How does a screenplay come to life? Not like the world with a Big Bang, but with a simple, quiet “Fade in”. Those two words are a cue to pull multitudes from the void, to have all the disparate elements of the universe assemble themselves so that in your mind’s eye, and in your audience’s eye, certain objects come into view. For example, in the scene that I’m picturing now, this is what I see: a travel trunk covered with stickers; a speckled goose egg from Siam; a Bible embossed with the initials “C.E.” And then, since no objects live in complete silence, a whole layer of sounds must be added to my scene: the crackling noises of a fire; a clock’s steady ticking; the sound of breathing, peaceful at first, then becoming more and more labored until, finally, a loud gasp is heard. Chang, an Oriental man in his sixties, jerks his head up from his pillow and, thus, the story, the potential for drama, begins.
In the winter of 1992 I decided, after years and years of indecision, to write a screenplay. I have always loved movies. One of the earliest and most vivid memories of my life is a film I saw when I was four years old — a British film called Wee Geordie — and in the decades since I have been a perpetual moviegoer, searching for meaning in darkened theatres around the world. To learn the craft of screenwriting, I joined the Harvard Square Scriptwriters Group. The group, started by an ex-Hollywood producer, met once a week in a tiny office barely able to accommodate its twenty or so members. Each week a script, along with its author, would be put on trial. Feedback would be given, often quite harsh, but no one objected. It made sense to thicken one’s skin, for we all knew that the script-readers in sunny California would show no mercy to scripts with flimsy plots or klunky dialogue or characters that put one to sleep. I buried myself in scripts. I pored over how-to books on the subject of screenwriting. I watched movies in a new way, analyzing every dramatic arc and plot point.
I decided to choose, as my subject, Chang and Eng, the original Siamese twins. That world of unfortunates known as freaks has always intrigued me. As a child, attending the Minnesota State Fair, I would visit the Midway where the freak shows were held, and timidly meet the stares of the midget, the fat man, and the bearded lady. Books from the library brought others like them into my life, people with unforgettable names: Grace McDaniels, the mule-faced woman; JoJo the dog-faced boy; Prince Randian, the living torso. Chang and Eng were members of this elite group but, despite their deformity — a six-inch-long ligament that joined them at their chests — they led remarkably happy and successful lives. In the 1830s, '40s, and '50s they were among the most famous people in the world. They sat with Martin Van Buren in the White House. They were wealthy. They owned land. They courted and married, not without difficulty, the two most beautiful girls in Wilkes County, North Carolina. And from that extraordinary union came twenty-one children. Other details, rich and exotic, emerged from my research. Back in Siam, their births had been seen as an evil omen and they were almost put to death. The midwives had fled in terror at the sight of them, leaving their mother to untangle their twisted bodies, to patiently stretch the band that connected them – an act of devotion which eventually enabled them to stand side by side. And just as compelling were their personalities. One was quick-tempered, the other mild-mannered. One was a tea-totaller while the other dragged his other half around through all his drunken rages. To deal with their differences, they set up separate households. For three days Chang was “lord of his domain,” for the next three, Eng was master. These were a few of the precious gems I mined, and so I set to work. But where to begin? In that floating houseboat in Siam? On their voyage to America? With their marriage? My starting point, I decided, would be the last night of their lives, a night filled with increasing panic on account of Chang's illness. Their lives would unfold in flashbacks, and each time the audience would return to their sickbed, Chang’s health, and Eng’s state of mind, would be even more precarious. From that first scene others soon followed. I fleshed out the major events of their lives, filling in the missing gaps with my own inventions, sometimes creating new characters, new plot lines. I heard the village sages arguing with their mother, demanding that her babies be put to death. I heard the King of Siam bantering with the boys, now teenagers, in his palace. I saw them arrive in Boston Harbor, and heard the crowd’s comments. And I followed them through other episodes in their lives: their first encounter with the Yates sisters, Sallie and Adelaide; their falling in love; their aborted elopement; their marriage. And then,the pièce de résistance, their wedding night. Quiet as possible I watched them while hidden in the dark. Four people in a bed — shy, awkward, looking to me, no doubt, for help in getting through the night. “Now don’t worry,” says Adelaide. “There are four of us here. We’ll figure it out. It just takes time.” And she’s right. Eventually time causes the candle to sputter out, and as the giggles give way to heavy breathing and then groans, we dissolve to a baby crying, and then a shot of the whole family together, all twenty-five of them. “It just takes time,” said Aidelaide, and the same is true of the writing. One scene gets placed upon another. Certain characters and events retreat in the distance, others hurtle forward, and before you know it, the story’s racing to an end, and there’s Eng wakened by a scream; there’s Eng reaching to touch his brother’s face and, finding it cold, letting out his own piercing scream. Lights go on inside the house. A child shouts, “Uncle Chang is dead!” and as Eng slowly succumbs to fright, the multitudes are pulled back into the void, the disparate elements of the universe scatter, and we fade out.
