Writing a gangster film - University of Melbourne

Writing a gangster film Written by Declan Mortimer Eipper

Table of Contents Part I: Screenplay Part II: Dissertation

Part I: Screenplay

Part II: Dissertation It is essential that the screenplay be read first: (a) because the dissertation is written in a way that requires prior knowledge of the screenplay; and (b) because the dissertation reveals key plot points that depend upon suspense and surprise to achieve their full effect when the screenplay is read.

Master of Film & Television (by Research)

Screenplay:

Sins of the Fathers Thesis:

Writing a gangster film Written by Declan Mortimer Eipper

Submitted in total fulfilment of the requirements of the degree of Master of Film & Television (by Research) (by creative work and dissertation).

September 2010

The Victorian College of the Arts School of Film & Television The University of Melbourne

This is to certify that the screenplay and thesis comprise only my original work towards the Masters. Due acknowledgement has been made in the text to all sources used. The screenplay and thesis are less than 50,000 words in length.

Declan Mortimer Eipper

Abstract This dissertation discusses the formulation of my first feature film script, Sins of the Fathers. It deals with the genesis, motives, influences and methodology employed in writing my screenplay. It details how my research into Melbourne's underworld and my passion for gangster films informed what I considered might be done with the genre and what I aimed to do differently. I explore whether the gangster genre has been exhausted and discuss the limitations of the genre. I also investigate the importance in the gangster genre of empathising with a protagonist.

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Acknowledgements My feature film script, Sins of the Fathers, has been a labour of love. The thesis has proved to be an invaluable reflection on the gangster genre, helping improve my screenplay. The script's story and the ideas discussed in this dissertation have been developing for many years. Since I was fifteen I have wanted to write a gangster film and have always loved the genre. Completing my Masters fulfilled that objective. I must thank my supervisors, Annabelle Murphy and Ray Mooney, for their supervision. They both read multiple drafts of my script and made valuable suggestions. I would particularly like to thank Ray for his focus on the screenplay's logical flaws. Thanks are also due to my friends, Tim Auld, John Connor and David Wolstencroft, for reading multiple drafts of my script and a draft of this thesis. Their feedback was invaluable and I am grateful to them. Thanks are also due to Adam May and James Auld for their thoughts and recommendations. I also wish to thank my mother, Lorraine Mortimer, for not only reading multiple drafts of my script and offering insightful feedback, but more importantly, for instilling in me a love of cinema from an early age. My mother exposed me to films from every genre, era and country. At the age of seven upon leaving a cinema, I turned to my mother and said, "No more Hungarian art films, Mum". Little did I know that the dozens of subtitled films that she was taking me to were not all Hungarian. To her credit, my mother respected my wish and I have not seen a Hungarian art film since. It is because of my mother's love and enthusiasm for cinema that I am so passionate about movies, and have aspired to write and direct them. Finally, I want to thank my father, Chris Eipper, as fulsomely as I can. My father read and edited every draft of my script and thesis, providing me with priceless feedback. I want to thank him for his endless enthusiasm and his plethora of ideas (even when only one in ten are of use, he is never deterred from trying to help). His insights and wise counsel proved invaluable time and again. His passion and propensity to engage in creative discussions were influential in solving many story ideas. Yet most important of all, I want to thank him for teaching me how to really write. In high school he taught me how to be conscious of and resist my tendency to write long, sprawling sentences. He taught me to write short, sharp sentences. This succinct style proved most helpful once I became passionate about screenwriting. And for all that I thank him.

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Table of Contents Introduction: The Challenges I Faced Writing My First Feature Film

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Genesis: Hollywood Gangsters, Leadbelly and My Mother

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Blessed are the Children for They Shall Inherit Their Father's Sins

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Making a Gangster's Wife a Heroine

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Is Empathy for a Protagonist really the Bedrock that some insist it is?

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My Script in Light of the Limitations of the Gangster Genre

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My Script in the context of Australian Crime Film to date

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Approaching the Blank Page

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Conclusion: What Movies Never Show Because They End a Minute Too Soon

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Appendices

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Bibliography

62

Podcasts

66

Filmography

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Television Filmography

72

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Introduction: The Challenges I Faced Writing My First Feature Film The practice-based nature of my Masters degree dictates that I examine the challenges I faced writing my first feature film, Sins of the Fathers. This thesis is therefore designed to illuminate the genesis, motives, influences and methodology employed in writing my script. My desire to write a modern Australian gangster film predated but was reinforced by reading Leadbelly: Inside Australia's underworld wars (Silvester & Rule, 2004). I here explore how my research into underworld figures in Melbourne and my passion for gangster films informed what I considered might be done with the genre at this time in this country. Sins of the Fathers is about a Melbourne crime family that triggers an underworld war to which it falls victim. I planned to write a somewhat traditional and conventional gangster film, but aimed to do so differently. I did not want to portray gangsters living glamorous lives; I wanted, rather, to convey the heartache of families who fall victim to underworld feuds. I also intended the protagonists' children to be well-rounded characters rather than featured extras. I discuss my knowledge of the gangster genre and how this led me to explore whether the genre was exhausted. I cannot, for reasons of length, provide a detailed discussion of the genre's history in relation to world cinema. I limit my focus to the films I grew up with and repeatedly watched, the films that penetrated my psyche. I discuss the limitations of the gangster genre and elaborate on how likely budgetary constraints impacted on my writing. My concern throughout has been on what I could still do with the genre that is original. 1 I explore how crucial empathising with a protagonist in the gangster genre really is. I also consider how my ever-changing methods of researching and writing impacted on the script's development. Finally, I examine the history of my creative choices and how they have been influenced by the films I have seen and the investigative journalism I have read. The texts that most informed this project include Syd Field's The Screenwriter's Workbook (1984), Robert McKee's Story (1998), David Mamet's Mamet on Directing (1991), and John Silvester's and Andrew Rule's Leadbelly: Inside Australia's underworld wars. Field's book introduced me to feature film structure and form. I learnt that writing "a screenplay is an adventure, and you're never quite sure how it's going to turn out". Field goes on:

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I do not deal with film noir, a genre in and of itself.

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"You may get a flash of inspiration for a script, but executing it is quite another story" (1984: 26, 188). At film school I was introduced to Story. McKee emphasises the importance of story and that a "good story" is one that is "well told". His book left an immeasurable impression on me because of his ability to succinctly identify the principles of screenwriting through a seamless use of structure, setting, character, genre and ideas (McKee, 1998: 21, 29). Story made me aware of things I had already learnt, but after reading McKee I would never forget them. Mamet's tiny book was the text that informed the way I approach screenwriting. Mamet preaches economy; writing only what is necessary to convey what is needed; depicting only what is essential to tell the story; writing dialogue that furthers the narrative rather than develops character (cf Mamet, 1991: 9-55). I embraced these principles, and the more I studied, the more their importance was reinforced. Ironically, a friend who treats Mamet's book as his scriptwriting bible then read the third draft of my script and told me that I had taken the principles too far. The point was reinforced by a number of readers who felt that character development had been sacrificed to an intricately crafted plot. My concentration on furthering the narrative had become akin to someone who is told that apples are good for them and then proceeds to eradicate everything from their diet except apples. John Silvester's and Andrew Rule's Leadbelly: Inside Australia's underworld wars is a true crime book written by journalists. It is essentially a collection of the authors' previously published articles. The chapters are primarily a series of anecdotes about murder victims, the events that led up to each one's death, coupled with speculation as to why they were killed and who had the motive to do it. Discovering whether the gangster genre is exhausted entails exploring what has been done before, what can be done differently and what has not been done. What is original is debatable, but originality is nonetheless something to strive for. Despite many films in the genre covering the same territory again and again, I will argue that the genre is by no means exhausted. For example, I found I could stretch the genre by featuring the wife and children of the lead protagonist, making a gangster's wife the heroine as much as her husband the hero. Developing the couple's children into well-rounded characters meant there was an opportunity to break away from the more traditional approach that relegates children to being featured extras seemingly unaffected by their parents' lifestyle.

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Examining what might be done with the genre at this time in Australia required reviewing what has been done in the past. I recognised that there were limitations arising from undertaking a project that was similar to previously made films. Funding constraints in relation to the budget and content, and the fact that I would be a first-time writer/director, were also considerations. Turning to the genre question and what might still be done with it, I decided to confine my investigation to American and Australian gangster films produced post 1927. I then discovered that the discussion of Australian films would have to be extended to the broader crime genre as so few Australian gangster films have been made. There is an expectation in undertaking this degree that, upon submission, students will be able to demonstrate mastery of their chosen form, in this case feature scriptwriting. The accomplished Hollywood screenwriters I have heard interviewed, talk at length about the degree to which they are still learning and that the process is hit and miss. 2 Despite being leaders in their field, they do not consider themselves masters of the medium. Writer and director, Paul Haggis, wishes that he could tell us that he has a formula for writing: "I don't. I feel my way through it each time. And each time I know that the structure is all wrong. ... But I just have to do it anyway" (Haggis & Goldsmith, 2008). 3 I expect that in twenty years I will feel similarly. I am aware that my screenplay has flaws and could still be improved. Only time will allow the perspective needed to take it further. As regards the thesis component of my Masters' project, I trust that it might be informative for future students. My hope is that as well as learning about how professional screenwriters approach their craft, readers will find something of value in learning how another student undertook the task. In this respect, the thesis has been designed to demonstrate scholarly research that makes a useful contribution to knowledge in the field of scriptwriting.

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The senior editor of creative screenwriting magazine, Jeff Goldsmith, has conducted over 100 interviews with Hollywood screenwriters available as podcasts from www.creativescreenwriting.com/podcasts/main.html. 3 Paul Haggis won the Academy Award along with Robert Moresco for Best Original Screenplay for Crash (Paul Haggis, 2004), and was also Oscar-nominated for Million Dollar Baby (Clint Eastwood, 2004).

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Genesis: Hollywood Gangsters, Leadbelly and My Mother I have always been drawn to the gangster genre. As a child, I was exposed to Angels with Dirty Faces (Michael Curtiz, 1938), Little Caesar (Mervyn LeRoy, 1930), The Public Enemy (William Wellman, 1931), The Godfather (Francis Ford Coppola, 1972) and Goodfellas (Martin Scorsese, 1990), to name just a few. The characters' behaviour was utterly alien to me. I was such a well behaved little boy that the contrast between their lives and mine captivated me. I was attracted to the gangsters' acts of violence and the glamorous depictions of Shakespearian-like heroes. Dressed to the nines in pinstriped suits or in black leather jackets, they were the epitome of cool. Their hard and fast lifestyles were exhilarating. They would do anything they could get away with. Many were despicable, yet numerous were equally charming, alluring and thrilling (cf Mellen, 1978: 159). Apart from the villainy, they were everything I longed to be. I yearned to experience the freedom of doing whatever I liked, free of inhibition (cf Wood, 1981: 64). I was similarly fascinated by case studies of larger-than-life characters who were irrepressible, violent and charismatic, and yet fated to meet a brutal end (Schatz, 1981: 90; McArthur, 1972: 55). Their hubris allowed these men to seek power and riches in an effort to reign supreme, yet this led to their ultimate demise (cf Belton, 1974: 20, 22, 24). Like Macbeth, having taken the throne and become all-powerful, there was only one place left to go, and that was to fall into a grave. Gangsters in modern popular culture are the equivalent of figures in Greek drama: "doomed overreachers who play out their fated destinies, representing excesses of desire and ambition for powerless spectators to experience vicariously their rise and fall" (Sklar, 1993: 202-203; cf Warshow, 1962: 85-88). As Melbourne's so-called gangland war heated up in 2001, I took a keen interest in the titfor-tat murders. By 2005 most of the main players were either dead or in gaol and many grievances had been sorted out. Yet I was driven more than ever to learn what had incited the killings, who was involved and why. Thirty-three gangland-related murders occurred in Melbourne between 1995 and 2004, leaving "many more fatherless children and grieving widows" (Stewart, 2004: 37). I quickly gathered a sense of many of the perpetrators and victims. Ironically, these protagonists sparked my interest not because they were exciting, but because their lives were so unglamorous. A life of crime did not seem to pay at all, at least not very well. Despite their designer suits, flash lifestyle and impression of wealth, many of the criminals were seriously in debt. Gangsters like Alphonse Gangitano and Mark Moran suffered from anxiety and depression as a result of

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fearing for their lives. Knowing that people were planning to murder him, Moran became so depressed that he "was hospitalised when he told friends he was considering suicide". Gangitano was similarly "hospitalised suffering from anxiety. Some said he was paranoid. The truth was that he thought he was going to be killed" (Munro & Silvester, 2009: 3; Silvester & Rule, 2004: 39, 91). Writing about Italians in similar circumstances, journalist, Roberto Saviano, describes a war that the criminals "feel inside. Almost like a phobia. You don't know if you should show your fear or hide it. You can't decide if you're exaggerating or underestimating" (2007: 91). Both Gangitano's and Moran's fears had a strong basis, the pair being eventually gunned down at their homes. Andrew "Benji" Veniamin, allegedly the killer of at least seven men, claimed "he didn't care" whether he lived or died, "but the increasingly erratic hit man was self-medicating with uppers and downers in the months leading up to his death". Graham Kinniburgh "became morose" prior to his murder, telling one friend, "My cards have been marked". He began carrying a gun for the first time in years (Munro & Silvester, 2009: 3). Mark Moran's stepfather, Lewis, "was shattered" after the murders of his sons, Jason and Mark; the slaying of his close friend, Kinniburgh, destroyed "his will to live". Despite knowing that he too was "marked for death", Lewis stubbornly remained night after night at his favourite drinking spot where all his friends and enemies knew they could find him. Criminal identity, Mick Gatto, put it best in his death notice for his mate: "Lewis you knew it was coming, you just didn't care". Other friends suggested that Lewis had become "too stubborn to take any notice" and refused to take measures to protect himself. The police were so concerned that Lewis Moran would be murdered that they varied his bail to make his movements harder for a hit man to track, "but that hardly mattered because he could always be found at the Brunswick Club". This attitude fascinated me. My interest was further reinforced by Lewis's last words. Upon seeing balaclava-clad gunmen armed with shotguns about to murder him, he leaned across to his friend and said, "I think we're off here." "Off" being the underworld expression for dead (Silvester & Rule, 2007: 192-193; cf Anderson, 2007: 43-44; Silvester & Rule, 2004: 174, 176, 182; Anderson, 2004: 289, 282-283; Silvester, 2006: 13). 4 Alphonse Gangitano, and Mark and Lewis Moran were not the gangsters I was familiar with from Hollywood movies. They were depressed, suicidal and apathetic. Their lives were not

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Lewis Moran's killer, Evangelos Goussis, had himself previously "wound up in hospital after an apparent suicide attempt" (Tippet, 2008: 14).

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glamorous and they were no longer living the good life. They were stressing about being murdered or were too busy mourning to care. Gangitano and Mark Moran certainly conformed to the hotheaded, violent archetypes I was familiar with from the movies, but their predicament evoked a sense of empathy that I had often felt was foreign to the genre. Despite loving gangster films, I had never empathised with Henry Hill (Ray Liotta) in Goodfellas, Rico Bandello (Edward G. Robinson) in Little Caesar, Tony Camonte (Paul Muni) in Scarface (Howard Hawks, 1932), let alone James Cagney's various incarnations in Angels with Dirty Faces, The Public Enemy and White Heat (Raoul Walsh, 1949). They were all bad men who often acted despicably and lacked many redeeming qualities. They were charismatic, but that was not enough for me to really care whether they lived or died. Whatever befell them, they seemed to have it coming (cf Truffaut, 1985: 70; Fraser, 1988: 248; Gelder, 1990: 27; McGilligan, 1975: 32-34, 112-113, 188; Schatz, 1981: 91). Interest "in a film comes from ... the desire to find out what happens next" (Mamet, 1991: 63; cf Bordwell, 1985: 163), so regardless of my lack of empathy, I was held enthralled throughout these films. I was desperate to know what would happen next in a world that could not have been more different from my own. Gangitano's and the Morans' horrendous deeds were comparable to those of their fictional counterparts, but my reading gave me insight into their suffering ― theirs, not just that of those who had suffered at their hands. Many of the Melbourne gangland figures exhibited explosively violent characteristics not unlike Joe Pesci's portrayals of Tommy DeVito and Nicky Santoro in Goodfellas and Casino (Martin Scorsese, 1995). 5 Prone as they were to volcanic fits of rage and brutality, these characters had fascinated me not merely because they were so alien. They were also all too familiar. Perhaps the real genesis of this project is knowing something about volcanic rage. I have lived with it. Not my own, but my mother's. Uncontrollable, nuclear rage that devastated her family, doing most harm, though, to herself. Though scarred, others may survive to go on to live relatively happy lives, but the person from whom this unbearable rage and unhappiness flows is destroyed a piece at a time. As far back as I can remember, I recognised that my mother ― in this one respect only, I must emphasise ― shared an uncanny resemblance to the gangsters of the silver screen. She, too, was prone to fits of rage, depression and misery, but like the glamorous gangsters in the movies, also displayed charisma and a lust for life. It is therefore hardly surprising that I was drawn to such 5

When I was eighteen I was already so fascinated by the hotheaded nature of Tommy and Nicky that I wrote about them for one of my Year Twelve English Assessment Tasks, which was subsequently published in Metro Education as "CATs and Madmen" (Mortimer Eipper, 1999).

