Delusions of Grandeur

Objectivity (via Terry Rossio and Ted Elliott)

“In the heat of creation, the writer is the writing — until you type The End on that first draft. From that point forward, the script is an attempt to communicate to others who you are. And that’s how it’s judged by others — and should be judged by yourself. You go from author, to audience. Not: this is ‘who I am.’ Rather: this is an effort on the part of a writer to communicate ‘who I am.’ If others judge the writing as ‘poor,’ they are not judging you as ‘poor’ — they are judging this one specific attempt to communicate as ‘poor.’ But the good news is: since communication is a learned intellectual construct — you can learn to do it better.

If someone says your characters are weak, you can learn to make your characters stronger.

If someone say your dialogue is wooden, you can learn to make your dialogue more natural.

If someone says your story does not move them, you can learn to make your stories more compelling.

But if you assume ‘not suitable’ means they only want family members’ scripts, or they only want bad scripts, or they don’t have the aesthetic ability to recognize a good script, or Hollywood is plotting against you — then there’s little chance that you’ll learn anything.”

I think this concept can and should be applied to art and should be in the mindset of all artists during creation and contemplation of a project. I’ve had the discussion before about how hard it is to show your work to people because you feel like the art is YOU and they are judging YOU. That’s not necessarily the case, especially if you know you haven’t perfectly communicated yourself through your art. Every piece of work is practice. You are always practicing. And if you can look at your own work objectively, you are already a better practitioner. 

Verisimilitude

That’s a really big word I’ve grown fond of recently. If you distill its meaning, it stands for truth. Truth in reality. When you go deeper, it’s really a facade of truth. A reality created in a fictional universe that contains people, places, and things must have a sense of verisimilitude to appear believable, though the universe is actually a figment.

What’s interesting is that in order to achieve this oxymoron of fictional truth, you must use real human truths as a reference. There are the obvious truths: gravity, day and night, the general physical restrictions of the universe. But there’s also transcendence: God, the soul, love, hate. These are truths that are intangible, improvable, but also that have transcended time and space. Now, when you implement verisimilitude, you can alter one of these groups of truths, but not the other, and still achieve believability. For instance, you can get rid of gravity, but you must maintain emotion. This is one of the reasons Kubrick’s 2001 is so startling. Because the humans on the ship are becoming like HAL, gaining a robotic sensibility. They aren’t human like us, they’re numb. But HAL seems to be quite human. So it becomes terrifying to watch them react to HAL’s antics through the film, because we have no anchor. That’s where horror comes into play. You must use verisimilitude to  establish a foundation that later can be completely obliterated. When you take away the foundation is when fear begins to grow. But the truth must come first. 

Macguffin

I read a post on a writing forum today that focused on the use of a Macguffin in a science fiction script. The writer was having trouble figuring out what the Macguffin should be. He was being very specific and others were suggesting maybe the protagonist should have a tattoo that the bad guys couldn’t read if they killed him, or possess something in his blood they needed to cure a disease on their planet, or he had knowledge on how to open a super-safe, or blah blah blah. It does allow for some creativity, but it’s wasted creativity. Here was my response:

First, if you never reveal what the Macguffin is, you don’t need to tell the audience what it is. It’s more fun that way. Whatever it is, it’s real important, but we don’t need to know explicitly what it is. For instance, Pulp Fiction uses what Tarantino would call a “Pure Macguffin.” Literally a golden light in a box. He never tells us what it is, he simply sets up situations where it’s obvious this thing is of enormous value. I don’t care what’s in the box, because it doesn’t change what the movie is about. However, if it was revealed to be a briefcase full of gold bricks, the characters, and therefore the story, would be cheapened because of the material value of gold. By not revealing this thing, we hold it to ever increasing value due to the characters’ treatment of it, and see it as something to die for.

Second, do you really need to reveal what it is? Doing so would probably upset the plotline because you’d take a detour to show us what it is, or explain what it is, or do something that would involve a pause of the drama/action to explicate this thing. If you show us that the carrier and the good guys is completely dedicated to keeping it safe and out of the hands of the bad guys, we’ll understand what it MEANS, not just what it IS. Approaching the Maguffin from this view also transcends the audience’s personal beliefs or knowledge. Everyone knows what it means to possess something worth dying for. But once you TELL them what’s worth dying for, they’ll either relate to your character more, or be completely alienated from him. If Tarantino had revealed that what was in the case was gold bricks, I would’ve judged Vincent, Jules, and Marsellus Wallace to be cheap, material gangsters out for some serious dough. Instead, I see them as elevated people, possessed with some sort of knowledge I don’t fully understand. Which of those is more interesting? 

In Battlestar Galactica, the Macguffin is Earth, the humans reaching Earth before the Cylons kill them off. This Macguffin doesn’t necessarily mean much to us. The religion of President Roslin and many of the survivors also doesn’t mean much to us. But the point is we’ve been told what the Macguffin IS. However, when they fight and die in order to maintain the goal of reaching Earth, we understand what the Macguffin MEANS. At times during the show, you almost forget what the goal is, but you retain this feeling of needing to reach it because of the dedication of the crew of Galactica. The actual Macguffin goes away and is replaced by a deeper need of survival, and Earth becomes the epitome of that. 

This predicament is either an opportunity for you to show off how much research you’ve done and how creative you can be on making up some strange scientific biological bullshit, or it can be an opportunity where you show enormous restraint by leaving the Macguffin a mystery. It’s a very important question that you need to answer.