And then, just as quickly, we fade in. Into another drama. Interior shot — An elevator in a Boston skyscraper — Day. The elevator shoots up to the 43rd floor and a man steps out. He read the signs on the wall, checks the room numbers, and proceeds anxiously to his destination. Once he finds it, once he realizes that it really exists, he hurries away to the nearest restroom. Like Eng, he appears to be in a panic. His face is flushed. There are beads of sweat on his forehead, and, after doing what he can to erase all telltale signs of nervousnesss, he returns to the place where he’s expected — an office, home to a literary agency. Inside, the receptionist orders him to sit, and he dutifully obeys. Five minutes pass, then five more. As he glances at his watch, a woman enters the room and whisks him away into her private office. Everything about her, from her clothes, to the way she walks, to the world-weary expression on her face, is all business.
“I want you to know that I’m extremely busy,” she informs him. “I’m only doing this because of my friendship with Laura.”
The man tries to thank her but she cuts him off.
“Laura has told me something about your script and, to be honest, it doesn’t sound promising. In Hollywood, when scripts are passed around, the question on everyone’s mind is which part can Tom Cruise play.”
For a moment, the man tries to picture Tom Cruise as Chang. Perhaps it isn’t such a crazy idea after all, he tells himself. Makeup can work wonders and, with special effects the way they are, Tom could play Eng, too, thus saving some Hollywood studio a bundle. But just as he’s watching Tom Cruise’s name, then his own, appear in the credits, his little bubble of fantasy bursts. He catches a few words of what this harpy from hell is saying and, to his surprise, she’s still badmouthing those Siamese twins. Suppressing his anger, he decides (finally!) to defend his script but, before he can muster a single argument, she’s leading him to the elevator and dismissing him with these parting words: “I’m sorry. I’ll try my best to read it, but I can’t promise anything. As I said, I’m extremely busy.”
He thanks her for her time. He even manages a smile, but inside he feels devastated. He rides down the elevator but he’s not really there. A new location, a new scene signifying his whereabouts, has popped into his head. Interior — The bottom of a slag heap — Day. He’s stuck there, he and his battered script, and yet he doesn’t even know what a slag heap is.
It’s a good bet, say the psychologists, that people who refer to themselves in the third person are trying to hide some enormous pain. They also tend to be obnoxious. Keeping this in mind, I resolve to avoid the third person at all costs, despite the debacle at the literary agency. A day slogs by, and then another. On the third day, I head over to a movie theatre to find comfort in the dark. The film is Map of the Human Heart, and I approach it in my old, innocent way — as an escape, not as a lesson in screenwriting. Screenwriting? Those days are over, I tell myself. It left a rip in the map of my human heart; and, as I wonder if there’s any way to repair the damage, I see the answer up on the screen, two simple words pronouncing judgment upon me, warning me against any hope for the future: The End. I drive home. I enter my apartment and, seeing the flashing light on my answering machine, I hit the button. There’s a call from my mother. A call from a friend. And then a third person announces herself. As I listen, I am jolted by the sound of the voice. It’s familiar to me, yet it’s unfamiliar. It should be cold and dismissive — the voice of a harpy from hell — but now it sounds human, warm, chatting away at me as if we were lifelong friends. And, no, it’s not my imagination, but she’s out of breath; the words are coming in a rush, with kindness, with praise, with a music that is so sweet, so unbelievably sweet, that I close my eyes and suddenly the scene has shifted — Int. Mormon Tabernacle — Day — and there I am in the front row among all the shining, beatific faces, my eyes closed, my face tilted heavenward, my mouth agape like a baby starling’s, not begging for food but singing, “Halleleujah! Halleleujah! Halleleujah! Halleleujah!”
Postscripts:
1. I got the agent but, alas, my script didn't bring me the fame and fortune I was hoping for. "Vot can you do?" my grandma would always say.
2. So what's a good Jewish boy doing singing the Halleleujah Chorus? In my excitement, I guess I forgot myself. It won't happen again.
Here's more on those remarkable twins, Chang and Eng:
A Hyphenated Life.
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