Adventures in the Screen Trade (42 page)

Porky

Well, can't we get rid of somebody? Porky has the smallest part, we've already said we can probably sneak safely home without his haircut. Willie doesn't have to be playing marbles when Morris comes to get him, he can be shooting baskets alone or be home doing schoolwork. Do we need, do we really need. Porky McKee? Please think about that seriously.

All right. If you think we can get rid of Porky, you have made, for me, a grievous and damaging error. Why?

Three things about this material that have been stated before can be put together here: (1) This is the story of a guy who loses a job; (2) the guy happens to be a barber; (3) our particular barber happens to be an artist. What does Porky have to do with all this? Porky is the first one who tells us that something strange and different has appeared on our horizon. He carries perhaps the most important single piece of expository information in the entire piece.

He's been playing marbles. The game is interrupted. For a haircut. He waits. And waits. For hours. And he's pissed. When Willie returns he lets him know he's ticked about the wasted time. And in that angry state, what does he do next?

He tells Willie, "That's a beautiful haircut. A really beautiful haircut." Boy, do we need that. Because kids don't talk that way to each other. He is a peer. An angry very young man. But such is Willie's transformation that he loses his anger and just stares before commenting on the cut.

Later, Willie's mother echoes the thought, but that's bullshit, that's meaningless. That's what a parent says to a child. My God, how many parents do we know with homely children who believe their offspring are glories? So a mother, a parent, a loving one, who compliments a child, that tells us nothing. But when Porky McKee says "beautiful," that's gold.

Mr. Bimbaum

He's our man, he's our story, there's no way we're going to dump him. But he sure isn't very likable. And we don't know much about him.

What about that?

One of the constant comments screenwriters listen to is this: Nobody gives a shit about the main character. You get that from executives, producers, directors, you certainly get it from stars.

And there's a point to it-they're not dumb. If we are doing a gangster flick-say, for example, a great one like White Heat with Cagney-the problem of likability doesn't arise much. Cagney was meant to be repugnant but fascinating, and he sure was. I doubt anyone suggested an added scene where he saves an orphan from drowning.

But audiences do want to identify. We all crave heroes. So what do we do about the unyielding crustiness of H. Bimbaum? Can we make him more sympathetic? Sure we can. Should we?

That brings us to the final and most important question that must be answered before a screenplay can be begun.

(7) WHAT MUST WE CLING TO?

In an adaptation, you have to make changes. In any adaptation. You simply must. If a novel is four hundred pages long and a screenplay runs a hundred and thirty-five, how can you remain literally faithful? Obviously, you can't. Same with a play. If you just shot the stage play, the audience would go mad with bore- dom. There were many pleasant comments concerning All the President's Men centering on how faithful we were to the book- Of course we were-but the movie also ended halfway through the Woodward and Bernstein effort. So changes must occur. Which changes, though?

While you are altering, you must also remain faithful to two things: the author's intention and the emotional core of the original work as it affected you.

So we've got to make changes with "Da Vinci." Which changes, though? What do we change?- -and what must we clinng to?

The fate of any adaptation hinges on how the screenwriter answers that question.

Mr. Bimbaum is just a bitch of a problem. He makes no at- tempt to enlist our sympathies. He swats Willie on the head, snorts at Emma, calls Morris a "butcher."

How are we supposed to like a man like that? One answer would be if he had a decent relationship with somebody. And I think the logical person would be not the parents but the more central figure of Willie. Can we structure that into the story? The reason for all this is simple enough: If Willie cares about the old guy, Bimbaum's departure would be a more emotional moment. If the kid cares, we ought to care.

Easy enough to set up. Let's say it's evening or it's a Sunday, the shop is closed, and the kid's folks are off somewhere - a celebration maybe, anniversary, birthday, whatever. All we need is a moment in time when the kid and the old guy are alone.

Now, once they're alone, we can't make it too easy - they shouldn't fall into each other's arms. So try this--just an exam- ple, you can come up with any number that are better, but what if the kid is making himself a sandwich, peanut butter and jelly, but the house is out of peanut butter, so the kid says that he's off to the store, can he get the old man anything, and the old man snaps, "What, I'm so old I can't go to the store myself?" And the kid is hurt, which you see in his eyes, or he snaps right back, "Boy, you never make anything easy, do you?" and he slams his way out the door.

