Book Excerpt: STEVE JOBS MONOGRAPH, Edited by B.C. Wallin

We are pleased to present a book excerpt from a new volume that analyzes Danny Boyle’s “Steve Jobs” one piece at a time, featuring a collection of great writers, including our very own Scout Tafoya. The excerpt is the essay by Kat Trout-Baron. Get a copy here.

The official synopsis:

To understand a film as greater than the sum of its parts, we must understand each part.

Read:
B.C. Wallin on Production
Aashima Rawal on Jobs
Kat Trout-Baron on Sorkin
Scout Tafoya on Boyle
Devan Scott on Camera
Sarah Jae Leiber on Performance
Charlie Brigden on Music
Alexander B. Joy on Edit
B.C. Wallin on Aftermath

In “Notes on the Auteur Theory in 1962,” Andrew Sarris outlines three distinct qualities of the director that prove their ownership over a cinematic work: a director must be technologically competent, stylistically distinct, and in possession of a rich interior. As an example, the film critic describes a moment in The Rules of the Game where director and actor Jean Renoir charges up the stairs, pauses, and continues his ascent. The moment of hesitation is perceived as graceful and intimate, proof of a director’s personality within the final cut. Technology intervenes in the cinematic process — footage is fed through machines, compressed or stretched until it can be shown theatrically. Sarris’ auteurs (coming from the French term for authors) survive such technological manipulation, remaining present within the project. Concern with auteurism stems from its dismissal of other bodies present in the cinematic process. Various roles are omitted — editors, producers, and most glar­ingly, screenwriters. 

A film does not exist until ink is spilled, characters and setting fleshed out on the page. Aaron Sorkin’s script for Steve Jobs, later directed by Danny Boyle, has various Sorkinisms — quirks associated with him rather than the director. Sarris describes Renoir’s moments of hesitation as bursts of personality, the voice of a craftsman undeniable. Sorkin’s scripts have similar flour­ishes of individualism, namely in pauses between intense lines that render the film immobile. There’s a poignant scene in Act III where Steve Jobs argues about the payment of his daughter’s tuition with his old colleague Andy Hertzfeld. Hertzfeld’s line, “she needed things, she needed socks,” is followed on the page by a written beat. Unsaid words exist within that beat, more profound be­cause of their absence. Later in their conversation, Hertzfeld asks Jobs why he is adamant about being hated. Jobs responds, “I’m indifferent to whether they dislike me,” which prompts his former chief engineer to reply “I always have.” Jobs responds with a witty rebut­tal, but first pauses, suggesting the emotional impact of Hertzfeld’s words. In that beat, Sorkin subtly directs performance — it is a cue to react, the conversation coming to its crushing end.

For a character like Jobs, Sorkin’s beats are evidence of his caginess — the truth exists within these standstills. His shortcomings as a father, friend, and person are left within the moments he cannot instantly mask hurt. Another instance occurs in Jobs’ final argument with his daughter, Lisa, the culmination of their tension surrounding familial legitimacy. Jobs insists he always meant to pay for tuition, which prompts Lisa to bring up his rejection of her as a daughter. In her fury, Lisa dismisses the iMac, calling it “Judy Jetson’s Easy-Bake Oven” and pointing out the grammatical errors in its slogan, Think Different. After her diss, Jobs once again pauses, then says (in a moment that doesn’t make the final film), “There is no way in the world that’s not my kid.” Once again, the hesitation represents a moment where Sorkin sculpts performance. The insults, which previously moved Jobs into temperamental silence, are presented as impressive. Jobs sees himself. The through­line of Sorkin’s script is Jobs’ relationship with his daughter — the beat helps maintain suspense, eventually delivering closure. Like Renoir’s hesitation at the top of the stairs, Sorkin’s pause suggests an auteurist personality. An analysis of the Steve Jobs shooting script makes evident Sorkin’s technical fluency, individual style, and interiority.

