Alternate Plots for 'Love Never Dies' (sometimes it does)

As you may already know, Andrew Lloyd Webber has finally given the world the gift they never asked for or wanted: a sequel to Phantom of the Opera. (If you didn't know, take a moment to let that sink in.)


As I understand it, this is the basic plot of the resulting musical, Love Never Dies (SPOILERS AHEAD - no joke):

It is "10 years" after the events of Phantom (even though Phantom was set in 1881 and Love is set in 1907, but whatever). Christine and Raoul return to America to catch up with the Phantom, see how things are going and whatnot. It seems that in the past ~10 years, the Phantom has become more of a lovable eccentric and less of a horror-inducing monster/organist. Oh yeah, and Christine has a son now, Gustave. Christine is torn, trying to decide between Raoul and Phantom (sound familiar?).

Meanwhile, Meg Giry is jealous of all the attention Christine gets. Meg is in love with the Phantom or something, as any girl would be. Christine sends Raoul away so she can be with the Phantom because - love never dies. Plus, the Phantom is Gustave's real father.

Long story short, Meg shoots Christine. The fatal wound is evidently not in her lungs, as she sings for another 12-15 minutes. Just like her love, it seems Christine will never die. But die she does. The end.

So, off the top of my head, here are 4 better plots for this musical:

1. Christine and Raoul return to America. Meg is waiting for them and shoots Christine on sight. Raoul hooks up with the Phantom (because man love never dies). Meg, still on the run from the law, tries to shoot Raoul. She misses and hits the Phantom in the normal side of his face, killing him instantly. She turns the gun on herself and fires. She misses and hits Raoul in the back. As he slowly bleeds to death, Meg finally gets it right and puts a bullet in her brain. Gustave is sent to an orphanage. The scary kind.

2. The Phantom has spent 10-26 years sleeping with Meg. He's only doing it to get back at Christine for rejecting him. Also, because he hates himself. Christine leaves her abusive husband, Raoul. She returns to declare her never-dying love for the Phantom. When she arrives she finds the Phantom in bed with Meg. Fortunately, Christine brought her revolver. Unfortunately, Meg "Quick-Draw" Giry pulls her sidearm first and shoots Christine between the eyes. The Phantom then strangles Meg.

3. Christine sends Raoul away so she can be with the Phantom. The Phantom is still bitter about losing to Raoul at the end of that other musical, so he rejects and humiliates Christine. At the prom. Christine goes crawling back to Raoul ("Love never dies," she tells him). Raoul refuses to take her back. Meg mows Christine down with an automatic assault rifle.

4. Meg shoots Christine. She comes back as a zombie, because love NEVER dies. In the ensuing zombie outbreak, Raoul and the Phantom are killed. Gustave and Meg lead a band of opera singers in taking out the zombie threat, except for one. Zombie Christine hides in the catacombs of the old opera house becoming the new Phantom of the Opera and opening the door for another sequel.

Ways in Which You Have Misjudged Keira Knightley

Writing for film, especially features, is not as similar to writing for the stage as you might suspect. What makes them so different is that film tells a story by cutting from shot to shot, but a stage play is told through continuous action.

You know what is like writing a film? Writing a comic book! A comic book jumps from panel to panel in the same way film jumps from shot to shot.

In this post, I'll be elaborating on ideas expressed in Understanding Comics by Scott McCloud, and pointing out how these ideas apply to film. You should get this book, by the way. It's a valuable reference for any kind of visual storyteller.

In the book, McCloud outlines the 7 ways an image can relate to accompanying text. In a comic book, this means the words written on the page. In film, it could refer to words written on the screen, but generally we're talking about spoken dialogue or narration.

1. Word Specific

You'll see a lot of this on television. The story is essentially being told through the text, with little being added by the image. Think about when you're folding laundry in front of the TV. King of Queens is on. You're not really looking at Leah Remini and Kevin James, and you don't need to. You can understand the story and the jokes without having to look up from all your new pink clothes courtesy of that one red sock that snuck in with your whites. The pictures are just along for the ride.

2. Picture Specific

The opposite. The pictures are what it's about; any language is extraneous. Like when you're watching The Lion King and that wildebeest stampede is coming after Simba and SPOILER ALERT Scar kills Mufasa. Simba is screaming, "Dad!" and Scar is like, "Long live the king!", but you better have your eyes glued to the screen or you're not gonna know what's happening.

