point of view. The objective is to get the other actor/character to stop and listen. This will result in a very intense confrontation and the duration of this exercise will determine its effect. If such a confrontation were written out, it might look something like this:

Husband You’re always doing this to me. Always. You keep putting the kids before me. You put them between you and me. I can’t take it anymore. This is it. This time we’re going off ourselves and we are going to be peaceful and quiet and we’re not going to talk about the kids—not even once. We’re going to eat, swim, play golf, and make love. That’s it.

Wife You resent me, don’t you? You resent me because I was the one that wanted to have kids. And now you’re going to hold it against me. You want to make it all my fault that we’re not getting along. Well, it’s not my fault and it’s not the kids’ fault. You have to take some of the responsibility. Look at yourself. So, caught up in your work that you don’t even want to spend time with your family. TRAVIS, 2002

Another useful on-set exercise involves actors reducing the whole scene to a single line describing what they would really like to say to their partner if they weren’t afraid of the

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consequences, and then play the scene with each line of dialogue followed by the out-loud statement of their true intentions, like so:

INT . HOSPITAL ROOM —DAY Sheryl enters. Frank barely reacts. SHERYL Hey Frank... I’m scared. I don’t know what to say. FRANK Sheryl. Can you just disappear? Fighting tears, she goes and hugs him. SHERYL I’m so glad you’re still here. I’m scared. I don’t know what to say. FRANK Well. That’s one of us. Can you just disappear? Both exercises require absolute engagement, which serves our principal goal—to make the actors “forget” all their preparation and genuinely respond to the circumstances and stimuli of the moment. But not all actors want such preparation. Some need time to themselves to find the character’s dominant emotion at the head of the scene (see “Given circumstances— preparation” in Chapter 2, and Chapter 3) and work on intensifying their main obstacle. For example, the actor playing the title role in Wolf might decide that the overriding emotion the character brings to the final scene is contempt, and her intention is to make her mother pay for her (Wolf’s) lost childhood. She will know that she has achieved her goal when she sees her mother howling in pain. An internal obstacle that will elevate the stakes will be a memory of a cuddle she received from her mother when she was a child. This would be a legitimate preparation for an actor. Equally valid is the opposite approach, advocated by Judith Weston: It’s more important for an actor to be emotionally available than emotionally prepared. A sensory preparation works because anything sensory is physical. But any sensory preparation should always be relaxed and pleasurable rather than pushed and desperate, even if the feeling of the scene is painful. Even actual physical activity before performing, such as kick-boxing or long walks, can be more useful preparation than emotional selftorture, because it helps an actor get out of his head, into his body, and thus out of the way of his feelings. WESTON, 2003

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The take Shots are snippets of time out of which the editor constructs the narrative. And yet a take is all too often treated like an entity in itself, and the shooting procedure resembles a race: ➔ READY (“This is going to be a take!”) ➔ GET SET (“Turn over!”) ➔ GO ! (“Action!”) While the established routine gives actors some sense of security, it can be counterintuitive. The characters need to be alive before the scene starts. This can be achieved in a variety of ways: you can ask the actors to improvise what happened just before the scripted dialogue and, when they feel ready, gradually slip into the scene proper. You can ask them to say aloud their characters’ thoughts just before they start the scene (as per Mark Travis’s exercise above). The command “Action!”—a customary part of the shooting ritual—can be replaced by a more informal way of indicating the beginning of the scene, for example by “Whenever you’re ready.” This would require a clear communication code for the crew; for example, a circular movement of the index finger indicating “Turn over”; a thumbs-up to indicate “Rolling” and “Speed”; and a nod for “Action!” Whatever your process, it needs to be live, organic, and collaborative, a fusion of meticulous planning and on-the-spot inspiration. Don’t let the planning get in the way of inspiration—the process mustn’t degenerate into a mechanical realization of your shot list or storyboard. Equally, don’t let “inspiration” get in the way of the story you are telling. It is very easy to get seduced by a charismatic performance that has nothing to do with the function of the scene, or a spectacular shot that distracts from the information it’s supposed to deliver. How you manage issues during a take is also of key importance. Imagine you are in the middle of a take. The shot proceeds beautifully, and then a seriously fluffed line or a sudden technical hiccup ruins the flow and you call “Cut!” The instant you say it the magic leaves the room: the standby props step in to reset for a new take, the gaffer starts adjusting the lights, the script supervisor talks to the actors about their continuity . . . It will take a considerable amount of time to recreate the atmosphere and get everybody into the groove again. It can be a good strategy to let the camera roll and calmly say, “It’s going really well, let’s just pick it up from line x” or even “Let’s do the whole scene three times without stopping.” With a bit of luck the actors will build on each run, delving deeper and deeper into the scene’s subtext. Michel Hazanavicius, the director of the 2011 Oscar-winning The Artist, side-coaches his cast during takes: Sometimes when an actor says something, he says a line and it’s almost perfect, but you know that if he changes something, it would be better, it will be better. If you wait for the end of the take and you say, “Cut,” and you have ten people come through and you talk to him and then you have three minutes for people to clear the frame and you forget

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everything. So, if during the take, you say, “Do it again, but just add . . .” you gain time and I think it’s more efficient. KAGAN, Directors Close Up 2, 2013

When you do need to cut, beware of getting too absorbed with the technicalities of camera set-ups, lenses, or framing. These all are vital storytelling tools, but if you don’t get truthful, engaging performances you won’t have a film. Stay in touch with the actors, inspire them (rather than instruct), and make them feel they’re supported by you and the whole crew— everyone works hard to make their work glow. During the shoot, the director has to stay relaxed and focused (even under pressure), and be responsive to the signals the actors send about how they want to be directed. Some require constant hand holding, others prefer short, to the point direction. Analytical divagations can be impressive but rarely helpful. Most actors perform not from the head but from the heart. Give succinct but effective feedback. For example, if you need to go again for technical reasons, don’t ask the actors for a repetition of performance (“It was perfect, don’t change a thing!”), as it will alter the nature of the action the actor will play—from trying to influence the other character to trying to replicate the action to please the director—a recipe for disaster. Similarly, if you are happy with the majority of a performance but want to adjust a portion of it, don’t be specific in what you liked about the performance, as the actor will try to replicate it in the next take. You’ll make him self-conscious. Be conscious that your means of communication includes your body language—an inadvertent gesture of frustration that might have nothing to do with a performance will immediately be perceived by the actors as a comment on their performance. Everything that the director does (and doesn’t do) during the shoot is directing: a lack of feedback from the director can leave actors feeling that they are operating without a “safety net,” and consequently they will start censoring their own performances, effectively eliminating full engagement with their partners—one cannot be simultaneously involved and analytical. It is the director’s job to evaluate the effects of their work. Performance is ephemeral and by definition difficult to pinpoint; we know that things are working when we respond viscerally: when we get a lump in our throat or shivers down our spine. It is much harder to be certain that something isn’t right: after all, it might be our stress level that clouds the perception. To get a relatively objective assessment of the quality of acting it is more effective to observe the performer, that is the instrument, rather than the performance itself.

Body language The actor’s instrument is her body. Monitoring how the actor’s body functions during the take will give you a good indication of whether you are getting the optimal performance: any extraneous movement and any personal mannerism will stand in the way of suspending the audience’s disbelief. The actor’s body language must be efficient, belong to the character, and constitute an organic part of the scene (in other words the “dull bits” are eliminated), as

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you are not simply recording a performance—you are gathering material to construct the character in the edit and you need to collect a sufficient amount of specific, workable elements. Watching the unfolding performance on the video split you’re editing it in your head, so you by the time you say, “cut” you should be able to establish whether the take is workable or not. In real life, if we are empathetic to another person, in agreement, or united in a common circumstance, we tend to mimic each other’s body language:

Figure 4.63 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Feris (2006).

And vice versa, in conflict, the body language of the opposing parties is discordant:

Figure 4.64 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Feris (2006).

Figure 4.65 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Feris (2006).

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But it is not only the gestures that constitute authenticity: the rhythm is equally important— harmonious in the first example, dissonant in the second.

EXERCISE—MONITORING BODY LANGUAGE Sit opposite a colleague and ask him or her to say the address of their childhood home. Ask them to describe the place. Watch what’s happening with their gaze and their body. You will see some movement in their eyes, which we’ll examine shortly, and broad gestures and micro movements of their bodies orienting themselves in the landscape of their childhood home. A naturalistic performance has to include the equivalent physical responses, otherwise it will appear sterile. Miranda Harcourt suggests constructing a “fact-fiction sandwich”—embedding every single fictitious element in the script with factual details from the actor’s own life. (See the exercise on building internal landscape on page 94.)

Breathing Correct breathing—that is, breathing from the diaphragm—gives the actor control over his body, and his psyche. Conversely, tight and shallow breathing prevents actors from reaching their full potential. Observe how people’s breathing rhythm alters in truly emotional circumstances—they literally drink the air. Emotions need oxygen. Juliette Binoche recalls working with Krzysztof Kies´lowski on Three Colors Trilogy21: In the staircase, when I did one take and he asked for another one I asked, “What happened, why it didn’t work, why you didn’t like it, what happened in the acting?” He didn’t answer. He didn’t know how to put words on it. Then, after the second take, I said, “so it was good,” you know, he was happy. I asked him, “What was it? Why this was better than the other one?” It took him a while, and then he came back to me a few minutes later and said to me, “Because you breathed differently” [laughs]. BINOCHE, n.d.

21 The film is the first part of Kies´lowski’s The Three Colors trilogy, referring to the national motto of France (liberty, equality, fraternity) and meditates on the notion of emotional liberty. After a car accident, in which she loses her husband and daughter, Julie (Juliette Binoche) tries to cut all emotional ties and live in anonymity and isolation. Several times in the course of the film, she is haunted by what seems to be the spiritual presence of her late husband, a famous composer. The scene on the staircase that Binoche describes (about thirty-seven minutes into the film) depicts one of those moments.

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Figure 4.66 Three Colors Blue, director Krzysztof Kies´lowski (1993).

Watching the actors breathe will give you a good indication of whether they truly inhabit the world of the story and react to the current stimuli, or if they are simply “acting” a preconceived plan. Observing actors’ breathing patterns will also tell you if it is their instrument that is letting them down despite their correct impulses. In the first instance, you need to shift their attention from themselves to their partner; in the second, make them relax. In the long run, it may pay to clear the set and spend from five to ten minutes alone with the actors, exercising. (In Chapter 2, page 100, we referred to Declan Donnellan and his concept of the target and his desire to change the other person’s belief system.)

EXERCISE—RELAXATION Ask the participants to take off their shoes and lie down on their back, feet slightly apart, palms upwards, eyes closed. Tell them to silently repeat to themselves three times, “I will not fall asleep.” Then, starting with the feet and finishing with the head, successively name the body parts they are to tighten, until their whole body is rigid. Speak calmly and take your time; the process should take at least a minute. When they reach the state of total tautness, count ten breaths, and then reverse the process— now they are to gradually relax, starting from the top of their head until they reach their feet. Count ten breaths again to conclude this part of the exercise. Now ask the participants to imagine that their body is hollow inside and with each breath they fill it with air, and each successive breath is deeper than the previous one. Explore different parts of the body, starting with the head (which promotes chest breathing) and finish with the feet (which will exercise abdominal breathing). Once you’ve reached the feet, count ten breaths, concluding the exercise. Ask the participants to open their eyes, stretch and yawn if they feel like it, and stand up. After the exercise, you should see a significant difference in their performance. Muscular tension works like a dam: once unblocked, the impulses flow freely.

When you can’t afford five minutes alone with the actors, quietly remind them, “Don’t forget to breathe.” If you’re shooting close shots, suggest that the actors put their hands on their

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stomachs, to check that they’re using their diaphragm. The look of mental paralysis that troubled you will be replaced by alertness.

