Murder: Joint Enterprise is a multi-layered subtle screen drama written by Rob Jones and directed by Birger Larsen. It’s a five star piece - excellent – depicting different versions of the same event, a murder


Of course we’ve seen that structure before.  It’s in the same family as films like Rashomon and Run Lola Run and I’ve given that family of forms the name of ‘consecutive stories ‘( a horribly clumsy name but usefully descriptive). Joint Enterprise belongs to the sub group of consecutive stories that I call ‘Different Perspectives’. It shows its family resemblance here because, typical of this form, its theme is the slippery nature of truth, which it depicts through three versions of the same events and it's about a criminal subset of society. More about consecutive stories

What sets Joint Enterprise apart - where it’s breaking new ground and where we can learn from it - is in the particular use it’s making of direct-to-camera monologues, intercut with flashbacks to different versions of the same crime.


So what is the pattern?  Okay.  We get direct-to-camera monologues from:  the two accused, the investigating detective, witnesses, the mother of one accused and a defence lawyer – all intercut with flashbacks to the murder, of which are given three versions.


The first two are the conflicting versions of each co-accused (punctuated with observations from the other characters). The third, which appears after the trial verdict, is the the event itself, showing us what really happened, 


Certainly, we’ve seen characters explaining the past in interview situations or straight to camera intercut with flashbacks before –  The Usual Suspects and The Life of David Gale are two examples. But in those films the point was to show two false narrators, two convincing liars, two men deliberately manipulating the truth that they fully understand for ulterior motives.  What’s interesting about the monologues from the two accuseds in Joint Enterprise is that they do not show people deliberately lying in full awareness of the truth.  Instead, the monologues are used to depict the subjective nature of truth . Both co-accused are convinced that they are telling the truth (although one, when pressed, will admit to the real facts only quickly to suppress or discount them). What we are being shown  is how  truth changes according to the perceptions and personalities of those experiencing it and relating it.  We see two violent people who forget or block out facts that exonerate them as well as incriminate them.  We experience one coaccused whose self-hatred is so articulate that for a time we believe them to be far worse than they are. We see how omissions and lies of the other co-accused finally become the  truth for that person. Above all, we see just how dangerous it is to take people at their word or on first impressions.  And it’s chilling, because what we get is a king-hit in both our emotions and our intellect.  We get genuinely unnerving characters along with disturbing illustrations of the slippery nature of truth, giving us thought-provoking  message about the difficulties and fallibility of both police investigations and the legal system.  


This is all the more remarkable when you think of the muted emotional  impact of the standard murder whodunnit,  even in its more grisly forms.  The Poirots and Midsomer Murders don’t usually engage emotionall,  What emotional content there is is usually there in the relationship line of the investigators, which is often a  little comic strand,  and there is only a very basic intellectual payoff, in the form of a  puzzle to be solved.  That’s fine. It’s a style and a very popular one and because it’s easy viewing does not mean it’s necessarily easy writing. The point is the difference in intention.  


So what can we learn from Joint Enterprise?  


1)    If you want to make the hairs on the back of your audience’s necks stand on end you probably need to go for character exploration, not just clever facts in the murder. Note that the  highly popular Swedish detective thrillers as well as series  like Life on Mars feature characterful investigators with an emotionally-involving serial storyline.


2)    Monologues that are in conflict with flashbacks to different versions of the same event can provide very subtle and complex character exploration. You could use this technique for many different storylines.


3)    The relative nature of truth is a potentially very rich topic and could also be illustrated in range of storylines (but violence is likely to be easier because it carries high jeopardy while other forms may struggle to maintain pace through the repetitions).

By the way, it's a shame that so much of the publicity around this fine drama did not mention the writer, Rob Jones. 


Just a final question for you.  Should Joint Enterprise have shown us the final version, the actual truth, or should it have left that out?  I'm not sure. I don't have strong feelings on this, but some people do. 

I noticed that Script Store is having a  Screenwriting competition whereby you invent a screenplay from a  logline.

The logline is:A New England matriarch with a week left to live pledges her fortune to whomever in her small town fulfills her dying wish...

I thought this would provide an interesting brainstorming exercise (by the way, I’m not in any way endorsing this competition. I’m simply using it as a brainstorming exercise).

Okay, to give this competition your best shot, don't grab the first idea that comes to you (you can always return to it if you want to). Instead, brainstorm many ideas and choose the best.  We've done this kind of exercise before  .  But this time, as well as using triggers like a random noun or a genre, I'm going to suggest you add structural triggers.

