Recently in The Craft & Trade Category

Keep his
identity secret!(Ed. Note: There’s nothing good to report on the state of our contract—and by “good” I mean both “interesting” and “positive”—and as I’m pretty busy shooting the movie, I’m turning the blog over to a long-time friend and pro writer, Jacob Sager Weinstein, who most notably wrote for The Dennis Miller Show back when it aired on HBO, and is now an author. Sadly, unlike Dennis, Jacob’s a big lefty, but I still love him. Here’s his essay on his experiences working as a cross-platform writer.)

I know what you’re thinking.

You’re thinking, “I really don’t want to know about the serious labor unrest that could change the face of the entertainment industry. No, what I really want to know is, how does writing a radio script for the BBC compare to co-writing a series of tongue-in-cheek government manuals?”

Well, today is your lucky day, If you’re reading this, it means Craig has finally decided that paying attention to his stewardship of a gazillion-dollar movie franchise is maybe a little more important than posting updates on his blog, and he’s temporarily handed over the reigns of the Artful Writer to his buddies.

Unlike some of the other guest posters he’s lined up, I can’t tell you how to be phenomenally successful in any one kind of writing. But while I’ve never been a Ted-Elliott-level success in any single field, I’ve nonetheless managed to break into a lot of them. I’ve been a staff writer for a TV show, I’ve sold a film script, I’ve co-authored three published books, I’ve been on staff at a (non-fiction) magazine, and I’ve done some freelaance writing for various humor magazines as well. So if I can’t tell you a vast amount about any one of those fields, I can, at least, tell you a little about each.

Having tried my hand in all these fields, the one general rule I’ve been able to deduce is this:

The more money is at stake, the more nervous people get. And the more nervous people get, the less they trust the writer.

With that in mind, let’s move from most-money-at-stake to least.

Film: There’s no way I could come up with any broad insight about film that Craig and/or Ted haven’t already expressed with vastly more eloquence and authority. But speaking from a strictly personal point of view, the most significant thing about film is how slow a process it is, and how much of it is out of the writer’s hands. In 2004, I was hired to do three drafts of a screenplay adaptation. From the time I signed the contract to the time I handed in my third draft, the process took about two years—an average of eight months per draft. Yet it only takes me about one month to write a draft. So what was going on the other seven months? Well, I was off working on other projects while the producer got notes from the director, got notes from his financiers, thought about his own notes, and arranged a time when he, the director and I could all sit down and discuss everybody’s notes. Plus he was no doubt doing other producery stuff, like chasing down financing.

On the one hand, that two-year process gave us all a lot of time to think about how to best turn the novel into a workable screenplay. On the other hand,it could also have given everybody time for a lot of second-guessing and over-thinking. (Fortunately, from the very beginning, there’s been a respected and strong-willed director attached to the project, so I haven’t had to contend with a dozen competing artistic visions.)

TV: The good news is, TV is much faster than film.

The bad news is, TV is much faster than film.

It’s good news because you can write something on Wednesday and have it shot on Thursday. And it’s good news because the fast turnaround gives non-writers much less time to muck around with your work. Oh, you will get rewritten, but it will be by the showrunner—a fellow writer, and quite possibly the guy who created the show in the first place. And you’ll probably be in the room when it happens. All this makes you feel much more like a driving force, and much less like a tiny cog in a vast machine.

But the speed of TV is bad news because it gives you much less time for polishing. If you write something on Wednesday and shoot it on Thursday, and then on Friday think of a much funnier punchline… Well, it’s too damn late. You’re already on to the next episode.

Radio: This one takes some explanation. In America, radio is reserved for talk shows and for music. But the UK still makes sitcoms and dramas—what we in the US would call “old-time radio shows.”

As you can imagine, it’s much cheaper to make a radio show than a TV show. So the BBC often uses its radio stations as a lab to try out ideas that may or may not become TV shows. This video clip, for example, comes from a TV show called “That Mitchell & Webb Look,” which started off as a radio show called “That Mitchell & Webb Sound.”

I wish this path existed in the US—a radio show is much cheaper to produce than a TV show, which makes everybody less nervous about taking creative risks. The radio show I sold to the BBC, for example, was a Dickensian sitcom, which is not the kind of thing you regularly see on primetime. I originally pitched it as a TV series, but it was quirky enough that they wanted to try it as a radio show, first. That wasn’t what I had hoped for when I pitched to them—but it was far better than an outright pass.

The other advantage of radio is that all special effects cost the same amount, which means my pilot script could feature start with an instance of spontaneous human combustion and end with an avalanche, all without breaking the bank.

The disadvantage of radio? There’s just not much money in it. I had to work just as hard crafting the characters and storylines of my radio pilot as I would have for a TV pilot, but for much less money.

Books: We’re now at the very bottom of the cost spectrum. Publishers don’t have to hire actors or sound technicians, and they don’t have to pay sets. They also don’t have to pay writers too much; generally speaking, an advance of about $10,000 would be fairly typical for an unknown first-time book author. That’s a fraction of WGA minimum for a script sale.

And you’re writing for a smaller audience, too. There are currently more than 80,000 copies of my books in print, which is a decent number for a print author. Yet it’s about a tenth of the viewership figures of the lowest-rated primetime TV show.

So why write books?

Because with much less money at stake, people get much less nervous. And that makes them much more willing to trust the writer.

Which means that once you sell your book, you’ll have all the time you need to write and revise it, with very little interference. (In fact, some authors feel they don’t get enough interference; Maxwell Perkins-style hands-on editor are rare nowadays.) You don’t have to navigate notes from a half-dozen different sources. You have no fear of being replaced, no need to delete your best scenes because you couldn’t get a location. Your ideas and your words just ride a river of paper straight into your readers’ brains.

And there’s one other thing that must make writing books look especially attractive to my fellow Guild members nowadays:

You never have to go on strike.

Had a great first day, and a friend suggested that I briefly mention whether or not I’m taking a “film by” credit on the movie.

After all, I’m not just the director, but the writer too. So c’mon, written and directed by the same guy? I’m the auteur dammit! So I should take the possessory credit, right?

Wrong.

