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| Image courtesy of Green Ornstein |
Words by Curmudgeon Film Talk.
SETTLE DOWN CLASS.
SETTLE DOWN CLASS.
…ehem…
Sorry, I’ve always wanted to say that.
In either case, welcome to Detective Writing 101.
Today, we’re going to be taking a peruse through a few trademarks of a great
detective story. I’ll be your professor, Dr. Curmudgeon. Except I
don’t have a Master’s Degree yet, so I’m not a professor. Nor do I have a
doctorate, so the proper title would be Mr. Curmudgeon. But I have a
blog, and I complain about movies on the internet. That’s basically the same as
having a PhD, right?
If you’re familiar with my writing – which might be unlikely,
since Curmudgeon Media’s collective following consists of an old man who lives
in my crawl space, my dog, and a boiled egg – you may have noticed that I’m big on film noir. When I say “big on film noir,” I of course mean that I
will shoehorn it into any conversation, and if I could materialise its essence
and inject it directly into my gums, I would.
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| Still from Blade Runner |
I’ve written about The Red Riding Trilogy (2009), BladeRunner (1982), Cowboy Bebop (1998), etc, but I’d like to take a step
back and admire the broad strokes - I thought it might be fun to autopsy
the detective story. The detective story could be considered noir in
its purest state. It reaches back into the pulpy novels of Raymond Chandler
or James M. Cain, those works which formed the foundations of the movement when
it burst its way onto the silver screen. Drawing upon a few hand-picked
examples, I’m going to (hopefully) paint a picture which can demonstrate how to
make a detective movie great.
Now, before we begin, a few class rules:
1.
Ignore the smell.
2.
There will be light spoilers in this
classroom.
3.
Re-read number 1.
4.
5.
All clear? Good. Now, without further ado…
L.A. Confidential and The Red Riding
Trilogy, or: a lesson in story structure
Curtis Hanson’s 1997, hard-boiled cop caper is mimetic, for
sure. Based on a 1990 novel by James Ellroy, the movie retrospectively draws on
tropes and trademarks of noir classics, borrowing both their plot as well as
their time period. Nonetheless, Hanson’s self-aware use of genre makes L.A.
Confidential ripe for examination. It really is true-blue film noir.
The film’s narrative is shared between three protagonists:
Detective Lieutenant Ed Exley (Guy Pearce), Officer Bud White (Russell Crowe),
and Sergeant Jack Vincennes (Kevin Spacey). Personality-wise, the three gents
are about as disparate as they come.
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| Guy Pearce as Ed Exley |
Exley is a morally absolute, career-oriented
politician. His certainty over right and wrong, as well as his ruthless
pragmatism, runs contrary to White’s brutish yet sensitive code of conduct.
He’s prone to answer most problems with his fists, but he’s got a soft-spot for
domestic abuse victims, and thus appears driven more by his heart than his
brain.
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| Russell Crowe as Bud White |
Vincennes, in stark contrast to both Exley and White, comes across as
almost morally bankrupt, at least to begin with. More important to him
than law enforcement is his side-job consulting the popular television series Badge
of Honour. It’s all money and smooth-talking. Plus, he’s got a suspicious,
mutually-beneficial agreement with a shady journalist who gives him dirty cash
and tips on arrests in exchange for a good story to pen.
After a brutal massacre at the “Nite Owl” diner claims the
life of White’s recently retired partner, among many others, the three dive
into a classic case of corruption, deceit, and evil. Throw in a good old
fashioned prostitution ring for good measure and you’ve got yourself L.A.
Confidential.
You might have noticed that the above description is a
little…busy. But believe me, it works, and I’m going to tell you why.
L.A. Confidential boasts a puzzle-like structure due
to its three different parts running parallel to one another. Ed
Exley, Bud White, and Jack Vincennes all have their own role to play and their
own leads to pursue. As such, the story is divided between them.