For example, let's say you combine the logline with the random noun 'dog', you could add a structural trigger like 'a flashback film involving the logline and a dog'  or 'a Pulp Fiction structure involving the logline and a dog', or 'a story involving a group of characters on a mission or in a siege or having a reunion - involving the logline and a dog. ' 

But first things first.  How do you brainstorm?  My method involves using triggers to get ideas.  Below, I'll give you some ideas for triggers, but first, remember the rules of brainstorming.

1. always think ‘this must be real but unusual’
2. give yourself permision to be less than brilliant (or you’ll block)
3. go for quantity and the quality will come  
   

Here are some triggers for you (add your own triggers too).

Combine the logline with each of the following, then brainstorm as many lateral ideas as you can

1. a genre (eg War Story,Gangster Story, Revenge story, film noir, fish out of water)
2. a random noun: eg shoe, wall, library, market, truck, handicap, horsea theme eg mercy, despair,dependency,unemployment, fiscal regulation \
3. a character type (eg psychopath, comedian, comedian-psychopath, child, asporing musician, dressmaker, air conditioning technician)
4. a character from myth, fairytale, popular media, history (Cinderella, Fairy Godmother Figure, Icarus, Thor, Popeye, Napoleon)
5. a newspaper headline (eg Thousands killed by volcano’)
6. a traffic sign (eg ‘Go back’)
   

Now, try some structural triggers – think parallel narrative instead of linear one hero model..

Think of a version of one or more of your ideas that uses flashbacks or time jumps, OR employs a group on a mission, siege or reunion, OR uses two similar or diametrically opposite characters on a journey towards each other or apart from each other or in parallel, OR uses a consecutive story form like City of God or a fractured tandem form like 21 Grams.

Suddenly, you'll find that your options have doubled or trebled.  If you're rusty on parallel narrative or don't know about it,  go to my website for a brief explanation. For a detailed explained explanation of how to recognise and structure parallel narrative , see my book The 21st Century Screenplay.

Choose your best idea.

Good luck!

Sorry it's been a while since I've blogged. 


I've had a question about bookend flashbacks and genre.  Here is the question.


For a Bookend Flashback, is it as important to make these early scenes indicative of the whole story as it is in a Preview Flashback? I wish to use a Shocking Bookend Flashback (eg. Sunset Boulevard). Now, Sunset Boulevard is not really a film about death or murder during the body of the film, so why is it that people don't complain of a confused genre when the bookend flashback seems to set them up for a murder mystery of some sort, but the majority of the film is not really a mystery genre film at all?



Here's my response. 


First of all, let's look at Sunset Boulevard. I'll then talk a bit about the differences between the two sorts of flashback mentioned, because there are differences, and, as usual, they depend on what you want your script's content to be. I'll then talk a bit about this genre approach to screenwriting that I keep coming across and which, from what I can see,  is not useful. 


As for Sunset Boulevard, to me, the ending  absolutely fits with the story of the film.  The film is about an unsuccessful scriptwriter who accidentally gets involved in a demanding and toxic relationship with a fading film star. So, the question  that the film poses is ‘what’s going to happen to this man who’s suddenly found himself  enmeshed in a situation with a crazy stranger, a deluded and demanding failed diva’?  The answer is that she kills him. It’s  a surprise because, having the writer in voice over at the start, when we witness a corpse,  we don’t expect our writer  to be the corpse.  But it absolutely fits – in its deliberately shocking way. To me, and to you I suspect, it’s a very satisfying ending.

Now let's look at what the two sorts of flashbacks do and how they fit into the film as a whole, because they have different functions.  They'll get you different effects. By the way, please do remember that these terms and definitions have been invented by me.  They are not plucked from on high, they are simply one writer's view (always, always, always, challenge the 'expert').


A really easy way to understand the difference between what I call preview flashback and bookend flashback is that preview flashbacks are there to punch up tension and suspense, whereas bookends are there to give your film  a surprise ending.Your story will tell you which you need. 

Let's look more closely at them.  Shocking bookend flashbacks (as my invented name for them reminds you) make the film end  in a shocking surprise -  a brilliant but darkly ironic twist that explains the film, thus provides very satisfying closure. In contrast, preview flashback is there to  create a hook by tempting you with a dramatic and intriguing scene or sequence lifted from later in the film and stuck in at the start - like the trailer or movie preview, hence my name for it.  When you reach that opening scene’s second appearance (usually at about three quarters of the way through the film, at about the second act turning point, no later but sometimes earlier ) you suddenly understand vital plot and character matters - everything falls into place.You suddenly understand the protagonist's problem and you urgently want to see it solved. The film then  goes on for some time afterwards. Notice that a crucial part of the film happens AFTER the returns of the opening scene.  