I’m taking a directing credit and a writing credit. But the film is by all of us. Me, the DP, the editor, the grips, the costume designers, hair, makeup, craft services……everyone. I’d be nowhere without the crew. I’m part of the crew. We’re a team. No us…no movie.

Of course, this opinion isn’t too popular among the DGA folks. And I just joined the DGA.

Meaning that I’m probably now pissing people off in two unions.

Eh.

All in a day’s work.

By and large, our big announcement yesterday was met with support from the writer community (or, at least, the writers who spoke up). Still, there were some criticisms.

The criticisms/questions from various commenters are as follows, with my responses following.

Does this deal make it more difficult for non-deal writers to make a deal with Fox, in the short term at least? Will other writers now feel they should form a similar group?

No to the first question. Remember, Fox is a major studio with multiple divisions (20th Century, Fox Atomic, Fox 2000, New Regency, Fox Searchlight), and they probably develop dozens of, scores of…maybe a hundred?…new projects every year.

We’re going to account for nine scripts over the course of four years. That’s barely a dent. Even if all nine got made and they all got made in 2010, Fox would still need many many more scripts just to fill their pipeline for that year.

I don’t think there’s a necessity to form co-ops simply because we did or the Wells group did. Obviously, I think there’s a tremendous advantage to them, but these things live and die on the market strength of the collectives that form them.

Best advice on that sort of thing comes to me from Michael Eisner, via David Zucker.

“You can get what you can get.”

Now that you A-listers have lowered your up-front price, should I be worried that the majors will no longer want to go out with me?

No. Again, it’s for 9 scripts. Since it’s over four years, and since most of us work on more than one project a year, feel free to assume that we will each be extorting our usual fees from various studios on assignments, production work, page one rewrites, etc. As such, we can’t possibly soak up a significant amount of work.

Furthermore, this is for our original screenplays. You couldn’t get that “job” anyway, because it’s not a job. It’s our script. It’s not like we just cut a deal to adapt every D.C. comic title or something. None of us had a chance at getting that plum “Write the movie Go” assignment, because John August generated it.

Have you really been yearning to write original material all these years but hesitated pending a really insanely lucrative deal?

This is strange. The commenter seems concerned that none of us are big on writing original stuff, i.e. screenplays not based on underlying material (e.g. remakes, book adaptations, rewrites, etc.)

Like how I worked in i.e., e.g. and etc. all in one sentence?

Anyway, this criticism is based on a faulty premise. My first two movies were from original screenplays. The movie I’m shooting this fall is an original screenplay. John broke into the business with “Go,” which is one of the more celebrated specs out there, and just directed “The Nines” from his original screenplay. Terry recently had a humongous spec sale with Deja Vu (along with Bill Marsilii). Stuart Beattie wrote Collateral…another original. Simon Kinberg wrote Mr. & Mrs. Smith…another very successful original.

Oh, and Michael Arndt is the reigning Oscar winner for original screenplay, for Little Miss Sunshine.

Tim Herlihy’s credits are almost entirely originals. Six, count ‘em, six original screenplays starring Adam Sandler.

I could go on, but I think you get the point.

Given the current studio environment with its emphasis on “branded” material—comics, remakes, sequels, etc.—do you really think there’s going to be a serious payoff from untested original material?

Absolutely. Not all brands pre-exist the movies. Matrix, anyone?

There was an article in Variety recently that pointed out what a high percentage of hits actually came from original screenplays. They’re still making Indiana Jones films. They’re still making Rocky and Rambo films. I suspect we haven’t seen the last of The Matrix either. If you look at the top 25 grossing films of 2006, 16 of them are either from original screenplays or are sequels to movies from original screenplays.

What do you think this type of deal means for the (currently on-hold) WGA negotiations? It seems to me these deals have the potential to weaken the WGA by splintering the established A-list writers with all their clout from the rest of the rank and file.

I don’t think this deal will have any effect on WGA negotiations. I don’t see any potential to weaken the Guild at all. How are we splintered from the rest of the rank and file? If the WGA goes on strike, we’re bound by the union to strike with them. We can’t work for Fox during a strike. I don’t see how this deal is any different than any overscale deal I make in terms of its impact on union solidarity.

I have read your blog many times and enjoyed it. I always thought you believed in the solidarity of the WGAw. Now, I see you’re undercutting our collective bargaining position.

That’s obviously not true. “Undercutting” is the act of accepting working conditions lower than those set as a basic minimum for guild members. We’re doing the opposite.

As I said, I’ve read your blog and I know you can weave an intelligent argument to defend your position. But it will now fall on deaf ears for those other guild members who see this for what it is. Can you imagine union workers in other unions negotiating a separate deal for themselves? They would no longer be part of the union.

Well, I have news for ya, pal. I got a congratulatory email expressing appreciation for what we did for writers with this deal from Patric Verrone, the President of the WGAw. You know, the guy I’m always fighting with? As such, I can only assume that he’s not one of those “guild members who see this for what it is.”

Not only does making a “separate deal” not exclude me from my union, but just about every member of the union I know makes a “separate deal.” The MBA has a clause, thank God, that expressly states that any member of the bargaining unit is free to make a deal with “better terms” than those in the MINIMUM basic agreement.

So any time someone writes for more than scale? Separate deal. Oh, how about this one? CREDIT BONUSES? Separate deal. Not in the MBA.

If I’m to follow your logic, then pretty much every single working screenwriter in the WGAw is, um, “no longer part of the union.”

I just don’t think this makes any sense at all.

Do you worry that the “can’t be rewritten” aspect of the deal will hurt you guys in terms of landing top directors (assuming you don’t direct the scripts yourselves, of course)?

No. Part of the criteria for this group was a sense that the writers were viewed as war-tested by the studios. We’ve all been through it with directors and producers and actors. Furthermore, we have every incentive to do what we can to write a movie rather than a screenplay.

Once the movie is greenlit, it ceases to be our movie, and it now becomes the studio’s film. We’re realists. We’re not looking to stand between a director and the shoot. Rather, we’re putting ourselves forward as partners.

Of course, if it’s not going well during development, we hold the gun.

