Addendum to the Script / Dialogue Workshop

This a kind of addendum on the Script /Dialogue Workshop example posted by the CADWC Secretary, about to characters called Fred and ‘Ginger.’ I think it is a lovely little scene that works well.

However, I feel readers should be aware that the original version was written under certain restrictions and did not appear in quite this form at first. To explain:

• the scene had to include two characters;
• there were to be no ‘stage’ directions and no scene-setting preamble;
• no speech could be longer than seven words.

As you can imagine, this can seem quite restrictive at first, and yet the beauty of this scene was that it did work perfectly well with dialogue only, and with only short speeches.

This does not mean all screen drama needs to be written like this. It does have the effect, though, of injecting pace into a scene – and that’s important for capturing today’s spoilt-for-choice, remote-control-armed audience.

You might care to try this exercise yourself. Then scrutinise the result to see if it fulfils the fundamental requirements of setting both scene and characters for the reader/audience, as well has having pace. Above all it has attention-grabbing quality that would work both as part of a much larger story and as a ‘micro-story’ in its own right. And don’t you just want to know what happens next?

The idea for this exercise was not mine – like all good ideas, I knicked it from somewhere else – a writing course I had been on, and adapted it. Therefore it seems only fair that I tender my own humble example that I did for that course, and you can make your mind up whether it works or not, by these yardsticks. Please feel free to comment as you wish. Per censuram eruditio.

Persuasion
Grace: Hi, Andy, what are you doing here?
Andy: Grace, what are you playing at?
Grace: What do you mean?
Andy: Mum and Dad are worried sick.
Grace: Why?
Andy: ‘Why’? Why do you think?
Grace: They think you can change my mind.
Andy: Get you to see their view.
Grace: And you’ll succeed where they failed.
Andy: Not just them – I think it’s madness.
Grace: Listen, Andy, something’s got to be done.
Andy: But why by you?
Grace: Why not me?
Andy: What can you do on your own?
Grace: Lots of things. I know about this.
Andy: Sex trafficking?
Grace: I do work at the Home Office.
Andy: No qualification for going to Bosnia.
Grace: It’s good enough.
Andy: Grace, it’s too dangerous to go alone.
Grace: Fine. Come with me.
Andy: What!?
Grace: Come with me. You could be helpful.
Andy: What would I want to go for?
Grace: To do the right thing.
Andy: I’d rather do right by staying home.
Grace: How would that help these poor women?
Andy: They’re not my concern. You are.
Grace: So come with me.
Andy: And do what?
Grace: Look after your little sister.
Andy: That’s what I’m trying to do now.
Grace: And it’ll keep Mum and Dad happy.
Andy: What am I going to tell them?
Grace: That you’ve suddenly developed a backbone.
Andy: I don’t think they’ll believe that.
Grace: Why not, you softie?
Andy: Had I, I’d stand up to you.

End of Scene

SCRIPT / DIALOGUE WORKSHOP

We all had a great time at Peter Bird's Script & Dialogue workshop on Tuesday. I've asked everyone who attended to post their mini-scripts on the Blog so you can see what we got up to !!!


INTRODUCTION
Fred and ‘Ginger’ (real name Bob) are colleagues - the dynamic duo of ‘Armand Recovery Services’. They’ve worked together for more than 10 years. Both in their 50’s. They’re bailiffs and they hate it. Both dream of retiring and taking up sea fishing in a big way. Fred is the ‘knocker’ - he deals with the people at the door and the legalities. He's slim, twice divorce with a nervous disposition. Ginger is the ‘heavy’ not a tough or malicious man he’s just good at picking up furniture. Married with three grown-up daughters at home. He’s hen-pecked and resigned to his lot in life.

OPENING SCENE
A suburb of Leeds. Pan shot of a run-down street. Its 5am and still dark outside.
Cut to Fred and Ginger. They walk single-file down a short path in an untidy garden towards a battered front door. The door is slightly ajar. The house and street are ominously quiet.

GINGER: Have y’got the warrant?
FRED: Course I ‘ave!
GINGER: Well go on then, knock an’ get on wi’ it.
FRED: It’s already open.
GINGER: What do y’ mean it’s open?
FRED: Open! Y’know – it’s open!
GINGER: Hmmm. Doors are never open.
FRED: Suppose w’ just knock and go in?