The eyes Film is a close up medium. Whatever the spectacle, landscape, or architecture that set the world of the story, when it comes to character we want to see them up close. And then we want to see their eyes. The eyes are the most important organs of the actor’s body. What the actor does with his eyes tells us more about the character than their costume or body language. Seeing is an active pursuit—a gaze can be threatening, persuasive, or seductive. Let’s first talk about blinking. It is not as trivial as you might think. In his book on the art of film editing, In the Blink of an Eye, the editor and sound designer Walter Murch analyzed blinking as the outward expression of our cognitive and emotional state. He describes how on his first editing job—on The Conversation (1974)—he kept finding that the actor Gene Hackman would blink very close to the point where he (Murch) had decided to cut. Eventually, Murch determined that blinking occurs:

Figure 4.67 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

(a) when we turn our head, shifting our gaze from one object to another; (b) when we change thought. Here is Greg Kinnear as Richard varying his action:

FRANK When did you start? With the vow? Dwayne shrugs. He doesn’t care to comment. RICHARD Action: to enlighten

It’s been nine months. He hasn’t said a word. I think it shows tremendous discipline. Blink—new thought

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Figure 4.68 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

SHERYL Richard! New action: to castigate

RICHARD I’m serious! I think we could all learn something from what Dwayne’s doing! Greg Kinnear blinks at the precise moment of changing the action. Murch suggests striking up a conversation with somebody and observing when they blink: I believe you will find that your listener will blink at the precise moment he or she “gets” the idea of what you are saying, not an instant earlier or later. Why would this be? Well, speech is full of unobserved grace notes and elaborations—the conversational equivalent of “Dear Sir” and “Yours Sincerely”—and the essence of what we have to say is often sandwiched between an introduction and a conclusion. The blink will take place either when the listener realizes our “introduction” is finished and that now we are going to say something significant, or it will happen when he or she feels we are “winding down” and are not going to say anything more significant for the moment. MURCH, 1992

Murch gives us a systematic way of monitoring the authenticity of performance—we can identify if the actor is really listening (blink at the “Got it!” moment) and actively pursuing actions (blink at the moment of realization that the current action doesn’t work and a new one is embarked upon). Michael Caine is known for long takes without blinking, and so is Anthony Hopkins. It is part of their charismatic screen presence. Can you achieve it on set with less experienced actors? You could simply ask the actors not to blink, and with luck you’ll get a façade of charisma. If you’re unlucky, you’ll make the actors super-self-conscious and will get a take riddled with nervous blinking. What you can do, though, is ask the actors to look into each other’s eyes— that is, the private persons, not their characters. Done genuinely, it should bring the desired effects. Why does this work? Actors know what the other character will do, they’ve read the script. But they cannot know what’s inside the other actor’s head. The effort of true observation triggers the actor’s Autonomic Nervous System (ANS ). ANS stops us blinking in times of crisis—it is part of human innate self-preservation. Since drama is about conflict, and

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often crisis, actors who fully engage with their partners will stop blinking, except when changing tactics (or turning their heads). Another aspect of the human eyes worth considering when shooting close-ups is the size of the actor’s pupils. Pupil dilation and constriction is also regulated by ANS : a strong emotional stimulus (either positive or negative) triggers dilation. When we look at a baby or when we’re in a “fight or flight” situation our pupils dilate. Audiences tend to empathize with characters with dilated pupils. So, what can be done? You can negotiate with the DP to keep the illumination down (the intensity of the light on set), as low light stimulates pupils’ dilation, but not much can be done in terms of directing the actor. However, the knowledge of this physiological reflex gives the director yet another signifier of an actor’s engagement: a signal that the actor needs support with overcoming her psychological obstacles. “Don’t bump into furniture, look your partner in the eye and tell the truth”—the advice allegedly given to the young Katharine Hepburn by Spencer Tracy—hasn’t lost its humor or currency, but the relationship between the eye movement and thought flow is more complex. In our everyday life, continuous eye contact in conversation is rare: we shift our gaze when recalling events, circumstances, or people; visual recollections trigger different eye movement to auditory ones, and are different also from tactile memories. Observing actors’ eye movements during the take gives the director yet another tool to evaluate the level of authenticity: a fixed stare indicates that the actor might need assistance in building an internal landscape, that is, having real people, objects, and places in mind when referring to characters, objects, and places in the dialogue. The following exercise will illustrate the effect of referring to specific circumstances and occurrences.

EXERCISE—TRACING EYE MOVEMENT Sit opposite a partner and ask him or her the following instructions and questions, noting down their eye movement. Use a simple grid to record the direction of their gaze after each bullet-point—is it up, down, or lateral? Left, center, or right?

Figure 4.69 Tracing eye movement grid.

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➔ Remember the view from your childhood room’s window (visual recollection). ➔ Think of the sound of your lover’s laughter (auditory recollection). ➔ Recall the last time you had a swim (tactile recollection). ➔ Think of the sound of wind in the forest (auditory recollection). ➔ Think of the time you were shivering with cold (tactile recollection). ➔ Recall the color of your father’s eyes (visual recollection). ➔ Remember your first kiss (tactile recollection). ➔ Can you remember how much milk you have left in your fridge (visual recollection)? ➔ What was the first thing you heard on waking up this morning (auditory recollection)? ➔ Can you recall a time when you were really frustrated (tactile recollection)? You should observe some regularity in their responses: each point relating to auditory recall is likely to direct the eye to the same area. Similarly, tactile and visual memories claim their discrete zones. Earlier you saw Bryan Cranston’s gaze at the moment of his vision of his daughter’s face. Does the direction of his look correspond to that of your subject’s when you asked them to remember the view from their room, their father’s eyes, or the milk in the fridge?

Problem-solving You now have tools to systematically evaluate the state of the actor’s instrument—his or her body. When the instrument is out of tune, the melody won’t be in tune either. Actors fight their own resistance. Acting is a job for brave people—people that dare to go where civilians are afraid to—this is one of the attractions of watching an authentic performance. However, actors are people, too—they are afraid to go to the unknown spheres of their psyche. Most of the time actors fight their demons in their own private space, sometimes in a rehearsal room. But occasionally they decide to fight their psychological blockages on set. It manifests itself with the cliché “My character wouldn’t do it” and arguments with fellow actors or the director. It is vital that the director doesn’t take it personally. Tough as it is (regular pressures on set notwithstanding), one needs to have patience and display objectivity in considering their suggestions. Take it step by step: 1

Define the problem so that you’re not focusing on symptoms but rather on the core of the problem. In other words, define the right problem. Evaluate the potential impact on the story.

2

Generate alternative solutions. Consult with the actor and, if need be, with the DP or other heads of departments.

3

Evaluate proposed alternatives in terms of feasibility, logistics, and potential impact on the story; for example, some information from the current scene might need to be relocated to another one, yet to be shot.

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4

Select an alternative solution.

5

Implement the alternative solution.

This approach will work well with structural problems, like blocking, dialogue, or plot. Disagreements over interpretation of a scene or a character’s motivation are more challenging. However, providing there is no hidden agenda or power play, it is possible to find a solution that serves the story, even if it differs from the director and the actor’s original reading of the script. What helps to expedite the discussion is the director’s thorough script analysis—there is always more than one interpretation of a scene worth holding onto. When the nature of the problems with a particular scene mainly concern the actor’s difficulty with entering a particular emotional sphere, the approach needs to be more organic and rooted in trust and empathy: what would I do if I had to confront repressed parts of my personality? Eric Morris suggests starting with a personal inventory, an exercise in which actors ask themselves, “How do I feel?” and semi-audibly list all the feelings presently occupying their consciousness. When they stumble upon an inability to express their emotions, they ask, “Why not; why am I not able to express what I feel?” and continue their investigative monologue. The follow-up exercise involves verbally “dumping” all the toxic elements that impair their freedom to function. This part is executed with full energy (Morris, 1995). An alternative approach is to redirect the actor’s attention from herself to her partner. What is it that you have to change about him? What do you have to make him do? Both methods are potentially time consuming and time is the one commodity that is in short supply on set. But there are also some ad hoc measures the director can employ when he sees an actor struggling with self-consciousness: ➔ If you sense the actors are intimidated by the proximity of the camera, you can move the camera further away from the action and shoot the scene on a longer lens. ➔ Assign physical activity. Performing physical tasks diverts actors’ attention from themselves. It helps to isolate the parts of the dialogue that are essential to the narrative, and can reveal new information about the characters and their relationships. ➔ Assign a mental task, ideally a task innate to the scene, but you can also ask the actor to perform a mathematical calculation during the scene, or mentally prepare a shopping list. ➔ Set an objective or action that is the opposite of any logical choice. Seeing an actor struggling with his chosen action to charm, ask him instead to play to humiliate. The results can, surprisingly, fit the scene. ➔ If after several takes you become aware that you won’t be able to get more authenticity, announce that you are happy with the take but before moving on would like to go again, “just for fun—this one is for you.” It lifts the burden of responsibility from the actors and you might get a revitalized, fresh performance. Seeing that performances are getting stale, you can use the above tactics, and also: ➔ Give the actors a new as if or what if; for example, “What if you had a splitting headache in this scene?”

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➔ Suggest an adjective for the chosen action verb, for example “The action you are playing—to bewitch—is very strong; could you try to bewitch wickedly?” ➔ Adjust body language: for example, you might apply Laban’s taxonomy. ➔ Alter the rhythm of the scene. It is worth remembering that problem-solving on set works both ways. Imagine you are running out of time, the scene isn’t working, the dialogue feels false, and the space won’t allow you to execute your planned coverage. It is only the actor that can solve all your problems simultaneously by paraphrasing the cumbersome line and modifying the choreography in a way that will save you set-ups and lighting, and suddenly everything works. Actors deserve utter respect and love.

Non-actors The directors of Little Miss Sunshine drew sparkling performances in the pageant sequence.

Figure 4.70 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

How was this achieved? According to Valerie Faris: We wanted the experience to feel as much like a real pageant as possible so we tried to set it up so that we can run it just like any other pageant and we had a coordinator from the pageant world who helped us set up the scenes. And we said we want to do a bathing suit competition, so she’d go and talk to all the girls and they’d done it so many times but Abigail actually hadn’t done it before and we didn’t really rehearse it with her. We just kind of let her go up there and do whatever she was going to do the first time, while we were filming. DAYTON, 2006

Her co-director, Jonathan Dayton, added that “The awkwardness is something that you can’t capture with much intention, you kind of set up [a] situation where awkward moments can happen naturally and they did” (Dayton, 2006). There are several factors that filmmakers mention that facilitate effective, believable performance. Let me reiterate:

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➔ Cast as close to the real McCoy as possible: if it is a nurse that you need, cast a nurse; if it is a cop, cast a cop; if it is a child beauty pageant contestant, cast one—or a lot, as is the case in Little Miss Sunshine. ➔ Create an experience that simulates the real event. That way your performer will not have to “perform” but simply react to the circumstances, very much as in real life. If the character is to talk on the phone, for example, have someone call them and make it a real phone conversation. ➔ Aim for the first take. It would be difficult to get the spontaneous reaction Jonathan Dayton refers to in consecutive takes. People are wary of repeating themselves. For a civilian to walk onto a film set can be daunting. They are overwhelmed by the unfamiliar machinery, don’t really understand what is happening, and if there is no one to ask they feel inadequate or freeze in fear. Create a relaxed, friendly atmosphere and keep the lines of communication open. Keep only the essential crew—there is nothing more intimidating than a small crowd watching your every move. If you are accessible, understanding, and giving then people will reciprocate. If you are working with children, apart from adhering to your local laws concerning the employment of children, make the time on set fun—let them be themselves and horse around (a bit). Invite family members to make them feel at home. Never get frustrated. The director has to inspire rather than instruct. You will never get the effect you are after by coercion (no matter who you are working with—children, adults, non-professional or professional actors). Naturally, you can still utilize techniques you find effective: objectives, actions, substitutions, given circumstances, and so on, providing you don’t bamboozle the performers with the jargon. The simpler the language and the less talking the better. Working with non-actors requires flexibility with the dialogue: it is the performers’ unrestrained behavior that illuminates both the characters and the meaning of the scene, not the dialogue. Keeping in mind the information the scene has to convey, the director seeks above all verisimilitude: spontaneity and authenticity. Well-cast non-actors placed in the right environment will provide bucketfuls of verisimilitude. If your ensemble consists of both professional and non-professional actors negotiate with the pros to do the heavy lifting in terms of keeping the narrative thrust of the scene on track. The staging of scenes with non-actors also requires consideration, and the shooting protocol needs to be reduced to minimum: the ritual of camera rehearsals, setting marks, and checking focus will cause apprehension. The shoot will bring the best results if executed in a documentary mode—capturing events as they unfold. Using multiple cameras will allow the whole scene to be captured in one go and eliminate potential continuity problems. If a multi-camera approach is not feasible, try to stage the scene as a “oner.”

