Like many people with access to streaming services, I’ve been delving into old movies that I haven’t seen in years (decades?) as well as those I never got around or were unavailable to me. More than just entertainment, many of those films are great study for writers. Especially when writing the hard to nail dynamics in character relationships.
You may think that movies have an advantage. Actors do most of the heavy lifting. Screenplay writers, directors, and music composers provide vital assistance. Books rely exclusively on a staff of one—the writer—who sells the romantic, familial, or friendship bonds with nothing more than subject/verb agreement and turn of phrase.
However, movies have their blind spots. Misfire casting can sink an otherwise sure-hit production. Likewise, a director’s decisions can wreck chemistry. Rarer still, there is the movie that shouldn’t work that succeeds against all odds—and studio meddling.
It’s not always apparent why…
The Wachowski sisters’ 1999 film, The Matrix, had an embarrassment of riches. Lawrence Fishburn, (seriously the man personifies charisma) played Morpheus, the mentor. Enigmatic Carrie Anne Moss opened the movie as Trinity, the (kick-ass) love-interest. A solid supporting cast, including Joe Pantoliano, Hugo Weaving, and Gloria Foster, (an epiphany as the Oracle) supported puppy-dog warm Keanu Reeves’ Neo, the hero.
And none of them clicked
It would be easy to blame this all on Reeves, (and some critics have). Truly, Neo’s interaction with his mentor feels like a routine OS update running in the background. But that’s not all on Reeves’ shoulders.
Morpheus scarcely acknowledges his crew, all supposedly brought out of the Matrix by the good captain. Trinity is supposed to be a long-watching-long-waiting lovelorn for Neo. The movie opens with her stalking our hero. Yet every scene they’re in is flat as wood paneling and their “romance” feels forced.
Even what is supposed to be a sexy hug-up for the elevator scene—both dressed in their fetishy-best—is yawn-inducing. You almost feel sorry for them. Then you remember that you paid to see this.
It’s like they’re all making a different movie
Morpheus has better chemistry with Agent Smith (the baddie) than with Neo (Morpheus’ mentee). All three actors do perfectly acceptable acting work. But the writing allows little for the characters to work with and clearly, the directors had an agenda without an inch to spare for a wistful glance, an approving nod, or an affectionate gesture.
By contrast, Francis Ford Coppola’s brilliant failure, The Cotton Club, should not work. Okay, it tanked at the box-office, so it didn’t work as business but as film it soars. And it shouldn’t. Richard Gere can’t act has limited range. Diane Lane, while almost as cute as Gere, isn’t much better. Don’t get me started on Nicolas Cage.
The good news is there’s another movie going on around the headliners
You see the love between brothers, Sandman and Clay Williams, (brothers Gregory and Maurice Hines) through their joy at “making it” as dancers at the Cotton Club and in their bickering over choreography. Mostly you FEEL it in their resentment-fueled breakup and then their reunification embrace.
Romance? We fall in love with Lonette McKee’s Lila Rose Oliver almost from her introduction—and not just because it’s Lonette McKee. Before we fall in love with Lila, Sandman falls in love with her. Before Sandman falls in love with her, though, the director fell in love with her. Coppola’s love is evident through generously languid shots of McKee in both theatrical and mundane acts.
The great lesson of The Cotton Club is that the real act (relationships) is behind the curtain
The interplay between club owner, Owney Madden (Bob Hoskins) and his right hand, Frenchy DeMange, (Fred Gwen) is worth viewing all by itself. Both mature men with a long history, their friendship is borne out in their dialogue, all soft jabs and easy repartee. It’s also shown in the way they anticipate each other.
In a rare moment of anger toward his friend, Frenchy smashes Owney’s pocket watch. Just as quickly, Owney mends their rift, (the set up of the scene is too good for me to spoil here). Frenchy immediately hands him a gift-wrapped box.
“What’s this?” Owney asks.
“A new watch,” Frenchy replies.
It's relationship gold in less than five minutes.
“I’m proud of everything I’ve done…except Dune.”
David Lynch’s 1984 film, Dune, based on the Frank Herbert novel, is another brilliant failure. The sets, the costumes, the spectacular cinematography—it is beautiful to look at, mostly. The cast is top-notch with some of the best actors of their day doing good work. Mostly.
Perfect, it was not. The chemistry between romantic leads Paul (Kyle MacLachlan) and Chani (Sean Young) produced more light than heat. Their acting is perfectly functional if not inspired. It’s the director who failed them. Lynch’s other work points to an inability to comprehend what what makes for a romance.
