soundofheaven.info ==== free Quadrinhos e Arte Sequencial fb2 download how to download Quadrinhos e Arte Sequencial pdf. Quadrinhos e Arte Sequencial ePub. 12 ago. ASTROLOGIA E COMEDIA. Description. ASTROLOGIA E COMEDIA. Categories .. Will Eisner - Quadrinhos e Arte soundofheaven.info Download free Quadrinhos E Arte Sequencial (Em Portuguese do Brasil) pdf.
|Language:||English, Spanish, Indonesian|
|ePub File Size:||18.58 MB|
|PDF File Size:||19.25 MB|
|Distribution:||Free* [*Regsitration Required]|
Exame da estética da arte sequencial como veículo de expressão criativa. O seu estudo, na obra, considera o espaço tradicionalmente ocupado em revistas e tiras de quadrinhos. Copyright: Download as PDF or read online from Scribd. Bases para criação e compreensão de histórias em quadrinhos, Download as PDF or read online from Scribd Quadrinhos e Arte Sequencial - Will Eisner. quadrinhos e arte sequencial will eisner pdf. Quote. Postby Just» Tue Mar 26, am. Looking for quadrinhos e arte sequencial will eisner pdf. Will be .
Day after day we seek an answer to the ageless question Aris- totle posed in Ethics: Rabisqueira comics gibi quadrinhos hqs actioncomics cosplay comicshop geekbrasil superherois scketchs cosplays deviantart nerdgeek nerd pinterest fanart comiccon indycomics indyplanet picture drawing fanzine art actionposes actionpages mundogeek mundohq brasilgeek bandadesenhada. But to say more than "she's qualified," we might create a full sequence that not only gets her the job but dramatizes her inner character and relationship to her mother, along with insights into New York City and the corporation. She flings clothes out of her suitcase, trying on this, trying on that, but each outfit looks worse than the one before. The writer shapes story around a perception of what's worth living for, what's worth dying for, what's foolish to pursue, the meaning of justice, truth-the essential values. Then you must bring to the work a vision that's driven by fresh insights into human nature and society, coupled with in-depth knowledge of your characters and your world. Return to Book Page.
Ifl'd written this report, I'd have lost my job. The sign on the door doesn't read "Dialogue Department" or "Description Department. A reader who can't grasp this fundamental deserves to be fired. It's surprisingly rare, in fact, to More often than not, the better the storytelling, the more vivid the images, the sharper the dialogue. But lack of progression, false motivation, redundant characters, empty subtext, holes, and other such story problems are the root causes ofa bland, boring text.
Literary talent is not enough. Ifyou cannot tell a story, all those beautiful images and subtleties of dialogue that you spent months and months perfecting waste the paper they're written on.
What we create for the world, what it demands of us, is story. Now and for- ever. Countless writers lavish dressy dialogue and manicured descriptions on anorexic yarns and wonder why their scripts never see production, while others with modest literary talent but great storytelling power have the deep pleasure ofwatching their dreams living in the light ofthe screen. Of the total creative effort represented in a finished work, 75 percent or more of a writer's labor goes into designing story.
Who are these characters? What do they want? Why do they want it? How do they go about getting it? What stops them? What are the consequences? Finding the answers to these grand questions and shaping them into story is our overwhelming creative task. Designing story tests the maturity and insight of the writer, his knowledge of society, nature, and the human heart.
Story demands both vivid imagination and powerful analytic thought. Self-expression is never an issue, for, wittingly or unwittingly, all stories, honest and dishonest, wise and foolish, faithfully mirror their maker, exposing his humanity Compared to this terror, writing dialogue is a sweet diversion.
So the writer embraces the principle, Tell Story For what is story? The idea of story is like the idea of music. We've heard tunes all our lives.
We can dance and sing along. We think we understand music until we try to compose it and what comes out ofthe piano scares the cat.
But if we look deeply, if we strip away the surface, we find that at heart all are the same thing. Each is an embodiment of the uni- versal form of story. Each articulates this form to the screen in a unique way, but in each the essential form is identical, and it is to this deep form that the audience is responding when it reacts with, "What a good story!