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characters from an early age. My captivation grew out of an intrinsic sense of knowing and understanding, as well as from a desire to comprehend. I knew the terrain: the thin ice, the hairtrigger temper that could be set off at any moment without reason. I knew that escape might have more to do with good luck than doing the right thing or being conscientious. No set of precautions, sympathetic gestures or niceties could be guaranteed to save the innocent from being gunned down in a rampage. I knew what Henry Hill would have experienced when Tommy in Goodfellas keeps interrogating him as to what makes him think Tommy is so funny. The tension is visceral, but at least Tommy was joking. Robert De Niro's portrayal of the paranoid, quick-tempered, domestically violent, former middleweight boxing champion, Jake La Motta, in Martin Scorsese's Raging Bull (1980) always resonated strongly with me. For all the differences, and I want to stress that my mother was a deeply loving parent, aspects of La Motta were emotionally akin to my experience of growing up. My brother in his teenage years actually nicknamed our mother, Jake La Mama. It amused her. For as hard as it may be to believe, and as outlandish as it may seem, my mother identifies with characters like La Motta and Tony Soprano (James Gandolfini) from HBO's television series, The Sopranos (David Chase, 1999-2007). Having always wanted to create my own hot-tempered characters, I have drawn inspiration from depictions of, and stories about, the troubled and tortured. La Motta has been by far the most influential. It is this representation of ferocity, tenderness and paranoia that I have sought to emulate in my script. Successfully, it would seem. When she read the second draft of my script, my mother commented: "Michael's me, right?" She was joking, serious, and very, very knowing. In reading Leadbelly, three particular aspects of the underworld had grabbed my attention. One was the way in which criminals have often repeated the sins of their fathers. I was no less struck by the number of underworld families caught up in Melbourne's gangland feud whose children were of primary school-age. Jason and Trish Moran's children attended the same school as Carl and Roberta Williams' children, despite Jason having shot Carl in the stomach. This continued in spite of Carl allegedly orchestrating the murders of Jason, Mark and Lewis (cf Silvester, 2007: 2). 6 6

In 1999 Williams had a dispute with the Morans "over a failed illegal business venture". "When words failed", Jason drew a firearm, and despite his brother urging him to "shoot him in the head", Jason lowered his aim and shot Williams in the stomach. Many murders can be linked to the underworld feud that followed. Police believe that what began as revenge, broadened. Williams "tried to eliminate potential competition" with retaliatory strikes against Mark, Jason and

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This seemed fertile ground to me. I wanted to have the children of my gangsters not only going to school with one another, but to depict the children's perceptions and reactions to their parents' behaviour, including their ongoing hostility to one another. I also wanted to investigate the ways children are indoctrinated into intergenerational feuds. My interest was in the fact that the criminals spawned by these families were bred and nurtured; criminality was not simply part of their nature. They were "condemned from birth to a sordid life cycle of crime and violence" (Silvester & Rule, 2008: 186). To me, it was clear that circumstance played a far greater role than any desire to be bad. 7 Finally, I wanted to examine the role of women in this world. They were often powerful (willing and unwilling) accomplices. I particularly wanted to show how wives and mothers have to deal with tempestuous men, with their violence and paranoia. These women are often compromised yet tend to be loyal to a fault. "The men live fast and die young or rot in jail. Their women face the mess left behind" (Rule, 2004: 30). One of the tightropes I walked writing this film was pursuing the theme of the sins of the fathers without it overwhelming other important elements. One of my supervisors suggested that I could not title my film Sins of the Fathers without the entire story focusing on that theme. I disagreed and still do, though it was a reasonable point. The title could set up the expectation that the entire film would be centred on Michael's children being destined to repeat their father's sins, replicating what happened to him. But I was never interested in writing a film with only that focus; there were far too many other aspects of the underworld I was curious to explore. I intended my protagonist to be emblematic of how generations of men have followed in their fathers' footsteps and become criminals, but I wanted to distance my work from the films where gangsters are depicted as living glamorous lives until their tragic demise. Unlike the Hollywood mainstream, I wanted to explore the tragic likelihood that gangsters' sons may grow up destined to be killed in their prime because of their limited perceptions of other visions of life. Amongst Melbourne's crime families, absent fathers were mythologised because they were buried young. Friends and family nurtured notions of revenge. Sons took pride in following in their fathers' Lewis Moran, killing "all real and imagined competitors", as well as executing "drug dealers who had not paid their debts". Sins of the Fathers was inspired by this real-life scenario and the idea that "sometimes it can be more dangerous to goad a snake than to leave it alone or kill it outright" (Silvester & Rule, 2004: 131, 90, 169, 152; Silvester, 2007: 2; cf Anderson, 2007: 10; Munro & Silvester, 2009: 3). 7 For instance, in Quindici, Italy, "a family feud resulting in around forty savage murders" has "sowed mourning among the rival groups and created an undying hatred that has contaminated generations of family leaders like the plague. The town watches helplessly as the two factions continue to slaughter each other" (Saviano, 2007: 147).

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semi-imagined footsteps. The cyclical nature of this generational violence destroyed families and robbed them of fathers, husbands and sons. My hope was that I might portray these ideas through depictions of the gangsters' children, showing how their perceptions of their parents were already leading them down the same path.

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Blessed are the Children for They Shall Inherit Their Father’s Sins An overwhelming number of the criminals caught up in Melbourne's recent underworld killings have had a criminal lineage. Regardless of how brutal, caring or loving their upbringing was, the father's criminal ways provided the defining path for the son. As I have already mentioned, I had been struck by how criminal families in Melbourne were devastated by familial retaliatory executions, and was fascinated by how some gangsters were murdered in similar circumstances to their fathers. The slaying of father and son was linked to underworld feuds a generation apart and yet the end was the same via almost identical methods. One example of history repeating itself was when gunman, Leslie Cole, was ambushed and shot dead outside his Sydney home. The murder was to prove "eerily similar" to the death of Cole's son, Mark Moran, 18 years later. "Each was shot dead as he returned home. Each was living well above his legitimate means at the time". And each knew that he was in danger. Leslie Kane, whose reputation (along with that of his brother) in the 1970s exceeded the Morans' in the 1990s, had a daughter, Trish. She would repeat her mother's mistake, moving in with her "childhood sweetheart" Jason Moran (Silvester & Rule, 2004: 87, 95, 175; cf Anderson, 2004: 10). Trish's father and husband would both be gunned down in ongoing feuds. The Moran children would lose their father, uncle and both grandfathers to the gun (Rule, 2004: 31). The Godfather, Goodfellas, The Departed (Martin Scorsese, 2006), The Sopranos, Brother a.k.a. Brat (Aleksey Balabanov, 1997), 8 American Gangster (Ridley Scott, 2007), At Close Range (James Foley, 1986), Angels with Dirty Faces, Road to Perdition (Sam Mendes, 2002), The Roaring Twenties (Raoul Walsh, 1939), HBO's television series, The Wire (David Simon, 2002-2008) and many more films in the genre have dealt with paternal relationships being the defining element of criminal evolution. In exploring this theme, I wanted the difference in my approach to be a slow build. In many of these films the central character is schooled by paternal figures who teach him the ways of criminal life (cf Bookbinder, 1993: 14; Mason, 2002: 130). In my film, I wanted the children's characters to develop along with the audience's realisation that despite how much they were loved, cared for and protected, each tragedy befalling the family unavoidably brought them a step closer to the criminal path. 8

In this case, it is the protagonist's brother who initiates the central character into the criminal world, but the relationship is paternal.

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From the first draft, I built upon the idea that Michael as a little boy had been indoctrinated into his father's world where he was expected to be a "tough guy"; and that his uncle recognised his hotheadedness even as a child. In the opening scene of the script, Michael's father inadvertently humiliates him by informing Michael's uncle (and, later, father by adoption), Andrew, that Michael "had a little accident". Recognising Michael's disapproval of his father for revealing this, Andrew plays on Michael's insecurities by asking him whether he has pissed himself. Andrew's insensitivity is designed to illustrate how he is trying to toughen Michael up for the criminal world he will soon inhabit. Former police detective Colin McLaren best sums up the behaviour: "Old-world crooks were tough guys, blooded by a tough father or uncle, rising through the ranks, not dissimilar to apprentices really, until one day they were jumping bank counters themselves" (2009: 43). Michael is conditioned from an early age to vent his anger physically in response to perceived humiliation, as he later does in relation to Trevor at Michael's welcome home party. Dale's inclusion in the film's very first scene signposts that he too has been indoctrinated from childhood into the underworld culture of not informing. I worked diligently on the first ten pages of my script as one of my supervisors had impressed upon me that an audience should, as early as possible, be made aware of everything it needs to know in order to set up the rest of the film. "You have to design those first 10 pages with skill, economy, and imagination". "You've only got 10 pages to grab your reader. You better make sure these 10 pages are lean, clean, and tight". "If you haven't involved your reader in the story within the first 10 pages, you've lost him" or her (Field, 1984: 102-103). I incorporated the idea that Michael, like his uncle decades earlier, has begun indoctrinating his sons into a tough guy's world. I did this by having him sparring with his children to echo Andrew sparring with him, the significant difference being that Michael does not inflict humiliation. The scene was designed to illustrate Michael's affection and how much his children mean to him. The emotional connection Michael has with Clare and his kids is noteworthy because Michael's unsympathetic behaviour often occurs despite him not wanting to jeopardise his relationships with those he loves. I wanted to convey that sometimes Michael could not help himself. His unconditional love for his sons and for Clare needed to be demonstrated, I felt, to balance his less sympathetic side. The simplest way to do this was to show that just being away from his family is heartbreaking for him. I did not want Michael to be a traditional tough guy, but rather a tortured soul; a man who wears his heart on his sleeve, despite his ferocity.

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Michael's play-wrestling with his sons and Clare joining them provides further evidence of the depths of Michael's love for his children and wife; it demonstrates that he is a good father and can be playful, despite his unreasonable behaviour. The nature of Clare's participation reinforces her profound affection for her husband. This scene is an inverted foreshadowing of the police making Clare choose between protecting Michael and having her children murdered in front of her. Although Michael is only playing with Sam, making him choose between his mother and his brother, the parallel choice later becomes the most dramatic test of Clare's character. Depicting Detective Nick Anderson's son finding the amphetamine pills inside the video cassette cases came from imagining behaviour I might have witnessed with my brother or even performed myself if we had been these children. I had always envisioned Nick's son discovering the amphetamine pills and alerting his father. I wanted to have the children of as many characters as possible integral to the plot to reinforce the theme of children being indoctrinated into their parents' world simply by being a part of their domestic lives. I thus also liked the idea that Roger misses the phone call from Nick, and is therefore unable to be warned because he is listening to his daughter playing the violin. I suspect that there is no better case study of indoctrination into the Mafia world than The Godfather (cf Hardy, 1997: 148). Michael Corleone (Al Pacino) wants no part in the family business or its criminal activities, but circumstances conspire against him after the slaying of his eldest brother and the attempted murder of his father. Michael is forced to act the part of a gangster to prevent another attempt on his father's life, later deciding that if he does not play an active role in saving the family and defeating its enemies, his father and family will perish. I have no delusions about achieving the emotional complexity of Francis Ford Coppola's masterpiece; his film is brilliant, my script is a novice's work-in-progress. I merely wanted to explore how primary schoolaged children of Melbourne gangsters might be indoctrinated into a cycle of violence, despite their parents trying to protect them. See, for example, this passage in Leadbelly describing the behaviour of the children of a slain criminal:

Two young children step from a funeral limousine. The boy, aged about six, is dressed in a little gangster suit and wears the mandatory gangster sunglasses ... The child looks directly at a press photographer and flips him 'the bird'. The next generation on display (Silvester & Rule, 2004: 134).

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It struck me as a poignant portrait. Accurate or not, it was a powerful image loaded with a sense of inevitable fate. Creating children for the screen was something I felt comfortable with, despite never having done it before. I had a sense of being able to tap into my younger self and my relationship with my brother when we were children. I was confident I could draw on our behaviour and ways of expressing ourselves to render portraits that would be both nuanced and realistic. Portraying the children of gangsters is, of course, not a new idea. Countless films depict criminals who have children, but the latter are hardly featured. I wanted the fathers to be portrayed as devoted, loving and attentive, as always making time for their children. Nicky in Casino loves his son, routinely cooking breakfast for him, doting on him, attending his baseball games and taking an interest in his life. However, Nicky's son is only seen in a few shots, the focus being solely on Nicky. Conversely, The Sopranos brilliantly portrays a Mafia family, and over six seasons allows us to delve deeply into the central Mafia figure's life, as well as the lives of his wife and children. I could not hope in a feature film to deal with the lives of the children as The Sopranos did. However, I could at least take a leaf out of The Sopranos' book and create children who were threedimensional characters. Like Michael's and Clare's children, Dale's and Angela's sons are naive to begin with, but the unfolding events make them increasingly aware of the lives their parents lead. I wanted to keep reinforcing the fact that Michael's children witness the consequences of his actions, and suffer as a result because of how much they care for their father and idolise him. Brodie runs to his father as the police escort Michael to the police van. Even in my treatment, the idea was that Brodie does not want to believe that his father has done wrong, despite the police arresting him. He seeks reassurance, asking Michael whether he did anything wrong. Michael's denial is designed to be emblematic of the way he and Clare deceive their children. Waiting at the police station, the boys' interrogation of their mother illustrates Brodie's and Sam's growing awareness of their father being in serious trouble. Clare's assurance to her sons that Michael's arrest is "just a mistake" is used to emphasise the pattern of Clare falsely reassuring them while not knowing the truth of the matter herself. Michael allowing his sons to probe his battered cheek shows how he too plays down things so as to reassure his kids. During my research, I conjured a scenario intertwining Dale and the Caputo family to further increase the repercussions of their feud. I discovered that Carl Williams' former wife, Roberta, had previously been married to a friend of the Morans. It was fascinating how small the social circles

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were that these underworld families moved in, especially since Williams and the Morans "were sometimes associates" but "never friends" (Silvester, 2007: 2; cf Anderson, 2007: 15). Knowing Roberta had children from a previous relationship, I could not help thinking what if the father had been one of the Morans. This led to me conceiving of Owen as having had a previous relationship with Angela, and them having a child together. I was thus able to maximise the tension between Dale and Owen by making Fiona Owen's biological daughter and Dale's stepdaughter. Both would want to play nice and keep up appearances in front of her, despite trying to kill each other. Owen arriving at Dale's and Angela's house to pick up Fiona, and the instant tension between the men upon seeing each other, was set up so that Fiona speaks what is unspoken between the pair, as well as unintentionally revealing to Owen that Dale will be leaving again, going into hiding. Angela abusing Michael outside of the primary school in front of his children illustrates how Michael cannot protect his sons from the consequences of his actions. It also demonstrates that Michael can show self-control; that Angela cannot suppress her rage over Michael's shooting of Dale, indicating the depth of her love for her husband. It displays, too, how Michael's children are afraid of Angela and her aggression, signalling that Michael's sons are either unaccustomed to being exposed to Michael's rage, all too aware of it, or just that they fear it in a stranger. Angela's sons, Todd and Patrick, witness the response that Michael elicits from their mother, learning that the relationship is adversarial. All this lays the foundation for the cyclical conflict that will develop between the children. Dale's and Angela's sons, Todd and Patrick, tease Michael's and Clare's son, Sam, progressing the resentment that has built between the children, personalising it. Todd uses Clare's murder as ammunition to torture Sam by telling him his father was responsible for killing his mother. The sons of underworld victims often grow up to be angry young men. Men who perhaps have less judgment than their fathers; who have idealised and mythologised them in their absence; who seek retribution for the sins committed by other children's fathers. The perpetrators may be dead or in prison, so the targets become their enemies' sons. No doubt the children of Mark and Jason Moran know all too well the names and faces of Carl Williams' children. In my screenplay's final scene, Clare's and Michael's children play out their vengeful fantasies, fulfilling the cycle of generational violence. This idea was conceived as early as 2005. I pictured Michael's children playing with figurines and staging a gangland execution of Dale's sons. I

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wanted Michael's children to act like little kids, so I embraced the idea of Sam jumping the gun and killing Dale's sons prematurely, only to be reprimanded by his elder brother. I thought this would underscore to the audience the boys' now entrenched psychology. The rest of the scene could then be viewed through the prism of all that has happened to Brodie's and Sam's family and the irreversible and devastating effect on the children. 9 As a surrogate for the audience, I always intended that Jeanette, who is now looking after the boys, would be witness to and troubled by the nature of the boys' game. I wanted to show that these fathers, through their relationships with their children, were men whom we could still relate to and empathise with. I wanted to acknowledge that even wrongdoers can be loved by their families and that when they are buried they are "just someone's father, someone's son", the grief of those who loved them being "as real as anybody else's" (Silvester & Rule, 2004: 107). In this respect, I wanted an audience "to leave [my] story convinced that [it] is a truthful metaphor for life" (McKee, 1998: 113).

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"In Aristotle's words, an ending must be both 'inevitable and unexpected'. Inevitable in the sense that as the Inciting Incident occurs, everything and anything seems possible, but at Climax, as the audience looks back through the telling, it should seem that the path the telling took was the only path" (McKee, 1998: 311).

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Making a Gangster's Wife a Heroine Developing my story, I became intrigued with Wendy Peirce. She is the widow of Victor Peirce who was murdered in 2002 at the height of Melbourne's gangland conflict. Victor came to prominence as a notorious bank robber in the 1980s. Kathy Pettingill, nicknamed Granny Evil, was his mother. His half brother was Mr Death, Dennis Allen ― at the time, Melbourne's largest heroin dealer. 10 Dennis was allegedly responsible for murdering "between five and thirteen" people. 11 In some respects, Victor's infamy exceeded his brother's. On October 11 1988, Victor's friend, Graeme Jensen, was shot dead by the armed robbery squad "during an apparently clumsy attempt to arrest him". Victor believed that police had set out to execute Jensen. 12 The morning after Jensen's death, Victor and accomplices allegedly set a trap in Walsh Street, South Yarra, for two unsuspecting police. Constables Steven Tynan and Damian Eyre were murdered in cold blood as payback. 13 The street's name became synonymous with the murders, which came to be called "Walsh Street" (Tame, 1996: xviii; cf Silvester & Rule, 2008: 181; Silvester & Rule, 2004: 94; Anderson, 2004: 230). The next day Victor was charged with an unrelated murder and armed robbery, and so began Wendy's living hell. Her house was raided and ransacked by police on numerous occasions, culminating in the home being reduced "to matchwood with the aid of massive earthmoving equipment". On one occasion, Wendy was dragged out of her house so that police could charge her with being "drunk and disorderly". During the first raid, police fired over Wendy's three-year-old daughter's head. The child was so frightened she peed herself, only to be mocked by police. 14 Wendy was no princess. In a separate incident in a pub brawl she had stabbed a woman in the face with a broken glass, causing serious injury, which led to her being charged with attempted murder, spending Christmas in custody (Tame, 1996: 254, 226; Mooney, 1996: 19, 66, 100; McLaren, 2009: 125). 10

Victor and Dennis once chainsawed up "a Hell's Angel's body", and "stopped for lunch, their faces and upper bodies peppered with fragments of flesh and blood" (McLaren, 2009: 140). 11 The ABC's television series, Janus (Alison Nisselle & Tony McDonald, 1994-1995), loosely based its criminal family on the Pettingill clan. 12 A prominent theory is that the planned stake-out to arrest Jensen was botched and rather than let him escape in his car, the armed robbery squad opened fire, killing him. The assertion is that police allegedly then planted a gun at Jensen's feet so that they could concoct the story that Jensen had pulled a gun, forcing them to fire. Police had already "allegedly made threats" against Jensen and Victor Peirce (cf Silvester & Rule, 2004: 235-241, 345; Tame, 1996: 223). 13 Victor Peirce, his half-brother Trevor Pettingill and friends Peter McEvoy and Anthony Farrell were charged with the murders of Constables Steven Tynan and Damian Eyre but were subsequently acquitted. 14 Italian police in high profile criminal cases have similarly broken down doors, searching everyone, and aiming "rifles at kids' faces" (Saviano, 2007: 93).