3. Duo-Specific

What you see and what you hear are essentially the same thing. I would recommend avoiding this kind of thing in film because it feels redundant. Remember my post about Party Down? Duo-specific is pretty much the opposite of what I was praising there. Duo-specific is spelling it out for the audience. Like in a basketball movie where the clock is running out and at the last second they sink a basket to win the game. And we see the scoreboard change to reflect the basket. And we see the fans jump up and cheer. And someone says, "WE WON!!" and you're like, "Yeah, I got that." This also applies to a voice-over that is describing exactly what is happening on screen.

4. Additive

The words amplify the image, or vice versa. In Season 6 (SPOILER ALERT) of Buffy the Vampire Slayer (it was only a matter of time before Joss Whedon found his way into this blog), Willow gets sad about stuff and becomes a powerful, angry, bad witch. The dialogue is enough to tell the story, but is amplified by the image of her hair and eyes turning black and her face turning pale and veiny. The image adds something to the words. I don't have an example of words amplifying an image. So sue me. Maybe you can think of one. Like homework.

5. Parallel

The text doesn't have any apparent correlation with the visual. Both are telling their own story. Did you see the film version of Pride and Prejudice with Keira Knightley? It's so good. Anyone who doesn't think so is probably just jealous. And anyone who says they don't like Keira Knightley without having seen this film holds an uninformed opinion. Anyway, there's a scene where we hear a voice-over of Mr. Darcy's letter to Elizabeth. The voice-over tells a story of Jane Bennet and Mr. Bingley and Mr. Wickham. This is paired with images of Mr. Darcy riding away on horseback and Elizabeth looking sad and stuff. Both words and pictures are giving us necessary information, but the information doesn't overlap in any way.

6. Montage

I don't really get the name McCloud gives this one, but that's okay. It refers to text that is part of the image. A car drives down a highway and passes a sign: "Welcome to Swampville! Population: 700." The sign is part of the picture. They work as one to tell us that our heroes have just rolled into a hick-town stereotype.

7. Interdependent

The more you can use this one, the better. It means you are using text and images to their full potential. In this relationship, the two work together to convey a message that neither could get across on their own. There's a lot of good examples of this in animation. Here's one. In an episode of Futurama, Bender is looking at a page saying, "Oh yeah, you're a bad girl." We see that the picture on the page is a complex diagram of a circuit. The words tell us that Bender is looking at porn; the image shows us that porn for a robot is not the same as human porn.

Think about how you use all of these relationships when writing for film (or comics, or picture books, or whatever). It will help you ensure that you are telling a visual story and not writing a radio drama. It also gives you the chance to play director a little.

Ninja Stage Directions

Writing a script is different than writing a novel. In a lot of ways. If you didn't know that, you're probably not very observant. But here is one specific way. In a novel I can write:

She turned from him and looked out the window, pausing to take a deep breath. She was too angry to look at him. Clenching her fists she continued to speak through tight lips. "You are not the grasshopper," she croaked. Her voice was like a rusty gate swinging in the wind.

(This is just an example off the top of my head.)

In a script for stage or film, these details are inappropriate. As you probably know, you have to be respectful of the actors. They will not appreciate being told moment by moment what they should be doing, feeling, sounding like, etc. It tells them that they are not trusted, and it limits their ability to be creative.

This is a very good rule for writing scripts. But I must confess, sometimes I like to break it. Because sometimes I don't trust actors. Or because I have a really clear image in my head that I just have to include on the page. But, but, but - this is crucial - it's better if you get a little sneaky. Read on for examples.

A few little acting directions in your script are probably okay, but don't be surprised if actors and directors ignore them. If you hide them, actors and directors will accept them without questioning. For example, I could write this:

BARBARA
(shouting angrily)
You're going to wear the pink dress whether you like it or not.

JANE
(whining)
But Mom, I want to wear the blue.

But look at how ninja it is to write it like this:

BARBARA
You're going to wear the pink dress whether you like it or not.

JANE
Muh-om! Don't shout at me. I want to wear the blue.