From sym- phony to hip-hop, the underlying form of music makes a piece music and not noise. Whether representational or abstract, the car- dinal principles of visual art make a canvas a painting, not a doodle. Equally, from Homer to Ingmar Bergman, the universal form of story shapes a work into story, not portraiture or collage. Across all cultures and through all ages, this innate form has been endlessly variable but changeless.
Yet form does not mean 'formula. Story is far too rich in mystery, complexity, and flexibility to be reduced to a formula. Only a fool would try. Rather, a writer must grasp story form. This is inescapable. Finding this is your lonely task. It begins with talent. You Then you must bring to the work a vision that's driven by fresh insights into human nature and society, coupled with in-depth knowledge of your characters and your world. All that The love of story-the belief that your vision can be expressed only through story, that characters can be more "real" than people, that the fictional world is more profound than the concrete.
The love of the dramatic-a fascination with the sudden surprises and reve- lations that bring sea-changes in life. The love of truth-the belief that lies cripple the artist, that every truth in life must be ques- tioned, down to one's own secret motives.
The love of humanity-a willingness to empathize with suffering souls, to crawl inside their skins and see the world through their eyes. The love of sensation- the desire to indulge not only the physical but the inner senses.
The love of dreaming-the pleasure in taking leisurely rides on your imagination just to see where it leads. The love of humor-a joy in the saving grace that restores the balance of life. The love of lan- guage-the delight in sound and sense, syntax and semantics. The love ofduality-a feel for life's hidden contradictions, a healthy sus- picion that things are not what they seem.
The love of perfection- the passion to write and rewrite in pursuit of the perfect moment. The love of uniqueness-the thrill of audacity and a stone-faced calm when it is met by ridicule. The love of beauty-an innate sense that treasures good writing, hates bad writing, and knows the difference. The love of self-a strength that doesn't need to be con- stantly reassured, that never doubts that you are indeed a writer.
You must love to write and bear the loneliness. But the love of a good story, of terrific characters and a world driven by your passion, courage, and creative gifts is still not enough. Your goal must be a good story well told.
Just as a composer must excel in the principles ofmusical com- position, so you must master the corresponding principles of story composition. This craft is neither mechanics nor gimmicks. It is the concert of techniques by which we create a conspiracy of Craft is the sum total of all means used to draw the audience into deep involvement, to hold that involvement, and ultimately to reward it with a moving and meaningful experience.
Is it good? Or is it sewage?
Ifsewage, what do I do? The conscious mind, fixated on these ter- rible questions, blocks the subconscious. But when the conscious mind is put to work on the objective task of executing the craft, the spontaneous surfaces.
Mastery ofcraft frees the subconscious. What is the rhythm of a writer's day? First, you enter your imagined world. As characters speak and act, you write. What's the next thing you do? You step out of your fantasy and read what you've written. And what do you do as you read? You analyze.
Does it work? Why not? Should I cut? And the quality of your rewriting, the possibility of perfection, depends on a command of the craft that guides you to correct imperfection. An artist is never at the mercy of the whims of impulse; he willfully exercises his craft to create harmonies ofinstinct and idea. The first is the "personal story" bad script: In an office setting we meet a protagonist with a problem: She deserves a promotion but she's being passed over.
Angry, she heads for her parents' home to discover that Dad's gone senile and Mom can't cope. Home to her apartment and a fight with her slobbish, conniving roommate. Now out on a date and smack into afailure to communicate: Her insensitive lover takes her to an expensive French restaurant, completely forgetting that she's on a diet.
Back to the office where, amazingly, she gets her promotion Back at her parents' place, wherejust as she solves Dad's problem, Mom goes over the edge. Coming home she discovers that her roommate has stolen her TV and vanished without paying the rent. She breaks up with her lover, raids the refrigerator, and gains five pounds.
But chin up, she turns her promotion into a triumph. A nostalgic heart-to-heart over a dinner with her folks cures Mom's woes.