Steve Jobs is written with awareness of the camera; Sorkin includes transitions and edits within scenic descriptions, curating the movement of the film. Most prominently, Sorkin utilizes the em dash — represented on the page as “–” — to establish location and shot changes. The first sentence of the Steve Jobs screenplay starts with the em dash: “–we’re in the middle of a confidential conversation.” The first line of a script establishes the tone of the piece, as well as the intent of the author. It is the first impression of a project, a series of words that decides if an audience will remain. Sorkin bypasses a lengthy or descriptive line, instead dropping his audience into an active scene. The em dash implies previous movement; the scene occurring is not the beginning of the story. The viewer is eavesdropping, witnessing private moments happening with or without them. From this em dash, the director, audience, and crew learn the pace of the film. Furthermore, while bare in elaborate detail, the first line solidifies location. It guides the director and crew — three people (Joanna Hoffman, Hertzfeld, and Jobs) having a private conversation limits the possibilities of the space. Throughout the script, Sorkin uses the em dash as a way to communicate cuts and scenic transitions. On page five, when introducing a secondary character, Sorkin writes, “Andrea Cunningham, a 26-year-old publicist for Apple, calls from the back–”. The em dash acts as a cut — the next line in the script is Cunningham’s, implying a shot of her within the film. It is a cue to move away and open the film up from the whisperings of the three, now utilizing more space. Such a technique is implemented consistently; it appears again on page 25, when Chrisann Brennan, Jobs’ ex-lover, confronts him backstage. In the description, Brennan “points to the Mac that’s sitting on a table–”. After this visual, Brennan’s line is “So that’s it?” Once again, the em dash expresses a shift in focus. It directs the scene, asking for the audience to follow the Macintosh instead of Brennan and Jobs.

In transitions between locations, Sorkin’s em dash assists in maintaining time. Steve Jobs is written in three acts, each part limited to a specific year. Moreso, within those distinct years, each act occurs during one day. To remain tight and focused, Sorkin moves characters through one primary location in each act. The slug lines (location indicators identified in a script by int/ext) are accompanied by the word “continuous,” suggesting that time has not passed. The em dash assists this direction, further infusing the script with fluidity. The movement between scenes is written as such: “steve steps out into– / int. hallway – continuous / –where andy hertz­feld is waiting…” In the final cut, Sorkin’s descriptions command movement of the camera, maintaining continuity from room to room. A shot will show Jobs and company exiting a space, then cut to them on the other side. Sometimes, it will follow them through rooms, allowing characters to walk and talk. The em dash connects the scenic descriptions, maintaining cohesion within prose. The words are kinetic, characters remaining in motion from page to page. Moreso, its built-in suggestions for camera movement suggest Sorkin’s comprehension of cinematic techniques. Sorkin’s script is a living, breathing body — it does not read as a suggestion of what could happen on screen, but an explicit document of what will happen.

Sorkin’s voice is not buried in the translation from script to screen; in fact, when involved, many characteristics of the film can be associated with Sorkin. A common rule in screenwriting denotes that one page will equal one minute of screentime. Sorkin’s scripts defy such logic — Steve Jobs’is 189 pages, but the run­time is 122 minutes. And while some scenes or moments don’t make the final cut, most of the material remains, condensed at a breakneck speed. One tool behind Sorkin’s speed is the parenthetical, which is often used to indicate a line reading. Sorkin’s parenthetical primarily serves as an interrupting force. Lines will include the following direction: (over); this suggests lines that begin before the preceding ones end, resulting in feverish, overlapping, impatient conversation. The effectiveness of such a choice can be felt during Jobs’ argument with his partner Steve Wozniak before the launch of the Mac­intosh. The Apple co-founders’ argument spans 10 pages — the first half is a back and forth with no interruptions. Near the climax, (over) appears before nearly every line; Jobs lets the truth slip and (over) controls the momentum of the fight.

WOZ

Do you concede that the slots (are
the reason for the success of)–

STEVE

    (over)
We can’t possibly still be talking

about the slots, man, it’s been

seven years and–

WOZ

I have a point. The eight slots on
(the Apple II are what)–

STEVE

    (over)

You’re still doing it, you’re

talking about the slots, there’s

something wrong (with you).

