OC Screenwriters Association

Film Noir has had a long, venerated history in European and American Cinema; its roots can be traced back to German Expressionism of the 1920s—The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920) being one of the finest early examples that set the tone for the dark atmosphere that permeates all well written and directed noir stories. 

 

Appearing in the U.S. around the end of WWII, Film Noir’s themes of hard-bitten, lonely, desperate men and women, led into dark corners of the human heart and soul have resonated with audiences consistently over the past several decades. 

 

The formula for a classic noir has remained virtually unchanged over the past sixty-odd years: weak detective is enticed into “bad” behavior by femme fatale “vamp,” leading to his downfall; town newcomer—usually male—is seduced by female “black widow” type into committing heinous act to gain some sort of riches. He usually comes to a bad end; she is almost never punished for her crimes. Directors as diverse as Hitchcock, Wilder, Scorsese, Kasdan, Stone, and, more recently, Christopher Nolan,all have at least one film from this genre in their repertoire. Without exception, all of these directors have followed the typical noir genre script—driving their choice of story, lighting, and audience visual cues based on what they would like the camera to present for consumption. 

           

I had a film teacher once who opined that no one under the age of 30 should be allowed to direct movies, because until you hit that age, you do not know anything. Of course it’s hyperbole; however, in lies a small kernel of truth that explains why the vast majority of beginning writers and directors make the same basic mistakes about how to write for a visual medium. They simply don’t have the requisite experience and acquired knowledge that comes with practice, time, and study. Pay attention to Shakespeare: “Ripeness is all.” We’ve all done it: you spend hours and hours working on what you think is the perfectly crafted, Academy Award winning scene, only to be told that what you love as narrative will not play as anything visually filmable, because it can’t be translated into camera ready text. It’s one of many reasons why most movies based on literary masterpieces are generally unwatchable, and just plain awful. 

           

I chose American Gigolo, (1980), to highlight a couple of key scenes that I think every writer should examine closely over, and over, in order to improve their own writing skills, especially in trying to establish the internal “being” of a character.  The scenes demonstrate how writer/director Paul Schrader skillfully weaves a visual text to help create a noir hero the audience can easily identify and empathize with, since the character of Julian reflects the audience’s own psychology. Schrader managed to create a likable male prostitute the audience wants to root for—a rarity in mainstream Hollywood productions. The only other film that comes quickly to mind that managed to pull off a similar feat was Gus Van Sant’s My Own Private Idaho (1991).

           

What is truly remarkable about American Gigolo, is that there is so little text dedicated to dialogue.  This is definitely a director’s dream script. The opening sequence, which runs just short of four minutes, is concerned strictly with establishing the character of Julian K, by utilizing a series of quickly presented images, rather than having him discuss the where, why and how of what he is up to. We are privy to, and given all the information we need to know about what it is that Julian K. does, what persona he presents to the world, what Julian K.’s surface existence is: he drives the flash car, dines only in posh restaurants, demands the finest couture, is cultured, mannered, well-behaved—what every bored politician’s wife, or corporate female head dreams as the perfect “arm candy,” and sometimes sexual objet d’art, as the occasion arises. And do they ever.

           

Schrader continues to reinforce this persona of Julian K. as created image by revealing glimpses of Julian’s apartment, to reinforce the lack of connection and real human interaction that Julian needs, in order to save himself.  Pay attention especially to the scene where Julian sings along to Smokey Robinson, as he decides on the perfect set of clothing: tie, shirt, jacket, shoes.  His whole life is revealed in what is shown of the décor that surrounds him: there is no sense of rootedness in Julian’s life; he lives in a hotel, the epitome of a temporary existence; his apartment at the hotel reeks of a lack of home: boxes left partially unpacked; expensive pieces of art stacked against a far corner; nothing tells the viewer that here is comfort; here is love; here is a humane presence. Schrader skillfully does all this with screen images—there is no dialogue to mediate between camera and audience to tell you what place the character is in; you are easily able to see and perceive.

 

Jacqueline Zimbalist