Critiquing Aid: Screenplays
This piece isn’t intended to be read, it is simply a critiquing aid for screenplays. Feel free to read it if you wish, but it probably won’t make a lot of sense unless you’ve read A Streetcar Named Desire and The Glass Menagerie by Tennessee Williams.
I studied both plays for months before writing this screenplay (which got full marks), so anyone reading this can rest assure that I’ve written this in utter commitment of proper screenplay layout and format.
***
In the industrial sector of St. Louis, a run-down bar lurks in the corner of a fashionable street. From the outside, the bar appears to be derelict and abandoned, yet there is life inside. The dull copper bricks crumble at the touch and the paint of the windowsill is crusted and peeling. The bar lacks any distinguishing features apart from a bold sign above the door that christens it as ‘The Black Widow’. The interior is mostly mahogany seats and tables; any remaining upholstery on the seats is a forest green. The bar is decorated with inharmonious objects, ranging from boating oars to Chinese dragons. ‘The Black Widow’ is mainly androcentric, yet is often housed by lonely women seeking a beau for company.
At the bar sits Amanda Wingfield, a faded Southern belle in the firm grasp of senility. She ignores the workmen in the background celebrating the end of the working week. Instead, she stares off into the distance as she taps her glass carelessly.
[The saloon-type doors of ‘The Black Widow’ open to reveal a woman entering, illuminated angelically by the streetlights permeating the musty bar. Her walk is of stark contrast to her surroundings – she is delicate and effeminate. The dim lighting of the bar adds mystery to her persona as her face is somewhat in shadow. Several inebriated gentlemen wolf-whistle in her direction, which she takes note of by tapping her cheek lightly. As she takes a seat at the front of the bar left of AMANDA, a drunken man stumbles into the jukebox, changing the song from a smooth jazz track to a blue piano.]
BLANCHE: An orange juice please, Garcon.
[BARTENDER looks peculiarly at BLANCHE. AMANDA stirs, glances quickly at BLANCHE, then turns to BARTENDER.]
AMANDA: Bring one for me too, please.
BLANCHE [Turns to AMANDA]: Why, we’re sisters of the pulp!
[AMANDA takes a fuller look at BLANCHE. She appears middle-aged and is wearing a flowing white dress of Indian cotton, with exotic black embroidery on the chest and hem. She is decorated in rhinestone jewellery, which AMANDA mistakes for diamonds in the dim light. She refines her tone and chooses her words carefully.]
AMANDA: Why yes, I do suppose we are. My name is Amanda Wingfield from dear St. Louis – a pleasure to meet you.
BLANCHE: Why, I assure you the pleasure’s all mine! I’m Blanche DuBois of New Orleans.
AMANDA: I thought I recognised that pretty Southern accent! Er…it isn’t a habit of mine to surround myself with…drunkards, I’m simply sampling cultures.
BARTENDER [placing drinks on counter]: That’ll be fifty cents, lay-dee. Amanda, yah want me tuh put it on yer tab?
AMANDA [feverishly]: Heavens, you must be mistaken! Must be another Amanda, not I! Here, I’ll pay now. [She opens her purse to pay, where a photo of her family in the old apartment can be seen. The wallpaper is eroding with damp and the curtains are moth-eaten.]
BLANCHE: May I see that?
AMANDA [snapping the purse shut]: I’d rather not.
BLANCHE: Why not? Is it a portrait of your salad days? Did you sell your soul to prevent aging? You can get treatment for that Dorian Gray syndrome…
AMANDA: Dorian what? [She continues quickly] It’s a photograph of my children. We…eh, were visiting the elderly that day. Poor dears lived in such squalor! [She surrenders the photograph].
BLANCHE: Why, such charming children! I have none – too busy living the good life! My latest beau and moi just finished a year-long cruise. It was magnificent, sister – such beautiful scenery!
[Image on left screen: BLANCHE taking a bath in STELLA’s apartment surrounded by tropical wallpaper.]
AMANDA: Sister, I’m so happy for you!
[Image on right screen: a photograph of AMANDA taken with a green-tinted lens.]
BLANCHE [Reminiscing]: I remember leaving the port in New Orleans. My beau, Shep Huntley – perhaps you’ve heard of him – had the most enchanting pearl of a boat I ever did lay eyes on. The boat was named ‘Iofiel’ as a tribute to me – it’s the angel of beauty! Even the Navy waved to us!
AMANDA: The…the Navy?
[The blue piano sounds harshly in the background.]
Was there any other interaction?