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The police were desperate for Wendy to betray her husband. After she made bail, they had "a series of meetings" with her, during which she was "shown love letters from Victor to other women". She then agreed to enter the witness protection scheme (Tame, 1996: 227). Victor was so worried Wendy might betray him and testify against him that he was allegedly prepared to have her killed (see Appendix 1). The history of the Walsh Street case and the relationship between Wendy and Victor is far too complex for me to do justice to here; suffice to say that Wendy back flipped in the court voir dire proceedings, refusing to testify against Victor and his co-accused. 15 I built my own lead female character, Clare, around the idea of a wife and mother who would not sacrifice her children, but ultimately also refuses to betray her husband, despite facing the next fifteen years in gaol. Aside from the real-life scenario of Wendy Peirce, The Godfather, The Godfather Part II (Francis Ford Coppola, 1974), The Godfather Part III (Francis Ford Coppola, 1990), Goodfellas, The Funeral (Abel Ferrara, 1996) and The Sopranos all helped shape the way I portrayed my female characters and their predicament. I single out these films and this television show because they are wonderful examples of the complex roles played by the wives of gangsters. Each in its own way demonstrates how women can be consigned to being second-class citizens, complicit spouses, willingly or not, yet influential and powerful given the right circumstances. These characters have great depth; they are not just the wives, daughters and sisters of the gangsters. I have tried to create similarly multifaceted characters in Clare and Angela. Coppola's Godfather trilogy goes some way towards examining three generations of women in the Mafia. Their roles change significantly as a result of their experiences, circumstances and realisations. Coppola’s women and their fates differ considerably from my characterisation of Clare and her fate, but their story does illuminate the fabric from which her character was created (see Appendix 2). The above mentioned films and television show had an even more specific impact on my writing. In The Sopranos (Second Opinion, Season 3, Episode 7, Tim Van Patten, 08/04/2001), Carmela Soprano (Edie Falco) sees a psychiatrist as she struggles with the idea of leaving her 15

However, after Victor was murdered, Wendy confessed that he was responsible for murdering the policemen. This only confirmed what most police and journalists suspected. The Not Guilty verdict is usually attributed to the inadequate police brief presented to the Department of Public Prosecutions, as well as to Wendy's back flip when deciding not to testify against her husband. More recently, their have been calls for a coronial inquiry into the case based upon McEvoy’s alleged participation (cf Silvester & Rule, 2004: 105; Silvester, 2005a: 1; Silvester & Rule, 2008: 173, 180; Tame, 1996: 228; McLaren, 2009: 146-148).

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husband, Tony. Her faith forbids her from leaving Tony, but Carmela's therapist puts it to her that if she truly wants to renounce her husband's criminality, particularly given her complicity, then she must forego the benefits and privileges that the "blood money" affords her. Plunged into depression, rather than renounce her husband's ways and the lifestyle she enjoys, Carmela asks Tony to make a $50,000 donation to their daughter's college. Carmela's moral dilemma was not really a dilemma at all, despite how much it troubled her. She might consider leaving her husband, but she could never give up the lifestyle (cf Yacowar, 2002: 149-150). Re-watching this episode, I was spurred to explore a more pressure-cooker scenario, whereby the wife of a gangster is truly put to the test in terms of her loyalty, priorities and love of her husband. Using the Wendy Peirce example, I concocted a situation in which my female protagonist, Clare, would be truly tested by police. By having the police leverage Clare's loyalty to her children against that to her husband, forcing her to choose between the two, I was able to push how far she would go in the name of love and loyalty. Her true character could "only be expressed through choice in dilemma". How she chose to act under pressure would be who she was, "the greater the pressure, the truer and deeper the choice" defining her character. She would have to choose between the lesser of two evils: Both options are undesirable, she wants neither, but she is forced to choose one (McKee, 1998: 375, 249). I had always conceived the police's case against the Caputos as resting on Clare's shoulders so that her love and loyalty to Michael could be truly tested, sacrificing herself in order to save her husband. In The Funeral, Annabella Sciorra (Jean) and Isabella Rossellini (Clara) play the wives of New York gangsters in the 1930s. Their roles are intricate, constantly shifting between mollifying, pleading and contesting the ways of their husbands. Clara is married to a Jake La Motta type of gangster (Chris Penn), brutal and troubled. Her love for and appeasing of him, despite his unwanted advances and violent temper, is intensified by self-loathing. It is a fascinating character and relationship study. Penn's character is fraught with danger, often putting in peril the tender moments the characters share. Unlike Penn's character, for the purposes of my story, I deemed it necessary that Michael never treat Clare poorly or be anything other than loving towards her. This was essential if I was to make Clare's actions believable. Clare needed to remain in love with Michael, despite what he puts her through. It had to be believable that she would come out the other side without sacrificing her husband when she could so easily have decided to simply save herself and her children.

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I tried conveying the intensity of Michael's and Clare's love for one another in her introductory scene. Clare's affectionate embrace along with her line, "Don't ever leave me again", was designed to illustrate just how much she had missed Michael, and hence how hard it would be for her to be away from him for life. The party sequence sets the tone of Michael's and Clare's relationship; sets up the key characters and their involvement with Michael and Dale; and depicts the confrontation that is the source of the escalating conflict. Perhaps the sequence is too long, but even I ― focused as I always am on plot ― feel that the development of mood and atmosphere is beneficial in allowing an audience to get to know characters; not only how they relate to one another, but also because their history and hierarchy is significant in the events to come. For instance, I thought it was important to clarify early on the relationships between Michael, Clare, Dale, Angela, Owen and Fiona because of the way these relationships underpin the narrative. The intensity of Michael's love for Clare is demonstrated by his concern for the perceived wrong done to her by Trevor and speaks to the strength of feeling he has towards his wife. Clare's devotion to Michael is illustrated by her attempts to calm him, expressing not only her love for him, but pleading with him not to repeat the sins of the past and to think of the joys his family brings him. I kept reinforcing the strength of their relationship because the audience needed to accept without question that Clare would later suffer all she does in order to protect Michael. Michael's and Clare's earlier slow dance was constructed to further convey the depths of their love, to show the strength of their relationship and to emphasise that if Michael is going to listen to anyone, particularly once he has lost his temper, it will be his wife. Hence, she is able to talk him down when he attacks Trevor and Dale points a gun at him. I thought it was significant to demonstrate that Michael would listen to Clare and heed her plea to "walk away" when he would not listen to anyone else. The portrayal of Karen Hill (Lorraine Bracco) in Goodfellas was decisive in shaping my approach to writing a film that did not solely follow the criminal protagonist. Goodfellas showed that the gangster's wife could be critical to the narrative, despite not being at the forefront. Unlike so many films in the genre, Karen is intricately woven into the plot. Henry relies upon her to hide a gun; to bring him contraband in prison; to bail him out of remand; to help him with drug couriering; and to hide dope so that the police do not find it. The fact that Karen narrates the film along with her husband reinforces the sense that the story is hers as well as Henry's (cf Viano, 1991: 48; Russin,

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2008). My character, Michael, not only needs his wife to calm him and to stop him from overreacting, he also benefits from the way she outwits the police. Unfortunately, Clare's actions lead to retaliation and she is murdered. Karen Hill is lucky not to share a similar fate when she senses that Henry's accomplice, Jimmy Conway (Robert De Niro), is trying to lure her to her death. Karen also has to contend with her husband's infidelity, to the extent of holding a gun to his head because he is cheating on her. Michael's and Clare's relationship is never so fraught, but Clare's loyalty to Michael means she is subjected to a brutal bashing and is raped in remand. It is only when forced to choose between her children being murdered in front of her and incriminating her husband that she seemingly surrenders. 16 My supervisors did not accept the logic that the detectives would exact revenge on Clare rather than murdering Michael. This suggests that I have failed to demonstrate that the detectives capitalise on the damage done to Michael by killing his wife. Yet in his eyes no worse fate could befall him. Although Clare's murder is inconsistent with Australian criminal culture, I was striving to emulate the mentality of Italian, Armenian and Mexican organised crime where nobody is sacred and criminals "[s]trike, in the worst way possible", murdering wives and children when their real targets are in hiding, trying to flush them out by propelling them into fits of rage and heartache. Clare's murder is mild in comparison to being kidnapped, tortured, killed and set on fire, as happens in Italy (Saviano, 2007: 83-84).

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Clare and her children being taken out into the bush by police was inspired by an event after Walsh Street where Trevor Pettingill was "kidnapped outside his Fitzroy flat by four masked men, bundled into a car and driven to the bush", where he was severely beaten with a sledgehammer. His assailants repeatedly ordered him to "Tell the police the truth." He was dumped by the roadside and spent the next "two weeks in hospital recovering from his injuries". In a newspaper interview, Kathy Pettingill initially claimed "the kidnappers were police officers" (Tame, 1996: 225-226).

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Is Empathy for a Protagonist really the Bedrock that some insist it is? How important is it for an audience to empathise with a film's protagonist? Some would say that it is essential. It makes perfect sense that our viewing can be enhanced or heightened by us following a character we can empathise with or relate to. A number of readers of the third draft of my script, did not feel any empathy for my main character, Michael. One of my supervisors could not have cared less whether Michael lived or died and felt much more compassion for Dale, Michael's nemesis. She felt that Michael got all he deserved and that Dale's actions seemed much more reasonable, especially since Michael's actions initially forced Dale's hand. With a number of readers expressing this reservation, I became concerned. I could see the logic. It was perfectly rational. If we like Michael more, understand why he does what he does, especially if his hand is forced or he is given no choice, then we are more likely to empathise or sympathise with him and be more inclined to have a larger investment in his story. Syd Field goes so far as to assert that your main character must always be sympathetic. He uses the example of Richard Gere (Jesse Lujack) in Breathless (Jim McBride, 1983): "we don't like his character at all, thus the dismal audience reaction at the box office" (1984: 161). Regardless of Field's claim, I knew viewers would have a greater emotional stake in Clare's narrative than Michael's. They would have more compassion for Clare because of her predicament. Exploring whether there was a problem that needed to be rectified, I reviewed a number of films where I had not remembered having compassion for the protagonists. The gangster genre seemed to be filled with examples of protagonists I could not empathise with, did not care about, but was absorbed by all the same (cf Bookbinder, 1993: 15, 82; Warshow, 1962: 85-88). Considering the ways in which despicable people can also be empathised with, I revisited films where I had had sympathy for paedophiles, where filmmakers had done a remarkable job in aligning an audience with a child molester. See, for example, Lolita (Adrian Lyne, 1997), The Woodsman (Nicole Kassell, 2004) and Happiness (Todd Solondz, 1998). In Little Caesar, Rico Bandello is a power greedy thug who climbs the criminal ranks to become boss of "the North side" (Little Caesar, Mervyn LeRoy, 1930). He is a ruthless killer, letting no one stand in his way, aspiring to topple the ruling criminals and seize the city's reins of power. His arc from a petty crim to criminal emperor and his inevitable downfall are all signposted early. His journey is predictable and yet satisfying. His unlikeability makes him fascinating (cf

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Doherty, 1999: 148, 152). His comeuppance was practically dictated by the culture of the times and by the Hays Code, 17 yet cyclically appropriate (cf McArthur, 1972: 35-38, 66). If empathy for Rico was essential, then the film would fail, but it does not. It is compelling viewing because it is enough to be intrigued by the character's charisma, ruthlessness and hubris (cf Fraser, 1988: 248). The screenwriter, Francis Edward Faragoh, begins by bringing "along the audience". We "are there at the birth", so we "want to know what happens next" (Mamet, 1991: 81). In the 1930s, as dramatised by gangster films such as The Public Enemy and Manhattan Melodrama (W.S. Van Dyke, 1934), prohibition was widely resented and the gangster became an object of popular fascination. The bootlegger emerged as a popular anti-hero opposed to a very unpopular law: "The gangster hero was a big box-office draw, and it is clear that far from disturbing audience empathy, the gangster's misfit status was key to his attraction" (Munby, 1999: 54, 84). In the original Scarface, Tony Camonte is drunk on weapons, power and violence. "Like Little Caesar, Scarface's narrative is structured around a rise-and-fall motif" (1999: 56; cf McArthur, 1972: 35; Mason, 2002: 25) that follows a criminal heavyweight from a nobody to everyone's favourite newspaper headline. In Brian De Palma's remake (1983), the effect is enhanced by drug addiction and the protagonist's savage revenge on his enemies and theirs on him. De Palma's film is more viscerally violent in its depiction of unbridled masculinity, but it leaves us feeling even less empathetic than the original (cf Schatz, 1981: 91; Fraser, 1988: 248, Parish & Pitts, 1987: 332-333). I do not empathise with the protagonists in The Public Enemy, White Heat, The Last Gangster (Edward Ludwig, 1937), Gomorrah a.k.a. Gomorra (Matteo Garrone, 2008), Salvatore Giuliano (Francesco Rosi, 1962), Goodfellas, Casino, Miller's Crossing (Joel Coen, 1990), American Gangster, Le samouraï (Jean-Pierre Melville, 1967) or Pusher (Nicolas Winding Refn, 1996). I can relate to each of the protagonist's circumstances, but there is nothing in their actions that encourages me to have any compassion for them (cf Bookbinder, 1993: 15; Parish & Pitts, 1987: 292; Kael, 1977: 348; McGilligan, 1975: 32-34, 112-113, 188). My lack of empathy for the protagonists is not a deficiency in these films (cf Truffaut, 1985: 70; Bookbinder, 1993: 139-140). On the contrary, with the exception of Gomorrah and Salvatore Giuliano, I am very fond of these films. In the gangster genre, empathy or compassion for a protagonist is hardly the bedrock that most narrative film and those who study it would lead us to believe (cf Wood, 1967: 76; Carney,

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The motion picture production code of 1930 imposed "standards of morality that were to stand almost without modification for the next" 36 years (Knight, 1979: 298).

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2001: 381-382; Bookbinder, 1993: 8). The same might be said of certain films outside the genre. Malcolm McDowell as Alex in A Clockwork Orange (Stanley Kubrick, 1971) is contemptible, but deliciously charismatic. He has an almost unparalleled magnetism. We delight in his deviant antics even as we are repelled by them. Christian Bale's performance in American Psycho (Mary Harron, 2000) as Patrick Bateman is similar. We might label his behaviour evil, yet the dread and thrill of the kill as we follow this hunter is as exciting as that in most tales. In what most consider Nicholas Ray's masterpiece, Bigger Than Life (1956), Ed Avery (James Mason) has a cataclysmic transformation from an everyday benevolent man to an irrational psychotic. Signs of his downward spiral emerge when he tells his wife "It's a shame I didn't marry someone who was my intellectual equal". The escalation continues as he asserts that "childhood is a congenital disease ― and the purpose of education is to cure it". Avery decides that his best efforts to reform and teach his son are futile. He decides he must spare his son from progressing down his inevitable path towards criminality. Like Abraham, he intends to kill his son. His wife protests that God stopped Abraham from killing his son. Avery retorts that "God was wrong!" and attempts to murder the boy (Bigger Than Life, Nicholas Ray, 1956). My point is a simple one. I defy anyone to declare that the film is flawed because we do not empathise with the protagonist. Some may empathise with him, but I do not. In any case, Mason's performance is the source of all our dread much like the shark is in Jaws (Steven Spielberg, 1975). The film is melodrama at its best. We may similarly feel a lack of empathy for Ethan Edwards (John Wayne) in The Searchers (John Ford, 1956). As author Henry Sheehan observes, "[it] becomes obvious as the film wears on that Wayne does not want to rescue his niece, he wants to kill her" (American Cinema: The Western, Sasha Alpert, 1994). The importance of the audience empathising with Ethan is outweighed by our dread of what he might do to his niece when he rescues her. Likewise, author and film critic Peter Biskind suggests that in Taxi Driver (Martin Scorsese, 1976) "[o]utside of whatever charisma De Niro has ... I can't think of anybody less sympathetic than Travis Bickle [Robert De Niro]. You'd cross the street to get away from this guy" (American Cinema: The Film School Generation, Steve Jenkins, 1994). A more pointed example would be Downfall a.k.a. Der Untergang (Oliver Hirschbiegel, 2004). The portrayal of Adolf Hitler (Bruno Ganz), Joseph Goebbels (Ulrich Matthes) and the Third Reich hardly encourages empathy, and yet I would rate the film as one of the most powerful ever made. Maybe I am wrong and the film's unquestionable brilliance does in part derive from the fact

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that we end up not only having compassion for Hitler's generals fighting a losing battle, but may even care for Hitler himself, but I am not convinced (cf Petrakis, 2005: 42; Furtado, 2005: 27; Scott, 2005; Bathrick, 2007: 11). In Stanley Kubrick's version of Lolita (1962) I do not empathise with Humbert Humbert (James Mason) at all, and yet I think the film is superb. In Lyne's version I do find myself empathising with Humbert (Jeremy Irons), and this is perhaps the film's strength, despite it being a lesser film. In The Woodsman, the audience's alignment with Walter (Kevin Bacon) comes in spite of him being a paedophile. This is facilitated by the character not only wanting to reform, but trying desperately to live a normal life. The film's power comes from Walter endearing himself to us because we come to appreciate how torturous his struggle to resist his urges actually is. So in this case we do empathise, practically barracking for him as he copes with his own inner demons, finally protecting children by bashing and causing the arrest of the neighbourhood paedophile (cf Bennett, 2006). A protagonist can be bad and even despicable, but if we empathise with him or her, as we do with Walter, the filmmaker's job is that much easier in holding onto the audience. Tales of redemption sometimes make us empathetic despite ourselves (cf Cooper, 2005; Lesage & Kleinhans, 2006). One of my favourite scenes on film, and one of the most poignant, is in Happiness. Bill Maplewood (Dylan Baker) is a paedophile who drugs and rapes the friends of his primary schoolaged son. When Maplewood's misdeeds are exposed, his son questions him. Maplewood admits that he "couldn't help himself", that it was "great" and that he would do it again. He tries to convey to his son that he would never victimise him. He would "jerk off instead" (Happiness, Todd Solondz, 1998). It is hard to say to what degree we empathise with Maplewood given his lack of remorse (cf Franco, 2008: 29-30). I am certainly affected each time I watch the scene, but perhaps this is due as much as anything to Maplewood's son's heartbreak. The scene in Happiness had such an impact on me that I sought to emulate its power in a sequence with Michael and his son, Brodie. Watching television and eating pizza together (after his mother has been murdered), Sam asks his father why Dale's son would call Michael a gangster, and Brodie, sensing his father's discomfort, bails Michael out of answering. The intensity is heightened when Michael consoles Brodie as he cries in bed. Although seeking comfort in his father, Brodie interrogates him, asking: "You didn't do anything to get Mum killed, did you?" and "Todd said you killed her". He desperately wants to be sure that his father had nothing to do with his mother's

