In an untimely manner, I set out again to write film scripts. The work of the moment, which was beginning to crawl, is interrupted. And I do not know what to feel. Perspectives, I have few, whatever I am creating. But the ease of spitting out pages of screenplay jumps out when compared to the agony of literary creation. The screenwriter sees his work progress, every day, and finds manifest satisfaction. A screenplay, in fact, worths its structure, its effectiveness in distributing scenes within a predefined format, and its strength in exposing a dramatic arc. The screenwriter works on the structural demarcation of the text: he defines the conflict, its progression through the plot, and its ending; then he distributes it into scenes, with positioning and length following the dramatic arc and the format of the work. Then it is just a matter of formalizing, or rather, transforming the diagram into text. With well-defined characters, the dialogues spring up with amazing ease, in infinite variations. Of course, they are to a great extent adaptable, replaceable: the script, which is nothing but the outline of a work, worths its outline itself. And I, from being an artist, return to the role of a diagrammer.
A Movie Script Worths Its Structure
