Writing For Animation - 8

Doing the job of the cinematographer.

When you’re shooting a live action film or programme, you tend to shoot a master shot, and then lots of close ups, cutaways, reverse angles, reaction shots, etc.  You often might be shooting with more than one camera.  You probably shoot more than one “take”. The director has probably got a good idea of how it will all fit together, but, even if he has storyboarded sections of the film, a lot of work is still done by the editor.

This does not happen in animation.  Animation feature films may have budgets that allow lots of reshoots and some alternatives for the director and editor to sort out, but the most expensive animation feature will not have anything like the shooting ratio of an equivalent live action film.  In television animation, there may be the possibility of a few reshoots if things are not right, but normally you work out what needs to be animated to the exact frame, and there is little possibility of adding, or changing, a show except in an emergency.

The storyboard forms the basis for the film, and any problems of composition and structure need to be sorted out at this stage.  Normally the storyboard is timed to the frame, and each shot “doped” by the director, or a doping specialist.  This means that dialogue, and gestures, action highlights, etc., are timed to the frame before they are animated.  Animation is expensive; you don’t want to waste a frame, let alone a second.

The trailer for Psi-5 can be found here:
http://www.calon.tv/categories/20091216_1

Nowadays, it is customary to make an animatic before you start to animated.  This is a filmed storyboard, with dialogue, and, if necessary, music, with each shot timed to the frame.  The director, and often the broadcaster, sign off on this before animation starts.

Because the storyboard holds such an important position in the composition of a film or programme, there is a tendency for writers to leave description of certain types of action, gestures etc, as well as camera angles and movement, to the storyboard artist.  I have explained earlier that, in my experience, storyboard artists like as much visual description as possible and that if the images leap off the pages of your script it will make the artist’s job a lot easier.

This isn’t the only reason why you should write as much visual detail, including shots, as you can.  We have already explained how important it is that you visualise what is happening in your script.  Everyone accepts that things you write will be changed in the process, and the director and storyboard artist may have better solutions than yours to carry the thrust of the story forward, to make action clear, or even to stay within budget.  But doesn’t every writer worth his salt want what he visualises to be transferred to the screen?  If you don’t feel like this, or you cannot sum up a visual picture of what you are writing, then you should not be writing for animation.

When we first set up our company, the director of our first show, “SuperTed” handed me a sheet of paper, and told me this was how he wanted me to write.  On the paper was a description of a bear, half running, half falling down the side of a steep hill, uprooting shrubs and plants as he gained momentum.  I’m not sure where it came from.  Almost certainly not from a script.  All the same, it was terrific descriptive writing, which conjured up a visual picture that was so real and impressive that I can still remember it thirty years on.  Needless to say, I knew immediately what the director was getting at, and have aspired to write with the same visual power ever since.

Scripts, of course, are organised in a different way from normal prose.  They are not just passages of description, but blueprints providing important information for the director and storyboard artists.  It isn’t simply a question of writing what we are imagining in our mind, but imagining it on screen.  You have to think about where you are in relation to what is happening.  Let us take the example of the bear careering down the hill.  If we are at the bottom of the hill, watching the bear hurtling towards us, our emotional reaction is going to be quite different than if we are following it, or even chasing it, with bits of flying foliage winging past our ear.  In one view, we are a potential victim of the bear’s aggression. Or perhaps he is rushing towards us to sweep us up into his arms. In the other, we could be part of a larger group of bears, or the bear’s pursuer.  In both cases, the effect is different if the camera is static or moving.  If the camera is moving with the bear, we are more involved in the action; we are fellow participants.  If the camera is static, we are merely an observer.  If the camera is pulling back, the implication is we are withdrawing, or even fleeing from what is happening.  If we are at the bottom of the hill rushing towards the bear, then we are probably going to confront him, or embrace him.

This is why we need an indication of what the camera is doing in animation scripts.

Over the next few weeks, I’ll be discussing what you need to write, and when.  I’ll talk about the opportunities that animation offers, and how a writer’s imagination can go to places a cameraman may not.  I shall explain how the budget and style of an animated series will dictate how many shots you need to write in an episode.  I shall suggest how, with the angles you choose, and the composition of shots, you influence how your audience looks at what is happening, and how it feels about your characters.  I’ll also talk about you can use the medium of animation to help the transition from shot to shot, and find ways of showing the passing of time, or changes of location, that would be difficult, or impossible in live action.     