Bookend flashbacks, however, are usually brief, often very brief, and and the second ‘bookend’ comes right at the very end of the film, when the main action is concluded.  Very little and often nothing happens after the dramatic twist of the closing bookend.  Bookend flashbacks work cleverly to distract you.  They give you an opening scene that you almost instantly forget but which,  when it returns – apparently when the film is over -  turns out to be utterly relevant to the film. It’s closure by clever surprise. The film is not about what you thought it was about at all, it's about something different.

Regarding your own film, look to the content of your story and to the effect you want.    If you need a twist at the very end, when the action is apparently over, shocking bookends flashbacks will work.  But the twist MUST  fit. It must provide a surprising but fitting answer.  It can't just be any old shock.  Think: ‘a surprise ending that nevertheless fits brilliantly’. 


Now let's look at your question about genre.  You ask why  audiences are not worried by the fact that the film does not fit into ‘a mystery genre genre film’ and is of a ‘confused genre’. I'd say you've answered your own question. Whether the film does or doesn’t fit into a ‘genre’ as defined by person or persons unknown  is clearly irrelevant to audience enjoyment. The film came out in 1950 and nobody as far as I know has ever got in a tizz about its genre.  Nobody gives a toss. And since that's the case, it's valid to ask why then, should you?


I think you need to question very seriously these rules of genre. If they have (as one must assume) been isolated by someone or other as essential guidelines to writing a good film, if we then find a good film that doesn't adhere to the rules, those rules are  faulty. So what on earth is their point ?  If we have to resort to notions like 'a confused genre', blaming the film for not fitting within our classification system rather than faulting our classification system itself, we are on very thin ice. Indeed, we've fallen through the ice.   And, bottom line, do we really think that audiences chose to like or dislike  films on the basis that they fit or don't fit into someone's definition?  What audience is this?

I keep coming across this notion that everything boils down to genres, and that it’s terribly important to know the genre of a film and the ‘rules’ of genre. People exercise themselves greatly about it.  Well, genre certainly has its uses as a simple tool of classification but let’s  get down to brass tacks  here. If we're going to get solemn and scholarly and invent complex and global systems regarding genre that will give writers the answer to writing brilliant films, let's apply some intellectual rigor. 


If you’re going to prescribe and proscribe what writers should write on the basis of a rigid taxonomy, you’d better make very sure that your classification system properly encompasses whatever it is you’re trying to pigeonhole. And Sunset Boulevard reveals that in at least one case it  doesn’t.  As for 'the exception proves the rule, I’d share Bentham’s view: if there is an exception to the rule it’s a bad rule. Surely, the only thing that’s ‘confused’ here is the person or persons who have devised these ‘rules’. 

Notice that I keep saying 'someone's definition of genre'.  It's important to stress this since there is a widespread notion out there that there is a 'right' way to write a film and the 'experts' are simply transmitting it. The idea is that you go to film school or to courses as you would go to medical school or law school to learn a body of knowledge to which all successful writers adhere and which has been around since the dawn of time. 

Well, it isn't like that. Someone has made up these rules, and scriptwriting is not static. It's not something that's remained unchanged for milennia.  Why should story creation have remained upchanged for thousands of years when every other sphere of human endeavour has shifted and modified its rules?  It's now fashionable to claim that all writers write according to rules laid down by Aristotle. Well, they don't (Shakespeare famously didn't) anymore than astronomers believe, as Aristotle did, that the earth is the centre of the universe, or medicos believe as Aristotle did (hilariously) that the male testes were merely weights attached to the larynx, their job being to weigh it down so that it got bigger and the boy's voice deepened into a man's. Dragging in Aristotle is simply a way to legitimate a rigid set of rules and pre-empt disagreement which might mean modifying the rules.


As I say, always, always, always  challenge the 'experts'. 


To my view any rigid screenwriting system is suspect. All art forms change and film and television drama are constantly changing. The point of rules or guidelines in any art form is that they provide the springboard for new ideas, for taking the art form forward, for originality. Any classification system or writing approach that you're being asked to learn and take seriously must a) work, and b) must welcome change. People don't go to music school to learn only how to write music as it was written hundreds of years ago. Architects learn about ancient architecture but nobody expects them to create a block of flats that looks like the Parthenon. 


The other thing about 'writing to a genre' is that it can very easily turn into an exercise in cliche.  My heart sinks when I hear that a film funding body is asking producers for genre films. So often people take this to mean 'hash up all the usual cliches and you'll get the dosh'.


In conclusion, I’d say about your film, forget this faulty taxonomy you're being offered.  As  you yourself have noticed, nobody dismisses a film purely because it doesn’t fit someone’s notion of a ‘genre’.  Use only screenwriting systems that helps your work to be vividly original (whether it's in a traditional form or something more complex). Don't get tied up in rules and regulations for the sake of it. Be guided in matters of structure by your content. If a twist ending is what you're after, if it's what properly ends your film, go for it.