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| James Cromwell, Guy Pearce, Russell Crowe and Kevin Spacey in L.A. Confidential (1997) |
Each character has a distinct entry point into the
narrative. Exley is on call the night of the massacre. He’s the first officer
through the door, and it’s his case. As such, the procedures of the
investigation form the core of his story as he strives to find the
perpetrators. White, on the other hand, is hot on the tail of the mysterious Fleur-de-Lis,
a prostitution service which specialises in movie star lookalikes. White has a
run-in with the owner of Fleur-de-Lis, Pierce Patchett (David
Strathairn), and two of his prostitutes, Lynn Bracken (Kim Basinger) and Susan
Lefferts (Amber Smith), the night before the massacre – a run-in which is
enough to arouse White’s suspicion. It isn’t until Lefferts shows up dead in
the Nite Owl Massacre that White begins digging for the truth. Finally, we’ve
got Vincennes. Vincennes sets up a B-list actor, Matt Reynolds (Simon Baker),
in a homosexual scandal with the District Attorney – a stunt which goes
horribly wrong, resulting in the Reynolds’ murder. Overwhelmed by guilt,
Vincennes sets about hunting the killer, peeling away his greedy, amoral
exterior in the process.
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| Danny DeVito, Simon Baker and Kevin Spacey in L.A. Confidential (1997) |
Let’s imagine each of these narrative threads as though they
were pieces of a puzzle, pieces to be slotted together before we get the full
picture. I don’t want to give too much away, but I’ll elaborate.
We’ll take a look at Vincennes’ piece of the puzzle. The
death of the actor might be his motivation, but once he discovers Reynolds’
affiliation with Fleur-de-Lis, he’s in White’s wheelhouse. The pieces begin
to slot together. Likewise, it is only through Vincennes’ discovery that the Nite
Owl shooters ran scams with Pierce Patchett of Fleur-de-Lis that Exley
and White’s puzzle pieces combine.
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| David Strathairn as Pierce Patchett |
I don’t want to give away the whole plot, and I’ve tried to
be as ambiguous as I can given the circumstances. But the question remains:
what’s so special about structuring the story in this way?
Well, there’s the obvious matter of organisation.
Like I said, L.A. Confidential is busy, to say the least.
Carefully dividing the plot into three separate threads helps to make it
legible; specific parts of the mystery are ascribed to each thread, and the script
is broken down into nice, digestible morsels. More importantly, however, it’s
about making the audience feel smart. You see, it isn’t until the three
protagonists combine their efforts that they begin to make sense of the
mystery. The audience, on the other hand, is privy to everything they know before
the three puzzle pieces collide. We can recognise connections between the three
stories well before the characters collide. This is a classic use of
dramatic irony; we know what certain characters do not. There’s a unique
catharsis in this – it makes you feel like a real sleuth.
The absolutely stellar Red Riding Trilogy (2009) operates
like this, dissecting the mystery into three parts. The chronological aspect of
Red Riding has a similar-but-different function, though – rather than
having three stories which run tangentially and gradually meet towards the end,
Red Riding rations its story over the course of a trilogy of films, each
taking place several years subsequent to the last. It has a noticeable,
chronological aspect – but we’ll get to that in due course.
The first film, set in 1974, follows investigative
journalist Eddie Dunford (Andrew Garfield) in his quest to solve the abduction,
rape, and murder of a young girl. As his suspicions reveal that her murder might
not be an isolated incident, Dunford finds himself in over his head, entrenched
in a disgusting pool of debauchery and – once again – corruption.
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| Andrew Garfield as Eddie Dunford |
The second film takes place in 1980, shifting its
gaze to Peter Sutcliffe, The Yorkshire Ripper. Assistant Chief Constable
Peter Hunter (Paddy Considine) is tasked with the lofty responsibility of
nabbing the elusive killer, but his investigation points him in the direction
of – you guessed it – police corruption.
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| Paddy Considine and Tony Pitts in Red Riding: The Year of Our Lord 1980 (2009) |
The third film fast-forwards to 1983. This time, we’ve got
two protagonists: John Piggott (Mark Addy), a second-rate solicitor
investigating the disappearance of another young girl, Hazel Atkins. Meanwhile,
Detective Inspector Maurice Jobson (David Morrissey) is motivated to reopen old
cases after Atkins’ abduction. His involvement in the corrupt police force has
left his hands stained with blood, and finding justice is what’ll put his
conscience to rest.