Next week:  Points Of View

Writing For Animation - 7

Working without Actors -  creating a world which expresses character and emotion.

About ten years ago, I worked as a story editor on a series of animated adaptations of the novels of Jules Verne for a French company.  We adapted six different stories over 13 half hours, and worked with some very talented writers: Brian Finch, Martin Jameson, and Fabrice Ziolkowski.  My writing partner, Andrew Offiler, and I adapted one of Jules Verne’s lesser known books, La Jangada (800 Leagues Down The Amazon).

One of the main characters spent some time locked in a cell in a fortress in the jungle, and I was faced with the problem of how to show both what sort of person he was, and what he was feeling.  The style of the series was very naturalistic, so my options were limited.  A solitary character in a locked room is not ideal for animation, for all the reasons I have given in previous blogs.  I wasn’t going to make him talk to himself, or talk to camera, or create a voice over to explain what was happening to him.  I draw the line at that sort of on the nose writing.  The idea that animation is a visual medium and that I should be showing, not telling, is too deeply ingrained.

I could, I suppose, have created a pet for him to talk to, as in the Bird Man Of Alcatraz, but there would have been the danger of creating a monologue in disguise.  In the film, of course, the birds become a symbol of hope and generation for Burt Lancaster.  Through the birds, we get a feeling for what the Birdman is feeling.  In La Jangada,  I decided to use some of the insects inhabiting his cell to act out the conflict going through his mind, and dispensed with dialogue altogether.

Filmmakers have always used images metaphorically.  At its crudest, we have all seen sex scenes illustrated with cutaways to trains going through tunnels, nuclear explosions, fireworks, etc.  much is made of dream sequences, particularly in Hitchcock films.    

Sometimes we get a feeling for what the characters are going through from the weather conditions, the sets, the colours, environment, etc.  Blade Runner is a great example of how the world depicted, with its overcrowding, constant rain, and muted colours tell you of the oppressive existence of its characters.  In Film Noir, shots through railings to create shadows that look like the bars of a cell are almost clichéd.

There are budget restrictions in animation as there are in live action, of course, but animation gives you many possibilities that are simply not available in live action.  You can make a spider wind a fly in its web and put it aside to eat later.  To my knowledge, spider wranglers do not exist.  Blood that drips down a wall can take the shape of a face, a gun, etc..   The sky can turn from blue to grey, or even red, at will.  Of course, live action movies do this too, but almost always with an animated effect.  Most visual effects artists are, in fact, animating. 

Using images as metaphors for what people are feeling is an important element of animation, and offers an exciting alternative to the skills of an actor.

Next week: Doing the work of the cameraman and editor.  How the process of animation influences what you write.

Writing For Animation - 6

Working Without Actors – More conclusions

Facial Expressions

.

When I was an actor, I learned the technique of how to hold a pose and keep it “alive”, and how to look at camera, or at another actor, and keep the look animated.  This was essentially about keeping tension in the body, and an intensity of the gaze.  Synthetic characters do not have these possibilities.  Animation is about an illusion of movement.  Long holds are difficult to sustain.  For reasons we have already discussed, expression of feeling or character is best achieved with action, or a dramatic pose.

There are times, though, when you want to show that a character is happy, sad, angry, etc without making them leap for joy, break down and beat the floor with grief, or punch someone in the eye.  We have already discussed why long looks to camera are not a good idea.  More usual is a REACTION SHOT, a quick cutaway to somebody’s face to show an expression.

Animators show how a character might be feeling by manipulating the angle of the head, eyebrows, and the shape of eyes and mouths.  In some cases this can be quite sophisticated. Much depends on the character design, and the budget.  The more realistic the design, the more possibilities there are for expression, and the more skill that is required. 

At its crudest, though, facial expression in animation is more like a mask…  or an emoticon…   an iconic symbol that indicates a feeling or state of mind. 

You should think of your reaction shots as if you were cutting away to a mask.  It would be quite usual to see HAPPY REACTION or SAD REACTION in a script, or, if it is blatantly obvious what the character is feeling, simply a REACTION from a certain character.

There are, of course, other ways of using the face, or entire head, for expression.  For a start, in animation, it is possible to animate facial elements that would be impossible in real life.  You can animate eyes, mouths, ears, moustaches, hair, etc., or distort the shape of the head.  We made a whole series about a family of reindeer who used their antlers as if they were hands. 

