“Most stories are about ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances”—or so says legendary screenwriter Aaron Sorkin in his MasterClass course. His definition of “story” certainly seems to fit our current global environment. We were all living our ordinary student lives until disaster struck, forcing us into the extraordinary situation which we’re still trying to navigate.
It made me think—perhaps there’s a story worth mining there.
While in quarantine, among the many activities I resorted to in order to pass the time was one a lot of people can relate to: hunkering down in front of my screen of choice. But my goal wasn’t to simply sit and passively enjoy a film or TV show. For me, an aspiring fiction writer, it was research. I sought to “look through and beyond” what I saw on the screen and dig into the deeper storytelling significance.
This adage happens to be the motto of the club Screenwriting at Victoria College (SVC), founded nearly two years ago by former Vic undergrad Kenneth Ting. I officially joined the group back in January (which seems like an eternity ago). At every meeting, members discussed a pre-selected movie, which each of us had watched in advance, delving into the nuances of character, pacing, theme, and a whole host of other screenwriting aspects. This wasn’t idle chat about our favourite films; rather, it was academic discourse on the art of cinematic storytelling.
Sadly, extraordinary circumstances in mid-March forced us to abruptly end our club activities. To use some screenwriting lingo, this was SVC’s denouement for the year. For my personal journey as a writer, though, it was merely the inciting incident.
I had to make the most of this unprecedented period of spare time. So, I applied the mindset that I learned from the club to some of my favourite TV shows and films from the past few years. Instead of venturing into new series this summer, I did a lot more rewatching. I needed to examine something I was familiar with in order to parse out all of the script-relevant details and learn from them. Of all the shows I was itching to return to, one stood head-and-shoulders above the rest. It was a staple of my childhood, a show I looked forward to watching every evening with my mother back in my middle school days.
Described as a “cultural phenomenon” for its day, Aaron Sorkin’s political drama The West Wing, based on the everyday struggles of senior staff at the White House, left a lasting impression on me. For one, it inspired my successful campaign for Student Council President at my elementary school. Now, as a UofT student, I can identify with the erudite, Ivy League-educated staffers in a more vicarious way. It’s satisfying to see smart people in such high-level positions, especially given the current dismal presidential administration.
Rewatching The West Wing not only provided a nostalgic stroll down memory lane, but also made me aware of something I was oblivious to as a youngster: how well-written the show is. This may not seem like a profound claim, talking about a multiple-Emmy Award-winning series, yet it only became apparent to me with my newfound analytical filter for screenwriting.
As a writer, Sorkin’s most iconic traits are his penchant for fast-paced, acerbic dialogue and his ability to wrench an incredible amount of drama from two people simply sitting in a room and talking to each other. Neither are easy skills to emulate, but viewing them under a more critical lens has helped me appreciate his screenwriting all the more.
Case-in-point, the famous “walk-and-talk” scenes. These are a constant fixture in the series, where two characters traverse down a well-lit hallway in the White House, discussing some pertinent political matter. A casual viewer would be able to identify Sorkin’s watermark on these scenes from a mile away. But what larger purpose do they serve from a storytelling perspective? The burgeoning screenwriter in me would say the “walk-and-talks” allow Sorkin to deliver necessary information (otherwise known as exposition) to the audience in a natural way while ensuring that the scenes remain dynamic. This is just one of the many ways that learning more about screenwriting has bettered my perspective.
Watching a good TV show or movie only once will provide what it’s meant to: entertainment. If it’s bad, then all you’ve done is wasted a few hours. But watching something a second, third, and fourth time—that’s research. The process has heightened my overall appreciation for on-screen storytelling. I enjoy good content more by analyzing all the writing components that went into creating it. Conversely, I can pinpoint exactly where a poor film falls flat for me just by looking at the script.
There’s this quaint ritual at the beginning of every school year. Upon reconnecting with friends, the question is bound to be asked: “How did you spend your summer vacation?” My answer will be, “Indoors, watching TV, like basically everyone else.” But I’ll also be proud to say that I immersed myself in the art of screenwriting, starting from the only place I knew where—the fictitious Oval Office.
No matter what form it takes, I hope all budding screenwriters on campus will join us at the club come Fall to discuss common films we’re passionate about. Let’s hope we also have a different occupant in the White House by then.
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