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| David Morrissey as Maurice Jobson |
I don’t want to go into the details of these three movies,
and frankly, I don’t need to. The case in point is not how the three films
interlink, how each intricate clue slides the pieces into place. It’s about
how the choice of structure conveys information.
As explained, each film’s respective plot takes place
several years apart from the next. For this reason - as opposed to being
comparable to a puzzle - Red Riding keeps every element of the mystery
coming on a drip-feed. In this sense, it maximises tension as the audience
slowly pieces together a larger conspiracy from breadcrumbs. This is important
to consider; it doesn’t drop information so quickly as to ruin the satisfaction
of piecing it together, and not so slowly as to make the audience feel like
they’re getting nowhere. It’s structured in such a way to keep us in constant
pursuit of the next crumb to hit the floor…
Zodiac, or: a lesson in character
A detective yarn ain’t very detective-y without a detective.
The extensive pre-existing canon of sleuth stories makes it pretty easy to
follow the beats: the jaded, morally ambiguous private eye, as hard-boiled as
his jaw is square, etc. Sound familiar?
The problem is that you run the risk of write triting…I
mean…trite writing. Some of the most satisfying sleuth spiels know exactly
where to deviate, and exactly how give the investigator a much-needed dusting
and a do-over.
David Fincher’s 2007 neo-noir Zodiac is a fantastic
example of this.
Let me give you the low-down, in case you’re unfamiliar.
Based on the real-life serial killer known simply as Zodiac, the film
takes place during the late ‘60s/early ‘70s. At its helm are three characters,
not unlike the aforementioned L.A. Confidential: Robert Graysmith (Jake
Gyllenhaal), a cartoonist for the San Francisco Chronicle; Paul Avery (Robert
Downey Jr.), a crime reporter; and Dave Toschi (Mark Ruffalo), a detective.
While Toschi is the only real detective out of the three, make no
mistake – they all serve investigative roles in the story, each in their own
way.
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| Robert Graysmith's sketch of the Zodiac killer in Zodiac (2007) |
In either case, a recent interview with Mark Ruffalo (you
can check that out here) got me thinking. Reflecting on his part in Zodiac,
he states:
You’re reading a script and
you get one idea of a person, he’s like this hard-boiled, San Francisco murder
cop, and I’m gonna play him tough. And then I said “I’d love to meet Dave
Toschi” …
…I really created a nice
rapport with him, and really realised that my idea, my ‘Hollywood’ idea of him
was so far-off from the truth…
…who he was, and the
idiosyncratic aspects of the way he talked, the way he dressed, even down to,
like, eating the animal crackers, were so much more interesting than anything I
could’ve come up with.
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| Mark Ruffalo as Dave Toschi |
So; what do we take away from this? Well, quite clearly,
Ruffalo had certain genre-based assumptions going into the project, but it was
the deviations from those assumptions that ended up bolstering his performance
and enriching the character. The hard-boiled shell he’d imagined quickly caved,
revealing a much more unique personality to explore. The detail of Toschi’s fervour
for animal crackers might seem silly at face value, but it’s details like that
which transform him from a Hollywood cliché into an idiosyncratic individual.
It adds a much-needed third dimension to a character archetype which is so
easily underwritten.
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| Robert Downey Jr. as Paul Avery |
But what of the others? Graysmith and Avery deviate more
obviously, by virtue of the fact that neither of them are detectives by trade.
This does, however, give them the opportunity to add a different flavour to the
mix. Avery is basically a hippie – his bohemian lifestyle gives him flare and
personality uncommon to the investigative figures typical to the genre. He’s
humorous and unserious by nature, going so far as to label Zodiac a latent
homosexual in one of his articles. There’s a particular scene which springs to
mind whereby Avery is more concerned with the colour and girlishness of a
cocktail Graysmith is drinking than he is with the investigation. Like the
animal crackers, these might seem like extraneous details, unimportant to the
economy of the script. In reality, they can transform a character from a
stereotype into something that much more.