Then we cut to a full jar of peanut butter and the kid making himself lunch, and Bimbaum comes in and watches or busies himself so that his back is turned to the kid and he mutters something like "I never been able to," and the kid, concentrating on his sandwich-making, says, "Able to what?" and Bim- baum answers, "Make anything easy," and then quick to cover his embarrassment he scowls and says, "How can you cat that junk?" and the kid says, stunned, "Junk? You call peanut butter and jelly junk? Are you crazy, it's better than anything," and the old guy seems dubious and says, "I wouldn't put stufflike that in my stomach," and now the kid, really stunned, says, "You never had peanut butter and jelly? Never tasted it, even?" And he may hold out the sandwich and the old man grunts "No" but the kid insists and as the old man relents and takes a bite- - we cut to the two of them at the kitchen table, both eating peanut butter and jelly, and the old guy is wolfing his, you can

tell he really likes it-only, of course, he'll never admit such a thing-and finally he says that his wife was a stickler for healthy foods and now the kid is shocked-"You? You had a wife?" and Bimbaum snarls yes, yes, he had a wife, a good woman and a stickler for what you put in your stomach, only maybe she died or she left him, he was such a crank, the point is, he's alone.

And then he rambles about how that changed him, how he became obsessed with hair after that, and he talks about what his life was like before, gives details, and the kid is fascinated (if we can do the details well enough) and as he goes to make himself another sandwich he can see Bimbaum wants another, too, so he makes them both seconds and while he's doing that he casually asks what the H stands for in his name and Bimbaum answers and the kid admits that his first name is a stinker, too, and we fade on the two of them eating quietly, with a sense of pleasure. Bimbaum and the kid, sort of together-a bond formed over peanut butter and strawberry jam.

Well, what do we think of that? Probably a bit contrived, but since we want to know about Bimbaum, again, probably the scene will hold. Also, the sequence is sentimental, but this isn't Death Wish II, what's wrong with a little decent sentiment? The sequence serves the function it was designed for: It draws the two main characters together to give emotional punch to the firing and departure of Bimbaum. So do we add it in? Is it a good idea? Well . . . ? YUK!!! It is a putrid idea. It is not only putrid, it is something much more damaging than that: it is wrong. Why?

Two reasons. One: Bimbaum is a sour pickle of a man. The minute we turn him into Cuddles Zacall, he diminishes, Dick ens can make Scrooge cute and we love it. That's a Christmas story about a tight financier.

But Bimbaum is an artist! He is strange. He has and must always have mysUfy. He appears out of nowhere on the first day of marble season, disappears two haircuts later. Strange things hap- pen when he works on you: Time vanishes, wonderful sounds and thoughts fill your brain. How does he do it? That's the mystery we must protect. And the minute we find put anything about his past, anything at all, we are ripping at the heart of our material, changing it, ruining it forever.

Van Gogh was an artist. An artist, a genius, and a mystery. The basis of his madness has got to stay out of our grasp, be- yond our comprehension. Once we say, "Well, yes, Vinnie was a weirdo, but consider the traumas of his childhood," and then we outline the essential why of his career, the mystery is gone. One of the reasons the critics can never nail down Shakespeare is we don't know anything about him. A few dates-he was born here, left for London X years later, had his first success X years after that-but that's all. He remains a mystery and that is part of his legend. Bimbaum better remain a mystery too. Or we arc left with sentimental garbage. Nothing is bulletproof.

Believe that. Jaws could have been Orea--they were both about angry monsters; The Thing could have been The Attack of the Killer Tomatoes--they were both about angry vegetables.

Gone With the Wind could have been a disaster; during shoot- ing, the creators of Casablanca were convinced that it was a di- saster.

You think Corn With the Wind couldn't have been Mandingo? Wrong. The creators of the Mitchell classic made some genuinely remarkable decisions. Here's one, for example. Gone With the Wind centers around the time of the Civil War. Well, one thing that movies have always done well is action. Big battle scenes. Great hordes of soldiers doing and dying, cannons blasting away.