BLANCHE: With ourselves and the Navy men? Oh no, they were just honoured that the highly-revered Shep Huntley’s ‘steed’ rode past them. It doesn’t matter anyway, I did a lot more interesting things and met a lot more interesting people than common Navy folk. Why, the very next day we were enjoying tribal circle dances in South America!
[Image on left screen: BLANCHE sitting in a circle during group therapy.]
AMANDA [bitterly]: Navy folk are not common! They sacrifice their lives to protect this great country. That’s what they all are, self-sacrificing…
[Image on right screen: TOM labouring in the shoe warehouse with scraps of poetry crumpled into his pocket.
[AMANDA’s voice is heavy with regret. Directly above her, the bulb of a hanging lantern flickers on and off.]
We need the Navy, we can’t say we don’t! They keep our heads above water while they sink under the giant ocean, completely insignificant. We’ve got to show the Navy that we care about them, otherwise…otherwise they’ll abandon us! Then what do we do? We’ll be an inferior nation, that’s what we’ll be! We won’t be able to pay our foreign debts – Canada will have to move in with us! Then Canada will be rude and disgusting and will force us all out into a much smaller island where the company are drunkards and always squabble and…and…
[AMANDA fails to hold on to the metaphor as the weight of reality forces her to crumble. She produces a handkerchief and dries her eyes while BLANCHE places her hand on her back.]
BLANCHE [concerned]: Sister, is something the matter?
AMANDA [wearily]: Once upon a time, I had the good life – your life – firmly in my grasp. I had dozens of gentlemen callers to choose from, each richer than the last, but I settled for him. I chose romance over financial security. [She laughs exhaustedly] And look where I am now! A son who’s abandoned me and a beautiful daughter whose face is constantly masked in tears. I just had to choose the sensitive one…
BLANCHE: …Sensitive one?
[The polka tune, the Varsouviana, begins to play in her head. She blinks heavily, as if she is fanning away a harsh memory. The polka tune fades away as the blue piano becomes more dominant.]
It stops when I tell it to now…now! Where were we? Darling, if we don’t choose the sensitive men, we get the brutes. Those filthy, unholy, disgusting rejections from civilization and etiquette! You could be trapped by a man who…who licks his fingers while he eats and beats you and makes you ferment in unrequited love. Treasure, you might be damaged by that old beau, but a broken clock is still right twice a day.
AMANDA: I remember that, it’s an old Polish proverb.
BLANCHE: It’s Polish? [She turns her head away, muttering] I hereby condemn it to the fiery bowels of Hell.
AMANDA: Excuse me?
BLANCHE: Oh, nothing.
AMANDA: Okay…what about you? Has Mr Huntleigh always been your beau?
BLANCHE: Not always. Beauty is a transitory thing, and my beau appreciates me for my intellect, charm and personality. It is tragedy that moulds personality, and it is this personality that he has…fallen for. I was spoken for in my youth by a young writer named Allan Grey. Grey! Nothing ‘grey’ about him – each stanza of his poetry was a different colour of the rainbow. He was…taken from me one fateful night, taken by a truly selfish person…and I beheld it…
AMANDA: I’m…so sorry. We’ve both lost someone, but I drove mine away.
[BLANCHE touches her chin, her eyelids narrowing in contemplation.]
I need to learn to hold on to what I have before I see it evaporate before my very eyes. Laura’s the eldest, but she’s still my little girl. She needs me, she’s…‘sick’, and so am I – sick of this unfulfilling life. But I can’t shake the feeling that it’s unfulfilled because I’m letting it evaporate. Sister, we need to cling to the people in our lives now more than ever – we’re…not long for this world. We need to rebuild bridges and tread over them and be as humble as we can be. It’s too late for me, but maybe this old fool can help you cling onto Shep for as long as possible. Just…please…forget about the yachts and holidays for a moment and cling! Cling to that person who always believed in you and would never hurt you!
BLANCHE [dreamily]: I…will. [She checks her watch] Oh my, I am late for an evening meal with dearest Shep! I really must go now, but I shall never forget this encounter with you. I truly hope things will improve for you, Amanda.
AMANDA: Goodbye, Blanche.
[BLANCHE finishes her drink, clutches her bag and leaves the bar. While BLANCHE leaves, AMANDA apologises to the BARTENDER and resumes their conversation.]
* * *
[At a nearby hostel, BLANCHE stares emptily at the lobby telephone as she strokes a piece of paper in her hand. She then rises defiantly, marches to the phone and dials the number on the paper with determination. She takes a moment to compose herself, clearing her throat and taking a deep breath. Moments later, the call is answered.]
BLANCHE: Stella? Stella baby? Is that you? It’s…it’s Blanche…
[Underneath the lobby table, a spider spins a protective cocoon for her developing eggs.]