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demise. For me, this is the crux of Michael's relationship with Brodie, who has learnt that despite his love for his father, Michael is a bad man who he fears might even have murdered his mother. It does not matter that Michael is not responsible. Stifling his pain, Michael reassures Brodie: "I loved your mother. More than life itself. I never did anything I thought'd get her killed, I promise you". Michael later cries alone in bed. Despite many readers wanting me to cut the scene of Michael crying, I asked myself how could he not cry after learning his son suspected him. The scene was also inspired by, and reminiscent of, the image I had of my mother crying at night. I sought to emulate the way the scene in Happiness evoked heartache and despair. Michael might not be an empathetic character, but after this sequence enough readers would feel compassion for him. Of the sequences I have written, it remains one of my favourites and has hardly changed since the first draft. Yet for me it still lacks the magic of the scene between Maplewood and his son. With this example, I perhaps found the answer to the problem of empathy as it affected my screenplay. It was not necessary to make Michael more empathetic. The script would work fine despite the lack of compassion some readers felt for Michael because they were intrigued, all readers commenting on what a page-turner the script was. Yet to reach the emotional heights and complexity I was seeking, I would need to capture the other qualities I so admired in Happiness and Maplewood's character. Our enjoyment of Angels with Dirty Faces is not hindered by us being ignorant of the fact that we are watching a redemptive tale, the nature of which is only revealed to us in the last minutes. What puts this film a cut above so many others in the genre is Rocky Sullivan's (James Cagney) portrayal. Sullivan is a more complex character than many of his genre counterparts. The third draft of my screenplay had intrigue, was well plotted and had some fine aspects, but might not ultimately be entirely satisfying because many readers would identify with Clare rather than Michael. Some readers felt that Clare's story was the real strength of the script, wanting the film to be her story rather than his. Revisiting Angels with Dirty Faces made me realise that while Michael did not have to be empathetic for the majority of the film, the screenplay might nonetheless benefit from him being somewhat redeemed in the end (see Appendix 3). Michael, I could see, required the emotional depth of a Rocky Sullivan. It then occurred to me that Michael's emotional depth was already embedded in his relationship with his sons, and that I had not capitalised on this element to the degree required. I decided that Michael might be redeemed by avenging Clare's murder, personally killing the cops responsible, as well as Trevor and Rinaldo for

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the parts they played in slaying his father and brothers (by adoption). It was essential that Michael's son's heartbreak triggers Michael seeking vengeance, as much for his sons as for himself. Meanwhile, I have Michael lie to his sons when asked moral questions about revenge. He does not practise what he preaches because he wants his boys to live lives different from his own. I liked Michael espousing righteousness, preaching that revenge and murder is sinful, while taking vengeance himself. I also re-examined all the reasons why Michael acts the way he does. The audience needed insight into why Michael does what he does, despite him often overreacting ― not only inappropriately, but recklessly and disproportionately. If an audience understands why Michael makes the choices he does then that should be enough for them to want to know what happens next. They would not need to identify with him. I could never make Michael as sympathetic as Clare without writing a different film. The perceived problem was intrinsic to the conception of the story. I had set out to tell a Raging Bulllike tale about a self-destructive individual, our compassion for Michael only really being possible once he has lost everyone he cares about apart from his beloved children. I was comforted by the fact that Sullivan's redemption came in the last few minutes of Angels with Dirty Faces and that Michael might be similarly redeemed by avenging Clare. I revisited a piece I had written in high school about Tommy and Nicky in Goodfellas and Casino. I had gone so far as to assert that audiences do not "have to like" the characters in the gangster genre, yet they usually have "a certain admiration" for them; even more important is that "the viewer craves the exuberance and the exhilaration" of the gangster lifestyle. In Goodfellas, upon learning that Tommy has been murdered for killing Billy Batts (Frank Vincent), Jimmy Conway (Robert De Niro) cries after almost destroying a phone booth. Only now, I wrote, do we "understand just how much Jimmy really cared for Tommy. He couldn't understand his insanity, yet he loved him. And in our own way we do too" (Mortimer Eipper, 1999: 12, 14). I was intrigued that I did not feel any empathy for Henry Hill, whereas despite Tommy being a "sick maniac" (Goodfellas, Martin Scorsese, 1990), I really did lament his death each time I watched Goodfellas, despite having no sympathy for him (cf Bergan, Fuller & Malcolm, 1994: 327). Tommy is such a deliciously unpredictable and charismatic character that in spite of his immorality, it was disappointing that he was not going to be in the film any more. In Casino, Scorsese's juxtaposition of Nicky's brutality and his love for his son makes the audience warm to him, even though he is an "immoral character". I felt that Michael's love for his

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sons could work the same way. When Nicky and his brother are bashed with baseball bats, Nicky whimpers watching his brother being beaten to a pulp. Nicky's love for his brother, his heartbreak, allows us to finally sympathise with Nicky. His only thought is to plead for his brother's life and stop his suffering. At the time, I felt that "Scorsese's gift" was in "making an audience feel a certain sympathy for characters whom we consider to be villains" (Mortimer Eipper, 1999: 14-15). It was certainly the most villainous and charismatic gangsters in Goodfellas and Casino, whom I ended up having compassion for ― but only once they were murdered or about to die. In my script, Michael suffers when his relatives and his wife are slain, their murders demonstrating how much he has loved them and would have risked for them. The more he suffers the more compassion we feel for him. Before attempting to write a fourth draft of my script, I decided that if Adrian Lyne, Nicole Kassell and Todd Solondz could successfully make me feel compassion for paedophiles then I could certainly afford to make my audience feel more compassion for Michael. I could do this by giving the audience greater insight into why Michael sometimes acts irrationally and even immorally. My reasoning was that if an audience understands Michael and why he does the terrible things he does, then it would help them to see things from his perspective. Although I have argued that empathy is not essential, I ultimately felt that my screenplay would be more successful if I made Michael a little empathetic. I set about trying to nuance his character in a manner reminiscent of Rocky Sullivan in Angels with Dirty Faces. If we got to see Michael as a loving husband and father, and to see him have to accept that he has brought tragedy upon his family, then my script might win over more of the audience. Ultimately, however, I agree with Christopher McQuarrie who wrote the Academy Award-winning screenplay of The Usual Suspects (Bryan Singer, 1994): "I have a big problem with the word sympathy. I don't care about sympathy. I care about clarity. ... I just need to know why the character makes the choices they make. I don't need the audience to identify with or feel imbued by that" (McQuarrie & Goldsmith, 2008).

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My Script in Light of the Limitations of the Gangster Genre Writing my script, I was aware of the limitations of the gangster genre. Audiences have become so familiar with formulaic structures they are quick to predict that a tale is progressing towards the protagonist's downfall, or are able to quickly realise a redemptive tale is being told (cf Schatz, 1981: 30; Stephens, 1996: 1). An increase in film literacy means that audiences anticipate what might happen within minutes and a film can be all too predictable if those expectations are not put in doubt or deviated from. Hollywood still tends to have its charismatic criminal protagonists get their comeuppance. 18 Gangsters' criminal ways rarely go unpunished (cf McArthur, 1972: 35-38, 66; Warshow, 1962: 85-88; Schatz, 1981: 85, 90). Many films in the genre have been based on real-life gangsters (Schatz, 1981: 82, 84; Mason, 2002: 29). They therefore tend to have to confront the biopic dilemma, which is that the protagonist's exciting rise is followed by his less satisfying and more predictable downfall (cf Hardy, 1997: 14). 19 "Films based on biography always face a central challenge; real lives don't unfold to the neat contours and character arcs necessary for effective drama" (Barber, 2010: 13). Before they have even walked into the theatre, audiences are aware that gangster films tend not to end happily for the central character (Schatz, 1981: 29-30, 85, 90). So familiar are the genre's archetypes and character arcs, audiences expect that greed, indulgence, complacency, hubris or drug abuse will bring the central figure undone. The demise of the protagonist is inevitable or he is unable to preserve the way of life he has come to enjoy. Regardless, the shit hits the fan (cf McArthur, 1972: 55; Schatz, 1981: 90; Carney, 2001: 381; Warshow, 1962: 85-88). In 2006, I conceived my story as a John Cassavetes-like gangster film. Almost the entire narrative after the first act would be a downward spiral towards inevitable disaster. The film was not conceived as anything like Cassavetes' The Killing of a Chinese Bookie (1976), but as with its protagonist, Cosmo Vitelli (Ben Gazzara), I wanted to skip the portrayal of the protagonist's

18

Because of the motion picture production code in the 1930s, films like The Public Enemy, Little Caesar, Scarface, Manhattan Melodrama and Angels with Dirty Faces would never have been allowed a release if their gangster protagonists had not gotten their comeuppance. 19 Although not a gangster film, Raging Bull is one of the few biopics where the downward trajectory is satisfying. It is as extraordinary as the protagonist's rise, partly because La Motta's climb to the top was fraught with emotional turmoil and was not all that glamorous; also in part because he not only hits rock bottom, but is somewhat redeemed by his desire to reconcile with his brother, who cannot forgive him.

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formative years and present a character whose hubris brings about his own downfall. 20 How he came to be is less relevant than that this is the way he is (cf Kael, 1977: 238). By contrast, gangster films mostly depict the formative experiences that create the criminal or lead him to take the wrong path (cf Nochimson, 2002-2003: 6; Schatz, 1981: 87-88). These films frequently follow a whole life, the scope of which is far too great for most films. Other genres suffer less from this expectation. Breaking with the convention had both positive and negative effects. Readers of my script were delighted at not knowing what would happen next, happy to have their expectations continually subverted. Despite enjoying what they were reading, however, some still desired more insight into how Michael had become the man he was. They also felt that the character was more archetypal and less interesting than Clare or Dale (cf Dirks, 2010). One of my greatest concerns had been that my story could suffer from being too predictable, that Michael's murder at Dale's hands would be far too obvious, as would the tragedy that befalls his family. By making Michael's rise to power the back story, focusing the tale on his downfall instead, meant that readers could not so easily feel that events were foreseeable or realise that the key figures' lives were destined to end in tragedy. Yet by emphasising the character's defeat, my story still centred on the events that most gangster films depict in their (often less enjoyable) third act (cf McArthur, 1972: 55; Schatz, 1981: 90). I voiced the concern to my initial supervisor that my film might end up resembling the second half of Tony Scott's Man on Fire (2004); after its midpoint the unfolding becomes too obvious because we know that the central character is going to hunt down everyone responsible until he finds who he is seeking. 21 One of the hardest challenges in my initial draft had been crafting events that readers would not expect. It appeared so obvious that Dale and the police would keep gunning for Michael and his family. Yet not one reader predicted Michael's wife, father, mother or brothers (by adoption) would be murdered, or that Dale would as well. Most were tantalised by each murderous revelation, which tended to come as a surprise. Films in the genre are not only limited by archetypal character arcs and storylines; the framework of the narrative is usually restricted to gangster versus gangster; policeman versus gangster; undercover cop infiltrates criminal network; or, again, the generic biopic template of an underworld figure's journey towards his downfall (there is, of course, a lot of overlap) (cf Clarens, 20

Cf Santino "Sonny" Corleone (James Caan) in The Godfather. Charismatic and hotheaded, he too often jumps for a gun or leads with a fist. His enemies know Sonny will jump into action without thinking, which allows him to be led to his violent death. 21 Syd Field defines the midpoint as the incident or episode or event that happens midway through the second act (1984: 128).

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1980: 156; Dirks, 2010). I tried to incorporate both a criminal versus criminal dynamic, and a police versus mobster aspect. Films such as Miller's Crossing, The Godfather trilogy, Pusher, Gangs of New York (Martin Scorsese, 2002), The St. Valentine's Day Massacre (Roger Corman, 1967), City of God a.k.a. Cidade de Deus (Fernando Meirelles, 2002) and Point Blank (John Boorman, 1967) all focus on criminals adversarially opposed to one another, fighting to prevail over their counterparts. This simple premise is enough to sustain all of these films, yet the plight of Wendy Peirce had so captivated me that I was greedy to tackle more than just Michael's and Dale's escalating conflict. Similarly, I did not want to write just a cop versus gangster narrative either, despite my appreciation of films such as The Untouchables (Brian De Palma, 1987), Public Enemies (Michael Mann, 2009), The Killer a.k.a. Dip huet seung hung (John Woo, 1989), American Gangster, and even heist films like Bonnie and Clyde (Arthur Penn, 1967), The Killing (Stanley Kubrick, 1956) and Heat (Michael Mann, 1995). This was because my tale was layered with criminal versus criminal traits. Works like Abel Ferrara's King of New York (1990), Little Caesar, Scarface, New Jack City (Mario Van Peebles, 1991), Le samouraï and The Sopranos managed to incorporate both a cop versus gangster dynamic, as well as conflict between criminals. 22 I could not help but strive to do something similar. I knew I was already overreaching in attempting to emulate the brilliance of The Sopranos, let alone trying to deal with the range of interests allowed by a television series. I was also being foolhardy given that I considered King of New York a failure, despite having some interesting aspects. The film's protagonist, Frank White (Christopher Walken), is released from prison with little explanation as to why he was incarcerated; rather, the emphasis is on him being ready to take back control of his city ― a beginning not a world apart from my own. Perhaps the reason why I still drew a degree of inspiration from this film was that it fails because it lacks substance, is far too two-dimensional, lacking real complexity, whereas the fact that it begins with Frank's release and he is embattled on various fronts is a real strength. The film does not try to tell the story of Frank's entire life ― it just tells the story of his new life. A protagonist besieged by multiple antagonists on both sides of the law because of his hubris had immense appeal. The parallels between King of New York and my own screenplay did not really hit home, though, until I had completed the third draft. The likeness gave me comfort after having so many doubts following criticism of the earlier drafts. 22

Tony Soprano is under ongoing FBI investigation rather than having direct conflict with the police.

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I would liken Gomorrah to my script in that there is a vast array of characters caught up in a complicated story. Gomorrah depicts some of the most fascinating gangster material seen on celluloid. At times it is ingenious, depicting things that no other gangster film has attempted. The film's failure is that we do not empathise with, relate to, or identify with, or have any other commitment to, a single character in any of the five stories. I grew bored as the film developed, not caring what happened to anyone, however surprising it proved to be. These problems derive from adapting a journalistic account of hundreds of episodic events; translated to film, the episodic nature of the stories means we do not follow any with much interest (cf Covino, 2009: 75). I too have multiple characters and storylines woven into the main tale, Michael's story being affected by all the minor narratives. One reader commented that temporarily following other characters was actually a strength of my script, rather than a weakness, as in films like City of God, Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels (Guy Ritchie, 1998), Snatch (Guy Ritchie, 2000) and Layer Cake (Matthew Vaughn, 2004). Everything we witness happening with other characters affects Michael and his story. I always intended to open the film with Michael, at a tender age, witnessing his father's slaying. I hoped that this would help an audience view all that Michael did, however appalling it might be, through the prism of a man exposed to violence and tragedy in his formative years, one seminal event having shaped the man he would become. This suggests that an empathetic element was more intrinsic to the structure I had devised than I had first recognised. In view of this, I would now say that the interplay between form and content has a greater bearing upon the way empathy is experienced than I initially appreciated. In an early draft, after Clare's murder, Michael attempts suicide, akin to Mark Moran. Even though Michael is an anti-hero he is still the central protagonist and audiences are unlikely to want him to give up on his children; rather, they are going to want him to exact revenge on those responsible for killing his wife. A parallel might be Eddie Bartlett (James Cagney) in The Roaring Twenties, falling from being a gangster big shot to becoming a penniless drunk, only to rise to the occasion when the woman he has always loved pleads with him to save her husband's life. Biopic films such as Goodfellas, Casino, American Gangster, Bugsy (Barry Levinson, 1991), Public Enemies, City of God, Baby Face Nelson (Don Siegel, 1957), Al Capone (Richard Wilson, 1959), Chopper (Andrew Dominik, 2000), Mesrine: Killer Instinct a.k.a. L'instinct de mort (Jean-François Richet, 2008) and Mesrine: Public Enemy No 1 a.k.a. L'ennemi public nº1 (Jean-

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François Richet, 2008) all follow the rise and fall of criminals (cf Hardy, 1997: 14). 23 I hoped the film I was writing would resemble these films to the extent that viewers unfamiliar with the details of Melbourne's recent gangland conflict might jump to the conclusion that my story was based on real people and events. I was trying to capture the imagination of an audience seeking revelations about the real-life Melbourne crime world, even though my story is fictitious. Stating that the events being portrayed are real often adds weight to the suspension of disbelief when seemingly outlandish proceedings occur. As with the beginning of Fargo (Joel Coen, 1996), where we are falsely led to believe that the story is based on true events (cf Ruppersburg, 2003), I anticipated that setting the film in the past and specifying the year as 2001 might encourage an audience to believe that the depicted events had actually happened. To what extent I achieve this is perhaps irrelevant, but I felt that if I did it would heighten the experience ― the "My God, did this really happen?" effect. I wanted my protagonist to come under siege from every direction: suffering an overwhelming avalanche of pain as his family is murdered around him, while his wife seems certain to sacrifice him to save herself and their children. To me, his demise was virtually inevitable, brought on by his own actions and hubris. I desperately desired, however, that no one suspect that Michael would be killed. From the feedback I have received, I appear to have been successful in this regard. Michael's conflict with Dale and with the police, plus his wife threatening to testify against him, let alone almost all those he loves being murdered, at one stage did not seem enough heartache for Michael to be put through. As a friend commented to me recently, "You never seem to be satisfied that your characters have experienced enough pain or suffered sufficiently ― so that you can just allow them to die already". The more I thought about it, the more I realised that all my feature scripts exhibit the same preoccupation ― exploring the depths of misery and suffering that a character can be put through and yet still be resilient. This preoccupation gives as much insight into my own troubled psyche as it does anything else. I realise that I partly write tales about affliction and resilience for my own catharsis (I am particularly pleased with the depiction of Michael's heartbreak outweighing his sons' shock upon discovering Clare murdered, and yet he realises he must shield his sons from further trauma). Referring to Paul Schrader teaching her at New York University, writer and director of Frozen River (2008), Courtney Hunt, recalls Schrader suggesting

23

Biopic films in the gangster genre are often based on characters who either went to prison, turned State's evidence or were killed. I do not consider Chopper a gangster film, though it does fit into the broader crime genre.

