👹 The Devil's Dialogue

I was inspired to post Writing better horror - 10 guiding principles because I’m writing a horror film right now for a great team, and the process sharpened up some old writing tools.

Per principle 4, this particular monster I’ve created comes with a whole set of rules on how it operates. On top of that, and touching on principle 1, there’s also a mystery at the heart of the story that sits on the shoulders of some past event.

It’s a lot of information to deliver to an audience when all they really want to do is to get scared out of their minds.

This necessary yet chunky raft of information that doesn’t quite fit naturally into the forward momentum of the plot? It’s called exposition. And it can be radioactive: if not handled properly it risks becoming very dangerous to the health and wellbeing of your story.

To pull a recent example, got it so wrong the film went viral.

People will tell you that some amount exposition is inevitable. Not true. They’re just using the wrong word for the wrong thing (which is something writers generally can’t afford to do).

They’ll describe exposition as the revelation of information. If that were the case, your entire damn script would be exposition. What’s a story if not the gradual revelation of more information? From the basic: “look, this is the thing that’s happening next.” to the sophisticated: “this is why our guy is so angry all the time. He’s actually deeply insecure.” It’s all new information, every minute.

So if exposition isn’t the revelation of information, what is it?

Here’s something I think I made up but sounds right: Exposition is the act of exposing yourself. Or exposing the fact that you, a writer, exist at all; that this story is in fact authored, constructed, fake.

You are peeking out from behind the curtain and saying “sorry to interrupt. You just really need to know all this stuff. It’s a bit boring, but please pay attention and then we can all get back to the story.”

In other words, it’s any information you’ve crammed awkwardly into your story just because we as an audience need to know it before moving on - and in doing so, breaking our hard-earned immersion in the tale you’re telling. So if it can be avoided at any cost, it should be.

Again, this isn’t “then they all get on the boat and set sail.” We can see that happening.

It’s “the boat is cursed because 100 years ago it pulled a hit & run on a mermaid.”

Alright. How do we do avoid it?

First let’s lay the groundwork.

Figure out what it is your audience needs to know outside of the action of the plot. Write it all down. It can be messy at first; overwritten, stream-of-consciousness. That’s all fine.

It might read something like: “Hannah had this really weird childhood because she was an only child and her parents were both surgeons and so she was constantly acting out for their attention. And even though they were loving parents, they just couldn’t give her the quality time she needed. And she had a nanny but she ended up hating the nanny because the nanny represented the fact that her parents weren’t around. And so eventually they were forced to fire the nanny which meant on one particular day they had to drive Hannah to her grandma’s house, and…”

Once you’ve it written out, read it and refine it. Pin down the exact pieces of information you need to deliver in your story.

Then refine it again. And again if you have to. Distill it to the single line.

Hannah’s parents died in a car crash when she was a child. She blames herself.

Here are some other examples:

Jason burnt down the restaurant because he hates his boss after being denied a raise.

Derek is the inside man. In a former life he was Vladimir’s mystery cellmate “Smoky”.

Pete and Harold are brothers. They’ve been estranged ever since their dad left and took Harold with him.

When we know exactly what we need to say, nothing more and nothing less, we can move on to one of these five tips for burying it artfully.

Use the brevity you achieved in the above exercise. You already have it down to a single line. Challenge yourself to turn that line into an image.

If it doesn’t quite fit into an image, make it two images. If you’re being indulgent, make it two images and facial expression. Or a grunt. Or a head nod. If you absolutely positively have to, you may add a word.

If we’re laughing, we either don’t notice we’re being fed exposition or we don’t care. You can get away with pretty much any storytelling faux pas if you make it hilarious.

You might be thinking “but I’m not writing a comedy.” You’ll be surprised how much room there is in any script for a genuinely funny scene, so long as it doesn’t jar too much with the general tone of the film.

Sad films can be funny. Scary films can be funny. Tense films can be funny. Think of it as sprinkling salt in caramel. The contrast can help lift the prevailing flavour when used sparingly.

Turn it into genuine organic conflict, and we’ll care.

And you can get away with so much more this way. People say all kinds of things in an argument. They repeat themselves. Share information the other party already knows. Dig up old wounds and weaponise them. Announce character failings as if they were brand new facts.

It’s a great way of telling us something while also moving the story forward (conflict almost always moves things forward).

“Admit it. You want to feel guilty over the death of your parents because you need a reason to hate yourself. You could let it go. You just choose not to.”

Or:

“I was twelve years old! And you left me to be with dad! I needed you Harold…”

It feels much more earned and natural when used as an attack or defence.

Think of Quentin Tarantino’s Kill Bill. When he needs to insert a swathe of exposition, he gives us a killer flashback - sometimes in anime. He builds a story within a story, complete with stakes, tension, rising action. We come away thrilled by this segue, not bored or short-changed.

If your film can absorb an interlude, or a flashback, or a sudden switch in POV, it can be a great way of making backstory feel immediate and real. You can show us the information, rather than telling us.

Withhold the crucial information for as long as possible. Make us crave the answers. Reframe the story to put it as late into the film as proceedings will allow.

Turn it into a mystery. Make that part of the premise. Rebuild it as a twist. Wrong-foot us so we’re led to believe one thing before getting sucker-punched with the truth.

Bring us to a point where we’re asking “just what the hell went down between Harold and Pete all those years ago?”

Or “This ensemble portrait of a depressed small town is great - but I really need to know who burned down the restaurant!”

Jedi mind trick your audience into all-but demanding the information. Then however you deliver it will feel satisfying and cathartic. Check out Ari Aster’s Hereditary for a masterclass on this.

Do you definitely need it? If so do you need to state it in no uncertain terms? Can you arrange things in such a way that we would naturally assume what you need us to know?

Does Harold have to say to Pete, “brother, you haven’t spoken to me or your father in over a decade”? Or can he just say, “dad had a stroke couple years back. He’s doing better now.”

Who doesn’t love a song and dance? I’d be into that.

For some reason putting exposition in the mouth of a reporter either on a TV screen or at the scene of the crime always gets a pass.

Thanks for reading. See you next week. In the meantime, find out the secret to turning a good script great here.