Economy in dialogue is an invaluable asset. Relaying information artfully is one of the great tricks of good screenwriting. In one of my favorite noirs, The Big Combo (1955), written by Phillip Yordan, directed by Joseph H. Lewis, and wonderfully photographed by John Alton, we are left with the lingering memory of the great villain, Mr. Brown. As with most good performances, Richard Conte seems tailor-made for the role, or perhaps vice-versa. Like Christopher Guest’s Corky Sinclair, Lee J. Cobb’s Willy Lohman, and Ricky Gervais’ David Brent, Richard Conte is Mr. Brown. His clipped, staccato delivery enhances the tough, streetwise cityspeak of a longtime hood.

In a memorable scene we first glimpse Mr. Brown creeping out of the shadows as he chastises a loser boxer/employee for not having what it takes - for not having what makes the difference between little men and big men: “The Hate”. Mr. Brown calls his adversary, Lt. Diamond, not by his name, but by how much money he makes a week: “Ninety-six fifty”. It’s a nice way to rub in the gulf which lies between the life of a lowly cop and that of a successful racketeer. Later, Diamond brings in Mr. Brown and most of his clan for questioning on trumped-up charges. Brown agrees to a lie-detector test to speed up the process, and the cops start with a little word association:

BROWN

Picking me up for peddling without a

license. You could have come up with

something better than that, lieutenant.

DIAMOND

I prefer it to be suspicion of murder, but we

had none today.

BROWN

I would have been happy to accommodate you:

A police lieutenant.

TESTOR

Now, I’ll say one word at a time. Most of them

won’t mean a thing to you, but I want you to

say what ever pops into your head. Like if I

say ‘sweet’—

BROWN

--I say ‘sugar’.

TESTOR

If I say ‘police’…

BROWN
(looks to Diamond)

I say ‘ninety-six fifty.’

TESTOR

Apple.

BROWN

Pear.

TESTOR

Blue.

BROWN

Ocean.

TESTOR

Brown.

BROWN

‘Mr. Brown’ to you. Only my friends call me ‘Brown.’

TESTOR

Water.

BROWN

Whiskey.

TESTOR

Gun.

BROWN

Permit.

TESTOR

Spaghetti.

BROWN

Battini.

The needle on the lie detector jumps.

DIAMOND

What? What’s that?

BROWN

What’s what?

DIAMOND

Battini.

BROWN

Spaghetti joint on the north side.

DIAMOND

Since when? I never heard of it.

BROWN

You couldn’t afford it.

DIAMOND
(to Testor)

Go ahead, Joe.

TESTOR

Woman.

BROWN

Expensive.

TESTOR

Snow.

BROWN

White.

TESTOR

Alicia.

Again the needle jumps.

BROWN

What was that name again?

TESTOR

A woman’s name: Alicia.

BROWN

No.

DIAMOND

No what?

BROWN

I said ‘no,’ you want me to say it again?

DIAMOND

You know Alicia, don’t you?

BROWN

Sure. A three year old filly that broke her leg

in the Jamaica Stakes. I lost ten grand.

DIAMOND

You’re lying, Mr. Brown. When you heard ‘Alicia’

you’re heart went bang. You don’t lie with your

blood pressure. You know what this means?

It means you’re scared. And Mr. Brown isn’t

scared of a horse. Who is she? What does

she mean to you?

BROWN
(stands up)

If that’s a crime, book me. Book me, small change.

DIAMOND
(to Sam)

All right, take him out, Sam.

SAM

To the bullpen?

DIAMOND

No, back to the gutter.

It is the picture of economy of dialogue. Think how much we just learned about the character in so few lines, in a scene which could have needlessly been blown into a huge production. And it, of course, furthers the plot as well. We will later find out that Battini is much more than spaghetti joint and that Alicia is much more than just a horse.

A friend of mine who is a longtime writer for film and television (nearly 30 years experience) the other day asserted “writers can be so self-important. You have to remember that what the actor brings to the work is at least fifty percent - at least fifty per cent”. This might be a good thing to keep in mind. You can only do so much. Even Citizen Kane has a camera shadow in it. As the old saying goes: a good script with bad actors can be passable, but a bad script with the best actors in the world won’t work. And it’s often true. Also, the audience brings to the film their own baggage. You have to remember, a lot of the people out there in the dark react to a movie the same way a teenager reacts to pop music. They bring a lot of their own meanings to it. They can read things into a song that’s not really even there. They call certain songs “my music”. Deep down a lot of people just want to connect. They want to say, “I know just how she feels,” or “Wow, I’m just like him.” And they do it all the time.

