{"id":23412,"date":"2013-06-18T07:39:57","date_gmt":"2013-06-18T12:39:57","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.davidbordwell.net\/blog\/?p=23412"},"modified":"2014-07-10T09:17:47","modified_gmt":"2014-07-10T14:17:47","slug":"david-koepp-making-the-world-movie-sized","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.davidbordwell.net\/blog\/2013\/06\/18\/david-koepp-making-the-world-movie-sized\/","title":{"rendered":"David Koepp: Making the world movie-sized"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Stir of Echoes<\/strong> (1999).<\/em><\/p>\n


\n<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

DB here:<\/p>\n

For a long time, Hollywood movies have fed off other Hollywood movies. We’ve had sequels and remakes since the 1910s. Studios of the Golden Era relied on \u201cswipes\u201d or \u201cswitches,\u201d in which an earlier film was ripped off without acknowledgment. Vincent Sherman talks about pulling the switch at Warners with Crime School<\/em> (1938), which fused Mayor of Hell<\/em> (1933) and San Quentin<\/em> (1937). Films referred to other films too, sometimes quite obliquely (as seen in this recent entry<\/a>).<\/p>\n

People who knock Hollywood will say that this constant borrowing shows a bankruptcy of imagination. True, there can be mindless mimicry. But any artistic tradition houses copycats. A viable tradition provides a varied number of points of departure for ambitious future work. Nothing comes from nothing; influences, borrowings, even refusals–all depend on awareness of what went before. The tradition sparks to life when filmmakers push us to see new possibilities in it.<\/p>\n

From this angle, the references littering the 1960s-70s Movie Brats’ pictures aren’t just showing off their film-school knowledge. Often the citations simply acknowledge the power of a tradition. When Bonnie, Clyde, and C. W. Moss hide out in a movie theatre during the \u201cWe\u2019re in the Money\u201d sequence from Gold Diggers of 1933<\/em>, the scene offers an ironic sideswipe at their bungled bank job, and a recollection of Warner Bros. gangster classics. When a shot in Paper Moon<\/em> shows a marquee announcing Steamboat Round the Bend<\/em>, it evokes a parallel with Ford’s story about an older man and a girl.\u00a0Even those who despised the tradition, like Altman, were obliged to invoke it, as in the parodic reappearances of the main musical theme throughout The Long Goodbye<\/em>.<\/p>\n

But tradition is additive. As the New Hollywood wing of the Brats\u2014Lucas, Spielberg, De Palma, Carpenter, and others\u2014revived the genres of classic studio filmmaking, they created modern classics.\u00a0The Godfather, Jaws, Star Wars, Carrie, Raiders of the Lost Ark<\/em>, and others weren’t only updated versions of the gangster films, horror movies, thrillers, science-fiction sagas, and adventure tales that Hollywood had turned out for years. They formed a new canon for younger filmmakers. Accordingly, the next wave of the 1980s and 1990s referenced the studio tradition, but it also played off the New Hollywood. For \u201cNew New Hollywood\u201d directors like Robert Zemeckis and James Cameron, their tradition included the breakthroughs of filmmakers only a few years older than themselves.<\/p>\n

So today\u2019s young filmmaker working in Hollywood faces a task. How to sustain and refresh this multifaceted tradition? \u00a0One filmmaker who writes screenplays and occasionally directs them has found some lively solutions.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

From the ’40s to the ’10s<\/strong><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

The Trigger Effect<\/strong> (1996).<\/em><\/p>\n

David Koepp was fourteen when he saw Star Wars<\/em> and eighteen when he saw Raiders<\/em>. By the time he was twenty-nine<\/a> he was writing the screenplay for\u00a0Jurassic Park<\/em>. Later he would provide Spielberg with War of the Worlds<\/em> (2005) and Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull<\/em> (2008). Across the same period he worked with De Palma (Carlito\u2019s Way<\/em>, 1993; Mission: Impossible<\/em>, 1996; Snake Eyes<\/em>, 1998), and Ron Howard (The Paper<\/em>, 1994), as well as younger directors like Zemeckis (Death Becomes Her<\/em>, 1992), Raimi (Spider-Man<\/em>, 2002), and Fincher (Panic Room<\/em>, 2002).\u00a0The young man from Pewaukee, Wisconsin who grew up with the New Hollywood became central to the New New Hollywood, and what has come after.<\/p>\n

