Teaching
Screenwriting





I
begin
with
a
challenge:
a
large
group
of
students,
all
undergraduate
–
some
on
a

Creative
Writing
programme,
others
on
a
Film
studies
or
Filmmaking

programme
–
most
of
whom
have
never
written
a
screenplay
before.
They
are
all

taking
a
second
year
undergraduate
screenwriting
module,
a
final
product
of

which
(their
summative
assessment)
will
be
a
screenplay
of
approximately
15

pages.
Where
to
begin
to
facilitate
a
process
of
education
which
will
enable
them

to
compete
the
task
successfully,
pass
the
assessment
and
feel
confident
in
the

writing
of
scripts
for
film.
In
the
following,
I
will
set
out
some
of
the
strategies

that
I
have
used
over
the
past
few
years
as
a
Creative
Writing
tutor
at
Middlesex

University
and
elsewhere.
Like
many
Creative
Writing
tutors,
my
strategies
have

been
a
mixture
of
example
(showing
students
examples
of
How
It
Has
Been

Done)
and
practice
(supervising
students
in
their
own
practice
of
screenwriting).

I
do
not
intend,
in
this
article,
to
get
bogged
down
in
the
problematics
of

screenwriting
in
both
film
theory
and
film
and
creative
writing
practice,
although

I
do
intend
to
acknowledge
them;
for
the
most
part,
I
will
deal
with
what
I
do
in

the
classroom,
and
why
I
do
it,
in
the
hope
that
sharing
this
might
be
of
some

help
to
others
with
similar
problems,
in
the
particular
field
of
teaching

screenwriting
and
potentially
in
other
fields
of
practice‐based
learning.




But
before
I
get
into
this,
I
do
wish
to
acknowledge
an
issue,
which
is
that

screenwriting
is
a
contentious
area.
What
is
a
screenplay?
Who
writes
them?

What
function
does
a
screenplay
fulfil
in
the
production
of
a
film?
Can
we

generalise
this,
or
are
some
film
productions
different
from
others?
Clearly,
a

film
which
is
written
or
co‐written
or
even
supervised
in
the
writing
by
a

director
is
likely
to
have
a
screenplay
which
plays
a
different
role
for
that

director
and
in
that
film
production
than
a
screenplay
which
is
written
by

someone
whose
role
is
simply
to
write
a
screenplay,
and
who
may
have
written

the
screenplay
initially
with
no
other
figure
playing
a
developmental
role
in
the

writing.
This
is
important
for
me
to
consider,
as
the
Filmmaking
students
that
I

am
teaching
tend
towards
direction
or
other
practical
filmmaking
roles,
whereas

the
Creative
Writing
students
are
taking
a
screenwriting
module
as
another

method
of
creative
self‐expression
through
writing.
In
this
case,
I
have
to
make

particular
decisions
about
my
emphasis
on
the
role
of
the
screenwriter
and

his/her
place
in
the
division
of
labour.
Steven
Maras
in
his
recent
book

Screenwriting:
History,
Theory
and
Practice
identifies
"the
way
screenwriting
has

emerged
as
an
autonomous
area"
and
how
critic
and
theorist
Adrian
Martin

"picks
up
a
common
theme
regarding
the
treatment
of
a
script
as
a
distinct
work,

and
the
writing
of
scripts
as
a
separate
practice."1
I
have
usually
encouraged

students
to
concentrate
on
providing
scripts
which
are
a
written
blueprint
which

will
then
be
turned
into
actual
films
by
directors,
cinematographers,
actors
and

production
designers,
and
disencouraged
them
from
directing
,
shooting
or

designing
the
film
on
the
page
(whilst
acknowledging
that
a
script
can
subtly

prompt,
more
of
which
later).
But
I
question
myself
as
to
whether
this
approach

is
too
accepting
of
an
ideological
given
in
the
division
of
labour
within
film

productions,
and
too
rigid
with
regard
to
students
who
might
wish
to
write
and

shoot
their
own
films.




