The Art and Science of Bad Movies

Sechin Tower

@SechinTower

Not long ago I saw Pacific Rim and loved it. A long time ago I saw Armageddon and hated it. It left me wondering: why? The answer wasn’t clear to me at first, but it did remind me of an important lesson about writing and storytelling.

Pacific Rim and Armageddon are both jumbo-sized eye candy served up with extra heaps of action and spectacle. Anyone who knows me won’t be one bit surprised that I loved Guillermo Del Torro’s heavy metal creature-feature because I’m a lifelong fan of giant monster flicks—heck, I can recite the blow-by-blow of every rubber-suited rumble Godzilla has ever thrown down during his 60-year reign as King of Monsters. But what’s not to like about Armageddon, Michael Bay’s 1998 disaster-stravaganza about a bunch of rough-necks who fly into space to blow up earth-bound meteors? It’s got explosions and destruction on a grand scale, so how come I didn’t dig it?

I used to take the high-ground and claim that it was about Armageddon’s shameless disregard for the laws of physics. After all, this movie is actually used as a NASA training film… to see which trainees can spot the most scientific errors (the official count is 168 impossibilities and countless improbabilities). But, come on, all giant monsters/robots would be subject to the square-cube law meaning that any creature or machine of that size would collapse under its own weight. The square-cube law may be my LEAST favorite ramification of our 3-dimensional universe EVER, yet it is powerless to stop my willing suspension of disbelief.

It’s certainly not that either movie takes itself too seriously. Both deliver their thrills with a smirk, most memorably with Ron Pearlman’s performance as a swaggering profiteer in Pacific Rim and the hulking Michael Clarke Duncan crying like a baby during high-gee stress tests in Armageddon. Most action movies do well to keep things light, whether they’re blockbusters like the massively entertaining Thor 2 or low-grade, goofball flicks like Sharknado. A little bit of laughter is endearing, and it helps the audience swallow impossible premises.

After giving this question far more thought than it probably deserved, I reached the conclusion that my preferences were pretty much arbitrary. I wish I had some kind of high-falutin’, intellectually justifiable reason to prefer Pacific Rim, but the truth is that it’s no more logical than why I prefer broccoli over cauliflower. I like giant monsters, but I don’t especially care for blue collar astronauts. Simple as that.

The lesson for a writer is this: know your audience. It’s not good enough to write a genre for genre fans, because you have to know that not all the readers in your genre go for the same thing. Your audience might accept vampires but not zombies, or they might hunger for family drama but not courtroom drama. You’ve just got to know.

It’s like Tom Stoppard wrote in Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead: “The audience knows what they expect and that is all they are prepared to believe.” The corollary is that a writer needs to know one in order to provide the other.

Be good, and dream crazy dreams

Sechin Tower is a teacher, a table-top game designer, and the author of Mad Science Institute. You can read more about him and his books on SechinTower.com and his games on SiegeTowerGames.com

Books vs. Movies

The adaptation of books has always been a part of movie making. As far back as 1903, when the first adaptation of Alice in Wonderland was made, filmmakers have looked to the literary realm for inspiration. It makes sense. You take a story people are already familiar with and present it to them in a new medium, chances are they'll want to see it.

The relationship between books and film continues to this day, and in fact is probably stronger than ever. Think about some of the biggest film franchises of the past decade: The Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, Twilight, as well as the superhero movies based on comic book characters such as Batman and Spider-man. Even this year, the first two big tentpole films of the summer are John Carter, based on Edgar Rice Burroughs' books, and The Hunger Games.

It's a trend that's never going to stop so long as it continues to be profitable. Something that invariably comes with film adaptations is a comparison to the source material, and I've been thinking about it a lot lately.

There are basically three ways a film can be viewed: better than the book, worse than the book, or as good as. Of course it's all subjective, but most films are viewed in general according to these terms. In my own experience, I find that the source I view first, be it the book or the film, tends to be my preferred version, with a few exceptions. Below are some examples.

The book was better than the film:

This is probably the most common, especially when I've read the books first. There's just something special about discovering a character on your own, about taking the author's words and creating the look and feel of a world without any other influence. The best example I can think of is Harry Potter. While the films were good, and they got better as the series progressed, they simply couldn't compete with the books. This has much to do with the time constraints placed on a movie and its inability to include all the minutia of the book. But it also has to do with JK Rowling's incredible writing ability.

What bothers me most about the Harry Potter films isn't what they took out of the movie, it's what they added to it. (The Burrow burning scene in Half-Blood Prince comes to mind.) For some reason this really bugs me in Harry Potter, but not as much in other stories. The world of Harry Potter was and is one of my favorite literary places to visit, and while I can say they did an excellent job with the cast for the movies, it's a little sad to me that future readers will likely be picturing Daniel Radcliffe and Emma Watson as they read, instead of creating the characters' likenesses in their own minds.

The film was better than the book:

This usually occurs when I've watched the movie first. The first two examples that come to mind are Stardust and How To Train Your Dragon. In the case of Stardust, the filmic world had a more enchanting feel to it, and Tristan's journey seemed much more complete. While I love Neil Gaiman, the book to me was underdeveloped, and the ending of the movie was far better and more romantic.

Now I want to watch this again.

The same applies to How To Train Your Dragon. The movie bears little resemblance to the book, and I think it's so much better for that. I spoke with a friend at DreamWorks, and he said the original take on the film was much closer to the book, but they eventually moved away from it, which is a move I can't applaud them enough for. By enhancing characters as well as the scope of the story, the filmmakers improved on the source material and created two excellent, memorable films.