Koepp began directing his own lower-budget features as well:\u00a0The Trigger Effect<\/em>\u00a0(1996),\u00a0Stir of Echoes<\/em>\u00a0(1999),\u00a0Secret Window<\/em>\u00a0(2004),\u00a0Ghost Town<\/em>\u00a0(2008), and last year\u2019s\u00a0Premium Rush<\/em>. The last two were written with his frequent collaborator and high-school friend John Kamps. Koepp’s directorial efforts show how \u00a0contemporary films can build intelligently on the tradition of American studio cinema.<\/div>\n

He spent two years at UW–Madison, mostly working in the Theatre Department but also hopping among the many campus film societies. He spent two years after that at UCLA, enraptured by archival prints screened in legendary Melnitz Hall. The result was a wide-ranging taste for powerful narrative cinema. He came to admire 1970s and 1980s classics like Annie Hall, The Shining<\/em>, and Tootsie<\/em>. As a director, Koepp resembles Polanski in his efficient classical technique; his favorite movie is Rosemary\u2019s Baby<\/em>, and one inspiration for Apartment Zero<\/em> (1988) and\u00a0Secret Window<\/em> was The Tenant<\/em>. You can imagine Koepp directing a project like Frantic<\/em> or The Ghost Writer<\/em>.<\/p>\n

Old Hollywood is no less important to Koepp. Among his favorites are Double Indemnity, Mildred Pierce<\/em>, and Sorry, Wrong Number<\/em>. In conversation he tosses off dozens of film references, from specifically recalled shots and scenes to one-liners pulled from classics, like the \u201cBut with a little sex\u201d refrain from Sullivan\u2019s Travels<\/em>.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s not mere geek quotation-spotting, either. The classical influence shows up in the very architecture of his work. He creates ghost movies both comic and dramatic, gangster pictures, psychological thrillers, and spy sagas. The Paper<\/em> revives the machine-gun gabfests of His Girl Friday<\/em>, while Premium Rush<\/em> gives us a sunny update of the noir plot centered on a man pursued through the city by both cops and crooks.<\/p>\n

O<\/strong>ne of the greatest compliments I ever got (well, it seemed like a compliment to me, anyway) was when Mr. Spielberg told me I’d missed my era as a screenwriter–that I would have had a ball in the 40s.<\/strong><\/strong><\/p>\n

Like his contemporary Soderbergh, Koepp sustains the American tradition of tight, crisp storytelling. He also thinks a lot about his craft, and he explains his ideas vividly. His interviews and commentary tracks offer us a vein of practical wisdom that repays mining. It was with that in mind that I visited him in his Manhattan office to dig a little deeper.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Humanizing the Gizmo<\/strong><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Today, the challenge is the tentpole, the big movie full of special effects. A tentpole picture needs what Koepp calls its Gizmo, its overriding premise, “the outlandish thing that makes the big movie possible.” The Gizmo in in Jurassic Park<\/em> is preserved DNA; the Gizmo in Back to the Future<\/em> is the flux capacitor. “The \u00a0more outlandish the Gizmo, the harder it is to write everybody around it.” \u00a0The problem is to counterbalance scale with intimacy. \u201cYou need to offset what\u2019s \u2018up there\u2019 [Koepp raises his arm] with things that are \u2018down here\u2019 [he lowers it].\u201d This involves, for one thing, humanizing the characters. A good example, I think, is what he did with Jurassic Park<\/em>.<\/p>\n

Crichton\u2019s original novel has a lot going for it: two powerful premises (reviving dinosaurs and building a theme park around them), intriguing scientific speculation, and a solid adventure framework. But the characterizations are pallid, the scientific monologues clunky, and the succession of chases and narrow escapes too protracted.<\/p>\n