Well, there isn't a whole lot of that in the movie. Some, sure, but it would have been easy, even logical, to add in twenty minutes, say, of surefire battle stuff and cut twenty minutes of Scarlett and Rhett. But they didn't. What did they cling to in Gone With the Wind? Scarlett and Rhett.

And we must cling to Bimbaum, just as he is. Cranky, cantankerous, weird, arrogant, different. He is what's special about the material. And somehow, we must try to keep that special quality and, at the same time, make the audience give a damn. Easy money at the brick factory. . . .

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The Screenplay

FADE IN ON

A MARBLE AS IT ROLLS ALONG THE GROUND. It's moving pretty fast and we STAY right with It. Then, as it starts to slow -

PULL BACK TO REVEAL

A SCHOOLYARD on an agonisingly beautiful spring dey. TWO SCRUFFY-LOOKING KIDS are engaged in a fierce game of Little Pot. (Never mind what the rules are, they don't play it for long.)

PORKY McKEE runs aloagside his marble toward the target-a smell chalked circle with a bunch of smaller marbles nestled inside. As his marble comes to rest no more than twelve inches from the circle, he is pleased-this is evidenced by any number of things: He whoops out loud, junpa In the air, clasps his bands above his head like a triumphant fighter.

CUT TO

THE OTHER KID-It 's WILLIE- and he holds his lagging marble in his right hand, stares at the small chalked circle many yards away. He concentrates, slowly starts his lagging motion, bringing his arm back with care - at which point PORKY begins a wild rat-tat-tat. of talk.

PORKY (nonstop)

You'll never beat ne, never beat me, jinx- jinx - give up, why don't you?- jinx -

WILLIE does his best to Ignore It all, lags and--

CUT TO

HIS MARBLE, rolling along, WILLIE chugging right beside it eyeing its progress.

CUT TO

THE SMALL CHALKED CIRCLE and PORKY's marble. How WIL- LIE's comes into view, goes past PORKY's, finally stops no more than a couple of inches from the target.

CUT TO

WILLIE AND PORKY. PORKY just stares, then grabs a pretend knife, stabs himself in the heart, falls groaning to the ground.

WILLIE looks at PORKY. They have lived next to each other for eight of their eleven years, have been best friends for six of those eight. But this is marbles.

WILLIE

(John Wayne was never tougher) I take no prisoners, McKee.

Now he kneels beside the chalked circle, picks up his marble, expertly brings it into shooting position, takes a deep breath, when-

MAN'S VOICE (OVER)

Go take a haircut, As WILLIE looks up--

CUT TO

A BALD MAN standing on the sidewalk not far from them. His name is MORRIS.

WILLIE (plaintive)

Now? Daddy, this is for the world's championship - and I'm winning.

MORRIS Go ! (he points off)

CUT TO WILLIE. He sighs, stands.

WILLIE Back in a little. Porky.

And with that, he takes off. And the minute he does that-

CREDITS START TO ROLL.

What WE SEE, as WILLIE runs along, is the world he inhabits, It's a small town, the time is today, but probably if you looked at it thirty years ago, you wouldn't have seen much difference. A tv aerial here and there may Just be the biggest changes. Probably, a few miles away, there are shopping centers and parking problems and progress. But not here, at least not now, and maybe not ever. Music starts, too, but not rock. Rather what

CUT TO

WILLIE, tearing away from the schoolyard, going up a hill.

CUT TO

THE CREST OP THE HILL as WILLIE reaches it. The town, what there is of it, is visible in the distance.

CUT TO

A RAILROAD TRACK as WILLIE approaches, slows, glances both ways before darting across,

CUT TO

THE TOWN SQUARE as WILLIE runs along. A FEW PEOPLE wave to him on his journey; he waves back, never breaking stride.

CUT TO

THE MAIN STREET IN TOWN NOW. WILLIE passes a bus station, a FEW PEOPLE waiting idly on the sidewalk.

CUT TO

A BOARDED-UP MOVIE HOUSE as he whizzes by. The misic is reaching a peak now and WILLIE at last starts to slow as we

CUT TO

A BARBERSHOP at the end of the block. As WILLIE reaches it, throws open the door- -