As always, one of the first things I did when opening the script for Tár was to see how long it is. I do this to approximate how much time I will need to read the screenplay. Tár is 92 pages long. But when I watched the movie (while reading the screenplay), the total run time is 2 hours and 38 minutes. So much for the “one page = one minute” convention!
Normally, the opposite is true: Long scripts with shorter run times. For example, The Social Network is 163 pages. Its run time: 2 hours.
I was left to ponder what gives with the Tár script. Fortunately, the script’s screenwriter Todd Field provides a prologue with this explanation:
"Based on this script’s page count, it would be reasonable to assume that the total running time for Tár will be well under two hours. However, this will not be a reasonable film. There will be temple changes, and soundscapes that require more time that is represented on the page, and, of course, a great deal of music performed on screen. All this to say, if you are mad enough to greenlight this film, be prepared for one who’s necessarily represent these practical accommodations."
While watching the movie, the individual scenes didn’t feel bloated or overlong, rather there is – generally – a minimalist approach to the writing which Field (the director) knew would inhabit more time and space once he got on set with the actors.
Without getting into plot, which I will in the next installment in the series, let me note two things which stand out in the script.
First, there is a *lot* of what I call “novelistic writing” in scene description. In the online screenwriting universe, they refer to this type of writing as “unfilmables.” If they were to ding Field’s script, there would be a *ton* of dinging bells. Some examples:
25: There is an underlying tension between the two. The tension of people who have at times slept together, but no longer do.
31: Tár hates the place, and pokes at a salad while listening to old man stories, hoping she never becomes such a creature.
52: Tár watches this young woman’s impressive appetite, somewhat envious of her utter lack of fear, and any kind of pretense.
62: She plays it again, her way, not Tár’s. Indifferent to the power differential and the boundary line she just crossed. Tár should banish her from the piano and her composition, but instead finds herself turning a corner she never saw coming.
89: Tár staring at a little girl seated across from her, in another life the child’s smiling eyes could belong to Petra.
These are just a few examples of novelisitic writing where the narrator comments on the inner life of a character.
Let’s be clear. If a non-professional writers submitted a script with this amount of “unfilmables,” we would be subject to lots and lots of dings by the script reader.
But not Todd Field. He is not only a professional, he’s also a writer-director. That gives him additional leeway to do pretty much whatever the hell he wants. He’s writing a script he’s going to direct and if he wants to make clear to the actors what’s going on in their inner lives, he can do that in the script.
Which brings me to my second point: Field can also do this.
HER FACE AWAKE NOW
Somewhere else, focused on something in the middle-distance,
her posture and expression as steady as a statue. Eyes
neutral. Almost empty. But this center will not hold. Ticktock,
tick-tock, tick--the metronome abruptly stops. They
arrive in twos followed by a rest: whisper(s), twice-cracked
knuckles. The once and again hocking of phlegm. Incessant
humming in a duet with someone who cannot whistle. Chewing,
and lip-smacking. Sibilant sounds (S&P, T&CH, K&B). Abused
adverbs and adjectives such as so amazing and crazy. Vocal fry
that culminates in double-upwardy teenagery question marks.
A water bottle being squeezed and crinkled. The rude rustle of
a plastic shopping bag in an otherwise quiet auditorium.
Fingers digging the dregs from a popcorn tub. The jiggle of a
table disturbed by a hyperactive leg. The double-clicking of a
ballpoint pen. The muffled bass of an over-volumed TV coupled
with the goose-stepping stride of someone walking on the floor
above. The particular becomes the general, the noises
described combine into a deafening mix, like a foul orchestra
unsuccessfully attempting to tune. Throughout the above, Tár’s
face a cubist mask of winces and grimaces born of terror that
modulates into unmitigated rage. Someone’s HAND squirts PURELL
into hers, then passes her a GLASS of WATER and PILL in a PAPER
CUP, she barely nods before washing it down. ANGLE ADJUSTS to
see the svelte swaying back of her assistant FRANCESCA LENTINI
(32) depart with the empty glass into the backstage area of
ALICE TULLY HALL, replaced by ADAM GOPNIK who enters the RS
wing and moves to Lydia. Noises diminuendo to ambience.
This is a single paragraph of scene description on p.1. So that whole screenwriting “rule” about no scene description longer than three lines per paragraph? Clearly, Field ain’t following that advice! Again, he’s a writer-director. He can do what he wants.
My advice: Don’t do that. There’s a reason why this supposed “rule” exists: Scene description broken up into short paragraphs no more than three lines long makes it *much* easier for a reader to digest.
Next: We discuss the story’s plot.
