John August

Search Results for: characters

Ye Olde Shoppe never existed

Words

That quaint “yee” was actually pronounced “the.” The confusion with the “y” sound began because Medieval scribes had to make some [difficult choices](http://www.bbc.co.uk/dna/h2g2/A2922077):

> Medieval English thus contained a variety of signs for the sound ‘th’ – the digraph ‘TH’, the thorn, and the eth (or thok). Scribes ended up using a mixture of these, although some tried to make a distinction between those used for a voiced ‘th’ sound and the signs used for a voiceless ‘th’. As a result, reading medieval texts today can be enormously confusing. Is that a ‘y’? Is it a ‘p’? Or a ‘th’? The problem is compounded by the inclusion of yet another runic sign which made it into Medieval English – the wen, a symbol that looks very like a thorn, except that the triangular portion sits even higher, giving it a strong look of an angular ‘p’.

The thorn symbol persists in UTF-8 character sets – Þ – but was lacking in early typesetting.

> There was no thorn sign in the printing fonts, as they were usually cast outside of England. So, since the sign for thorn slightly resembled the lower-case ‘y’, that’s what was substituted.

In screenwriting, you’re always balancing accuracy with expectation. Thus, the warriors of Sparta speak English with British accents — because anything else would feel strange to the audience.

But in portraying your characters’ world, you have wide latitude. If you’re writing a broad comedy set in Medieval times, go ahead and ye it up. Put it Zapf Chancery if it helps sell the joke.

But in more serious films, I’d love to see written English portrayed more as it would have been in the time. That is, really odd to modern eyes, filled with runic characters and odd constructions.

(Link from the BBC via [Andy Baio](https://twitter.com/waxpancake/status/103166642791522304) via [Phil Nelson](https://twitter.com/#!/philnelson).)

From pixel-pusher to TV writer

First Person

Kiyong Kim spent ten years working a day job as a web designer while he wrote and made short films on the side. Things came into focus for him when a friend of a friend got into the Nickelodeon Writing Fellowship.

You can read more from Kiyong on his [blog](http://kiyong.wordpress.com/).

————–

first person

I didn’t major in screenwriting. I didn’t go to film school. I went to art school in Boston and studied illustration. I can draw you a picture of the zero connections I had to the entertainment industry.

Despite that, I wanted to be a writer.

I had written short stories in high school, and in college I learned what a screenplay is. I read some books on the subject, and then wrote my first script, Brobot, which I submitted to the Slamdance Screenwriting Competition. It came in 4th. This was before they had a separate short script competition, so my short beat out feature scripts, and got me some attention from managers and producers. I completely squandered that opportunity because I had nothing else to show, but it gave me the confidence I needed to take this whole writing thing seriously.

Trying to write while having a day job
———

Even though I wanted to be a writer, I had a full time job as a web designer. It’s really depressing to be good at something you don’t like. Had I known better, I would have started out as a PA and tried to get a job as a writer’s assistant. Instead, I paid the bills by pushing pixels around in Photoshop, and wrote on nights and weekends.

I was very disciplined with my writing and made a lot of sacrifices to hone my skills. I took jobs that paid less but had better hours, had more flexible vacation days, were closer to my house, or had any other factor that would give me more time to write. I would write during lunch breaks, and save up my vacation time to work on scripts. I also wanted to become familiar with the production process, so I took classes in directing, editing, and animation.

While I spent all this time writing, I was painfully aware of the opportunity cost of what I wasn’t doing. But I kept at it, because my shorts would get into festivals, or my scripts would place in contests. I had to continue.

Then one day, a friend of a friend got into the [Nickelodeon Writing Fellowship](http://www.nickwriting.com/). I knew the odds were ridiculous—less than 1 in a 1000—but actually knowing someone who succeeded made it seem within the realm of possibility. I decided to apply.

Rocky, I & II
——-

In order to apply to the writing programs, you need a television spec script. I had written several shorts and a couple features, but never a spec. So I read some books on TV writing, and wrote an episode of The Office.

In the fall, I heard I was a semifinalist for the Nick Fellowship. I had a phone interview, an in-person interview, and ended up as one of four finalists. That brought three days of interviews with executives, writers, and show creators.

Only three fellows were chosen that year, and I was the only finalist who did not make it. I had gotten too nervous in some of the interviews. During those interviews, they don’t even look at your writing; they look at your personality, and at how well you sell yourself. I was horrible at selling myself; writing ability alone isn’t enough.

