Grendl’s been getting a little testy in the comments the last 24 hours so I’m going to preface today’s review by saying if Grendl goes full Grendl in the comments section, turning the post into a war on the screenwriting and Hollywood community, I’ll have to shut him down. And since I want to hear what Grendl has to say about today’s review, I hope and pray that he engages in civil discourse.
If you haven’t been here for a while, I’ve been using this week to go in-depth into the first scenes of our Blood & Ink Showdown writers. Let’s check out Grendl’s entry, The Devil in 5D, which finished second in the First Scene Showdown voting. Here’s the logline: “A woman begins to suspect the man living in the floor above her is actually Satan, and the building itself a portal to hell.”
This first page is interesting because it’s nothing like Karoshi: The Drive, which starts out in fifth gear. It’s more like Bite After Bite but with a little more confidence.
There’s something undeniably assured about the writing. I like the way Tommy is introduced. The specific sandwich. Him using any little bit of downtime to listen to sports radio where he can get his Jets fix (for those out of country, the Jets are a very specific football team in that they’ve been marred in mediocrity for years).
It’s a page that doesn’t make me turn it because of some great story reveal. I’m turning the page because the writing feels confident and assured.
The second page provides us with our first official “dangling carrot.” A dangling carrot is anything that promises a reveal later on. These carrots can be big. They can be small. It’s up to the writer. But you should definitely use them in your first few pages because, as we’ve established throughout the week, readers are finicky and are ready to give up at the first sign of script weakness.
“It’s just…it’s grown since I emailed your brother that photo.” “Can’t have grown that much in a week.” “Uhm…I’ll show you when you finish.”
I like that small detail of “Uhm…” It hints at a strange reveal, which makes the carrot a little bigger.
The only part I don’t like is when he says, “I’ll show you when you finish.” I read that as, “I’ll show you when you finish the job.” Which was confusing. It was only after Tommy said, “Show me now,” that I realized Neil was referring to finishing the sandwich. A small hiccup but still a hiccup.
As we entered this building and were walking through it, there could’ve been more detail added to the description of the place.
For example, when they reach the elevator, Tommy says, “Wow, now we’re talking.” Neil replies, “The Exeter does have its charms.” What are they referring to? The elevator?? The elevator has literally been described as, “A cast iron elevator.” Is that supposed to be exciting? Cool? If so, the description needs to reflect that.
Then we introduce the ivy. This changes the scene significantly. I wasn’t a big fan of it, to be honest. A lot of that is due to expectations. When Grendl first pitched this idea, I was imagining a modern day version of Rosemary’s Baby. And part of what made that movie so distinct was that it felt REAL. It was very much grounded in its approach.
Out of control ivy being introduced on page 3 doesn’t feel grounded to me. It feels like we’re jumping the gun and including a story development that doesn’t quite gel with what I expected.
Now, you can argue that this is my fault for expecting something the writer never intended. But I’m just taking you through my mind so you understand why I’m reacting this way.
At this point, I’m in a weird place. I’m admiring the writing, which I find professional and confident. But I’m rebelling against the content.
This happens all the time in reading by the way. You like the writing but not the storytelling. You like the characters but not the plot. You like the voice but the hero is annoying. It’s why writing is so finicky. There are so many variables, any of which can trip a reader up.
There’s another line here that I rebelled against. Tommy asks why’d you grow the ivy? Neil says I didn’t. Tommy asks who did. Neil says, “They just grew.” It’s supposed to be this poignant line, the kind that a director might punctuate with an eerie piano note.
But, again, I don’t care about this ivy. I find ivy to be mostly uninteresting (unless it’s on the walls of Wrigley Field). I honestly don’t care that it just grew.
But, if we’re diving deeper into what the reader is actually thinking in this moment – I’m assuming that the devil, who’s been mentioned in the title and logline, is responsible for it. That’s got me thinking, “This is kind of a lame devil. He likes to grow ivy??” So, that’s where my head is at.
With that said, I still want to keep reading. The writing is strong and there is an unresolved issue. As long as something is unresolved in a scene, it’s hard for a reader to stop reading. So I want to find out what happens here, as I’m assuming it will be horrific.
A couple of things of note on this page.
First, I love that he almost gets impaled by the shears. I don’t know why but I always love those moments – a seemingly mundane task out of nowhere places you within inches of losing your life (maybe why I love the Final Destination franchise so much). As long as it’s been properly set up, these moments work well. And we know he needs the shears. They’ve been set up. So their payoff works.
You then introduce another character. She’s mysterious. Anything mysterious gets us turning the pages. You keep hearing me say this all week but I can’t emphasize it enough. It’s the only thing that matters – getting the reader to keep turning the pages. It doesn’t matter how you do it as long as you do it.
The writers whose scripts fail are the ones who take too long between dangling carrots. They let you catch up to one and then they take their sweet time introducing the next one.
In your first scene, that time between carrots should be less than half a page AT MOST. But once you get a script going and the reader has invested in it, you can take a few pages now and then between carrots.
Of the six pages so far, this is probably the weakest. We finish the job and chat with the girl and get ready to go. There’s a *little bit* of a hook here in that the ivy may have turned off the radio, implying that it’s sentient, which means it’s dangerous. So it isn’t like all tension is gone. But I think the fact that this page feels a little flat tells me we probably could’ve achieved this scene in 7 pages instead of 8.
A small screenwriting hack for anyone reading this. Characters are almost always more interesting when they’re busy, when they’re being pulled in multiple directions.
I think this scene plays better if Tommy planned the job off the original picture that he received, when the ivy wasn’t as extensive. And so he’d scheduled something else today after this job. So he’s working twice as hard to finish the job so that he can get to this next appointment. This creates more urgency and tension in the scene and builds agitation into the character, which tends to manifest in more dramatic ways.
As it stands, he’s only got to be home for dinner. Which is fine! There’s nothing wrong with that. But you can supercharge these scenarios if you want to. The screenwriting tools are there for you if you want to use them.
Again, when he comes back and sees the ivy regrown, we’ve now moved into the “magical” realm. I’d hoped to read a grounded story like Rosemary’s Baby. Like The Exorcist. But we’re already getting magical on page 7.
As I look back at the logline, I’m realizing that I focused almost exclusively on the first part, since that’s the part that I like the most. But I didn’t give much credence to the second part. And now I’m realizing that the reason this building can change form is because it’s part of Hell. I guess I thought that it was just a portal to hell and wasn’t hell itself. That’s where the disconnect is. I don’t like that the building can change and morph. I’d rather the Devil be the only one who can do shit.
We’re now expanding the magical rules from the ivy to the building itself. The stairs can turn into razors.
I think of the opening of Rosemary’s Baby and it was just so simple. A woman had jumped from the building and committed suicide. It was horrifying yet grounded (no pun intended).
Here’s the thing. When you are a newbie writer or a self-admitted weak writer, you have to use gimmicks. You have to use bigger wilder moments to keep the reader paying attention.
But when you have natural writing talent as well as an extensive screenwriting education, you don’t have to write openings like this. You can write your hero doing something as simple as moving into the building. And I think that’s what Grendl should do here. I don’t think he needs regenerating ivy and razor staircases. I think he can write a Rosemary’s Baby opening and just hook us with his strong understanding of craft, his scene-writing, his confidence, his characterization, a little suspense, and some solid dialogue. I’m confident that kind of scene would work for him and I’d still want to read on.