You will have seen examples of this in early cartoons.  The eyes that become heart-shaped and pulse with love, and steam that shoots from ears, have become crude clichés. In his Red Riding Hood films, Tex Avery animates eyes and tongues to great comic effect.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CS_dX_6OBs0



Bill Plympton animates the face with a different type of absurdity.

Of course, you can only write this sort of animated effect if the style of the show allows it, and the fashion currently is for styles that are more realistic.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LGZ5JLcYAPU&feature=results_video&playnext=1&list=PL114BD636249E6C93

Proverbially, the eyes are a window to the soul, but, in animation writing, you should think of the eyes, and the whole face, as a canvas.  If the eyes are a window, then you might be able to see a reflection in them.  In animation writing, it is possible to animate reflections in eyes, if the budget allows.  You could do this in a realistic way.  For example, you could track in to wide open eyes, in which we see the reflection of a wild beast approaching.  Or, if you want to be more fantastic, you could show the reflection of a lonely castaway on a raft at sea, a figure running through a firestorm, an ivy winding its grip around a tree, etc.  In these latter examples, you would not need a reflection; you could animate the scene directly onto the surface of the eye, or even push through the eye into the brain.

I am getting ahead of myself.  I shall talk later about the use of camera in animation writing, and the impact of not having a traditional cameraman

Next week, though, I shall complete the section of this blog about working without actors, and talk about other ways of showing character and emotion.

Writing for Animation - 5

Working without Actors – Some conclusions

1.       Dialogue.  Keep it short

Thanks to some excellent scripts by Alan Bennett, and some great acting, the television monologue has become almost fashionable.  I can’t help feeling, though, that this is the result of cynical cost cutting.  A single actor is a cheap option.  I prefer to listen to Alan Bennett’s monologues  on audio tape.  Monologues, or soliloquies, are for the radio and for the theatre, not for visual media, and long speeches should be reserved for a voice off, and then only if the writing is good.

If you have Christopher Plummer reading Jean Giono (The Man Who Planted Trees) or Richard Burton reading Under Milk Wood (our animated version) then you can lean on a long narration, but always off-screen.  The challenge then is coming up with imagery that matches the beauty of the words.

We have talked already about how synthetic faces cannot hold our interest in the way that real people can.  They have no presence, no charisma, and only come alive in motion. So don’t make them talk in shot unless you have to, and keep it brief.

In my brief stint at Hanna Barbera we were told never to have more than three lines of dialogue for any character without something visual happening.

                                                                    ROBIN

                                                Of course, there were always some

                                                writers, and I include myself in

                                                this, who would cheat by putting…

ANOTHER SHOT

                                                                   ROBIN (CONT)

                                                …in the middle of a speech when

they knew it was too long.

I always try and stick to this rule, and feel very uncomfortable when any speech is longer than three lines.  Interestingly, I am currently writing scripts for a Franco-German coproduction, Vic The Viking, and in my last script, I included one speech that was four lines long.  This was sheer indulgence on my part, since I had an idea for a character joke.  Although we had never spoken about any rules for length of dialogue, the note came straight back from the excellent French story editor to make the speech shorter.

It obviously isn’t enough just to insert ANOTHER SHOT in the middle of a speech or exchange of dialogue.  Animation is about images.  We want to see things happening.

There are people who give talks on animation writing who maintain that dialogue is for exposition of the plot.  Don’t listen to them.  True, we’ve all resorted to including plot points in dialogue, but I always feel that this is an admission of defeat.  Dialogue is for humour, and for character, and, as in live action, is best used obliquely.  Characters should not be telling us what is happening, what is about to happen, or what they are feeling.  We should be able to understand this from what we are seeing.

If a tree falls on a character, knocking him to the ground, and he staggers shakily to his feet, isn’t it so much better for him to say Don’t worry about me, I’m fine before he collapses, rather than Ow! That hurt!.

Some people think that the ideal animated film has no speaking in it, and I have some sympathy with this view.  A lot depends on the genre, of course.  An animated sitcom is almost always reliant on snappy dialogue, and there is no doubt that certain audiences, children in particular, empathise with characters who speak for them or to them.

There are broadcasters who believe that, for young children, you have to spell things out, and write dialogue that explains what is happening.  I think they are wrong, and will only do this under duress.  Young children may have trouble understanding irony and some forms of humour, but they certainly understand how pictures tell stories.

