Go Into The Story Interview: Stefan Jaworski

My interview with 2021 Black List writers for his script Mercury.

Stefan Jaworski wrote the original screenplay “Mercury” which landed on the 2021 Black List. I had the opportunity to chat with Stefan about his creative background, his script, the craft of screenwriting, and what making the annual Black List has meant to him.

Scott Myers: How did you develop an interest in writing for film and TV?

Stefan Jaworski: I think the same way people all over the world get interested, by watching it. All depending on what age you are when you venture into this world, you have these childhood-titles that are defining for you. I’m in my 40s, so mine were naturally the “Indiana Jones”-movies, the “Star Wars”-movies, “E.T.”, “Superman”, these grand adventures that are pure cinema. Until “Silence of The Lambs” came along, which — to me — is still the best movie ever made.

Then. I studied film and media at the University of Copenhagen. I was constantly gravitating towards writing, but simultaneously had a student job as an assistant tv-buyer for Denmark’s big public service network, DR (Danish Broadcasting Corporation).

A turning point for me there were these two shows in 1999, which my boss and I acquired for Danish TV, and I remember having a great debate with him about whether anyone in Denmark would watch them, since they were both so fundamentally American. One of them was a little political show called “The West Wing,” and the other one was a little gangster show called “The Sopranos.”

I remember those two titles blowing me away, and totally changing everything I knew and understood about what television could be.

They’ve both been pivotal too, in each their way, in helping me identify the kind of tone, stories and genres that I love. The first being this amazingly brilliant, emotional, musical experience that only Sorkin creates. And then this psychologically intense, morally dualistic epiphany of a character study, that The Sopranos was. They were major inspirations, both of them. To me, the first two seasons of The West Wing is still the best television ever made.

Scott: What about screenwriting? Did you learn that at the university when you were going there?

Stefan: Yes and no. There is a strong screenwriter line on the Copenhagen film school, but I never went or even applied. We’re a good deal of Danish screenwriters who come from different backgrounds. Some are novelists, others journalists, and some of us come with a background in academia.

I studied as much screenwriting as I could, but it was 20 years ago, and the art form was not yet professionalized in the way that it is now. We were still a business building on an auteur-ish culture, where craft and art to some degree were seen as mutually exclusive, where I’ve always felt they’re intricately connected. One leads to the other.

Scott: Particularly, if you’re talking about shows like West Wing or The Sopranos, which combine them so beautifully.

Stefan: Yeah.

Scott: You’ve had a lengthy and successful career of doing a lot of TV primarily. Quite a few series seem to be in that crime‑drama space.

Stefan: Yes.

Scott: Was that something you fell into, or was that something you sought out?

Stefan: I think it’s a combination. The crime‑thriller, definitely, is a genre that I love. I love the character‑based, elevated thrillers, and organically drift towards those. So, for natural reasons, that’s also why the American side of my work life has very much been inside that box, because there is a strong tendency — and for natural reasons — to sharpen your profile in terms of genre and stories when you operate in the US.

Because Denmark is a much smaller community and business, most of us move more seamlessly between different genres and platforms. Which I really appreciate, since this whole notion that you write differently for television and film is honestly ridiculous. It’s all about shaping story, and then choosing in what form, length and format that story most organically unfolds.

So, yeah. I’ve been writing mostly crime and thrillers, but I love grounded sci-fi as well, and would love to write more of those. And I still dream of doing a big, high concept comedy. The next thing I have coming out in Denmark is this grand, musical romance.

Scott: When I first broke into the business in LA in 1987, it was TV or film, that was it. Now, with the explosive growth of television programming and the streaming services, there’s a lot of crossover.

Stefan: I understand why we all get pigeon-holed. Especially when you have a community as big and competitive as yours. It’s the world-league of moviemaking, the global heart of the entertainment business, and it’s only natural that you try to isolate and bring forward the optimal strength of every individual, and try to make the best of that special skill. It makes good sense. But there is that risk, of course, that we end up never making it past the genre that we broke through with.

Scott: For people who may not know, how does Danish TV work? Is it a collaboration between private and public funding? Is it mostly government funding?

Stefan: It is rapidly changing these years. For many years, since Denmark is such a small country with an equally limited audience, producing drama has essentially been the privilege of only the two major networks. The big public service network, Danish Broadcasting Corporation, who made most of the high-end Danish series you might know. “Borgen”, “The Killing” etc. And then the commercial TV2, who are more ABC’ish in profile, and focus on broad, family-oriented viewing, and have a very strong audience reach. Until recently, the profiles and audiences of those two networks essentially shaped what types of stories and genres we’ve been able to do in Denmark. And those of us, who maybe aspired or hoped to explore stories and genres outside those boxes, have had to do so outside of Scandinavia. That’s one of the reasons I’ve sought to write in the US. It has allowed me to write different stories than what I’ve been able to here at home. Luckily, however, other players are now emerging, especially the major streamers, of course, who are rapidly changing the whole business over here, as they have in the US.

