Humpday was inspired by my desire to work with Mark Duplass. I pitched him a plot premise, he said yes, and suggested Joshua Leonard as a co-lead. The three of us built a rich backstory for each character. I incorporated this into the shooting document (which I coined a “scriptment”) that was shared with the other producers and the crew. Here is how that document began:
Ben and Andrew met in college and were inseparable. Both were wild, “try everything” types. They had planned an especially adventurous post-graduation journey in Europe, but right before they departed, Ben was offered an internship that he couldn’t refuse. Andrew left for Europe while Ben stayed to pursue his career.
This was followed by several more paragraphs about Andrew’s life since college, and Ben’s wife, Anna. But beyond what was on the page, the actors and I had even more intell on these guys: very specific stories such as the first day they met; the time they got drunk and broke into the zoo; the time they took mushrooms and had an intense conversation about the stars. The goal was to create very present, visceral sense memories that would help inform who they were and what they meant to each other.
I really wanted Humpday to have a strong narrative drive, so even without pre-written dialogue, the armature for what would unfold in the film was meticulously drawn. The “script” was a 12-page emotional map, detailing what would unfold and how the dynamics between the players would shift. Here is a sample description of a scene:
Much later that night, Ben is awakened by a knock at the front door. Half asleep, Ben goes to the entrance and finds Andrew, scruffy and beaming, with a worn duffle bag slung over his shoulder. They greet each other with a warm, brotherly embrace. After the shock of laying eyes on each other for the first time in a long time, Andrew comes in and we see him register the house, which is pleasant and modest but which clearly reflects house-proud residents, with little designy touches like carefully chosen wall colors and interesting lamps. To Andrew, who has been nomadically roaming the planet with a small knapsack of books and a couple of pairs of underwear, this seems like a strange planet. In a flash he realizes that his crazy adventurer buddy Ben has turned into a completely different creature than Andrew has become. And Ben realizes in a panic that Andrew must be thinking he’s completely lost his edge.
The one part of the film that was not determined beforehand was the final scene in the hotel room. It was Mark’s inspired idea that we shouldn’t know how the film was going to end until we got into that room and let these two characters actually play it out.
After Humpday, Mark brought me the original premise for Your Sister’s Sister. In this case, two of the three actors were not veteran improvisers. So, in addition to a detailed character bible, I wrote more of a proper script with actual dialogue (in Final Draft this time) for the majority of the scenes. Lines were written to convey the tone of the scene, but the actors had the freedom to riff off of them. For example:
INT. CHASE JARVIS STUDIO – DAY
Iris is at her desk, signing for a package, a phone receiver cradled under her chin.
JACK (V.O.): You sure you can’t come up, at least for the weekend? Show me the ropes?
IRIS: I’d love to but there’s too much work here. Plus the idea was for you to be alone.
JACK (V.O.): So, no TV or internet, huh?
IRIS: That’s right.
JACK (V.O.): Are there any forks, so I can stab myself in the face?
IRIS: It’s for your own good, Caldwell.
JACK (V.O.): Yes, mom.
Mark’s infectious confidence made improvisation easier on actresses Rosemarie DeWitt and Emily Blunt. Still, sometimes the lines worked fine as they were written, so this film was around 80 percent improvised. And my next film, Touchy Feely—an internally driven film with awkward, inarticulate characters—had less of an “upside-down” approach, and thus even less improvisation.
Josh Pais and Allison Janney in Touchy Feely. Courtesy of Magnolia Pictures
Another adage proclaims that the final script is written in the edit room. Once again, this is especially true with improvised films. I’ve often felt that one advantage I have in directing improvisation is my background as an editor. As the actors are finding their way through a scene, my editor brain is keeping track of whether or not we are gathering enough material to sew the scene together later. Sometimes the cameras will roll for 10, 20, 30 minutes on what will ultimately be sharpened into a five-minute scene. As long as the meat is in there somewhere, my editor and I will be able to hone in on it later. Make sure to have an excellent editor on board when you set out to make this kind of film. If they’ve had experience editing documentaries or other improvised performances, all the better.
My latest film, Laggies, was traditionally scripted (by the talented Andrea Seigel), and, except for the very occasional ad-libbed line, it contains zero improvisation. I must say there is real luxury and relief in working with a well-written script, and actors who can magically make lines not seem written at all.
But I know I’ll always return to working with improvisation. Directing an improvised film takes the collaborative nature of narrative moviemaking to its highest degree. It forces me to let go of ego, to keep my micro-managing, control-freak nature in check, and to become the kind of director I most want to be: a curator of the best ideas, whether they come from my own brain or the magnificent minds of my collaborators. Together, we can create something that is greater than the sum of its parts. That is a beautiful feeling, and it’s something I live for. MM
This article appears in MovieMaker‘s Complete Guide to Making Movies, 2015.
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