There are a few times where you would write dialogue where there would be none in a script for live action.  Voices for animation are recorded at the beginning of the production process, so, as a writer, you have to anticipate those moments when an actor might respond instinctively to what is happening around him.  In the recording studio, actors will probably not have the benefit of the storyboard, and, in any case, might have difficulty reading one.  They are not necessarily going to know what is happening around them.  A good recording director will, of course, explain when to project and when to whisper, when to cry and when to laugh, and when to sigh or grunt.

Arabella Weir and a Baroness in the studio

All the same, it is safer to write as much of this in the script as you can, and, unlike in live action scripts, you will see sighs, grunts, cries of pain, etc written into the script, as well as instructions how to read certain lines, i.e. with a tremor, with mouth full, spitting out the words, etc.  In animation series, voice recording in post is not always possible, so everything needs to be recorded upfront.  In animated films, it is the animator who does the acting.  His drawing or manipulation of a model will give the character timing and expression.  He will be working to a voice track, and the more vocal material he has, the better, including how a character breathes, laughs, etc.

Next week:  More conclusions about how working without actors impacts on animation writing.

Writing For Animation - 4

Working without actors (continued)

One of my favourite moments in the first Shrek film is where, in a moment of romantic exuberance, he pulls a snake from a tree and blows it up like a balloon.  This is good film writing, because it expresses emotion in pictures.  It is good animation writing because it is a fantasy.  A lot of the fun of animation is writing action and business that real actors could never do, either because it would be physically impossible, or unacceptable for some reason.

It is quite possible that this particular piece of business in Shrek was not written by a writer, but invented by a storyboard artist.  In the heyday of theatrical cartoons, the story department was made up of people who could draw, rather than professional writers.  The plots of a Roadrunner or Tom and Jerry cartoon are fairly formulaic; the fun comes in the extravagance and ingenuity of the visual gags.  These are often more easily expressed in a drawing than as a written description, and for this reason the storyboard has become the final draft of any animated script. 

Occasionally in our studio we have dispensed with writers in the traditional sense, and started the story process directly with a board.  This does not mean to say that writers should leave visual gags and business to a storyboard artist.  This is a cop out.   

Story structure and character development may be easier to work out with text on a page, but it is essential that anyone reading an animated script should be able to visualise what is happening immediately. 

In my studio, most of the storyboard work in done in house, and it is possible to talk directly to storyboard artists about how much you should write.  Invariably they ask for as much visual detail and expression in the writing as possible.  If the pictures leap off the page it is much easier for them to draw.  They may decide to change, cut or add to what you have described, but by then the process is working and the creative juices are flowing.  What they do not like is lots of dialogue with no description.  That may be fine for a stage play, but it is unlikely to inspire a visual artist.

If writing dialogue is your thing, you should probably be writing for the theatre.  Dialogue has its place, but the joy of animation is in writing things that would be impossible in live action.

Actors cannot do this:

Or this

Or this

But, in theory, if it can be drawn, you can write it.  In last week’s blog I explained how I set my students an exercise, asking them to find visual ways a character might express a state of mind, whether it be nervousness, aggression or delight.  As a follow up to this, I ask them to do the same thing, but with a character that is not human, and with a human character, but with an element of fantasy.

So, instead of he stands in the corner twiddling his fingers you have he stands under a daffodil twitching his tail.  Instead of he pounds his fist on the table, you have he brings his fist down, driving the table through the floor onto a group of men gambling in the basement. Instead of she pirouettes and falls backwards into his arms, you have he sticks out his tongue, which grasps her on the shoulder, and spins her towards him across the lilypad and into a squelchy embrace. For me, this is what animation writing is about.  This is where you can have fun.

There is a place for subtlety in animation, but it is often quite difficult to achieve.  Animation relies on bold, emphatic poses, and your writing should reflect this.  Think larger than life, and write without ambiguity.

Animation draws inspiration from silent movies, where characters balance on girders high above the ground, swing on the hands of town clocks, or walk jauntily as buildings collapse around them. These performances are influence by mime, and the faces of both Buster Keaton and Harold Lloyd are almost like masks. Almost everything is expressed in movement, or by striking a dramatic pose.  There needs to be an element of this in your writing.   If your characters are human, then you should be continually asking yourself how you can put this idea across in bold, emphatic images.