To me, definitely to the better, since new platforms allow for a broader palette of storytelling. Ultimately, to the benefit of the audiences. I recently wrote a Danish adventure-horror series called ELVES, which was essentially a “Jurassic Park”-ish take on Elven folklore. That was great fun, and could never have existed without Netflix.

Scott: You’re represented by the Lit Entertainment Group in Hollywood, correct?

Stefan: Yeah.

Scott: How did you make that transition into working both in Hollywood and Denmark?

Stefan: It happened around ten years ago, and it was a combination of three or four things that happened simultaneously. I co‑created a Danish crime show called “Those Who Kill”, which was remade by A&E. I had a Danish feature thriller that I’d written, called “The Candidate”, that sold to be remade by Lionsgate. And then I had a spec script of my own that sold to Fox, which also made the Black List that year, actually.

Scott: So this is a double‑dip for you…

Stefan: Yeah.

Scott: …in the Black List.

Stefan: It’s fun. I’m very grateful for that. It’s a fun experience.

Scott: Let’s talk about “Mercury” which I really enjoyed.

Stefan: Thank you.

Scott: Plot summary. “When a first date takes a dangerous turn, down‑on‑his‑luck Michael risks everything to save his newfound love from her past. Little does he know, the night and his date are not what they seem. Michael soon finds himself on a high‑octane cat‑and‑mouse race across the city to save himself and uncover the truth, armed with nothing but his wit, his driving skills, and a 1969 Ford Mercury.”

Stefan: Ha. That’s beautiful. I don’t know who wrote that summary. I love it. [laughter]

Scott: First of all, why a 1969 Ford Mercury?

Stefan: To answer that, I have to start somewhere else. It’s really about craft and process, but to me, to write anything at all, I personally need a combination of two things that elevate each other:

I need a very clear, simple, understandable concept, a clear idea. I need to be able to see the poster, and that poster needs to be something that I would want to see myself.

I have this fictive drawer with 200 “poster ideas”, and then I have another drawer filled with personal shit. [laughs] Which is the other thing I need to write anything.

Finding a story that is emotionally true to me, and is psychologically relevant at a certain time in my life. If I can find a simple high-concept idea in the “first drawer” and a personal story in “the other” that fit and challenge and elevate each other? That’s when I have a sense of “Now, I can write this.” I think Mercury started out that way.

I had recently signed with Lit Entertainment, and was in a conversation with Adam Kolbrenner and Kendrick Tan, my managers, trying to figure out what to write next. I shared a number of ideas, and they responded strongly to this one, which actually originated from a different conversation further back:

I had previously done some research on a project on Ted Bundy and realized in that process that Bundy’s car ‑‑ you probably know this ‑‑ he had a remodeled Volkswagen, a German bubble, where he removed the back seats, and had all of his nasty tools in the back. He drove around, and he picked up these girls. He was very charming, and he picked up these women, drove them to their homes, and these horrible murders happen while the car is parked outside, and then he drove off again with the bodies inside. And I was just horrified by the way his VW-bubble somehow, inside the same night, transformed from a vehicle of seduction to a vehicle of terror.

I was in conversations with a producer about a potential television series about Ted Bundy, and at some point, I was like, “Is there an episode here that is only about that car? Where the car never leaves the shot, and staying with the car dictates the structure of the entire episode?”

That episode would essentially start with the car rolling off the factory line, and then we find it again inside a car dealership. Then, this guy, Ted Bundy, picks it up and he remodels the car, and you just follow the car. So scary, I was like, “This guy drives around. He picks up women. It’s a sexual thing. It’s seduction. It’s a romance somehow. And then it suddenly changes into something horrific…”. The car ended up, as far as I know, in a museum in Alcatraz. That’s where I would end the episode.

That project never happened, but this idea of the car as a transformative vehicle, that almost has its own power upon the story, and helps these characters grow through what they need to grow through, that became the core conceptual idea behind Mercury.

And then, of course, you stumble into all of these amazing reference titles. Stephen King’s “Christine”, obviously. Also, you can’t do something like this without Michael Mann’s “Collateral” hanging heavily over your head…

Scott: Right.

Stefan: There are a lot of really great movies that use the car as essentially a confession chair. These characters forced together in confined space, which organically forces you to make the story a psychological drama about the people inside it. Which is great. But then you have the mobility as well, and the action/thriller aspect that grows from that.