Intimate scenes We might as well get it out in the open: sex scenes cause anxiety in both actors and directors. Ang Lee, the director of some of cinema’s most poignant sex scenes, explained:

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Sex scenes remind me of those news reports back when somebody gets captured, and they speak, “The Taliban are treating me really well.” But somehow the eyes tell you, “It’s not really me. I’m doing a performance. I’m supposed to do this. Save me.” I think actors have this kind of thing. Either they do awkward stuff or they do something extremely beautiful. They could be exposing themselves, but still not [be] open to privacy, which I think is the hardest thing to get into lovemaking scenes. You want to see private feelings that they’re willing to give. KAGAN, 2013

Ultimately, a sex scene has to be about something more than people making love. As with every scene, you need to discover its heart—what new things are we to learn about the characters? Are they in any way different as the consequence of the encounter? Just as everyone goes about lovemaking in their own way, directors evolve individual approaches: some rigorously plan the scenes, while others assume a freer approach in finding the physical shape. What they have in common is they all endeavor to make everyone involved feel as comfortable as possible. Here are some suggestions on how to make this happen: ➔ Prepare The knowledge of the scene’s dramatic requirements and its setting stands the director in good stead to thoroughly prepare for the shoot. A shot list is an absolute minimum; a storyboard or animatic will give you a much clearer sense of how the story evolves visually.22 It will also help you discuss hair and make-up (What parts of the bodies will be seen? Will long hair obscure the actor’s face?, etc.) and work out the lighting set-ups with the cinematographer. Lighting intimate scenes can be challenging, as the proximity of the actors increases the risk of them casting shadows on each other. Every stage of the choreography has to be discussed and catered for, as bringing in the crew for major lighting reconfigurations in the middle of the shoot upsets the momentum and kills the already delicate atmosphere. ➔ Communicate The level of actors’ engagement in simulated sex act needs to be comprehensively negotiated prior to the formal engagement of the actors. Neither party, in front or behind the camera, want any surprises on the day. The biggest anxiety actors have about shooting sex scenes is not knowing exactly what will be expected of them. Setting clear parameters also assists the director in the pre-visualization of the scene(s). Once the storyboard or animatics are completed, further consultation with the actors will put their minds at rest. ➔ Shoot Sex scenes are like dance and should be treated that way—every move to be tightly choreographed and rehearsed, initially without full contact, before execution. Some

22

An animatic is an animated storyboard achieved by importing boards into an editing program and cutting them together to test the footage needed for the scene.

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actors are at ease with sex scenes, but others are very anxious. Some need more time before the take—you need to respect this and be very accommodating. After all, it is their vulnerability that you want to capture. Use all means at your disposal to make them feel safe and in control: — Run a closed set with only the essential crew present and no video split. An all-female crew is preferable. — Communicate openly, be specific, and straight to the point: any unease will inhibit the actors. — Use your sense of humor. Nothing disperses tension better than a good laugh. Make the shoot as efficient as possible—use two cameras and don’t cut when things go wrong; side-coach until you get what you need. You can also play music during takes to get the right atmosphere and rhythm. And finally, consider burning a fragrant candle and having a bottle of good wine for the actors between takes.

Happy accident Finally, if you charge the atmosphere of your shoot with the right energy then unexpected things can happen. It’s never going to come by design. You will only catch things as they emerge if you are able to be in the moment, and one of the key ways to be in the moment is to be thoroughly prepared for the shooting day. One of cinema’s famous “accidents” occurred during the shoot of In Cold Blood (1967, director Richard Brooks, Director of Photography Conrad L. Hall). The film, based on Truman Capote’s book of the same title, tells the story of the murder of a rural family, the capture of the perpetrators, and their eventual execution. Lighting the scene in which one of the murderers dispassionately talks to a chaplain moments before his execution, Hall noticed the reflection of the rain outside the window on the stand-in’s face. Brooks embraced the fortunate incident and the completed scene features symbolic tears flowing down the actor’s face.

Figure 4.71 In Cold Blood, director Richard Brooks (1967).

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Interview: Cate Shortland

Figure 4.72 Cate Shortland, photographer Adam Arkapaw.

Cate Shortland is a multi-award-winning Australian screenwriter and director. Her debut feature, Somersault (2004), premiered at the Cannes Film Festival; Lore (2012) was the Australian entry for the Best Foreign Language Oscar; and Berlin Syndrome (2017) had its premiere at the Sundance Film Festival. Her visually sophisticated films feature complex characters and authentic performances. Robert Klenner (RK): Cate, how would you define the role of the director in the production phase? Cate Shortland (CS): I would say the function of the director is to know what the heart of the story is, and how to have clarity about that, so that the cinematographer, the designer, the actors can access the truth of the film. You do a lot of preparation so that you can let go of it and be in the moment; it’s letting go of striving for outcomes and just being able to be with those people, being able to be with those characters. That’s when you do good stuff and they do good stuff. If you’re always looking towards the outcome it doesn’t work as well. RK : What’s your way of evaluating performances on set? CS : It’s two things going on in my head, or in my body: one is totally instinctual, which is the cold shivers, that excitement and uncomfortable feeling you get of being privy to a private moment, “I really shouldn’t be here,” you know, that’s really great. And then the other thing that I got going in my head is really, really practical: “How is this going to cut?” So, you have to have this soft and beautiful, instinctual part of yourself, and also that tough, hard part, which is, “Do I have what I need?” RK : How do you bring the actors to that level of authenticity?

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CS : On the last film I did, it was set in an apartment in Berlin, so we hired a small Airbnb apartment in East Berlin for three weeks and we used that apartment as if it was their home.23 I’m much braver than I used to be, I used to hate rehearsal; I used to feel really embarrassed about rehearsal. I feel now more engaged in it because I’m not so sitting on the outside anymore. On this last film, I got quite physical with the actors, I was pushing them around, I was irritating them—I was a part of the process, and that was really liberating for all three of us because we could trust each other more. And also, I work with choreographers. So, I do a full day just on breathing and physical movement. Choreographers tend to cut the shit because they’re not intellectualizing, they just look at the truth of the movement. And that’s taught me a lot; just go off instinct, totally off instinct at times. We start off just lying on the floor . . . I was working with an actor and he was giggling the whole time and thought it was kind of ridiculous. And she [choreographer Danielle Micich] started off by moving energy through their bodies, talking it through, and then by the end of the day he said (and he’s been acting since he was eleven and he’s thirty), he said, “Oh, that was the best rehearsal that I have ever had.” Because she just kept saying to them, “Why are you doing that? Why are you going over there?” She kept stopping them from acting and just getting them not to try, so if a movement didn’t come out of an energy or an impulse, why do it? Stop trying to perform, just be, just be, just be. RK : Do you block scenes that way? CS : I do sex scenes and physical violence that way. And I do [explore] how they are with each other in the space. So sometimes we do improvisations with the choreographer, which are purely physical. Related to the character. Like, one thing she did, which was really beautiful, she said to Max [Riemelt, who plays Andi in Berlin Syndrome], “I just want you to use one part of your body to push Teresa [Palmer, who plays Clare in Berlin Syndrome] around the set.” So, he just used the top of his head. When we were shooting he did it only once. And it was really beautiful. Unless there is an impulse to do something that’s real, don’t worry about it. It really frees them up. To stop pretending, or stop overreaching, stop worrying about “me,” stop worrying about acting, and what they look like. RK : How does a scene evolve when you’re shooting? CS : I would start with the script, I would have broken down the script, and then I would have shot-listed it, and I would have taken it into rehearsals with ideas about things I want to explore, and what the scene means, and what it is in the story. And then I let go of that when I’m in rehearsals. When I come out of the rehearsals I’d probably re-shot-list it because new things would have happened. And then when I’m on set I’m fairly traditional because I come from a television background. I take the set before the gaffers and everybody else, and I rehearse on set, and then I invite the DP in, and Continuity [a.k.a. Script Supervisor] and the

23

Berlin Syndrome is the story of a young Australian tourist backpacking in Germany whose one-night stand with a charming stranger turns into a nightmare.

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1st AD , and then we light, and then I often take the actors off set and we might talk about the scene more, try something different if we have time, and then shoot it. But usually we don’t have enough time. I always work on a Sunday and I try to think of new ideas to make it fresh for the actors, as well as going through the shot list with the cinematographer. And try not to make it too staid, try to leave it open, so you’ve got ideas but you’re really open to fresh things. RK : How much leeway do you give the actors in terms of choreography? CS : Tons. Absolutely tons. I don’t use marks. In a way, I try to think of it almost like I am shooting a documentary. So, they know what the lines are, where they would be, what they would be doing—we’ve rehearsed that, but of course it changes because the adrenaline of the moment happens that you’re on set and you’re about to do it. And also, you’ve shot scenes before it that are going [to] inform it . . . And sometimes actors just want to talk. Sometimes they say, “I never got this scene,” and it’s, like, five minutes before you have to shoot it! That’s always really great [laughs]. And you’re, like, “Oh fuck, great.” The worst thing is when you think, “Shit, neither did I.” RK : How much of your concentration is devoted to performances and how much to the shot construction? CS : I would have spent three weeks with the DP before we start shooting, and that’s probably before pre-production; we just do that ourselves; we hang out together and we watch films and we look at a lot of photographs, so the DP really knows the style and the sensibility that we’re going for. And then once you rehearse on set, I’d be talking quietly with them after the rehearsal, “Did you see that moment when she walked over to the window— can we get that?” so everything becomes fresh again. I’m always looking at the aesthetics because that’s part of who I am as a filmmaker. RK : Sometimes performances just don’t gel. How do you deal with that? CS : It would be great to have the time to say, “Okay, let’s just stop everything, I think we can all do better. Everybody leave the set, we need an hour.” But you don’t have that so you often say, “Oh, I think we’ll go to singles now.” And then you really try to focus with that actor on how to make it real, why is it not happening. And often just throwing something really different in, for example if you’re doing a romantic scene, say they’re meeting in a cafe, you can say to the other actor, “He’s really preoccupied, he’s really worried he won’t get to work on time.” So she’s unsettled, she’s forced to react to what’s in front of her because she’s not getting what she wants. So as the director I’m sometimes thinking, “How do I upset this apple cart and make the actors uneasy, make the actors react in a space; getting them back into the space.” RK : Do you give feedback after every take? CS : I try not to talk too much; if something’s not working, obviously I do. And if something is really amazing of course they know it and you know it. And also, everybody knows if it’s not working. So, I suppose it’s about being honest. Not gushing. And not commenting to them during a scene on what is working because of course this is going to ruin it. Keep it vague.

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RK : Actors’ emotional investment in your films is substantial. Do you attend to the cooling down after the performance? CS : Some actors just want space, some actors just want to go and smoke a cigarette, and other actors want to talk; it’s just being there. Actors are really vulnerable, really exposed and I really fall in love with them. I really, really love them. I’m always in awe of their bravery. And they’re often scared, they can be a bit like a wounded dog, they can snap at you and be cruel. But you can’t do what they do. I take my judgment out a lot now; sometimes I let actors behave badly because I know why they’re doing that. I think it’s really about taking care of them. And I think actors also know that you’ve got a lot to think about so they collaborate with you. They also will sometimes say, “Hey, how are you doing, Cate?” you know? I find they’re really vulnerable and delicate, and that can be packaged in six foot four of pure muscle but you’ve got this really delicate creature inside it. It’s so precious what we do because we’re allowed access into that. It’s a bit like being a surgeon. You’re lucky if they let you in.

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5 Post-production Films are made in post-production. The shooting of the film is like shopping for cooking ingredients—you know the cake you want to make and you try to get the best ingredients you can, and then you put them together. And it is the putting together that will determine the quality of the film and differentiates a master director from a journeyman. This chapter is about the director’s kitchen—editing (picture and sound), music, ADR , and color grading—and how they influence the perception of the screen character. Watching the first cut of the film can be a depressing affair; the “cake” ain’t well baked—yet. But that’s only the beginning of the post-production journey. Things will get better, providing the director exercises patience and self-discipline: patience in chiseling the story and the character from the gathered material, and self-discipline in watching dailies objectively—that is, seeing what they represent as the story building blocks and not the emotional baggage acquired during the shoot. This long, beautifully lit and choreographed shot that cost you a fortune might look great on the showreel, but if it doesn’t serve the story it had better be cut; and this minute-long sequence that reveals the depth of the character but is slightly out of focus just might have to stay.

Picture editing Editing starts in pre-production: with shot lists, floor plans, and storyboards. All these tools are designed to keep the director on track—to shoot for the edit. The production phase is about gathering material; editing is where the construction of the story and honing of the character take place. Do you know how to edit a film? I don’t mean technical proficiency; do you know the right moment in a performance where a cut will bring out the dramatic undercurrent? In Chapter 2 we talked about a character’s journey within a scene, which should give you a good starting point. Who is the protagonist? What is their journey of transformation? What are the forces of opposition? When does the protagonist change tack—what are the units of action? Asking questions gives you a good foundation for an effective editing process. Naturally, in the end it is about your gut reaction and taste, but one has to start somewhere. About one hour and nineteen minutes into Little Miss Sunshine, there is a scene between Dwayne and Frank. They are standing on a pier outside the hotel that hosts the pageant. Only a few hours earlier, Dwayne has learnt that he is color-blind, a condition that disqualifies him from flying.