The parlor scene in Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho (1960) is another great example of seemingly casual dialogue which turns out to be wonderfully crafted. The successful and famous (perhaps infamous) film was adapted from the novel by Robert Bloch, scenario by Alfred Hitchcock and Joseph Stefano, script by Joseph Stefano. Marion Crane and Norman Bates have a modest meal in the taxidermied-bird-laden parlor of his remote motel. Marion has gotten herself into a trap by suddenly stealing $40,000 from her employer. She finds a person who is equally if not more trapped than she:

NORMAN

You’ve never had an empty moment in

your life, have you?

MARION

Only my share.

NORMAN

Where are you going? (beat) I didn’t mean to pry.

MARION

I’m looking for a private island.

NORMAN

What are you running away from?

MARION

Why do you ask that?

NORMAN

People never run away from anything. (beat)

The rain didn’t last long, did it? You know what

I think? I think that we’re all in our private traps,

clamped in them. And none of us can ever get

out. We scratch and claw, but only at the air;

only at each other. And for all of it, we never

budge an inch.

MARION

Sometimes we deliberately step into those traps.

NORMAN

I was born in mine. I don’t mind it anymore.

MARION

Oh, but you should. You should mind it.

NORMAN

Oh, I do, but I say I don’t.

It is a stark, wonderful scene. Later, when Marion suggests that Norman put his apparently abusive elderly mother “someplace,” Norman’s demeanor suddenly changes in a foretelling moment:

NORMAN

You mean an institution? A madhouse?

People always call a madhouse ‘someplace,’

don’t they? ‘Put her in someplace.’

MARION

I didn’t mean to sound uncaring—-

NORMAN

--What do you know about caring? Have you

ever seen the inside of one of those places?

The laughing and the tears, and the cruel eyes

studying you… My mother there? But she’s

harmless. She’s as harmless as one of those

stuffed birds.

MARION

I’m sorry. I only felt… It seems that she’s

hurting you. I meant well.

NORMAN

People always mean well. They cluck their

thick tongues and shake their heads and

suggest oh so very delicately… (beat)

Of course, I’ve suggested it myself. But I hate

to even think about it. She needs me. It’s not

as if she were a maniac, a raving thing. She

just goes a little mad sometimes. We all go

a little mad sometimes. (beat) Haven’t you?

MARION

Yes. And sometimes just one time can be enough.

Even Anthony Perkins’ posture is telling. As he leans forward he seems to become mother, as he leans back he seems to be Norman. How does he know what the inside of a madhouse looks like?

Remember the old “Write what you know” rule. If you want to write about a subject that you aren’t thoroughly schooled in, don’t. Study it first, explore its possibilities, or had better be damn sure you can fake it unerringly. This usually takes bouncing off other well-informed people.

Jack Klugman has said that he loved Rod Serling’s dialogue - dialogue that “crackles”. It’s an overused term, but it actually does often apply beautifully to Serling’s words. Aside of his many outstanding teleplays such as Patterns, In The Presence of Mine Enemies, and Requiem for A Heavyweight, and screenplays such as Planet of the Apes, the Twilight Zone episode Walking Distance (1959) is considered by many to be perhaps the best of that legendary series.

Martin Sloan, a burned-out ad-man from New York City gets in his sports car and tries to escape his life for an afternoon. He winds up at a gas station just outside of his old hometown. He revisits the idyllic burg, and nothing seems to have changed. Eerily, he locates his old house with both of his parents still living in it. He seems to even find himself as a child and chases after him. Signs such as a “new” 1934 car tell him he is in the Homewood of his past. After a confrontation with his parents he finally catches up with the younger version of himself on a merry-go-round. He chases after the child, causing him to fall off the ride. The older Martin warily approaches. Gig Young’s poignant performance punctuates the simple, heart-wrenching dialogue. It seems as if he knows something of the character he portrays:

MARTIN

Martin, I only wanted to tell you that this

is a wonderful time of life for you. Don’t let

any of it go by without enjoying it. (beat)

There won’t be any more merry- go-rounds,

no more cotton candy. No more band concerts.

I only wanted to tell you that this is a wonderful

time for you. Now. Here. That’s all, Martin.

That’s all I wanted to tell you. God help me,

that’s all I wanted to tell you.

Later, Martin’s father finds him alone and weeping. Now believing this is some form of his own son in the future, he approaches him:

FATHER

I thought you’d like to know the boy’ll be

all right. The doctor says he’ll limp some,

but he’ll be all right.

MARTIN

Thank God for that.

Father produces Martin’s wallet.

FATHER

You dropped this at the house. I looked

inside it. It tells a great many things about

you. Your driver’s license, the cards, the

money in it. It seems you are Martin Sloan.