Her new roommate not only turns out to be an anal-retentive gem who pays the rent weeks ahead with cashier's checks, but intro- duces her to Someone New. We're now on page ninetyjive. She sticks to her diet and looks greatfor the last twentyjive pages, which are the literary equivalent ofrunning in slow-rna through daisies as the romance with Someone New blossoms.
At last she confronts her Crisis Decision: The screenplay ends on a tearful Climax as she decides she needs her space. Second is the "guaranteed commercial success" bad script: Through a luggage mix-up at the airport, a software salesman comes into possession of the-thing-that-will-end-civilization-as- we-know-it-today.
The-thing-that-will-end-civilization-as-we-know- it-today is quite small. In fact, it's concealed inside a ballpoint pen unwittingly in the pocket of this hapless protagonist, who becomes the target of a cast of three dozen characters, all of whom have double or triple identities, all ofwhom have worked on both sides of the Iron Curtain, all ofwhom have known one another since the Cold War, all of whom are trying to kill the guy.
This script is stuffed with car chases, shoot-outs, hair-raising escapes, and explo- sions. When not blowing things up or shootingfolks down, it halts for dialogue-thick scenes as the hero tries to sort through these duplicitous people andfind outjust whom he can trust.
It ends with a cacophony ofviolence and multimillion-dollar effects, during which the hero manages to destroy the-thing-that-will-end-civilization-as- we-know-it-today and thus save humanity. The "personal story" is understructured, slice-of-life portraiture that mistakes verisimilitude for truth. This writer believes that the But fact, no matter how minutely observed, is truth with a small "t.
Because this writer sees only what is visible and factual, he is blind to the truth oflife. The "guaranteed commercial success," on the other hand, is an overstructured, overcomplicated, overpopulated assault on the physical senses that bears no relationship to life whatsoever. This writer is mistaking kinesis for entertainment.
He hopes that, regardless of story, if he calls for enough high-speed action and dazzling visuals, the audience will be excited. And given the Com- puter Generated Image phenomenon that drives so many summer releases, he would not be altogether wrong. Spectacles of this kind replace imagination with simulated actuality. They use story as an excuse for heretofore unseen effects that carry us into a tornado, the jaws of a dinosaur, or futuristic holocausts.
And make no mistake, these razzle-dazzle spectacles can deliver a circus of excitement. But like amusement park rides, their pleasures are short-lived. For the history of filmmaking has shown again and again that as fast as new kinetic thrills rise to pop- ularity, they sink under a "been there, done that" apathy.
Every decade or so technical innovation spawns a swarm of ill- told movies, for the sole purpose ofexploiting spectacle. The inven- tion of film itself, a startling simulation of actuality, caused great public excitement, followed by years of vapid stories. In time, how- ever, the silent film evolved into a magnificent art form, only to be destroyed by the advent of sound, a yet more realistic simulation of actuality. Films of the early s took a step backward as audi- ences willingly suffered bland stories for the pleasure of hearing actors talk.
The talkie then grew in power and beauty, only to be knocked off stride by the inventions of color, 3-D, wide-screen, and now Computer Generated Images, or CGI. CGI is neither a curse nor a panacea. It simply adds fresh hues to the story pallet.
Thanks to CGI, anything we can imagine can be The "commercial" writer, however, is often dazzled by the glare of spectacle and cannot see that lasting entertainment is found only in the charged human truths beneath the image.
The writers of portraiture and spectacle, indeed all writers, must come to understand the relationship of story to life: Story is metaphorfor life. A storyteller is a life poet, an artist who transforms day-to-day living, inner life and outer life, dream and actuality into a poem whose rhyme scheme is events rather than words-a two-hour metaphor that says: Life is like this!
Therefore, a story must abstract from life to discover its essences, but not become an abstraction that loses all sense oflife-as-lived.
A story must be like life, but not so verbatim that it has no depth or meaning beyond what's obvious to everyone on the street. Writers of portraiture must realize that facts are neutral. The weakest possible excuse to include anything in a story is: Indeed, the unimaginable happens.