Without any stage directions we know that Barbara is shouting and Jane is whining (the phonetic spelling of her pouty "Mom" informs the delivery of the rest of the line).

Again, this example sucks, but you get the idea.

Here's an example adapted from a script of mine:

GRAY
I'm not going to do it, Dorothy.

DOROTHY
Come here. Look at me. Don't let this happen.

It's much more subversive than this:

GRAY
(avoiding looking her in the eye)
I'm not going to do it, Dorothy.

DOROTHY crosses to GRAY. She lifts his chin so they are standing face-to-face. GRAY is forced to look at her.

DOROTHY
Don't let this happen.

There is a trade-off here. In the first version you know the actors will have to perform an action something like what you pictured in your mind, but it requires some extra words in the dialogue. In the second, you cut the dialogue down to the bare essentials, but the actors are free to ignore your pretty picture in favor of whatever awful bit of business they come up with themselves. In the end, you must decide which is more important to the scene - the specific action you dreamed up or following the rule of "Show, don't tell."

If you are worried that your script is too full of stage directions, or that your stage directions will be ignored, consider whether you can trick the actors into not noticing you are directing them.

UPDATE: Here's a good one I just found in A Doll's House by Henrik Ibsen:

TORVALD
Well, one must accept you as you are. It's in the blood. Oh yes, it is, Nora. That sort of thing is hereditary.

Clearly, Nora has some sort of nonverbal reaction after "It's in the blood," but Ibsen doesn't need a word of stage direction to tell us. Grand!

A Reason to Take Up 'Party Down'

I'm a little behind on the Starz original series Party Down, but better late than never. I like the show, don't love it as much as some people/critics. However, they did something in the first episode that really impressed me.


The episode utilizes a running gag of Henry and Ron changing shirts. Henry shows up for work in a wrinkled shirt, so Ron gives him his spare. When Ron spills red liquid all over his shirt, he is forced to put on the wrinkled shirt. Later, Henry falls into the pool.

This is where the brilliance happens.

The next time we see Henry, his shirt has a big red stain all over the front of it. Of course, he had to change from the wet shirt into the stained shirt. We don't see him make the change and it never comes up in the dialogue.

Why do I love this so much? The show has faith in its audience's intelligence. Most series would spell it out for you. This is often due to executive meddling - TV executives are notoriously fearful that people won't understand unless beaten over the head with an idea.

And yet, pointing out what happened would kill this joke. It takes a second or two to figure out exactly why Henry is wearing the stained shirt, but solving the puzzle is what makes it funny.

Trust your audience to make little jumps in logic and they will love you for it.

How Sarah Ruhl Accomplishes the Impossible

I was reading Lorca's play The House of Bernarda Alba today and it made me want to talk about impossible stage directions. From Act One:

From the rear door, two by two, women in mourning with large shawls and black skirts and fans, begin to enter. They come in slowly until the stage is full.

Seems okay at first, but then one line of dialogue later:

The two hundred women finish coming in.

200 women! I love it. What theatre has the resources to pay and costume 200 actresses, only four of whom have any spoken lines? Not to mention, what theatre has the space to fit 200 women not only onstage, but also backstage and in the dressing rooms? It's a logistical nightmare. Where would you find all these women willing to show up every night to walk on stage for four minutes? And the cherry on top of this delicious sundae is that these women are supposed to pour onto the stage from one entrance in the span of 15 seconds.

I've never heard of a production using the 200 women the script calls for. I heard of one professional production that used 50. Most theatres will have to get creative. (In theory, they should be doing that anyway.) Should it be played as though the women are offstage? Could they be portrayed by 200 puppets? Or a photo or video projected on the upstage wall?

Sarah Ruhl has become notorious for her impossible stage directions, but she goes a step further. Her stage directions are written in poetry and metaphor, with no suggestion of how they can be played in reality.

From Eurydice:

He picks her up and throws her into the sky.

Genius. In Melancholy Play, a character turns into an almond because of her depression. Clean House is set in "a metaphysical Connecticut." Look at this one, from Dead Man's Cell Phone:

Jean stares at Dwight.
He looks so much like Gordon.
But Jean doesn't want to remind anyone of Gordon's death, so she doesn't comment on the resemblance.

How do you play that? What does that look like on stage?