I accept that all members negotiate their own contracts. I was just hoping that these writers would have asked for these “new” benefits for everyone at the negotiating table. I am not against “some getting better terms than others.” But the idea of the guild is for all to get better terms. That the floor goes up from everyone. Creative partnering with the studio would be great for every WGAw writer.

Huh? That’s cloud cuckoo land stuff. Look, this is a really important distinction to make.

The WGA’s job is to raise the floor for writers.

We just raised the ceiling for writers.

Two very different things.

As for the reason we didn’t negotiate on behalf of all writers? That’s easy.

We have no authority to do so. We couldn’t even if we really really wanted to.

The only institution authorized by law to collectively bargain on behalf of screenwriters is the Guild. As such, this criticism holds no water.

Fox steps up…So the wait was pretty short, huh? Man, these stupid internets make news delivery nearly instantaneous.

We’ve gone and put words into action. For a few years, I’ve been preaching a philosophy, a religion. The tune is simple. Screenwriters should be filmmaking partners with their studios.

And what does that mean? Well, in a double nutshell….

• Creative authority to match our creative responsibility
• Rewards to match our investment in the film

I’m happy to announce that we’ve made some huge strides toward these ends today.

For the Variety coverage, go here, and for the L.A. Times you can go here, but I suggest that the best review of what we and Fox have done is right here at John August’s site.

John does an excellent job of running down the details, so I won’t get redundant. I will say that I’m thrilled and humbled to be part of this group of writers. The Writing Partners are:

• Michael Arndt
• Simon Kinberg
• Stuart Beattie
• Ted Elliott & Terry Rossio
• Me
• Cormac & Marianne Wibberley
• Derek Haas & Michael Brandt
• John August
• Tim Herlihy

Obviously, this group is exceptional, and none of us could have done this on our own. I do want to single out a few people for special recognition. Ted Elliott and I started talking about this idea a few years ago, so that was the genesis. John Wells broke serious ground at Warner Brothers, and in many ways we’re drafting in his wake.

Finally, John August was a fantastic organizational and pitching partner. That menschy vibe you get off his blog is the real deal.

All of the agents and lawyers did a great job, but our point people were David Kramer at UTA, Todd Feldman at CAA and Ken Richman (John’s attorney). On the Fox side, it was Emma Watts’, Alex Young’s and Tom Rothman’s enthusiasm that differentiated them from our other suitors.

Okay, Oscarish speech over. So…what does this mean?

The way this deal works, both we and Fox are betting on optimism. They’re betting that we’re going to deliver movies they want to make, and we’re betting…well…we’re betting on the same thing.

If our movies don’t get made there, our only guaranteed compensation is an amount much lower than our normal fees. If our movies do get made there, it’s quite likely that we will, as individuals, reap a greater reward as writers than pretty much any writers before us.

For that, I’m thankful to Fox and to the writers with whom I’m sharing this deal. Sure, Writopia may still be a dream, but we (and Fox) just got a little closer.

I was going to write another article about the state (or non-state) of WGA-AMPTP negotiations, but that’s going to be preempted.

We’ve got big news coming.

Not just me.

Someone else you know.

And another person you know.

And maybe some people you’ve heard of.

Watch this space.

I’ve got a few articles I’ve been planning to write, but sometimes a better idea comes along and you have to roll with it. Pro writer Derek Haas suggested that I write about how we get paid, what the various terms and methods mean, and how we can expect success or failure to impact it all.

Good idea. Frankly, I had no idea what anything meant when I started, so I hope that some of you find this of value.

There are a few basic ways to get paid as a screenwriter. You can option literary material, you can sell literary material, you can pitch an idea, or you can be hired on an assignment.

Options don’t do technically fall under the WGA’s jurisdiction. Options are just rental agreements. The optioner pays the optionee a fee that grants the option the exclusive right to “set up” the project at a studio (typically as a producer). The writer will then sell the literary material to the studio.

If you sell a script, the studio has to pay you scale. “Scale” is just a term for the basic minimum amount. Right now, if you sell an original screenplay for a “big budget” film (a film that costs more than $5,000,000), scale is roughly $77,000 (including one additional rewrite step). You can learn about all of the various minimums here.

Minimums aside, however, most writers work above scale.

A typical deal for a pitch or assignment works like this…you’re paid your “quote” (your going rate) for a draft and a set of revisions (aka a second draft, often shortened to “set”). In addition, the studio will typically detail optional steps they can trigger if they desire. So, if your deal is, say, $500,000 for an original, you’ll get paid $500,000 for two drafts, but the studio might hold an option for another set for $150,000 and a polish for $75,000. If they want it, that’s what they’ll pay (and you have to write it, pending your availability). If they don’t want those optional steps, they don’t have to pay that money out.

Then there’s the credit bonus. Most writing deals include a bonus for sole screenplay credit and a reduced bonus for shared screenplay credit (I’ve never heard of anyone getting a bonus for story credit).

That’s where all this “X against Y” stuff comes in.

If your quote is $500,000 against $1,000,000, that means you get paid $500,000 for those first two drafts. If you get sole screenplay credit on the movie, you’ll get an additional $500,000 to get you to the $1,000,000.

Shared credit bonuses are typically half the sole credit bonus.

When working on deals, it’s always important to know what’s applicable against the bonus and what isn’t. For instance, the optional steps are almost always considered applicable, meaning that if you’re $500,000 against $1,000,000 and the studio pays you an additional $225,000 for optional steps, that optional money cuts into the rest of the money they owe you if you get sole credit. In this case, instead of getting $500,000 to get to the million, you’d only get $275,000 in bonus money (because you’ve been paid $500 + $225 already, and 500+225+275=1M).

Therefore, once you work beyond the initial quote work and optional steps, it’s critical to ensure that new payments are not applicable against the bonus, because you never want to be in a situation where working more doesn’t get you more.

Many writers will do an “all services deal” once the film heads into production. The all services deal is a flat payment that covers all the writing the film requires until release. All services deals should always be non-applicable against the bonus, and they should be made with care. Some kind of time limit on them is usually advised, in case a film drags on and on.

Payments are typically made for commencement and delivery, with a 2/3 - 1/3 split being ideal, i.e. you get 2/3rds of the money for a particular deal step when you’re told to commence writing, and the remaining 1/3 when you turn in the draft.