But story is not life in actuality. Mere occurrence brings us nowhere near the truth. What happens is fact, not truth. Truth is what we think about what happens. Consider a set of facts known as "The Life of Joan of Arc. In Shakespeare's hands she became the lunatic Joan, a distinctly British point of view.
Each Joan is divinely inspired, raises an army, defeats the English, burns at the stake. Joan's facts are always the same, but whole genres shift while the "truth" of her life waits for the writer to find its meaning. Likewise, writers of spectacle must realize that abstractions are neutral. By abstractions I mean strategies of graphic design, visual These have no meaning in and of themselves. The identical editing pattern applied to six different scenes results in six distinc- tively different interpretations.
The aesthetics offilm are the means to express the living content of story, but must never become an end in themselves. Writers who lean toward reportage often have the power of the senses, the power to transport corporal sensations into the reader. They see and hear with such acuity and sensitivity that the reader's heart jumps when struck by the lucid beauty of their images.
Writers of action extravaganzas, on the other hand, often have the imaginative power to lift audiences beyond what is to what could be. They can take presumed impossibilities and turn them into shocking certain- ties. They also make hearts jump. Both sensory perception and a lively imagination are enviable gifts, but, like a good marriage, one complements the other. Alone they are diminished.
At one end of reality is pure fact; at the other end, pure imagi- nation. Spanning these two poles is the infinitely varied spectrum offiction. Strong storytelling strikes a balance along this spectrum. Ifyour writing drifts to one extreme or the other, you must learn to draw all aspects of your humanity into harmony.
You must place yourself along the creative spectrum: Dig in a two- handed way, using your insight and instinct to move us, to express your vision ofhow and why human beings do the things they do. Last, not only are sensory and imaginative powers prerequisite to creativity, writing also demands two singular and essential tal- ents. These talents, however, have no necessary connection. A mountain ofone does not mean a grain ofthe other. The first is literary talent-the creative conversion of ordinary language into a higher, more expressive form, vividly describing Literary talent is, how- ever, common.
In every literate community in the world, hundreds, if not thousands of people can, to one degree or another, begin with the ordinary language oftheir culture and end with something extraordinary. They write beautifully, a few magnificently, in the lit- erary sense.
The second is story talent-the creative conversion of life itself to a more powerful, clearer, more meaningful experience. It seeks out the inscape of our days and reshapes it into a telling that enriches life. Pure story talent is rare. What writer, on instinct alone, creates brilliantly told stories year after year and never gives a moment's thought to how he does what he does or could do it better?
Instinctive genius may produce a work of quality once, but perfection and prolificness do not flow from the spontaneous and untutored. Literary and story talent are not only distinctively different but are unrelated, for stories do not need to be written to be told.
Sto- ries can be expressed any way human beings can communicate. Theatre, prose, film, opera, mime, poetry, dance are all magnificent forms of the story ritual, each with its own delights. At different times in history, however, one of these steps to the fore. In the six- teenth century it was the theatre; in the nineteenth century, the novel; in the twentieth century, the cinema, the grand concert of all the arts. The most powerful, eloquent moments on screen require no verbal description to create them, no dialogue to act them.
They are image, pure and silent. When, for example, coworkers gather around the coffee machine, the storytelling begins. It's the currency of human contact. And whenever a half-dozen souls gather for this mid- morning ritual, there will always be at least one who has the gift. She draws them into her spell, holding them slack-jawed over their coffee cups. She spins her tale, building them up, easing them down, making them laugh, maybe cry, holding all in high suspense until she pays it off with a dynamite last scene: His story is all on the surface, repetitious rambling from trivial detail to cliche: Given the choice between trivial material brilliantly told versus profound material badly told, an audience will always choose the trivial told brilliantly.
Master storytellers know how to squeeze life out of the least of things, while poor storytellers reduce the pro- found to the banal. You may have the insight of a Buddha, but if you cannot tell story, your ideas turn dry as chalk.
