Which Lie Did I Tell? (23 page)
Read Which Lie Did I Tell? Online
Authors: William Goldman
Tags: #Biography & Autobiography, #Film & Video, #Nonfiction, #Performing Arts, #Retail
For those who could not resist this book because of my justly famous writings on sex in the twentieth century, here is what a famous therapist told me: Yes, all women do, and should. (To make the man feel, well, more manly, or when they are tired and want to get to sleep quickly.) Also, yes, all women deny they have ever done such a thing. They will admit they have heard of such behavior, perhaps even some of their friends have done it, but, no, they have not. And, alas, no, men cannot tell. Sorry, guys, no matter how magnificent our studliness, we cannot tell. The only change in a woman is this: for reasons known only to God, there is a slight rise in the temperature of the roof of her mouth. (Who else but me and Suzy tell you these things?) And if you can figure out how to measure that, I don’t know what it is you’re interested in, but it sure isn’t sex.
One of the most unusual things about the scene is this: it ends on the biggest laugh of all, the Billy Crystal–inspired line, spoken by Rob Reiner’s mom, Estelle, “I’ll have what she’s having.” (Crystal is also responsible for one of my favorite lines in
The Princess Bride.
Miracle Max and his wife have just made this gigantic chocolate-covered miracle pill to bring Westley, the hero, back to life, and then they say that Westley shouldn’t go swimming for at least a good hour.)
Love that.
Which is not to say I like it a whole lot when performers
ad-lib over my lines. Because few do it well. Most suck. I am more aware than you are of my limitations, but I am a waaaay better writer than just about any actor you can mention (just as they outclass me in their discipline).
The problem comes when the
star
decides to ad-lib. Actually, this is as much the director’s problem as mine, since hopefully I am not on the set. But if the director forces a smile and encourages the star, guess what—
—the star, feeling loved, which is all he wants to feel, will ad-lib forever. And if the director squelches the star, guess what—the star may well soon be sulking in a nearby trailer.
As you must realize by now, screenplays are not just dialogue. So does it matter, really, if a star misbehaves? Just to
us,
mainly. But there is nothing, spelled n-o-t-h-i-n-g, that a writer can do about it.
Most comedy scenes reach a peak somewhere in the middle and then it’s a race to try and get out fast. The
orgasm scene in
Harry
builds, then builds some more, and then takes off.
Clearly, Ephron and the Farrellys write in somewhat different styles; overall, she relies more on wit, they are more at ease with physical comedy. But both these scenes have one crucial thing very much in common—
—the core of the comedy is based on embarrassment. A great deal of the laughter comes from the figure who is really doing nothing. Billy Crystal just sits there, first confused, then intrigued, then stunned at Meg Ryan’s behavior. Ben Stiller gets huge laughs just standing, huddled, facing the corner of the bathroom as nightmares swirl all around him.
One of the reasons these are classic screenwriting scenes has to do with the skill of the writers in making those moments play so strongly. The funny moments shout out at you when you read the scenes. I think one of the reasons I admire these scenes so much is that I can’t write them. There are occasionally funny things in
Butch
and
The Princess Bride,
but I did not set out to write a comedy scene. The laughs happened to be there.
I wish I could write funny, I think we all wish we could, but when I read stuff like this, here’s what I think: Thank God somebody can.
People who know me well are well aware that my view of myself is less than Olympian. There are certain fields in which I can and do hold my own. No one is a greater sports nut, for example. (Not counting hockey.) Few are more
passionate eaters. I will give anyone you know a run on their love for red wine. (Provably so—what other wine aficionado has written as big a disaster as your correspondent? viz:
The Year of the Comet.
)
But what I do better than anyone else on earth is spitball.
If you are a young screenwriter and for some reason unfamiliar with the term, write it down. You will be doing it for the rest of your life. It is possible to spitball on the phone, by e-mail, etc. But it is my view that it is best done in person. And it should not be done in a hurry. Spitballing sessions should run, at the least, several hours.
Spitballing is this: two or more people trying to find a story.
It’s understood that the writer, the one who is drowning, is trying to tell a tale that at present is just lying there like toothpaste. Inert, barely breathing.
There is almost nothing better for me than when another writer, in agony of course, helpless of course, comes to me and we spitball. I tell you, I am sublime at such moments.
Now, when
I
am the one in trouble, all sublimity goes out the window. For one of the sad truths about the act is that you may be a whiz when the problems belong to others; nevertheless, you are totally helpless when they are your own. That is true for all of us—we are trapped in our own skins.
I guess it’s like group therapy, which I did for years, and
loved
—what a joy to be able to say to another tormented soul, “Ed, Ed, don’t you see, this girlfriend who is killing you is exactly the same as all the others. They just change hair colors.” But when their visions are turned on you—“Jesus, Bill, this one is exactly the same kind of crazy destructive bitch as they all are”—you are stunned at the revelation.
