August-September, 1989
Daniel J. Travanti
Good evening,
My first reaction to your invitation was, “Who else was asked?” My next reaction was, “Why are they asking me?”
I wonder if they’ve heard about Motor Mouth. Maybe they’ve heard about my seminars. Maybe they’ve seen my comments, those uncommon responses to those cliché questions all reporters ask. Well . . . not at all. Most, though.
In Chicago a young lady wanted to know if this film I was doing had any social significance. No, I smiled, into the camera held by a young man (he tried to keep the camera steady after I started my answer), it’s straight porno. But porno has important social significance. It’s relaxing. If it’s good, with beautiful people, good camera work, sound, color, and music. You see, any good piece of work is valuable and socially significant because it enriches instead of diminishing. If it’s good entertainment, it can make you feel better. If it’s beautiful, it can warm you, cheer you up, make life seem more worthwhile—especially on rainy Tuesday afternoons. On rainy Tuesday afternoons in January, when no one is phoning, no one is demanding anything of you, the bills are paid (sort of), the apartment is reasonably clean, you’ve answered any letters or cards, and everyone else is working—or so it seems—and you may just get on the subway or in your car—if you have one—and just ride. A good book, a flower, a good television program, or a good porno flick could cheer you up. That’s socially significant.
Oh, another pretty young lady asked me why I had taken the role. I said, because it was a good script. Oh? Yeah? Well . . . uh, how come? I mean, is it a good script because, um, because, like, of the WRITING??? THE WRITING???!!!! Because of The WRITing?? No, because it was written on my favorite paper. Blue.
You see, most of television is now of three major kinds: The Disease of the Week, The Social Disorder of the Week, and The Crime of the Week. The reason networks want to do these stories is because they’re sensational—they think—and people want to be shocked, outraged, or scared. They want to peep and eavesdrop. See, some people think the story is of paramount importance. I think it’s the least important element of a screenplay.
A screenplay has a story, a plot—which is not the same thing—characters, relationships among characters, a tone, a style, a pace, and an overall aura. AURA. One overwhelming effect. In the end of all, after the director, the cinematographer, and the actors are through with it, the AURA will be complete. If the overall effect is good, people will find it irresistible. So . . . at the top of the list is the STORY. Just a flimsy framework. All the stories have been told. So what could be so exciting about the story? Not much new. BUT . . . the characters could be fascinating and their relationships could be very interesting: surprising, believable, shocking, and satisfying all at the same time. Now you have the makings of a good film. Or a good play. So, if someone tells you the story, you can’t tell much about the drama yet. When they’re trying to get you to do one of these projects, they usually tell you the plot next. “See, so then she runs into him, but he never told her sister, though she thinks her sister has been confiding in him. But the father knows nothing. Even so, he’s almost to make a bid on the rest of the shares, and . . .”
I DON’T CARE!
What about the characters?
And there’s only one way to know. You find out in the writing, YOUNG LADY!
Imagine someone telling an idea for a song: “It’s about a yellow ribbon and a guy in prison and the people in the neighborhood are waiting to welcome him back . . .” Sounds like a great song to me. What does it sound like, though? Well, we don’t know yet, but it’ll be great. Oh, yeah? On the other hand, did you ever hear of Shaw’s comment on Wagner, “He sounds a lot better than he is”?
So, what do I look for?
I look for individuals. I want characters who speak with specific voices, so that you can’t just white out the names and replace them at random, because everyone sounds like all the others anyway. An individual has a way of saying things. It comes from his personality, his experience, his outlook on life, his feelings towards people and situations. He sounds like himself, not like everyone else. That’s good writing.
I look for irony and suggested meaning. I want direct meaning in the lines. I want people to say what they mean, interestingly. But I want what happens in real life, too. I want meaning between the lines. I want shadings, flickers of color, flashes of nuance. That’s good writing.
I want events to occur logically. So that when a moment is over you feel that the result was inevitable. BUT . . . I want you to feel surprised. That sounds like a contradiction in terms. How can you be inevitable and surprising at the same time? A favorite teacher of mine, Nikos Psacharopoulos, at the Yale School of Drama in 1961 said, “To be a good actor all you have to be is believable and entertaining.” That’s all. Just believable and interesting. Now just try it! So, I want you to be left with the impression that that scene could have happened only that way, as if that was the only way it could have turned out. Of course, there were at least two choices and usually more. But the writer and we made you feel that that was the only way it could have been. And even though you thought you saw it coming—maybe—you still liked it. It was just surprising, FRESH, enough. Nikos: “believable and interesting.”
I want grace, eloquence, poetry. WHEW!
In a movie script?
Grace. Talk that sounds like talk. Talk that sings, some. Regular talk, mind you. Talk like our talk. But talk arranged so that it sounds fresh. Graceful. I want it to be eloquent. Not verbose, unless that character is apt to be. Then it would be appropriate. You can be eloquent and terse. You can be eloquent while being silent. I think some of my most eloquent moments were silent. All put together; eloquence, grace, clarity, surprise, convincing talk, interesting personalities. All together they will make a script that transcends the moment. That script will say something about the larger human condition, as told through the circumscribed lives of these select individuals. Such a script ends up saying something about all of us. By being effectively specific and limited it can be universal. If it’s good. GOOD WRITING, young lady.
