This friend of mine was working on a novel, but he was having some trouble with it. Someone had looked at one of his earlier drafts and told him that the finished book would come in at about one hundred and fifty to two hundred and fifty pages, which would be ideal for optioning movie rights and adapting into a screenplay. Since then, my friend had gotten it into his head that he was writing a movie rather than a book, and this had come to color and corrupt every scene and line of dialogue. He just couldn’t seem to get the project back on track.
So he turned to me for help. We took a look at one of his scenes. We actually saw it play out in front of us like a scene from a movie. The story involved a kidnapping plot, and the scene took place in a parking garage where there was a handoff between the kidnappers and the kidnapped person’s family, an exchange of ransom money for the victim. There was a bombastic score thumping against the background of the scene, stinging every dramatic moment. The characters in the scene behaved as though their movements were choreographed to go along with the score. The kidnappers piled out of their sleek black car, wearing sleek black suits, and whipping off their sleek black sunglasses in ice cold slow motion. The kidnapped victim was tucked in the backseat, hair matted, eyes bulging, mumbling and struggling against the duct tape over her mouth. The kidnapped victim’s mother met them dressed in a smart pants suit, with her arms folded, staring them down smugly and complacently.
When the scene was done, I had the set laid out before me like a miniature model of the parking garage. I could approach it and study it. I could reposition and rearrange the players. In a small storage closet in the corner of the parking garage, I saw that there was a tiny reel to reel tape recorder set up on a stool and hooked into the garage’s speaker system. This was where the score was coming from. I reached down and clicked it off with the edge of my fingernail. I scratched my chin and peered in close at the tiny figures gathered on the second level of the model. With the music gone, I told my friend that he needed to slow the scene down, pace it out. He needed to think about how something like this would play out in actual life. I told him that that was always a good place to start from. Not because it would make the scene more real, but because it would enable him to find something fresh and visceral in the scene, to locate those four crucial pinpricks that would hold the scene to the wall and keep people looking at it.
My friend crouched down at looked in on the second level. He nodded and twisted his chin as he stood up again, and I reached over and clicked off the switch that worked all of the tiny florescent light fixtures in the model. The shadows deepened around the pedestals of all the little figures. I placed the cardboard cover back over the model, taking care not to bump against the corners of the parking garage and knock any of the figures over or nudge them out of place, and then we left the room and turned out the lights and closed the door behind us.