Nevertheless,
the
basics
of
what
any
screenwriter
is
going
to
be
doing
are
likely

to
remain
the
same,
whether
they
are
simply
a
film's
script
writer
or
also
take
on

other
roles
within
the
film's
production
(as
long
as
the
scripting
method
remains

one
of
writing
something
which
will
then
be
filmed,
as
opposed
to

writing/improvising
on
set
during
the
filming).
The
first
challenge
in
the
module,

then,
is
to
introduce
students
to
the
basic
skills
they
will
need
to
write

screenplays.
Some
of
these
–
developing
characters,
dramatic
situations,
plotting

stories
–
will
be
transferable
with
other
modes
of
Creative
Writing,
prose
fiction

or
theatre
scripting
for
example.
Others
are
more
specific
to
the
screenwriting

field,
and
it
is
these
I
will
deal
with
here.
The
first
of
these
is
the
ability
to
tell
a

story
through
motion
pictures,
advancing
narrative,
introducing
characters
and

developing
drama
visually.




I
begin
here
because,
when
I
made
a
personal
transition
between
writing
for
the

stage
and
writing
for
the
screen,
this
is
the
first
skill
I
had
to
learn.
I
find
that

students
often
set
out
by
telling
their
screen
stories
primarily
through
dialogue,

as
I
had
previously
done
in
my
theatre
pieces;
I
was
a
particularly
dialogic
stage

writer,
and
although
dialogue
is
(nearly)
always
integrated
on
stage
with

physical
action,
the
ratio
of
dialogue
to
action
is
much
more
action‐orientated
in

most
films
as
opposed
to
most
stage
plays.
McKee
states
that
the
"aesthetics
of

film
are
80
percent
visual,
20
percent
auditory."2
Films
tend
to
convey
much
of

their
narrative,
character
and
situational
information
via
visual
communication,

and
developing
the
skill
to
do
this
is
a
good
place
to
begin.




The
first
sound
film
was
Alan
Crosland's
The
Jazz
Singer,
released
in
the
US
in

1927.
This
came
25
years
after
what
many
accept
as
the
first
narrative
film
in

cinema
history,
Edwin
S.
Porter's
The
Great
Train
Robbery
(US,
1903).
During

those
25
years,
cinema
storytelling
and
drama
as
we
know
it
today
was

developed,
and
many
of
the
people
we
still
think
of
as
the
masters
of
the
cinema

–
D.
W.
Griffiths,
F.
W.
Murnau,
Charles
Chaplin,
G.
W.
Pabst,
Erich
Von
Stroheim
–

did
their
major
work
entirely
during
the
silent
era;
others
that
we
recognise
as

masters
of
sound
filmmaking
learned
their
craft
before
the
development
of

sound
–
Cecil
B.
DeMille,
Alfred
Hitchcock,
Fritz
Lang.
Introducing
students
to

silent
cinema
as
an
introduction
to
the
basics
of
screen
storytelling
seems
to
me

to
be
a
good
idea.
A
very
early,
pre‐narrative
film
like
Bamford
and
Son's
The
Kiss

in
the
Tunnel
(US,
1899),
which
begins
by
starts
by
showing
a
steam
train

entering
a
tunnel,
then
cuts
to
a
couple
who
share
a
chaste
kiss
whilst
within,

then
finishes
with
the
same
train
exiting
the
tunnel
and
pulling
into
a
station,
its

funnel
bellowing
smoke.
The
three
shots
of
the
film
effectively
illustrate
the

juxtaposition
of
exterior
and
interior
scenes
which
are
basic
building
blocks
to

most
screen
storytelling,
and
moreover
image
the
train
thrusting
into
the
tunnel

and
then
coming
into
the
station
with
white
smoke
pouting
out
of
its
funnel

introduces
the
idea
that
screen
images
can
have
a
metaphorical
as
well
as
literal

meaning,
despite
the
Michael
Brooke's
protestations
vis‐à‐vis
the
"apparent

sexual
symbolism
of
the
opening
shot
(especially
given
the
content
of
the
rest
of

the
film),
there
is
no
evidence
that
this
was
intentional."3
It
certainly
was

intentional
when
Hitchcock
appropriated
the
image
for
his
North
by
Northwest

(1959).
Introducing
students
to
these
early
films
gives
them
an
insight
into
the

raw
forms
of
the
storytelling
techniques
they
will
using
in
their
screenwriting.