You’re thirty-six years old, and you have

an apartment in New York City. It says your

driver’s license expires in nineteen-sixty.

That’s twenty-five years from now. And the

dates on the bills, those dates haven’t

happened yet, either.

MARTIN

Then you… you know, pop.

FATHER

Yes, I know. I know who you are. I know

you come from a long way from here –

a long way and a long time. But I don’t

understand how or why. Do you?

MARTIN

No.

FATHER

But you do know other things, don’t you

Martin? Things that’ll happen?

MARTIN

Yes, I do.

FATHER

Martin…

MARTIN

Yes, father?

FATHER

You have to leave here. There’s no room.

There’s no place. Do you understand that?

MARTIN

I see that now, but I don’t understand.

Why not?

FATHER

I guess because we only get once chance.

Maybe there’s only one summer to every

customer. That little boy – the one I know,

the one who belongs here – this is his

summer, just as it was yours once. But,

don’t make him share it.

MARTIN

All right.

FATHER

Martin, is it so bad where you’re from?

MARTIN

I thought so, pop. I’ve been living at a dead

run, and I was tired. Then one day I knew

I had to come back here. I had to come back

and get on a merry-go-round and eat cotton

candy and listen to a band concert. I had to

stop and breathe and close my eyes and listen.

FATHER

I guess we all want that. Maybe when you

go back, Martin, you’ll find that there are

merry-go-rounds and band concerts where

you are. Maybe you haven’t been looking

in the right place. You’ve been looking

behind you, Martin. Try looking ahead.

MARTIN

Maybe.

FATHER

Goodbye, son.

MARTIN

Goodbye, Pop.

At once Serling makes an implausible story more plausible, gives us a touching, unlikely scene between a father and his son, and tugs at a common longing. Who in this world doesn’t feel like Martin Sloan at one time or another in their life? We all have this longing or something akin to it. This episode awakens it in us. As usual, Serling’s own voice closes the show in one of the most eloquent epilogues of the series:

SERLING: Martin Sloan, age: thirty-six, in charge of media. Successful at most things, but not in the one effort that most men try at some time in their lives: trying to go home again. And also, like all men perhaps, there will be an occasion, maybe a summer night sometime, when he’ll look up from what he’s doing and listen to the distant music of a calliope and hear the voices and the laughter of the people and the places of his past. And perhaps across his mind there might flit an errant wish that a man might not have to become old; never outgrow the parks and the merry-go-rounds of his youth. And he’ll smile then, too, because he’ll know it is just an errant wish, some wisp of memory not too important really, some laughing ghost that could cross a man’s mind that are a part of the Twilight Zone.

Why does the episode play so well? Well, apart from the excellent performances, unusually artful camerawork, and Bernard Hermann’s moving score, Rod Serling - some part of him - was Martin Sloan. Martin Sloan was Rod Serling trying to revisit the Binghamton, New York of his youth. He understood the character, he was a master of the theme:

“Everyone has to have a hometown, Binghamton's mine. In the strangely brittle, terribly sensitive makeup of a human being, there is a need for a place to hang a hat, or kind of geographical womb to crawl back into, or maybe just a place that's familiar because that's where you grew up… When I dig back through my memory cells, I get one particularly distinctive feeling and that's one of warmth, comfort and well-being. For whatever else I may have had, or lost, or will find, I've still got a hometown. This, nobody's gonna take away from me”. -Rod Serling

Dialogue becomes ridiculous and even laughable when the writer misses the mark. The more he or she misses the mark, the more outrageous the dialogue becomes. Great examples of this can obviously be seen especially in films in which the filmmaker set the mark so terribly high and in the end fell so dreadfully short. Examples abound in the great camp of classic bad movies such as those of Ed Wood, Jr. His often lofty ambitions produce a level of camp so high it has rarely been equaled. He doesn’t just make a movie about aliens invading earth in Plan 9 From Outer Space (1959), he conjures badly dressed humanoids with names such as Eros who spout weird philosophy and speak of dastardly substances called “Solarbanite” or “Solarite” depending on which scene one happens to be watching.

In the deliciously bad The Last Dinosaur (1977), a badly-aging Richard Boone, playing “the richest man in the world” Masten Thrust, a great safari hunter, and a relatively nubile Joan Van Ark (Frankie) have a sudden and unlikely love scene after boring through the polar cap in a submersible and battling a world of some of the most dubious-looking rubber dinosaurs ever captured on celluloid:

FRANKIE

Masten, we have the Polar Borer launched.

I want you to come back with us.

THRUST

I got a better idea. You stay here with me.

(laughs) I like that idea. Adam and Eve.