When Rocky fought Apollo Creed the first time he didn’t win, but he didn’t lose either. Just getting to that point was a personal victory for me. It was validation that I was on the right track, and that all of the hours spent writing hadn’t been a complete waste. If I could have another shot, I could make it.

Cue the music for a Rocky training sequence.

I immediately went to work on another spec, this time for 30 Rock, and applied again. I took an improv class, a TV writing class, and made another short. That fall, I was a semifinalist again. I was prepared for all those interviews this time.

In Rocky II, (spoiler alert) Rocky wins. I made it into the Fellowship.

Hello, Fellow
——-

The Nickelodeon Writing Fellowship is a full-time, paid program. We started out writing new specs as well as rewriting our application specs. We usually have six weeks to write a script, which includes researching a show, pitching premises, outlining, and doing multiple drafts, and we’re usually working on several scripts at once.

I was used to writing in short bursts at nights and on weekends, not for eight hours a day, and I used to write scripts leisurely over the course of several months, not in six weeks. My writing muscles were quickly whipped into shape.

After writing several specs for network shows, each of us was given the opportunity work with the EIC (Executive in Charge) and write a spec of a Nickelodeon show. I got the new animated show Robot & Monster, which hasn’t aired yet, and has no finished episodes to watch and study. I had seen some of the character art and was given the show bible and a bunch of scripts, but I didn’t know how the characters would look or sound, or what the show’s timing and rhythm would be like. It was a challenge, but the EIC provided guidance along the way.

Besides just paying us to write, the Fellowship opens doors by setting up meetings with people at the studio, including current and development execs, line producers, coordinators, writers, and Fellowship alumni. We’re working on more specs as well as a pilot, and I’m about to sit in on the writers’ rooms for Robot & Monster.

Ideally, I would love to get staffed on a Nickelodeon show before the Fellowship ends, and then at some point, I’d like to put my art school education to use and pitch my own animated show. We’re halfway done with the Fellowship, and it has already been a life changing experience.

Pronunciation jokes

Television, Words on the page

In Crazy, Stupid, Love there’s a running joke where the characters keep mispronouncing Kevin Bacon’s character’s last name (Lindhagen). There’s a similar kind of joke in The Hangover where Zach Galifianakis’s character puts the emphasis on the wrong syllable of a naughty word. On film these jokes are extremely funny, but these seem like the kind of jokes that wouldn’t work as well on paper. So my question is two fold:

1. Do you think these types of jokes would be effective on the page? (aka “Should I even bother?”)

2. If so, any thoughts on how best to write something like this? Use accents and junk in dialogue, use a parenthetical, or cue in the reader in an action line?

— Nima
New York, NY

Pronunciation jokes have a tendency to feel cheap and hoary. But when they work, they work — and it’s easy enough to show them on the page.

MARY

(checking form)

Are you Mr. Donaldson?

MAN IN COAT

Doe. Nald. Sohn.

MARY

Excuse me?

MAN IN COAT

The o’s are long.

MARY

Oh.

MAN IN COAT

Yes. Not ‘uh.’ There is no schwa.

MARY

Doughnaldsone.

MAN IN COAT

Three syllables. Doe.

MARY

Doe. A deer.

MAN IN COAT

(unamused)

Nald.

MARY

Nald.

MAN IN COAT

Sohn.

MARY

Sohn. Doe-Nald-Sohn.

MAN IN COAT

Close enough.

Back to her form. A beat.

MARY

Mr. Doe-Nald-Sohn, I’m sorry to tell you your dog is dead.

Frankly, without more context my example feels like a [clam](http://www.janeespenson.com/archives/00000338.php) — a joke that’s become musty through over-use.

But I can imagine scenarios in which its familiarity would actually work in its favor. [Archer](http://www.fxnetworks.com/shows/originals/archer/) could probably weave in this kind of joke simply because of the heightened-deadpan nature of the show. And in the context of a dramedy, the setup is flat enough that it doesn’t really feel like a joke is coming, so the punchline is genuinely a surprise.

Cinematic geography and the problem of genius

Directors

A few weeks ago, Shay from Jerusalem wrote in:

> I’m researching about Big Fish’s textual references to other auteurs or to the film canon in general. At first, I noticed the 8½ style ending, then the freeze scene reminded me of Scolla’s “We loved each other so much” exposition. Further more I thought Calloway’s character interestingly resembles a crossbreed between Dr Caligari and the Tramp.

> Also lots of visual cues of circles which it think refer to Chaplin’s “The Circus”, that do not appear in the final script.

> Have I overestimated your script/Burton’s directing? Blindly missed?

