December 2021
We all know the common trope of the struggling screenwriter praying their screenplay will make it big. They shove their screenplay in anyone, and everyone’s faces because the screenplay alone is nothing memorable until it is interpreted by a cast and crew. Of course, any work of art in cinema has derived from a screenplay – yet the debate comes down to whether the screenplay can act alone as a piece of writing or if it is simply a conduit to something greater. Much of this criticism stems from the concept that a screenplay has distinct goals from a novel or a play – in Dore Schary’s “Literature and the Screen”, Schary claims that “a book written as a novel is to be enjoyed and understood and respected for its writing as a book. For the screen, it has to be enjoyed, understood, and respected on different terms”.[1] Yet, while a screenplay can fall into this stereotype and serve very little as a solo work, I believe this is a gross misconception. Quentin Tarantino’s Inglorious Basterds breaks this stereotype, and perhaps if anyone takes the time to read the screenplay, rather than only watching the movie, they will agree with me.
In this paper, I will explore the current debate surrounding screenplays as a work of art. I will highlight Steven Knight’s Spencer (2021) as an example of how screenplays fall into this trap of being simply screen intentioned. Yet, comparatively, this paper will discuss Tarantino’s introductory scene in Inglorious Basterds (2009) as a case study as to how and why screenplays have the potential to be pieces of literature, not simply tools to the screen.
In a 2011 article titled “Why Can’t Screenplays Be Artworks?”, Ted Nannicelli presents a current controversy: screenplays are not comparable to a novel or even a play. Nannicelli takes the time to explore Noël Carroll, a philosopher concerned with the philosophy of art, and his belief that “there is a substantive ontological difference between the theatrical script and the screenplay […] and […] that the screenplay’s ontological status precludes it from being a work of art”.[2] This “ontological status” implies that a screenplay is part of a greater process and relationship between the writer and the screen -- not of any value on its own. Howard Rodman dabbles with this issue; his article, “What a Screenplay Isn’t”, asks the important question: “Is there any way, then, of reclaiming the screenplay? Of recuperating its energies for something more playful, more intrinsic? Of untethering the screenplay from the dead lead weight of the movie it so desperately wants to become?”[3] In response, yes there is. But I would not dare to say it is an easy task. For a screenplay to operate on its own, it cannot rely on an actor’s interpretation nor a cinematic background – it must be literary from the words and dialogue in the script. Thus, the script must deal with two intentions: existing as a literary work and being adaptable to a screen.
Not all screenplays can meet this expectation. Steven Knight’s Spencer is almost painful to read with one-liners jammed across the text. Without Kristen Stewart’s beautiful costume and the strong organ playing in the background, the script offers strikingly little. The script is not much of a dialogue, but rather a compilation of faux metaphors and deep moments meant to instill Princess Diana with a victim complex. At one point in the script, Princess Diana proclaims: “Their lenses are more like microscopes, really. And I’m the insect in the dish. See, they’re pulling my wings and my legs off one by one – making notes on how I react”.[4] It is difficult to sympathize with Princess Diana, the torn apart insect, when the screenplay repeatedly jams in such broken down and obvious metaphors throughout. In any type of classic literary work, there is an aspect left to the audience (or the reader). Yet, in this case, everything is spelled out. There is no room for interpretation. If one were to read the screenplay for Spencer, they would find themselves reading these heart wrenching moments repeatedly with no room for development nor interpretation. That is why Spencer cannot operate as a piece of writing – it is dependent on Stewart’s constant gaze into the abyss, her twirling to classical music, her bending over the toilet bowl. Her one liner, such as “I’m prepared for my future as a face on a coin to be passed from hand to hand” is monotonous and simple as a piece of writing, but perhaps a bit more intriguing when said with guile and regret on screen.[5]
Tarantino’s Inglorious Basterds offers something different, however. Its introductory scene, a contentious interaction between Colonel Landa and a French farmer, Monsieur Perrier LaPadite, draws the reader in and serves almost as a play. Taking place in a singular room between these two individuals, the script becomes more important as the viewer cannot rely on director tricks and cinematic images. In a high intensity moment between Colonel Landa and Perrier, Tarantino writes:
Col Landa: Monsieur LaPadite, are you aware of the nickname the people of France have given me?
Perrier: I have no interest in such things.
Col Landa: But you are aware of what they call me?
Perrier: I’m aware.
Col Landa: What are you aware of?
Perrier: That they call you “the Jew Hunter.”[6]
This, unlike Spencer, has a certain literary “build up.” You must keep reading (or watching), to get to the punchline. A reader can sense Perrier’s hesitancy and Colonel Landa’s confidence. Their dynamic goes beyond the screen and onto the page, much like a play. Many playwrights choose to write their work in a similar manner; Athold Fugard’s Master Harold and the Boys (1982), is also a play about a systemic injustice (though in this case, racism, not the holocaust). Like Inglorious Basterds’s introductory scene, Master Harold and the Boys mainly takes place in one room, with a conversation between two (sometimes three) main characters. An interaction between the white boy, Hally, and his mother’s black employee, Sam, reads as:
Hally: Don’t argue with me, Sam!
Sam: Then don’t say he’s my boss.
Hally: He’s a white man and that’s good enough for you.
Sam: I’ll try to forget you said that.[7]
There’s a similarity between Tarantino’s introductory scene and Fugard’s play. The back-and-forth dialogue, grounded in tension, enables the play or screenplay to be digested as a literary work. There are no blatant, aggressive lines that are dependent on an actor to bring them to life – though that will always provide greater entertainment – but rather continuous dialogue that mimics that of a play. Tarantino’s introductory scene is undoubtedly made more fascinating by the smoking of the pipe and the gulping of milk on set, but its magic lies in the dialogue. It is not phonily seeking meaning, but rather telling a compelling story.
