Speech As Character

A film character’s screen dialogue should be written as a language to be spoken and heard, but many beginner screenwriters mistakenly write dialogue to be ‘read. It’s in the character’s speech where a screenplay can show off some mastery.

By Charles Deemer
Edited by Stavros C. Stavrides

Updated October 25, 2022


For writers who aspire to stylistic brilliance of prose in models such as Henry James, William Faulkner, and James Agee, screenwriting can be a disappointing field.

That would be a bit like an Olympic runner joining the grade school track team. Strong writing skills in the traditional literary sense simply are not as important to a screenwriter as strong storytelling skills.

A minor exception, however, is the writing of screen dialogue. Writing dialogue is the primary area in which a screenwriter gets to show off a little mastery of language.

But dialogue for the screen is written in a special kind of language, and in my university classes, I am struck by how many students enter with no knowledge of this.

They are writing dialogue as a language to be read, when in fact dialogue must be written as a language to be spoken and heard. Those two universes are light-years apart.

People Speak in Fragments

Picture a scene in which one student roommate asks another if he would like to go out for a beer. A beginning screenwriter might write something like this:

The above is poorly written for several reasons.

At the level of rhetoric, this language is too formal. The language we speak every day is much less formal than written language. Real spoken language is filled with sentence fragments and word contractions, the sort of things that are frowned upon by English teachers expecting formal written prose.

Ironically, often the better the student in terms of English literary skills, the worst the dialogue they write. That’s because they’re trained so strongly in writing formal prose which is seldom appropriate for dialogue.

A more informal, spoken translation of the above might be:

But we can still improve this dialogue by making it more personal, making it more of a revelation of character by giving it some “attitude”.

Screenplay dialogue must serve at least one of two purposes: it must either: Move the plot forward, or it must reveal character.

Give Dialogue An Attitude

How do we personalize dialogue? By giving it an attitude, in the sense that dialogue becomes a verbal imprint of individual character. Hence:

See the difference?

The first rewrite improves the rhetoric by making it informal, spoken speech, but the dialogue is still primarily informational.

In this second rewrite, we’ve infused the dialogue with attitude and wrapped the information in the point of view of the character. We begin to learn something about who the characters are by the way they speak.

Lines with an attitude” is a good way to describe dialogue that reveals character, and it’s a major key in writing unforgettable spoken language.

Subtext In a Character’s Speech

In his book “Stein on Writing”, Sol Stein asks four questions of dialogue, establishing the conditions it must meet:

What is the purpose of the exchange – does it begin or heighten an existing conflict?
• Does it stimulate [our] curiosity?
• Does the exchange create tension?
• Does the dialogue build to a climax or a turn of events in the story or a change in the relationship of the speakers?

Stein also notes how interesting dialogue is often oblique. He gives many examples in his book. One is this (boring) exchange:

“How are you?”
“Fine”

A boringly ordinary exchange, right?

But when we change to:

“How are you?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you.”

we create interest because the person does not answer the question, but establishes subtext – something more than meets the eye is going on here.

Ordinary speech is boring, and good dialogue is carefully crafted to give spoken exchanges tension and mystery, direction and conflict. What is not said directly but nonetheless communicated is “subtext,” meaning under the literal surface of speech.

A pejorative term for poor dialogue that has come into fashion is “on the nose” dialogue, which is the opposite of dialogue. Russin and Downs define it this way in their book “Screenplay: Writing the Picture”:

“When a character states exactly what he wants it’s called on-the-nose dialogue. The character is speaking the subtext; there is no hidden meaning behind the words, no secret want, because everything is spelled out. But most interesting people, and certainly most interesting characters, don’t do this.
~ “Robin Russi, William Missouri Downs

Example of Subtext

Below is a very simple scene from David Lynch’s movie “The Straight Story” written by John Roach & Mary Sweeney. It’s an excellent example of subtext:

Before Alvin begins his incredible journey riding a lawn mower across the country to visit his distant brother, his daughter Rose goes to the grocery store to buy him supplies.

Rose is fearful about her father’s trip. Notice how Rose’s feelings of grief and fear transfer to a simple grocery item, a braunschweiger sausage.

Yet this scene is not about the Braunschweiger, but about her anxiety over her father’s trip.

Rose takes items to the counter. Brenda is the checkout cashier.

The most ordinary everyday settings such as a checkout counter can serve as an arena for revealing emotional material.

And such a scene doesn’t take very much time at all when handled by a skilled screenwriter, so every line works. The focus is tight, and that idle chit-chat doesn’t dilute the scene’s energy.