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that the "two worst things that have ever happened to you are your two central metaphors. You're just going to write them over and over and over and over again" (Hunt & Goldsmith, 2009). Consistent with this, I entertained subjecting Michael to more grief by having an undercover cop infiltrate his crime organisation. I considered films in the genre that had left a deep impression on me because of the way they cranked up the tension. Films that depicted undercover policemen infiltrating crime organisations frequently reached levels of tension unsurpassed by others in the genre. See, for example, State of Grace (Phil Joanou, 1990), Reservoir Dogs (Quentin Tarantino, 1992), City on Fire a.k.a. Lung fu fong wan (Ringo Lam, 1987), Bullets or Ballots (William Keighley, 1936), The Departed, Infernal Affairs a.k.a. Mou gaan dou (Andrew Lau & Alan Mak, 2002), Donnie Brasco (Mike Newell, 1997), New Jack City, Eastern Promises (David Cronenberg, 2007), and the television series Line of Fire (Rod Lurie, 2003-2004) and Wiseguy (Stephen J. Cannell & Frank Lupo, 1987-1990). Fortunately, I appreciated that I was already overreaching; an undercover cop infiltrating Michael's ranks was one complication too many. More importantly, it was superfluous to the story I was telling. The inclusion would have taken the tale away from Michael; it would have demanded I concentrate on the mindset of the undercover operative, as well as his emotional turmoil, his anxiety, paranoia, fear etc. When I discovered that real-life criminals were imitating the behaviours, fashions and tendencies of their silver screen counterparts, I reconsidered the tendency of filmmakers to stereotype gangsters (cf Schatz, 1981: 84). Life seemed to be mirroring art on an unparalleled scale. "It's not the movie world that scans the criminal world for the most interesting behaviour. The exact opposite is true" (Saviano, 2007: 250) (For fascinating examples, see Appendix 4). Real-life gangsters fashioning their image and behaviour on their idolised movie counterparts more than ever before helps to reinforce the way real-life crime remains heavily entrenched in tradition. This could be limiting for filmmakers seeking new and original stories, but life can still be stranger than fiction (see Appendix 5). Despite the complexities of how criminals and criminal organisations around the world now operate, I chose to duck and run when it came to an in-depth depiction of the Caputos' drug making and distributing enterprise. Early on, I decided that I did not want my film to focus on the intricacies of the drug world as so many films in the past had done. My script would only hint at how the

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Caputos made their money. 24 One of my supervisors made the reasonable criticism that, despite the police raiding two of Michael's drug laboratories, I did not return to the extra heat from police that the Caputos would have had to contend with. Nor did I deal with the impediments they would have encountered as a result of Dale breaking away from their organisation. I also chose to ignore the way most drug deals are done in Australia, namely one-off deals. Rather, I depicted a crime family that handled both production and distribution of amphetamine. 25 This portrayal was partly due to a somewhat false impression I had developed of the criminal dealings of Tony Mokbel before actually reading anything of substance about him. I later discovered that my portrayal was not that distant from the lead up to Melbourne's gangland war during which "a violent underclass, fuelled by massive amphetamine profits" took control of syndicates "of unprecedented size", the syndicates expanding rapidly until they were "competing in the same market". The result was that "[s]elfappointed crime generals, with virtually unlimited wealth but sometimes limited intellects" responded "by sending out their soldiers to destroy the opposition" (Silvester, 2003: 7). Films in the genre often appear to be celebrations of masculinity and violence. They are far too frequently male-oriented. This is not true of many of the best pictures in the genre, but more than enough are ― Reservoir Dogs, The Killer, King of New York, Le samouraï, Little Caesar, Mean Streets (Martin Scorsese, 1973), Sonatine (Takeshi Kitano, 1993) and De Palma's Scarface, to name an obvious few. My fascination may have been with a hotheaded male, but I was equally interested in resilient women and the effect on children. My script demonstrates an interest in complex depictions of masculinity, both violent and tender, but I would hope that I explore these themes without detracting from others of interest to me. Turning to the issue of the depiction of violence, I sought to capture the imagery of quick, cold, calculated killing described in Leadbelly. I hoped to render vivid slayings that were not overly gratuitous, glamorous or complicated. I wanted to put on film the entrenched tradition of economy that usually led to success. I wanted to depict the routine simplicity needed to take a man's life. A gunman waits patiently for his victim, runs up to him, shoots him twice at point-blank range and then runs off, escaping in a waiting getaway car. Although such a scenario could not be repetitively reproduced on screen, it would be completely in keeping with a time-honoured tradition. Many Australian hit men have been fastidious in their planning, known for the economy of their

24 25

In earlier drafts I did attempt to illustrate how the Caputos' distribution network functioned in far more depth. A typical crime family, like the Caputos, would also be running extortion rackets, prostitution, illegal gambling etc.

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executions. A friend made the fair criticism that, although the killings in my script were vividly rendered, there was very little difference between them, unlike in The Godfather films. I agreed with him, but thought that it was the mundane repetitions of real-life that needed to be depicted here. When a genre is too formulaic, the viewer can recognise the formula and then predict the key story events and character arcs, especially how the film is likely to end (cf Schatz, 1981: 29-30; Mason, 2002: xiv). The characters tend to be less archetypal, than stereotypical; two-dimensional. Their behaviour becomes too predictable. They rarely change. They seldom possess the arc of movie protagonists who go on a journey and transform for better or worse. See, for example, Brother 2 a.k.a. Brat 2 (Aleksey Balabanov, 2000), Breathless a.k.a. À bout de souffle (Jean-Luc Godard, 1960), Pusher, Goodfellas, Miller's Crossing, American Gangster, King of New York, The Funeral and Donnie Brasco (cf Clarens, 1980: 142; Warshow, 1962: 85-88). 26 By contrast, character transformations that are subtle and complex can be found in The Godfather, Angels with Dirty Faces and Once Upon a Time in America (Sergio Leone, 1984). In all three films, the protagonists' arcs remain surprising despite feeling inevitable after we have witnessed them. The drastic transformation of the protagonists is the key to the narratives engaging us as they do (see Appendix 6). There are many memorable hotheaded, violent and menacing characters in gangster films and attempting to write my own entailed risk. My characters could pale by comparison. If not executed well, they could be dismissed as just another carbon copy. Creating an archetypal character could easily lead to characterisation that was stereotypical. In the end, I could only be vigilant about avoiding clichés while endeavouring to bring something new to the type. Among the models I drew upon were the characters in Goodfellas, Casino, Sexy Beast (Jonathan Glazer, 2000), State of Grace, Scarface, White Heat, Gangs of New York, The Funeral, The Untouchables, Chopper, The Godfather, The Godfather Part III, and Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels. All the hot-tempered characters in these films are powerful ― their visceral violence and hair-trigger tempers are so palpable that part of the enjoyment comes from the tension and fear we feel about what they might do next (cf Warshow, 1962: 85-88). Trying to invent the same kind of character made me appreciate how well rendered these others had been. I needed to do something different ― to depict something 26

Hollywood's heavy-handed approach to character transformations can also be disappointing outside the gangster genre. See, for example, Hitch (Andy Tennant, 2005), Wedding Crashers (David Dobkin, 2005), The Ugly Truth (Robert Luketic, 2009) and How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days (Donald Petrie, 2003). Indeed, this is true of the majority of romantic comedies Hollywood has produced over the last decade or so.

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akin to the tenderness shown by Jake La Motta in the final act of Raging Bull, particularly when he tries to reconcile with his brother, hugging and kissing him, trying to convince him to see him again despite all that he has done. I did not want my character only to demonstrate this kind of tenderness or compassion in the final act. Rather, I wanted to illustrate throughout the screenplay that even though he could be hot-tempered, violent, menacing and vengeful, there was a stark contrast in his behaviour toward members of his family. I wanted him to be always tender, compassionate and protective of his wife and children. He would never directly hurt them. He lived for them, loving them almost too much. This would be in stark contrast to Jake Heke (Temuera Morrison) in Once Were Warriors (Lee Tamahori, 1994), whose fear-inspiring portrayal was also a significant influence upon my development of the darker side of Michael's character. I may have set out to write a charismatic Vincent Mancini-like (Andy Garcia) character from The Godfather Part III, but in the end the charisma seemed less important than the fragility, paranoia and depression suffered by Alphonse Gangitano, and Jason and Mark Moran. Gangitano and the Morans were up against themselves, not just the police. This fitted with the fact that I wanted to avoid writing a cop versus gangster film where the police win in the end. See, for example, American Gangster, The Untouchables, Public Enemies, Donnie Brasco, State of Grace, Cop Land (James Mangold, 1997), Dick Tracy (Warren Beatty, 1990) and Infernal Affairs. The first four examples are, to some degree, based on the lives of real-life people, those who did lose out to police. Yet I feel it is still a failure of these films that we never doubt that the police will win in the end. I wanted audiences to be in doubt right up until the end of my script. I wanted them to be unsure whether the police or Michael would win, let alone whether Michael would prevail over Dale. In any case, I did not want one to clearly beat the other. As it is now written, the cops' case is thwarted, they kill Clare, and Michael takes his revenge on them. Michael murders the cops, but they kill his reason for living. Dale beats Michael in the end by having him killed. I did not want Michael to prevail, but knew an audience would expect that he would try to kill Dale. I therefore sought the unexpected while trying to ensure that Michael's death would not be dissatisfying. Back in 2006, I had already designed the story so that Michael would exact his revenge on Dale from beyond the grave. My script is formulaic in two obvious respects. Michael gets his just deserts in the end, like so many of his genre counterparts (cf Schatz, 1981: 29-30, 32, 85, 90; McArthur, 1972: 55). Yet not

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one reader expected Michael to die (much to my surprise). I feared my screenplay would be so predictable that no other fate could befall him. Fortunately, readers felt the opposite. I could not help but sense that some found Michael's demise somewhat dissatisfying, as if they did not want him to die. One of my supervisors certainly felt that Michael had to murder Dale, and that exacting revenge from beyond the grave was not nearly as satisfying as having Michael best Dale. I felt there was no other way for the story to end, and still do (cf Force of Evil (Abraham Polonsky, 1948), At Close Range, Dick Tracy, Bugsy, Angels with Dirty Faces, Little Caesar, The Public Enemy, Goodfellas, Scarface (both versions), White Heat, Casino, King of New York, New Jack City, Public Enemies and Macbeth (Geoffrey Wright, 2006)). I feel that I have managed to have Michael's death come as a surprise which mitigates some of the dissatisfaction of having him die. It still seems imperative for Michael not to lose out to Dale. More importantly, I wanted to show the effect on Michael's and Clare's children ― that they were destined to follow in their father's footsteps, fated to continue the cycle of revenge with Dale's children. Given that I never even entertained the idea that Michael would live, I perhaps failed to appreciate the influence on me of gangster films made under the Hays Code, as well as many films since. However, I suspect that the far greater influence was reading about dozens of real-life Melbourne criminals who got their comeuppance (cf McArthur, 1972: 55; Schatz, 1981: 90; Clarens, 1980: 78). My screenplay was also conventional in having the protagonist get revenge for the wrong done to him. See, for instance, The Funeral, Gangs of New York, Brother 2, Point Blank, The Big Heat (Fritz Lang, 1953), Léon a.k.a. The Professional (Luc Besson, 1994), 27 Casque d'or (Jacques Becker, 1952), Pusher II (Nicolas Winding Refn, 2004), At Close Range and all three films in The Godfather trilogy. 28 My objection to this all too common pattern is that vigilante acts quickly become predictable (cf Carney, 2001: 381). Once we know that a character has set out to kill a series of people who have wronged him, then we know how the film is going to play out and this becomes boring. In fact, I would say that the vigilante genre is perhaps the most predictable and boring of all genres. See, for example, Man on Fire, Death Wish (Michael Winner, 1974) and The

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Léon (Jean Reno) actually avenges the murdered brother of a little girl he has befriended. The Godfather and The Godfather Part II are for me close to filmmaking perfection, and I am not critical of them for having Michael Corleone exact his revenge, because it is done so well and does not feel predictable, merely inevitable upon reflection. Even in The Godfather Part III the vengeance is topped by the tragedy that befalls Michael when his daughter is killed.

28

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Brave One (Neil Jordan, 2007). 29 This is perhaps where Sins of the Fathers is actually aided by convention: audiences will expect Michael to start winning. They tend to think that Michael will take vengeance on Dale after Michael's (adoptive) father, Andrew, is murdered on Dale's orders. They won't expect Dale to kill Brett and Owen, making Michael more vulnerable than ever. Or, to put it as Silvester and Rule did in relation to the Moran clan, they won't expect that the Caputos will be hunted down like "feral animals", that a family that has built its reputation on being ruthless will find out what it is like to be intimidated (Silvester & Rule, 2004: 88). What I like about two notable exceptions to the genre, The Departed and Reservoir Dogs, is that neither the good guys nor bad guys end up winning. In The Departed, the good guy is murdered, but an associate takes revenge. In Reservoir Dogs, it is implied that the criminal kills the undercover cop once he reveals his true identity, but the police gun down the criminal who pulls the trigger. Although not conscious of it at the time, I imagine these two movies were influential in my desire to resist and overcome the problem of predictability in the genre (cf Schatz, 1981: 29-30, 32, 85, 90; McArthur, 1972: 55). The protagonists in Carlito's Way (Brian De Palma, 1993), Lady Killer (Roy Del Ruth, 1933), Doorway to Hell (Archie Mayo, 1930) Sexy Beast, The Godfather Part III, Casque d'or and Tokyo Drifter a.k.a. Tôkyô nagaremono (Seijun Suzuki, 1966) all endeavour to make a fresh start and leave their criminal pasts behind them. However, in all of these films it is apparent almost from the beginning that these characters will inevitably be unable to escape the criminal world (cf Schatz, 1981: 102). It is clear that there is no escape from relationships that have been forged in blood. For this reason, the otherwise brilliant portrayals of Tony Blundetto (Steve Buscemi) in The Sopranos and Detective Vic Mackey (Michael Chiklis) in fX's television series, The Shield (Shawn Ryan, 2002-2009), are also far too predictable. Even before they have begun trying to stick to the straightand-narrow it is clear that their circumstances, past deeds and ongoing relationships will make it impossible. I did not even consider having Michael attempt to turn over a new leaf, having envisioned his character as harbouring no desire to live a different life from the one that allows him to provide so well for his family. Michael is more akin to Tony Soprano, or even Vincent "Vinnie" Antonelli (Steve Martin) in the satirical My Blue Heaven (Herbert Ross, 1990), than any of the other 29

I feel this so strongly that in 2004 I abandoned a treatment I was writing for a feature film about a female undercover cop who infiltrated Melbourne's underworld. I had the gangsters discover the heroine was an undercover policewoman halfway through the film, and in retribution murder her family. The second half of the script was too predictable in that the heroine was going to hunt down all those responsible for killing her children and husband. Little mystery remained after the obligatory scenes had been set up.

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aforementioned protagonists. Crime is in Michael's blood. He has no desire to repent or leave his criminal ways behind him; what he truly desires is "to exact revenge against real and perceived enemies", wiping out all who oppose him. 30 Despite my appreciation of Angels with Dirty Faces, I was equally averse to the idea that Michael would be redeemed in the end by seeing the error of his ways. It was not in his character, and for it to be, he would have to be recreated as a very different man. There is never any question that Michael is one of the bad guys. Yet my aim was to make him human enough that "no matter how much bad stuff" he does, people will still "appreciate and grasp onto that humanity and root for [him]" (The Shield: Television Academy Panel, Twentieth Century Fox, 2006). 31 The Shield has audiences rooting for the crooked detective, Vic Mackey (Michael Chiklis), despite all that he has done (which is more than most gangsters), including murdering a fellow policeman in the pilot episode. By the fifth season, audiences view the squeaky clean, by-the-book, Lieutenant Jon Kavanaugh (Forest Whitaker) from Internal Affairs, as the bad guy simply because he is trying to bring the shady hero to justice. What series creator, Shawn Ryan, so brilliantly achieves is that he makes the audience identify with someone because he is constantly being forced to make difficult decisions. Although you and I might choose the more moral option in the situations in which Mackey finds himself, we are always able to understand why Mackey makes the decisions he does. They might be immoral, and he is certainly a bad man, but given the circumstances, we are still able to identify with him. Despite The Sopranos being the most entertaining television series I have seen, I do not think the series creator, David Chase, is nearly as successful when it comes to allowing audiences to identify with Tony Soprano. Tony is fascinating, but I cannot empathise with him (cf Nochimson, 2002-2003: 7, 13). Not empathising with Tony does not hinder my enjoyment of the show, but my identification with Mackey greatly enhanced my appreciation of The Shield. With my script, I had to consider whether I had made Michael human enough for an audience to identify with and even barrack for him, especially given that Dale was intrinsically a more appealing character ― not doing anything aggressive until forced to protect himself. At this point, I suspect I am not the best judge of how successful I have been in balancing the degree to which we relate to each of these characters, but I have certainly achieved a better balance than in

30 31

Silvester and Rule (2004: 177) referring to Jason and Mark Moran. Series creator and executive producer of The Shield, Shawn Ryan.

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previous drafts. I would particularly hope that I have now given the audience more insight into Michael's motivation.

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My Script in the context of Australian Crime Film to date It has been remiss of me not to have yet discussed Australian crime films, particularly in relation to my own script given that it is set in Melbourne. But I feel there has been a lack of quality Australian crime films, especially ones that are free of comedic elements. Films like Getting Square (Jonathan Teplitzky, 2003), The Hard Word (Scott Roberts, 2002) and Two Hands (Gregor Jordan, 1999) all have interesting aspects, but they were hardly movies that inspired my project. My screenplay was never going to be anything like these dramedies (mixtures of drama and comedy). I was interested in writing an Australian gangster film that did not have comic relief, but was serious, dramatic and unremitting. Cassavetes' work was again at the forefront of my mind. I aspired to write a gangster film that was as unrelenting and as powerful as Cassavetes' domestic drama A Woman Under the Influence (1974). I did, however, take inspiration from the portrayals of Brett Sprague (David Wenham) in The Boys (Rowan Woods, 1998) and of Mark "Chopper" Read (Eric Bana) in Chopper. The extent to which Brett is unlikable, but not devoid of all redeeming features, coupled with his knife-edge menace, undoubtedly influenced my characterisation of Michael (cf Stratton, 1998). Macbeth did not interest me at all and was completely uninspiring, while The Square (Nash Edgerton, 2008) and Dirty Deeds (David Caesar, 2002) were somewhat lacklustre. In the past, I had found the ABC television series Janus (Alison Nisselle & Tony McDonald, 1994-1995) and Phoenix (Alison Nisselle & Tony McDonald, 1992-1993) engaging but uneven, Janus being far too procedurally focused. Writer Robert Caswell's television miniseries, Scales of Justice (Michael Jenkins, 1983), was fascinating, depicting corruption throughout the police force, the political and legal systems, tackling its material superbly, but it did not focus on the Australian underworld, which is what I was interested in. 32 The recent Underbelly series (Greg Haddrick, Peter Gawler & Felicity Packard, 2008-) was like watching Neighbours (Reg Watson, 1985-) with guns, the second series even worse than the first. However, one television miniseries has influenced Sins of the Fathers more than any film, and that is the ABC's Blue Murder (Michael Jenkins, 1995). Brilliantly written by Ian David, the performances are mesmerising. The reason I have been interested in making films is because I aspire to emulate the art I love. Films like The Godfather, Goodfellas, Casino, Miller's Crossing, Once Upon a Time in America, Angels with Dirty Faces, The

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I feel the same about The Removalists (Tom Jeffrey, 1975).