If you’re lucky and you wait long enough—can afford to wait long enough, you might make a film that’s not just another ONE OF THOSE. You know, the big three:
If you’re lucky and you do it right, you can make a film that stands out, that’s memorable. If you’re caught up in a miraculous cyclone, in a rare gust of odd, shocking, impossibly refreshing creativity, you might even make a television series, a TELEVISION SERIES, that’s worthy and downright indelible—one that may even come Legendary! But that’s almost impossible, so why even discuss it.
You could make ADAM.
You could make A CASE OF LABEL.
You could make MURROW.
You could make I NEVER SANG FOR MY FATHER.
Dare I say it? You could make MAKING THE CASE FOR MURDER. This one may measure up.
But after twenty-six years, you know what? I don’t care so much anymore.
I have regretted being ambitious. It has always made me nervous. I have said that I liked it. I mean, it gave some meaning to my life. Something to get up for each day. Something to do. All the other kids were trying to get out of things. Well, not all . . . And adults were not happy with their jobs or with their families. So, I knew I liked to act. A good job, if you could get it. And I guess I knew that if I were going to try a career, I’d have to travel light—be free to shift, turn, fly, and sink—without having other people to support and worry about.
While you’re getting, you’re giving up, too—some things, some classic comforts. But aloneness has been easier, I know now for sure, than having a family. I don’t regret my choice. Especially today.
I have know for some time that a good way to help yourself is to help others. It keeps you from sinking into that deep black hole of self-pity and disgustingly lonely pit of self-absorption. It really is true that virtue is its own reward. It gets you out of yourself. Self. EGO, SELF. My greatest enemy.
But. . . .it’s getting harder for me to help. I had a flurry there for about eight years. I cared. It helped. Selfish caring. Creative self-serving.
But PEOPLE. Humankind! HOMO SAPIENS. Sapient. Wise? Obsolete. Like humankind itself. Obsolete. I am so disappointed I want to cry. I do cry. That’s a good thing. A good release. But I’m afraid that I have no respect for rotten human beings. They are bloodthirsty, greedy, grasping, and filthy.
The gorillas aren’t. Nor are the dolphins, the wrens, the snakes, the seals, the whales, the bees, the bears, or even the mosquitos.
HOMO STUPIDO would be closer to the truth. Like Napoleon crowing himself, piddling little humanoid dubbed himself MO-HOMO-SMART. Me so smart that me can eat up everything in sight. Use up everyone and everything and pollute the air, the land, and the water. Kill everything. As long as the economy is thriving. At the expense of life itself. AT THE EXPENSE OF LIFE ITSELF!!!
I know what you’re thinking. Boy, is he pessimistic! Well, when I hear that, I think of pessimism as skin to paranoia. A person who doesn’t have real reason to feel sad, bad, or disappointed in a situation. That person may be inappropriately negative, and so he is perhaps being pessimistic. Just as a person can be afraid when in fact there are no frightening enemies, danger in sight, or around the corner.
Well, I look them up. Pessimism is a “doctrine” and paranoia is a “delusion.”
This view I have is a conclusion based on observation. Curiosity, Observation, Hypothesis, Experiment, and Conclusion. I remember those steps in the scientific process from junior high school, I think. It’s not necessarily a gloomy view, even, because that’s a matter of judgement, opinion, outlook, or predilection. It’s a view that says we’re doing things wrong, destroying the planet. Yes. Does that truth make you gloomy?
I am in danger of slipping into complete cynicism, true. That is a gloomy prospect.
And I blame myself. I blame mankind, too. IT is a BIG DISAPPOINTMENT TO ME. I regret being of this race of creatures.
But, quick, let me cheer you up! Oh, I’m sorry, unless there are anarchists out there. And you nihilists! Wow, I must have really turned you on in the last few minutes.
See, in the old days. Olden, I mean. They weren’t so long ago. In my drinking days, I felt the same way, only I didn’t know it. I was disappointed every day. It was excruciating. The world was not fair enough, honest enough, pretty enough, good enough, clean enough, or nice enough for me. It was never going to be. I was right. But I couldn’t see any way out of my frustration then. Every time disappointment kicked me in the teeth—or in the groin—I took another drink. So, when I was finally sentenced to life—here, present at my own life, no escape until the last breath—I was in bigger trouble yet. I had to find a way to ACCEPT. That’s harder than finding a good script. Almost. When I was out there drinking, I was waging guerilla warfare every day. I was a terrorist of sorts. Nihilists believe in the “destruction of existing political and social institutions.” That’s from THE AMERICAN HERITAGE DICTIONARY. I love that part of the definition, because it suggests that a nihilist has a choice depending on what pisses him off in the political or social institutions. Take your pick, Radical. But only one set of governing bodies, please. I should think he’d want to get them all.