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DWAYNE Sometimes I wish I could just go to sleep until I was eighteen. Just skip all this crap—high school and everything. Just skip it... He shakes his head. FRANK Y’know Marcel Proust? DWAYNE He’s the guy you teach? FRANK Yeah. French writer. Total loser. Never had a real job. Unrequited love affairs. Gay. Spent twenty years writing a book almost no one reads. But...he was also probably the greatest writer since Shakespeare. Anyway, he gets down to the end of his life, he looks back and decides that all the years he suffered—those were the best years of his life. Because they made him who he was. And the years he was happy? Total waste. Didn’t learn a thing. Dwayne grins. FRANK (cont’d) So, if you sleep till you’re eighteen... (scoffs) ...Think of the suffering you’d miss! High school’s your prime suffering years. You don’t get better suffering than that! They share a smile. Dwayne gazes out to sea. A beat. DWAYNE You know what...? (Frank looks over) Fuck beauty contests. Life is one fucking beauty contest after

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another. School, then college, then work. Fuck that. And fuck the Air Force Academy. If I want to fly, I’ll find a way to fly. You do what you love and fuck the rest. Frank stares at Dwayne, impressed. Dwayne glances at Frank, who tries to play it cool. FRANK I’m glad you’re talking again, Dwayne. You’re not nearly as stupid as you look. Dwayne smiles. Frank looks around. FRANK (cont’d) Want to go back? DWAYNE Not really. A beat. DWAYNE (cont’d) Yeah, we should go. The construction of the scene is simple: Dwayne’s first speech presents typical symptoms of an oncoming depression. Frank, all too familiar with the condition, wants to prevent that from happening—he has to maneuver Dwayne out of his psychological impasse. To achieve his goal, Frank uses various tactics: first, he diverts Dwayne’s attention with an anecdote, then humors him, and finally teasingly challenges him. By the end of the scene, Frank achieves his goal. It is verified by Dwayne’s assertion, “If I want to fly, I’ll find a way to fly. You do what you love and fuck the rest.” The scene is covered fairly conventionally:

Figure 5.1 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

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1

Very wide, establishing shot.

Figure 5.2 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

2

WS Frank, Dwayne.

Figure 5.3 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

3

2S Frank, Dwayne (MS size).

Figure 5.4 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

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4

CU Dwayne (over Frank’s body). This shot develops to . . .

Figure 5.5 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

OS (Frank) Dwayne Then there are corresponding shots from the other side:

Figure 5.6 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

5

2S Dwayne, Frank (MS size).

Figure 5.7 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

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6

2S Dwayne, Frank (MCU size).

Figure 5.8 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

7

CU Frank.

Figure 5.9 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

8

2S Dwayne, Frank, looking square on and out to the sea.

This scene has a typical character journey at its center—he or she encounters a problem, evaluates its potential consequences, decides on a strategy, follows a chosen action, monitors its effectiveness, builds on the success of the action or modifies it, monitors the effectiveness of the new action . . . and so forth until the goal is achieved or forfeited. If we were to follow this paradigm we’d need to see: ➔ Frank recognizing that there is a problem (the boy is slipping into depression), deciding on how to deal with the problem, and embarking on his initial action—to divert Dwayne’s attention. ➔ Dwayne’s reaction to Frank’s action—he engages. ➔ Frank’s choosing an action that would best build on his first success—to humor. ➔ Dwayne’s reaction to Frank’s consecutive action . . .

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. . . and so on till the end of the scene. As the scene is dialogue driven, we cut to the reaction shot the moment the gist of the information has been delivered, which more often than not happens before the end of a line.24 For instance, if we were to start the scene on a tight shot of Dwayne, the first possible cut could occur after he says, “Sometimes I wish I could just go to sleep until I was eighteen.” That’s enough information to alert Frank. The rest of Dwayne’s speech would be off screen, as we’d watch Frank considering what to do, and initiating his first action.

EXERCISE—THE PAPER EDIT Using the above text and stills, arrive at a “paper edit” of the scene. Keep in mind each character’s objective, units of action (the chunks of the text where a character pursues a single action), and moments of transition, where the character decides to change the tactic. Mark each cut the moment you feel the action should be shown from a different angle: does it need to be tighter? Wider? Do we need to see a reaction of the other character? Mark each cut with a slash and describe each shot, like so:

DWAYNE /

Shot 4. CU Dwayne (over Frank’s body). Sometimes I wish I could just go to sleep until I was eighteen./Just Shot 7. CU Frank skip all this crap—high school and everything./Just skip it... Shot 6. 2S Dwayne, Frank (MCU size) He shakes his head. Even better, copy the stills and paste them next to the portion of dialogue they cover: this will give you a clearer sense of the visual progression of the scene. Naturally, your interpretation of the scene might differ from mine; also, consider Dwayne—is he merely the object of Frank’s action or does he have an objective of his own and pursues actions to achieve it? What about shots 1 and 2—where would you use them? Now compare your edit with the scene in the film. Most probably you’ll find that the scene is cut differently to your version. How so?

The art of editing cannot be condensed to a simple recipe: the process is largely intuitive. A good editor senses what the actor is doing subtextually in the scene and feels the moment when the character’s action reaches its optimum, and the cut will make the greatest impact while at the same time remaining “invisible.” It’s not unlike observing a genuine encounter in real life, be it an argument, discussion, or courtship—our eyes jump from one party to the other; we don’t speculate whose court the ball is in, we sense it. Consequently, an effective cut creates the illusion of an unbroken, emotionally charged flow of action. Walter Murch arrived at six criteria for what makes an ideal invisible cut (Murch, 1992):

24

See Walter Murch’s quote on blinking in the previous chapter, page 266.

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1

Emotion How will this cut affect the audience emotionally at this particular point in the film? Evoking emotion, says Murch, is the single most important part of editing.

2

Story Does the edit move the story forward in a meaningful way? If there is no new information, why cut? Have the courage not to cut.

3

Rhythm Is the cut at a point that it makes rhythmic sense? Editing is like music: rhythm is its founding element. If the established rhythm is violated, the viewer will feel pulled out of the story and the cut will no longer be “invisible.”

4

Eye trace How does the cut affect the location and movement of the viewer’s focus? For example, if the character is reaching from the top-left of the frame and her eyes are focused to the bottom-right of the frame, this is where the audience’s focus will naturally move after the cut.

5

Two-dimensional plane of screen Is the axis followed properly? There are two aspects to this criterion: screen direction, for example a car leaving the left side of frame should enter again via the right, and the 180-degree rule where characters looking at each other should remain in the same position in the frame (camera left or camera right) and look in the same direction (frame left or frame right) across the cuts. In other words, character A, standing frame left, would be looking right at character B, and vice versa, B, positioned frame right, would be looking left at A.

6

Three-dimensional space of action Is the cut true to the established physical and spatial relationships? Are we clear as to where people are in relation to one another and the space around them?

Murch even assigned a value percentage to each criterion, and so emotion scores 51 percent, story 22 percent, and rhythm 10 percent—altogether a whopping 83 percent! The three are not only the most important elements, but are inextricably connected: broken rhythm or inconsequential storytelling will hinder audiences’ emotional response, while criteria further down the list won’t necessarily do so. The coverage (and edit) of the exchange between Frank and Dwayne violates Murch’s fifth criterion and yet the scene holds its emotional grip. Sometimes we don’t want the edit to be “invisible,” especially when the audience response we are after is not fully immersive and emotional but also intellectual: when the story calls for the storyteller to assert his presence and expose the mechanics of the film production. A classic example of such an approach is Michael Haneke’s Funny Games (1997), where at a critical moment one of the characters reaches for the remote control and rewinds the very film we are watching to restart the narrative in an alternative path.

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Figure 5.10 Funny Games, director Michael Haneke (1997).

Another way of constructing character through the manifest intervention of the storyteller goes back to the 1920s Russian and the Soviet Montage Theory. We touched upon it in Chapter 1, Sergei Eisenstein, the father of the theory, referred to editing as a collision of independent shots that incites the emergence of new ideas. Eisenstein’s intellectual montage dealt with innuendo, visual pan, and metaphor. Perhaps the most famous sequence illustrating the theory is “the waking lion” from his The Battleship Potemkin (1925):

Figure 5.11 The Battleship Potemkin, director Sergei Eisenstein (1925).

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Figure 5.12 The Battleship Potemkin, director Sergei Eisenstein (1925).

Figure 5.13 The Battleship Potemkin, director Sergei Eisenstein (1925).

The sequence symbolizes Russian people waking up to fight against the oppression of the Tsar. Eisenstein’s intellectual montage is rarely adopted by contemporary mainstream cinema, but when it does occur it offers a refreshing experience of both intellectual and emotional engagement. Xavier Dolan embraced the principles in his 2010 film Heartbeats. This tells the story of a friendship turned romantic rivalry between gay Francis and straight Marie when beguiling Nicolas enters their life. Here they are, at a party, watching Nicolas dance with a woman. First, Marie:

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Figure 5.14 Heartbeats, director Xavier Dolan (2010).

Figure 5.15 Heartbeats, director Xavier Dolan (2010).

—her POV shots of Nicolas are interspersed with stills of Michelangelo’s David: the embodiment of the Renaissance’s canon of beauty.

Figure 5.16 Heartbeats, director Xavier Dolan (2010).

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Figure 5.17 Heartbeats, director Xavier Dolan (2010).

Figure 5.18 Heartbeats, director Xavier Dolan (2010).

Then Francis:

Figure 5.19 Heartbeats, director Xavier Dolan (2010).

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Figure 5.20 Heartbeats, director Xavier Dolan (2010).

His POV shots are also intercut with stills of art, but in his case they are erotic drawings by the French artist and filmmaker Jean Cocteau (1889–1963).

Figure 5.21 Heartbeats, director Xavier Dolan (2010).

Figure 5.22 Heartbeats, director Xavier Dolan (2010).

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Figure 5.23 Heartbeats, director Xavier Dolan (2010).

The shots of the protagonists are in themselves not especially meaningful: the meaning of the sequence is created through the juxtaposition, or as Eisenstein would put it, the collision of shots that tells the story. It is through montage that we see what unites, and what divides, Francis and Marie. As a bonus, we get to appreciate the mischievous sense of humor of the storyteller. A less interventionist but still intentionally overt editing pattern can be employed to reflect the character’s state of mind. In times of stress, shock, or emotional turmoil our perception of reality alters—time can slow right down or, on the contrary, become frantic and disjointed. In these instances, the cinematic translation of the character’s internal life renders these cuts “unseen.” Olive’s excitement on learning that she has qualified for the Little Miss Sunshine competition is depicted through jump cuts:

Figure 5.24 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Figure 5.25 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

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Figure 5.26 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Figure 5.27 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

The above four shots from Little Miss Sunshine are the sequence cuts’ outgoing and incoming frames (i.e. the last frame before the cut and the first frame of the subsequent shot). Olive’s movements almost match these; another few frames and the cuts would be seamless. Evidently, the filmmakers decided jump cuts would be more authentic in depicting Olive’s excitement. Manipulating time is one of the most powerful tools at the director’s disposal in the construction of screen character. Earlier, we looked at the scene between Frank and Dwayne (status quo→surprise→recognition→processing the new information→embarking on an action) and in Chapter 1 I illustrated this model with the scene of Frank’s accidental encounter with his former lover. Revisit the scene (it happens about thirty-five minutes into the film) and pay close attention to the stages of the character’s progression; they are clearly discernible. Now imagine that the crucial ones—surprise, recognition, and arriving at a strategy—happen much quicker. What would the implications be? The chances are that our perception of Frank would be different: he’d appear far less vulnerable. Another example would be Olive listening to the telephone message (sixteen minutes into the film).

Figure 5.28 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

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Imagine that it takes her twice as long to process the information. It would kill the humor, wouldn’t it? It’s all in the timing, as they say. A good editor will make the character come to life, and not only that—following the director’s guidelines she can create nuances and psychological depths that the actor never thought of.

Figure 5.29 Somersault, director Cate Shortland (2004).

Heidi, the teenage protagonist of Cate Shortland’s Somersault (2004), appears promiscuous, but the director wanted the viewer to see beyond the façade. As Shortland has remarked, “the character is sleeping around and you say to the editor—what she’s really looking for is love and she is not a flirt. So, they know every time she does that flirty look I’m gonna cut it out because what I really want is a blank face. And she is really hollow and she is craving love” (Shortland, 2014). Samson and Delilah (2009) offers a particularly interesting case of decisive editorial treatment of dailies in carving rich, three-dimensional characters. The film follows the trials and tribulations of an indigenous teenage couple in the Australian outback, and the scene in question depicts Delilah’s awakening romantic interest in Samson: Shot 1

Figure 5.30 Samson and Delilah, director Warwick Thornton (2009).

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It’s night. Delilah gets into her car, puts on a cassette featuring a romantic ballad (Ana Gabriel’s “Como Olvidar”), and closes her eyes. Shot 2

Figure 5.31 Samson and Delilah, director Warwick Thornton (2009).