All services deals are typically tied to production milestones, e.g. you get 40% at the start of prep, 40% at start of principle photography and 20% upon completion of the film.

Unfortunately, studios are infamous for “late pay.” Writers will turn in drafts and be forced to wait weeks for payment. Or, as was the case on my first job, writers are hired and told to commence writing, but even the starting payment is held up for weeks.

My easy answer on late pay is that no writer need suffer it. My position has always been “I start when I’m paid” and “I turn in my draft when I’m paid.” Simple as that. The studio likes to say they can’t officially pay commencement until a longform contract is signed, but that’s baloney. A deal memo and certificate of authorship is all that’s required.

As far as quotes go, rewriting usually pays less on a quote basis than original work. The basic rule of thumb is that a rewrite gig should earn you about 75% of your quote for an original gig.

Of course, there’s the highly-desired weekly gig, which is a whole ‘nother thing. Weeklies are when studios hire writers on a week-to-week basis, almost always for production writing. Weekly rates tend to be quite high. The studio will always try and finagle the writer toward a polish if they think one week will turn into three or four.

That’s the tug of war that makes dealmaking so much, um….fun.

So, once you have a quote, how do you improve it (or get a “bump” in the industry parlance)?

There are three basic ways to get a bump. First, sell a pitch or spec in some kind of competitive situation (more than one interested buyer). Second, write a draft that gets a green light. Third, get screenplay credit on a film that performs at the box office or earns awards.

Some basic guidelines for what writers earn. Note that these groups exclude spec sales, which, at some point, no longer affect a quote in a specific way (for instance, Rossio & Marsilii’s $5M sale for Deja Vu doesn’t mean that their quote for an original is $5M, although I think they’re both doing just fine…)

Baby Writers: No, not my term, but commonly used around town to denote writers who are either very fresh to the business or who have little experience working. Typical quote is 100 against 250.

Typical Writers: They’ve sold scripts, maybe had a movie or two made, maybe it didn’t do so well, but they’re definitely in the game. Typical quote is 300 against 600.

Known Commodities: These are writers who have multiple credits, a number of fans at studios, a good track record and a hit to their name. Typical quote is 700 against a million.

A List: These writers have hits to their names, and are known to deliver the goods for the studio. They almost always have a few key relationships with top shelf actors, directors or producers. Typical quote is $1-1.5M against $2-2.5M.

Marquee Writers: Rarified air here. You’re talking about a pretty small number of writers who aren’t employees as much as investments. They earn more than most directors do. To be in this group, you’ll need a quote of two million against…well…more. Three million? Something like that.

I’m sure I’ve left out plenty. And it’s quite likely that people have different views on some of this stuff (particularly the last part). Lemme know what you think.

He’ll never get to use an iPhoneA lot of people in the business ask me how it is that I find time to run this blog and our forums, when I’ve got deadlines and family commitments and the rest of life bearing down on me.

Frankly, I don’t know. For instance, right now it’s just about 11:30 PM Pacific time, and I’ve got at least another two hours of writing ahead of me.

I’m bleary.

And so, I turn to this as respite.

By the way, if you don’t understand why a writer tired of writing would write in order to take a break from writing, then you may not be a writer.

Admittedly, part of my bleariness is because instead of writing what I needed to yesterday, I spent time getting and setting up my new iPhone.

Before I add to the infinite instareviews available to you on the internet, I’ve finally got my working theory about the ending of The Sopranos.

Yeah, I know. Old news. But I’ve been thinking about it for a while, and I’m not sure anyone else has forwarded this theory yet. I’m sure someone will dig up a link to something similar.

Like everyone, my first reaction to the final moment of the final episode was “Oh God, my TiVo…” Then I sort of reeled into a bit of shock. A bit of shock. It’s still a TV show, after all. Nonetheless, Chase managed to completely surprise everyone.

The quick theories were: it’s a meaningless surprise for surprise’s sake, Tony dies, it’s a cliffhanger for a movie…

I don’t think so.

I don’t think Chase invested so much time and energy and transparent deliberation into the final scene just to lead up to a “Ha ha, here’s something you never expected, it doesn’t mean anything but at least I didn’t do any of the dumb crap you predicted” moment. It just doesn’t seem within his creative character.

I don’t think Tony was killed. Yes, Chase wanted to ratchet up the tension to lead to what might be a whacking (and more on why when I get to my theory), but if the cut to black signifies Tony’s death, then why cut out on his face? Shouldn’t it cut to black off his POV?

Cliffhanger for a movie? That’s just dumb. An uncompromising master like Chase isn’t going to pimp his entire series out just to set up a first scene in some theoretical film that might or might not happen.

So why?

Why did Chase do that?

My theory.

Remember when Carmela saw her own therapist for a single session, back in the 3rd season? A blunt man, he basically told Carmela that her problems weren’t psychological as much as they were crassly circumstantial: she’s married to a ruthless killer, and all of the money Carmela spends is blood money. The only advice a reasonable person can give is to take the kids and get away from Tony.

That was the truth.

Still, season after season, we the audience found ourselves rooting for Tony, particularly when inter-mob stories were introduced.

In the final season, Chase begins to really hammer home just how pathetic and evil Tony is. Tony kills Christopher. Tony celebrates Christopher’s death. Tony turns a session about A.J. into a whine-fest about himself. Tony cheats on his wife for the millionth time. Tony thinks about killing Pauly because he’s getting old and mouthy.

And yet, the audience (and by audience, I mean me and apparently many others) were mostly interested in how he’d make his way out of the mess with New York.

Would Tony win?

Chase seemed to recognize this. The federal agent once assigned to Tony but now on a terrorism beat apparently shared our problem. He slips Tony info to use in Tony’s war with Phil. “We might win this one!”

We?

As awful as Chase made Tony, we kept loving him. When Chase would scold us for loving him, we would nod, then love him some more.

We’re Carmella.

And our marriage to the show was a bad one. It had to end, because Tony isn’t a good guy, he doesn’t deserve our respect, and frankly, we shouldn’t give a damn what happens to a sociopath like him.