I loved the notion of trying to give the car a little bit of a magical quality, and then I just wanted to find what I felt was a really cool car. Cinematically. And that’s where the 1969 Mercury came from. The story of that car being the fastest car in the world at that time was the decisive factor. Both allowed it to be an actual competitor in the car-chases this story needed. But also gave the whole thing a little bit of elevated history. I love that.

But then. From “the other drawer”, once the whole conceptual thing was in place. There’s this story about, essentially, a hopeless romantic who feels he did wrong, who lives an isolated life because he feels guilty over something that happened, and who just wants to be a hero to someone…

And then, someone shows up who takes advantage of that and forces him to essentially go through what he needs to go through to confront and overcome that ghost and the tragedy of what happened to him.

Scott: Sure.

Stefan: There is a subplot in here between Michael and his father. Who is the personified guilt, Michael is struggling to overcome in this story. A lot of the writing has been focused on how to earn and land the final cathartic moment between them, where Michael finally returns to him. Once he is emotionally and psychologically ready to do so. That father was always there. But there was a version of the story that was more bleak, where Michael went through this transformative experience, and then drove away and escaped the city that has somehow been his prison. At some point, I just felt, well… I’m a romantic at heart. And since the apparent romance Michael pursues with Laura turns out to be a deception, I would love the deeper emotional, cathartic climax to be there in the end.

Scott: You could have had the ending like “Drive” where he just drives off. We don’t know whether he’s going to live or die. I want to get to your ending because I was so impressed. You landed so many things. But let’s go to the front of this thing. Really, it started with the car. It wasn’t Michael. It was the car that really was the combination of that and the emotional implication.

Stefan: Thank you and well, it was a combination of concept and character, because you can’t just do a movie about a car. It’s nothing. It’s flat. The core challenge was to tie the plot to his ghost, tie what he is facing in the A-plot to his character problem. Michael feels guilty that he failed to save his brother from an accident that killed him. Now, he’s looking to be the hero to someone, anyone, and that’s what Laura and Jason pick up on and use against him.

And from that came the idea of almost switching genres at the end of act one. The script starts out as a romance about a solitary young man looking for love. And then, at the end of act one, the turning point not only kicks off the 2nd act, but literally also changes the genre of the movie from romance to action-thriller. I was a little bit in love with trying out to see; “How far can I stretch that?”

Earning that moment, the end of act one and Michael’s choice to help Laura, was probably the most challenging part of writing this. For the rest of the movie to work, I needed to quickly establish and build a relationship that we’re hopefully invested in to a degree, where we understand and root for Michael’s choice to help Laura when she needs him.

Scott: You did it effectively because, at each step along the way, it’s like, “Is he going to do this? Is he really going to go forward with this?” You’ve got to get the reader to buy into his choices. It’s interesting about the car because you do mention at one point this car’s in every scene essentially. Then there’s another point where the car’s almost breathing.

It really is quite a character in there. You mentioned “Collateral.” I mentioned “Drive.” There’s other things like “Locke” or “Gone in 60 Seconds.”

Stefan: Locke, Locke, Locke. I love “Locke,” but it’s also Steven Knight. He’s so brilliant. I remember seeing it and just thinking, “I could never write this”, or rather “I would never write this”, because this idea of having a character so consistently focused on his end goal and then never giving up on it. It’s actually a very unusual story and a very unusual script. Because you sit there expecting change, we’re conditioned and trained to anticipate and expect change, a character arc, and then when Tom Hardy’s character stays consistent to his goal and purpose throughout the film, it really violates classical narrative expectations and in doing so feels profoundly real. And again, it’s such a simple character story about a man, who — layer by layer — sacrifices everything in his life to be the man that his father never was. It’s such an impressive film.

Ryan Reynolds did another amazing contained thriller that I really love, with Spanish director Rodrigo Cortez, called “Buried.”

Scott: Sure. I know Chris Sparling who wrote it.

Stefan: Chris Sparling wrote that. Such an amazing movie. One of my all-time favorites. I was so impressed by the craft of that. I was like, “How can you pace a thriller like that with a guy in a coffin?” It has such pace. I was so blown away by that. Really impressive. And something I personally strive to do. I try constantly to find something that has pace, has surprise, has that level of plotting but remains grounded in character all the time. Everything needs to grow out of character. But course, I’m preaching for the converted here… [laughs]

Scott: Well, you did that. The story takes place within 24 hours. It’s also contained by another character, which is Los Angeles. You really explore the city. Beverly Hills. Downtown. Venice. Hollywood Hills, so maybe talk a bit about that. You could have chosen to do the thing anywhere. Why Los Angeles?