Story talent is primary, literary talent secondary but essential. This principle is absolute in film and television, and truer for stage and page than most playwrights and novelists wish to admit. Rare as story talent is, you must have some or you wouldn't be itching to write. Your task is to wring from it all possible creativity. Only by using everything and anything you know about the craft of story- telling can you make your talent forge story.
For talent without craft is like fuel without an engine. It burns wildly but accom- plishes nothing.
To find their harmony, the writer must study the elements of story as ifthey were instruments ofan orchestra-first separately, then in concert. If you wish, you could start the telling before the character is born, then follow him day after day, decade after decade until dead and gone.
A character's life encompasses hundreds of thousands of living hours, hours both complex and multileveled. From an instant to eternity. The mark of a master is to select only a few moments but give us a lifetime. Starting at the deepest level, you might set the story within the protagonist's inner life and tell the whole tale inside his thoughts and feelings, awake or dreaming.
Or you could shift up to the level of personal conflict between protagonist and family, friends, lovers. Or expand into social institutions, setting the character at odds with school, career, church, the justice system.
Or wider still, you could pit the character against the environment-dangerous city streets, lethal diseases, the car that won't start, time running out. Or any combination ofall these levels. But this complex expanse oflife story must become the story told. To design a feature film, you must reduce the seething mass and rush of Jl And when a story is well told, isn't that the effect?
When friends come back from a film and you ask them what it was about, have you noticed they often put the story told inside lift story? About a guy raised on a sharecropper's farm. As a kid he toiled with his family under the hot sun.
He went to school but didn't do t9o well because he had to get up at dawn, all that weeding and hoeing.
But somebody gave him a guitar and he learned to play, write his own songs Then he met a beautiful gal with a great voice. They fell in love, teamed up, and, bang, their careers skyrocketed. But the trouble was the spotlight was always on her. He wrote their songs, arranged, backed her up, but people only came to see her.
Finally she throws him out, and there he is back on the road again, until he hits rock bottom. He wakes up in a cheap motel in a dusty Midwest town, middle of nowhere, penniless, friendless, a hopeless drunk, not a dime for the phone and no one to call ifhe had one.
But nothing of the above is in the film. The next two hours cover the next year in Sledge's life. Yet, in and between scenes, we come to know all of his past, everything of sig- nificance that happens to Sledge in that year, until the last image gives us a vision of his future.
Structure From the vast flux of lift story the writer must make choices. Fictional worlds are not daydreams but sweatshops where we labor in search of material to tailor a film. Yet when asked "What do you choose?
Some look for character, others for action or strife, perhaps mood, images, dialogue. But no one element, in and of itself, will build a story. A film isn't just moments of conflict or activity, per- What the writer seeks are events, for an event contains all the above and more.
STRUCTURE is a selection of events from the characters' life stories that is composed into a strategic sequence to arouse specific emotions and to express a specific view of life.
An event is caused by or affects people, thus delineating charac- ters; it takes place in a setting, generating image, action, and dia- logue; it draws energy from conflict producing emotion in characters and audience alike.
But event choices cannot be dis- played randomly or indifferently; they must be composed, and "to compose" in story means much the same thing it does in music. What to include? To exclude? To put before and after what?
To answer these questions you must know your purpose. Events composed to do what? One purpose may be to express your feelings, but this becomes self-indulgence if it doesn't result in arousing emotions in the audience. A second purpose may be to express ideas, but this risks solipsism if the audience cannot follow.
So the design ofevents needs a dual strategy. Event "Event" means change. If the streets outside your window are dry, but after a nap you see they're wet, you assume an event has taken place, called rain.
The world's changed from dry to wet. You cannot, however, build a film out of nothing but changes in weather-although there are those who have tried. Story Events are meaningful, not trivial.
To make change meaningful it must, to begin with, happen to a character. If you see someone drenched in a downpour, this has somewhat more meaning than a damp street. By values I don't mean virtues or the narrow, moralizing "family values" use of the word.
Rather, Story Values refers to the broadest sense of the idea. Values are the soul of storytelling. Ultimately ours is the art of expressing to the world a perception ofvalues. For example: All such binary qualities ofexperience that can reverse their charge at any moment are Story Values.