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| Graysmith's blue cocktail... |
Graysmith strays most from the beaten path of the detective caper. He’s often described as a “boy scout,” a term one would hardly associate with the gruff gumshoes of old. He’s quiet and soft-spoken, and he walks with a slight hunch, withdrawn, as though he could disappear into the carpet at any moment. Unlike the assertive, street-smart P.I. we might be familiar with, Graysmith is sheepish and not well-respected by his peers. Nicknamed “retard” in the office, he’s prone to being talked over or just flat-out ignored. He’s got a penchant for puzzles, and frankly, that appears to be his entire motivation. Avery even observes that Graysmith doesn’t seem to gain anything from catching Zodiac. He’s just in it for the puzzle.
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| Jake Gyllenhaal as Robert Graysmith |
Should we award brownie points simply because a writer
deviates from the norm? No. Regardless, it does serve to salvage Zodiac’s
protagonists from falling into the category of the cliché. More importantly, it
adds flesh to characters which might be generic and one-dimensional
otherwise. The biggest problem with creating a cookie-cutter character is that
they’ll lack depth.
How does Zodiac efface this lack of depth, then? The
thing is that these various idiosyncrasies are more than just quirks. They have
the potential to expand into genuine flaws and vices. For instance, Paul
Avery’s bohemian lifestyle might set him apart from the Humphrey Bogarts of the
world, and it might give him a carefree charm particular to his character. It’s
also his downfall. It begets drinking, then drinking begets alcoholism, then
alcoholism begets drug addictions, etc.
Zodiac demonstrates a rich tapestry of fresh takes on
the investigator. There’s more to be said than simply chartering differences,
however. Indeed, there’s another lesson to be learned here.
As I suggested before, each of these characters weighs in on
the plot in their own way. Largely, this is because each character brings
something special to the table.
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| Jake Gyllenhaal in Zodiac (2007) |
In the case of Avery and Toschi, this is a little easier to see. After all, Toschi is a cop, which affords him certain investigative benefits. He gets a lot of the information first-hand, he’s got resources and experience. Avery, too, is standing with years of homicide coverage behind him. Truly, though, it’s Graysmith who is the most interesting. There are peculiarities to him which make it so that only he can progress the story in specific ways. Observe this brief exchange between Avery and Graysmith, wherein the latter attempts to explain basic code-breaking to the former:
Avery: “How do you go from ‘A
is 1 and B is 2’ to figuring out this whole code?”
Graysmith: “Well, the same why
I did. You go to the library.”
Not only does his fervour for figuring out puzzles give him
an edge, he’s unusually well-read. This is a characteristic which gives him a
distinct way of viewing the case. When reviewing one of Zodiac’s letters, for
example, he picks up on the phrase “man is the most dangerous animal of all.”
To most, this is taken at face value. To Graysmith, this instantly conjures up
the title of an obscure film he once read about in a magazine. Naturally, this
proves instrumental to the progression of the plot.
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| Graysmith citing The Most Dangerous Game (1932) in Zodiac (2007) |
What do we learn from Zodiac? Well, it’s certainly a
masterclass in breaking the genre-mould and crafting characters who defy the
detective archetype. Of course, this may come naturally to Zodiac, since
it’s drawn from reality. Nevertheless, it’s a demonstration of how you can make
your investigators more than just the Hollywood aesthetic. Crucially, though,
it exemplifies how you can write your characters so uniquely that their
participation is totally specific to them. The attributes of their character
can provide a much more stimulating angle on the story.
El Secreto de sus Ojos/The Secret in Their Eyes
and L.A. Confidential…again, or: who fired Chekhov’s gun?
‘Chekhov’s gun’ is one of those ubiquitous concepts in the
realm of film and television that basically everyone has some form of
familiarity with. If you haven’t read about or studied it, it’s likely you’ve at
least absorbed it through the sweet, sweet process of cultural osmosis.