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Departed and The Untouchables are why I have always wanted to write a gangster film. And I have only written an Australian gangster script because of Blue Murder. Seeing Chopper, I was struck by Eric Bana's brilliant rendering of Mark Brandon Read. The character is larger-than-life, charismatic, playful, humorous and yet violent, brutal, ruthless, paranoid and despicable (cf Murray, 2007: 188-189, 192). I liked him, I pitied him, I empathised and sympathised with him. He was so far removed from my own experiences and sense of decency that he fascinated me (cf Dominik, 2002: 68, 74, 76). Read's friends became his enemies, his lover learnt to loathe him; even his mother did not want anything to do with him. His impetuous temper and violent fits of rage against enemies, friends and lover created such tension that I found myself imagining what it would be like to be his mate or partner. I would be taking anti-anxiety medication and hoping that he fell off the face of the earth before he had the chance to kick my head in or shoot me. Andrew Dominik's film introduces us to someone who never really has it all that good. For the first time, I saw a criminal depicted without there being a moment of his life where I thought I would like to experience something like that. No one in their right mind would swap their life for Read's. There was nothing redeeming about it or appealing. 33 This was a trigger for me. Criminals' lives were not necessarily glamorous. There was not much that was good about their lifestyle, let alone funny. My extensive reading on Melbourne's underworld further confirmed for me that I was wanting to write the right kind of film. The Sopranos is by far my favourite television show, but it also has one of the worst season finales I have seen. Watching the anticlimactic finale confirmed my conviction that Michael needed to get his just deserts in the end and be killed. I had felt as early as the third season of The Sopranos that the only way the ending of the series could be effective was if Tony was murdered or incarcerated (cf Kerwin, 2007). The series finale only reinforced these feelings in that the ending felt arbitrary. There was nothing satisfying about leaving the series on a night that was little different from any other (cf Yacowar, 2002: 16). By contrast, Chopper has the perfect ending for the story that it tells. Mark Read is fascinating because of his violent and erratic behaviour, but in the epilogue Read is left alone in his cell, punished for all that he has done (cf Murray, 2007: 191-193; Dominik, 2002: 77). I am no moralist: the point is that the ending needs to fit the story that is being told (cf Schatz, 1981: 32-33). 33

Similarly, Pauline Kael wrote about The Godfather and The Godfather Part II "you'd have to have an insensitivity bordering on moral idiocy to think that the Corleone's live a wonderful life, which you'd like to be a part of" (1977: 529530).

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Given the lack of non-comedic crime films made in this country, I remain confident that there is a place for one that depicts gangsters as human beings rather than as monsters, maniacs or bumbling idiots. I was initially depressed to learn the Underbelly television series was being made because I had originally been inspired by the very material upon which the first series was based. I felt gutted that I had been beaten to the punch, having only written my first draft. But the overwhelming success of Underbelly soon convinced me that the public would continue to be interested in grim stories about Melbourne's underworld, fictitious or not. I was especially pleased because the Underbelly series was so mediocre. It was successful because audiences were hungering to learn more about Melbourne's underworld wars. I also took solace from Hollywood's continual manufacturing of gangster films and their ongoing success. But two major reservations remained. Firstly, Australian film funding bodies do not have a track record of funding serious crime films. Secondly, as I have said, I was not writing a traditional gangster film. I was not sure that funding bodies would be interested in a Cassavetes-like version of a gangster film. Then again, my script has Clare's story, the children are well-rounded characters, and the effect on them is an aspect of criminal life rarely seen in gangster films. I feel I have also managed to subvert key expectations. The unexpected surprise of what happens to my central character's family may even be welcomed by some in the audience ― even seen as refreshing. I do not believe the gangster genre has been exhausted, and Australian filmmakers would do well to recognise this. There are a wealth of possibilities still to be explored, so many untapped reallife stories. Filmmakers could open up the genre by focusing on women and children as much as men. I, for one, would love to see a film about one of the female Camorrista bosses; a gangster film from a child's perspective; or one about an image-conscious gangster who watches The Sopranos, Goodfellas and The Godfather to learn how to behave. 34 Having completed my screenplay, I went and saw Animal Kingdom (David Michôd, 2010). Finally a film inspired by the events of Walsh Street had been written. I was so pleased that a serious and dramatic crime film had been made in Australia. Alas, after viewing it I again felt the 34

All sorts of movies are actually still possible. Multiple films about Walsh Street and its complications could be made. A film could be made about Wendy Peirce's experience of Walsh Street. Another could be made about Victor Peirce or else his half brother, Dennis Allen. The life of Sydney's notorious Mr. Big, Lenny McPherson, would make for an enthralling period piece with a flavour unlike that of its American counterparts. Or, as I have set out to do, one could just write a fictitious crime drama that draws inspiration from a wealth of real-life material. To my mind, the extraordinary material in Leadbelly has been squandered in the making of Underbelly. Ian David's success with Blue Murder is all the more impressive by comparison. David drew on Darren Goodsir's Line of Fire (1995) and Neddy: the life and crimes of Arthur Stanley Smith: an autobiography with Tom Noble (Smith & Noble, 1993).

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material had been squandered. The film focuses on Joshua "J" Cody (James Frecheville), loosely based on the real-life Jason Ryan. Ryan's cooperation with police, along with that of Wendy Peirce, resulted in the Walsh Street defendants being tried for murder. Animal Kingdom creatively plays around with the real-life events, taking inspiration from the theory that Wendy Peirce was complicit in going into witness protection as part of a family plan to sabotage the prosecution from the inside. Rather than action or thrills, both Animal Kingdom and my screenplay find in crime "a sense of human experience that runs the risk of being overwhelmed by circumstance". Jack Sargeant argues that among Animal Kingdom's strengths are its use of "local iconography", its depiction of a "monotonous world" and its lack of glamour. The "banality" it depicts is "echoed in the scripting". Its violence "is vicious, brutal and brief", and this makes the film "more authentic" than choreographed "spectacular" Hollywood violence. Nor is there any glamorisation or celebration of the anti-hero that characterised Underbelly. I would also agree that Animal Kingdom avoids simple moralising, instead allowing "a complex web of motivations [to] emerge". For example, it presents criminals and police "as too often linked in mutually beneficial relationships", the actions of the one often seeming to be as morally questionable as the other (2010: 10-11). Even so, I felt that Animal Kingdom too often failed where Sargeant feels it succeeds. For me, it is a film of lost opportunities, lost potential. Given that the characterisation and setting were well rendered, I found the film an even bigger disappointment for being dramatically displeasing. Every few scenes I was asking myself why the filmmaker did not more thoroughly develop particular characters and story elements. I wanted to know why the writer and director, David Michôd, did not follow various narrative threads of paramount importance, such as the Codys' deception of the police, particularly Joshua's role in deceiving his police handlers. Equally disappointing was the omission of Joshua's testimony during the voir dire proceedings, which was what would have reassured the police that they had their witness. Joshua's back flip during the trial, could have been the most dramatic moment of the film given how high the stakes were ― his uncles' lives being in the balance. Yet all of these elements were unfortunately skipped over, leaving viewers to fill in the blanks for themselves, unsure of how any of the crucial dramatic events actually played out. We are left with a surprising, but ultimately dissatisfying climax; one that left me angry and frustrated, feeling I had been cheated by the ending. All the delightful expectations

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that had been built up were dispelled despite the film winning the prestigious World Cinema Grand Jury Prize at the Sundance Film Festival. 35 As my engagement with Animal Kingdom shows, since completing Sins of the Fathers, I have continued to search, view and read as much as I can about Australian crime films, and the theoretical discussions surrounding them. None of these films, never mind any of the academic debates generated by them, however, had any bearing on my script's development. 36 Raffaele Caputo and Geoff Burton have argued, in relation to Chopper, that "the film that finally made it to the screen perhaps suggests that the genre model could not accommodate specifically Australian material". I agree that the particular story of Mark Brandon Read was better suited to the fine film that was made than it was to the "exploitation film" Dominik originally intended to make (2002: 66). But this need not be the last word on the subject of how a gangster film might yet accommodate a story set in Australia based upon specifically Australian material.

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To my mind, the most surprising and effective element of Animal Kingdom is actually the killing of Joshua's girlfriend, Nicky (Laura Wheelwright), at the hands of Andrew "Pope" Cody (Ben Mendelsohn), one of Joshua's uncles. 36 Researching Australian gangster/crime films I scoured the pages of A century of Australian cinema (Sabine, 1995); Australian Film 1900-1977 (Pike & Cooper, 1980); The Greater Union Story: 1910-1985: Seventy Five Years of Cinema in Australia (O'Brien, 1985); Australian Cinema: The First Eighty Years (Shirley & Adams, 1983); Hollywood Down Under: Australians at the Movies, 1896 to the Present Day (Collins, 1987); Australian Cinema: Industry, Narrative and Meaning (Tulloch, 1982); and Australian Film 1978-1992 (Murray, 1993).

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Approaching the Blank Page My methodology for writing film scripts changes with each project. Sometimes one approach seems more suitable than another for a particular screenplay. My approach to Sins of the Fathers initially involved writing a narrative that tried to encompass the world in which my characters lived, all the way out to the fringes. I then had to cut dozens of superfluous sub-plots. I am like the writer of Lars and the Real Girl (Craig Gillespie, 2007), Nancy Oliver: "I don't outline. So when I sit in front of the computer every day I have no idea of what's going to happen. I have a vague idea of where I'm headed. There are a lot of surprises" (Oliver & Goldsmith, 2008). Researching extensively, overwriting and then pruning to focus the narrative is the method that comes most naturally to me. In the past I have written outlines for shorts, but only when I have known what story I am telling. In this instance, I was discovering the story as I went, constantly shifting the focus as I developed the first draft over a long period. I completed subsequent drafts in a much shorter time. In the future, I think I will take as my own Robert McKee's point that the first step toward crafting a well-told story is "to create a small, knowable world. ... The constraint that setting imposes on story design doesn't inhibit creativity; it inspires it" (1998: 71). As the writer of Revolutionary Road (Sam Mendes, 2008), Justin Haythe, puts it: "outlining can also become an obstacle to writing because it never ceases to amaze me how much happens on the page that you don't plan for" (Haythe & Goldsmith, 2008). Without the exhaustive process of writing an all-encompassing narrative that comprises almost everything that I would like to include in my film, I would not have discovered most of the scenes that remain in my screenplay. This is consistent with Syd Field's advice that if your script is "too long, with too many scenes, or pages, don't worry about it. If you are in doubt about whether to write a scene or not, write it. It's always easier to cut out scenes than it is to write new ones" (1984: 165). I set about crafting a first draft out of partially scripted scenes and others that were a mess of ideas. I was also conscious of Field's dramatic structure paradigm for feature screenplays. I tried to structure my script into three acts, consciously developing a first act turning point that propelled the drama into the second act, creating another plot point at the midpoint of the film to accelerate the drama through the second half of the second act, finally crafting a turning point near the end of the second act that advanced the drama through the third act towards resolution (cf Field, 1984: 27, 39,

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47, 160). I also constructed what Robert McKee refers to as the "inciting incident" (1998: 181). 37 In Sins of the Fathers, the inciting incident occurs at the welcome home party thrown for Michael, when Michael bashes Trevor and forces Dale into a confrontation that jump-starts their conflict. The various turning points changed in subsequent drafts, but I was always conscious of trying to craft plot points that would not only further the narrative, but propel it forward. Michael shooting Dale in the leg was always the first act turning point, but the midpoint changed. In the original draft the midpoint was Michael, Owen and Brett shooting two innocent policemen, very similar to Walsh Street. By the third draft, the midpoint became Michael and Clare arguing in the park when he reveals to her that he has murdered Nick because he holds him responsible for Andrew's execution. This plot point became integral in furthering the narrative insofar as Clare now had the necessary information she needed in order for me to test her character once police had arrested her and forced her to choose between saving her children and betraying Michael. Shortly after reading Leadbelly back in 2005, I had devoured Shotgun City: Melbourne's Gangland Killings (Anderson, 2004) which covered almost identical territory. Re-reading both books, I then developed a dreadful short script, drawing heavily on chapters from each text, focusing on Alphonse Gangitano and the events that led to his murder. After finishing a draft, I decided not to develop the short any further as I was now interested in writing a feature which would pilfer from it. The only remnants in Sins of the Fathers are the welcome home party thrown for Michael and his murder. Throughout 2006 while writing a different feature screenplay (a space western), I began researching Sins of the Fathers, exploring the story I aspired to tell. I read newspaper articles about Melbourne's gangland killings and sifted through articles my father had set aside for me over the years. I wrote a sprawling 40 page treatment for the first act, before realising I would have to omit most of it. By the end of 2006 I had written notes for a series of scenes, but despite finishing a draft of the space western, had barely written anything substantial for Sins of the Fathers. Between December 2006 and March 2007 I wrote a detailed 167 page treatment. As I have already said, it had too many storylines and characters, but I had at least got it down on paper. I completed the 37

"The function and purpose of a plot point is simply to move the story forward. It is an incident, episode, or event that hooks into the action and spins the story around [in] another direction". "When you establish" the midpoint, "it structurally connects the first half of Act II with the second half of Act II. It establishes a clear sense of direction in the second act, allowing you to focus on the specifics of your story" (Field, 1984: 34, 143). McKee says that a "story is a design in five parts: The Inciting Incident, the first major event of the telling, is the primary cause for all that follows, putting into motion the other four elements ― Progressive Complications, Crisis, Climax, Resolution" (1998: 181).

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treatment with weeks to spare before going overseas to shoot a documentary. When I returned from overseas I got serious about writing my feature. I re-read dozens of screenplays, hoping to glean wisdom by analysing how professionals had crafted their stories. I tried to identify what is and is not necessary in a script by studying what screenwriters have and have not included in theirs: "creative choices of inclusion and exclusion"; "[h]aving discovered what is essential, you then know what to cut"; screenwriters "learn that economy is key, that brevity takes time, that excellence means perseverance"; I learnt to get "into the scene late, get out of the scene early", and to "tell the story in the cut". I periodically returned to Christopher McQuarrie's script of The Usual Suspects (1996). It helped me to consider what was most pertinent to the structure of my screenplay, and how best to lay the foundation early for things that would become significant later; to "shape progressions by selecting what to include, to exclude, to put before and after what" (McKee, 1998: 76, 288, 5; Mamet, 1991: 79, 28). I approached my scriptwriting much like Hollywood screenwriter, Eric Roth, starting from page one each day, working through existing problems, before tackling the work ahead. 38 Like Roth, I realised that approaching my writing in this fashion could be foolish because "you don't spend as much time with the end of the script" (Roth & Goldsmith, 07/02/2009): it is "mathematically a bad idea" because the earlier pages get the most attention (Roth & Goldsmith, 18/02/2009). However, this process allowed me to decipher how to proceed based on what had come before. I have never been big on outlines because, as already mentioned, I am cerebrally wired to discover the story as I write. I suspect I have been unwise to approach scriptwriting in this fashion as I now doubt that the process would have been as timeconsuming if I had initially written an outline. Then again, the outline would almost certainly have been riddled with all of the same problems. 39 The time overseas proved invaluable in allowing me to look at the treatment with fresh eyes. Within seven months of my return, I completed a problem-riddled 208 page draft. I still had too many characters, too many storylines and needed to drastically reduce the scope of the story in the second draft. Completing the first draft had proved the hardest thing, but it was also the most enjoyable. Syd Field agrees that completing the words-on-paper draft is the most difficult part of the

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Eric Roth won the Academy Award for Best Adapted Screenplay for Forrest Gump (Robert Zemeckis, 1994), and was also Oscar-nominated for The Curious Case of Benjamin Button (David Fincher, 2008), for Munich (Steven Spielberg, 2005) along with Tony Kushner, as well as for The Insider (Michael Mann, 1999) with Michael Mann. 39 The 167 page treatment I wrote was not a conventional outline; it was more closely related to the first draft than a traditional outline.