In the hands of an amateur, this scene could be disastrous, full of small talk that goes nowhere.

Here the progression is logical, direct, concise and efficient, all moving toward the unspoken but evident “punch line,” in which the subtext is:

I hate that my Dad is going on this trip!”

When you write dialogue with subtext, you are letting the audience discover meaning through the heart before they understand it through the head.

Expository (obvious and overly factual) dialogue aims at the head, at understanding.
Subtext, on the other hand, aims at the heart – at feelings.

It is more powerful writing to make your audience feel first and understand second.

Summary

Here are some things you can do to improve your skills at writing dialogue: 

Read your script aloud! The written word is not the spoken word. Even better, get your script into the hands of the actors. By doing a “staged reading” of your script, your ear will tell you what your eye will miss when it comes to poor dialogue

Listen to the speech of people around you. On the bus, in a restaurant, at a party. Listen especially for idiosyncratic rhetorical patterns that you can “borrow” and adapt to your work.

However, do not make the mistake of believing that “real speech” is the goal. Dialogue is always crafted – it is, in fact, more interesting than real speech (usually) but gives the illusion of being real speech.

Write with subtext. People normally don’t speak as directly as characters do in a soap opera. Let them speak obliquely, around their true emotions, so that the listeners/audience will discover meaning through feelings, through the heart.


When you write dialogue with subtext, you are letting the audience discover meaning through the heart before they understand it through the head.

Rewrite your dialogue and read your script aloud again. 

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The Challenge of Act Three

Act Three is so important that many screenwriting teachers advise their students not to writing until the final act is clear – know your ending before you begin.

By Charles Deemer, Edited by Stavros C. Stavrides


I do not tell my students this for a variety of reasons. The creative process does not comfortably follow rules, and many professional screenwriters are on record (and other writers as well, including Stephen King) as admitting that often they do not know their endings when they begin writing.

To be sure, as a script nears completion, the “ending” must be part of the fabric of a story’s beginning, but for some writers a long process is necessary to discover all the parts of the story plan. For example, I use my first drafts as the process by which I discover what it is I really want to write about — in other words, my first drafts serve discovery, not fine craftsmanship, which comes in subsequent drafts.

The point I am belaboring is that it’s quite all right, at this early stage (writing the first draft), if you don’t know as much about your story as you eventually must. That’s why writing is called A PROCESS.

The Hero’s Recovery

What is certain, however, is that the third act must begin with the hero’s recovery after the low point that ends Act Two. In the tradition of Hollywood movies, heroes win. The guy gets the girl, the good guy defeats the bad guy. Even in darker independent films that buck this tradition, the hero must recover in order to participate in the final movement of the story, Act Three.

So your first job is to get the main character out of the fix you created. This should be done by the hero being active, not passive (being rescued by someone else), and of course it should be believable within the suspension of disbelief that your audience will give you if they are wrapped up in your story.

The Ticking Clock

Armed with a second wind, the hero now moves towards the showdown of the movie. In The Graduate, for example, Act Two ends when Benjamin learns that Elaine has been pulled out of school by her father and, worse, is about to get married. Benjamin’s task is to find her and stop her from doing so.

Thus he races against “a ticking clock” — a deadline for the action he must perform — in order to rescue Elaine from her family. If you can get a ticking clock into your third act, so much the better.

In Shakespeare in Love, the ticking clock happens as the play progresses with a sick actor playing Juliet, who won’t be able to make his entrance. At the last minute, Viola plays the role, playing opposite Will’s Romeo, and they can play out the tragedy of their “real life” love on stage.

The Big Showdown

The showdown is the final confrontation between protagonist and antagonist, between Benjamin and his love’s family, between Will and his writing block. Benjamin steals Elaine away from the altar, and Will uses his loss of Viola to immortalize her in a new play, Twelfth Night. Will loses the girl but he does not lose his Muse.

The Growth of the Hero

The hero usually comes out of this final showdown a victor and a changed person. He or she experiences personal growth in some way. In The Graduate, there’s an irony attached to growth: seeing the lovers on the bus, riding into the sunset with everyone staring at them, we don’t really know what the future holds.

In Shakespeare in Love, Will’s growth as an artist is clear in his ability to move from personal loss to artistic triumph — Viola as Muse has given him new strength to write, and we don’t expect him to drift from muse-lover to muse-lover with this new artistic strength.

