Is science fiction better on film?

This summer I had a science fiction play, Future Shock, produced at the 247 Festival in Manchester. Some people I spoke to about it were nervous about putting science fiction on the stage. “Film does it so much better” by which I assume they mean if you want to fire a laser or beam someone aboard it’s bound to look a bit naff on stage therefore you can’t do science fiction. This is of course nonsense. When writing for the stage you are careful to select what you show and don’t show, this is the job of the dramatist to select what is appropriate for the play in order to make the point you are trying to make. This is true whether in science fiction or in any other genre, for example, Alan Ayckbourn points out in his book, that you have to be careful about the way that you use violence since it either looks false or else we get too much of a vicarious thrill from it and it obscures the meaning.

As a result most plays prefer to keep fights offstage. In science fiction you do the same – you just keep the lasers or phasers or fazers (or whatever the hell they are) offstage. A play is still a play whether it is set in 1603, 2010 or 2875, the same rules apply. Science fiction is usually about what it means to be human whether it’s Blade Runner “I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe… attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion…” or Star Trek “logical captain”. By presenting the non human replicant and the non-human Spock we are able to consider what the boundaries of humanity are. That theme is also central to my play.

Future Shock

In Future Shock a woman is stranded out of time unable to reach her lover – the only way to get to him is for her DNA to be recorded and the data held for the time in the future when her lover will appear. The question of the piece is: will the reconstructed human being be the same if body dies but the blueprint goes forward, or are we more than our DNA? In other words, what does it mean to be human?

Genre expectations of science fiction

The genre then raises an expectation which is partly fulfilled and partly surprised, it’s a shorthand notation for certain expected themes and tropes. When the expectation for these are fulfilled the audience is soothed and rewarded, they are made to feel knowing. The genre therefore helps the audience to a point of understanding from which the more interesting, unique element can grow. By sharing a starting point (the genre) writers are freed from a host of setting up problems and instead of starting from point A and writing through to F they can start from D and then go further – maybe even to P or Q!

Future Shock was performed at the 247 Manchester in July 2011. It was the winner of the Drama Association of Wales prize for Best one Act play of 2011, and is published by the Drama Association of Wales (price £3.50, to order email info [at] dramawales.org.uk). Visit Richard Stockwell’s website to learn more about his work.

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2. The Art and Science of Screenwriting
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Science Fiction writer Simon Morden writes violent novels. Another War (2005), was shortlisted for a World Fantasy Award, and 2007 saw the publication of The Lost Art which has been shortlisted for the 2009 Catalyst Award for best teen fiction. He’s currently writing his next novel, ‘Equations of Life’, which he tells us is set in a future London packed with refugees, armoured nuns, Stalin-lookalikes, and seriously hard-core science. So how does he do it?

It’s easier than writing sex

The funny thing about writing violent scenes is that I find them so much easier and satisfying than writing sex scenes. But when I say funny, I mean it in an ironic, slightly disturbing and profoundly sad way. Why is it that I’m more at ease describing the moment of death, of desolation, of decreation, than I am a joyful coupling that holds the promise of new life?

It doesn’t reflect well on me, perhaps, but I’m not alone in this dichotomy. It’s not for nothing that there’s a Bad Sex award – given for crimes against literature – but no Bad Violence award.

It’s all in the drama

Much of the reason for this is that violent scenes are full of drama, intense emotion, and split-second critical choices. Capturing the essence of the scene is simply more straightforward than writing many other types of scene: it isn’t the problem of trying to capture every last detail, so much as deciding what to leave out since there is so much of it.

Random acts of aggression?

There is a problem, however. It could be argued that the modern world divorces us from violence and death. Most of us live in a society where rare acts of random aggression are the only times we encounter the squalid nature of the reality of knives, guns and fists, and death is often clinical and removed from the abrupt shock of trauma. It is important not to purvey an unrealistic, cartoon-style violence. People get hurt in fights, and it’s an unreasonable assumption that if a chair is used as a weapon, it’ll be the chair that breaks and not the victim’s skull.

Do your research

‘Keeping it real’ is your duty. Talk to the police – you might be able to go out on patrol with them – or with the staff at the casualty department at your local hospital. Veterans of our all-too-frequent wars aren’t likely to gloss over the facts, either. We have their memoirs, but also their memories. All I have to do is remember my father-in-law’s stories – a veteran of the Spanish Civil war, Dunkirk, Singapore, the Atlantic convoys and D-Day – if I want to be reminded of the reality of conflict.

When violence becomes pornography

It is true that violence in books is commonplace and often pornographic, simply present for the sake of being present: a filler, a convenient and familiar bridge for the plot to cross over on its way to the last page. It’s not a writing habit you should cultivate. But there will be other times where scenes which include violence are necessary parts of the story: they show the nature of the characters and move the plot forward in an entirely natural way, arising from decisions made and paths taken earlier on.

I have some rules of thumb I bear in mind when writing – flexible enough to withstand the impact of my imagination, and hopefully robust enough to keep me from pornography.

Violence needs to be a consequence of the plot

Raymond Chandler’s way of spicing up a plot was to walk a man with a gun into the room. But it was Chekov who nailed it with his rule regarding the gun over the mantelpiece: if you show it, you have to use it. Chekov knew that a plot device has to be shown before it comes into play – something called foreshadowing. So while entirely random acts of violence might happen to your characters, it will only appear so from their point of view: the act itself will have been planned by someone, somewhere, and there should be pointers to that in your story.

The act of violence needs to have consequences

That violence itself should have consequences for your character shouldn’t be something that needs stressing, but it’s often forgotten, often deliberately in order to serve an unrealistic plot. If your story is set somewhere with a functioning police force, violence will have legal sanctions (writers of soap operas, please take note). If it’s set in a more lawless environment, blood feuds and tribal or gang loyalties will play a part. Even in a war zone, there will be rules of engagement: a battle is not a free-for-all. And all this is aside from the medical, physical and emotional aftermath of conflict, which must be treated as seriously as the actual act itself.

It needs to be true to the characters

Your characters are allowed to be unskilled at physical combat, lousy shots, faint at the sight of blood and be generally terrified by the chaos of violence. They are also allowed to remember their training, take a deep breath and keep calm while all about them are losing their heads. That still leaves room for extraordinary bravery, appalling cowardice, gracious mercy and utter depravity – but what they bring to the fight is what they have inside already, regardless of what they take away.

Writing violence is easy to do, but it’s just as easy to get it wrong. I’d argue that getting it right shows a greater degree of maturity and mastery. Violence shouldn’t be used as a filler or as a spice – like everything in your story, it should be there because it ought to be.

Related posts:

1. Writing Fantasy Fiction
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3. Writing historical fiction 1 – creating your historical world