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The panic usually sets in around Page 40.
I’ve been writing movies for a while, and it’s always the same for me. It’s not like how we portray it in movies — it’s not a tortured writer staring at a blank page or a blinking cursor after typing FADE IN. For me it’s reaching Page 40 and realizing that what happens there should be happening on Page 4. And that’s when the self-doubt, self-flagellation and internal recriminations begin. On Page 40.
On “Nuremberg” it happened much earlier.
Screenwriters are essentially confidence men and women. We go to the producers or the studios and boldly announce, with absolute conviction, “This has to be a movie!” “I know how to write this movie!” And “I’m the only one who should write this movie!” And then, if we’re lucky enough to have them say yes, we go home and sit down and say “Now, how the hell do I write this movie?”
And if there’s no studio, it’s even worse. You have to con yourself into doing it. You have to convince yourself that not only is this a story worth telling, not only are you the one who should be telling it, but that you can make it sing.
“Nuremberg” is based on a book by Jack El-Hai called “The Nazi and the Psychiatrist.” It is the true story of Maj. Douglas Kelley, a U.S. Army psychiatrist who at the end of World War II was brought in to evaluate the Nazi high command to see if they could stand trial for their war crimes, and the relationship he developed with the highest-ranking living Nazi, Hermann Göring. It’s about the psychological battle of wills between two men. I read Jack’s book proposal in 2012, and it’s the fastest I’ve ever said yes to anything in my life. I wanted, needed to write this movie. I knew, with absolute certainty in that moment, that I was the man for the job, and managed somehow to talk (i.e. con) Jack into it. I used my own money to option the rights and then set about researching and writing the script.
Adaptations should be easier than originals, you say. You know what’s going to happen; you don’t have to make anything up. And in that way, you’re correct. But here’s the catch: Adaptations are primarily about subtraction. You have a 350-page book and you need to turn it into a 120-page screenplay. So cut, cut, cut.
The problem with “Nuremberg” is that it kept getting bigger.
The book was about Kelley and Göring facing off in a prison cell. Two main characters, tight, confined movie — great, I can do this. But as I dug into my research, I learned about Robert Jackson, the Supreme Court justice who convinced the Allies to hold the trials. The U.S. Army just wanted to execute the Nazis, and Jackson convinced them otherwise. Not only that, but he then took a leave of absence from the court and went to Nuremberg to become the chief U.S. prosecutor, and the man who ultimately faced down Göring in open court. It was an incredible story. And it threw me for an absolute loop.
Am I writing the wrong movie? I thought my movie was in a jail cell, but is it really in the courtroom? A more horrifying thought, is it in both? And then the big one: Did I just inherit a third main character?
This is when the panic began in earnest.
Can you have three main characters? How do I juggle them? Who do you meet first? I know how they intersected in real life, but when do I show that? Page 5? Page 60? Page 40? How do I structure this thing about which I have boldly declared to the book’s author and my partners, “I know exactly how to write this movie!”
Thus, white hot panic.
The sheer weight of the subject matter was pushing down on me as well. The responsibility to the survivors, to their families. The historical implications. The voice in my head saying, You cannot screw this up, you have to get it right.
I know what I’ll do. More research. The only way out is through. Materials piled up in our house. One day my wife asked, in a very calm and rational voice, if we could maybe have fewer books about Nazis on our bedside table. She had put up with serial killers for “Zodiac,” but this was a bridge too far. A reasonable request.
And the movie kept growing. I read the story of Jackson visiting the pope. It had to go in the movie. Göring’s wife and daughter with Kelley — it had to go in the movie. Finally, I read the story of Howard Triest, one of the translators at Nuremberg who worked with Kelley. It was incredible. It had to go into the movie. Oh, God. Did I just inherit a FOURTH main character?
I began to consider the fact that I had perhaps chosen the wrong profession.
One night, I walked into the living room and said to my wife, “I think I might just write books for a while. Take a break from screenwriting.”
My wife looked at me. “You think writing books is easier?”
“Please just let me have this,” I said.
Does it count as impostor syndrome, I wondered, if you are actually an impostor?
I did not start writing books. Because here’s the other thing about screenwriters — there are moments when the movie just clicks for us. It might be the smallest detail that makes everything fall into place.
For me it was this tiny factoid: Douglas Kelley, the psychiatrist, was also an amateur magician.
And he was good too. He invented tricks that were published in various magic journals. That meant he was great at misdirection, at lying. He could make you look at one hand, while picking your pocket with the other.
He was essentially a con man. Just like me.
And that’s when I realized that everyone in my story was trying to get one over on everyone else. Kelley was trying to con Göring into opening up, Göring was trying to con Kelley into believing in him, Jackson was trying to con four different countries into holding the trials, and Howie Triest … well, I’ll leave that for the film.
But suddenly, I knew how to write it. All those scenes that I wanted in the movie? They went into the movie. I knew how to write them. I knew how to write the characters. I even knew what should happen on Page 40! Gradually, the lie I told became true. I knew how to write this movie.
And then, of course, I rewrote it about a hundred times, because that’s what we do. The magician has to practice and refine the trick, after all, to make it play.
Thirteen years after I talked (conned) Jack El-Hai into giving me the rights to the movie, I directed the film with a cast to beat the band — Russell Crowe as Hermann Göring, Michael Shannon as my surprise third lead Robert Jackson, Leo Woodall as Howie Triest, Richard E. Grant, John Slattery, Colin Hanks, and Rami Malek as Douglas Kelley, the amateur magician psychiatrist who saved the whole thing for me.
People like to ask screenwriters, “What was hardest script for you to write?” And I always like to answer, “The one I’m working on now.” Because the panic, the self-doubt, the impostor syndrome, all those things we don’t talk about — it happens on every movie. It never really goes away. You just have to find ways to beat it back. To trick it. To make the lie “I know how to write this movie” become true.
But do you want to know a secret? Since you’ve come this far, I’ll tell you the real answer. No cons. No tricks.
The hardest script for me to write of all time was “Nuremberg.”
