How Tarantino Writes a Scene

The interrogation scene is one of my all-time favourite scenarios. It’s because these sequences reveal how all scenes should function: as miniature stories. In his 1979 book Screenplay, Syd Field stated:

“The purpose of the scene is twofold: either it moves the story forward, or it reveals information about the character.”

An interrogation often achieves both to great effect. These moments frequently represent a conflict (either a subtle battle or an obvious confrontation) between two opposing characters, both of whom are trying to achieve a goal. These are cinematic games of cat and mouse. And there’s one person in particular who is especially adept at writing them: Quentin Tarantino.

Have you ever noticed how many scenes in Tarantino’s films feature two characters sitting opposite each other at a table? It’s the simplest means of demonstrating opposition, yet it works to great effect: wordlessly, we can see how two characters are at odds with one another. Throughout his filmography, one can find these menacing interrogations in almost every feature he has written.

But why? Partly because it makes for good drama—the threat of violence is always present, with there usually being a clear winner or loser that appeals to our desire for closure. However, there is a second reason that’s important to analyse: Tarantino’s writing style is ideally suited to these enthralling dynamics specifically because he appreciates minutiae.

This is practically a constant throughout Tarantino’s conversations: we witness two people gradually (and sometimes very, very gradually) come to the defining moment of the sequence. This is what John Truby refers to as the “triangular scene”.

In his 2007 book The Anatomy of Story, Truby states that any sequence should be a triangle turned on its point:

“The beginning of the scene should frame what the whole film is about. The scene should then funnel down to a single point, to where the most important word or line of dialogue is stated last.”

Although traditional screenwriting wisdom dictates that a scene should “start late and end early” to maintain a captivating pace, Tarantino buries a scene in minutiae. As characters discuss King Kong, craniotomy, or the history of the Moors, we sense that a dramatic crescendo of violence is fast approaching.

Yet, as these interminable dialogue sequences stretch on, it seems as though it will never arrive. Tarantino has described these lengthy dialogue sequences as essential for tension: 

“Underneath it, the suspense is a rubber band. And I’m just stretching it, and stretching it, and stretching it, just to see how far it can stretch.”

The loquacious director continued to say: “Now, normally, when you make a movie, you try to make your scenes as compact as possible so that there’s no air, and you don’t wear out your welcome with the audience. But in this method, as long as that rubber band can stretch, the longer the scene can hold, the more suspenseful it is.”

In one of his most famous sequences, it’s clear that Tarantino has taken inspiration from the ‘Master of Suspense’: Alfred Hitchcock. In discussing Inglourious Basterds (2009), he notes how the infamous sequence with Hans Landa (Christoph Waltz) in the film’s opening works because the audience is aware of what Hitchcock referred to as the “bomb under the table”. Except in Tarantino’s classic, it’s not a bomb underneath the table, but a family of Jews, or a Luger pointed at an enemy’s testicles.

We are aware of the threats and know that the danger looms large—but they never feel like they are going to come. As the scene trickles down through the triangle, we anxiously await it as it finally reaches the deciding point: “You are sheltering enemies of the state, are you not?”

This is a sequence that Tarantino has been perfecting throughout his career: two people at a table, with the promise of blood being spilt never too far away. It’s in the opening to Pulp Fiction (1994), the shocking midpoint of The Hateful Eight (2015), and the abrupt finale of Kill Bill: Vol.2 (2004).

Tellingly, it can be found in films that he hasn’t even directed, only written; in True Romance (1993), Dennis Hopper delivers what may be his finest performance as a man who knows he’s enjoying his final cigarette. 

And Tony Scott directs it with the same patience that Tarantino feels these scenes deserve:

“That scene is going to be more suspenseful at 22 minutes than it would be at eight. That’s why you want to stretch it until the rubber band breaks.”

The conversation itself can be about almost anything: the dimples that can be found at the back of someone’s skull, using a mug for an ashtray, or an ageing star’s dwindling finances.

It can be something seemingly innocuous, such as a letter written by Abraham Lincoln, or an item which we know will lead to calamity, like an incriminating shoe left at the scene of a massacre. Regardless, tension is almost always present.

As previously mentioned, it is partly due to how Tarantino stages a scene. Two people face each other, in stark opposition. Intriguingly, there are examples throughout Tarantino’s filmography where two characters stand at a bar, facing the same way.

They are not currently in conflict, but as the scene draws to a close, they recognise each other as enemies—which is exactly when they turn to confront each other. Though only expressed in a few terse words and a glowering stare, these interactions eventually manifest in violence.

When you deny a person something they want, the need to have it becomes all the more immediate. That is why the inclusion of minutiae is arguably what made Tarantino such a success: he denies us what we want for as long as possible—and we love him for it.

Besides providing a scintillating texture to his films, it also refuses to reveal the answers to our most pressing questions. At least, not for a long time: we spend most of the scene in the broad end of the triangle, nervously anticipating the scene to become something more.

Other directors appreciate minutiae, too. Two who began their careers around the same time were Jim Jarmusch and the Coen Brothers. Although the former is not necessarily renowned for creating tense sequences, the duo from Minnesota were always skilled at crafting tension.

This was first seen in their exceptional debut, Blood Simple (1984), but it was when the Coen Brothers made the sublime No Country for Old Men (2007), featuring a similar sequence between Anton Chigurh (Javier Bardem) and Carson Wells (Woody Harrelson), that we saw the duo at the peak of their tension-creating abilities. We desperately want to know what is going to happen, yet one character just will not stop talking about a rule, about the nature of a conversation.

Perhaps it’s because, as these characters are gabbling away, prevaricating, and talking around the central issue, we feel that everything is being said, even though the antagonist refuses to address the actual problem. As the cat plays with the mouse, it is not about what is being spoken in ornate monologues: it is about everything left unsaid.

Mostly, unlike with other filmmakers, we are never quite sure where these manoeuvres will end up: in Tarantino’s universe, the cat often catches the mouse, and we are on the edge of our seats as we anticipate the poor rodent being eaten.