'Weapons'-izing Your Experiences for Screenwriting

I loved Weapons. At night, I’ve been running with my arms out down the street, much to the chagrin of my husband. I have grand plans to transform myself into Amy Madigan’s inimitable Aunt Gladys for Halloween. Most of all, I love how Zach Cregger drew on his own tragedies to write and make this movie.

While watching, towards the end of the film, I picked up on something and thought I might be making meaning of nothing. However, my inkling that Weapons was—at least in part—about alcoholism turned out to be true.

From an interview Cregger gave for The Hollywood Reporter:​​

“The final chapter of this movie with Alex and the parents, that’s autobiographical. I’m an alcoholic. I’m sober 10 years; my father died of cirrhosis. Living in a house with an alcoholic parent, the inversion of the family dynamic that happens. The idea that this foreign entity comes into your home, and it changes your parent, and you have to deal with this new behavioral pattern that you don’t understand and don’t have the equipment to deal with.”

For me, Weapons does not present itself as a story about addiction or addicts. There is no scene where a group of AA members hold hands and recite the Serenity Prayer. There are characters in various stages of addiction and recovery struggling throughout the film, but they aren’t even what the film is, quote unquote, “about.” But as someone who grew up with alcoholism in her home, I immediately recognized what Alex was going through.

Now, before we all go off debating whether or not the film is actually “about” this, read on:

“But I don’t care if any of this stuff comes through, the alcoholic metaphor is not important to me. I hope people have fun, honestly. It’s not really my business what people make of the movie. I have nothing to say about it, because the movies should speak for itself, and if I have to comment on what people should get from it, then I’ve failed as a filmmaker.”

So, if you didn’t see the addict connection in the film—heck, if you have a completely different interpretation of the film’s meaning—that’s completely okay. Cregger isn’t insisting you do. Neither am I. If you want a breakdown of that, go here.

What I am suggesting is that weaving your deeply personal experiences and emotions into your scripts—good, bad, and ugly—make for the most meaningful, insightful, and innovative stories.

Before I go further, I would like to point out that I am not, in any way, saying you must write about your experiences with assault, violence, PTSD, mental health disorders, substance abuse, and so on. While these major moments in one’s life can become inspiration for their work (as it did for Cregger), it is 110% unnecessary to put yourself through the psychological ringer.

No one in Hollywood is asking anyone to spill their guts. They just want to read a great story with great characters.

Excavate your past and present for the emotional states you once felt, and apply those emotions to your characters.

The heartache of that first big breakup. That time you threw up at the zoo and your mom yelled at you in public, leaving you filled with shame. Your humiliation at being rejected on a blind date. Your anxiety over having an abortion. The sad realization that you got married too soon. The pain of that night you lost your dad. The pit in your stomach when you found out your spouse had cancer.

The more intimate and unique to you, the better.

“Well, YEAH,” you may be thinking. “Of COURSE I should write what I know.” That’s not what I said. You don’t have to pull from any actual real-life experiences to write refined, complicated, and interesting characters.

In Fleabag, Phoebe Waller-Bridge wrote a nuanced portrayal of a misadventuring woman who suppresses her grief over losing her mother and closest friend. But as Waller-Bridge pointed out in The Guardian: “Of course I’m drawing on really personal things and things that echo in real life, but I write about my biggest fears. I write about losing my best friend or losing my mum … it’s the ‘what if?’”

Many of our life experiences that make an impact are negative moments, but equally important are the positive memories.

Think about the moment you met the love of your life. Was it always butterflies, or did the honeymoon phase die out? Was there ever a moment of doubt or insecurity in your relationship? How did you overcome it?

Utilizing your emotional journey within any character’s arc will pay off in major dividends, no matter what story you tell.

Notice I am not saying that you need to write about the most epic or life-changing moment, like climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. If you did that? Kudos to you! My knees would give out in about 45 seconds. While your personal physical journey up Africa’s highest mountain could make for an interesting and compelling feature, what did you feel and learn during that climb?

Let’s say you felt like giving up. Well, sure. It’s a pretty dang big mountain. What else did you feel? “Well,” you might say, “I felt like a fraud. I had Imposter Syndrome. I’m not a mountain climber, I can’t do this.” How relatable is that? Extremely! Any audience member has felt as if they, too, are a fraud at something.

Crafting a character who overcomes this feat will have us rooting for them in the end, and writing a character who is totally unlike you in background, gender, sexuality, socioeconomic status, and so on becomes a lot easier when you put a little of yourself into them, because you instantly understand what makes them tick.

That’s what Cregger understood in writing Weapons. The film is not an entry from his journals. Rather, it is art that’s infused with his personalized reactions to loss and addiction.

And that’s what makes Weapons, Fleabag, and SO many other films and TV shows excellent.

*Feature Photo: Weapons (New Line Cinema)