Meanwhile, Samson sheepishly peers out from his dormitory. Seeing that there’s nobody around, he gets a ghetto blaster, puts on a heavy metal song (“Warlpiri Woman” by the Lajamanu Teenage Band), and starts dancing. Shot 3

Figure 5.32 Samson and Delilah, director Warwick Thornton (2009).

The ensuing cacophony wakes Delilah from her slumber. She looks around . . .

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Shot 4

Figure 5.33 Samson and Delilah, director Warwick Thornton (2009).

. . . and discovers the source of the nuisance. At this point let me draw your attention to the cinematic syntax: shots 1 to 3 present the plot objectively: that is, the camera simply records the event, and the sound is diegetic.25 With shot 4, however, we move into subjective storytelling—the camera substitutes Delilah’s view—and we watch Samson dance through her eyes. Shot 5

Figure 5.34 Samson and Delilah, director Warwick Thornton (2009).

The tight framing combined with the fine eye-line strengthens our empathy with the character. Note the neutral gaze—Marissa Gibson doesn’t project any emotions.

25

Diegesis refers to the world of the story; consequently, diegetic sound is any sound that originates from the source within the storyworld. It can be evident in the frame (e.g. the cassette player) or implied (e.g. the cicadas).

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Shot 6

This POV shot is framed closer than the previous one; if the first was simply stating the fact, “Delilah discovers the source of the noise,” this one implies her interest. Following the logic of subjective storytelling, “Warlpiri Woman” fades into the background, and “Como Olvidar” comes to the fore. Shot 7

Figure 5.36 Samson and Delilah, director Warwick Thornton (2009).

BCU Delilah—this is the ultimate emotional statement in the director’s cinematic arsenal. The juxtaposition of the POV shot with the tightness of the frame makes us project romantic interest onto the actor’s face.

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Shot 8

Figure 5.37 Samson and Delilah, director Warwick Thornton (2009).

The close framing, subtle slowing down of the footage halfway through, and the length of this shot reinforce the implied romantic interest—we can’t help but admire Samson’s grace. Incidentally, by now any trace of diegetic sound has evaporated; “Como Olvidar” is all we can hear. Shot 9

Figure 5.38 Samson and Delilah, director Warwick Thornton (2009).

Cutting along the axis to an even tighter shot of Samson intensifies the growing sensual undercurrent of the sequence. Samson moves in harmony with “Como Olvidar.” The shot lingers. We are now in total empathy with Delilah. There is no need to cut back to her. In fact, it would weaken the experience.

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Shot 10

Figure 5.39 Samson and Delilah, director Warwick Thornton (2009).

Samson’s brother appears, confronts him, and turns the music off. Snap back to reality! Interestingly, the psychological turn is constructed in two stages: first, cutting to the wide shot with an instant return to regular speed gives us a jolt—sound-wise, however, we’re still only hearing Ana Gabriel’s song; and second, when Samson’s brother turns off the music it is not “Warlpiri Woman” that is replaced by the night atmosphere but “Como Olvidar.” It’s illogical but dramatically correct. Shot 11

Figure 5.40 Samson and Delilah, director Warwick Thornton (2009).

A wider, more objective framing on Delilah concludes the sequence. As you can see, the apparent chemistry is achieved through purely cinematic means—editing and sound design. Marissa Gibson, an amateur with no previous acting experience, was simply photographed watching Samson (Rowan McNamara) dance. Apparently, the footage

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used for the sequence consists only of the moments before “Action!” and after “Cut!” were called. What we read as an underplayed performance is in fact Gibson’s private gaze skillfully handled by the editor Roland Gallois. A point-of-view sequence isn’t only capable of illuminating the character’s inner life; it can also position viewers in their relation to the storyteller—the director. There are two primary relationships to consider here: character and audience; and filmmaker and audience. The aim is to choose the appropriate balance in these relationships. Too much emphasis on the relationship between the characters and the audience, and the audience might lose a sense of the premise. Too much emphasis on the relationship between the characters and the audience, and we lose a sense of the film’s premise. Too much emphasis on the relationship between the filmmaker and the audience, and the characters become pawns illustrating the premise. This tension between being “true” to the world and the characters and also telling an engaging story with a clear premise is at the core of filmmaking. The opening scene of Little Miss Sunshine owes its considerable impact to the use of POV sequences. It starts with the conventional POV sandwich:

Figure 5.41 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Beholder

Figure 5.42 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

View

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Figure 5.43 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Beholder This is what the Kuleshov Effect is all about—the juxtaposition of uninflected images creating a new meaning. There are numerous ways to construct a POV sequence and, consequently, modify the viewer’s engagement with the character. Here is an example. Earlier we talked about Olive’s excitement as she listens to the telephone message about the pageant.

Figure 5.44 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Grandpa watches her . . .

Figure 5.45 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

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CUT to his point of view.

Figure 5.46 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

However, when the camera follows Olive running out of the room, we discover Grandpa in the background, effectively turning his view into an objective shot. The directors allowed us a brief moment of closeness with Grandpa only to pull us out, as if saying, “That’s enough, you’ve experienced his emotional attachment to Olive; now let’s get on with the story.” An even more radical treatment of the POV convention happens toward the end of the film—Olive is backstage among the contestants getting ready for their performances.

Figure 5.47 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

We are set up for a POV sequence—here is our beholder concentrating on something that happens off frame.

Figure 5.48 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

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CUT: the subsequent shot observes the POV paradigm; even our gaze is guided to the bottom right of the frame, following Walter Murch’s fourth criterion of an ideal cut. Except . . . Olive is in the frame! As if it’s time for her (and us) to reflect on her place in this world of falsehood. Dayton and Faris also play with timing:

Figure 5.49 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

The above shot immediately feels subjective: we sense that someone is watching, but the beholder is not revealed. The shot’s visual content emphasized by its duration evokes suspense (we hope Grandpa will be okay but we feel it might be too late) and empathy.

Figure 5.50 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

So much so that when we finally see Richard, emotionally we’re already with him. Imagine swapping the order of these shots: first we’d see Richard and witness his anxiety, and only then the ambulance—“Ah-ha, they’re on their way to the hospital” would be our reaction. The storytelling would put more emphasis on the plot rather than its emotional undercurrent. But there is a legitimate place for seeing the beholder’s reaction first before showing the audience what he or she is looking at, and Dayton and Faris exploit it for comic effect.

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Figure 5.51 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

State Trooper McLeary clearly appreciates what he is looking at, but for a while the directors won’t let us share his enjoyment, whetting our appetite.

Figure 5.52 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

And when it’s finally revealed, we re-evaluate our first impression of him. Comedy also benefits from an implied POV where a shot starts off as an objective record only to turn into what looks like a subjective view:

Figure 5.53 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Asked to remove Olive from the stage, Richard instead joins her in the lurid performance.

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Figure 5.54 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

In a gesture of further defiance, he thrusts out his chin at the obstinate pageant official.

Figure 5.55 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

The camera takes its cue and whip-pans . . .

Figure 5.56 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).’

. . . to reveal outraged Official Jenkins. Finally, here is an example of a whole scene as a point of view. An estranged couple presents their case to the judge in the opening scene of A Separation (Asghar Farhadi, 2011).

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Figure 5.57 A Separation, director Asghar Farhadi (2011).

The scene lasts three and a half minutes, yet there is no reverse angle. That’s because we, the viewers, are playing the judge; we hear both sides’ valid points and are invited to take a stand. Throughout the whole film we will be asking ourselves “What would I do?” The director commented on his editorial approach: I thought long and hard about the film’s opening scene. Unlike in my other films, I was determined that this time the issue would be announced quite quickly. I wanted the first scene to reveal the theme of the film. In A Separation, the opening scene comes into its own if you juxtapose it with the final scene. It is as if the whole film seems to explain that first scene. FARHADI, 2012

Sound design Undoubtedly, point of view is one of the most powerful tools at the director’s disposal. And it doesn’t only apply to visuals—arguably, subjective aural treatment can be even more potent. That’s because we interpret sound viscerally—like music, it goes straight to the heart, bypassing the head. David Lynch’s Lost Highway (1997) is a good case in point. A mystery neo-noir meditation on the nature of identity, the film is ostensibly a piece of cinematic art rather than a well-made play inviting suspension of disbelief. Nonetheless, it is an immersive experience, in great measure due to its soundtrack designed by Lynch himself. In one memorable scene, the protagonist, Fred (Bill Pullman), has a strange encounter with the Mystery Man (Robert Blake). Here is what happens:

Fred is at the open bar; he has ordered a couple of shots. When they arrive, he immediately drains the first one, and then decides to have the other one, too.

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Figure 5.58 Lost Highway, director David Lynch (1997).

His eyes meet the gaze of MYSTERY MAN . Up to that moment the soundtrack has been pretty much realistic—we hear a general party atmosphere with sourced music very much in the foreground.

Figure 5.59 Lost Highway, director David Lynch (1997).’

However, as MYSTERY MAN approaches, all diegetic sounds fade away and are replaced by an industrial, ominous hum that accompanies the following conversation.

Figure 5.60 Lost Highway, director David Lynch (1997).

MYSTERY MAN We’ve met before, haven’t we?

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FRED I don’t think so. Where was it that you think we’ve met? MYSTERY MAN At your house. Don’t you remember? FRED No, no I don’t. Are you sure? MYSTERY MAN Of course. As a matter fact, I’m there right now. FRED (incredulous) What do you mean? You’re where right now? The mechanical hum increases in volume.

MYSTERY MAN At your house. FRED That’s fucking crazy, man. Mystery Man reaches into his coat pocket, takes out a cellular phone and holds it out to Fred. MYSTERY MAN Call me. Mystery Man puts the phone into Fred’s hand. MYSTERY MAN (CON -T) Dial your number. Fred hesitates. MYSTERY MAN (CON -T) Go ahead. Fred dials, lifts the phone to his ear.

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Figure 5.61 Lost Highway, director David Lynch (1997).

PHONE VOICE OF MYSTERY MAN I told you I was here. The hum grows in volume again, and the camera pushes in.

Fred, still holding the phone, stares at the man standing in front of him. FRED How did you do that? MYSTERY MAN Ask me. Fred hesitates, then angrily. FRED (into the phone) How did you get inside my house? PHONE VOICE OF MYSTERY MAN You invited me. It’s not my custom to go where I’m not wanted. FRED (into the phone) Who are you?

Figure 5.62 Lost Highway, director David Lynch (1997).

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MYSTERY MAN laughs—both in person and over the phone. PHONE VOICE OF MYSTERY MAN Give me my phone back. Fred passes the phone to MYSTERY MAN who folds it and puts it in his pocket. MYSTERY MAN It’s been a pleasure talking to you.

Figure 5.63 Lost Highway, director David Lynch (1997).

MYSTERY MAN turns and walks away. As he departs the sound gradually returns to normal. As you can see, the visual treatment of the scene is fairly conventional: the establishing shot of Fred is followed by the over-the-shoulder shot as Mystery Man approaches, and close shots of both characters. There is not a single subjective shot in the scene. It is the soundscape that creates the point-of-view feel of the sequence and drags us right into Fred’s internal nightmare. Such far-reaching sonic treatment wouldn’t cohere with the tone of Little Miss Sunshine, but even with the film’s realistic convention one can isolate moments where the soundscape is designed to directly influence our reading of the characters. It acts as an obstacle:

Figure 5.64 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

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The truck’s horn interferes with Richard’s telephone conversation. It punctuates key lines of dialogue:

Figure 5.65 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

When Richard lectures Olive, “Don’t apologize, it’s a sign of weakness,” there is a distinctive “DING !” from an unseen counter somewhere in the background, creating a distancing comic effect. Sound effects also act as an overt comedic construct:

Figure 5.66 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Figure 5.67 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

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Interspersing the family squabble with the sound of squealing tires turns the sequence into a kind of musical étude, defamiliarizing a familiar situation—thus bolstering the comedy. It reflects the emotional state of the protagonist:

Figure 5.68 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

The broken clutch appears as angry and aggressive as Richard is at this moment. And it can comment on the character:

Figure 5.69 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

The mosquito-like sound of the moped’s engine is just like Richard—insignificant but dogged. Sound design can also clarify narrative by implying a character’s personality traits. Let me illustrate with an anecdote. A long time ago I directed a television movie called Cross Turning Over. In the course of the story, the protagonist, Hughie, is given a dog. However, there was never a scene of the actual handover—it was only implied—and during post-production it became apparent that some people were confused by seeing Sadie the dog with Hughie in the later part of the film. To remedy this, the Sound Designer and I decided to add some friendly dog barks in a scene featuring both characters. The barks were to say, “I like you and I want to be with you.”

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Figure 5.70 Cross Turning Over, director Robert Klenner (1996).