These kinds of stage directions are such a wonderful challenge. I don't think you should include them in a script just for the sake of being artistic or only with the goal of frustrating a director. The examples I've given all stem from a playwright with a huge imagination seeking to spark the imagination of others.

I don't think these stage directions are possible in your screenplay or teleplay. Feature films actually have the resources to take these things literally (literally 200 women; he literally throws her into the sky). Television production teams wouldn't appreciate this kind of thing. Television is created on such a fast-paced schedule that you kind of have to spell things out. There's no time for pondering over how best to represent a metaphysical Connecticut in the scenic design.

But feel free to challenge the people producing your play. It's good for them.


UPDATE: I can't believe I forgot this one. It's like the best example on the planet. From Dead Man's Cell Phone:

The phone rings.
They kiss.
Embossed stationery moves through the air slowly,
like a snow parade.
Lanterns made of embossed paper,
houses made of embossed paper,
light falling on paper,
falling on Jean and Dwight,
who are also falling.

How can you not love that?

"Hot Model" Is Not a Concept

I am not a photographer, but my friend Cynthia is. She's good, too. You can see her work here. Since nobody reads this blog yet, that link probably won't get her much publicity.

Tonight, Cynthia was asking me to help her come up with a concept for a model shoot she has scheduled. What I love about Cynthia's work is that she doesn't settle for concepts like "pretty dress" or "unique hairstyle" (although she sometimes uses those things). She always reaches for the much more difficult goal of telling a story in a photo.

I never fully realized how difficult it is indeed. I like to think I'm rather good at telling stories with words and with bodies in motion, but it is a very different thing to tell a story just with a single moment frozen in time.

These were my suggestions that Cynthia rejected:

1. a typewriter

It could be a secretary, I explained. Or a receptionist, or a court reporter. Ombudsman with a typewriter. Notary public with a typewriter. Cynthia said it would just read as "sexy secretary".

2. a cash register

I wasn't even given a chance to explain this one.

3. Mary Tyler Moore

Throwing a beret in the air, etc. You get the picture. I also offered some variations on this concept that included I Dream of Jeannie and Bewitched. Cynthia said a shoot like that would require more than one model and a lot of planning and money to get the look right.

4. slipping on a banana peel

Cynthia said this one had some promise because it involves an action and not just a model looking like something, but she had to reject it because she didn't want to ask the model to fall on her butt. "That's her main asset," she explained.

5. mowing a lawn with a pair of scissors

This is where I had a real breakthrough. Cynthia wondered how one would convey that the model was mowing the lawn and not just trimming some blades of grass. My first solution was that it would have to be a series of photos showing her progressing inch by inch across the lawn. Then the answer came to me. You're gonna like this, it's pretty good. Use an overgrown lawn. Mow half of it and place the model with her scissors at the halfway point. Then we can clearly see in one image the progress she has made and all the work ahead of her. A full story captured in a moment. I'm brilliant, yeah?

So why was it rejected? Cynthia lives in San Antonio, and apparently it's against the law to mow a lawn at this time of year in San Antonio.

My genius is wasted yet again.

Believing in 'God's Favorite'

Tonight I saw a performance of the Neil Simon comedy God's Favorite at La Salle University. I'd like to discuss a certain scene.

After beginning with some humorous and light exposition, the story really gets going when our main character (Joe) has an encounter with a mysterious stranger. Did I say gets going? I meant comes to a screeching halt. The next fifteen minutes or so are devoted to the following:

1. Wacky double-talk from the zany stranger
2. Countless variations of Joe saying, "What are you doing in my house?"

Finally, Joe says he is calling the police. After FIFTEEN MINUTES. It's mind-boggling.

JOE

I'm gonna give you one more chance to tell me why you're in my living room.

STRANGER
Something about the movie Chinatown! Gimme a Yoo-Hoo!

(NOTE: not a direct quote)

A scene is built on conflict, of course. The conflict in this scene is that the stranger has a cryptic message to deliver, but Joe wants the crazy man to get out. There's only so long Joe can believably abide the stranger's presence before taking some kind of action. He could attack the stranger, run out of the house, call for help, just about anything but continue the same tactic for FIFTEEN MINUTES. The scene flatlines after about four lines.

Even in a silly comedy, suspension of disbelief can only go so far.