On Establishing Mood

Inexperienced screenwriters often assume that directors and cinematographers are responsible for establishing a film's mood. Hogwash, we say. If years of movies-about-making-movies have taught us anything, it's the fact that your typical director is too busy yelling vague threats into a bullhorn, while the cinematographer...well, we don't know what he does. Nobody does, really.

So if the finished film is going to retain even a shitty little shred of atmosphere, it's up to the screenwriter. And in case you haven't been following along, that's YOU.

The easiest way to establish mood is what the pros call the Referential Approach. This should never be confused with the Deferential Approach, which involves allowing a bitter, alcohol-numbed Bruce Willis to wave a loaded handgun in your face while rambling about the Great Emptiness That Lies Beyond The Pale, or whatever the fuck he’s going on about this week.

The Referential Approach is remarkably simple. Have you seen movies before? Well, so have your readers! Draw upon this common bond and let your shared knowledge do the heavy lifting. Here’s an example from Prepare to be Boarded, Matey!, a spec script we’re currently putting together.


INT. THE RED OPAL'S POOP DECK - NIGHT

Pirates scurry about, brandishing their scimitars and bellowing swarthy songs. Remember that one scene in Pirates of the Caribbean? No, the part with the boat. Remember? Yeah, this is just like that. Only cheaper.

CAPTAIN JIM SWALLOW prances around, saying comical things and wiggling his fingers. Remember Johnny Depp's hat? HE’S GOT THE SAME HAT.

CAPTAIN JIM SWALLOW
Rum, rum, blabbersnickt grbl blerr, rum!

He gives up and slumps against the railing, too exhausted to cavort another inch.

JUST SOME PIRATE
Look! A skeleton-zombie thing! Holy shit!

The Skeleton Zombie Pirate Thing comes slithering over the railing. It looks just like the Skeleton Zombie Pirate Things from the first Pirates movie, only cheaper.

CAPTAIN JAMES SWALLOW
(so weary)
Yarr.

Unfortunately, sometimes simply referencing other movies isn’t enough to earn a paycheck, at which point you’ll be forced to actually write a movie of your own. And while this is certainly a depressing turn of events, don’t give up! One last spring-loaded Dagger of Insight remains hidden within the pleathery folds of your Trenchcoat of Artistic Purity, and that is your ability to digress.

Screenwriting is, by its very nature, an artform that prides itself on being concise and to-the-point and not beating around the bush with a bunch of unnecessary descriptions and rambling descriptive sentences when just a few simple and short and straightforward words will do the trick and get the job done, with the job in question being, of course, conciseness. Words are a precious commodity for screenwriters, more precious than gold or silver or even the life of a newborn child, and we should always strive to keep things brief, even if it means we mst strt omttng vwls.

When the screenwriter is attempting to establish mood, however, he is given free reign to indulge his wildest writing fetishes, such as using adjectives. This is your one chance to break free from convention and seize your artistic muse by her glistening, gummy lips, so you’d damn well better take it.

Relate a charming anecdote about the doubting fool who dared you to eat an entire glazed ham, and the look of abject horror on his face when your task was completed. Rant about politics and insult organized religion with reckless abandon. Toss in a few limericks, the filthier the better. Just make sure your digressions are complimenting the mood of the script and manipulating your idiot readers into experiencing the right emotions at the right places.

For example:

EXT. GRAVEYARD – DAY

DETECTIVE MARTIN BLOTCH stands over his wife's grave.

BLONCH
Oh, Cheri...my life is a puddle of warm shit without you, baby...

The tears fall from his eyes like rain, which is also falling right now, although we forgot to mention that earlier. He kneels beside the grave.

Moose was the best old hound any boy could ask for. His brown eyes were warm and wise, and his tail was always quick to wag when he saw you approaching. We would run through the fields together, Moose and I, the corn whipping past in a shimmering blur, Moose's joyous barks echoing across the plains, until at last we would collapse together, rolling in the dirt while Moose covered my laughing face with an eager coat of slobber. When night came, he would stand watch beside my bed, protecting me from those who would do me harm. "Go to bed, Moose," I would tell him, but he would simply stare at me, and the message in his brown eyes was clear: I love you far too much to ever sleep, human child. Journey now to the Land of Dreams. I shall watch over you until you wake.

But there came a day when Moose never answered my calls, never showed up for breakfast nor supper, and that night I slept alone. I set off to find him early the next morn and spent many a fitful hour searching. In desperation I finally turned to the dry riverbed that wound its way around our farm.

It was there that I found Moose, his breathing shallow, his body mangled beyond all hope of reprieve. Beside him lay the corpse of the rascally mountain lion that had been trying to eat me all summer long, and it was then that I realized Moose had fallen in battle while protecting me.

I knelt beside Moose and took his shaggy head in my arms. The light was already fading from his brown eyes, and it was plain that he had spent the last twenty-four hours in immeasurable agony. Yet he had fought to hold on for just this moment...for a chance to say goodbye to his human boy.

"Whuff," he said softly.

"Don't go, Moose!" I screamed. "Oh, Jesus, please save him! Save my dog's life!"

But Jesus was not in that dry riverbed that day.

Moose snuffled his cold wet nose against my neck, then gave me a feeble lick for the very last time. His body shuddered, and his internal organs were then expelled from his anus, as is the custom of all dogs. And Moose was gone, forevermore.

Detective Martin Blotch is still crying.

BLOTCH
Cheriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!