They may be moral, goodfevil; ethical, rightfwrong; or simply charged with value. Hopefdespair is neither moral nor ethical, but we certainly know when we are at one end ofthe experience or the other.
Imagine that outside your window is r98os East Africa, a realm of drought. Now we have a value at stake: We begin at the negative: This terrible famine is taking lives by the thousands. If then it should rain, a monsoon that brings the earth back to green, animals to pasture, and people to survival, this rain would be deeply meaningful because it switches the value from negative to positive, from death to life. However, as powerful as this event would be, it still does not qualify as a Story Event because it happened by coincidence.
Rain finally fell in East Africa. Although there's a place for coincidence in storytelling, a story cannot be built out of nothing but accidental events, no matter how charged with value.
Into it comes a man who imagines himself a "rainmaker. He meets a woman, falls in love, then suffers as she tries to believe in him, but turns away, convinced he's a charlatan or worse.
He has a strong conflict with society-some follow him as if he's a messiah; others want to stone him out of town. Lastly, he faces implacable conflict with the physical world-the hot winds, empty skies, parched earth. If this man can struggle through all his inner and personal conflicts, against social and environmental forces and finally coax rain out of a cloudless sky, that storm would be majestic and sublimely meaningful-for it is change motivated through conflict. Scene For a typical film, the writer will choose forty to sixty Story Events or, as they're commonly known, scenes.
A novelist may want more than sixty, a playwright rarely as many as forty. A SCENE is an action through conflict in more or less continuous time and space that turns the value-charged condition of a character's life on at least one value with a degree of perceptible significance.
Look closely at each scene you've written and ask: What value is at stake in my character's life at this moment? How is that value charged at the top of the scene? Nega- tive? Some ofboth? Make a note. Next turn to the close ofthe scene and ask, Where is this value now? Make a note and compare. If the answer you write down at the end ofthe scene is the same note you made at the opening, you now have another important question to ask: Why is this scene in my script?
The scene has activity-talking about this, doing that-but nothing changes in value. It is a nonevent. Why then is the scene in the story? The answer is almost cer- tain to be "exposition. If exposition is a scene's sole justification, a disciplined writer will trash it and weave its information into the film elsewhere. No scene that doesn't turn. This is our ideal. We work to round every scene from beginning to end by turning a value at stake in a character's life from the positive to the negative or the negative to the positive.
Adherence to this principle may be difficult, but it's by no means impossible. Regardless of genre, the prin- ciple is universal: If a scene is not a true event, cut it. Chris and Andy are in love and live together. They wake up one morning and start to squabble. Their spat builds in the kitchen as they hurry to make breakfast.
In the garage, the fight becomes nas- tier as they climb into their car to drive to work together. Finally words explode into violence on the highway. Andy wrenches the car to the shoulder and jumps out, ending their relationship.
This series ofactions and locations creates a scene: It takes the couple from the positive in love and together to the negative in hate and apart.
The four shifts of place-bedroom to kitchen to garage to highway-are camera setups but not true scenes. Although they intensify behavior and make the critical moment credible, they do As the argument moves through the morning, the couple is still together and presumably in love. But when the action reaches its Turning Point-a slamming car door and Andy's declaration, "It's over! Generally the test ofwhether a series ofactivities constitutes a true scene is this: Could it have been written "in one," in a unity of time and place?
In this case the answer is yes. Their argument could begin in a bedroom, build in the bedroom, and end the relationship in the bedroom. Countless relationships have ended in bedrooms. Or the kitchen. Or the garage. Or not on the highway but in the office ele- vator.
A playwright might write the scene "in one" because the staging limitations ofthe theatre often force us to keep the unities oftime and place; the novelist or screenwriter, on the other hand, might travel the scene, parsing it out in time and space to establish future locations, Chris's taste in furniture, Andy's driving habits-for any number of reasons. This scene could even cross-cut with another scene, perhaps involving another couple.