The combination of the sound effects with the shot of Sadie running toward Hughie did the trick—the viewers now perceived Hughie as a dog lover, and Sadie as accepting him as her new owner; all without any overt exposition. Constructing a cinematic character is the art of not only offering information but also, perhaps more importantly, leaving things unsaid and engaging the viewer’s imagination in completing the picture. The difficult part is finding the right level of ambiguity. What you are aiming for is for the audience to subconsciously search for meaning: “I’m not getting enough information from the pictures, and what I’m hearing is also not 100 percent satisfactory. However, the combination of the two, paired with my personal experience, leads me to a picture of a character that is vaguely familiar. Even though I’ve never met such a person in real life, I can relate to him.” Walter Murch succinctly described such a process of engagement: “We do not see and hear a film; we see/hear it”. There are three to tango in the post-production phase: picture, sound, and music—editor, sound designer, and composer. In an ideal world with all working together, the construction of the film happens on the three levels simultaneously, and each informs the other two: the rhythm of the dialogue, the rhythm of the soundscape, and the rhythm of the music—put together they all create the heartbeat of the scene.

Music Some filmmakers eschew music as a foreign element impinging on the naturalism of cinematic experience. “We are in the middle of the ocean, where is the music coming from?” Hitchcock is said to have asked during the production of Lifeboat (1944). Film composer David Raksin suggested, “Ask Mr. Hitchcock where the cameras come from.” There are of course great films without music: the French New Wave’s Éric Rohmer very rarely used scored music, similarly Michael Haneke. The Coen brothers’ No Country for Old Men (2007) is without music, and Dogme 95 simply prohibited its directors using non-

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diegetic music. One should only use music if the film needs it.26 More often than not, it does. Music is a visceral experience. It is abstract, far less systematized than image, and it gives the screen storyteller a lot more room to move. Interestingly, music has significantly more influence on image than image has on music. Look at (and listen to) any piece of film footage accompanied by music and you will see (hear) that the image acquires a lot of its meaning from the music. Film image is all about context. Conversely, music is constant; it will retain its emotional ammunition regardless of the context. Let’s see if we can substantiate this view.

EXERCISE—CREATE MEANING THROUGH MUSIC Michael Haneke’s Funny Games (1997) and Dayton and Faris’s Little Miss Sunshine (2006) both feature sequences of driving through the countryside.

Figure 5.71 Funny Games, director Michael Haneke (1997).

Select thirty seconds from the opening of Funny Games . . .

Figure 5.72 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006). 26 Dogme 95 was a Danish movement started by directors Lars von Trier and Thomas Vinterberg. Its aim was to purify film from the commercial traits imposed by the studio system, and reclaim the director’s position as an artist.

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. . . and the same length from an equivalent sequence from Little Miss Sunshine (starting at twenty minutes, fifty-five seconds into the film). ➔ Strip the clips from their respective soundtracks. ➔ Select a joyous piece of music and apply it to the footage from Funny Games. ➔ Test the clip on someone who is not familiar with the film—how do they perceive the footage? ➔ Now try a similar experiment with Little Miss Sunshine. Select a piece of music that is disturbing (perhaps even the soundtrack from Funny Games)—how do your uninitiated viewers react to the sequence? The way music colors our perception of character is most interesting. In 2007 a team of scientists led by psychologist Dr. Siu-Lan Tan tested the effects of music on viewers’ perception of a film character. Some 177 undergraduate students watched four different film excerpts from films by Woody Allen, François Ozon, Jean-Jacques Beineix, and Krzysztof Kies´lowski, with music featured before or after a scene. The scenes themselves presented a single female character in a neutral, subdued performance. The beginning and the end of each scene showed static shots of architecture, and it was only over those shots that the music—conveying happiness, sadness, fear, or anger—was played. The result of the experiment provided evidence that music doesn’t even have to be concurrent with the characters’ on-screen actions to affect the viewer’s perception; when happy, sad, or fearful music was played, the viewers saw them as happy, sad, or fearful, regardless of whether the music was played before or after their appearance. Music is particularly compatible with film because both media operate within the canon of tension and release. American composer and educator Aaron Copland (1900–90) described film music as being able to: 1

Create a more convincing atmosphere of time and place.

2

Underline psychological refinements—the unspoken words of a character or the unseen implications of a situation.

3

Serve as a kind of neutral background filler.

4

Build a sense of continuity between scenes.

5

Underpin the dramatic build-up of a scene, and round it off with a sense of finality (Copland, 1949).

In Chapter 2 we talked about given circumstances as one of the elemental components of character creation. Number one in Copland’s list, the “atmosphere of time and place,” significantly colors our perception of the character. Imagine a character in a neutral setting with the score featuring bagpipes—she is a Scot; yodeling—an Alpine villager; balalaika—again a villager but this time from Russia. Of course, it doesn’t need to be as literal. Copland wrote about his experience of writing the score for Of Mice and Men (1939):

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[T]he primary purpose was to write music which somehow suggested the background of the film, the daily life on a California ranch. To do this, I occasionally employed music of a folksong character, though using no direct quotations, simple tunes that might have been whistled by George and Lenny. The temper of the music varied, of course, with every scene, but always I tried to keep away from the overlush harmonies that are so common on the screen and usually defeat their own purpose by overemphasis. As a matter of fact, what you do not do is often as important as what you do do in scoring a motion picture. COPLAND, 1940

Copland’s second attribute is especially relevant to the director—music can underline “the unspoken” and “the unseen”: in other words it is best suited to express subtext. Such use of music brings most satisfying results when planned early. Involving the composer in the final drafts of the script presents an opportunity to relegate some aspects of characterization to music. Regrettably, this happens very rarely in the commercial world of moviemaking, despite the fact that music’s ability to imply psychological nuances is its single most valuable contribution to the creation of screen character. The nature of cinematic grammar means that film can only show a character thinking or feeling—it can imply thought and emotion, but is not able to penetrate it. Music, on the other hand, can do exactly that: it can actively enter the film’s plot by exposing aspects of a character’s motivation and behavior, thus adding a “third” dimension to the picture. The multifaceted functions of film music can be seen in the following music cue from Little Miss Sunshine. We are about thirty-seven minutes into the film and Richard has just learnt over the phone that his book deal has fallen through.

SHERYL I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Did you try to negotiate? RICHARD Yes, I tried! I tried everything! What do you think...?! Let’s just go, okay? Let’s get out of here! He gets into the car. She stares at him. He won’t look at her. Finally, he turns and yells: RICHARD (cont’d) Let’s go!!!

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Figure 5.73 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

The music starts. It is very subtle, as is Toni Collette’s performance—it is only the slam of the car door as she gets in that indicates her fury. The music doesn’t underline the tension between the characters though. Instead, it evokes a feeling of loss—they’ve both invested a lot of hope, time, and money in Richard’s project.

Sheryl gets in the bus, slamming the door. Richard releases the break and they drift down the hill. INT . VW BUS —ON THE ROAD —DAY Silence. Everyone avoids everyone else’s eyes. The music cue continues. There are new elements in the arrangement drawing a veil over Richard and Sheryl’s tiff, and opening the stage to the whole ensemble.

Finally, Dwayne looks around, scribbles a note and passes it to Frank. There is another turn in the music’s character: just before Frank’s line there is a DING —a recurring motif in the film saying, “Don’t forget it’s a comedy you’re watching!”

Figure 5.74 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

FRANK Where’s Olive?

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A drum roll reinforces the change of atmosphere . . .

EXT . PHONE BOOTH —DAY Olive stands next to the phone booth.

Figure 5.75 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

And another DING !

In the distance, the VW bus appears. It drives up and swings around the road. The tempo accelerates and the music generates comic distance—we are not to empathize with Olive’s ordeal but enjoy the absurdity of the situation (“Ha, ha, they forgot the very person the whole escapade is for!”). The sound mix includes a happy car horn and gunning the engine (totally against the logic), turning the scene into a burlesque routine.

Frank slides open the door. They barely slow down.

Figure 5.76 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

The music accelerates even further . . .

Olive dives in. The van coasts downhill. Then Richard shifts into gear and GUNS the engine. EXT .

VW BUS —ON THE ROAD —DAY

The bus speeds through barren landscape.

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Figure 5.77 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

. . . and brazenly concludes the movement. But the last notes slow the rhythm right down, preparing us for the next chapter in the story.

INT .

VW BUS —ON THE ROAD —DAY

Richard drives. Everyone is tense except Olive, who listens to her headphones.

Figure 5.78 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

The atmosphere turns solemn. If in the previous scene the music facilitated alienation and distance, now it concentrates on a singular point of view—that of Grandpa.

Finally, Grandpa gets up and walks up to the front of the bus. He speaks quietly to Richard. It is a poignant moment, the only one in the whole film, where we see father and son truly bond. But the music prevents it from turning syrupy—it is a comedy, after all—by undercutting the lyricism with irony (so much part of Grandpa’s character). So, what happens here is that the actors respond to the circumstances in an authentic and vulnerable manner and the music ensures the tonal continuity of the film.

GRANDPA Richard...

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RICHARD Yeah... GRANDPA Listen, whatever happens—at least you tried to do something on your own, which is more than most people ever do, and I include myself in that category. It takes guts, and I’m proud of you for taking the chance, okay? RICHARD Okay, Dad. Thank you.

Figure 5.79 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

He tries to be cool and dismissive, but Grandpa just stands there. Finally, Richard turns and makes eye contact. Awkwardly, he offers his hand to Grandpa. They shake. RICHARD (cont’d) Thanks, Dad. EXT .

VW BUS —ON THE ROAD —EVENING

The bus travels down the highway.

Figure 5.80 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

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The music concludes Grandpa’s theme and segues to . . .

EXT . MOTEL —NIGHT With keys in their hands, they walk along the motor court, looking for their rooms.

Figure 5.81 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

. . . Copland’s fifth point—“round it off with a sense of finality.”

SHERYL Here’s eleven. Frank, you’re twelve. And Grandpa’s thirteen. OLIVE Can I sleep with Grandpa tonight? SHERYL Ask Grandpa. OLIVE Grandpa...? GRANDPA Okay. I got two beds. You could still use some rehearsing... OLIVE Yeah! That’s what I was thinking...! RICHARD Alright everybody it’ll be a long day tomorrow so I’ll knock on your door at seven am. That means no lollygagging. We need to be packed and on the road by seven forty guys.

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SHERYL Frank? You guys’ll be okay? FRANK We’ll be fine. Dwayne nods. SHERYL Okay. Goodnight. Sleep tight.

Figure 5.82 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

The music cue concludes. The sequence started with a confrontation between two characters, followed by a comedy routine, then progressed to an instance of intimacy, and finally reunited the viewers with the whole ensemble. Music reveals the emotional life of a character. Similar to the Kuleshov Effect, where the juxtaposition of shots creates meaning, a juxtaposition of images and music creates the illusion of direct access to a character’s feelings. About thirty-one minutes and thirty seconds into Little Miss Sunshine there is a short sequence that provides a blank canvas on which to test the idea.

EXERCISE—CREATE MOTIONAL JOURNEY We are thirty-one minutes into the film Little Miss Sunshine. The family is on its way to Redondo Beach. The montage starts with a wide shot of a country road:

Figure 5.83 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

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Soon, the Hoovers’ VW enters the frame. We then see inside the car with Dwayne in the foreground, followed by a variety of shots depicting the tedium of long-distance travel: people in slumber, playing games to appease boredom, the shadow of the car gliding through the roadside, and so on. The sequence concludes with a two-shot featuring Frank and, again, Dwayne:

Figure 5.84 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

What you are asked to do is select a piece of music that will focus the whole sequence on Dwayne and reveal his inner emotional life. Mute the existing soundtrack and start with a piece that establishes a particular mood. In the middle of the sequence there is a short exchange between Grandpa and Dwayne:

Figure 5.85 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Figure 5.86 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

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Utilize this moment to create an emotional shift in Dwayne—the quality of music will have to change or, indeed, you’ll need to segue to another piece. You can either progress the chosen emotions in a linear fashion, for example from boredom to disgust, or play with opposites, for example from joy to sadness (see Plutchik’s Wheel of Emotions on Colour Plates page 11). Test the results on uninitiated friends or family members.

Song score The use of song in film requires special consideration. While a musical score lies outside the diegesis, it actively contributes to the film’s coherence. Songs in film, on the other hand, are absolutely autonomous, with their own independent aesthetic and emotional pedigree. And it is these very qualities—the innate emotional clout and audiences’ pre-knowledge of the song—that can be harnessed to enrich a screen character. Placed in a new context, a song facilitates the marriage of our individual sentiments associated with it to that of the filmmaker’s intentions. Well chosen, a song can significantly intensify our empathy for the protagonist. “As Time Goes By” was written by Herman Hupfeld in 1931 for a musical. In 1942, director Michael Curtiz appropriated the song for his romantic drama Casablanca. One memorable scene sees Ilsa (Ingrid Bergman) in Café Americain, a stylish nightclub owned by her former lover, Rick (Humphrey Bogart). She asks the house piano player to play the song. Sam initially refuses (Rick forbade him to play this particular song as it brings him painful memories) but Ilsa insists, “for old time’s sake.”

