Four By Six Screenplays

Four By Six Screenplays

By the time I graduated NYU Film $50K in debt, I'd taken five semester-long screenwriting classes. Not one of them taught students like myself a thing about professional Hollywood screenwriting.

Today, I'm sure things are a lot different. But this was back in the Late '80's, and honestly, most the faculty were faking it -- they were good writers, documentarians and off-Broadway playwrights, but not produced screenwriters. Forget about structure, character, plotting, etc... I never got a lecture on proper screenplay format. The coming avalanche of script lit and online stuff people take for granted today was still a decade away, which meant that despite the back-breaking tuition fees, you'd still have to seek out legit knowledge of "Hollywood screenwriting" on your own.

Being an enterprising young man, I hiked the forty blocks up to the WGA East and paid two bucks for their handy 1983 pamphlet "Professional Writer's Teleplay/Screenplay Format". Why sanctimoniously expensive NYU couldn't have purchased these cheapies en masse for their film students, I'm still not sure, but everything I needed to know was right there -- proper, professional formatting and other Industry guidelines neatly laid out in black and white.

Shortly after that, I convinced a cool professor to let me Xerox the two "real" scripts he owned -- Paul Schrader's Taxi Driver and Hampton Fancher's Blade Runner. Talk about having the back of your head blown off. Wow. So this is what real screenwriting was! This is what legit produced films (movies I'd seen myself in the theater!) looked like on paper. Right on. One-two these wondrous scripts opened my eyes to the endless possibilities of my own cinematic creations.

So yeah, this was great. I'd sussed out what a script looked like, and why it looked that way -- how those pages were intended as the de facto blueprint for the director, producers and actors to make the movie. Cooler still, I'd read a couple genius examples showing what a good writer could do with a great idea. Saying I was pumped would be a massive understatement.

But the most important puzzle piece had yet to drop.

Somehow, by some twist of fate I can't remember, I got turned onto Syd Field's Screenplay: The Foundations of Screenwriting. That's right. Same essential text I put on blast in Screenwriting 101. This is the Big Dog that started it all -- not just for Yours Truly, but for generations of aspiring writers before and since.

(Fuck yes, BUY IT, ALREADY! Let me make it easy for you lazy bastards -- http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B000S1LAYG/)

Getting turned onto Screenplay at 22 was a spiritual revelation, my "Neo-jacked-in-and-finally-able-to-decode-the-Matrix" moment. Everything just clicked. All was made clear. Like Peter Finch in Network, I became vivid and flashing, channeling some great unseen life force the Hindus call prana.

Put less dramatically -- it was a life-long game changer.

Of spectacular importance was Chapter 12 -- Building the Story Line. Not only did Mr. Field definitively outline and explain the Three Act Story Structure Paradigm which governs the screenwriting universe itself (worth twice the price of admission alone), he also dropped a Hydrogen bomb by revealing the single most essential tool for constructing a successful screenplay.

The Notecard Method.

The brilliant simplicity of using of plain jane, off-the-rack, office supply white three-by-five (3x5) index cards to plot out your story.

(Cue God Light and Choir of Holy Angels singing in background.)

Mr. Field didn't invent this device, which has been around since the beginning of Hollywood itself. However, what he did do was launch this concept into the public mainstream for the first time. Many, many, MANY screenwriters across the globe have been thanking his kind soul for that heads-up since 1979 when he first published the book.

(My only humble tweak to Mr. Field's guidelines would be using four-by-six (4x6) notecards instead of the traditional three-by-fives. Four-by's give you a lot more real estate to scribble on when you're revising or tweaking beats -- and you will be doing a ton of tweaking and revising.)

The application of the Notecard Method couldn't be simpler or more straight-forward, a fuckin' baboon can do it. You write down one scene per card. First, the location and time of day -- i.e. EXT. BABOON FARM -- LOS ANGELES -- DAY. Next, the broad strokes of what actually happens in the beat -- "Baboons go apeshit when they realize how good Tough Love Screenwriting is."

Keep these as broad and short as possible -- "Ferry Heist Action Opening", "Chinese Restaurant Sit-Down", etc. Next, you sketch in any details you've already come up with for the scene. Like most writers, you're probably packing a few key touches and money lines before you even start your script. Perfect. Stockpile all those freebies here in black and white.