The film is more tightly focused. In the novel, Dr. Grant is an older widower and has no romantic relation to Ellie; here they\u2019re a couple. In the original, Grant enjoys children; in the film, he dislikes them. Accordingly, Koepp and Spielberg supply the traditional second plotline of classic Hollywood cinema. Alongside the dinosaur plot there\u2019s an arc of personal growth, as Grant becomes a warmer father-figure and he and Ellie become short-term surrogate parents for Tim and Alexa.<\/p>\n

Similarly, Crichton\u2019s hard-nosed Hammond turns into a benevolent grandfather; in the film, his defensive attitude toward the park\u2019s project collapses when his children are in danger. Even Ian Malcolm, mordantly played by Jeff Goldblum (stroking some of the most unpredictable line-readings in modern cinema), can be seen as the wiseacre uncle rather than the smug egomaniac of the novel.<\/p>\n

Crichton\u2019s tale of scientific overreach becomes a family adventure. Koepp\u2019s consistent interest in the crises facing a family meshes nicely with the same aspect of Spielberg\u2019s work, and it gives the film an appeal for a broad audience. In the original, Tim is a boy wonder, well-informed about dinosaurs and skilled at the computer. Koepp\u2019s screenplay shares out these areas of expertise, making Lex the hacker and letting her save the day by rebooting the park\u2019s defense system. There\u2019s a model of courage and intelligence for everybody who sees the movie.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

While giving Crichton\u2019s novel a narrative drive centered on the surrogate family, Koepp also creates a more compressed plot. For one thing, he slices out the chunks of scientific explanation that riddle the novel. The main solution came, Koepp says, when Spielberg pointed out that modern theme parks have video presentations to orient the visitors. Koepp and Spielberg created a short narrated by \u201cMr. DNA,\u201d in an echo of the middle-school educational short \u201cHemo the Magnificent.\u201d<\/a> The result provides an entertaining bit of exposition that condenses many scenes in the book. Why Mr. DNA has a southern accent, however, Koepp can\u2019t recall.<\/p>\n

Compression like this allows Koepp to lay the film out in a well-tuned structure. Most of his work fits the four-part model discussed by Kristin and me so often (as here<\/a>). In Storytelling in the New Hollywood<\/em>, she shows how Jurassic<\/em>\u00a0displays the familiar pattern of goals formulated (part one), recast (part two), blocked (part three), and resolved (part four). When I visited Koepp, he was laying out 4 x 6 cards for his screenplay for Brilliance<\/em><\/a>, seen above. He remarked that the array fell into four parts, with a midpoint and an accelerating climax.<\/p>\n

For a smaller-scale example of compression, consider a classic convention of heist movies: the planning session. In Mission: Impossible<\/em>, Ethan Hunt reviews his plan for accessing the computer files at CIA headquarters. As he starts, the reactions of the two men he\u2019s recruiting foreshadow what they\u2019ll do during the break-in: the sinister calculation of Krieger (Jean Reno), in particular, is emphasized by De Palma\u2019s direction. Ethan\u2019s explanation of the security devices shifts to voice-over and we leave the train compartment to follow an ineffectual bureaucrat making his way into the secured room. (The room and the gadgets were wholly made up for the film; the Langley originals were far more drab and low-tech.)<\/p>\n

Everything that will matter later, including the heat-sensitive floor and the drop of moisture that can set off the alarms, is laid out visually with Ethan’s explanation serving as exposition. Like the Mr. DNA <\/em>short, this set-piece,\u00a0extravagant\u00a0\u00a0in the De Palma mode, serves to specify how things in this story will work. Here, however, the task involves what Koepp calls \u201cbaiting the suspense hook. \u201c Each detail is a security obstacle that Hunt\u2019s team will have to overcome.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The world is too big<\/strong><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Panic Room.<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