Staying
for
a
moment
with
Hitchcock,
the
opening
to
Rear
Window
(1954)
is
a

good
primer
in
the
revelation
of
character
and
situation
through
visual
means.

The
first
shots
look
through
the
rear
window
of
a
tenement
block,
onto
the
back

yard
and
rear
wall
of
another
block
opposite;
the
camera
roves
across
the

opposite
block,
then
backs
in
through
the
window
of
the
apartment
which
point

of
view
it
is
favouring.
We
catch
a
glimpse
of
James
Stewart,
head
back
with
his

eyes
closed,
sweat
pouring
down
his
forehead,
then
a
thermometer
with
a

reading
in
the
90s;
we
know
it's
summer,
and
his
back
to
the
window
and
eyes

closed
tell
us
he's
disengaged
with
the
world
outside.
The
back
out
of
the

window,
for
a
series
of
vignettes
which
give
us
thumbnail
sketches
of
the

neighbours:
we
know
that
the
shaving
man
is
conscious
of
his
ageing,
as
he

switches
the
radio

station
when
an
advert
aimed
at
"men
over
40"
comes
on;
the

couple
sleeping
on
the
balcony
have
a
sexless
marriage,
as
they
sleep
top‐to‐toe

and,
in
any
case,
could
hardly
make
love
on
the
balcony
in
full
view;
the
twenty‐
something
girl
later
known
as
Miss
Lonely‐hearts
is
alone,
uninhibited
(she

walks
around
with
her
bra
off)
and
is
a
dancer
(she
practises
stretches
as
she

makes
breakfast).
Each
of
these
characters
is
set
up
swiftly
and
effectively
in
this

first
glimpse.
The
camera
retreats
back
into
James
Stewart's
apartment,
but
as
it

does
so
we
see
a
hand
taking
the
cover
from
a
bird's
cage
–
surely
a
metaphor
for

the
people
we
have
just
been
introduced
to?
We
now
see
Steward
again,
and
that

he
is
lying
in
a
wheelchair
with
his
left
leg
in
plaster
–
we
even
now
know
his

character's
name
(L.
B.
Jeffries)
as
it
is
written
on
the
plaster;
we
pan
around
the

room,
and
see
a
broken
camera,
a
photograph
of
a
racing
car
spinning
on
its
front

bumper
towards
the
lens
sits
behind
the
wrecked
equipment,
various
other

framed
photographs
show
scenes
of
excitement
and
adventure
(made
sinister
by

one
of
them
being
of
a
mushroom
cloud)
–
we
get
now
that
L.
B.
Jeffries
is
a

photographer
specialising
in
adventure
subjects
who
was
injured
in
a
freak

racing
accident;
then,
extraordinarily,
we
see
separate
from
these
a
photograph

of
Grace
Kelly
in
negative
–
we
immediately
understand
that
this
is
Jeffries'
girl,

and
that
his
view
of
her
is
not
entirely
positive.
We
then
se
her
on
the
cover
of
a

fashion
magazine,
and
understand
she
is
a
model.
The
screen
fades
to
black
and

we
can
begin
the
story.
Without
hardly
a
word
(except
the
radio
broadcast)

being
spoken,
we
are
introduced
to
the
lead
and
many
subsidiary
characters,

their
personal
situations
and
their
attitudes.
It
is
a
masterpiece
of
visual

exposition,
and
what
is
more
the
camera
roving
from
the
apartment
through
the

window,
over
the
neighbours
and
back
into
the
room
tells
us
both
the
scope
of

the
entire
dramatic
action
of
the
film
and
the
film's
central
theme,
the
voyeuristic

camera
(its
not
coincidence
that
Jeffries
is
a
cameraman).
This
is
screen

storytelling
at
its
best,
and
the
students
–
by
watching
and
talking
about
what

they
think
each
thing
they
see
tells
the
viewer
in
a
seminar
situation
–
get
an
idea

what
is
expected
of
their
screen
storytelling:
that
it
be
visual,
inventive,
multi‐
layered.