Stefan: I think because, to me, LA is a city of romance, but it’s also a city of tragedy [laughs]. At least it feels that way to me looking in from the outside. So, the initial choice to set the story in LA wasn’t just because it was an easy first choice. Los Angeles just has this unique combination of glossy hopes for what your life could be, what your love life could be, your career could be. And at the same time, so many people in LA struggle with disappointment, tragedy, failed dreams and aspirations. Which felt true for a loner like Michael. Also, it just felt like the right setting for a story about a young man, who essentially feels invisible. You can’t live an invisible life in Copenhagen. You can in LA. Finally, the city — to me — is in many ways symbolic for the idea that we can all choose and change our identities. Which this story is also very much about. All of this fed into initially choosing LA as the arena. I don’t know. I never lived in LA. I only visited a number of times over the years. It might be a false narrative.

Scott: No, it works. I lived in LA for a long time. You’ve achieved that sense of authenticity. It feels like the place. You’re right. It’s an unusual place. You take away the water, it’s a desert. There is this fantastical quality to Los Angeles. One of the things I thought was so impressive was you really tease the reader. Where are we going with this?

Even from the beginning where he packs up the car. Michael goes to buy this car. He’s asked by the old guy who’s selling the car, “I guess it’s not that far from your own story, sir. I drove one just like this many years ago. It changed my life. I’m just hoping it could change my life again.” You’re not laying out the back‑story in its fullness. You’re just teasing it.

We don’t know whether it’s a positive thing, a negative thing. Let me ask you about that because that’s such a great instinct to just tease the exposition. Really, just make the reader curious. Is that something that’s a natural instinct or something you’re conscious of?

Stefan: Both, I think. To me it’s always a question of, “What is the tension in every moment?” There has to be engaging tension in every single moment. There has to be a constant unbalance to create a lean‑in situation for the audience. That includes constantly teasing with a little bit of what’s ahead, and then change that all the time. Have the audience chasing a carrot somehow.

The moment a scene falls flat, the movie is dead. Really. At least to me. You can never let go of your audience, not for a second, you constantly have to lead and push them. That doesn’t mean you have to scream and shout out every line, but you need dramatic unbalance in every single story beat to keep the audience engaged.

I’m so conscious of this when writing and watching things. It’s all about trying to sustain tension. And especially, to get back to your question, “How do you dole out exposition?” is such a difficult aspect of our craft. I read somewhere a long time ago, I don’t know who originally said it; “Use exposition as ammunition.” Exposition has to be part of the dramatic construct of the scene. If it isn’t, make it.

And then, again, always ground it in character. The fact that Michael does not expose his full back‑story in that opening scene is of course because it’s painful. So, this opening moment just teases that there’s something painful in his past, he doesn’t want to talk about, but he has hopes that this vehicle will somehow help him get over it. Which, in the end, is what the entire movie is about.

So, you put it in there from the opening scene. Because if the key question of the movie is not somehow represented in your opening scene, it’s not your opening scene. As well as your final scene is the one, where the core question is finally resolved. And then you’re out.

How strongly you give away those core questions and answers is a question of style and personal taste. To me, I like deliberately well‑constructed stories. I don’t feel distanced by feeling that I am in the hands of storytellers who have made deliberate and strong choices. I like that. I enjoy that. I enjoy watching films that do that. I aspire to do the same.

Scott: You got a beginning, middle, and end to that back‑story because he does tell her, this Laura woman. He conveys a little bit more of the back‑story. Then later on conveys the whole thing. It is like a three‑act structure in terms of that dark tragedy in his past.

Stefan: To me, it’s always a matter of looking at those moments where that exposition is given and always asking, “Is this moment true to character?” We’ve all seen these movies where people suddenly stop and just blurt out a painful back‑story out of nowhere and for no reason. The whole story stops, when that happens, and worse… it violates character. Always ask, “If someone tells someone a painful story, why does he or she do so at this point?”

Is it because he has reached a certain level of vulnerability? Is it because he wants something from her? There is always a change in dynamics, somehow. When and how to peel the layers of your character is one of the most interesting aspects in writing thrillers like these. If you don’t get that right, or at least aspire to, then why bother? [laughs] Then it’s just one big car chase, and no one cares if they’re not emotionally invested.

Scott: Exactly. That’s what you’ve effectively not done. It’s not just a car chase.

Let’s talk about Laura. I guess you can call her a femme fatale? Would you think of her like that?

Stefan: Yup.

Scott: I’m struck by this idea that you had when you said, “I really wanted to switch genres” because it’s a very sweet movie, actually, until things get rock‑and‑rolling. He meet this girl by a dating app. They go out and have this lovely little picnic together. She’s cute and charming. Then like “Parasite” ‑‑ that movie changed genres ‑‑ you do change genres pretty significantly there.

Could you talk to me about this Laura character, where she came in in the creative process for you?

Stefan: She was always there.

Scott: Always there.