The overriding problem, Koepp says, is that the world is too big for a movie. There are too many story lines a plot might pursue; there are too many ways to structure a scene; there are too many places you might put the camera. You need to filter out nearly everything that might<\/em> work in order to arrive at what\u2019s necessary.<\/p>\n

At the level of the whole film, Koepp prefers to lay down constraints. He likes \u201cbottles,\u201d plots that depend on severely limited time or space or both. The Paper<\/em> \u2019s action takes 24 hours; Premium Rush<\/em>\u2019s action covers three. Stir of Echoes<\/em> confines its action almost completely to a neighborhood, while Secret Window<\/em>\u00a0mostly takes place in a cabin and the area around it. Even those plots based on journeys, like The Trigger Effect<\/em> and War of the Worlds<\/em>, develop under the pressure of time.<\/p>\n

Panic Room<\/em> is the most extreme instance of Koepp\u2019s urge for concentration. He wanted to have everything unfold in the house during a single night and show nothing that happened outside. (He even thought about eliminating nearly all dialogue, but gave that up as implausible: surely the home invaders would at least whisper.) As it worked out, the action in the house is bracketed by an opening scene and closing scene, both taking place outdoors, but now he thinks that these throw the confinement of the main section into even sharper relief. The result is a tour de force of interiority\u2014not even flashbacks break us out of the immense gloom of the place\u2014and in the tradition of chamber cinema<\/a> it gives a vivid sense of the overall layout of the premises.<\/p>\n

Panic Room<\/em>, like Premium Rush<\/em>, relies on crosscutting to shift us among the characters and compare points of view on the action. But another way to solve the world-is-too-big problem is to restrict us to what only one characters sees, hears, and knows. This is what Polanski does in Rosemary\u2019s Baby<\/em>, which derives so much of its rising tension from showing only what Rosemary experiences, never the plotting against her. Koepp followed the same strategy in War of the Worlds<\/em>. Most Armageddon films offer a global panorama and a panoply of characters whose lives are intercut. But Koepp and Spielberg decided to show no destroyed monuments or worldwide panics, not even via TV broadcasts. Instead, we adhere again to the fate of one family, and we\u2019re as much in the dark as Ray Ferrier and his kids are. Even when Ray\u2019s teenage son runs off to join the military assault, we learn his fate only when Ray does.<\/p>\n

Less stringent but no less significant is the way the comedy Ghost Town\u00a0<\/em>follows misanthropic dentist Bertram Pincus (Ricky Gervais). After a prologue showing the death of the exploitative exec played by Greg Kinnear, we stay pretty much with Pincus, who discovers that he can see all the ghosts haunting New York. Limiting us to what he knows enhances the mystery of why these spirits are hanging around and plaguing him.<\/p>\n

Yet sticking to a character\u2019s range of knowledge can create new problems. In Stir of Echoes<\/em>, Koepp\u2019s decision to stay with the experience of Tom Witzky (Kevin Bacon) meant that the film would give up one of the big attractions of any hypnosis scene\u2014seeing, from the outside, how the patient behaves in the trance. Koepp was happy to avoid this clich\u00e9\u00a0and followed Richard Matheson\u2019s original novel by presenting what the trance felt like from Tom\u2019s viewpoint.<\/p>\n

The premise of Secret Window<\/em>, laid down in Stephen King\u2019s original story, obliged Koepp to stay closely tied to Mort Rainey’s range of knowledge. In his director\u2019s commentary, Koepp points out that this constraint sacrifices some suspense, as during the scene when Mort (Johnny Depp) thinks someone else is sneaking around his cabin. We can know only what he sees, as when he glimpses a slightly moving shoulder in the bathroom mirror.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Having nothing to cut away to, Koepp says, didn\u2019t allow him to build maximum tension. Still, the film does shift away from Mort occasionally, using a little crosscutting during phone conversations and at the climax. During the big revelation, Koepp switches viewpoint as Mort\u2019s wife arrives at the cabin; but this seems necessary to make sure the audience realizes that the denouement is objective and not in Mort\u2019s head.<\/p>\n