All
of
this
is
mere
information
unless
the
students
can
put
it
to
practical
use.
Now

it's
time
to
set
them
an
exercise,
and
because
it
is
early
in
a
module
teaching

something
most
of
them
have
never
done
before,
I
make
it
a
group
exercise.
I

give
them
this
situation:

A
lower­middle
class
man
and
wife
live
together
in
a
house
in
the

suburbs.
It
is
an
unhappy
marriage.
The
wife
has
terminal
lung

cancer.
The
husband
feels
impotent
and
guilty
that
he
cannot
save

her.
The
wife
feels
constantly
irritable,
and
takes
his
out
on
her

husband.
On
this
particular
occasion,
the
husband
lets
his
wife
know

that
he
is
going
to
the
shops
for
her
cigarettes
and
for
milk,
as
they

have
run
out.
When
he
is
gone,
she
feels
sad
that
their
previously

happy
marriage
has
come
to
this.
Instead
of
going
to
the
shops,
he

heads
for
a
prostitute.



The
task
is
to
convey
all
of
this
information,
including
the
details
(type
of
cancer,

her
cigarettes,
run
out
of
milk)
without
a
single
line
of
dialogue.
Students
now

have
a
practical
problem
to
solve,
and
have
to
think
visually
–
which
is
rather

more
than
simply
being
told
that
thinking
visually
is
the
trick.
The
groups
do
this

exercise
in
the
seminar
and
share
their
solutions
with
the
entire
class
(I
give

them
about
20
minutes
to
complete).
A
number
of
solutions
recur
from
group
to

group,
year
in
year
out
(for
example,
the
wife
looking

sadly
at
old
photographs

of
them
smiling)
but
most
groups
usually
come
up
with
a
novel
visual
elucidation

of
one
or
more
of
the
elements.




Once
this
basic
skill
is
developing,
we
can
begin
to
look
at
the
telling
of
stories

with
the
skill.
It
is
at
this
time
I
introduce
the
students
to
the
idea
that
the

sequence
is
the
basic
dramatic
unit
of
the
screenplay,
that
short
films
tend
to

consist
of
a
single
sequence
and
that
features
tend
to
be
made
up
of
a
number
of

sequences
(later
will
we
deal
with
the
idea
of
Acts
as
larger
dramatic
units).
A

good
sequence
exemplar
is
that
known
as
Tom
Hagen
Goes
to
Hollywood,
from

Francis
Ford
Coppola's
film
The
Godfather
(US,
1972).




In
this
sequence,
Hagen,
the
consigliore
(personal
attorney)
of
Mafiosi
Don

Corleone,
travels
from
New
York
to
Los
Angeles
in
order
to
secure
a
film
role
for

Corleone's
godson,
the
singer
Johnny
Fontaine.
The
situation
has
been
set‐up
in

the
previous
sequences.
Hagen
approaches
studio
boss
Woltz
three
times,
once

at
his
studio
lot,
once
at
his
home
and
once
in
his
most
personal
space,
the

bedroom.
It
is
important
to
emphasise
the
movement
of
deeper
penetration
into

Woltz'
life
(workplace
to
home
into
bedroom)
which
happens
here.
Woltz
twice

refuses
Hagen,
but
the
third
approach
(the
leaving
of
the
severed
head
of
a

prized
horse
in
Woltz'
bed)
pays
dividends.
This
means
that
Woltz
is
changed
by

the
action
of
the
sequence
–
he
journeys
from
contempt
for
Corleone
to
fear
and

respect,
from
refusal
to
agreement.
The
sequence
also
works
in
the
context
of
the