Mobsters or Space Jesus, Arrakis or Harlem, love is love and romance is new every time.
Hit and miss, the mentor/hero relationships between Paul and Gurney, (Patrick Stewart) or Jessica (Francesca Annis) and Reverend Mother Mohiam (Sian Phillips) or Paul and Thufir,(Freddie Jones) are promises that the movie never delivers on. Instead, the audience suffers a one-two punch of “over,”—overacting/over directing and voiceover.
Lynch could’ve established those relationships with a castoff phrase or three. Instead he burns time with multiple sequences dedicated to grossing out the audience. Sadly, “weird” advances neither plot nor character. What should’ve been brilliance was, instead 2-hours-17-minutes of missed opportunities.
Sometimes less is more, really
In 2018 Denis Villeneuve announced his intention to bring Dune back to the big screen. Fans were guardedly optimistic. Lynch’s Dune is ~ahem~ polarizing. The Syfy (Science Fiction Channel, not ‘Syphilic Fuck Yodels’) mini-series has its admirers. I swear, twenty-minutes in and it was the best nap I’ve ever had.
Once again, with feeling
With Sicario, Villeneuve had established himself as a director capable of compelling suspense. His breakthrough film, Incendies, dealt with family secrets and sibling dynamics. Both Arrival and Bladerunner 2049 proved Villeneuve could convey complex ideas in heart-rending relatable terms. So, yeah, guardedly optimistic.
“The first step in avoiding a trap is knowing of its existence.” -Thufir Hawat, mentat Master of Assassins for House Atreides.
The rule of thumb is each page equals a minute of film-time. So, Dune is 400-odd pages, a “true-to-book” movie would run nearly seven hours. Been there, done that, really enjoyed the nap. Villeneuve ran counter to Peter Jackson’s model. Instead of adding, Villeneuve cut. The result is a taut, tense, frightening world. Mostly, he cut the sentiment.
Gurney Halleck, the troubadour-swordsman, as played by Josh Brolin, is battle-scarred and haunted. His affection for Paul is borne out in harsh training and mean truth. Gurney’s declaration, “You’ve never met Harkonnen…I have and they’re BRUTAL…” rattles Paul. It is also the first toe over the ragged edge the Atreides must trod.
Stephen McKinley Henderson infuses warmth and depth to Thufir. He also depicts a man at the end of his rope. Tired, war-weary, and scared, Thufir wears a uniform from another time—and the guilt of failing a previous Duke. He is out of step and he knows it.
The brief moment of unguarded affection between Paul and his teacher feels forced—as it should. Thufir carries the weight of the entire Atreides house on his back as they march into the jaws of death. He knows that, too.
Only Jason Momoa’s Duncan flies unfettered, unrestrained affection for Paul, like a flag. As stated in the book, Duncan, though much older, is the closest to Paul in age and the closest thing to a playmate Paul has ever known. It makes the inevitable so much more painful.
Villeneuve’s editing knife is just as sharp when it comes to the ladies. Mohiam is ruthlessly short in her criticism of her former student, Jessica. For her part, Jessica bears the weight of her love for Duke Leto, (played with ice-water in his veins by Oscar Issac) and juggles it with her terror of what her decision may cost them all. Far from the smitten ingenue, Chani, (Zendaya) wears her distrust (disdain?) for Paul on her face even when she offers him a knife as a “great honor to die holding it.”
However, among all the relationship dynamics that Villeneuve jettisons the best may be the infatuation that Duncan has with Jessica. Likewise, the obsession Pietr carries for her—which the Baron leads him around by—is dropped. Both subplots—one is mawkish, the other a base objectification—are clumsy. Like weaponization of the Baron’s sexuality, (Herbert’s Freudian slip on full display) in the book, it’s past time to let go of old prejudices and stupid tropes.
Balance is key
Every interaction within your book—friend/foe, parent/child, partner/spouse—is rooted in relationships. You can do a lot with a little and nuance will trigger the readers’ imagination to fill-in the details. Big shows of affection are unnecessary. Think Wesley’s “As you wish,” from The Princess Bride.
Be deliberate
Every scene should have a goal in your mind. Every character should have a goal on your page. Every relationship should be defined with name, status, and demonstration.
Example:
James sighed in relief for Josh’s success. His son had escaped so many of pitfalls, he himself stumbled into. He clapped the now-grown man on the back. “Let’s see if you learned anything about fishing on your travels.”
Now you try.
The image at the top does not belong to me. It is used for instructional/educational purposes, as covered by the Fair Use Doctrine.