I think Chase’s finale ending was a message to the audience, and a bit of a punishment as well.

“You want to know what’s going to happen? Will he die? Is this just another day in his miserable life? Will he run the whole mob? You know what? Screw you. I’m not telling you. In fact, I’m pulling the plug on this relationship in the most vicious, unsatisfying manner just to rub your nose in your own sick need to care about this jerk.”

That’s my theory about Chase’s intention.

Tony’s intention? That’s easy. He picked it on the jukebox. “Don’t stop believing.”

Those are his last words to us. “Don’t stop.”

But Chase hit “stop” anyway, because Tony is a bad man, and we should take our TiVos and get as far away from him as possible.

So…that’s the old.

Here’s the new.

The iPhone is AWESOME. It’s everything Apple promised, and then some. If you can afford it, buy it. If you appreciate elegance in technology, buy it. If people say, “I don’t get it, it’s just a phone, Apple’s a cult, blah blah blah” then make a note that those people are idiots, and then get the iPhone.

It’s wonderful.

I’d write more about it, but it’s a quarter to midnight now.

And there are pages to go before I sleep.

Lewis in harmonyHopefully we’ve all gotten enough arguing done on this site as of late. Let’s get back to the stuff that really matters.

Like writing.

I want to talk about the concept of harmony within a scene. Lots of people come up with good ideas. A number of them come up with good stories for those ideas. Writing good scenes, however, seems to be a much rarer skill.

I consider a good scene to be its own movie. There’s a beginning, middle and end. There is conflict, crisis, resolution and cliffhanging. But above all, there is a harmony between the building blocks of the scene itself.

Those are?

• The internal life of the character(s)
• The relationship between the characters
• The relationship of the character(s) to the external circumstances of the story

These are your three instruments that must be played in each scene (unless the scene only features one person, in which case you’re down to two instruments).

(Side note: I don’t know if screenwriting teachers agree with me or not or so forth. This is how I look at stuff. Don’t write and tell me that I’m clashing with McKee or Truby. I’ve never read them, and more importantly, I don’t care.)

A classic rookie mistake is to write a scene with two or more characters that doesn’t use all three building blocks. The main character is realizing something about himself in the scene, and there’s an interesting thing happening between the two characters, but the scene doesn’t advance the story in any significant way, and if cut out of the film, wouldn’t be missed.

Or perhaps two characters are having a fight while accomplishing a plot point, but the fight isn’t internally relevant to the main character.

Let’s say, however, that you’ve got a scene that has all three tools working.

Are they working in parallel, or in sequence? Are the working in isolation, or in integration?

Are they harmonizing or simply playing their own tunes?

Rather than intellectualize this concept, I’m going to ask you to read a scene by a real master of the craft. Scott Frank wrote this scene for his film The Lookout. After considering how to best present this scene in the context of this web page, I opted for maximum laziness and just embedded the PDF. This should work in Safari for Mac and Firefox and IE for PC. If you need the Adobe Reader plugin, go here.

(Actually, since people were having issues with the plugin, it’s now just a direct link)

Here’s the backstory you need before reading the scene (and spoilers apply, of course). LEWIS, played by Jeff Daniels, lives with the main character, Chris Pratt. All we know about Lewis is that he’s blind and clearly more wise than the 20-something Chris, who suffers from accident-related brain damage. Lewis basically looks after Chris. He even cooks his meals for him.

LUVLEE, played by Isla Fisher, has been sleeping with Chris, but what we know is that she’s really the girlfriend of another guy who is using Chris to rob a bank. Chris has told Lewis that Luvlee is his girlfriend, but he hasn’t told Lewis anything about the plan to rob the bank.

Luvlee has just slept over at Chris and Lewis’ apartment for the first time. It’s the middle of the night…

Click here for the scene.

Okay.

So let’s talk about how these pages epitomize harmony in scenecraft.

On the first page, we learn that Luvlee is a stripper, or at least used to be one. But instead of coming out and telling us, we learn this fact by way of Lewis’ internal character. It’s his blindness…and the attendant qualities of being blind…that allow him to draw the conclusion we hadn’t yet made, and thus pull something out of Luvlee that neither she, nor any other character, nor the plot itself, had yet managed to do. Meanwhile, she’s immediately thrown off guard by Lewis from the very beginning of the scene. Here’s a blind man she didn’t see…and he’s immediately seeing right through her. So who’s blind?

All on page one. Note that we’re enjoying all three axes of scenecraft working in harmony. His character pulls out plot which sets the tone of the relationship…and there are no seams showing yet.

Now…page two.

Here, we watch as Lewis and Luvlee settle into a wrestling match. Page one was just the warning shot. Lewis has announced to Luvlee that he sees more than most people. And Luvlee, with her casual “Wow. You hear about that…”, has decided that playing the dumb stripper act is probably the best strategy here to avoid revealing too much. Of course, we’ve also learned something internal about Lewis, which is that he’s not yet willing to reveal anything about his blindness. Why? And why is Luvlee lying to him? These internal and interrelational elements are working together in service to unearth a nugget of external, or plot, information.

Lewis tries the head-on approach. She clams up. He shows his cards when he asks about Gary, confirming Luvlee’s suspicions (and note…the fact that Luvlee was suspicious before Gary asks is an intentional choice in and of itself!), and she not only keeps her silence, but goes on the attack.

She decides to figure out just whom she’s dealing with here. Is Lewis a brother? A father? Just how protective of Chris is he? Is this just curiosity, or is Lewis a danger? So she smartly turns the tables on him, revealing both to Lewis and the audience a heretofore unestablished caginess. As she interrogates Lewis, her character transforms from a dingy moll into a much smarter cookie. Hell, not just smart, but a bit dangerous.

“Maybe your only friend?”

Ouch. And she was so sweet just a moment ago…

Now Lewis realizes he’s not dealing with some airhead stripper he can push around. This is a real human being in front of him who’s smart enough to hear what he has to say.

He has a goal in this scene: protect Chris. That’s plot.

In order to achieve his plot goal, he has to reveal something about his internal character. His hope is that the truth of his internal character will change the relationship between him and Luvlee, and that in turn will help save Chris.

And so, Lewis reveals how he was blinded.

