“People chase illusions and these illusions are created by movies. I want to make things concrete and real and to break down the illusion. There’s nothing more ironic or strange or contradictory than life itself. I don’t want people years from now to say: ‘Remember DeNiro, he had real style.’”
– Robert DeNiro

There are far more qualified people than me to give advice about writing, including two of my fellow Offenders—Alfredo, who won the prestigious Nicholls Fellowship, and Iris, who was nominated for an Academy Award for writing Clint Eastwood’s Letters From Iwo Jima (see an example of how good Iris’ advice is here). But when I moved to New York at age 17 to pursue the writer’s life, there was one thing I learned about dramatic writing that’s stayed with me to this day and that I think of every time I write. Actually, it’s a lesson that also applies to the other dramatic arts—acting and directing (more on these below)—as well.

It has nothing to do with anything I learned in class (although my writing profs at New York University were awesome), but rather an article I read during that time that made a light bulb in my head go off.

I think the piece was in the Village Voice or New York Times Magazine–it was an interview with a father who flew up to New York City every weekend from his Florida home to try to find his son who had run away as a teen. A family friend had allegedly seen the boy in New York so that was enough for this father to travel to the city every Friday night to walk around Manhattan from top to bottom, left to right, and then fly back to Florida on Sunday night. The father did this because he loved his son and as long as there was a shred of hope the boy was alive, he was going to use all his resources to find him. This is what he lived for. He did this every weekend for almost a decade. In his dreams, the father imagined finding his son, having an emotional reunion, bringing him back to Florida where the boy’s mother was waiting and they’d be a family again.

So one weekend, the father is walking through Greenwich Village, peeking in every café, every store, for any sign of his boy. Then, he sees someone who looks familiar…a young man in his mid-20s walking down the street toward him. This person is obviously older, but the father has no doubt—it’s his son. The father calls the boy’s name. The young man stops. The two recognize each other. The big emotional moment ten years in the making is upon them. And this is what happens:

Son: Hey, dad.

Father: Hi, son. How are you?

Son: I’m good. Everything’s cool, I guess.

Father: I’m glad to hear that.

Son: Well, it was good seeing you. Say hi to mom for me.

Father: OK, take care.

Son: Cool. I’ll see you around.

Then, the son continues walking down the street and the father catches a taxi to the airport; never to return to New York again.

No tears. No angry words. No hugs or kisses. No major epiphany. No big emotional climax like you’d see in a movie or TV show. Just a few casual words and…that’s it.

And what I learned from reading this story was that life is unpredictable. In real life, people act in ways we don’t expect. As DeNiro says in the quote above: “There’s nothing more ironic or strange or contradictory than life itself.”

Now, maybe to those of you much smarter than I was (or am), this “lesson” seems like the most obvious and simple thing, but it was a profound revelation for me. It crystallized the whole issue of character—which I think all great dramatic writing is founded on–for me. The importance of character and motivation became clear and I started thinking about how to develop interesting characters that have their own logic, but also surprise you because that’s what happens in real life. It forced me to think beyond the obvious choices, which is something I keep in mind every time I sit down to write.

So let’s say that this character I’ve created has just witnessed her beloved mother die before her eyes. My first instinct as a writer is that this character should react emotionally—she cries, she screams—but is that the most interesting choice? What if she’s numb and completely emotionless? What if she starts nervously giggling and can’t stop? What if she just walks back into her house and does the dishes without a word? Is there an unexpected choice that would work just as well or better than the obvious?

A few years after reading the article about the father and son, I heard Gene Hackman (one of my favorite actors) talk about how he approaches a character he’s about to play. He said he first asks himself, “Can I do this role 180 degrees from what’s on the page and still make it work?”

For example, if the character comes off as a slick asshole, can he play him as a sincere good guy and still serve the story? If not, he goes backwards by gradations—OK, I can’t go completely 180 degrees away from the asshole thing, but can I take him 170 degrees away from that? No, how about 160 degrees then? 150 degrees? And so on. How far can he take the character away from the obvious and still properly serve the whole?

There’s a great example of this technique in the 1983 film Under Fire where Hackman and Nick Nolte play American photojournalists in Nicaragua during the 1979 political upheaval. In one scene, Hackman is led off by rebel forces to be executed by a firing squad. As written, Hackman’s character is scared shitless, he is begging for his life, crying, cursing—doing everything that seems the obvious thing one would do in that dire situation.

But Hackman played it in a way that was completely opposite from that. His character is fully aware the soldiers are leading him to his death, but he makes jokes, he shrugs, laughs, he treats the whole situation as a farce. And then suddenly—BANG! Shots are fired and Hackman falls dead.

It’s an amazing scene and a great example of what makes Hackman one of our finest actors. He makes a completely bold and original choice for how to play that scene and that decision–the juxtaposition of his character’s flippant behavior and the sudden brutal violence–makes the moment that much more shocking and emotional. Believe me, 99% of actors would’ve played it the obvious way—fear, tears, over the top dramatics—and some of them would’ve been good or even great, but not transcendent the way Hackman is.

I don’t direct much, but I’ve directed a few things, mostly plays, and in every instance where there was a scene or moment that just didn’t have any life or spark to it even though everyone and everything seemed to be firing on all cylinders, I’d apply the principles discussed above and it always made the scene or moment better. Always. A reminder that those ironic and strange and contradictory things are indeed what’s most interesting in life and in art.