Unfortunately, the cartoon style of animation of the forties and fifties is no longer fashionable. Here is a link to one of Tex Avery’s films.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aO8CYwnZBYg

Nobody animates like this anymore.  Probably because nobody is capable of doing this nowadays.  Tex Avery was a genius, and when some years ago Dic attempted to revive his style in The Wacky World Of Tex Avery it was a travesty. (Sorry, guys!)

The reality of writing for animated shows is that your ability to fantasise will be restricted by many different factors: design, budget, the integrity of the world that has been created, as well as the style of animation.  When writing for stop-motion animation it is not uncommon to find your characters have such short arms that they cannot scratch their heads!  I am currently writing for a CG series where, unlike with drawn animation, nothing can be squeezed or stretched.  You might also find the budget will not allow for any water, or fire etc.   Traditionally you will always avoid having more than two or three characters on screen at any one time, scenes with characters with more than two legs, and heavy effect-ridden scenes with tidal waves, etc.  With a feature film budget, of course, you can be more extravagant.

Working within these limitations can be a frustration, but sometimes this can be a spur to the imagination. 

Next week:  Some rules and conclusions to working without an actor. 

Writing For Animation - 3

What you read into this photograph will depend almost as much on you as on what these actors are doing.  Our response to people, actors included, is always subjective. Clearly some intimacy is being shared here; he is invading her space.  There is something invidious about the way he seems to be caressing her cheek with his hand.  She, on the other hand shows no urge to pull away, and her downcast look seems doomed.  She has given in, or given up. There is little expression in their faces, but these are good actors, and there is a charge of sexual tension in their relationship.

Actors have a range of tools at their disposal.  They can use their voice and facial expression, their eyes and movement.  They have a subtle control of timing.  They can strike the right pose.  They have charisma, sex appeal, “chemistry”.  In animation you have the actor’s voice, of course, but everything else has to be created synthetically.  Everything else is an illusion.  Every semblance of sex appeal, timing, and posing is the creation of a director, animator, layout artist, and the writer.

Good film writing is about showing, not telling, and this is especially true of animation.  Over the next few weeks I’m going to be talking about some of the things a writer can put into the script to show what the characters are feeling.

Perhaps the most important part of any animation is the posing.  You can give virtually anything expression by posing it in the right way.  Here is a model sheet of a flour sack. 

This sack can be brought to life and given expression through the way it is posed, from its place in the composition of the shot, and, of course, the way it moves.  In itself it has no charisma or sex appeal.  You can’t look into its eyes and see the depth of its soul.  You can even give a drawing expression with its line.  There is a great difference between a character drawn with a wispy, fragile line, and one drawn thick and bold!

Of course, you don’t have to write every pose for every character, but I think it is a good exercise for animation writers to imagine their characters are flour sacks, and need to be given clear, visual indication of how they move and what they are doing.

I started my career as an actor, and, like most actors, spent a lot of time observing myself and others to pick up little gestures and movements that give people expression.  Actors like to work with props, and should be able to use a cigarette, a glass, or a pencil in various different ways to project different states of mind.  Having studied at the Laban art of movement centre, I was particularly interested in how people moved.  One of the first things that happens in the design of animated characters in whatever medium is a walk cycle, because this will be the most important element in the definition of character.

In my classes, I get my budding writers to come up with little gestural motifs, with and without props, that express different states of minds: nervousness, aggression, or delight.  Then I make them write them down.

Thomas stands in the corner twiddling his thumbs, however, is probably never going to appear in an animated script.  In an animated script, you are more likely to find Thomas stands in the corner tying a large knot in his tail.  The usual rule with animation is: If it can be done in live action, do it in live action.  Animation is about fantasy, and that’s where the fun bit comes in.

Next:  Things that actors can’t do.

The next part of this blog will appear in the first week in January.  Merry Christmas, everyone!

Writing For Animation - 2

Working without actors

When you write a film script, you usually have an idea about how it should be cast, and often write with a particular actor in mind.  We know what sort of characters most actors like to play.  With Clint Eastwood or Woody Allen you pretty much know what you’re getting.  One look from Clint and you know he means business, and you’d better watch out.  Woody Allen will always be a neurotic New York Jew. You could never imagine him playing the lead role in a bio-pic about some serious politician, or as a comic superhero, unless it was purely for comic effect. 