Stefan: Again, I think it’s the wonderful Craig Mazin in his and John August’s “Scriptnotes” podcast, who said at some point: Never look at the central character, look at the central relationship. The central relationship between the hero and the antagonist of the movie defines the thematic axis and tension and ultimate resolution, so to explore your hero fully, you need an antagonist who challenges whoever he is and needs to become.

In Mercury, there are goons, gangsters, violent men, but Laura is the antagonist of the movie if you look at it from a thematic standpoint. You look what is the opposite of what the main character needs. She’s a woman manipulating emotions, because he’s a victim to his emotions, and he gets played by her because of it. It is very film noir if you look at it from that perspective. Sort of a modern film noir.

Scott: Like neo‑noir. He has been played. In fact, even in the script and scene description, just so you make this point, you put it in caps. “He’s been played. Doesn’t yet know why, but he’s sure to find out with renewed energy and focus.”

Stefan: Ha. I do stuff like that in the descriptions sometimes and it’s totally cheating. It’s totally what people will say, “Don’t write like that. You can’t film that.” I understand but humbly disagree, To me, what you’re trying to create in your script is the most precise and powerful reading experience for your readers. Who — in the best of worlds — will channel those emotions and create a film that will have your audience ultimately feeling the same thing.

Sometimes you need to emphasize an emotion on the page, and sometimes — like the line you single out here — it might be too much, but it’s a tool in the belt to sometimes use if you really need to bring home a story point or an important emotional beat.

Scott: You’re probably familiar with this. These people say, “You can’t write these unfilmables.” Anything that an actor can or…I think that’s bullshit, because as a student of screenplays, writers have been doing this for years. It’s not a novel, you can’t go on for pages and pages, but you can comment from time to time. You can even drop into a character’s internal dialogue.

I didn’t have a problem with that line, because you’re basically saying to us, “All right, now there’s a big shift.” It wouldn’t have worked if you didn’t believe that he was emotionally invested in it, and you do believe that he is emotionally invested.

Stefan: Thank you, I appreciate that. That’s the hope and the ambition. Laura is, of course, an enigma, since so much of the movie is about Michael trying to figure out who this woman really is, to find her and stop her. Having this character who is essentially cold‑bloodedly there to play him any way she needs him, to meet her own ends.

Another thing in constructing Laura… was to look at Michael’s core emotional need. What Michael needs is to let go of his own romantic dreams of being a savior of someone, a white knight to someone. That’s what Laura sees in him and plays in him, and I was infatuated with this idea of playing with the male-savior-and-damsel-in-distress movie cliché and turning it on its head. Take that trope, make us root for it, and then smack Michael in the face with it.

That’s part of the construct of Mercury. It doesn’t just twist the plot, OR the genre. It twists and subverts your genre-and-gender expectations. Hopefully. If it works. But at least that was the ambition.

Scott: You’re subverting expectations. It’s like you’re playing, here’s the trope white knight. Oh, this guy got played.

There’s another character, but someone fun to write. This Burke character, who has got this very interesting worldview and he’s loquacious. He’s quite verbal.

Maybe you could describe this guy has this beautiful place up in the Hollywood Hills. How did this Burke character come into being and how did you find this guy’s voice?

Stefan: He grew from the first iteration of the story. The first draft was even more contained around the three main characters, Michael, Laura and Jason, where Jason was the sole villain and the primary physical threat and Burke was only hinted at.

The idea of evolving Burke came through conversations with Adam and Kendrick, and with Ace Entertainment, who have optioned the script at this point. We all felt that the story could benefit from having a stronger master-villain. His language grew mostly from his strong confidence, and then a desire to give him a tone that felt equally entertaining and threatening.

Scott: Well, it’s a castable role for an actor to chew on that dialogue. Reminded me a bit, “The Big Lebowski” where the dude gets up to the house with Jackie Treehorn. I was wondering if this is a bit of an homage to…

Stefan: It’s not deliberate, but Burke is probably also a product the old rule that the less screen time a character has, the clearer and sharper you have to draw them.

Scott: You’ve got all these adversarial characters in Michael’s life. There’s Laura as she turns out to be. There’s this Burke character, Jason’s very physical, ex‑boyfriend of Laura, supposedly a cop. It’s like, Michael has got this whole underdog thing going on there. It strikes me, there’s two things that would be a real challenge for someone such as yourself writing these types of things. The first is the problem‑solving. Not only how a character will solve the problems, but even coming up with the problems in the first place.

You’ve got, for example, there are these things, these assets. As a writer, there’s a gun that he gets a hold of. There are cell phones which are used in multiple ways. There’s police scanners, there’s the police.

How do you do that? Is that something you start at the end and you work your way back, or feel your way through? Literally working out the problems that the character has to overcome in order to achieve their goal.

Stefan: It’s a combination. Some of these setups and payoffs are preplanned before I start writing. Others present themselves as possibilities as I’m writing, and then you have to go back and plant them organically to make the payoffs land and resonate.