Once you\u2019ve organized your plot around a restrictive viewpoint, breaking it can be risky. About halfway through Snake Eyes<\/em>, Koepp\u2019s screenplay shifts our attachment from the slimeball cop Rick Santoro (Nicolas Cage) to his friend Kevin (Gary Sinese). We see Kevin covering up the assassination. In the manner of Vertigo<\/em>, we\u2019re let in on a scheme that the protagonist isn\u2019t aware of. This runs the risk of dissipating the mystery that pulls the viewer through the plot. Sealing the deal, Snake Eyes<\/em> then gives us a flashback to the assassination attempt. Not only does this sequence confirm Kevin\u2019s complicity, it turns an earlier flashback, recounted by Kevin to Rick, into a lie. Although lying flashbacks have appeared in other films, Koepp recalls that the preview audience rejected this twist. The lying flashback stayed in the film because the plot\u2019s second half depended on the early revelation of Kevin\u2019s betrayal.<\/p>\n

Because the world is too big, you need to ask how to narrow down options for each scene as well as the whole plot. Fiction writers speak of asking, \u201cWhose scene is it?\u201d and advise you to maintain attachment to that character throughout the scene. The same question comes up with cinema.<\/p>\n

Say the husband is already in the kitchen when the wife comes in. If you follow the wife from the car, down the corridor, and into the kitchen, we\u2019re with her; we\u2019ll discover that hubby is there when she does. If instead we start by showing hubby taking a Dr. Pepper out of the refrigerator and turning as the wife comes in, it\u2019s his scene. Note that this doesn\u2019t involve any great degree of subjectivity; no POV shot or mental access is required. It\u2019s just that our entry point into the scene comes via our attachment to one character rather than another.<\/p>\n

Here\u2019s a moment of such a directorial choice in Stir of Echoes<\/em>. Maggie comes home to find her husband Tom, driven by demands from their domestic ghost, digging up the back yard. Koepp could have gotten a really nice depth composition by showing us a wide-angle shot of Tom and his son tearing up the yard, with Maggie emerging through the doorway in the background. That way, we would have known about the mess before she did.<\/p>\n

Instead, Koepp reveals that Tom\u2019s mind has gone off the rails by showing Maggie coming out onto the back porch and staring. We hear digging sounds. \u201cOh\u2026kay\u2026\u201d she sighs.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

She walks slowly across the yard, passing their son and eventually confronting Tom, who\u2019s so absorbed he doesn\u2019t hear her speak to him.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Once you’ve made a choice, though, other decisions follow. So Maggie provides our pathway into the scene, but how do we present that? Koepp asks on his commentary track:<\/p>\n

What do you think? Is it better to do what I did here, which is pull back across the yard and slowly reveal the mess he\u2019s made, or should I have cut to her point of view of the big messy yard right in the doorway? I went for lingering tension rather than the sudden cut to what she sees. You might have done it differently. <\/strong><\/p>\n

Sticking with a central character throughout a scene can have practical benefits too. Koepp points out that his choice for the Stir of Echoes<\/em> shot was affected by the need to finish as the afternoon light was waning. Similarly, in the forthcoming Jack Ryan<\/em>, Koepp includes an action scene showing an assault on a helicopter carrying the hero. Koepp\u2019s script keeps us inside the chopper as a door is blown off and Ryan is pinned under it.\u00a0Rather than including long shots of the attack, it was easier and less costly to composite in partial CGI effects as bits of action glimpsed in the background, all seen from within the chopper.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Saving it, scaling it, buttoning it<\/strong><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Ghost Town.<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

Because the world is too big, you can put the camera anywhere. Why here rather than there?<\/p>\n

Standard practice is to handle the scene with coverage: You film one master shot playing through the entire scene, then you take singles, two-shots, over-the-shoulders, and so on. Actors may speak their lines a dozen times for different camera setups, and the editor always has some shot to cut to. Alternatively, the director may speed up coverage by shooting with many cameras at once. Some of the dialogues in Gladiator<\/em> were filmed by as many as seven cameras. \u201cI was thinking,\u201d said the cinematographer, \u201csomebody has to be getting something good.\u201d<\/p>\n