You'll also notice that I ask myself questions whenever need be -- "Q. Do we reveal here that Tequila is divorced?" This helps remind me of any pending logic or sequencing issues while I'm tentatively juggling my way through these first cards.

Consider this the "discovery phase" where you first roll up your sleeves and do the grunt work of thinking up all the new cards needed to tell a feature-length story. These same 4x6 notecards are the bricks and mortar used to build a solid structural foundation beneath your movie.

One scene per card. That's the ticket. As you start generating cards, lay 'em out in loose chronological order, from script's beginning to end. Days or weeks later, whenever you've gotten a handle on the lion's share of beats you think you'll need.

That's The Man With The Iron Fists II you're looking at, folks. No joke. And this is the old-school notecard approach capable of turning your flaccid, long-languishing screenplay into a structural marvel with bulletproof logic.

And you thought I was kidding about primates being able to cope.

Obviously, tables are ideal for this. Some people prefer thumbtacking cards to a corkboard. Many times I've just gone stone-cold bachelor with it and laid my beats out on the floor. Any flat surface will suffice as long as it gives you a bird's-eye, hard-copy view of the story you're constructing.

Yeah, I know. Now that it's show-me time and you're finally getting down to business, that table top can seem a little, well, hostile, right? It looks a mile wide and an ocean deep, and from time to time you seem to catch the cocky fucker eyeballing you. Never fear, boys and girls. Card by card, beat by beat, you'll first establish a beachhead, then begin a steady Sherman's March that swallows up all that foreboding real estate.

Moving forward is essentially a process of freestyling; inking in a fresh card for every new scene you dream up. As you do this, you'll notice these fresh scenes require other new scenes to service them in turn -- building blocks which are structurally tangential to the thrust of your story, but needed to serve the film as a cohesive whole. Here's a bad example of what I mean --

Beat #1 -- the Lead's Girlfriend calls afraid there's someone dangerous lurking outside her apartment. Beat #2 -- Lead arrives at Girlfriend's place to make sure she's safe and unharmed.

Common sense says you'll probably want/need at least one new scene between those two beats. Say the Lead driving over to his Girlfriend's... or, perhaps more interestingly, Lead getting into his car with Shadowy Figures watching him unseen from down the alley... these Figures then tailing Lead as he drives to Girlfriend's place... and so on.

Watch any movie and pay attention to how many beats are mechanical or logistical in nature, largely used by the writer to move puzzle pieces wherever the larger story needs them. But mechanical shouldn't mean mundane. In fact, bust your ass ensuring they're suspenseful and/or interesting in their own right. Just know that successfully plotting a film requires the less spectacular "Point A to Point B" beats every bit as much as the ultra-sensational Money Scenes studios love to sneak-peek in the trailer.

Guys, these first notecards you lay down are super simple, many of them glorified short-term placeholders. Seriously, they're as straightforward and on-the-nose as "EXT. HIGHWAY -- CAR CRASH" or "INT. BUD'S OFFICE -- BUD GETS FIRED" or "INT. JULIE'S BEDROOM -- WILD SEX SCENE BETWEEN JULIE AND DRUG ADDICT". If you already have more goodies to sprinkle on, cool, sketch 'em out on your card. The big thing is not allowing yourself to get hung up trying to complete or finish the beats at this juncture. Refining and salting in crucial specifics comes at a later stage, when your scenes have been worked into an iron-clad order and are finally ready to be locked. Broad strokes are all you're shooting for. The party's just starting. Nothing more is necessary here.

Overall, pretty simple process, right? The more cards you create and throw down, the more meat you put on your movie's bones and the more your story and script takes shape. This is precisely how all great screenplays are built -- brick by brick by brick, one modest scene after another.

Young writers waste a shitload of time mind-fucking the correct number of cards their screenplays should have. Pay attention, people -- there is no correct number ("There is no spoon" anyone?). In the most general sense, I end up with anywhere between 45 and 55 cards when cooking up a feature. Most commonly, I've got approximately twelve cards for Act One, twenty-four for Act Two and a final (you guessed it) twelve for Act Three. If I recall, Syd Field recommends fourteen/twenty-eight/fourteen. But since every writer fills in their cards differently, there aren't any hard numbers to reference. I've heard as few as twelve cards total and as many as a hundred.