Figure 5.87 Casablanca, director Michael Curtiz (1942).

Ingrid Bergman’s face, as she listens to the familiar “You must remember this, a kiss is just a kiss . . .” says it all; we don’t need any exposition to know how much she is still in love with Rick. When we first meet Faye (Faye Wong), a snack bar worker in Wong Kar-wai’s Chungking Express (1994), she listens to The Mamas & the Papas’ “California Dreamin” (1965). “The louder the better,” she says, “Then I don’t have to think.”

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Figure 5.88 Chungking Express, director Wong Kar-wai (1965).

The contrast of the drab surroundings with the nostalgia of the iconic 1960s song produces a succinct introduction to the character. It is as if the director talked directly to us, “Let me introduce you to Faye, a young woman dreaming of greener pastures.” Later, Wong Kar-wai reinforces the perception with another song (this time just two years old at the time of the film’s release), The Cranberries’ “Dreams”: “I want more, impossible to ignore / Impossible to ignore.” Xavier Dolan is another director who employs popular songs from the past to deepen our perception of his protagonists. His 2014 film Mommy concerns Steve (Antoine Olivier Pilon), a dysfunctional, intermittently violent teenager recently released from a juvenile detention center into the custody of his hard-living journalist mother (Anne Dorval). Their turbulent relationship seldom reaches equilibrium. One of these moments comes when Steve puts on a Céline Dion’s 2005 song “On ne change pas” and initiates a dance with his mother and a newly acquainted, somewhat timid neighbor (Suzanne Clément).

Figure 5.89 Mommy, director Xavier Dolan (2014).

Steve knows the lyrics by heart, and it is clear that he identifies with the song’s message: “We do not change. We simply put the costumes on other self.” The moment becomes Steve’s plea for acceptance of diversity; we see past his delinquent facade.

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The above examples illustrate songs as a means of revealing the inner life of the protagonist—Ilsa’s memories, Faye’s dreams, Steve’s appeal. But song can also work in an oblique way, as an ironic comment. Quentin Tarantino uses 1972 Stealers Wheel’s “Stuck in the Middle with You” in this way in his debut feature, Reservoir Dogs (1992). Mr. Blonde (Michael Madsen) tortures a policeman (Kirk Baltz). The scene starts with Mr. Blond turning on the radio. We hear a snippet from the fictitious K-Billy’s Super Sounds of the Seventies Weekend announcing the song. Soon, the sound from the radio’s tiny speaker acquires the full depth of a musical score. The scene evolves in parallel to the song’s lyrics: The set-up: I got the feeling that something ain’t right, Mr. Blond sings along and dances around the bound policeman.

Figure 5.90 Reservoir Dogs, director Quentin Tarantino (1992).

The confrontation: Here I am stuck in the middle with you Mr. Blond stops dancing and approaches the policeman.

Figure 5.91 Reservoir Dogs, director Quentin Tarantino (1992).

The climax: It’s so hard to keep this smile from my face, Mr. Blond hacks off the policeman’s ear. The camera pans away, letting our imagination take over.

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Figure 5.92 Reservoir Dogs, director Quentin Tarantino (1992).

The resolution: Trying to make sense of it all, But I can see that it makes no sense at all, After a parting shot—“Was it as good for you as it was for me?”—Mr. Blond leaves the room.

Figure 5.93 Reservoir Dogs, director Quentin Tarantino (1992).

The function the director assigned to the song renders the scene playful and traumatic at the same time and portrays Mr. Blond as a sadistic psychopath. The directors of Little Miss Sunshine use song in a similar, ironic way. “Super Freak,” the 1981 song by Rick James (co-written with Alonzo Miller) that Olive performs to at the pageant, tells the story of “a very kinky girl, / The kind you don’t take home to mother”—a far cry from the “clean” world of children’s beauty pageants. The juxtaposition of the explicit lyrics (and sexual overtones of Grandpa’s choreography) and Olive’s innocent enthusiasm with which she throws herself into performance fulfills several functions. First, it elevates the humor. The incongruity of Olive’s stripper routine marks a shift from the fairly naturalistic tone of the film into the realm of broad comedy bordering on the absurd.

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Figure 5.94 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

The scene is very funny but doesn’t lose the poignancy the character of Olive brings to the screen. Second, it enhances the drama. The song constitutes the film’s main reversal.27 Richard’s predicament no longer concerns Olive winning the competition (and thus validating his Nine Steps program)—he is now facing an immediate crisis: Olive’s stripper dance routine, the bequest of his late father.

Figure 5.95 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

What will he do? Richard’s decision to stand by his daughter (even if prompted by Frank’s initial gesture of solidarity) is the character’s break-through—the labels of winners and losers become irrelevant and his aspirations for personal success give way to the needs of his family. The self-centered preacher of self-realization develops empathy. Third, the song facilitates the filmmakers’ voice on the culture of proselytizing glamor and perfection. “For us the key was not to make fun of pageants but to try and show them as accurately as possible and let the audience decide what they felt about them” (Dayton, 2006). 27

Reversal or peripeteia (from Greek: ) is an unexpected, major shift in the protagonist’s fortune, a turning point; often an ironic twist.

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Figure 5.96 Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

The directors’ standpoint on sexualizing children is clear and Olive’s unorthodox performance is a way of celebrating normality.

Automated dialogue replacement (ADR) This is the process of re-recording dialogue in a sound studio. The most common reason for replacing production sound is lack of dialogue intelligibility due to an obstructive environment, for example heavy traffic, noisy production equipment (such as a wind machine), director or animal wrangler side-coaching during the take, or actors’ poor enunciation. During postproduction, the ADR supervisor audits the entire recorded dialogue and decides which lines need to be re-recorded for clarity. An ADR session can also be utilized for recording additional dialogue to clarify plot or provide information about a character. It is inserted outside of lip-sync—in wide shots, over-theshoulder shots, or reaction shots. Finally, the whole dialogue might be re-recorded by an actor different to the one who appeared in the film. Darth Vader consists of David Prowse’s body and James Earl Jones’s voice; Andie MacDowell’s Jane in Greystoke: The Legend of Tarzan, Lord of the Apes (1984) was voiced by Glenn Close; and more recently Spike Jonze exchanged Samantha Morton’s voice for Scarlett Johansson’s in Her (2013). Admittedly, Her doesn’t have a physical body, but Morton was performing with Joaquin Phoenix throughout the shoot. An ADR session involves the actor viewing the scene repeatedly while listening to the original sound through headphones, and then recreating each line to match the lip movement and the emotional color of the delivery. Most actors regard the process as a necessary evil, but some see it as a means of refining their performance: an alternative tone of voice or inflection can alter the meaning of a line and even paint the character in a new light. Marlon Brando was said to like ADR because he didn’t want to solidify a performance without knowing its final context. The technicians involved, the ADR supervisor, and the dialogue editor aim at crafting an intelligible dialogue track that aligns with the film’s tone and is sonically indistinguishable from the production recording. Assessing the quality of recording, they look at sync, pitch, tone, and rhythm.

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The job of the director is to look after the emotional resonance. This is particularly challenging, as the inherent technical demands can stifle the actor’s spontaneity. Moreover, the environment of a sound studio is nothing like the film set, and performing alone, the actor can’t respond instinctively to his or her partner. What the director can do, though, is facilitate a trustful atmosphere, stimulate the actor’s imagination, and assist in reconnecting to the atmosphere of the original filming. How does one achieve this? Some actors will respond to action verbs, some to the “magic if” or emotional recall, and some simply need an empathetic presence. The director’s job is similar to her function on set—relentless evaluation of the performance to best serve the needs of the scene and the intentions of the film.

Color grading Color grading is the final step in the cinematic journey. Like icing on the cake, it can bring out the film’s full flavor. While the film’s color palette was established in pre-production, you could use color grading as yet another tool to define a character. In Chapter 3 we talked about the power of color in conveying emotions and moderating viewers’ perception of a character. For example, consistent use of a single color creates an association with a character or an idea; it is not an accident that Olive in Little Miss Sunshine always wears red. We consider color in terms of hue (the actual color or its shade, for example “a deep hue of crimson”), saturation (the color’s intensity), and value (its relative darkness or lightness—low value means darker colors, while high-value colors are lighter). What is particularly useful in cinematic storytelling is the color’s potential to generate conflict or a sense of harmony. Figures 5.97–5.100 in the plate section show the basic color systems. A monochromatic arrangement indicates coherence.

Figure 5.97 (see plate section) Color wheel—monochromatic colors.

Analogous colors can be calming.

Figure 5.98 (see plate section) Color wheel—analogous colors.

Complementary colors evoke stability.

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Figure 5.99 (see plate section) Color wheel—complementary colors.

As do triadic colors.

Figure 5.100 (see plate section) Color wheel—triadic colors.

Using these schemes will result in a balanced, harmonious atmosphere:

Figure 5.101 (see plate section) Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Little Miss Sunshine’s protagonist Richard Hoover is introduced in an analogous color palette—we sense that his world is ordered and he is in control.

Figure 5.102 (see plate section) Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Introducing colors outside the established order in the reverse shot upsets this balance and enhances the comedic pay-off. The job of the colorist is threefold. It starts with color correction—that is, rectifying any inaccuracies in the shot footage, like exposure problems, white balance, or repairing unwarranted noise from too forceful ISO settings. The next stage is color grading—matching adjoining shots in terms of their color temperature and saturation. The final stage deals with creating the film’s distinctive feel and refining the characters; this is achieved by a variety of measures, for example by adjusting their skin tones, brightening their eyes (or making them duller), adding more shine to their hair (or making it duller), sharpening selected areas of their faces, or darkening the edges of the frame to direct viewers’ attention to the character’s face, and even reshaping their faces. You don’t have to possess in-depth knowledge of optics or color psychology to effectively communicate with the colorist, but you have to know what look you are after. Your best ally in articulating this is your cinematographer: you both discussed the look of the film in preproduction. Chances are that your aesthetic framework evolved in the course of shooting the

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film, and at times your DP had to respond to an unforeseen circumstance, which resulted in a particular look. Talk to your DP —it will help you to determine what you’ve actually got, and what you want to end up with. Next, collect visual references to share with the colorist—photographs, stills from films that inspired you, or stills from your film that you have experimented with in Photoshop— whatever is closest to the mood you are after. In Figure 5.102 (plate section) you see a supposed color script presenting the evolution of the color palette in Little Miss Sunshine. In preparation for editing a film, Walter Murch prints off key frames of each shot and puts them on a wall, creating a visual “map” of the story. A similar approach—providing images for the main characters in the key dramatic moments—will aid your communication with the colorist and make the process more efficient. Manipulating hue, saturation and value can assist you with . . . ➔ Creating atmosphere:

Figure 5.103 (see plate section) Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

Desaturated, low-value colors affect the viewer’s perception of Sharon’s upcoming encounter. ➔ Focusing attention on a character:

Figure 5.104 (see plate section) Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

The monochromatic background against a high-value T-shirt ensures no distraction from concentrating solely on Grandpa. ➔ Describing the character:

Figure 5.105 (see plate section) Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

The steely greenish wash renders Richard inflexible and conceited. ➔ And revealing the character’s emotional state:

Figure 5.106 (see plate section) Little Miss Sunshine, directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris (2006).

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The monochromatic, low-value color palette reflects Richard’s mood. To paraphrase the adage, talking about color is like dancing about architecture. Words are subjective and the very notion of colors’ emotional value is transient, hence the importance of visual references.

EXERCISE—COLORING WOLF Reacquaint yourself with Wolf by Liz Cooper (see Chapter 3, p. 127). If you did the script analysis exercise, you will be very familiar with the film’s protagonist. Find visual references that would describe Wolf and reflect her emotional state at the beginning of the film, two key emotional moments, and at the film’s end. When selecting the images, think about the color palette, saturation, and the color’s value.

Interview: Mark Warner

Figure 5.107 Mark Warner.

Mark Warner is a film editor with over thirty films to his credit. He has received an Oscar nomination for Driving Miss Daisy in 1989, an Emmy award (shared with Edward Warschilka) for And Starring Pancho Villa as Himself in 2004, and in 2009 he was nominated by the Australian Film Institute for Mao’s Last Dancer. Robert Klenner (RK ): What is the job of film editor? Mark Warner (MW ): I would say that, for me, I am a facilitator and interpreter. I interpret the dailies. And if I get lost, because I’m looking at a scene and I’m not quite sure what the real point of it is dramatically or emotionally, I go back to the script and I read the scene, “Oh yeah, that’s really clear here, they actually didn’t get it.” So, what can I do? Do I need to put this scene elsewhere? Do I need to adjust the two scenes on each side of it, so it sets up and resolves what’s happening in this scene properly? Do I need to eliminate the scene—is the scene necessary?

