Adapting ‘Poor Things’: ‘I sit at my desk and realize the obstacles are insurmountable’

Screenplays usually have a three-act structure, and the experience of writing a screenplay seems often to have the same.

ACT 1

Status quo. I’m at lunch with Yorgos Lanthimos. We’re going into preproduction on “The Favourite” soon, so that script is done and I’m in a relaxed, lunching “Who invented pear brandy? So many unsung heroes in the world” kind of mood, when: inciting incident. Yorgos slides a book across the table. “See what you think.” “Poor Things.” I’ve never adapted a book before. I read it and realize it’s definitely not the one to start with. It’s a crazy story about Bella Baxter, a woman who is reanimated to life when her own baby’s brain is put into her head. I see the chance to do something wild and unique. A gothic comedy fantasy, a philosophical satire about shame, a joyous coming-of-age movie, all in one. And with one of the great directors of the era.

I go back to Yorgos.

“Of course,” I say. “Good,” he says.

ACT 2

I sit down at my desk and realize the obstacles are insurmountable, my talent probably insufficient and I’ve made a grave error of judgment. So, like any character, I start with one obstacle at a time.

Bella’s story is narrated by the men in the book, her point of view and internal experience isn’t told. This becomes the biggest choice in my adaptation. Yorgos and I decide Bella will be the center and driving force of the film. And the men, instead of controlling the narrative, will attempt to control her and fail dismally. I then construct her journey around the world to operate in tandem with her internal journey of growth and discovery.

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It’s a period film, so it has to have a formality of language, but also I want it to feel very contemporary, so I riff on some scenes, playing around until I can hear how it should sound. In most films, characters talk the way they talk for the whole film, but Bella’s language has to evolve scene by scene, sequence by sequence, as she grows at this accelerated but inconsistent rate. As Duncan says, “Who are you? You know what empirical means, but you don’t know what a f—ing banana is.” Language for Bella evolves out of trying to articulate her experiences, trying to find words to express how she feels, which is how “sex” becomes “furious jumping.”

The midpoint fail

Conventional wisdom is, halfway through a script, the protagonist fails and seemingly can’t go on. So does the writer. My midpoint fail happens just before the third act. Bella is back in London and is to marry Max, and her ex-husband Alfie, hitherto unknown, turns up at the wedding to claim her.

Hmmm. A new character after two hours who will carry the third act and hasn’t been mentioned.

The audience have no relationship to him. What I planned seems wrong, but what else can I do? I go and stare at a tree for a while. Sometimes it helps. I drink four coffees. Sometimes it helps. I lie down, and my 4-year-old throws a ball hard in my face. It helps. I see what he’s trying to say. It’s staring you in the face. You’re done.

I write to Yorgos. “It’s too hard. We tried. Let’s never speak of this again. I am returning the money, though not intact.” He writes back. “We knew it would be hard. Keep going. It’ll be worth it.”

I go back to my desk.

ACT 3

I dive into the third act, wondering on the ending. I suddenly have an idea for the last image of the movie. Bella has put a goat’s brain in Alfie, her psychotic ex-husband’s head. Absurdist, full circle, funny and somehow logical. It gives me somewhere to aim and gives her a satisfying end.

I finish, and even though I rewrite the third act three or four times, Alfie’s goat brain stays intact as it was first written. I deliver it. Yorgos writes back. “It’s good. Some things, of course.”

We start a couple years of doing the “some things.”