The variations are endless, but in all cases this is a single Story Event, the "lovers break up" scene. Beat Inside the scene is the smallest element of structure, the Beat. Not to be confused with [beat], an indication within a column of dia- logue meaning "short pause". Beat by Beat these changing behaviors shape the turning of a scene. Taking a closer look at the "lovers break up" scene: As the alarm goes off, Chris teases Andy and he reacts in kind.
As they dress, teasing turns to sarcasm and they throw insults back and forth. Now in the kitchen Chris threatens Andy with: Finally, in the speeding car, Chris doubles her fist and punches Andy. A fight, a squeal of brakes. Andy jumps out with a bloody nose, slams the door and shouts, "It's over," leaving her in shock. This scene is built around six beats, six distinctively different behaviors, six clear changes of actionjreaction: Sequence Beats build scenes.
Scenes then build the next largest movement of story design, the Sequence. Every true scene turns the value-charged condition of the character's life, but from event to event the degree ofchange can differ greatly.
Scenes cause relatively minor yet signif- icant change. For example, this three-scene sequence: A young business woman who's had a notable career in the Midwest has been approached by headhunters and interviewed for a position with a New York corpora- tion.
If she wins this post, it'll be a huge step up in her career. She wants the job very much but hasn't won it yet negative. She is one of six finalists. The corporate heads realize that this position has a vital public dimension to it, so they want to see these applicants on their feet in an informal setting before making the final decision. They invite all six to a party on Manhattan's East Side. A West Side Hotel where our protagonist prepares for the evening.
She'll need all her confidence to pull off this evening successfully, but she's filled with doubts neg- ative. Fear knots.
She flings clothes out of her suitcase, trying on this, trying on that, but each outfit looks worse than the one before. Her hair is an uncombable tangle of frizz. As she grapples with her clothes and hair, she decides to pack it in and save herselfthe humiliation. Suddenly, the phone rings. It's her mother, calling to lace a good-luck toast with guilt trips about loneliness and her fear of abandonment. Barbara hangs up, realizing that the piranhas of Manhattan are no match for the great white shark at home.
She needs this job! She then amazes herself with a combination of clothes and accessories she's never tried before. Her hair falls magically into place. She plants herself in front of the mirror, looking great, eyes bright, glowing with confidence positive. Scene Two: Under the hotel marquee. Thunder, light- ning, pelting rain. Because Barbara's from Terre Haute, she didn't know to tip the doorman five bucks when she registered, so he won't go out into the storm to find a cab for a stiff.
Besides, when it rains in New York there are no cabs. So she studies her visitors' map, pondering what to do. So she decides to do what they warn never, ever to do-to run through Central Park at night.
This scene takes on a new value: She covers her hair with a newspaper and darts into the night, daring death negative. A lightning flash and, bang, she's surrounded by that gang that is always out there, rain But she didn't take karate classes for nothing. She kick-fights her way through the gang, breaking jaws, scat- tering teeth on the concrete, until she stumbles out of the park, alive positive. Scene Three: Mirrored lobby-Park Avenue apartment building. The value at stake now switches to social suc- cessfsocial failure.
She's survived. But then she looks in the mirror and sees a drowned rat newspaper shredded in her 'hair; blood all over her clothes-the gang's blood-but blood nonetheless. Her self-confidence plummets past doubt and fear until she bows in personal defeat negative , crushed by her social disaster negative. Taxis pull up with the other applicants. All found cabs; all get out looking New York chic. They take pity on the poor loser from the Midwest and usher her into an elevator.
In the penthouse they towel off her hair and find mis- matched clothes for her to wear, and because she looks like this, the spotlight's on her all night. Because she knows she has lost anyway, she relaxes into her natural self and from deep within comes a chutzpah she never knew she had; she not only tells them about her battle in the park but makes jokes about it.
Mouths go slack with awe or wide with laughter. At end ofthe evening, all the executives know exactly who they want for the job: Anyone who can go through that terror in the park and display this kind of cool is clearly the person for them.