The best film actors do not do a lot, and yet we are able to read the slightest change of “look” in their faces.  A lot of their acting is done with their eyes.    If we engage with anybody, don’t we look at their eyes?

Of course, we cannot change the way our eyes look, though we do have some control over eyebrows, eyelids, moisture,  etc. Yet we all know people whose eyes seem shifty, and, if we’re lucky, we’ve all looked into someone’s eyes and seen love.  An actor’s face is a canvas upon which we are encouraged to project our own emotions, and sometimes the blanker it is the more feeling it seems to possess.

Isn’t this the fascination of the Mona Lisa?  The fact that there is so little expression in her face makes us project our own ideas about her eyes, and her smile.

Most animators do not possess the technical skills of Leonardo, and, if they did, they would not have the time to practice them in an animated show.  However skilful the character animation may be, it is almost impossible for an animated character to hold our attention with just a look for any length of time.  Some 3D characters are semi-realistic, but many 2D characters are very graphic.  Many animated characters are not even human.

It is possible to read something into this face:

But not much into this:

This is a bit simplistic, I admit, but I'm sure you understand my point. Facial expression in animation may not be as limited as in this smiley, but it is going to be a lot more limited than that of any actor. 

Compare this photograph of the Jackson Five

With an image from the animated series

In the photograph, whatever the reality, we get a feeling for the different characters.  We see the tired smiles for the camera, the uneasiness of the pose, and maybe can read a fresh optimism in Michael Jackson’s face.

In the drawing, you can’t tell one Jackson from another.  They are defined by the colour and shape of their clothing, the (slightly strange) positioning of eyebrows and eyes, and the smiles.  If you are not a fan of the Jackson Five, these characters look almost interchangeable.  Which is which?

The implication of this is profound for the writer.  If you are writing a script for Clint Eastwood, you are not going to write what he should be feeling, pieces of business for him to do, etc.  You need to respect his ability and craft.  When you are writing for animation you are writing for a drawing, or a model, or a synthetic image.  Of course, animators will use their own “semaphore” of facial expressions and gestures, positioning mouths and eyebrows to signal to us what characters should be feeling, using teardrops almost symbolically in eyes that are almost always disproportionately large.

The writer’s role is not to write any of this, nor to explain what the character should be feeling.  We’re not taking about a manual of expressions, nor about a novel. 

Animation is about finding imaginative visual means of expression that do not rely on an actor's skill, and the writers’ job is to propose ways of doing this.

More about this next week.

Writing For Animation

Every year I give a day long workshop at the Università Cattolica del Sacro Cuore in Milan as part of a series of Masters in scriptwriting.  My host, Professor Armando Fumagalli, is passionate about the subject, and works as an occasional script advisor to Italian film companies.  He invites people from all over the world to talk to his students, who are usually a very talented and informed bunch of people.

My workshop tends to come towards the end of the course, and I don’t waste the students’ time by talking about story structure, character arcs, etc. They should have had plenty of talks about this already. I concentrate instead on what makes animation different from writing for live-action.

Scriptwriting students in Milan

This blog will be divided into quite a few parts, and will cover how the fact you have no real actors or cameraman affects what you should write, as well as the way that the whole process impacts on the writer. Not every writer shares my point of view.  Some, I know, are happy to write mainly dialogue and leave the director and animators with a lot of choices.  My position is strongly influenced by the month I spent at Hanna Barbera some years ago, developing a show for them.  There, as at Dic and Cinar where I have worked as a story editor, writers were encouraged to write every shot, and that is what I, as a producer, encourage my writers to do.

Since this blog is intended for writers in other media and genres, I want to devote today’s part of the blog to encouraging writers to consider animation as worthy of their pen.

Why write for animation?

Writing for animation is not for everyone, but if you have a strong visual sense, and a vivid imagination, then I would encourage you to try your hand at writing an animation script.  I wrote my first professional script when I was still at college.  It was a short play for a company that toured schools, about a Hell’s Angel who sprouted wings.  It wasn’t ideal for the stage, though the company made a good stab at it, but it would have been a good premise for an animated script.  It was only much later, after I had written quite a few scripts for the theatre, radio and television, that I realised that animation provided the best medium for my imagination and sense of humour.

Animation is primarily about fantasy, and most of the opportunities are in children’s television.  So if you are a fantasist who is happy writing for children, then it could be for you.