And folks, that’s all in two pages.

When people talk about “tight” writing, this is what they mean. Everything’s beautifully interlaced. The elements are affecting each other and looping back around. Oh, and take note…the quality of the dialogue itself is almost secondary. Dialogue doesn’t have to be sparkling in and of itself. It just has to be properly chosen in order to achieve the harmony you need in your purposeful scene.

Now, let’s go on to page three.

We already knew Lewis was a cook, but now we come to learn that Lewis was a cook. The implication between them now is that some people cook stuff up, and other people eat it. You know…there’s con artists and suckers…and that’s the world.

When Lewis asks “What are y’all cookin’, sweetheart?” he’s not just asking, “What are you and Gary up to?” He’s saying, “I was one of you, so come clean.” When you layer significances, the scene becomes more compelling. Harmony.

Trapped like a rat, Luvlee becomes petulant. See, once Lewis tells her he used to be a meth cook, she realizes that this blind glimp can probably read her mind. They’re of the same tribe. She briefly tries a new tactic…the “saint” who wants to help Chris, but even she knows that’s not going to hold up.

So she switches to a new strategy…which is denial and then anger. And with each new strategic switch, she reveals more and more that her internal voice is guilty, guilty, guilty of a crime. In this case, the interpersonal starts to reveal the personal, and once Lewis has her on the ropes, he attempt to actualize his goal.

“So tonight, in the dark, let me help you out and ask it again: what are you doing here?”

Lewis doesn’t ever say “You’re using Chris.” Nor does he say, “I’ll go to the police.” Nor does he say, “I’ll kill you if you hurt my friend.” Nor does he ever find out what Luvlee is even up to.

What he asks of Luvlee is simply this: “What are you doing here?”

His internal revelation has changed the interpersonal dynamic to reveal something about her internal state which leads him to the best strategy to achieve his external goal.

And that strategy is clearly guilt. He’s trying to guilt her into letting Chris off her perfumed hook for whatever it is she and her boyfriend Gary are trying to pull.

Three and a half pages.

The scene isn’t great because of the information revealed or the relationship between Luvlee and Lewis or the internal truths of their characters.

It’s great because of the way those elements all worked in harmony.

And it’s the harmony that makes good writing great.

The smoking thread is easily the most populated we’ve ever had, and the software’s getting rather pokey digesting each added comment (I’m sure you’ve noticed).

Use the comments for this entry to continue the debate. I’m closing comments in the other one so that the whole site doesn’t bog down.

Update: I just received the following email from my assistant.

“The smoking thread is easily the most populated we’ve ever had…”

Wow. That is so great Craig - the most poopulatd thread you EVER had - how ever did you come up with the idea?

If I’m not mistaken, you promised me a mention in the article…and yet, none exists.

Hmmmm. I see how you are.

THANK YOU, Jacq. Lesko, who definitely gave me the idea to write about this. You are my everything, in spite of the word “poopulatd.” It was an excellent topic to suggest, and I appreciate it.

Poopulatd?

Like the old song goes, “Smoke gets in your eyes.”

It seems the MPAA is taking that quite literally. Recently, they decided to include on-screen depictions of smoking as one of the criteria that can earn a film an “R” rating.

I’ll take a somewhat unpopular (among Hollywood types) view on this.

I think it’s a good idea.

Naturally, most smoking in movies occurs as a general reflection of the fact of smoking itself. Smoking, like driving, is a part of visible life. However, movies have made something of a fetish of smoking for a few additional reasons. Actors are often looking for “business,” that catch-all word to describe hands-on activities that take the burden of undue focus off their dialogue.

Smoking is a great bit of business. Watch Bogie roll his own cig, then light it up in The Maltese Falcon. Great business.

And the reward?

The smoke itself.

Cigarette smoke is Hollywood’s cheapest special effect. It curls around the actor’s face. It lights beautifully. The simple act of taking a drag can shorthand misery, suspicion, anger…

Smoking is a great window to the soul, as visually informative as a smile or a tear. The way the actor exhales, the way they stub the cigarette out, the ritual of the “light,” the snap of a Zippo, the flick of the butt…

It’s all wonderful.

I don’t care what anyone says. Smoking DOES make you look cool, and movies make the already cool act of smoking even cooler-looking.

The one-sheet for Chinatown, which you see above, was illustrated by a friend of my named Jim Pearsall. It’s my favorite movie poster of all time, and that’s in no small part because Jim nailed the noirish essence of smoke. Jake Gittes is a man’s man, a tough private dick whose oxygen is the very stuff of smoggy L.A. And Evelyn Mulwray is a vision, a bit of smoke curling in the air. Beautiful, seductive…and then gone. Disappearing into the Chinatown air.

It’s movies like these that made me want to smoke. Yes, I’m actually someone who can safely say with 100% surety that I started smoking because of the way movies made smoking look. So did Jim Pearsall. In fact, that’s how Jim and I met. We were two smokers working at an ad agency in 1992. I’d stand outside sucking down my Marlboro Menthols (I know, I know…), and he’d rip the filters off his Carltons and tell me stories about old Hollywood.

Two years later, he was dead. Cancer, naturally.

The week before I got married, I quit smoking. I quit cold turkey, and I haven’t had a cigarette since 1996.

Still, is this a moral crusade we need?

Here’s my basic view of the MPAA and their ratings system. I don’t always agree with it. I know that I’ve personally had my share of issues with the MPAA on every movie I’ve done, and I have no doubt I’m in for plenty more. However, the MPAA ratings system is not censorship. The MPAA ratings system is designed to help parents figure out whether or not a movie is appropriate for their children. Simple as that.

We can argue about whether or not it does that well (although most parents apparently seem to think it does). I do know that every time I’ve gone in to recut a scene in order to avoid an R rating, I did so not under the threat of censorship, but out of a personal concern for my own bottom line. In other words…greed. I wanted a PG-13 so that the film would be seen by a wider audience, and I made the personal choice to sacrifice some moments in order to get that rating.

Even the dreaded NC-17 isn’t censorship. It’s just a rating. As an aside, however, I do believe that newspapers that refuse to run ads for NC-17 films and theaters that refuse to exhibit those movies are way out of line, and I think the MPAA should make a concerted effort to kill that practice…at least with the major newspaper and exhibitor chains.