The evening ends on her personal and social triumphs as she is given the job doubly positive. Each scene turns on its own value or values. Scene One: But the three scenes become a sequence of another, greater value that over- rides and subordinates the others, and that is THE JOB. The third scene becomes a Sequence Climax because here social success wins her It's useful to title each sequence to make clear to yourselfwhy it's in the film.
It could have been accomplished in a single scene with a personnel officer. But to say more than "she's qualified," we might create a full sequence that not only gets her the job but dramatizes her inner character and relationship to her mother, along with insights into New York City and the corporation. Act Scenes turn in minor but significant ways; a series of scenes builds a sequence that turns in a moderate, more impactful way; a series of sequences builds the next largest structure, the Act, a movement that turns on a major reversal in the value-charged condition of the char- acter's life.
The difference between a basic scene, a scene that climaxes a sequence, and a scene that climaxes an act is the degree of change, or, more precisely, the degree of impact that change has, for better or worse, on the character-on the character's inner life, personal rela- tionships, fortunes in the world, or some combination ofall these.
An ACT is a series of sequences that peaks in a climactic scene which causes a major reversal of values. Story A series of acts builds the largest structure of all: A story is simply one huge master event.
When you look at the value-charged situation in the life ofthe character at the beginning ofthe story, then compare it to the value-charge at the end ofthe story, you should see the arc ofthe film, the great sweep of change that takes life from one condition at the opening to a changed condition at the end. This final condition, this end change, must be absolute and irreversible. The lovers in the previous sketch could get back together; people fall in and out and back in love again every day.
A sequence could be reversed: The Midwest businesswoman could win her job only to discover that she reports to a boss she hates and wishes she were back in Terre Haute. An act climax could be reversed: A character could die, as in the Act Two climax ofE.
In a modern hospital, reviving the dead is commonplace. So, scene by sequence by act, the writer creates minor, moderate, and major change, but conceivably, each of those changes could be reversed.
This is not, however, the case in the climax ofthe last act. You can buy my comics online any time at Indyplanet. Issue 3 is now available in print and Kindle! Go here to order your copy NOW! Rabisqueira comics gibi hqs quadrinhos artesequencial actioncomics bandadesenhada fanzine pinterest deviantartists gibis artes desenhos drawing scketchs comissions fanarts cosplay mundogeektv geekbrasil geekstore nerdices comiccon indycomics indyplanet.
Issue 5 intro and credits. Download previous issues on amazon and indyplanet now. Issue 5 will be on amazon and the comics streaming app.
I'll give a release date during the weekend. Rabisqueira superherois quadrinhos hqs actioncomics cosplay comics gibi mundokgeiek heroisnacionais multjiimekdia pinterest nerd comiccon indycomics indyplanet geekgirl Geek draw comicbooknerd comicbook artesequencial bandadesenhada fanzine fanart brasilgeek.
Rabisqueira comics gibi hqs quadrinhos artesequencial actioncomics bandadesenhada fanzine pinterest nerdgirl plantnerd deviantart artes desenhos drawing comics4sale fanart comiccon indycomics indyplanet geekgirl cosplay mundogeek mundohq draw pictures pencil portfolios. Agora sim actioncomics bandadesenhada fanzine quadrinhos comics gibi herois deviantart nerdgeek artedigital cosplay comicshop geek Geek pinterest portfolios cosplays mundogeek mundohq mundodesuperherois comics4sale comiccon indycomics indyplanet pictures brasilgeek culturapop.
Share 21 0. Share 23 1. Share 11 0.
Share 16 0. Share 12 1. Share 82 Share 10 0. Share 19 0. Share 17 1. Share 17 0. Share 55 5. Share 7 1. Share 16 1. Share 47 1. Share 20 0. San Diego, California. Share 29 2. Share 28 2. Share 56 0. Share 40 0. Share 49 0. Share 25 0.
Share 91 5. Share 72 3. Share 28 1. Share 46 8. New York, New York. Share 44 0. Share 21 1. Share 23 4. Share 33 0. Share 15 2. Share 31 2. Share 30 2.