We have used writers for our shows who have a serious reputation in other fields.  Dennis O’Flaherty, an American writer who had written a Wim Wenders film, the late Brian Finch, who, besides writing hundreds of scripts for Coronation Street, wrote a tremendous adaptation of Good Night, Mr Tom, and Stan Hey, who has written scripts for Auf Wiedersehen, Pet, The Lenny Henry Show, and  Dalziel and Pascoe and who remains one of my favourite writers.   They were happy to write scripts because it gave them the chance to have some innocent fun, to indulge their imagination in an environment that was not dominated by egotistical actors and directors.  Actors voice animation series, of course, but, apart from this, are usually absent from the process, and writers are rarely faced with the demands of an actor who wants to change the script.  Directors who are driven by ego rarely choose animation as their field, because animation directors so rarely see the limelight. 

Many writers, myself included, enjoy writing for children because we have children or grandchildren ourselves.  A young child will be blissfully unaware of the blockbuster thriller you may have written, but if you have written an episode of his or her favourite animated show, you will be able to bask in the warm glow of your offspring’s pride.  Young children are the most honest of audiences.  Their response to a show is immediate, and totally unsullied by prejudice.  This can be refreshing.

Animation is made in long series, and is almost always an international coproduction.  This means that there is always a demand for writers, and English speaking writers in particular.  I write a few scripts for our own shows, but many more for studios in Europe and North America.

On the downside, writing for animation will bring you neither fame nor fortune, though it is possible to make a decent living out of it.  If it’s the social aspect of working that appeals to you, then it won’t make you happy.  The industrial and international nature of the process means that you can write on show after show without ever meeting another member of the creative team.

This can also be an advantage.  I went to the 50^th birthday party of a friend of mine in California not that long ago.  The party was full of writers, and most of those who were still writing wrote only for animation.  When I asked why this was, I was told that ageism prevails in Los Angeles, and anyone over the age of 40 is considered over the hill.  If they wrote animation scripts, they never had to meet anyone from the show, and so nobody was aware of their age!

Shortly after this, I invented an alter ego, which I could use as a nom de plume.  By writing in the name of a young woman, I discovered I could avoid any potential ageism and sexism I came up against.   I haven’t had to use her often, but she has been useful.

I hope that talented writers, experienced or not, will be encouraged to follow this blog and learn about what makes animation different from other media.

Next week, I shall start by talking about working without actors, and how that influences what and how you write.

How To Brief A Composer: Final Part

Talking to composers about emotion.

I believe that the primary function of music in any film, for the movies, television, for adults or children, is to tell your audience what they should be feeling.  We’ve talked about musical genres and styles, but when we are briefing composers we should be talking about emotion.

All music, at least, all music that is any good, carries an emotional charge.  Music can put us in a good or bad mood, make us agitated or relaxed, move us to tears, or put us to sleep.  When we talk to composers about musical styles, we are reflecting what a particular style might evoke for us.  We know what has worked before.  We can point to Bernard Herrmann’s score for Psycho, the moment in John Williams’ score when ET sails past the moon on the bicycle, or the whistling motif in Morricone’s Fistful Of Dollars, and it is clear what we are looking for: music that is scary, that is heart-meltingly tender, or that speaks to us of haunting loneliness.

Shower scene

The build up to the murder is done with uncanny silence.  Hitchcock builds the tension with some quick cutting and unusual angles.  The sound effects emphasise the mundanity of the scene, so that when the music comes in, it is a shocking intrusion, like the knife.

Using existing music as a guide is fine, but is not always useful.  In the world I live in, it is difficult to get a composer of the calibre of Herrmann, Williams or Morricone, the budget won’t allow for an orchestra, the emotional spectrum is more narrow, and scenes are so short there isn’t time to develop a musical theme for more than a few seconds.

The bicycle is lifted into the air by the sheer power of the music

Deciding which moments need emotional emphasis is a matter of taste. It’s easy to recognise the moments of high melodrama in your show, and ask the composer to reinforce them with music.  But what about subtler moments of exasperation, confusion, or worry?  Should they be reinforced by music?  And, if so, how?  And is it possible to express these things in a few seconds with a couple of chords?

Of course, you could, and probably should, leave a lot of this to the composer.  Like a good dubbing editor, a good composer will see emotional possibilities in your show that you have missed, and point up moments you had not given much importance to.  There are few things more satisfying than hearing the score for the first time and being surprised by the emotional richness of your show.