Of all those many little things, the “object” that I’m most happy with in this script, is the knife Jason presses against Michael’s throat during their first encounter, and then in the end Michael ends up using that very same blade…

Scott: …To free him.

Stefan: Exactly. Michael has blamed himself throughout the entire story that he once failed to rescue his brother out of a crashed car. Now, in the end, he liberates himself by saving the villain out of a similar situation, using the very knife, Jason used to threaten him. Dramatic irony like that, setups and payoffs in character resolutions like that? To me, that is the stuff that I hope to do, when I sit down to write something like Mercury. You have to look at it never as fancy plotting, but always as unfolding a character arc.

Similarly, I made Michael an Uber-driver, because I liked that combination of him being a skilled driver, knowing the city, and at the same time being ultimately always alone. But then, later in the script, the fact that he is an Uber driver gives him access to information he can use to track down Laura. Stuff like that, where plot grows from character? Is what I at least strive to do in thrillers like these.

Scott: Another thing that was pretty fun, was how you used his cell phone and how it pays off at the end with Laura and the airplane.

Stefan: Oh, cool.

Scott: I thought that was a pretty nice little trick.

The second thing about these type of movies is, they bring so many great car chases in cinema history. “The Italian Job,” the Bourne movies. Of course, “French Connection,” “Bullit.” How do you ‑‑ because you’ve got some significant car chases in there ‑‑ approach that to come up with stuff that’s fresh and interesting? How did you approach that whole process?

Stefan: Car chases are, for obvious reasons, one of the most difficult things to make fresh and original, because we’ve seen every iteration of them a billion times. In this movie, I actually tried to go smaller, go real, ground the chases as best as I could.

What you do, I guess, is imagine the beats. Imagine the flow of the whole sequence play out beat by beat, visually, dramatically. A good chase sequence is all about tension and release, new tension, new release, pauses, surprises, final relief… and then possibly a surprise twist again in the end. The rhythm and musicality of orchestrating a chase like these is something I find great joy in working with.

And then, finding small new variations of what the audience expects from this genre. For instance, there is one place in the script where Michael tries to escape the police, and he drives into this mud pool. The Mercury gets stuck, but he tries to plow through it. Wheels spinning, engine roaring, he drives, like, five miles pr. hour through 100 feet of mud. The police are stuck behind him and are shooting at him, the engine revs, but still the car moves so fucking slowly… bullets zipping by… I was, like, “I haven’t seen that before”. A really intense car chase beat at five miles pr hour suddenly felt much more dangerous than speeding by at a hundred…

In the end, though, it’s always character. It’s always a matter of looking at intention and obstacle. Michael is never “in a car chase”, he’s trying to rescue this woman that he feels could be his future love of his life from her horrible past. And he happens to be in a car, when that goal sets in. That’s what the first car chase is.

So, always infuse a dramatic necessity in every chase. And then use character to flavor what happens, skill as well as mind-set. In this script, Michael is a romantic out to save his “damsel in distress”. That self-perception affects his willingness to go to great lengths to escape. Also, he has a history of being an Uber-driver in a big city, which means he knows the small alleys and shortcuts. He knows the parks and parking houses. He knows the city in a way that you and I would not, and hopefully he can utilize that in these chases.

Scott: I want to talk to you about what I call narrative voice, which is essentially how a writer handles scene description. It’s like genre plus style equals narrative voice. You got to have an understanding what the style can be related to the genre and you do such a great job with your scene description. How conscious of you are that? Are you influenced by screenwriters?

Do you read people like Tony Gilroy, Dan Gilroy Walter Hill, or Shane Black? How have you developed your narrative voice? Then in particular with this project, were you conscious of that, because it’s very, very effective?

Stefan: Yeah. Thank you so much. I read as much as I can, not just for fun and interest, but also to see different styles and be constantly challenged in shaping and sharpening my own. To me, I very much visualize the scene, and then I try to write it as I see it. To me, there is a very rhythmical, musical aspect of writing, and the constant presence of a ticking clock.

The constant feeling of progressing time is very present with me. I don’t know. When I write anything, but especially action sequences, I feel like there’s a drumbeat constantly pushing forward, and the need to write to that beat. I need to shape the rhythm of the reading experience.

I’m very conscious about how I can optimize that. Long sentences, short sentences, single words, white on the page, I am constantly composing the page, essentially. I spent a lot of time on that and at some point it becomes more organic, but the core of it is : Write what you see in your mind, and pace it on the page like it plays out in your mind. To me, it can’t take longer to read it than it would take to see it. If it takes longer to read it, than it will to experience it on screen, then I need to cut it down.