WOZ

    (over)

The slots–

STEVE

This argument started in the

garage!

As evident above, parentheses also denote which lines should be interrupted. Sorkin’s (over) serves as the trigger, nudging an actor to press down. Words buried beneath interruptions are often the most salacious de­tails, blunt truths, and frustrated jabs. The execution mimics a natural argument — quick and impossible, no person given complete control. Sorkin’s command ap­pears throughout the script, nudging a scene along — lines run parallel, no single person meant to possess the spotlight.

In other Sorkin scripts, parentheticals also control the timing of dialogue; (beat) appears consistently in The Social Network, communicating the calculation neces­sary from each character. Mark Zuckerberg is on trial, defending his choices despite how malicious they seem on paper. In Steve Jobs, (over) denotes spur-of-the-moment emotions. In The Social Network, (beat) showcases the aftermath, tense characters planning their attack. While Steve Jobs quickens dialogue and Social Network slows it down, both parentheticals are displays of Sorkin’s ability to control time on the page. Beyond technique, the dialogue also serves as an indication of Sorkin’s unique perspective. A common feature found in Sorkin’s scripts are lengthy, drawn-out insults, often aided by vivid imagery. In Sorkin’s first screenplay, A Few Good Men, Lieutenant (junior grade) Daniel Kaffee stumbles home drunk after a blow in a case defending two marines. Dismayed, he lashes out at his co-counsel, perplexed by their positive outlook:

KAFFEE

Yes. No problem. We get it from him.

    (to SAM)

Colonel, isn’t it true that you 

ordered the Code Red on Santiago?

SAM

Look, we’re all a little —

KAFFEE

I’m sorry, your time’s run out. What 

do we have for the losers, Judge? 

Well, for our defendants it’s a 

lifetime at exotic Fort Levenworth. [sic]

And for defense counsel Kaffee? That’s 

right — it’s — a court — martial. 

Yes, Johnny, after falsely accusing 

a marine officer of conspiracy, Lt. 

Kaffee will have a long and prosperous 

career teaching typewriter maintenance 

at the Rocco Columbo School for Women. 

Thank you for playing “Should We or 

Should-We-Not Follow the Advice of 

the Galacticly [sic] Stupid”.

Spoken as a drunken, elaborately concocted game show monologue, Kaffee’s rant is directed at Lieutenant Commander Jo Galloway and decorated with Sorkin’s signature, hyper-specific scenarios; the prize of “teaching typewriter maintenance at the Rocco Columbo School for Women” stands in for demotion and the end of Kaffee’s military career. It is an elaborate way of emasculating himself and digging at Jo’s femininity. Sorkin’s barbs are quotable, wordy, and convoluted — Kaffee’s intent is to call Jo stupid and overzealous; it takes him half a page to say what he means. In a similar, pivotal scene in The Social Network, Eduardo Saverin storms through Facebook headquarters, aghast at the news he’s being edged out of the company he helped start. Saverin charges toward Mark Zuckerberg’s desk and smashes his laptop; Sean Parker, who has wedged himself between the two friends, interrupts Saverin’s confrontation — Eduardo turns to him: 

EDUARDO

Sorry, but my Prada’s at the cleaners

along with my hoodie and my fuck-you flip-flops you pretentious douchebag.

Like Kaffee’s long-winded rant, Saverin’s comment has the intent to maim. It is also primarily made of refer­ences, an expansive scene with an inevitable punch. Kaffee describes a game show, Saverin an order at the laundro­mat. Both jabs are snappy, repeatable, and hurtful.

Sorkin’s Steve Jobs script includes its own extravagant disses; during a poignant spat, Wozniak likens his and Jobs’ positions within Apple to those of The Beatles: “I don’t like talking like this but I am tired of being Ringo when I know I was John.” The following quarrel unfolds: 

STEVE

Everybody loves Ringo!

WOZ

And I’m tired of being patronized

by you.

STEVE

You think John became John by

winning a raffle, Woz? You think he

tricked somebody or hit George

Harrison over the head? He was John

because he was John.

