Always My Darling. . .a screenwriter's painting.
Remi Z.
I have been reading this particular newsgroup for quite a while and enjoy
the witty inklings spattered across the NG. Most recently, things in my
life have snowballed so that I am finally swayed to contribute something to
this forum.
By trade, I'm a painter. I design pieces that will usually be bought by
advertising firms or interior designers. I haven't made much money. I make
just barely enough to live on and put myself through college with--partly
due to the fact that I don't enjoy overpricing but mostly because I don't
enjoy doing it. I know I have a close intimacy with the visual, but
painting just never DID it for me. The good fortune of regularly selling my
work stemmed from alien perspectives that were skewed just enough so that
they had this misconception that I was talented.
In doing those paintings (and other graphic compositions) I can't see what
many see in them. To me, they're not static, mere stills taken of a moment
in time. Many times, what I see before and after painting them are entire
lifetimes captured on canvas, mirrored for introspection, retrospection.
What critics notice as tonality, color--I see as emotion, words.
Obviously, there do exist individuals who see art as just that: mirrored
life, but it was never enough for myself. There was just more to it.
There, on the upper left-hand corner waits a bus; it's front towards us.
Next to it stands the image of a young, short-hair woman, hand reaching for
the door. A background with meticulous stippling in it. The tiny slashes
of blue paint swirl in a circular rage so that they lead the eye towards the
bottom right hand corner of the canvas. Here, at the bottom right-hand
corner is a close-up of what appears to be the same young lady, but more
transparent so that we see the background stippling. The entire painting is
doused in a tint of pink.
This was my first sale. For the $800 it brought me, I bought some high
school texts I needed. . .and more paint.
The story that went along with that painting is still vivid in this hollow
of mine. It was all a product of an incident that occurred at a Greyhound
station I worked for, emotions I shared at the time, and a conversation with
a little girl who knew too much about life. For some reason, I could not
only visualize the entire plot, but I could decide on how every single
instance would be "painted," if transposed to canvas. Color, placement,
perspective.
I'm not dense. I recognized that this was obviously some calling towards
motion pictures, but I never cared to register it as an available option.
My father worked (works, rather) in a factory that manufactures lamp bases
from 5am to 5pm. My mother put herself through school to become a sales
associate. Though my lifestyle is nurturing (but modest), hard work and
education is all my blinders will allow. Bluntly, film was frivolous.
I, however, lacked to mention that I'm an avid reader and a voracious
writer. College provided me a loophole to take a screenwriting course as an
elective. I studied, I memorized, I completed class projects.
Unbelievable. After writing countless reams of analytical term papers and
spending over two months an a painting alone, I saw screenwriting as one of
the biggest waste of time for any human life. I was so disgusted at the
ease of formatting and length, that it was akin to being given a job to
paint a canvas the size of a stamp.
After the course, I made my feelings clear to the 10-year instructor. She
wholeheartedly encouraged me to write a full-length screenplay in a week so
that I could indeed demonstrate to her "what a waste of effort" it was. She
was obviously upset, and with good reason: I was displaying typical "newbie"
behavior--discrediting her chosen profession and dismissing thousands of
precious individuals who made screenwriting their life's ambition. After a
day of feeling absolutely dreadful for my thoughts and comments, I took her
up on her offer expecting to fail and stumble along the way in order for her
to see how ignorant I was.
I finished "Always My Darling," my first screenplay, in a week. 110 and 130
pages in length, with camera directions and without.
She had a grave look on her face when I gave her the two versions.
Immediately after I handed it to her, I began to deliver the most intense
apologetic ramblings of my life. "I'm so sorry." "It just poured itself
out." "I cheated, I used my painting for reference." "Screenwriting
alleviated my soul." "You were right." "I really do treasure the craft."
"It's probably trash anyway." "You're the professional here and I'm just
a--"
She told me to shut the fuck up and to sit down until she's finished
reading. The first time I've ever heard any instructor use coarse language.
Honest.
I sat down with her for four hours. Every now and then bringing us snacks.
After a major scene, she'd ask countless questions, most of them having to
do with how I chose my style for that particular scene or shot (when she
referred to the script with the camera directions). The gist of my replies
mostly revolved around a few beliefs I've carved about good cinema: Despite
the fact I employ traditional storytelling, I see time as subjective and
won't hesitate to use it to further flesh out characters. As happens in
life, some stories are not always complete as others are also beginning,
overlapping. To focus on race/ethnicity as a motivator of a scene in any
way is absolute doom; as in painting, color should only be used as is good
lighting--emotion is where the magic lies. The music used in the final film
should be alive before the first draft. Each scene (each shot as well)
should ultimately be a masterpiece (i.e.- every detail serves some purpose)
always keeping in mind that masterpieces have the potentiality to turn gaudy
as well.
Afterwards, she told me that I shouldn't waste any more classes on
screenwriting; the school offers screenwriting II and III also. She
promptly registered me for Film Tech I. I insisted that I keep a few
computer classes considering my parents blood still runs in my veins and
still consists of atoms, cells, guilt, etc.
That was six months ago. I still keep in contact with her and I continue to
write a second screenplay (film tech is EXHILARATING but EXHAUSTING).
Recently, for my final short, I stole a scene from Always My Darling and
adapted it for MOS black & white film. I am still editing it and don't
have to "turn it in" for another two weeks.
I converted Always My Darling into html and uploaded it to the internet for
safekeeping on a school server. Some hackers got view of it and made the
rounds. Luckily, they only made away with an excerpt (thank God for
corruptible text files) that didn't get very far. The few hundred who did
read it though have been kind enough to track me down and shower me with
enough praise to leave me permanently RED. A few of them encouraged me to
join this newsgroup. One of them suggested I "formally" introduce, myself.
I'm still very young and am 100% certain that I'm 0.5% along the path ahead
of me. Incidentally, I just turned 20 a little while ago. I would love to
be taken under the wings of the wonderful people who contribute to this
forum and get to learn more about everyone's stories...and more specifically
their view of the human condition.
I have very few friendships; I have trouble identifying and relating with
people my own age. Mince no words, I welcome all opinions, rants, etc.
--
-Remi Z
Noble Strife Studio