So, action is tight, short, compressed. If you wanna move fast. And similarly, if you reach a point where you want the audience to stop and stare at a close up for 15 seconds, then that close up needs to take up a quarter of a page. Rhythm and visualization, all the time, write what it looks like, and keep pushing forward.

Scott: How long from the point of conception where you said, “OK, I’m going to start writing this,” to the point where it went out to market. How long of a process was that and how complicated or how many rewrites and whatnot?

Stefan: For this particular project, it was not that long a process. It probably took three months of actual writing, but spread out over more. This was a spec, and I try to carve out time to write those between paid jobs. Then it went out, and Ace got engaged, and then I did a rewrite with them, and that’s the one that made the Black List.

Scott: You did make the Black List like ten years ago, but let’s talk about December 13th, 2021, this year. I guess it’ll be nighttime for you when it was rolling out. Were you paying attention at all to the Black List?

Stefan: Not at all, actually. I didn’t know it was even a potential thing with this script, before I got emails from Adam and Kendrick, like; “Congratulations, you made the top 10.” I was like, “What!?” [laughs] But it’s an honor to be on it and I feel very, very humbled to be recognized by a community of people who single out what they’ve been excited about reading. The fact that this list exists, and that it elevates and celebrates writers on all levels, from highly successful writers to totally new writers, and then all of us somewhere in‑between. I’m very grateful and humbled to be back on it for a second time.

Scott: Congratulations again. A few craft questions for you. I’m in it. I’m intrigued by this. I always ask, where do you come up with story ideas? You got these two bids. One of them is the concepts. One of them, what was it? Personal…

Stefan: …Issues probably. [laughs]

Scott: I’m curious, what is that? Are they ideas that pop into your head and you put them down? How does that work?

Stefan: Well, it’s whenever you feel that you react emotionally to any given story, situation or conflict in life. When you experience something that speaks to you on a deeper level, emotionally, psychologically. Something that at the same time feels deeply personal and universally human.

It’s important to stress the difference between a private and a personal story, because the distinction is pivotal : Private stories are stories told as they happened to you. Personal stories convey the emotional truth of what happened. Private stories are difficult to deal with, because you risk getting stuck in your own loyalty to what actually happened. While personal stories are something you know and can invest in emotionally, but you can also liberate yourself enough from the hard facts of your own experience to craft the best possible story.

So, find a personal story, not a private one. And then, you need “the poster idea” that fits and challenges and merges with it. I’m reluctant to use the word high concept, but I do mean high concept. An idea whose core conflict can be easily and sharply conveyed, and which organically fits this personal story of yours. If you have only one or the other, you don’t have a movie. I personally need both before I can write anything.

Scott: That’s so interesting that you mentioned that. The way you framed that personal versus private. That whole thing they say, “Oh, write what you know.” I say, “I don’t know about that. Write what you know emotionally.” That makes sense to me, right?

Stefan: Yeah. I remember when I started working in the States, the core question was often whether there is ‘truth’ to an idea, where in Scandinavia we often talk about whether a story is ‘real’. That distinction between ‘true’ and ‘real’ is crucial, and — to me — ‘true’ is much more interesting and important for the movie-going experience.

Is it emotionally true? Is it humanly true? In a world where we could only tell ‘real’ stories, we would have no Super Hero-movies, fantasy movies, no space operas, no James Bonds, Indiana Jones’ or — basically — anything larger than life. The core of those movies is emotional truth. That’s why they resonate. In the midst of whatever spectacle they might bring as well.

Scott: In Hollywood, they’ve had that saying forever, which is, “Don’t let the facts get in the way of the story.” It is just a launching‑off point, and it’s more about the emotional truth.

Stefan: Yeah. At the same time, of course, there is a limit to that saying, where you end up violating factual reality to a degree, where it breaks suspension of disbelief and ultimately ends up hurting the emotional truth of the experience.

Scott: You mentioned your work in TV, and you mentioned outlining. I’m assuming that that’s pretty key part of you for your prep process. How comprehensive is that? Do you get to a scene‑by‑scene outline?

Stefan: The more I write, the less I outline before I move to script. Possibly because I trust my craft more over the years, but also because I find that there are discoveries to make at every stage of the writing process, and I want to find the perfect balance between pre-writing enough to be able to dive into the story with confidence. And at the same time keeping enough choices open to be able to explore and let the story speak to me organically on a scene-by-scene level.

What I do need before I start the actual writing, is to know what the story is. I need to know what it is thematically. I need to know the main characters and what drives and limits them. And what they need to overcome. I need to know what the final choices are. I need to know where it begins and ends. I always know the structural tent-poles and turning-points before I start, but I think if the process is up to me alone, then I have scaled a little bit back over the years in how specific I am in scene‑by‑scene outlining, and left it somewhat more open, because that breathing room…

I always find that when you go to script… as much outline that you might have done, there are always gifts and discoveries made when you go to script. To me, if I’ve outlined too strongly, to specifically, I find that I don’t allow myself to embrace those discoveries that I make when I do make them.

