Stephen Mitchell's Blog - Posts Tagged "satire"
Learning to write for the page instead of the screen
I published my first novel, Ignorance is Bliss, after I'd been making movies for decades and was in the habit of thinking visually for the screen. I knew that writing a novel would impose a different set of rules to be followed, broken or ignored entirely. Whereas a film is intended to be consumed within a relatively short period--ninety to a hundred and twenty minutes--a novel represents a way of passing time though not at the expense of making the reader wanting to turn the page in anticipation of what is coming next. One thing I teach actors is that the audience will remember what they didn't expect to see--I try to incorporate this dictate in my writing.
Here is an extract from Ignorance is Bliss:
Normally, Martin thought of walking distance as about three puffs on a cigarette. Any more than that and you'd gone too far. Nevertheless, he was into his second Pall Mall before it dawned on him that his car was either lost or stolen. The idea shocked him. The car, a 1959 Cadillac Sedan de Ville bearing Congressional plates, was not the sort of vehicle thieves would find enticing. In fact, nobody that knew him seemed to understand Martin's attachment to the relic. And, of course, he never bothered to explain that the first grown woman he'd ever seen naked drove such a car. Most people would likely see that as some sort of retrograde fixation, Martin being only thirteen at the time. She had been a friend of his mother and she drove a black-on-black convertible. The closest Martin could come to that had been the rose-colored Sedan de Ville.
Here is an extract from Ignorance is Bliss:
Normally, Martin thought of walking distance as about three puffs on a cigarette. Any more than that and you'd gone too far. Nevertheless, he was into his second Pall Mall before it dawned on him that his car was either lost or stolen. The idea shocked him. The car, a 1959 Cadillac Sedan de Ville bearing Congressional plates, was not the sort of vehicle thieves would find enticing. In fact, nobody that knew him seemed to understand Martin's attachment to the relic. And, of course, he never bothered to explain that the first grown woman he'd ever seen naked drove such a car. Most people would likely see that as some sort of retrograde fixation, Martin being only thirteen at the time. She had been a friend of his mother and she drove a black-on-black convertible. The closest Martin could come to that had been the rose-colored Sedan de Ville.
My alter-ego Ray D. Shosay
Inspired by L'égoïste romantique by Frédéric Beigbeder, I wrote Ray D. Shosay's Journal: Dispatches from a (junior) suite in Paris. Ray became my (somewhat absurdist) alter-ego; a Hollywood screenwriter hiding out in the Hôtel Georges V in Paris. He is an insider's insider; an 'oblivious savant' of the first order. Here is an excerpt:
Every so often, someone comes to town knowing that I, like the Count of Monte Cristo, am imprisoned in my (junior) suite awaiting my destiny. On these occasions, I am called upon to venture out of the hotel (if they only knew what that entailed) and escort them to the better addresses in Paris, which often times are, in fact, the worst depending upon one's perceptions and inclinations.
Earlier today, I was accosted by a meteorically rising starlet with seven major flops to her credit (we have the same agent) interested in purchasing a diamond ring somewhere in the vicinity of the Place Vendôme. I agreed to the task on the promise from The Chad that my next multiple picture deal would not be cross-collateralized.
The joaillier saw right through my act in spite of the Patek Philippe on my wrist and affected not to recognize the actress, if I may use that term, whose beauty is of such an artificial nature that one is constantly surprised when she speaks.
Having selected exactly the right stone (a five karat yellow Princess-cut diamond) after only an hour and a half of viewing (during which she ordered in a snack from the Ritz), she attempted to get Françoise Hardy on the phone for an astrological opinion. Mercifully, Françoise was letting her calls go to voice mail.
About to finalize the transaction by handing over her black Amex, she let loose with, "This isn't a blood diamond, is it? That would be impossible." With a maximum of aplomb, the joaillier countered with, "As you wish, Madame, but it will be half the size for the same price." Thus ended further negative references to blood diamonds and we departed the store and each other; she in a state of short-term euphoria and I in search of a Bellini at the Ritz.
Interestingly, I've never heard anyone ask if they are getting blood gasoline at the pumps.
Every so often, someone comes to town knowing that I, like the Count of Monte Cristo, am imprisoned in my (junior) suite awaiting my destiny. On these occasions, I am called upon to venture out of the hotel (if they only knew what that entailed) and escort them to the better addresses in Paris, which often times are, in fact, the worst depending upon one's perceptions and inclinations.
Earlier today, I was accosted by a meteorically rising starlet with seven major flops to her credit (we have the same agent) interested in purchasing a diamond ring somewhere in the vicinity of the Place Vendôme. I agreed to the task on the promise from The Chad that my next multiple picture deal would not be cross-collateralized.
The joaillier saw right through my act in spite of the Patek Philippe on my wrist and affected not to recognize the actress, if I may use that term, whose beauty is of such an artificial nature that one is constantly surprised when she speaks.
Having selected exactly the right stone (a five karat yellow Princess-cut diamond) after only an hour and a half of viewing (during which she ordered in a snack from the Ritz), she attempted to get Françoise Hardy on the phone for an astrological opinion. Mercifully, Françoise was letting her calls go to voice mail.
About to finalize the transaction by handing over her black Amex, she let loose with, "This isn't a blood diamond, is it? That would be impossible." With a maximum of aplomb, the joaillier countered with, "As you wish, Madame, but it will be half the size for the same price." Thus ended further negative references to blood diamonds and we departed the store and each other; she in a state of short-term euphoria and I in search of a Bellini at the Ritz.
Interestingly, I've never heard anyone ask if they are getting blood gasoline at the pumps.