Nevertheless, I do enjoy bludgeoning dead horses, so humour
me a moment while we give Chekhov a quick check-in.
So the gist of it is this: a cheeky sod by the name of Anton
Chekhov said (allegedly) “If you say in the first chapter that there is a rifle
hanging on the wall, in the second or third chapter it absolutely must go off.
If it's not going to be fired, it shouldn't be hanging there.”
Before we unpack the implications of this idea, I’d like to
outline some key examples that exemplify Chekhov’s gun at its finest. Let’s
start by revisiting L.A. Confidential, which utilises the concept
several times.
Exhibit number one: Bud White’s pocket knife. At notable
moments throughout the film, White is seen using a folding blade for various,
menial tasks. In one instance, he uses it to flip the catch on a door. In
another, he uses it to uncover a corpse without touching it. Nothing major is
made out of it, it’s just part of his every-day-carry. In the end of the movie,
White whips out the weapon once more, except this time, it ensures his
and Ed Exley’s survival. Without giving too much away, he puts his
pocket knife to work in the sinewy sheath of an armed attacker’s leg.
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| Bud White uncovering a corpse in L.A. Confidential (1997) |
Exhibit number two: switches in the interrogation room. This
one requires a little more explanation. Early in the film, Ed Exley is tasked
with interrogating three rapists who are suspected of the Nite Owl shooting. Rather
than taking the violent route - to which he is opposed - he plays the three
against each other. With the use of hidden switches beneath the table, he feeds
audio from the three rooms into one another. When one says
something…unsavoury…about the others, seemingly in private, their vicious
dialogue is played for the rest of the group to hear. Soon enough, they’re
throwing each other under the bus.
At the end of the film, when Exley finds himself in
the interrogation chamber, he uses the switches once more. In this case,
however, he uses them to listen in on whatever is going on behind the glass.
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| Ed Exley listening in...L.A. Confidential (1997) |
Exhibit number three: Rollo Tomasi. For the sake of transparency, what I’m about to describe is spoiler heavy. I gave a light spoiler earlier in the article, but this is major spoiler territory. Read past the red text if you don’t want a huge twist to be ruined. You have been warned.
In a conversation with Jack Vincennes, Exley explains the
story behind his becoming a cop. His father, an acclaimed officer in his own
right, was shot dead by a nameless, faceless purse-snatcher. The assailant, who
was never caught, represents everything Exley stands against: the criminals who
get away. As a way of personifying his proverbial nemesis, Exley concocts the
name ‘Rollo Tomasi.’
Later in the film, Vincennes takes his investigation to the
chief of police, Dudley Smith (James Cromwell). Seeking Smith’s eye on
deciphering some information, Vincennes reveals that he’s begun digging up
proof of a major conspiracy. You know, corrupt police force, bribery, all the
good stuff. Smith sucker-punches an unsuspecting Vincennes with a concealed
snub-nose. Vincennes, with a bullet in his heart, realises that Smith is behind
it all. Reflecting upon his conversation with Exley, and smiling at the irony
of it all, he utters the dying words: “Rollo Tomasi.”
Naturally, Smith can’t help but pursue the lead. When he
asks Exley if the name sounds familiar, he unknowingly tips him off to his own
guilt.
These are all excellent examples of Chekhov’s gun in action
– some small, and some hugely influential on the plot. But what does it matter?
What’s the big idea?
Chekhov’s gun is intended as a lesson in script economy. He
caps off the statement by suggesting that, should the gun not be fired, “it
shouldn't be hanging there.” That is to say that every element of a story
should have a reason to exist. Everything which is introduced should have some
kind of bearing on the plot, otherwise its basically just fluff.
Personally, I think this is bullshit. It’s bullshit because
it presumes that the only importance something can have is to the progression
of plot. That’s far from the case – after all, stories are more than plot-deep.
What about character, for example? What about Dave Toschi’s animal crackers,
something so instrumental to the uniqueness of his character? In Chekhov’s
ideal story, such aspects would be removed.