For example, I may count "CAR CHASE SEQUENCE" as just one beat, but another writer may have, say, three cards which fully flesh it out -- "EXT. TOWN SQUARE -- CARS RACE DOWN STREET" then "EXT. RAILYARD -- CARS SLALOM ONTO TRAIN TRACKS" then "EXT. DOCKS -- CARS CRASH AND SINK INTO BAY". Whatever floats your creative boats while properly building structure is your correct method.

Alright, quick time-out here to underscore a critical point --

When I say four-by-six notecards, I absolutely/positively mean four-by-six paper notecards. That's correct -- those slivers of bleached wood pulp made from murdered trees now sitting neatly shrink-wrapped on CVS, Staples and Office Depot cybershelves.

Accordingly, my advice is not to use Final Draft's "Index Cards", Amazon Storybuilder or any other godforsaken program or interface involving a computer, tablet, phone, app, "smart watch" or Google Glass. You heard right, bitches -- REAL PAPER, with all the attendant evil that entails. Something you can actually (GASP!) hold in your hands.

Listen, I know the brains of tech-savvy slackers like the back of my hand -- each quarter I teach two full classes of you gadget-crazed fuckers. But trust me when I say the Notecard Method remains one of the few instances where digital technology has not improved on an analog-era idea.

Why? First and foremost, because "I'm the Daddy, that's why" -- an even less nurturing version of Sgt. Hartman in Full Metal Jacket. Secondly (and this involves the rational part of my brain), because the Notecard Method's hidden, shimmering brilliance resides in providing each writer with a full-sized physical overview of their script's topography -- the ability to see their building blocks en masse, start to finish, all at once, peering down from on high. This further allows you to reach out, change, adjust and/or rearrange the cards however you need to on the spot. A formerly major scene no longer works? Toss the card out. You discover an extra beat is needed between several others? Easy. Tuck a new card in-between them. You brainstorm a wicked new element to one of your sequences? Ink this brainstorm directly onto the cards so you don't forget it.

Of equal importance is the balance, symmetry and flow of your scenes. Do you have eight shaky cards in Act One, but a belly-busting forty-plus in Act Two? Whoops. That's a problem. Is all the physical action front-loaded (or back-loaded) in your script? Won't work either. You can't get away with wall-to-wall action the first 30 minutes, then nothing but characters stuff the last 90. All those scenes will need to be repositioned for the most effective pacing throughout.

By using the index cards, spotting a plentitude of script-killers such as these becomes possible before writing Word One. Heard the phrase "can't see the forest through the trees?" (a.k.a. "you're too close to your own shit and can't tell which way to go anymore?"). Index cards eliminate that issue by gifting you a macro perspective. They also spare you from trudging sixty pages deep into your new masterpiece only to find yourself mired in an Afghanistan-sized storytelling clusterfuck, nowhere to land, no clear pathway forward.

Am I ringing bells? Do any of these ailments sound eerily familiar?

This one monstrous advantage -- physicality -- explains why that flat-chested retina screen you put so much faith in simply won't do the trick. Cutting-and-pasting or "virtually" toggling index cards back and forth will never give you the pro-style perspective being able to physically assess and manhandle the cards by marking 'em up and messing 'em about can.

Per my incessant blathering, the Rosetta Stone on this will always be Syd Field's Screenplay, the first text to definitively lay out the notecard dynamics. Bazillions of variations on/pale imitations of his original take have metastasized across the ever-mushrooming galaxy of script lit, so sure, you'll find plenty of other methods under foot and you're perfectly welcome to try 'em all -- it's your credit card or PayPal account. Honestly, if just one of these brings you tangible results and moves the chains forward, then it was certainly worth checking out.

That said, Screenplay's approach is the only one I can personally vouch for, and across my thirty professional feature scripts, it's bailed me out and/or carried me to the promised land many a time. The Notecard Method hasn't survived for over a century now because it doesn't work. There simply isn't a better diagnostic tool in the craft of screenwriting as far as I'm concerned. Even if it frustrates the most cool-headed of writers sometimes --