Some composers will demand that you are specific about the emotions you want to bring out.  When the child in your show arrives at his new school, do you want the music to express his fear and trepidation, or the insensitive hustle and bustle of the world he or she is entering?  Of course, there is no right answer to this sort of question, but your choice will have an impact on how the viewer will respond to the scene.  You might have a scene with multiple characters, who all have different emotions. You need to decide where the sympathies of the viewer should lie, and brief the composer accordingly.

You also need to decide when not to have music, where the emotional content does not need underscoring, or where a musical underpinning might seem either intrusive or confusing.  Not every emotional moment will need music, but the moments of real fear, sadness, or triumphant joy offer the best opportunities for music.  The less music you have elsewhere in your show, the more impact these moments will have.

Music can also be used for comedy.  Often comedic moments in a film or show will be accompanied by the worst sort of music hall music, with punchlines emphasised with a flourish of a drum or cymbal, or the Wah Wah Wah of a muted trombone or trumpet.  For me this is akin to canned laughter. It may be a sign that the viewer should laugh at this point, but does little to make the scene funnier.

More interesting and effective is when the music itself adds humour. In our series, Hilltop Hospital, our dog doctor was the target of unwanted romantic advances from a cat nurse.  These moments were invariably underlined with a rhapsodic melody, whose exaggeration created moments of real irony.  Music that totally exaggerates, or plays against what is on screen can create real laughs.  In this situation, the more serious the music, the funnier the impact.

I always think the music is one of the most important elements of any film or programme, and I am probably irritatingly fussy about it.  It is important to know what you want to achieve in your show, but also to give the composer enough space to deliver a score with real power.

I love this!

There is something very haunting about the whistling, which evokes a feeling of loneliness, but places us right in the wide open spaces of the Wild West (probably somewhere in Spain!)

Next:  What makes writing for animation different from writing for live action.

How To Brief A Composer - Part 2 of 3

What is the music for?

If you listen to the music composed by Carl Stalling for Warner Bros, you could be forgiven for thinking that music is for comedy, punctuation and sound effects.  Stalling’s scores were full of comic references to popular tunes, or classical music.  Their stock-in-trade was strange comic sounds, and sudden, almost shocking, changes of melody, mood and tempo.  Stalling is often criticised for an overuse of musical puns.  If Sylvester swallows a bar of soap, you will hear the tune, “I’m forever blowing bubbles”.  If he dresses as an angel, we hear “An Angel in Disguise”.

One of Carl Stalling's scores

Warner Bros, of course, owned its own music catalogue, and Stalling was required to use as many Warner Bros tunes as possible.  Most of these punning references are lost on the modern audience, but that doesn’t stop us enjoying the music for what it is, and rarely do we feel that it is out of place.

Then, as now, especially with slapstick, the music doubles as sound effect.  Pizzicato strings will accompany a character on tip-toes.  A harp, or bell-tree will point up a moment of magic.  An arpeggio on a bass clarinet might follow a bubble rising in an underwater sequence. 

These have become almost clichés, and a clever composer can have a lot of fun turning them on their head to shock or tickle our sense of humour.  If you put loud, brass chords over somebody on tiptoes, you are exploiting our knowledge of musical conventions, to subvert our expectations.  This can be great fun, but is probably not advisable when writing for young children, who are only just beginning to familiarise themselves with musical vocabulary.

Whereas there is a place for music as punctuation, or to add comedy, I don’t believe that this is its primary function in any film or television show, animated or not.

Nor should it be merely background. Many composers of music for animated series write continuous music throughout every episode.  They are aware that animation series are sold all over the world and that the potential earnings from performing rights can be enormous.  Since these are calculated by the second, their default position is wall to wall music. This creates scores that are not only monotonous, but irritating. Any jazz musician will tell you that the silences in a solo improvisation are as important as what you play. Breaks in the music are vital if it is to have any impact.

Nor should the music be too intrusive. Of course, music will ultimately form part of a broader soundscape, and, at times, may disappear behind dialogue, atmospherics, or sound effects.  This is not only natural, but desirable (though it tends to upset composers, when their music disappears behind a gust of wind).  When music is working properly, the viewer should scarcely be aware of it.  Its effect should be subconscious, a pull on the emotions.

Music is there to tell us what we should be feeling.

Next: Talking to composers about emotion.