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screenwriting experience (1984: 186). At least I now had something I could edit, adapt and mould into a feature film. I am a better editor than I am a writer. I always overwrite and then cut drafts drastically. One of my supervisors suggested that the hardest work was now ahead of me. Yet for me the trickiest thing was finishing the first draft; subsequent drafts have in fact been easier because I had a base from which to work. The writer and director of WALL-E (2008), Andrew Stanton, says: "I'm a complete believer that you discover the story". He says that it is "buried somewhere" and you uncover it like in an archaeological dig. The film he wants to make lies hidden in the ground like dinosaur bones; and he is not sure of what kind of dinosaur it is: "You start digging, but you have no control over what bones are going to come up first". And then "if at the eleventh hour you pull out a bone that doesn't match any of your plans and you realise that your head bone was the tailbone and you [have] got to switch, are you going to have the intestinal fortitude to admit that you [actually have] a Stegosaurus and not a Tyrannosaurus Rex?" (Stanton & Goldsmith, 2008). For me, it was such a long process to get to the end of the first draft, I had put so much time into pondering the story, constantly reconfiguring it (eventually discovering I had a Triceratops), that by the time I wrote the second draft new research did not introduce complications. I feel I have completed a draft once I do not know what more I can do to improve it and need distance in order to gain perspective. The combination of new-found detachment and invaluable feedback then allows me to re-envision the work and tackle a new draft. After finishing the first draft of my script, I was contemplating whether to shape it into a two-part television miniseries or cut it down to feature length. One of my supervisors suggested that I needed to worry about making what I already had work before concerning myself with length and form. My supervisor further emphasised to me Syd Field's words, that a screenplay "follows a certain, lean, tight, narrative line of action, a line of development". It "always moves forward, with direction, toward the resolution". It has to be "on track every step of the way; every scene, every fragment, must be taking you somewhere, moving you forward in terms of story development" (1984: 12; cf Bordwell, 1985: 320). It was good advice. I was already predisposed to scaling the script back to feature length, so I began deciphering what the story was that I was really trying to tell, identifying what was necessary to tell it. I realised, as David Mamet puts it, that you "tax the audience every time you don't move on to the next essential step of the progression as quickly as possible" (1991: 60). I was able to eradicate a number of sub-plots, characters and superfluous storylines. This work was informed by

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further research which helped colour my rewriting. Although my supervisors were still underwhelmed by my second draft, I had made vast improvements. The length still lent itself to a two-part television movie, but I was now confident that with another redraft I would be able to shape it into a feature-length screenplay. Upon completing my second draft, I streamlined my narrative, focusing it on Michael and his family's trials and tribulations. I was getting closer to the story I aspired to tell, but still could not execute what I envisioned in my mind's eye. Clare's story was being championed as the strength of the script, to such an extent that one of my supervisors advocated writing the next draft entirely from Clare's perspective. I resisted the idea because Clare's story was only one facet of the narrative I desired to tell. My other supervisor insisted that if I did try to scale the script back to feature length it would be impossible to do justice to all of the elements I was trying to depict; I would have to focus on just one or two. It was sound advice, but I was again resistant because the tale I wanted to tell was complicated, with an array of characters and storylines that all impacted on Michael's narrative. Tackling the third draft, I felt at a loss, not knowing what to do or how to do it. I told myself to still try to write the film I desired to write and cut out everything that made it what I did not want it to be. By April 2009, I had completed a third draft that was feature-length. I had managed to cut every superfluous scene. Many I had considered functional were in fact disposable. I had found a way of telling the tale without them, reducing the length by a third, despite writing new material. I was telling the story I wanted to tell, had not resorted to solely telling Clare's tale; nor had I reduced the complexity of the narrative. A criticism of the third draft had been that the script was all plot without enough character development. Many readers wanted time to breathe. Contemplating a fourth draft, I found myself in a quandary. In order to do justice to my plot, I thought I would need to exceed the length constraints of a feature film, whereas if I came in under length my film might remain plot heavy. My supervisors suggested that it was almost a pity I was not writing a novel rather than a feature film. Their reasoning was that the form would allow me both to do justice to the intricacies of the plot, and to the characters in all their complexity. The novel, though, is not a form that I would be comfortable with. My tendency to write long, sprawling, awkward sentences would be exacerbated if I tried to write a novel. By contrast, screenplays impose a discipline that brings out my best, enabling me to keep sentences short and sharp. Writing this dissertation has also clarified what I felt

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I needed to do with the fourth draft. It has helped me remedy some of what was problematic, though I recognise that the script still needs improvement. My aim was always to write a film that would be less affected by budgetary constraints than most screenplays. It therefore seems appropriate to discuss how the logistical implications of likely resource limitations affected the writing choices I made. From the outset, I was conscious that as a first-time writer/director (if I was fortunate enough to get the opportunity to direct), funding opportunities were likely to be extremely limited and that the overall budget was likely to be small scale. I made a premeditated decision to write a story that was relatively simple to execute. Rather than anything that would cost much money, its success would rely on the strength of the script and the actors' performances. I therefore avoided writing scenes that would require large-scale locations, lots of extras, expensive stunts or set pieces. For instance, I used the same locations on numerous occasions; scenes generally have only a few characters, the most notable exceptions being Michael's welcome home party, the major court scene and the scene in which Owen is murdered. I also indulged myself with one car explosion near the end of the film. The numerous killings are almost simplistic in conception so as to be cost-effectively accomplished. There are no real action set pieces that are difficult or costly. Stunt work would be minimal. As a result, the script is a blueprint for a very cheap film. Originally Dale's characterisation rendered him pathetic and cowardly, but as he developed he became the antithesis of Michael and a more intriguing adversary. Star Wars (George Lucas, 1977) long ago made me recognise that the more formidable an opponent, the greater the challenge the hero faces. I wanted to make Dale a strong-willed character who would not be stood over by Michael, maximising the tension between them. Unlike others, when push comes to shove Dale stands up to Michael and will not be intimidated or take a backward step, as is demonstrated at Michael's welcome home party. Like the Morans, Michael is certainly a dangerous and violent man, but when he wounds Dale instead of killing him he underestimates his adversary. From that moment on, Dale is the greatest threat to Michael and his family. As Howard Hawks said, "There's action only if there is danger. ... To stay alive or die: this is our greatest drama" (Scorsese & Henry Wilson, 1997: 47). By the second draft, I had envisioned Dale as more reasonable than Michael, never acting out, but rather forced into taking action. However, unlike Michael's and Clare's intense love for and loyalty to one another, Dale's relationship with Angela leaves something to be desired; he even lies

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to her about what is most important to her. The only thing Angela ever asks of him is for him not to kill Owen, the father of her child. Dale feels he has to murder Owen, fearing the consequences if he does not. But this means he has to deceive Angela and risk ruining their relationship. Dale's choice demonstrates that he is a survivor, practical above all else, no matter how much it might affect his wife and stepdaughter. Dale's pragmatism was devised to contrast with Michael's hotheadedness. As early as the treatment, I incorporated parallels and inversions into my story. For example, Angela pleads with Dale not to kill Owen. Once he does kill him, an obligatory scene follows in which Angela interrogates her husband because she fears he is responsible for Owen's murder, despite Dale's previous assurance. Brodie's reluctant interrogation of his father as to whether he killed his mother was conceived as a counterpoint, Michael being innocent of the crime his son accuses him of, whereas Dale is guilty. Dale comforting his stepdaughter, Fiona, over her biological father’s murder further illustrates how the criminality of these characters affects their families. I like it that Dale is a source of comfort to Fiona, despite killing her father. By contrast, Michael is innocent of slaying Clare, but accused by his son of betraying him. I like the unfairness of Michael being suspected, that the more troubled individual is tortured by his loved one's false accusation. I even rearranged scenes so that Dale comforting Fiona precedes Angela asking Dale whether he is responsible for Owen’s murder. It added something to have Angela witness her husband comfort her daughter, and yet still not trust him. I like it in films when the hero dies unexpectedly, but is still somehow able to exact revenge such as in The Departed and Dangerous Liaisons (Stephen Frears, 1988). Dale's death was crafted to mirror the opening scene where Michael's biological father is chased by gunmen and murdered in front of him. I hoped to invert expectations by having Dale killed in a comparable fashion to Michael's father, rather than it being Michael who is executed in this way. "William Goldman argues that the key to all story endings is to give the audience what it wants, but not [in] the way it expects" (McKee, 1998: 310). 40 I like the cyclical quality of the executions as I feel it reinforces the theme of recurring generational violence. Not only are Michael's children now destined to follow in their father's footsteps, but the manner in which the final act of revenge is carried out on Michael's behalf is learned at the earliest of ages when Michael witnesses his father's slaying.

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William Goldman won the Academy Award for Best Original Screenplay for Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (George Roy Hill, 1969), as well as for Best Adapted Screenplay for All the President’s Men (Alan J. Pakula, 1976).

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The direction in which I took the story dictated that the detectives depicted are just as bad as the worst of the gangsters, even if it takes their own kind to be murdered to fully reveal and flesh out their ruthlessness. I do not believe that the majority of police are immoral, but certainly Walsh Street indicated that police can be as despicable as their criminal counterparts when hunting down those they perceive to be responsible for murdering their colleagues. I did not want to demonise the police, merely to characterise them as flawed. I wanted them to be fully rounded characters, whose ruthlessness reveals itself through the actions they are prepared to take. Originally there were many scenes in which I tried to demonstrate the positive side of a large, inclusive Italian family. Unfortunately, I had to be ruthless in cutting such atmospheric elements. Overall, the script has benefited from these decisions, despite the criticism of it being plot, plot and more plot. For as Billy Wilder said, once you have your audience captured, once you have them "by the throat", you can't let them go: "Just squeeze a little more and more. Don't let them escape" (American Cinema: The Hollywood Style, Lawrence Pitkethly, 1994). It was foolish to underestimate, as I did, how difficult it is to write a feature for the first time. A fifteen minute short had been the longest film I had made from a screenplay I had written. Always when writing I feel I have to overcome what I lack in talent and natural ability with hard work and conscientious effort. As screenwriter, William Bowers, has said, "I don't think there's any way of making a good picture without a good script" (Froug, 1991: 54). 41 So I have had to do my best to get it right. It has taken me years, but I think I am now not only close to my goal, but much better equipped to tackle a second feature.

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William Bowers was Academy nominated for The Gunfighter (Henry King, 1950) along with William Sellers, and for The Sheepman (George Marshall, 1958) with James Edward Grant.

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Conclusion: What Movies Never Show Because They End a Minute Too Soon Sins of the Fathers is a beginner's attempt at writing a feature film script. Only time, distance and feedback can help me gain the perspective I will need to develop it to a point where it could actually be made into a film. In this thesis I have explored how crucial it is to identify with a central character, but argued that in the gangster genre empathy for a protagonist is not as much of a prerequisite as it is commonly made out to be. A sympathetic hero is, of course, an asset to a story. But such a hero is not essential, and the absence of one should not automatically be considered a deficiency. In certain respects I have written a conventional crime film, despite concentrating on the suffering inflicted on the gangsters' families rather than their glamorous lives. My research into criminals in Melbourne and my passion for the genre has helped me to create a tale that can, I believe, not only be seen as timely, but is likely to be welcomed by Australian audiences. I doubt that any genre can ever be truly exhausted and the gangster genre is no exception. It continually generates new perspectives and storylines; given the opportunity, the scope of these narratives can be expanded, particularly at this time in this country. My contribution has been the inclusion of Clare's story and that of her sons within the framework of a largely male-dominated crime tale. Clare is as critical to the story as Michael, despite not being the central protagonist. Indoctrinated into a cycle of generational violence, children are integral to the plot because they are exposed to the consequences of their fathers killing one another. The children's brewing resentment will perhaps one day again result in spilt blood. Writing this thesis forced me to examine the history of the creative choices I made in writing my script. A plethora of true crime books and a lifetime of film viewing and cinematic selfeducation led to the formulation, writing and rewriting of the screenplay I have submitted. I cannot over-emphasise the influence of Robert McKee and David Mamet on my redrafting process. McKee's mantra of the importance of story, of a good story being one that is well told, and Mamet's stressing of economy, writing only what is essential to convey what is needed, depicting only what is crucial to telling the tale, have been critical (cf McKee, 1998: 21; Mamet, 1991: 9-55, 79-101). Writing my script, I enjoyed imagining whether Melbourne's underworld figures were doting fathers, loving husbands; whether they felt remorse or guilt for the wrong they have done; whether some are tortured individuals who suffered terribly, or whether in daily life they were much like you

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and me. What one rarely sees in the gangster genre, and what I most regret not being able to include more of in my screenplay, is the day-to-day effect of having to live on once a loved one is murdered ― without one's husband, father, brother or son. Roberto Saviano illustrates the ugly reality of what some parents face ― two teenage hoods, who would not fall into line, were killed by the Camorra. Not content with murdering them, they left their bodies to be molested by other predators, "their hands to be pecked at by seagulls and their lips and noses nibbled by stray dogs that roam the trashcovered beaches. But that's something the movies never show. They end just the minute before" (Saviano, 2007: 256).

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APPENDIX 1 Wendy claimed, before police took her into witness protection, to have been "forcibly administered heroin". Among those alleged to be involved were Victor's half brother, Trevor Pettingill, later to be charged with the Walsh Street murders, the girlfriend of another man charged with the Walsh Street murders, and "a man who had been sharing a prison cell with Victor" (Tame, 1996: 227; cf McLaren, 2009: 138-139). Stories differ considerably on some of these events, but obviously one of them was a turning point, as Wendy agreed to go into witness protection, and testify against Victor and his co-accused, only to be later jailed for perjury. Despite the alleged attempt on her life, she returned to live with her husband after he was acquitted (Silvester & Rule, 2004: 105; cf Anderson, 2004: 177; Silvester & Rule, 2008: 182). Wendy gave up everyone ― her husband, his brother and anyone associated with the murders and armed robberies. However, the task force handling the investigation was divided into two different teams, led by different leaders, the gulf between the two growing steadily wider. Wendy had been successfully cultivated as a witness for almost the entire time she was in police protection, but only weeks before the trial, one of the top brass made the decision to change Wendy's handler. One of the task force factions now got control of Wendy for the first time ― a major misjudgement because the second team did not bother to cultivate Wendy; did not do the little things that counted, and completely lost her confidence. The police botched the biggest trial in Australia's history, almost certainly because they did not look after their key witness (McLaren, 2009: 125, 127, 141, 146-148; cf Tame, 1996: 228-229, 243). It has been alleged that Wendy actually went into protective custody as a ruse to make police believe she was going to testify against her husband (cf Silvester & Rule, 2008: 175-176). Her refusal to give evidence was inevitably a key element in ruining the Crown's case against Victor and his co-accused. Wendy has since confessed that she was "'an alibi witness for Victor many times. I did so out of loyalty to him and also out of fear. I was well aware he would bash me if I didn't ... I was fearful that Victor would kill me if I didn't supply an alibi'". There is still speculation as to whether Wendy was always going to back flip. Wendy said in 2005 "she was never going to give evidence that would incriminate her husband ― that her decision to go into witness protection was part of a family plan to sabotage the prosecution from the inside. ... Police claim the suggestion that Wendy was planted as a witness is a fantasy" (Silvester, 2005b: 4).

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APPENDIX 2 Michael Corleone's mother is loyal to a fault. She is grateful that her husband's ways, however dubious, not only saved the couple from poverty, but propelled them into the upper echelons of comfortable living and respectability. Michael's wife, Kay (Diane Keaton), having fallen in love with Michael, a returned soldier, takes comfort in the fact that he is nothing like the rest of his family and wants no part in the family business. However, Michael feels compelled to involve himself in a world he wanted no part of, and his participation relegates Kay to a life of closed doors. She is excluded from secret discussions and prohibited from talking about his business. The one time that Michael allows Kay to broach a taboo subject he lies. The first film ends with Kay's exclusion from Michael's new role and life as the Don ― which is what turns the growing gulf between them into a chasm. Kay cannot escape the realities of the Mafia world surrounding her as her husband becomes more controlling under the guise of protection. She is prevented from leaving the family compound for her own safety, no longer having a say in her own movements. Not only does Kay end up wanting to leave Michael, she aborts their unborn son. She cannot bear the thought of bringing another child into the world Michael has created for his children. Despite being prevented from taking her children with her, Kay leaves Michael rather than stay with the man she no longer loves. By the third film, Michael's attempts at reconciliation and even redemption are overshadowed by Kay's dread of him. Tragically, all of Kay's fears are realised when her daughter is murdered, accidentally, by the bullet meant for Michael. Michael's sister, Connie (Talia Shire), has an equally interesting trajectory. Her role changes more dramatically than any of the other women in these films. Beholden to the family patriarchy, first to her father, then to her husband, she is the victim of domestic violence. As a wife she is servile, yet her repression finds voice in tantrum-like outbursts (cf Bergan, Fuller & Malcolm, 1994: 233). Her brother makes her a widow and her behaviour comes to be characterised by promiscuity, selfishness and irresponsibility. A final twist has her become Michael's most loyal confidante, still unaware decades later of his betrayals ― that he has murdered both her husband and her brother. A cunning strategist now, she considers the big picture and worries about the family's standing in the future. Her cold, calculated notions of retaliation lead even Michael to believe that his enemies should fear her more than him. Finally, she not only becomes a deadly assassin, but the instigator of a smooth transition, ensuring the family's future, between Michael and his illegitimate nephew (cf Yacowar, 2002: 182).

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APPENDIX 3 In Angels with Dirty Faces, Sullivan is a notorious gangster who makes time to revisit his roots, including the Dead End Kids who idolise him. As a child, he selflessly saved his friend from being run over by a train and helped him escape the police, taking the rap himself and going to juvenile detention. His friend, Jerry Connolly (Pat O'Brien), having been saved by Sullivan, grows up and becomes a priest. Fifteen years later Sullivan achieves in an afternoon what Connolly has for years failed to do. He teaches the Dead End Kids to play fair with the other teenagers at the priest's gym by using their own dirty tricks on them as he referees. Out of friendship, Sullivan suffers his friend's futile attempts to redeem him, the futility being evident to both of them. He does, however, heed the priest's pleas to cease recounting his escapades to the Dead End Kids, who are so in awe of him they want to follow in his footsteps. The polarisation of Cagney's and O'Brien's characters may on the surface seem heavyhanded, but director Michael Curtiz expertly uses the extremes to deal with notions of fate, circumstance and luck, and the part they play in the people we develop into. The priest laments that it could as easily have been him who got caught that day when they were boys running from the police. Ironically, Sullivan's downfall results from not allowing his gangster colleagues to kill the priest, who is trying to bring them down. Rather, Sullivan ends up in a shootout with the police as a result of trying to save his friend's life. Ultimately, Sullivan is caught and scheduled for execution. Connolly visits him. He acknowledges how much Sullivan has done for the Dead End Kids, and for him, but he has one last favour to ask and it is a big one. He asks the gangster who "ain't afraid of nothin'" to act the coward in his final moments, to pretend to be afraid of dying so that the Dead End Kids will cease idolising him (Angels with Dirty Faces, Michael Curtiz, 1938; cf Maltby, 2005: 62). Sullivan's outrage is palpable. He is disgusted that his friend would ask him to relinquish the little he has left ― his pride, integrity, courage and tough guy image. The priest stretches their "fraternal loyalties" (Munby, 1999: 78), pleading with Sullivan that the two of them will know he was not afraid. But it would show real courage to pretend to be afraid for the sake of the Dead End Kids and the thousands of boys around the country who idolise him. At the eleventh hour, Sullivan sacrifices all that he has left and pleads for his life as he is strapped into the electric chair (cf Doherty, 1999: 339; Mason, 2002: 44-46).