Good luck and I hope it's a wonderful success for you.

Personally, despite some fine performances, I found Cosmopolis slow,  incoherent and, forgive me if you loved it, all a bit silly. This seemed a view shared by many of the small audience when I watched it at London’s Barbican centre, who, unfortunately, walked out. 

However, this post isn’t about the film’s ideas but its structural form. What happens in the films is that a central character spends a day travelling about a big city in his stretch limousine in search of a haircut.  He meets a range of other characters, some inside the car, others in public places.   

This kind of structure belongs to a family of parallel narrative that I’ve named consecutive stories, (I describe it as ‘one story coming after another and linking at the end’). Specifically, Cosmopolis belongs to the simplest form of consecutive stories, which I’ve named ‘Stories walking into the picture’ (the fine Iranian film The Circle is another example).    Stories walking into the picture is exactly what it says.  It’s a kind of ‘fly on the wall’  film, involving a series of (usually) self contained stories, one taking over from another, as one character, or even just the camera, moves physically through an environment. 

The big problem of stories walking into the picture is that it is inherently slow.  Unless you insert some genuine suspense into the stories that are told one after the other, or somehow link them together so that they are rising to a climax you can easily get the boring effect of ‘and then... and then... and then...’.   Unfortunately, Cosmopolis doesn’t succeed in  inserting any rising suspense across its stories (apart from a little at the end about a murder attempt).    

Now, interestingly, very suspenseful films like Pulp Fiction and City of God belong to ‘stories walking into the picture’.  So how do they achieve suspense?  They use non linearity.  This is crucial.  Both films get enormous energy by making one of their storylines non linear, so that the film opens at a highly suspenseful, violent moment.  The consectuive complete stories are then inserted into this fractured frame.  In Pulp Fiction we don’t return to the initial fractured story until all of the other stories are told.  In City of God we keep visiting the fractured story throughout the film.  In both instances it’s specifically this non linearity that prevents the slowness that you get in the linear form.   The non linearity injects mysetery and suspense.  So a fractured storyline might well have given Cosmopolis some more energy and meaning.  Fracturing is thus a good trick to remember if you are thinking of using stories walking into the picture.

On the matter of energy, I think Cosmopolis might have found more of if had the journey through the city had a stronger and more interesting motive. There is a quick trick to finding motive in this kind of situation.   When I talk about multiple protagonist stories (group missions, sieges or reunions) I suggest that writers will get a more powerful and driven story if,  instead of thinking ‘a group of characters gets together AND ‘,the writer thinks ‘a group of characters gets together BECAUSE’.    I think Cosmopolis could have had more suspense and impact had the writers approached the film not as ‘a man gets in a car and travels across a city AND ... ‘ but ‘a man gets into a car and travels around a city BECAUSE...’   

Hi, sorry for the silence.  I've been lecturing at the Warsaw Film School and being a tourist in Poland!  Very enjoyable.

A question that has come up in talking to writers in Poland and also elsewhere recently is the issue of the Series Arc.  So what, exactly, is a series arc?.  A series arc is an overarching serial plotline that runs for the whole series and which in every episode shows the characters in the series changing in some radical way in response to events.  This plotline is resolved and/or turned in a radical new direction in the final episode of the series. 

Not all series have a series arc.  The Simpsons made its mark by NOT having a series arc and keeping the characters perpetually the same age and in the same situation.

Sometimes series that start out without a series arc and insert one in later seasons. 

A very interesting series arc is the one in  Life on Mars.  Here, the series arc is also the premise - namely, that a detective has an accident and is simultaneously in a coma AND working as a detective decades in the past.  Every episode, we see a police crime story set in the past, and we also see serial element consisting of his changing relationships in the past with the people we meet. In addition to these, we see material about his comatose state in the present. He hears voices  through the TV set, these voices apparently belonging to people who, decades hence, are standing around his comatose body talking about him and to him.  Additionally, he sometimes sees his childhood self. 
 
The advantage of a series arc is that it pulls in audiences and holds them.  Its disadvantage is that the end of the season sees the characters significantly changed, so the season that follows has to take on these new changed characters.  Sometimes a series arc can seriously damage a series.  For example, when Fran in The Nanny finally got her man the comic sexual tension that was so important to the series was lost.  A massive change like this can kill a series because it changes it beyond recognition.  So think seriously about the impact a series might have before you consider one.

A good coffee break exercise would be to take a genre (like a hospital show) and brainstorm a striking series arc/premise.  That way, as in Life in Mars, you get all of the attraction of a genre show PLUS a unique and fascinating premise.  You could do this for a genre novel, too.