Now you tell me the truth, what’s back there

for you? Confusion. Frustration. Nah, here’s

where life is… pure and simple. Oh… and we

could make love… and we could hunt…

and what the hell else is there?

FRANKIE

Alright, it’s a marvelous dream, but not here.

You don’t belong here. You come back with

me now… and I’ll gladly be your Eve anywhere

in the world.

THRUST

Oh, I believe you would, crazy lady.

FRANKIE

I would.

What was William Overgard thinking? And yet, it is fun to watch the film unravel. The painful films are the ones which simply bore you with words.

What is realism? It is often an elusive and slippery idea in film. Improvisation can be a dangerous and expensive endeavor as even Jerry Lewis noted in his book The Complete Filmmaker. Not everybody is John Cassavetes, and even his work didn’t work some of the time. Christopher Guest reportedly has about a 50-1 shooting ratio. Fellini often came up with scenarios and let a lot of the creative process occur on set. Again, few people are Fellini. And few people have the power he had. I guarantee you if I transcribed La Dolce Vita (1959) and submitted it today to a Hollywood producer as a script, he would say something to the effect of “Are you out of your mind? Nothing happens in this movie! What’s it about?” I doubt it would go over very well. One has to be careful with the conversational dialogue or it can bog down in the “Royale with cheese” vein and seem to go nowhere.

“Realistic” dialogue can even become stylized as in Abraham Polonski’s interesting noir Force of Evil (1948):

“Force of Evil has been a major influence on my work… particularly on Mean Streets, Raging Bull, and Goodfellas.” – Martin Scorsese

Lowly numbers runner Thomas Gomez laments his life to successful mobster brother John Garfield:

JOE

Money has no moral opinions.

LEO

I find I have, Joe. I find I have. But now I’m

speaking to you, I’m speaking to you as your

older brother who slaved for you. You stop

now. Stop now, Joe. Because I’m getting old,

and old people die. And there’ll be nobody

to cry for you.

And later while talking to an associate:

LEO

I’m a man with heart trouble. I die almost

every day myself. That’s the way I live.

Silly habit. You know, sometimes you feel

as though you’re dying, here (touches hand),

and here (touches fingertips), and here

(touches heart)… You’re dying while your

breathing…

Scorsese has called such dialogue “blank verse.”

As always, remind yourself of what dialogue can do effectively and what it can’t do effectively. In Robert Aldrich’s Kiss Me Deadly (1955), Ralph Meeker’s Mike Hammer, having been through hell and back in his selfish search for the “Great Whatsit” finally enters an athletic club in search of the Grand MacGuffin. He approaches the well-starched desk clerk and asks for a key to a certain locker. The clerk bristles and refuses. A disheveled Hammer first reaches in his pocket, peels off a few bills, and slaps them down on the counter. No response. He then grabs the clerk by the collar and slaps him around. Finally, the desired result comes: the key is produced. This tells us much about Mike Hammer’s tough, seedy world. First: words, then money, then violence. How could one write this in dialogue as efficiently?

In Fritz Lang’s masterful and chilling M (1931), the lead character, played with groundbreaking believability by a young Peter Lorre, is a serial child murderer. Rather than a lot of superfluous dialogue immediately surrounding the murders, the soundtrack is often merely filled with quiet ambient street sounds and the murderer whistling In the Hall of the Mountain King from Peer Gynt. This becomes an emotional trigger that alerts the audience the character is once again on the hunt. Author Tom Schatz once said “since I saw this movie, I have never been able to hear that song the same way again.” I’m sure many other viewers feel the same way. Some of the most personally meaningful, emotional human events often happen with no words: murder, sex, death, childbirth, etc. Don’t put words where they might not belong.

And, as always, know your material and be ready to fight for it. I recently viewed and interview with Gene Wilder on the making of the funny and lovingly-made comedy Young Frankenstein (1974). He spoke of an incident in which he was trying to argue the point of the song-and-dance scene with the monster and the doctor to director Mel Brooks. Brooks was opposed to the scene and thought it might ruin the movie. Wilder said they argued vehemently back and forth and as his face turned “from red to purple” Brooks finally relented and said he just wanted to know how hard Wilder would fight for the scene. He had fought hard enough, so he must be right. The scene stayed and is a classic.

Josh Hickman has worked as a screenwriter, script consultant, and script doctor for over 10 years. He was Film Project Coordinator for the 5th Annual Vistas Film Festival, a judge in the 2005 Century City Film Festival Screenplay Competition in Los Angeles, and is presently Associate Producer of the comedy play The Bride Can’t Stop Coughing at The Actor’s Playpen Theater in Hollywood. Contact: hickmanscripts@gmail.com