If it’s not a matter of script economy, why should we fire
Chekhov’s gun? What makes it befitting of the detective story?
The answer is really quite simple: it makes the audience
feel smarter. Again, the analogy of the puzzle is an apt one. When you take
note of such a detail as Bud White’s pocket knife, you’re nabbing a piece of
the puzzle. When it’s reincorporated later on, it validates your attention. The
puzzle piece slots into place. Functionally speaking, the screenwriter is
dropping little cues for the viewer to pick up on, and they feel that much
smarter for doing so. Much akin to our discussion of dramatic irony earlier on,
it makes you feel like a real sleuth.
Before we go, I’d like to give one last example. This
instance of Chekhov’s gun fires to maximum effectiveness, by virtue of
employing multiple elements at once for its payoff.
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| Ricardo Darín as Benjamin Esposito |
The film is a grossly underrated Argentine neo-noir
titled El Secreto de sus Ojos/The Secret in Their Eyes (2009). In a
nonlinear fashion, the film is divided between 1974 and 1999. In 1999,
ex-judiciary employee Benjamin Esposito (Ricardo Darín) is writing his memoirs. As
he does so, he finds himself reflecting on a rape-homicide from 25 years prior.
Whilst he trudges through the past, he digs up lost love, lost hope, and the
most depraved and sickening parts of the human condition.
Element numero uno: At the beginning of the film, 1999
Esposito awakens suddenly from his sleep, scribbling the words “temo” – “I
fear” – on a piece of paper. Later, he explains to somebody that it is an
exercise for creative writing. Should he imagine a thought or phrase in
the middle of the night, he must write it down, immediately. Esposito finds
himself pondering unsuccessfully over the deep, cerebral meaning of this phrase
for most of the film.
Element numero dos: While working as a judicial employee,
1974 Esposito is lumped with a barely functional typewriter. Much to his
chagrin, the ‘A’ key doesn’t work. He, and many others forced to wrestle with
this dumpster fire of a typewriter, are forced to manually trace back through
everything they type and write each ‘A’ by hand. No one will fix the machine,
and no one will replace it. There are no spares. Eesh.
Element numero tres – the payoff: 1999 Esposito has retraced
his steps, solved the mystery, and brought some relative closure to the past.
Yet, he can’t help but muse over the lost love, the one that got away. In that
moment, as he gazes down upon that menial piece of paper – “temo” – he realises
what his subconsciousness has done.
Taking pen to paper, he fills in the ‘A’ which his mind’s
typewriter could not. “Temo” – “I fear” – now reads “te amo” – “I love you.” In
a climax that is as satisfying as it is emotional, he realises his love, and
the courage to pursue the ‘one that got away.’
Two separate, equally-minor plot points, stretching across
narrative threads and even time. As they’re cast into relevance, you can
feel the catharsis as the puzzle pieces slot together in your brain. That, dear
readers, is how you maximise the potential of Chekhov’s gun.
Indeed, there’s something decidedly involving about Chekhov’s
gun. This is perhaps why it’s such an intellectually stimulating narrative
technique, and what makes it ideal for the detective story. It relies as much
on the scriptwriter’s forethought as it does on the audience’s attention.
To conclude…
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| Esposito scribbling shit down in El Secreto de sus Ojos (2009) |
I’d say that about does it for now. Three is a nice, clean
number, and I feel as though the above instances perfectly encapsulate certain
aspects of the detective story at its best. The genre embodies such a rich
assortment of texts, and there’s so much to be learned if you give it a little
attention.
I hope it’s been somewhat educational, or at least mildly
interesting. Regardless, that’ll be £27,000. Education isn’t free,
fuckers!
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a mystery of my own to
solve. It’s time for me to slap on my trilby, don my trench coat, and figure
out where that smell is coming from. Coincidentally, the old man living in my
crawl space has been suspiciously quiet for a couple of weeks now.
See more: Undertale Review - Green Ornstein's Bucket List of Games
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See more: Undertale Review - Green Ornstein's Bucket List of Games
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