Koepp opposes both mechanical and shotgun coverage. Whenever he can, he seizes on a chance to handle several pages of dialogue in a single take (a \u201cone-er\u201d). \u201cThere\u2019s a great feeling when you find the master and can let it run.\u201d Sustained shots work especially well in comedy because they allow the actors to get into a smooth verbal rhythm. The hilariously cramped three-shot in\u00a0Ghost Town (<\/em>shown above) could play out in a one-er because Koepp and Kamps meticulously prepared its rapid-fire dialogue exchange.<\/p>\n

When cutting is necessary, Koepp favors building scenes through subtle gradations of scale, saving certain framings for key moments. He walked me through a striking example, a five-minute scene in Panic Room<\/em>.<\/p>\n

Meg Altman and her daughter Sarah have been besieged by home invaders. Meg has managed to flee from their sealed safety room, but Sarah is trapped there and is slipping into a diabetic coma while the two attackers hold her captive. Now two policemen, summoned by Meg\u2019s husband, come calling. The criminals are watching what\u2019s happening on the CC monitor. Meg must drive the cops away without arousing suspicion, or the invaders will let Sarah die.<\/p>\n

Koepp\u2019s scene weaves two strands of suspense, the peril of the girl and Meg\u2019s tactics of dealing with the cops. One cop is ready to leave her alone, but another is solicitous. Meg offers various excuses for why her husband called them\u2014she was drunk, she wanted sex\u2014but the concerned cop persists. The scene develops through good old shot\/ reverse-shot analytical editing, with variations in scale serving to emphasize certain lines and facial reactions.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

At the climax, the concerned officer says that if there\u2019s anything she wants to tell them but cannot say explicitly, she could blink her eyes as a signal. When he asks this, Fincher cuts in to the tightest shot yet on him. The next shot of Meg reveals her decision. She refuses to blink.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Fincher saved his big shot of the cop for the scene\u2019s high point. The cop’s line of dialogue motivates the next shot, one that keeps the audience in suspense about how Meg will respond. What I love about this shot is that everybody in the theatre is watching the same thing: her eyes. Will she blink<\/a>?<\/p>\n

Building up a scene, then, involves holding something back and saving it for when it will be more powerful. An extreme case occurs in Rosemary\u2019s Baby<\/em>. I asked Koepp about a scene that had long puzzled me. Rosemary and Guy have joined their slightly dotty older neighbors, the Castevets, for drinks and dinner. Having poured them all some sherry, Castavet settles into a chair far from the sofa area, where the other three are seated.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Mr. Castevet continues to talk with them from this chair, still framed in a strikingly distant shot.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Koepp agreed that virtually no director today would film the old man from so far back. Can\u2019t you just see the tight close-up that would hint at something sinister in his demeanor?<\/p>\n

We found the justification in the next scene, the dinner. This is filmed with one of those arcing tracks so common today when people gather at a table, but here it has a purpose. The shot\u2019s opening gives us another instance of the Castevets\u2019 social backwardness, as Rosemary saws away at her steak. (You\u2019d think people in league with Satan could afford a better cut of meat.)<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Mr. Castevet proceeds to denounce\u00a0organized religion and to flatter Guy\u2019s stage performance in Luther<\/em>.\u00a0As the camera moves on, the\u00a0fulcrum of the image becomes the old man, now seen head-on from a nearer position.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

\u201cHe was saving it,\u201d said Koepp. \u201cHe was making us wait to see this guy more closely\u2014and even here, he\u2019s postponing a big close-up.\u201d<\/p>\n

Yet having given with one hand, Polanski takes away with the other. Next Rosemary is doing the dishes with Mrs. Castevet while the men share cigarettes in the parlor. Because we\u2019re restricted to Rosemary\u2019s range of knowledge, we see what she sees: nothing but wisps of smoke in the doorway.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