I don’t know if “overestimating” is a polite way to put it, but no, none of those references were in my head for Big Fish. And while I never spoke with Tim about the specifics on how he chose to shoot things, I’d be very surprised if those other films were conscious aspects of his process.

Academia teaches us to ask questions like Shay’s — and generally, to answer them ourselves. So we find parallels and influences that make sense on paper without worrying too much about whether they’re actually true.

To his credit, Shay tracked me down and asked his questions. I probably ruined the thesis of his research paper by answering honestly.

I was reminded of my email exchange with Shay by a video [Daring Fireball](http://daringfireball.net/linked/2011/07/26/shining-spatial-impossibilities) linked to this morning:

[The Shining — spatial awareness and set design](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0sUIxXCCFWw).

(The video continues in [part two](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IfJ8rK7eJeQ&feature=related).)

Rob Ager’s analysis of spatial impossibilities in The Shining is entertaining but naive, the video equivalent of Shay’s unwritten paper:

> These blatant design anomalies would not have occurred by accident. Set designers would have noticed them and brought them to Stanley’s attention at the blueprint stage. The only way they could occur is if Stanley wanted them there.

I’m sure there is a more official name, but let’s call this situation the genius fallacy. We start with a god-like figure such as Stanley Kubrick, well-known for his [exacting attention to detail](http://somecamerunning.typepad.com/some_came_running/2011/06/test.html).

Ager’s thesis seem to be: Since Kubrick was a perfectionist, anything that seems like an error in Kubrick’s work *must not* be an error, but must instead be a deliberate choice.

Yes, that sounds like fundamentalism.

Ager does have logic to support his narrative. After all, the Overlook Hotel is meant to be vast and confusing. The movie features a hedge maze as a major component. Kubrick is clearly playing with themes of disorientation, both physically and mentally. So it makes sense his choices would emphasize these aspects.

But —

The windows are there for light.

The walls are placed to best frame the scenes.

The big hedge map was moved because he didn’t want it in the shot. (Or, more likely, it was moved *into* the shot when he wanted it.)

In his analysis of cinematic geography, Ager is ignoring a tremendous amount of silent evidence. Namely, *every movie ever made.* Any film subjected to the kind of scrutiny applied here will reveal moments of spatial impossibility.

Here are just three reasons why:

**Cinematic geography is largely transient.** The audience pays attention to where things are within a scene, which is why we worry about camera direction and [crossing the line](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/180_degree_rule). But the minute you cut to another scene, our brains safely discard the perceived geography.

**Sets are designed to do things real locations can’t.** Walls move, giving the director the choice (and decision) how much to bend reality in order to position a camera where it couldn’t physically be.

**Even when movies use real locations, they are often assembled from various pieces.** The exterior of the Overlook Hotel is actually [The Timberline Lodge](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Timberline_Lodge) in Oregon. And yes: the rooflines and windows don’t match closely with Kubrick’s sets.

But what would Ager have Kubrick do? Should an infallible genius director build a new exterior to match his vision of the interior, or should he alter his vision of the interior to match the realities of the exterior?

The fact is, Kubrick doesn’t have to do either. Audiences easily accept that the two locations are the same, not because Kubrick has perfected some form of cinematic spatial disorientation, but because that’s how movies work.

When Shelley Duvall is crawling out the window, what matters that we believe it’s the same window inside and outside — not whether it’s a corner apartment. Kubrick isn’t performing some amazing psychological trick here.

He’s getting away with cheating a location. That’s what directors do.

Filmmaking is essentially the art of sustaining the suspension of disbelief: from shot to shot, scene to scene. On location scouts, we talk about “selling” and “buying” and “reading.”

DIRECTOR

I’m not buying this as an upscale Miami restaurant. It’s reading very Dennys-in-Topeka.

FIRST A.D.

It fits on the schedule. We can’t change the schedule.

LINE PRODUCER

Bring in some white tablecloths, some palm trees to sell Florida. Done.

DIRECTOR

Maybe a flamingo could walk through the shot.

LINE PRODUCER

We can’t afford animals.

DIRECTOR

I was being sarcastic.

LINE PRODUCER

We can’t afford that either.

The Shining is a great movie. Kubrick was a great director. At the end of the second video, Ager focuses on a few points well worth highlighting, because they are very deliberate and very effective demonstrations of Kubrick’s skills.

Notice how the camera tracks Danny as his tricycle loops around the hallways — and how that ties into the final set piece in the maze.

Observe how Kubrick isolates his characters by placing them in vast sets and landscapes.

But don’t obsess about which way the freezer door swings. By making too much of too little, you miss out the bigger picture.