WOZ

He was John because he wrote

“Ticket to Ride” and I wrote the

Apple II.

Once again, Sorkin’s references stand in for a bitter truth. John Lennon and Ringo Starr were part of the same band, but they achieved separate levels of fame; Woz and John are aware the same has occurred within Apple. Woz and Jobs each want to be John, the leader of the band — they want credit for what they have created.

Situating a screenwriter’s interiority is difficult; Sarris’ auteur theory focuses on visual cues, insisting depth belongs in what is seen. There is no regard for what flourishes may belong to other creatives, embedded within the image. Sarris’ example of interiority is Renoir’s The Rules of the Game and the lingering stair­case. By hanging in that moment, Renoir pushes the film further. He is more curious about what film can do to communicate character than he is interested in making something fitting cinematic standards. A screenwriter’s interiority cannot be perceived from the final cut; to discover their deeper meaning, a viewer must consult the script. Bits of the writer are found within lengthy descriptions, notes to actors explaining the emotions of their character. Throughout Steve Jobs, Sorkin includes asides that pause movement on the page, comments meant for a reader and not a viewer. They include subjective details, hinting at Sorkin’s opinions on his characters. When a character is introduced in a script, a writer often includes a short, encompassing description. In his description of Wozniak, Sorkin writes, “steve (woz) wozniak sticks his head in the door. woz is amiable. He’s not looking for trouble and while he’s an undisputed genius, he doesn’t have Steve’s anger or Steve’s polish.” Sorkin bypasses typical script details such as age and physique, instead focusing on a judgment of character. He does not use the word “amiable” as a compliment — it is a flaw, the trait that separates Wozniak from Jobs. It continues in his next sentence, where Sorkin admits Wozniak is a genius, but lacks aspects of Jobs’ personality. The writer makes evident his perspective on success: there are certain factors that create stars and snuff them. It is less of a character description and more of a rumination, othering Wozniak. Such commentary can be found in other descriptions — during Jobs’ final conversation with John Sculley, his father-figure-turned-backstabber, Sorkin provides a lengthy account of their positions:

There’s a moment of shock as STEVE and SCULLEY take in the sight of each other. Sculley’s always been a handsome man–a healthy, well-scrubbed, Connecticut guy–but he was sent to Florida much too young. And he’s been living a secluded life as the guy who traded Babe Ruth. STEVE can see that.

Like Wozniak, Sculley’s character is dissected in relation to Jobs. Wozniak and Sculley are placed on the wrong side of history, not as recognizable as Jobs, and Sorkin provides a blunt explanation. As a leader, Wozniak lacked anger or polish. As a manager, Sculley did not maintain star power. Once again, Sorkin’s descriptions hint at his feelings regarding talent and legacy; to stay, a person must be formidable. As a script­writer, Sorkin has acquired an abnormal amount of attention; it is a position usually overlooked and under­valued. Sorkin’s voice and celebrity have provided him more freedom on the page, as well as an identity separate from his director’s. Sorkin has no reason to be insecure — neither did Jobs. Each is aware of his oeuvre and its personal and social consequences. Sorkin’s interiority appears in his judgment of character, suggesting a relation to Job’s celebrity and the self-importance required to last. 

Sorkin is living proof: a screenwriter can be cognizant of mechanical techniques, style, and personality, sharpening their craft to remain prominent throughout a film’s life. A director may be behind the camera, shaping a picture on set, but a film begins with its writer. Sorkin, who guides a picture from its title page, maintains authorship and auteurship.

Sources

“Notes on the Auteur Theory in 1962” by Andrew Sarris, Film Culture, Winter 1962/63

A Few Good Men: Revised Third Draft by Aaron Sorkin, July 15, 1991

The Social Network: Screenplay by Aaron Sorkin

Bio

Kat Trout-Baron is a first-year Screenwriting MFA candidate at the American Film Institute. They received a BA in Screenwriting and Cinema from the University of Iowa. Their writing has appeared in conference at the University of Indiana and at FilmScene, a non-profit cinema where Trout-Baron served as a student programmer.

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