We’ll later realize that this offscreen conversation between Roman and Guy seals the deal over Rosemary\u2019s first-born.<\/p>\n

Empty doorways form a motif in the film (the major instance has been much commented on<\/a>), and they too point up Polanski\u2019s stinginess\u2014or rather, his economy. He doles his effects out piece by piece, and the result is a mix of mystery and tension that will pay off gradually. Koepp likewise exploits the sustained empty frame, most notably at the end of Ghost Town<\/em>.<\/p>\n

Building up scenes in this way encourages the director to give each shot a coherence and a point. Koepp recalls De Palma\u2019s advice: \u201cFor every shot, ask: What value does it yield?\u201d Spielberg comes to the set with clear ideas about the shots he wants, and when scouting or rehearsing he\u2019s trying to assure that the set design, the lighting, and the blocking will let him make them. As Koepp puts it, Spielberg is saying:\u00a0“This is my shot. If I can’t do X, I don’t have a shot.”<\/p>\n

Compared to the swirling choppiness on display in much modern cinema–say, at the moment, Leterrier’s Now You See Me<\/em>–Koepp’s style is sober and concentrated. For him, the director should strive to turn a shot into a cinematic statement that develops from beginning to end. The slow track rightward in Stir of Echoes<\/em> has its own little arc, following Maggie leaving the porch, moving past their son, concluding on Tom as she speaks to him and he suddenly turns to her (at the cut).<\/p>\n

Accordingly a shot can end with a little bump, a \u201cbutton\u201d that’s the logical culmination of the action. Something as simple as Rosemary turning her head to look sidewise is a soft bump, impelling the POV shot of the doorway. Something more forceful comes in Stir of Echoes<\/em>, when the people at the party chatter about hypnosis and the camera slowly coasts in on Tom, gradually eliminating everybody else until in close-up he says cockily, \u201cDo me.\u201d<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Shooting all the conversational snippets among various characters would have required lots of coverage, and it was cleaner to keep them offscreen as the camera drew in on Tom. With the suspense raised by the track-in (a move suggested by De Palma), Koepp could treat Tom’s line as a dramatic turning point and the payoff for the shot.<\/p>\n

In a comic register, the button can yield a character-based gag. Bertram Pincus is warming to the Egyptologist Gwen; he\u2019s even bought a new shirt to impress her. They discuss how his knowledge of abcessed teeth can help her research into the death of a Pharaoh. A series of gags involves Pincus\u2019 discomfiture around the mummy, with Gwen making him touch and smell it. The two-shot, Koepp says, is still the heart of dialogue cinema, especially in comedy.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Bertram offers Gwen a \u201csugar-free treat\u201d and shyly turns away. The gesture reveals that he\u2019s forgotten to take the price tag off his shirt.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

This buttons up the shot with an image that reveals the characters\u2019 attitudes. Pincus\u2019s error undercuts his self-important explanation of the pharoah\u2019s oral hygiene. Yet it\u2019s a little endearing; he was in such a hurry to make a good impression he forgot to pull the tag. At the same, having Gwen see the tag shows her sudden awareness that Bertram\u2019s offensiveness masks his social awkwardness. As Koepp puts it: \u201cHe bought a new shirt for their meeting, she realizes it, and she finds it sweet.\u201d She\u2019s starting to like him, as is suggested when she turns and matches his posture.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Koepp gives the whole scene its button by cutting back to a long shot as Pincus murmurs, \u201cSurprisingly delightful.\u201d Is he referring to his candy, or his growing enjoyment of Gwen\u2019s company? Both, probably: He\u2019s becoming more human.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Like the Movie Brats and the New New Hollywood filmmakers, Koepp is inspired by other films. And as with them, his usage isn\u2019t derivative in a narrow sense. He treats a genre convention, a situation, an earlier Gizmo, or a fondly-remembered shot as a prod to come up with something new. Borrowing from other films isn\u2019t unoriginal; in mainstream filmmaking, originality usually means revising tradition in fresh, personal ways.<\/p>\n