So. It’s all about trying to find the balance between having the characters and structure in place, having the premise, the thematic argument ‑‑ the closing, the start, the character arc is there ‑‑ but leaving some breathing room open. That opens your mind to new ideas along the way that allows you to elevate the outline, instead of just writing the outline.

Scott: That’s also true. It leaves room for the characters to speak to you or do something different.

Speaking of characters, how do you go about developing your characters? Is there a specific process, or do you have any ‑‑ I don’t know ‑‑ exercises or things that you do to unlock them?

Stefan: Apart from always looking for relationships that embody the theme and create an exciting tension and potential for mutual growth…

One of the things that I do work with, I think… is always make a distinction between back‑story and deep back‑story, which is… well… Back‑story is the thing that happened in the immediate past, which created the wound that every feature is trying to mend. Not rarely do movies open with this wound being inflicted on the main character.

One of the things about working with feature scripts, as opposed to longer stories on television, is this often beautiful simplicity there is to mending a wound in 100 minutes [laughs] which is what every movie does or tries to do. Something happened. That hurt our hero. Who will now spend the next 100 minutes solving an outer problem, in the ultimate hopes of mending the emotional wound. The end.

Then, there’s ‘deep back‑story’, which is the fundamental reason why these characters are the way they are. Usually childhood stuff, parents, upbringing. This is often a constant. Not something a feature story changes. But which deeply shapes character, patterns, actions.

Then, I try to think of their level of consciousness ‑‑ how conscious are they about who they are, and what needs to be done? Most of us are not conscious at all. Most of us are blind as hell when it comes to what has defined us and what we truly need. We have false explanations and struggle with false solutions, and toying with those blind angles is an important aspect of character work.

Especially when creating antagonists. No one gets up in the morning and consciously decides to be “the villain”. We all try to do good from whatever perspective we see the world, and that’s why I am reluctant to ever calling anyone “the villain” of any story, but always think of them as the antagonist to the protagonist. With a world view that contradicts and challenges what the protagonist believes. The clash between the two becomes the movie’s core questions, and for any story to be strong, both ‘arguments’ should have equal weight and merit.

You asked, “Do I have a process?” when it comes to character. I think it’s the same as with every scene. You always look for tension. You look for the tension between who they believe they are, who they try to be, and what is actually holding them back. You look for what they’re hiding or not acknowledging. Every character carries and embodies an inherent tension. And the more clearly you can convey that, the more engaging they will be.

When you feel that, when you know that, what their tension is, what drives and limits them, then I think it feeds naturally and organically into the scenes. It feeds into the dialogue, the way they stand and move and engage with people. It’s really that, and then you can give them all sorts of different characteristics after that. Which, to me, is much less important than character.

That’s another thing you should be conscious about. Same as ‘true’ versus ‘real’. The distinction between ‘character’ and ‘characteristics’. A lot of teachings on character is really focused on characteristics. Where was she born, where did she grow up, go to school. Where did she move to, educate herself, where did she work. Is her family large or small, are her parents still alive, what are their names, professions, incomes. This… is all characteristics. You can write a hundred pages of it for each character. And it helps you nowhere when you’re writing actual scenes and story.

Character is simple. What does she want? Why can’t she have it? What’s her inner and outer obstacles? What does she need to overcome in this story? What would fulfill her? It’s stuff like that, that makes characters relatable and hopefully engaging.

Scott: Actually, I think it works quite well with a character like Michael because there’s a void. You feel like he doesn’t need something to…He’s got the wound, obviously, but his life is pretty empty. It’s even reflected in the fact that he doesn’t have that many people. Burke tells him that. He’s looking at his phone and sees he don’t have a lot of friends.

Stefan: Yeah.

Scott: Let me ask you one last question here: What advice can you offer an aspiring screenwriter to learning the craft and breaking into the business?

Stefan: Well. First of all, understand that you’re not in competition with the world, because every story has already been told, and there are always writers out there who are better and more successful than you. You’re only in competition with yourself. Making what you write resonate as strongly as possible is all you should care about. You need to write the movie that you want to see, and write it as well as you possibly can. Such clichés, but all true.

Finally, don’t “write what you know”. Write what you love, and then “love your darlings”. Don’t kill them. Isolate them, nurse and cherish them, bring them front and center, because your darlings are what you are passionate about in your story. If they don’t connect to your plot, then fix that. If they don’t completely fit your character, dive deeper until you understand where they come from and how they could. But protect and love your darlings at all cost. They are the whole reason for doing this. And if you treat them accordingly, your audience will hopefully love them too.

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