Fade Out

There’s nothing quite as satisfying as ending act three and writing FADE OUT. When you do this, take time off to be good to yourself. Writing a complete draft of a screenplay is no small achievement.

Your Next Step: Writing Is Rewriting >>

<< The Grunt Work Of Act Two

The Grunt Work of Act Two

Act Two is where structural problems commonly invade the script more than anywhere else, and tilt the entire story out of focus. To combat this tendency, it’s best to think of Act Two in two parts, the first half and the second half.

By Charles Deemer, Edited by Stavros C. Stavrides


Act Two, Part One

Act Two begins with the protagonist firmly in the “extraordinary” world, the new experience of the story, with no turning back. Initially, things go well. for example:

  • The scientist in ‘Jurassic Park’ observes the roaming dinosaurs with awe.
  • Benjamin in ‘The Graduate’ happily begins an affair with Mrs. Robinson.
  • Will in ‘Shakespeare In Love’ overcomes writer’s block with a new play in rehearsal and a mysterious new actor before him.

Midway through Act Two, ‘part one’ of the act moves into part two – a major plot point called the MIDPOINT.

As with all plot points, this spins the story in a new direction but sometimes it also defines a new goal for the protagonist. Examples:

  • In ‘Jurassic Park’, the prehistoric animals get free during a storm, terrorizing everyone; the dangerous aspect of the theme park is introduced.
  • In ‘The Graduate’, Benjamin decides he’s in love not with Mrs. Robinson but with her daughter, Elaine; He has a new goal.
  • In ‘Shakespeare In Love’, Will discovers that the mysterious actor is really a woman, Viola, the love of his life, his muse – and he now is writing from the energy of her love.

In each case, the story spins into a broader, more complex dimension. More is going on. This greater density foreshadows the trouble that lies ahead.

NOTE: Lew Hunter, the author of Screenwriting 434, has called writing Act Two the “blue collar” work of screenwriting. He is absolutely correct. Act Two with its two parts makes it as long as Acts One and Three combined. It’s why some teachers refer to a four-act paradigm rather than a three-act paradigm: four equal parts. We prefer retaining the three-act terminology because it meshes so well with the beginning-middle-end structure, which is the essence of dramatic storytelling.

Act Two, Part Two

In the last half of Act Two, the journey of the protagonist turns downward, ending at the end-of-act plot point, which is the low point of the hero’s journey. It is here that all seems lost:

  • In ‘Jurassic Park’, the security system of the park collapses when the computer system has to be rebooted. This hugely magnifies the danger from the animals.
  • In ‘The Graduate’, Benjamin learns that Elaine has been pulled from school and is being rushed into marriage.
  • ‘In Shakespeare In Love’, Viola’s disguise is made public and the theater is shut down.

In each case, things look grim for the protagonist: the scientist’s life is in danger, along with everyone else’s; Benjamin looks to lose Elaine, and Will looks to lose both his wonderful new play and Viola.

It is the purpose of Act Three, which we cover in The Challenge of Act Three, to resolve these issues back in favor of the protagonist.


This post is a support article for the chapter “Screenwriting” in 
Cyber Film School’s Multi-Touch Filmmaking Textbook.


Typical Problems with Act Two

Here are some typical problems that can occur in Act Two:

  • Loss of Focus
  • Insufficient Build
  • Antagonist’s Revenge
  • Too Hi a Low Point

Loss of Focus

The hero’s journey that was clearly set up in Act One becomes lost as the story becomes more complex.

Sometimes subplots become more important than the central dramatic issue; sometimes minor characters become more interesting than the protagonist. The spine of the story collapses.

Insufficient Build

In the journey through Act Two, tension must build right along with the complexity of the story.

This means there must be a through-line connecting the turns of the story and that the stakes must be raised at each twist. The story is like a poker pot with the bets raising and raising again.

Antagonist’s Revenge

If one character is apt to steal the focus from the protagonist, it is the bad guy, the antagonist.

Often bad guys are more interesting to write about than good guys, but you must remember that your story always belongs to the hero.

Study “Silence of the Lambs” for how a dynamic antagonist can be created without sacrificing focus on the protagonist.

Too high a low point.

Movies are bigger than life in all ways. Often writers do not put their protagonists in deep enough a hole at the end of Act Two. The stakes aren’t high enough, the danger is not great enough, and the sense of defeat not threatening enough.

A common command to screenwriters during the rewriting process is “crank it up!” Make the story matter more to the hero — and to the audience. Make the story bigger than life.

The Challenge Of Act Three >>

<< The Rhythms Of Act One


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