There\u2019s a lot more to be learned about screenwriting and directing from the work of David Koepp. He told me much I can\u2019t squeeze in here, about the Manhattan logistics of shooting Premium Rush<\/em> and about the newsroom ethnography behind The Paper<\/em>, written with his brother Stephen. What I can say is this: He really should write a book about his craft. I expect that it would be as good-natured as his lopsided grin and quick wit. It would illuminate for us the range of the creative choices available in the New Hollywood, the New New Hollywood, and the Newest Hollywood.<\/p>\n

\n

Thanks to David for giving me so much of his time. We initially came into contact when he wrote to me after my blog post on Premium Rush<\/em><\/a>, which now contains a P.S. extracted from his email. We had never met, and I’m glad we finally caught up with each other.<\/p>\n

I’ve supplemented my conversation with David with ideas drawn from his DVD commentaries for S<\/a>tir of Echoes<\/a>, Secret Window<\/a>,<\/em> and Ghost Town<\/em><\/a>. Soderbergh provides intriguing observations on the commentary track for Apartment Zero<\/em><\/a>. I’ve also found useful comments in these published interviews: “David Koepp: Sincerity,” in Patrick McGilligan, ed.,\u00a0Backstory 5: Interviews with Screenwriters of the 1990s<\/em><\/a> (University of California Press, 2010), 71-89; Joshua Klein “Writer’s Block, [1999],” at\u00a0The Onion<\/em> A.V. Club<\/a>; Steve Biodrowski, “Stir of Echoes<\/em>: David Koepp Interviewed [2000]” at Mania<\/a>; Josh Horowitz, “The Inner View–David Koepp [2004]” at A Site Called Fred<\/a>; “Interview: David Koepp (War of the Worlds<\/em>)[2005]” at Chud.com<\/a>; Ian Freer, “David Koepp on War of the Worlds<\/em> [2006],” at\u00a0Empire <\/em>Online<\/a>; “Peter N. Chumo III, “Watch the Skies: David Koepp on War of the Worlds<\/em>,” Creative Screenwriting<\/em> 12, 3 (May\/June 2005), 50-55; E. A. Puck, “So What Do You Do, David Koepp? [2007]” at Mediabistro<\/a>; Nell Alk, “David Koepp, John Kamps Talk Premium Rush<\/em>, Joseph Gordon-Levitt’s Fearlessness and Pedestrian ‘Scum’ [2012]” at Movieline<\/a>; and Fred Topel, “Bike-O-Vision: David Koepp on Premium Rush<\/em> and Jack Ryan<\/em> [2012]” at Crave Online<\/a>.<\/p>\n

Vincent Sherman discusses screenplay switching in People Will Talk<\/em>, ed. John Kobal (Knopf, 1986), 549-550. My quotation from Gladiator<\/em>‘s DP comes from The Way Hollywood Tells It<\/em>, p. 159. For more on David Fincher’s way with characters’ eyes, see this entry on The Social Network<\/em><\/a>.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Stir of Echoes (1999). DB here: For a long time, Hollywood movies have fed off other Hollywood movies. We’ve had sequels and remakes since the 1910s. Studios of the Golden Era relied on \u201cswipes\u201d or \u201cswitches,\u201d in which an earlier film was ripped off without acknowledgment. Vincent Sherman talks about pulling the switch at Warners […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[191,5,54,21,34,11,50],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-23412","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-directors-koepp","category-film-technique","category-narrative-strategies","category-narrative-suspense","category-people-we-like","category-readers-favorite-entries","category-screenwriting"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.davidbordwell.net\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/23412","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.davidbordwell.net\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.davidbordwell.net\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.davidbordwell.net\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.davidbordwell.net\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=23412"}],"version-history":[{"count":102,"href":"https:\/\/www.davidbordwell.net\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/23412\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":23601,"href":"https:\/\/www.davidbordwell.net\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/23412\/revisions\/23601"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.davidbordwell.net\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=23412"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.davidbordwell.net\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=23412"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.davidbordwell.net\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=23412"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}