whole
film,
by
emphasising
how
powerful
Corleone,
the
Godfather,
is.
But
the

sequence
doesn't
merely
tell
a
narrative
story
through
a
mixture
of
interior
and

exterior
scenes
(as
most
sequences
do);
it
also
tells
a
symbolic
story
whereby

Corleone's
phallic
power
penetrates
into
the
deepest
part
of
Woltz's
life,

symbolically
castrating
him:
the
horse
was

due
to
be
used
as
a
stud,
and
its

severed
head
is
a
bloody
mess
near
Woltz's
crotch.
Earlier
in
the
sequence,
the

phallic
imagery
had
been
set‐up
with
a
plane
coming
in
to
land
and
a
shot
of

Hagen
walking
erect
up
an
alley
at
the
Woltz
lot.
The
sequence,
like
A
Kiss
in
the

Tunnel
but
far
more
sophisticated,
works
on
a
level
of
narrative
storytelling
and

drama
and
also
symbolism.
This
makes
Tom
Hagen
Goes
to
Hollywood
an
ideal

sequence
for
students
to
talk
over
in
seminar
and
take
as
a
paradigm.




As
before,
this
learning
is
then
translated
into
practice,
when
the
students
(again

in
groups)
take
the
bare
bones
of
a
story
idea
and
turn
it
into
a
developed

scenario
for
a
sequence.
I
give
them
a
few
verses
from
the
Bible,
those

recounting
the
visit
of
the
three
wise
men
to
Herod,
and
get
them
to
plan
a

sequence
based
on
what
looks
very
much
like
a
step
outline.
Providing
them

with
content
at
this
stage
means
that
they
don't
have
to
think
about
coming
up

with
a
story,
the
concentration
being
on
their
grasping
the
structure
and

detailing
of
a
sequence
which
has
dramatic
and
narrative
content
in
itself
but

which
is
also
part
of
a
wider
story.
There
is
room
for
individual
imagination
here

–
some
of
the
groups
stay
very
traditional,
some
characterize
the
Magi
and
Herod

in
intriguing
ways,
some
update
the
story.
This
is
important
work
which
can
be

referred
back
to
when
they
come
to
develop
their
own
stories,
and
which
gives

them
direct
experience
of
putting
flesh
on
the
bones
of
an
idea.



Other
early
work
involves
getting
the
students
to
identify
visual
images
from

their
own
life
which
have
struck
them
as
intriguing,
and
getting
them
to
develop

narrative
sequences
which
include
these
(imagination
filling
in
the
gaps),
and

juxtaposing
images
together,
in
order
to
learn
how
films
cut
between
shots
and

create
particular
effects
from
this
(cutting
from
an
ant
on
a
blade
of
grass
to
a

forest
will
bring
in
ideas
of
the
individual
and
the
wider
world,
for
example).
All

of
these
exercises
are
designed
to
develop
the
students
ability
to
think
and
tell

stories
and
communicate
ideas/feelings/effects
in
visual
terms.
Only
after
this

important
preparatory
work,
in
building

the
muscle
to
think
visually,
will
they

be
in
the
right
condition
to
run
the
race
which
is
writing
an
actual
piece
of
script.

Later,
they
hopefully
will
be
up
to
the
marathon
of
writing
an
entire
film
–

certainly
those
that
go
on
to
do
screenwriting
in
year
three
and
at
MA
level,
or

professionally,
will
have
benefitted
from
this
experience.



It
is
worth
noting
that
the
exercises
above
are
about
encouraging
the
students
to

think
and
write
like
screenwriters.
They
are
about
developing
skills
and

understanding
what
a
screenwriter
does.
Each
of
the
students
will
then
have

their
own
stories
to
tell
in
the
medium,
but
these
exercises
are
not
about

generating
ideas
(there
are
other
exercises
for
that)
but
about
how
to

communicate
ideas.