Anyway…the operative question is simply this: do parents want their unaccompanied children to see a movie that glamorizes smoking? And yes, the ratings board seems pretty specific about the glamorization aspect. Context counts.

I’ll be honest. I don’t want my children to have that option. I was able to quit smoking, but I’m sure damage was done. It’s a risk I’d rather not leave to my children and the film industry to take together. I want to be a part of that decision. I’m not supporting the nanny state, nor am I attempting to legislate morality. An R rating doesn’t mean the film is evil, or it’s taboo, or it’s sinful or it’s shameful. It means that it includes certain content that parents should have the right to decide whether or not their children see.

I don’t agree with many of the criteria for R ratings (and I think there’s too much violence permitted in PG and PG-13 films), but I agree with the MPAA on this one. After all, I wasn’t just being an idiot when I decided to smoke.

I was being a 16 year-old idiot who had seen a lot of movies.

I accept responsibility for my choice as a child. As a parent, I’d like to accept responsiblity for the choice as well. The MPAA gave me one. I think that’s a good thing.

After last week’s wonkfest regarding the WGAw’s foreign levies program, I suspect of number of you passed out from boredom.

Forgiveness, please. Things will continue to get wonky around here as we get closer to negotiations and possible strikes, but that doesn’t mean it’s all doom and gloom.

For instance, this week I’m serving clams.

According to Jane Espenson, clams are one-liners or comic concepts that have gone stale from overuse. Now, that was a new one on me. I knew the term was used in music for a bum note, and for the ultimate usage in that context, one need only review a transcript of just one of Buddy Rich’s infamous rants at his band (in this excerpt, it’s the trombonist getting the brunt).

You’ve got your f—kin’ horn so far deep in the f—kin’ bell, we don’t need to have a band here tonight. You afraid you won’t be heard? Everybody can hear your f—kin’ clams out there. You don’t need a mike for that. You’re takin’ up too much f—kin’ time blowin’ what? Shit!! You stand out here all night tryin’ to blow your f—kin’ brains out… when it comes time to play, what do you play? Clams!! You got nowhere to f—kin’ go tonight the next set because if I hear one f—kin’ clam from anybody, you’ve had it! One clam and this whole f—kin’ band is through…tonight!!

Yeah, Buddy was a real sweetheart.

Anyway, anyone who writes comedy for a living has written a clam, but we all recognize that they’re awful, and so when we’re together in a room, we’re supposed to keep ourselves from using them. In my room, we usually call them “badump bumps,” but I think Jane’s got a better, clammier term.

Here’s a short list I came up with, as well as some additions from friends. Feel free to use the comments section to add your own. As for definitions, I’m pretty lenient. It could be a single line of dialogue, or it could be a setup and payoff.

Maybe if we shine enough light on these things, we can eliminate them from the world.

The Inside Voice: “I’m sorry…did I say that out loud?”

The Freudian Slip: “Hey, Carol, I see you’re wearing some new boobs…I mean boots!”

The “Mr.” Insult: “Oooh, check you out. Mr. Big Man! Mr. Crazy hat-wearing guy!”

The Nutty List: “All I know is I want to eat a steak, get laid, and play some golf…not necessarily in that order.”

Dante’s Clam: “This is the date from hell!”

Albert Hoffman’s Clam: “This is like Ice Capades on acid.”

The Apollo 13: “Houston, we have a problem.”

The Ignored: (as the character is being talked about) “I’m standing right here…”

The Fork-Dropper: “Check please!”

The Optimist: “Well, I thought that went pretty well…”

The Invisible Puke: “I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.”

The Dismissive Segue: “Anyway….” (typically after another character goes off on a long, complicated rant)

The Factory: This is a visual one. Someone gets hurt in a factory, and a worker flips the “Days Since An Accident” sign back to 0.

The Upward-Looking Rejoice: “Thank you, God!”

Okay, now it’s your turn, li’l clamsters. As they come in, I’ll cull and add your contributions here in the main article.

As promised, here are some new ones.

The Circulation: “I can’t feel my legs!”

The Contradiction: in response to a question like “Where were you last night?”, two guys say something like “At the office!”/”Playing golf!”

Someone Called: any form of “Patti LaBelle called. She wants her hairstyle back.”

The Stealthy Insultee: “He’s such a fat, stupid, idiotic—he’s right behind me, isn’t he?”

Excited Confusion: “Mom, Jared Leto is visiting my school tomorrow!” “Oh my God, honey, that is fantastic news!…….Who’s Jared Leto?”

The Translation: “Isn’t my dress great?” “Yes, if by ‘great’ you mean ‘nauseating’.”

The Countdown: “I’m leaving now, and I’m NEVER COMING BACK AGAIN!” The character exits, and a remaining character says “And 5, 4, 3, 2…” At which point the first character re-enters.

The Calculator: “You do the math.”

The Jerry Maguire: “You had me at Idiot” or “You had me at rectal thermometer” or some “comedic” version of “You had me at hello.”

The Thesaurus: “The meteor disintegrated!” “Yeah, and it blew up into a million pieces too!”

The Grocery Store: “Clean up on aisle 3!”

Like everyone else near a keyboard, I've grown accustomed to Wikipedia.

I should probably wean myself.

Every now and again I'll check the IMDB discussion boards on movies I'm working on. It's pretty fascinating, if only as a study in the global game of Telephone that is the internet. My favorite debates are the ones where someone insists loudly and arrogantly and with supreme confidence that "This movie will be Rated R! I know someone at the stuido!"…even though the movie was never going to be R.

And yes, spellings like "stuido" are part of the fun.

So today, when I skimmed the boards for Superhero!, I was excited to see that someone was trumping the debate by citing the ultimate internet authority. Off I went to see the movie's entry on Wikipedia.

Wowsers.

Let's go through it…

Superhero! is an action/comedy written by Craig Mazin and directed by David Zucker, and produced by Robert K. Weiss. The movie will spoof famous superhero films. It is distributed by The Weinstein Company. It is uncertain what the release date will be. Some sites confirmed that it will be released on March 21, 2008.