The introductory scene goes one step further: it engages with literary techniques such as metaphor and analogy in a genuine and purposeful manner. It does not throw them into the text so that an actor can have their “Oscar moment”, but as a conduit to conveying a message. Almost half of the introductory scene is Colonel Landa’s monologue in which he attempts to explain why he is such a successful “Jew Hunter.” He uses the analogy of the rat (the Jew) and the hawk (the German) to explain this dynamic that he feels has so strongly benefited him. He tells Monsieur LaPadite:
Col Landa: Rats were the cause of the bubonic plague, but that was some time ago. In all your born days, has a rat ever caused you to be sick a day in your life? I propose to you, any disease a rat could spread a squirrel would equally carry. Yet I assume you don’t share the same animosity with squirrels that you do with rats, do you? […] What a tremendously hostile world a rat must endure. […] And that, Monsieur, is what a Jew shares with a rat. Consequently, a German soldier conducts a search of a house suspected of hiding Jews. Where does the hawk look? He looks in the barn, he looks in the attic, he looks in the cellar—he looks everywhere he would hide. But there are many places it would never occur to a hawk to hide. However, the reason the Führer brought me off my Alps in Austria and placed me in French cow country today is because it does occur to me. Because I’m aware of what tremendous feats human beings are capable of once they abandon dignity.[8]
This elongated bit of storytelling is an analogy. Tarantino has Colonel Landa break down a historical injustice into animal dynamics, perhaps reminiscent of Animal Farm. There is not only one line worth noting here – it is not written to have Cristoph Waltz powerfully stare into the camera as he longingly tells the audience about his psychopathic tendencies. Rather, he is written to tell a story, whether to Monsieur LaPadite, the audience, or the reader. In all contexts it translates successfully. I admit that much of this writing is hard hitting and obvious at moments, yet the difference lies in the pace, the literary technique, and the images evoked through dialogue. In other words, Colonel Landa’s lines are not dependent on an actor to bring them to life, they tell a story on their own.
Noël Carroll’s claims that screenplays are not forms of arts for many reasons, one of them being: “our appreciative practices indicate, prima facie, that screenplays are not artworks on the order of theatrical scripts.”[9] In other words, we, as a culture, do not read screenplays in the way we read novels or plays, and this serves as a measurement of their quality as a form of art. I disagree – simply because we do not treat screenplays as art does not mean they are not art. Van Gogh’s art was discredited, unappreciated much past his death. And yet, we claim his art to be some of the most famous works in the world. In this sense, it is uncommon to hear that someone reads a screenplay for pleasure, but perhaps we should do more of it. Screenplays can mimic classic literary works, whether through literary or storytelling techniques, or through engaging and beautiful dialogue. Inglorious Basterds succeeds in this way. It is an incredibly fun revenge film, but one can have just as much fun reading it off the page. This is a special skill, however, because it requires the writer to write with the intention of a film and a literary work, and some (like Spencer) cannot do it all.
Bibliography
Fugard, Athol. 'Master Harold'-- and the Boys. New York: Vintage Books, 2009.
Matus, Kyra. "Spencer: Diana's 9 Best Quotes." Screen Rant. Last modified November 14, 2021. Accessed November 23, 2021. https://screenrant.com/spencer-princess-diana-best-quotes-lines/.
Mota, Miguel. "Derek Jarman's Caravaggio: 'The Screenplay as Book.'" Criticism 47, no. 2 (2005): 215-31. http://www.jstor.org/stable/23127237.
Nannicelli, Ted. "Why Can't Screenplays Be Artworks?" The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 69, no. 4 (2011): 405-14. http://www.jstor.org/stable/23883688.
Rodman, Howard. "What a Screenplay Isn't." Cinema Journal 45, no. 2 (2006): 86-89. http://www.jstor.org/stable/3877765.
Schary, Dore. "Literature and the Screen." The English Journal 43, no. 3 (1954): 135-41. https://doi.org/10.2307/808301.
Tarantino, Quentin. "Inglorious Basterds." CineFile. Last modified 2009. Accessed November 23, 2021. http://www.cinefile.biz/script/basterds.pdf.
[1] Dore Schary, "Literature and the Screen," The English Journal 43, no. 3 (1954): 138, https://doi.org/10.2307/808301.
[2] Ted Nannicelli, "Why Can't Screenplays Be Artworks?," The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 69, no. 4 (2011): 405, http://www.jstor.org/stable/23883688.
[3] Howard Rodman, "What a Screenplay Isn't," Cinema Journal 45, no. 2 (2006): 87, http://www.jstor.org/stable/3877765.
[4] Kyra Matus, "Spencer: Diana's 9 Best Quotes," Screen Rant, last modified November 14, 2021, accessed November 23, 2021, https://screenrant.com/spencer-princess-diana-best-quotes-lines/.
[5] Matus, "Spencer: Diana's," Screen Rant.
[6] Quentin Tarantino, "Inglorious Basterds," CineFile, last modified 2009, accessed November 23, 2021, http://www.cinefile.biz/script/basterds.pdf. P. 11.
[7] Athol Fugard, 'Master Harold'-- and the Boys (New York: Vintage Books, 2009), 33.
[8] Tarantino, "Inglorious Basterds," CineFile. P. 12-13.
[9] Nannicelli, "Why Can't," 406.