The
sequence
model
above
is
very
traditional
and
mainstream.
It
is
worth

balancing
this
at
some
point
after
the
showing
of
The
Godfather
segment
with
a

sequence
which
breaks
the
rule
which
says
that
the
story
must
move
forwards

and
the
characters
must
change
–
these
are
conventions
and
orthodoxies,
not

rules.
I
recommend
a
showing
of
and
seminar
discussion
about
the
famous
traffic

jam
sequence
in
Jean‐Luc
Godard's
Week
End
(France,
1967)
–
a
portrait
of
stasis

and
a
deliberate
holding
up
of
the
plot,
which
is
part
of
the
film's
agenda
to
break

down
what
the
director
considers
to
be
the
orthodoxies
of
bourgeois
storytelling.

Be
warned,
students
can
get
very
agitated
when
confronted
with
challenging

filmmaking
like
this
(many
have
never
seen
an
"art
film"
before).
But
we
can

consider
this
an
example
of

"traumatic
learning
(…)
where
the
learning

experience
causes
the
individual
to
re‐evaluate
other
aspects
of
her
or
his
life"4
–

this
aspect
being
their
preconceptions
about
what
a
film
is
or
does.




The
above
is
an
account
of
some
of
the
things
I
have
done
during
the
first
few

weeks
of
my
second
year
undergraduate
screenwriting
class.
I
may
do
different

things
in
the
future
–
one
idea
that
has
interested
me
is
Maras'
challenging

suggestion
that
"the
bulk
of
how‐to
books
are,
after
all,
primers
to
screenwriting

that
define
writing
for
the
screen,
and
access
to
it,
in
a
particular
way.
This

particularism
works
to
define
the
shape
of
what
qualifies,
or
does
not,
as

industrial
practise,
as
well
as
legitimate
screenwriting;
in
other
words,
it

regulates
who
can
speak
with
authority
and
who
cannot."5
Later
stages
in
the

process
of
teaching
screenwriting
to
beginners
usually
concentrate
on
the
Three‐
Act
paradigm
and
such
notions
as
Inciting
Incident,
Character
Arc
and
A

Satisfying
Resolution.
In
validating
our
new
second
year
Screenwriting
module,

redesigned
to
take
into
account
the
needs
of
Creative
Writing
and
Film‐making

students,
we
have
built
in
the
Aim
that
the
module
will
"facilitate
critical

engagement
with
theories
of
form
and
to
enable
students
to
actively
challenge,
in

their
own
writing
and
critical
work,
the
structures
and
typologies
which
"How

To"
books
thrive
on."
I
believe
that
we
need
to
arm
our
students
with
a
critical

eye
on
Industry
and
development
standardisation
processes,
otherwise
our
call

that
work
of
the
highest
standard,
that
which
is
getting
into
the
First
category
at

undergraduate
level,
will
be
hollow.
But
such
vexatious
issues
as
what

constitutes
a
"good"
film
narrative
are
for
later
on
in
the
module.
For
the
first

few
weeks,
that
they
develop
skills
in
telling
stories
through
moving
pictures
is

enough.





 






























































1
Maras,
Steven
Screenwriting:
History,
Theory
and
Practice
(London:
Wallflower


Press,
2009),
p.
4.

2
McKee,
Robert
,
Story:
Substance,
structure,
style
and
the
principles
of


screenwriting
(London:
Methuen,
1998),
p.
389

3
Brooke,
Michael
Kiss
in
the
Tunnel,
The
(Bamforth)
(1899)
(BFI
Screen
Online),


http://www.screenonline.org.uk/film/id/444255/
Accessed
09.05.09

4
Atherton,
J
S
(2005)
Learning
as
Loss
(Notes)
[On‐line]
UK:
Available:


http://www.doceo.co.uk/original/learnloss_notes.htm
Accessed:
31.12.
2007

5
Maras,
p.
25.