The film and book are equally good.

Comic books are interesting, because often there isn't a definitive take on a character, both in film or the comics. Adam West's Batman, Michael Keaton's Batman, and Christian Bale's Batman are vastly different, yet still remain true to the source material in their own way, and I think their respective movies are awesome. (We don't talk about Val Kilmer or George Clooney. We just don't)

Oh the pain.

I first watched Miyazaki's amazing animated version of Howl's Moving Castle, and it's one of my favorite films of his. I later read the book, and though it has a different feel, it's also an excellent story. I feel as though the best book version of the story was told in the book, and the best film version of the story was told in the film. Telling the stories in the other medium may not have worked as well.

The best example I can think of is one of my all-time favorite stories, both in book version and film, and that is The Lord of the Rings. I read The Hobbit way back in junior high, but didn't get around to reading LOTR until right before the first film came out. Though the book is long and there may be a song or two too many in it, I love Tolkien's classic story. So much so that I was worried about the upcoming films. But my worrying was wasted, as Peter Jackson and company delivered one of the greatest film franchises in history.

The films, especially the extended editions, did what most good adaptations do best. They take the key parts of the story and they present them in a way that is both new and true to the source material. At times, this means leaving beloved parts behind. But when done well, as in this case, the movies are so good you don't miss those parts for long.

And I honestly get chills watching this. Can. Not. Wait.

So what do you think? What are your favorite or least favorite book to film conversions? How much does watching or reading the story first influence your experience in the other medium? Feel free to debate me about Harry Potter, but I'm right about George Clooney as Batman. I promise.

Speed Dating ... Lit Style.

by A.G. Howard

Are you wondering what those three pictures up there have to do with anything?

They represent visuals from two movies that gave me a lightbulb moment about characterization: How the most indelible details are the little things I notice about a character within the first few minutes they're on screen.

One movie was called Dark City. I saw it for the first time about a year ago. It's a psychological sci-fi horror from the director of The Crow, and a guilty pleasure for me for that reason alone. But I never expected it would actually teach me something about writing.

Here's the trailer. It's one of the best I've ever seen. Some of the visuals play a huge role in what this post is all about, so pay close attention:

When we first meet the hero, he's waking up in a bathtub full of tepid water. He's bleeding, and can't remember anything about his past. While getting out, he slips and shatters a fishbowl. As the goldfish lays on the floor gasping, the hero picks it up gently and releases it in the bathtub. He then turns around to find a woman's mutilated corpse beside his bed. So now he's on the run, thinking he's a cold-blooded murderer.

But wait ... how could someone who so tenderly saved the life of a fish, be heartless and violent? That one glimpse into his character already has us wondering.

Next, we meet the detective. One of the first things to come out of his mouth upon arriving at the crime scene is, "Your shoe's untied," to one of his officers. We immediately know he's fastidious and a man of details. He doesn't miss anything. So when he sees the bloody scene in the bedroom, then goes to the bathroom and finds the broken fish bowl and its previous occupant swimming merrily in the bathtub, he wonders the same thing we are. "Why would a murderer have the compassion to save a fish?" 

That's amazing. The writers have given us bone deep insight into two characters with little more than a couple of afterthoughts and gestures. Because of the carefully laid out characterization within the first twenty minutes of the movie, we're  already starting to cheer for the possible murderer, and hoping the diligent detective of details will be able to figure out the truth and prove him innocent.


The other example is Ghost Town.

This one's a comedy about a dentist, who after being dead for a few minutes during a colonoscopy, is suddenly able to see and hear every ghost in town. Thing is, this guy HATES people and tries to avoid them at all costs. And how do we know this? Well, within the first few minutes of the movie, we find him stuffing a wad of guaze in his patient's mouth, not because he's about to do a procedure that requires it, but because he can't stand to hear her yak anymore. Heh.

Screenwriters are aces at honing in on what appears at first to be minutiae, then later comes into play in a big way. The story has to take front seat so the characterization needs to have super-powered details from the get-go. It's like giving us a jolt with an emotional spark plug so we're connected -- immediately and viscerally.

As novelists and story writers, we can take a lesson from this. Think of the first page of your book as a speed date. Those first few paragraphs are those crucial moments of dialogue between your character and your character's prospective date, the reader. You don't have long, so make the best of it ... make those details count.

In Splintered, my first two paragraphs spotlight something integral about the heroine in her own voice:

I’ve been collecting bugs since I was ten; it’s the only way I can stop their whispers. Sticking a pin through the gut of an insect shuts it up pretty quick.

Some of my victims line the walls in shadow boxes, while others get sorted into mason jars and placed on a bookshelf for later use. Crickets, beetles, spiders … bees and butterflies. I’m not picky. Once they get chatty, they’re fair game.

First, we know this girl has something mental going on. I mean, talking bugs? Eek! Second, we know that she's found a way to deal with it that works for her. So right off the bat, we can see she's got some issues, but she's proactive, and not going down without a fight. Hopefully, a reader would want to know more about a character like that.

Now look at the first few sentences / paragraphs in your latest project. Did you jump start your characterization with one small detail that packs a punch and gives your reader keen insight into your character's depths and individuality ... something that will make people want to read on?

The beginning of your story sets the groundwork for the relationship between your characters and your readers. If you want people to take your book off the shelf and out on a "second date," make sure to leave a big impression. Give them something worth pining for.