There is only one rule to spitballing, and it is crucial:
you must be able to suggest anything and make a total asshole of yourself at all times, secure in the knowledge that no one outside the room will ever know.
I remember once being in an office with a studio guy and a couple of people were sitting around, fighting the story. And one of the people said this: “What if they’re all
women?” Now the story, as I remember, was a male adventure flick. And this studio guy commented on that—“This is an adventure movie here, how stupid a suggestion is that?” Naturally the writer was finished for that day.
The truth?
It was a
great
spitballing notion, and the studio guy—gasp of surprise, right?—was the asshole.
Because making them all women opened up the world. I use it myself a lot now. Or what if the story is about a high-tech robbery and you suggest that it take place a hundred years ago? What if we make it a tragedy instead of the comedy we’re stuck on?
What those ideas do, of course, is this:
they make you think about why they are wrong.
You have to defend and explain. And sometimes, out of one weird spitballing idea comes another idea that is also weird but less so, and then out of some divine blue, someone is shouting, “No, no, listen to me, I’ve got it
—listen to me
—”
—and there it is, the spine of the story, with all the sludge ripped away. You can see it and it’s going to be such a great movie you wouldn’t believe it. At its best, what spitballing does is give you the illusion that just this once you have slain hunger and beaten death.
One final note: I have never in forty-six years of writing used the word “viz” before. I don’t even know if I used it correctly—I was coming to the end to the first paragraph and there it was, buzzing around, so I put it in. And I promise you this: Even if it is wrong, I won’t change it, no matter what the copyeditor says …
by Ernest Lehman
My first trip to Hollywood for work was in 1965, when
Harper
went into production. I remember a lot of things from the experience (see
Adventures in the Screen Trade
), but one particular moment stands out.
A trim figure had come onto the set whom I did not know, but there seemed to be great goodwill in his being there—a lot of people flocked around. I had no idea who it was till, believe it or not, one of the camera crew said this: “That’s Ernie Lehman the screenwriter
—even his flops are hits.
”
We later met, became friends. But I never quite forgot the words of the camera guy. Because in that land of horseshit hyperbole, his remarks about Lehman were, if anything, an understatement. Here is what Lehman wrote from 1954 through 1966:
| 1954 | Executive Suite |
| 1954 | Sabrina |
| 1956 | The King and I |
| 1956 | Somebody Up There Likes Me |
| 1957 | The Sweet Smell of Success |
| 1959 | North by Northwest |
| 1960 | From the Terrace |
| 1961 | West Side Story |
| 1963 | The Prize |
| 1965 | The Sound of Music |
| 1966 | Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? |
Amazing to me, still now. It may be unmatched in Hollywood history, maybe in any discipline. Because these weren’t just, some of them, insanely commercial films, they were honored, fifty-some nominations
in all, four flicks up for Best Picture, two of them won. More than that, most of them are
good.
Even more incredible than the success are the screenwriting Oscars. Think a moment before you take your shot. How many wins? Go over the list and concentrate.
Zeee-ro.
Sabrina
lost to
The Country Girl; Somebody Up There Likes Me
didn’t get a nomination, but it would have lost to
The Red Balloon; North by Northwest
lost to, wait for it
—Pillow Talk
(barf). But my favorite is
West Side Story,
which got
eleven
nominations, won
ten
Oscars. (Guess which one it
didn’t
win.)
He was nominated, sure, and he won a bunch of
Writers Guild Awards, but I’m still pissed for him.
North by Northwest,
briefly, is a mistaken-identity flick. Cary Grant plays an ad executive who is mistaken for a man named Kaplan, kidnaped, interrogated by
James Mason as if he were Kaplan, then gotten drunk and stuck behind the wheel of a car on a mountain road.
He survives, goes to the UN to try and find out who Mason is, gets involved in a murder there, hotfoots it to Grand Central, takes a train for Chicago on which he meets the oh-so-lovely
Eva Marie Saint, who works for Mason and tells him, once they are in Chicago, where he can at last meet Kaplan—a desolate Indiana spot filled with cornfields.
What follows is one of the very best pieces of action-adventure I have ever read.
nearing a junction where a small dirt road coming from nowhere crosses the highway and continues on to nowhere. The bus stops. A man gets out. It is Thornhill. But to us he is only a tiny figure. The bus starts away, moves on out of sight. And now Thornhill stands alone beside the road--a tiny figure in the middle of nowhere.
in one direction, then the other. Nothing in sight. He loosens his tie, opens his shirt collar, looks up at the sun. Behind him, in the distance, another vehicle is HEARD approaching. He turns, looks off to the west.