Close up of Fred as he pushes the door with his forefinger. The door slowly swings back with a creak. Fred looks back at Ginger who shrugs and gestures for Fred to go in.

GINGER: After you mate.
FRED: Isn’t it always?

Fred knocks loudly on the door frame.

FRED: Hello? Mr Johnston. Bailiffs!

There's no answer. He steps into the house. Ginger follows but stumbles over the ‘storm-drain’ and pushes Fred further into the house.

Cut to the interior of the house. Shabby, dark and drab.

FRED: Watch it! …… Jeeesus it’s dark.
GINGER: S’ok I’ve got the light switch.

A dull light comes on from a single bulb overhead.

FRED: Blood – e – hell. Look at that.

Cut to a sprawled figure lying face down in the hallway. Its hand is clutching the handle of an old fashioned suitcase. There is a pool of blood. Cut to Fred’s feet - he is standing in the blood. Cut to Ginger who is looking over Fred’s shoulder – his view obscured.

GINGER: Is it a dummy?
FRED: God I ‘ope so. It’s got no head.

This poem was written a few weeks ago before the conflict in the Caucasus started – so in case you’re wondering it’s not trying to be some kind of cryptic allegory. It’s just a poem about a cat !!! :o)

GEORGIA

My white cat
(Georgia),
The one with the stubborn streak,
Just walked across my face
Demanding food to eat.
She sits on my chest
And stares down at me.
“No food – no move,”
Her eyes told me.
She shifts a paw,
Then a claw
Menacingly.

So I fed her.

Tanka-you!

Thanks to everyone for the feedback on my Geisha poem. You may not have realised but the poem was constructed using three Tanka.

About Tanka

Tanka (or Waka) is an ancient Japanese form of poetry following a strict format of both syllable and line count, similar to the more well known form of haiku, though it might surprise you to hear that tanka were around long before the haiku.

The tanka form consists of 5 lines of unrhymed poetry, with a syllabic count as follows 5, 7, 5, 7, 7. This is a famous example of Tanka poetry by Empress Iwa no Hime. Note the syllable count differs due to translation from Japanese:

My Lord has departed
And the days have passed.
Shall I search the mountains,
Going forth to meet him,
Or wait and wait for him?

or this one from Okura

What are they to me,
Silver, or gold, or jewels?
How could they ever
Equal the greater treasure
that is a child?

The tanka, along with other Japanese forms of poetry, are a great way of exercising your creative juices, they're good for poets and non-poets, and they're pretty fun to write too. Why not have a go at writing one today? Here's mine:

Sunday morning

Echoes of bacon,
coffee still warm in the pot.
Sleepy: beds unmade.
Grass overgrown, pray for rain
and sweet silence: peaceful day.

From the Reading Night.....

Closing Doors by Heather Richardson

The umbrella fluttered droplets onto a growing puddle by the doormat. Shutting the door with a tinkle, Suzanne caught the waitress’s attention and was waved towards the only vacant table in the furthest corner of the coffee shop. She paused, just for a second, to trace a route through the crowd, before side-stepping between the occupied chairs profusely excusing each jostle.

Sitting down next to the wall she was pleased to have three empty seats around her – space to breathe and take in her surroundings. The café was stifling, steam lifted from the patrons and condensed on greasy windows. She eavesdropped on the intense chit-chat while removing layers of winter clothing. She loved this place, with its tinkling spoons on cheap porcelain, the smell of Turkish coffee percolating the heavy tobacco atmosphere, and even the loud hum of the ancient refrigerator with its beckoning pastries.

She didn’t need to order here. The waitress, teetering on inappropriately high sling-backs, was already picking her way across the sugar strewn floor with a black coffee held aloft. With bored ease she slid the saucer across the table and slapped down the bill in one fluid movement, before turning on her heels to click and stick her way back to the counter.

Spinning the cup handle into position Suzy lifted the bowl in both hands. She could feel the headache of the day slip away as easily as the dark liquid slipped down her throat. A chair slurred backwards into hers. Coffee sloshed over and into her lap as she was shoved forwards and wrenched from her reverie. “Pardon moi Mademoiselle,” an old gent wheezed as he rose hesitantly to leave. He brushed past too close, smelling faintly of an antique shop - all musty books and beeswax. Her annoyance faded as she watched him shamble to the door and out into the street. She turned her attention back to the brew when she noticed an envelope on the table.