The Architecture of a Screenwriter’s Voice

What can a psychological thriller about a man assuming his dead friend’s identity have in common with a dark comedy about three women concealing a dead body? Both are built on the same premise: “People believe what they want to see.” They occupy different genres, but they share a foundation. That is where my screenwriter’s voice begins.

As a teen, I wanted to be an architect. I was told only men were architects. I landed up studying exhibition design and window display. Throughout my career, I’ve worked in public relations, marketing, web-dev project management, and digital advertising. Each discipline required me to consider purpose, structure and audience.

Now I write screenplays. The roles changed. The way I think did not. I approach each screenplay as a work of design.

Premise is the foundation. It is the proposition that the story tests or proves.

I was introduced to Lajos Egri’s The Art of Dramatic Writing almost thirty years ago, and I still sometimes struggle to formulate a premise. Egri’s classic example is Macbeth: “Ruthless ambition leads to its own destruction.” A premise gives everything that happens a reason to be there.

The premise of Good Taste, a psychological thriller, is “People believe what they want to see.” When Leo Mandeville assumes the identity of his dead friend Clarissa, the deception succeeds because everyone sees the version of Clarissa that satisfies them. Her father sees the daughter he wants to control. Her lover sees the woman he wants to possess. The art world sees what money, presentation and social desire have taught it to value.

The Nice Room, a dark comedy, has the same premise. Three women conceal the death of their new roommate, yet the people around them accept their explanations without question. A priest believes the deadly stench emanating from the basement is caused by rats. The murder suspect accepts that Cormac, the dead man, has left town. Lila’s boyfriend buys that the money came from an inheritance.

In Before We Were Afraid, a supernatural horror, the premise is: “Fear is an illusion.” The curse gives each character’s private fear enough substance to control them. Escaping requires them to stop accepting fear as truth.

Character is the load-bearing structure.

My early scripts were driven by structure and plot. Now I ask: What is innate to the protagonist that will decide what happens next in the script?

Once I know the premise, I know what qualities the protagonist must possess to test it. Leo could not sustain Good Taste if he were merely a convincing liar. His gift is taste plus presentation. He recognizes undiscovered artists and understands scarcity, placement and social desire. He makes people want what they previously ignored. Those same abilities allow him to transform himself into Clarissa.

The women in The Nice Room need smiling public faces and darker interior selves. Kelly despises men, Mara uses them for her purposes, and Lila still trusts them. Their attitudes are what allows a terrible idea to remain viable.

In Before We Were Afraid, Nico’s guilt makes him susceptible to the ghost of his dead twin. In Ode to Violeta, Rose and Alejandro’s resistance to public life delays a reunion neither knows is possible.

Theme is interwoven as subtext, like the lighting, color and texture that shape how a building feels. In my work, those materials often include identity, perception, desire and the choices people make under pressure. I convey theme primarily through supporting characters and their environments rather than stating in dialogue.

I subscribe to Louis Sullivan’s principle that form follows function. Every Ripple on the Water, my historical drama set in Renaissance Florence, is lush with atmospheric detail. The world needs to be experienced through its physical beauty, danger and sensuality. In Misidentity, my psychological thriller about a chimera serial killer, the premise is Certainty can prevent us from seeing the truth. Therefore, every main character has angst, that vague feeling of dread and unease I want the audience to feel.

Mies van der Rohe’s dictum, “Less is more,” also applies to my scenes. I get in late and get out early. I avoid entrances, explanations and conclusions the audience can supply for themselves. Reduction is not about page count. It’s about deciding what the audience needs to see.

I think spatially. I always have. Space controls what people see, how they move and what information is concealed or revealed.

In Good Taste, the gallery is part of Leo’s power. Placement and presentation transform overlooked work into something collectors compete to own. In The Nice Room, the house generates story. Four bedrooms and one shared bathroom make the bedroom with a washbasin “the nice room.” That washbasin produces a joke, the title and the women’s initial assumption about how Cormac died.

The tunnels beneath San Miguel in Before We Were Afraid create confinement and disorientation causing each character to experience a different reality. In Ode to Violeta, the private garden gives physical form to thirty years of separation: Rose and Alejandro live within reach of each other while believing the other died or abandoned them.

While these screenplays occupy different genres, they are built using the same design principles.

That accumulation of creative decisions is my voice.