In answering Maria’s question, we realized that our response took us in two different directions.  Aside from the pleasures of storytelling, we also wanted to consider the practical aspects of filmmaking.  Playing with ideas between the two of us is easy; sharing our ideas with an audience via film?  Much more difficult.  Before you can get someone to sit through your movie and consider your ideas, you have to keep them entertained and in their seat.  You have to make it worth the audience’s time.  Therefore, in order to get our stories told, we have to improve our abilities as filmmakers.  The best way to do that: make films.

We’ve made numerous shorts, but they’re not all gems.  They’re all, even the decent ones, experiments with varying degrees of success.  We’re brutally honest about what works and what doesn’t.  And if something doesn’t work, you can be sure that we take a step back and reassess. What’s the problem? Is it the acting, hence our directing or casting choices?  Is it a technical issue?  Or is it the writing?  Sometimes an idea exists in our heads, but isn’t fully fleshed out in the script.  This can be disastrous.  And…not disastrous.  Why? Because a mistake made in today’s movie is something we’ll get right in tomorrow’s.

Last summer we embarked on the Idville Collection – two short films about the Id run rampant.  Out of the two, Libidoland was the more successful experiment.  While there are still some kinks in the film, we managed to create narrative tension and to balance that tension with humor and humility, which was one of our goals.  Anxiety Acres, on the other hand, is fun but much more flawed.  There are several spots where both Julie and I cringe at our failure to carry off certain jokes.  The problem wasn’t our actors.  It wasn’t our low-budget.  It was our script.

Below I’m going to provide a bit of the script and the short sequence that contains one of our most blatant failures.  But, first, let’s set it up:

The film is about a couple who has recently moved from the city to the country.  Midway through the film the husband (Kevin) runs into town for sandwiches.  While out, he imagines many horrible things happening to his wife, Casey, who’s back at the house. Distracted by his nightmarish imaginings, Kevin becomes clumsy and ends up smashing and disfiguring his face.  Casey, in the meantime, is safe on the couch catching up on her favorite zombie novel.  When Kevin returns to the farm and Casey spies him from afar, he looks an awful lot like one of the zombies in her book.  She promptly freaks out and gets ready for the fight of her life.

Here is the script excerpt and the scene:

Click here to view the embedded video.

This was meant to be a very funny moment in the film.  We dropped the ball.  Problem #1, we developed Kevin’s character more than Casey’s.  We didn’t write it in a way that built up the possibility that Casey would actually be scared by one of her books.   The script should have set Casey up to be on edge and jumping at random noises prior to Kevin’s unexpected and disfigured return.  We let her be too nonchalant, and, thus, it isn’t believable that she thinks she sees a zombie.  It’s a surprise, when we should have built suspense.  If you frame it in terms of Hitchcock’s bomb theory, we set off an unexpected bomb, a fizzler.  If we’d cued the audience about Casey’s growing disquiet, it would have been much more satisfying to watch her lose it, especially after Kevin nearly killed himself for the same reason.  This idea was in our heads, but it wasn’t fully developed in the script – and thus it didn’t make it into the film.

What did the flaws of Anxiety Acres teach us?  For one, we need to think more about character development and make sure our characters’ motivations are clearer.  We also need to think about setting up jokes, letting expectations and tensions build, and allowing the joke to release the energy and tension,  leading to greater audience satisfaction.

The best advice I have for a burgeoning screenwriter: MAKE A FILM.  Make 20.  Sure, you can do a lot to prepare. You can study the rules of narrative structure; you can read about comedic timing; or you can supplement your understanding of archetypes with a deep understanding of Carl Jung.  But that book knowledge is useless if you don’t have a firm idea of how your words actualize on film.  The more we try our ideas out – in the real world, with real people – the more we understand about how to write in a way that is cinematic, in a way that is going to translate into a good film.  Each flawed film you make gets you closer to your first really good one.  So grab your camera, and go!