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APPENDIX 4 Melbourne's Alphonse Gangitano wanted Andy Garcia to play him if a film was ever made about his life (Silvester & Rule, 2004: 40; cf Anderson, 2004: 31). Posters of Goodfellas and Scarface were particular favourites adorning the homes of Melbourne criminal identities. Various criminals caught up in the so-called gangland war were gangster film aficionados, watching Pulp Fiction (Quentin Tarantino, 1994), The Godfather, Goodfellas and Scarface religiously, as if they needed to learn from the masters how to act like gangsters (cf Four Corners: Melbourne Confidential, Chris Masters, 14/03/2005; Anderson, 2004: 31). One of Melbourne's slain criminals, Dino Dibra, told a reporter outside the Melbourne Magistrates' Court, "'Mate, I've just watched Reservoir Dogs too many times'" (Anderson, 2004: 152; Silvester & Rule, 2004: 101). FBI agents and cops listening to wiretaps "have remarked that their quarries seem to be picking up tips on how to act and behave from Mafia TV shows and movies" (Harris, 2009: 24-26). Italian Camorra personalities far exceeded their Australian counterparts in trying to emulate their movie idols. A Camorra boss in prison used to regularly request that a local television station play The Godfather late at night so that he could watch it in his cell. Another Camorra boss was so enamoured of De Palma's Scarface, identifying with Al Pacino's character, that he contracted an architect to build him a villa like Tony Montana's: "exactly as it was in the movie". Some female Camorrista bosses were so image-conscious that their bodyguards wore Uma Thurman-like yellow jumpsuits from Quentin Tarantino's Kill Bill: Vol. 1 (2003) (Saviano, 2007: 245-246, 251). Tarantino's homage to Bruce Lee's outfit in Game of Death (Robert Clause, 1978) had a bigger impact than he might have expected. Before the release of The Godfather, "no one in the Sicilian or Campania criminal organisations had ever used the term padrino, derived from ... the English word godfather. The term for the head of the family ... had always been compare. After the film, however, ethnic Italian Mafia families in the United States started using godfather instead of compare". Cosa Nostra boss Luciano Liggio even "jutted his chin like Marlon Brando in The Godfather when posing for photographs". When Howard Hawks was filming Scarface, Al Capone and his escort would show up on the set every time something was being shot that he could watch: "The boss wanted to make sure that Tony Camonte, the Scarface character he inspired, did not become trite. But he also wanted to make sure he was as much like Tony Camonte as possible; he knew that after the film's release, Camonte would become the emblem of Capone, rather than the other way around". My favourite example of criminals mimicking actors comes from Roberto Saviano reporting that a "veteran of the Naples Forensic Division" told him that after Tarantino, Camorra hit men "don't know the right way to shoot! They don't keep the barrel straight anymore. Now they hold it crooked, like in the movies, which makes for disaster. They hit the guts, groin, or legs, seriously wounding but not killing. And so they have to finish the victim off with a bullet to the nape of the neck" (2007: 250-251).

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APPENDIX 5 In Gomorrah, Roberto Saviano exposed the Camorra's methods not only in Italy, but throughout the world, describing a range of complex international business ventures never depicted on film. Although as I have said, I did not like the movie adapted from the book, it was still highly original, and another five films could be made using the same source. The same could be said of Tijuana's former "Secretary for Public Security" Alberto Capella Ibarra. He was "the head of both the police and fire departments" despite having no police training and originally being a corporate lawyer who "gained prominence as an outspoken advocate for crime victims". Picture a Michael Mann version of High Noon (Fred Zimmemann, 1952), but with the sheriff waging a war against Mexican drug cartels, kidnapping, and police corruption on an unprecedented scale. Indeed, films like Traffic (Steven Soderbergh, 2000) would have to defer to one depicting Tijuana's real-life chief, "the Tijuana Rambo", a nickname he was given when just three days before he took over the police force of the violence-plagued city, twenty gunmen "swarmed his yard in the middle of the night". He fought them off "firing an automatic rifle". On the surface, Capella's story might seem to be that of just another policeman fighting the bad guys. However, he really did publicly denounce society "for meekly tolerating the growth of drug cartels in Tijuana", scolding "citizens for not holding political leaders accountable and for cynicism". One is reminded of a modern-day version of The Seven Samurai a.k.a. Shichinin no samurai (Akira Kurosawa, 1954) or its copy The Magnificent Seven (John Sturges, 1960). Indeed, religious, business and political leaders were shamed into taking out unprecedented full-page advertisements in a leading newspaper, to exhibit the kind of social responsibility Capella had demanded. Unlike Gary Cooper, Capella succeeded, at least symbolically, in convincing the citizenry to side with him, breaking a tradition that had lasted generations. Having already escaped attempts on his life and all too aware that he would likely be murdered eventually, Capella continued to go to great lengths to fight the drug cartels (Marosi, 2008: A.1). An equally interesting film could be made about Italy's Don Peppino Diana, a priest slain by the Camorra because of his outspoken vilification of the area's gangsters and his efforts to rally the community to fight against them (cf Saviano, 2007: 220-243). An even better example of the genre's potential being nowhere near exhausted, with screenwriters able to borrow from real-life, would be the fact that the U.S. Mafia is in deep decline, the once-feared Mob being overshadowed by a new wave of criminal gangs from Russia, China, Albania and Jamaica (Harris, 2009: 23). John Gotti junior, scion of the Mafia's most feared clan, the Gambino family, has been a defendant in four racketeering trials, all ending in mistrials, while his sister, Victoria, became the star of the TV series Growing up Gotti (Melissa Givey & James Stein, 2004-2005) which showed the trials and tribulations of a life bearing the infamous Gotti name. Who would ever have thought that the real-life Mafia, renowned for its code of silence, would end up having leading figures open their homes to a reality television show? There is a "disconnect between myth and reality" and the glamour of Mafia life, according to Robin Sax, a district attorney and organised crime expert: "The bitter truth is that the realities of modern Mafia life are nothing like the movies". The lifestyle is rarely glamorous and most real-life Mafia soldiers are "as poorly paid as the office workers" who worship their television image. Mafiosi may occupy a special place in American culture, that of the venerated outlaw, we may live vicariously through them, deify them, but in reality, no "consumer of Mafia culture" is "more voracious than Mafia members themselves" (Harris, 2009: 24-26).

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APPENDIX 6 At the beginning of The Godfather, Michael Corleone wants nothing to do with his family's business, but ultimately orchestrates the hits on the dons of the five other New York families, becoming the supreme Mafia figure in New York. The ultimate power of this transformation derives from the long journey we go on with Michael, the end result seeming unimaginable in the beginning. In Angels with Dirty Faces, Rocky Sullivan is the last person we expect would sacrifice his pride for the benefit of others, let alone street kids; yet it is the depth of his pride that infuses the altruistic decision he makes at the end. His decision is compelling and satisfying because of its earlier improbability. Similarly, the epic journey that David "Noodles" Aaronson (Robert De Niro) and Maximilian "Max" Bercovicz (James Woods) embark on together as kids in Once Upon a Time in America means that Max's betrayal of Noodles astonishes us because it is completely unanticipated. It is heartbreaking because, for all his faults, Noodles was a loyal friend. Betrayal is alien to his character, so it is the greatest cruelty that it is visited upon him. Noodles was, however, going to betray Max at one stage. He intended to set the two of them up, get caught and serve gaol time at the urging of Max's girlfriend. Noodles and Max's girlfriend both feared Max's hubris would lead to his demise. Noodles reasoned that a year in prison might calm Max down. We later discover that Max orchestrated this plan, using his girlfriend to convince Noodles of what needed to be done. When Noodles later discovers that a burnt body identified as Max is found by police he believes he acted too late. Max played on Noodles' loyalty, even in faking his own death. The point, in all three cases, is not the twist at the end, but rather that the foundation for all of these transformations in character is so complexly woven throughout that by the climax the transformation seems simultaneously inevitable and astounding (cf Mamet, 1991: 95-96; McKee, 1998: 311).

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PODCASTS 1. Haggis, P. & Goldsmith, J. 16/05/2008, "Paul Haggis - In The Valley of Elah Q&A", Creative Screenwriting, 21/07/2009, www.creativescreenwriting.com/podcasts/main.html. 2. McQuarrie, C. & Goldsmith, J. 26/12/2008, "Christopher McQuarrie - Valkyrie Q&A", Creative Screenwriting, 19/09/2009, www.creativescreenwriting.com/podcasts/main.html. 3. Hunt, C. & Goldsmith, J. 21/02/2009, "Frozen River Q&A", Creative Screenwriting, 14/07/2009, www.creativescreenwriting.com/podcasts/main.html. 4. Oliver, N. & Goldsmith, J. 30/01/2008, "Lars and the Real Girl Q&A", Creative Screenwriting, 07/06/2009, www.creativescreenwriting.com/podcasts/main.html. 5. Haythe, J. & Goldsmith, J. 26/12/2008, "Revolutionary Road Q&A", Creative Screenwriting, 02/09/2009, www.creativescreenwriting.com/podcasts/main.html. 6. Roth, E. & Goldsmith, J. 07/02/2009, "2009 Oscar Screenwriting Nominees Q&A", Creative Screenwriting, 05/08/2009, www.creativescreenwriting.com/podcasts/main.html. 7. Roth, E. & Goldsmith, J. 18/02/2009, "Eric Roth - The Curious Case of Benjamin Button Q&A", Creative Screenwriting, 07/07/2009, www.creativescreenwriting.com/podcasts/main.html. 8. Stanton, A. & Goldsmith, J. 17/12/2008, "Andrew Stanton: Wall-E: Q&A", Creative Screenwriting, 15/06/2009, www.creativescreenwriting.com/podcasts/main.html.

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FILMOGRAPHY 1. Crash, Paul Haggis, 2004. 2. Million Dollar Baby, Clint Eastwood, 2004. 3. Angels with Dirty Faces, Michael Curtiz, 1938. 4. Little Caesar, Mervyn LeRoy, 1930. 5. The Public Enemy, William Wellman, 1931. 6. The Godfather, Francis Ford Coppola, 1972. 7. Goodfellas, Martin Scorsese, 1990. 8. Scarface, Howard Hawks, 1932. 9. White Heat, Raoul Walsh, 1949. 10. Casino, Martin Scorsese, 1995. 11. Raging Bull, Martin Scorsese, 1980. 12. The Departed, Martin Scorsese, 2006. 13. Brother a.k.a. Brat, Aleksey Balabanov, 1997. 14. American Gangster, Ridley Scott, 2007. 15. At Close Range, James Foley, 1986. 16. Road to Perdition, Sam Mendes, 2002. 17. The Roaring Twenties, Raoul Walsh, 1939. 18. The Godfather Part II, Francis Ford Coppola, 1974. 19. The Godfather Part III, Francis Ford Coppola, 1990. 20. The Funeral, Abel Ferrara, 1996. 21. Breathless, Jim McBride, 1983. 22. Lolita, Adrian Lyne, 1997. 23. The Woodsman, Nicole Kassell, 2004. 24. Happiness, Todd Solondz, 1998. 25. Manhattan Melodrama, W.S. Van Dyke, 1934. 26. Scarface, Brian De Palma, 1983. 27. The Last Gangster, Edward Ludwig, 1937. 28. Gomorrah a.k.a. Gomorra, Matteo Garrone, 2008. 29. Salvatore Giuliano, Francesco Rosi, 1962. 30. Miller's Crossing, Joel Coen, 1990.

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31. Le samouraï, Jean-Pierre Melville, 1967. 32. Pusher, Nicolas Winding Refn, 1996. 33. A Clockwork Orange, Stanley Kubrick, 1971. 34. American Psycho, Mary Harron, 2000. 35. Bigger Than Life, Nicholas Ray, 1956. 36. Jaws, Steven Spielberg, 1975. 37. The Searchers, John Ford, 1956. 38. Taxi Driver, Martin Scorsese, 1976. 39. Downfall a.k.a. Der Untergang, Oliver Hirschbiegel, 2004. 40. Lolita, Stanley Kubrick, 1962. 41. The Usual Suspects, Bryan Singer, 1994. 42. The Killing of a Chinese Bookie, John Cassavetes, 1976. 43. Man on Fire, Tony Scott, 2004. 44. Gangs of New York, Martin Scorsese, 2002. 45. The St Valentine's Day Massacre, Roger Corman, 1967. 46. City of God a.k.a. Cidade de Deus, Fernando Meirelles, 2002. 47. Point Blank, John Boorman, 1967. 48. The Untouchables, Brian De Palma, 1987. 49. Public Enemies, Michael Mann, 2009. 50. The Killer a.k.a. Dip huet seung hung, John Woo, 1989. 51. Bonnie and Clyde, Arthur Penn, 1967. 52. The Killing, Stanley Kubrick, 1956. 53. Heat, Michael Mann, 1995. 54. King of New York, Abel Ferrara, 1990. 55. New Jack City, Mario Van Peebles, 1991. 56. Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, Guy Ritchie, 1998. 57. Snatch, Guy Ritchie, 2000. 58. Layer Cake, Matthew Vaughn, 2004. 59. Bugsy, Barry Levinson, 1991. 60. Baby Face Nelson, Don Siegel, 1957. 61. Al Capone, Richard Wilson, 1959. 62. Chopper, Andrew Dominik, 2000. 63. Mesrine: Killer Instinct a.k.a. L'instinct de mort, Jean-François Richet, 2008. 68

64. Mesrine: Public Enemy No 1 a.k.a. L'ennemi public nº1, Jean-François Richet, 2008. 65. Fargo, Joel Coen, 1996. 66. Frozen River, Courtney Hunt, 2008. 67. State of Grace, Phil Joanou, 1990. 68. Reservoir Dogs, Quentin Tarantino, 1992. 69. City on Fire a.k.a. Lung fu fong wan, Ringo Lam, 1987. 70. Bullets or Ballots, William Keighley, 1936. 71. Infernal Affairs a.k.a. Mou gaan dou, Andrew Lau & Alan Mak, 2002. 72. Donnie Brasco, Mike Newell, 1997. 73. Eastern Promises, David Cronenberg, 2007. 74. Pulp Fiction, Quentin Tarantino, 1994. 75. Kill Bill: Vol. 1, Quentin Tarantino, 2003. 76. Game of Death, Robert Clause, 1978. 77. High Noon, Fred Zimmemann, 1952. 78. Traffic, Steven Soderbergh, 2000. 79. The Seven Samurai a.k.a. Shichinin no samurai, Akira Kurosawa, 1954. 80. The Magnificent Seven, John Sturges, 1960. 81. Mean Streets, Martin Scorsese, 1973. 82. Sonatine, Takeshi Kitano, 1993. 83. Brother 2 a.k.a. Brat 2, Aleksey Balabanov, 2000. 84. Breathless a.k.a. À bout de souffle, Jean-Luc Godard, 1960. 85. Hitch, Andy Tennant, 2005. 86. Wedding Crashers, David Dobkin, 2005. 87. The Ugly Truth, Robert Luketic, 2009. 88. How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, Donald Petrie, 2003. 89. Once Upon a Time in America, Sergio Leone, 1984. 90. Sexy Beast, Jonathan Glazer, 2000. 91. Once Were Warriors, Lee Tamahori, 1994. 92. Cop Land, James Mangold, 1997. 93. Dick Tracy, Warren Beatty, 1990. 94. Force of Evil, Abraham Polonsky, 1948. 95. Macbeth, Geoffrey Wright, 2006. 96. The Big Heat, Fritz Lang, 1953. 69

97. Léon a.k.a. The Professional, Luc Besson, 1994. 98. Casque d'or, Jacques Becker, 1952. 99. Pusher II, Nicolas Winding Refn, 2004. 100. Death Wish, Michael Winner, 1974. 101. The Brave One, Neil Jordan, 2007. 102. Carlito's Way, Brian De Palma, 1993. 103. Lady Killer, Roy Del Ruth, 1933. 104. Doorway to Hell, Archie Mayo, 1930. 105. Tokyo Drifter a.k.a. Tôkyô nagaremono, Seijun Suzuki, 1966. 106. My Blue Heaven, Herbert Ross, 1990. 107. Getting Square, Jonathan Teplitzky, 2003. 108. The Hard Word, Scott Roberts, 2002. 109. Two Hands, Gregor Jordan, 1999. 110. A Woman Under the Influence, John Cassavetes, 1974. 111. The Boys, Rowan Woods, 1998. 112. The Square, Nash Edgerton, 2008. 113. Dirty Deeds, David Caesar, 2002. 114. The Removalists, Tom Jeffrey, 1975. 115. Animal Kingdom, David Michôd, 2010. 116. Lars and the Real Girl, Craig Gillespie, 2007. 117. Revolutionary Road, Sam Mendes, 2008. 118. Forrest Gump, Robert Zemeckis, 1994. 119. The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, David Fincher, 2008. 120. Munich, Steven Spielberg, 2005. 121. The Insider, Michael Mann, 1999. 122. WALL-E, Andrew Stanton, 2008. 123. Star Wars, George Lucas, 1977. 124. Dangerous Liaisons, Stephen Frears, 1988. 125. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, George Roy Hill, 1969. 126. All the President’s Men, Alan J. Pakula, 1976. 127. The Gunfighter, Henry King, 1950. 128. The Sheepman, George Marshall, 1958. 129. Touch of Evil, Orson Welles, 1958. 70

130. O Brother, Where Art Thou?, Joel Coen, 2000. 130. In The Valley of Elah, Paul Haggis, 2007. 131. Valkyrie, Bryan Singer, 2008.

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TELEVISION FILMOGRAPHY 1. The Sopranos, David Chase, 1999-2007. 2. The Wire, David Simon, 2002-2008. 3. Janus, Alison Nisselle & Tony McDonald, 1994-1995. 4. The Sopranos: "Second Opinion", Season 3, Episode 7, Tim Van Patten, 08/04/2001. 5. American Cinema: The Western, Sasha Alpert, 1994. 6. American Cinema: The Film School Generation, Steve Jenkins, 1994. 7. Line of Fire, Rod Lurie, 2003-2004. 8. Wiseguy, Stephen J. Cannell & Frank Lupo, 1987-1990. 9. Four Corners: Melbourne Confidential, Chris Masters, 14/03/2005. 10. Growing up Gotti, Melissa Givey & James Stein, 2004-2005. 11. The Shield, Shawn Ryan, 2002-2009. 12. The Shield: Television Academy Panel: special feature on The Shield, Season 5 DVD box set, Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation, 2006. 13. Phoenix, Alison Nisselle & Tony McDonald, 1992-1993. 14. Scales of Justice, Michael Jenkins, 1983. 15. Underbelly (Season 2 a.k.a Underbelly: A Tale of Two Cities), Greg Haddrick, Peter Gawler & Felicity Packard, 2008-. 16. Neighbours, Reg Watson, 1985-. 17. Blue Murder, Michael Jenkins, 1995. 18. American Cinema: The Hollywood Style, Lawrence Pitkethly, 1994.

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Author/s: Eipper, Declan Mortimer Title: Writing a gangster film Date: 2010 Citation: Eipper, D. M. (2010). Writing a gangster film. Masters Research thesis, The Victorian College of the Arts School of Film & Television, The University of Melbourne. Publication Status: Unpublished Persistent Link: http://hdl.handle.net/11343/35836 File Description: Thesis Terms and Conditions: Terms and Conditions: Copyright in works deposited in Minerva Access is retained by the copyright owner. The work may not be altered without permission from the copyright owner. Readers may only download, print and save electronic copies of whole works for their own personal non-commercial use. Any use that exceeds these limits requires permission from the copyright owner. Attribution is essential when quoting or paraphrasing from these works.