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It is interesting when you’re in the fine-cut process and you really feel that you’ve pretty well nailed the film down, most directors will go back and listen very carefully to every single word that’s in the film and question, “Do we need it? Do we need it? Do we need it? I was told this there and I was told this there, and now they’re saying it again here.” Which one do we use? I need to say it but where do I want to say it and where do I eliminate? RK : So, realistically, you co-author the final version of the story? MW : Absolutely. And that’s why editing, for enlightened directors, is so precious because they know that it is actually the last rewrite of the script. There’s so many times that we completely restructured things that in some ways they didn’t bear resemblance to the original script, at least on the structural level. And usually there’s a reason for doing this—because there is a flaw, or there is a weakness and we’re trying to correct that. And it changes the context, dramatically, of the characters. RK : Someone said that there’s the film that you write, the film that you shoot, and the film that you edit. Can the same adage be applied to the creation of the screen character? MW : Yes. But I think ultimately you forget everything that came before, and I don’t mean that cavalierly at all, I’m not being flippant but you have to disregard the script because ultimately all you have is what has been captured in the camera. That’s all you’ve got. And you may not have gotten what the intention of the script was. So you have to “reintention”—redirect the intention of a scene to serve the overall flow and purpose of the film. There are not that many films that I worked on that stayed really, really parochially close to the script. Probably the closest ever I worked on was Driving Miss Daisy. It was [an] incredibly economical script and very precise and very beautifully written and balanced, and it all really worked on the page. So there wasn’t a lot of editorial maneuvering in that film. There were things that were cut out, there were things that were abbreviated, but essentially the structure was the structure of the script, and the content was the script’s content. So that film was more about paying attention to the performance arc of the actors. RK : Effective performance relies on actors reacting spontaneously to the circumstance of the moment. The same can be said of directors; after all the planning and pre-visualization, they have to deal with the reality that is unfolding in front of the camera. But the editor works with material that’s already been recorded. MW : There’s no real genesis in editing; it is dealing with everything after the fact. It’s like a limited palette. Like an artist who has unlimited colors and can mix them together, and then I come in and they say, “Well, actually we started the painting, and here is the general outline and you only have five colors. Now make that work.” That’s how I would like it; you still have [a] tremendous amount of malleability and being able to change things, and change the intentions of things, and make things work—strengthen them, weaken them, whatever, but still it’s a structure, it is within the structure. RK : From the editor’s point of view, is it more beneficial for the director to collaborate with the actor and arrive at the full character arc, or simply record unadulterated spontaneous behavior for the construction to take place in the edit?

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MW : That’s a really difficult question . . . Some of the best actors that I’ve seen, when I find out afterwards talking to the director what they went through to get the performance, a lot of the time it is astonishing; they were extremely insecure, they felt like they were doing all the wrong things, and the director spent most of their time just bolstering their self-confidence and less about molding their performance. So, what do you do with somebody like that? Well, you can’t apply your perfect situation to that; you’re almost in a damage control at that point. You’re just trying to help the actor perform, and be there. But still, it falls upon the director to understand where does that piece fit into the puzzle. Because if he or she loses the sight of that then you’re lost. The actor is lost but can be in the moment, but if there’s nobody that has understanding of where that fits in a puzzle you’re going to have a puzzle with a piece that doesn’t fit anywhere. RK : Would you advise directors to provide the editor with variations or perfect the performance? MW : Both. Having perfect variations [laughs]. It is good to get some variation, especially if it’s not really clear how to play the scene or it’s clear that the scene can be played several different ways. And you don’t know how it’s going to be once you put it together, you don’t know what element you are going to need, you don’t know how intense the actor needs to be, and you can see that there might be three different variations at this point in the character’s arc; all the various elements that will create the character to be [a] certain way. Unless the actor and the director nail it, and it fits, no matter what you do with the film, where you put the scene, it fits. That’s not very likely, actually, in my experience. The more variation you can get, or at least some variations in intensity, depending on what the major emotion is supposed to be, gives you so much more latitude to mold the film and make the characters feel like they have continuity and authenticity. RK : How do you like to work, what do you need from the director? MW : The best thing for me is to be left alone initially, to be able to assemble the film. And I assemble the film exactly the way the script is, with all the lines and all the scenes, and give the script its due, even though you look and you go, “This scene is never going to be in, and this is all too slow, and this is redundant exposition,” I leave it all in, so you understand what works and doesn’t work in the original scripting. And there is a reason for that, and that is that ultimately if you have to restructure, and you start taking scenes out (and this has happened to me quite a lot), a scene that I thought was completely insignificant could become massively significant. So, if you take something out, you know, you’ve seen it, you have it as a part of the arsenal, so to speak, and you can use it if you need it in some other spot. So that’s essential. And then you bring the director and we look at it, he cries, or she cries, and goes through depression . . . even the best films I’ve worked on the director goes through mild depression as soon as they see the assemblage. It must be just this massive kind of gestalt of, “Oh my god, what have I done!” Hopefully, they get over that soon, and we get to work. The directors I’ve worked with the most trust me and a lot of times will just say, “This feels this way or that way,” they don’t necessarily give me specific directions like, “Take five frames off there,” even though they will do that at some point. And I’m fine with all of that. But it’s great to hear, for

CHAPTER 5 POST- PRODUCTION

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example, “The scene is not intense enough, it’s got to be faster” and then they leave and do something else, do their emails or whatever, and I go ahead and do that. And I’m happy, if something is really, really difficult, to have them sit there and go through every take and try to piece things together and come up with the solution to a particular problem. So, there is a wide variation to what that collaborative process means ideally. RK : Can you reflect the character’s psychology by the way you cut? MW : We’re moving to intuitive space now, it’s a subjective kind of . . . for me it’s not an intellectual evaluation; it’s about sense and sensibility about a character, and understanding when to be on them and when not to be on them, and what takes to use. So much can be said about a character by the reactions to the character by other actors, and it’s really delicate, especially if it’s a sensitive piece and has a lot of nuance in it. I mean, an eyebrow movement can mean one thing in one place and something else in another place, so I guess my answer is “Yes” and . . . [laughs] I don’t even know how to explain the process. I think to be a good editor you have to be a good audience. And you have to be able to intellectualize things but then sit back and look at it, and try to experience the way the audience will experience it—more spontaneously, more like the first time: am I getting that, is it getting through? It becomes kind of a gestalt situation in that [the] sum of its parts is greater than its whole . . . it is made up of fragments from a lot of different places in different takes and when you get it right, there’s something other there that’s elevated beyond individual performance, when you look at [an] individual take. And that’s the great thing about filmmaking versus theater—you have the ability to construct performance.

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Conclusion You have now explored all the basic tools the director employs to create compelling, engaging screen characters. In a way, you have been stripped of your innocence—it is not, as you might have thought, all about talent and instinct. Instead, it is about meticulous preparation and craft. Hopefully, the book has assisted you in replacing instinct with knowledge. The journey to become a director looks something like this: ➔ First, you don’t know that you don’t know. This is the initial status quo in your educational narrative. The world is in relative balance and it feels good. ➔ Then comes the inciting incident—the status quo is disturbed: you get to know that you don’t know all there is to know about directing. This is not a nice feeling. ➔ Confrontation. Eager to improve, you set out on your journey: you absorb the material, test your new knowledge in exercises, and arrive at a point where you know that you know. When you shoot your next project you apply the newly acquired tools. You draw better performances, but in doing so you feel self-conscious. ➔ Resolution. You don’t know that you know. With practice, you will use all the tools from your toolbox without even being aware of it. It will feel great. Ironically, at the end of the journey you will most likely return to an instinctive approach to directing—except now it will be underpinned by solid knowledge and experience. This will allow you to be in the moment and react spontaneously to whatever circumstances bring, harnessing the unforeseen to the story you are telling and the characters you are constructing. Subconsciously, you will be constantly evaluating: ➔ Is this what the viewer needs to see? ➔ Is this what the listener needs to hear? ➔ What do I want the viewer/listener to think? ➔ What do I want the viewer/listener to feel? And chief among all the skills you have learnt will be your ability to communicate effectively. It is crucial: all the departments have hardware and software to realize their tasks (lenses, lights, cameras, props, sets, costumes, microphones, editing, sound and SFX programs); actors use their bodies and voice as instruments—but all the director can do is talk. Ironically, the less they say the better. Now there’s a challenge for you. As you move forward as a director you should foster and feed your curiosity: dig deeper into the approaches outlined in the book and find ones that strike a chord with you and immerse

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yourself in their techniques. Go to the theater, watch films, and keep asking, “What is it that makes that character tick? What are the building blocks here? What’s the character’s function in the story? How would I improve on that?” Enroll in an acting course and work with actors whenever you can. Importantly, embrace failure; people who achieve the most are the ones who fail the most because they keep trying. You are only at the beginning of the journey. Bon voyage!

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Figure 1.1 Frida Kahlo, self-portrait dedicated to Dr. Eloesser, 1940.

Figure 1.2 Mexican artist Frida Kahlo, 2011. Courtesy Pristine Cartera-Turkus.

Figure 1.26 Giorgio Morandi, Still Life (1955).

Figure 3.12 Female portrait 1 (Orange and grey). Photographer Adric Watson. Orange can evoke feelings of comfort and security, but also— withdrawal. Grey has no psychological properties—it is neutral, but with the right tone can enhance the surrounding colors. Here the grey background connects with the model’s eyes drawing attention to her inner world.

Figure 3.13 Female portrait 2. Photographer Adric Watson. Changing the background to green produces an unexpected result. Green is usually associated with peace and balance but contrasting it with the model’s orange hair creates a vibrant, convivial glow.

Figure 3.14 Male portrait 1. Photographer Adric Watson. As with all matters creative, there are no rules. Brown is the color of stability, warmth, and nature. Combined with the notion of refreshment and balance associated with green, it should conjure up feelings of warmth and trust and yet in this example the opposite is true. The model appears to be hiding something.

Figure 3.15 Male portrait 2. Photographer Adric Watson. Blue – the color of serenity and reflection definitely affects the way we view the subject. He appears trustworthy and open to communication.

Figure 3.16 Male portrait 3. Photographer Adric Watson. Black can create a barrier as it absorbs all the colors, and is usually associated with grief and sadness, but also heaviness and menace. There is definitely no menace in this picture; the subject’s delicate bone structure surrounded by black evokes empathy.

Figure 3.17 Male portrait 4. Photographer Adric Watson. The juxtaposition of black with red and orange imbues the model with strength, masculinity and produces a feeling of excitement. Red grabs our attention, as it appears to be nearer than any other color.

Figure 3.18 Color script shows the progression of the color scheme throughout Little Miss Sunshine

Figure 3.19 The film starts with shades of brown and grey with highlights in black, sangria and turquoise.

Figure 3.20 It progresses to softer colours: yellows, sienna, rouge and blue

Figure 3.21 And climaxes in rich scarlet, crimson, orange, yellow and black.

Figure 4.17 Three Colors: Blue, director Krzysztof Kies´lowski (1993). The first of Krzysztof Kies´lowski’s Three Colors Trilogy, Blue, follows Julie (Juliette Binoche) in her quest to rebuild her life after the tragic death of her husband and daughter. To portray Julie’s recurring feelings of the presence of the departed, cinematographer Sławomir Idziak employed sweeping camera moves accompanied by flooding the frame with the color blue.

Figure 4.18 Her, director Spike Jonze (2013). The classical framing and limited color palette created by Her’s creative team (director Spike Jones, DP Hoyte Van Hoytema, and production designer K. K. Barrett) invite contemplation on the nature of humanity.

Figure 4.57 Plutchik’s Wheel of Emotion.

Figure 5.97 Monochromatic arrangement indicates coherence.

Figure 5.98 Analogous colors can be calming.

Figure 5.99 Complementary colors evoke stability.

Figure 5.100 As do triadic colors.

Figure 5.101 Little Miss Sunshine protagonist Richard Hoover is introduced in analogous color palette—we sense that his world is ordered and he is in control.

Figure 5.102 Introducing colors outside the established order in the reverse shot upsets this balance and boosts the comedic payoff.

Figure 5.103 Desaturated, low value colors affect the viewer’s perception of Sharon’s upcoming encounter.

Figure 5.104 The monochromatic background against high value t-shirt ensures no distraction from concentrating solely on Grandpa.

Figure 5.105 The steely greenish wash renders Richard inflexible and conceited.

Figure 5.106 The monochromatic, low value color palette reflects Richard’s mood.