Boy, only thirteen words in, and they've already blown it. I'm directing, not David. I've always been directing. I've never not been directing. I'm also producing with Weiss and Zucker. We've shifted positions a little bit, but the same basic team behind SM3 and SM4 is still in place.

I do believe we are on the schedule for March 21, 2008, though, so good on them.

Now, here's the "purported plot."

Fabtopolis' greatest supervillain, a magician who goes by the pseudonym The Great Jim (Chris Elliot), has just kidnapped the city's mayor (Leslie Nielsen) and his wife (Anna Faris). Four of the world's most spectacular superheroes are called to the rescue: Beakman (Greg Giraldo) - the leader of the group, Squak (Eric Christian Olsen) - the wannabee, Cleara (Carla Gugino) - the see-through hero, and The Stoner (Ben Harr) - a loser who becomes a large stone monster when he gets high. The Great Jim is building a device that will allow him to sound like anybody in the world and this group of superheroes must stop him and save the mayor or the entire city will be destroyed.

As they race against time to defeat Jim, they team up with many other superheroes to try and take down Jim and his allies, including the dreaded Dock Cock (Kevin Mcdonald) and Mephistopheles (Adam Arkin).

Not bad. The only things they got wrong were everything. Every single thing. Insane.

Fabtopolis?

Anna Faris married to Leslie Nielsen?

Dock COCK?

Folks, I know I've disappointed some audiences in the past. Maybe myself too. But if I ever write anything that even remotely resembles the above, I'm eating a gun. Okay? Here's a hint…we never do "funny names." Ever.

Then they move on to a list of the movies we will be spoofing.

Superman film series
Batman film series
Fantastic Four film seriers
The Hulk (film)
Spider-Man film series
The Prestige
Daredevil (film)
Ghost Rider (film)

We're not really specifically spoofing anything. We're taking on the entire genre. However, I can assure you that the vast majority of the movies mentioned above aren't even getting casually referenced.

The Prestige???

Here's my favorite part. "History." This is the part that sounds like actual information!

It is currently unknown whether David Zucker or Craig Mazin will direct. According to some sites, the film was supposed to be originally released on February 7, 2007. However the film's real release date has been reported to be delayed to March 21, 2008.

It was confirmed on March 2, 2007, that Adam Campbell will reprise his Superman role from Epic Movie.

Many cast changes were announced on March 13, 2007. Big name actors such as Josh Lucas, Laura Kightlinger, and Joshua Jackson turned out to be actors "considered" for the roles, but not actually cast.

The producers have decided to go with actors that are more familiar to this type of film. They've gone with Anna Faris, Kevin McDonald, and Chris Elliot to replace the others.

It's currently known. I'm directing. It was "confirmed" about wha-huh now about Adam Campbell? I've never even met the guy. He's not in our movie, and he's not going to be in our movie. Nothing against him, but he belongs to a different brand of…well…whatever genre Epic Movie is. Yeah, I was totally considering "big name actors" like….Laura Kightlinger??? I actually think she's very funny…but "big name actress?"

No, none of the actors mentioned in the paragraph above have been considered for anything in this movie (YET…because we haven't really gotten into casting yet…that's coming up in just a few weeks). But why should that stop anyone? Here's the "cast of characters!"

Greg Giraldo - Theo Payne / Beakman
Carla Gugino - Cleara
Leslie Nielsen - Mayor Jogen
Anna Faris - Mrs. Jogen
Eric Christian Olsen - Mark Ockle / Squak
Ben Harr - The Stoner
Chris Elliot - The Great Jim
Fred Willard - Alfred
Adam Campbell - Superman
Kevin McDonald - Dock Cock
Lil' Kim - Betty Sue
Jonathon Martes - Spider-Man
Penny Ulrich - Lindsey
Lochlyn Munro - Daredevil
Shannon Elizabeth - Elektra
Adam Arkin - Mephistopheles
Xavier Reboir - Lex Lover

I'll go in order, giving you a "yes" or "no". Presume that a "no" is both to the actor and the character. A "yes" is a yes to both.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no and no.

Other than that, it's a really accurate entry.

Time for rebirth…Today is my 36th birthday. It’s also Jesus’ rebirthday. No, I’m not comparing myself to Jesus. And yes, I chose the picture because it’s so ridiculous.

I just love the idea of MEGAJESUS, looming over Earth like a hypoglycemic Galactus, pissed off at our stupidity and failure. He’s so angry, the back of his head has exploded outward, forming some awesome new nebula. The moon is this painting’s version of Jackie O., and it’s getting drenched in MegaJ’s cosmic brain splatter.

The tear rolling down The Boss’ cheek? That’s his burgeoning sense of retribution, the volume and pressure of which is so great it has begun leaking in liquid form from his improbably blue Jewish eye.

Just look at his brow. It’s telling you the entire story. That’s the brow of a man who is about to take a bite out of a planet.

But I digress…

I want to talk about endings and beginnings. Those of us who write are plagued and blessed at once by an overexposure to cycles. No, I don’t believe in reincarnation or the divinity of Jesus or some of the hippier notions about how we’re all one with Gaia, etc. I do, however, believe that all human experiences begin, then progress, and then end.

I’m a writer. I’m soaking in that. And because I write, I find myself constantly beginning stories, places, ideas, people, moments…then experiencing them progress…and then watching them end.

And when they end…they end as finally as anything can. I do not know what Keyser Soze did after he got into the car with his lawyer at the end of The Usual Suspects, and I’m pretty sure I never will.

Just like that….(poof)…he’s gone.

All this beginning and ending stuff can start playing with your head. Like mathematicians who started noticing small recursive fractals as compositional blocks of larger recursive fractals, you begin to see the cycles in your own life on multiple levels. There’s breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And then there are multiyear arcs, like movements of a symphony.

Maybe you don’t see this, but I do.

Curiously, my cycles seem to take on four year spans.

I won’t bore you with childhood, but high school was an interesting four years. College…four years. After college, I spent four years trying to make my way toward something I could do as a career…a search for permanency, perhaps.

And I found it.

I spent the next four years establishing myself as a working screenwriter as well as a husband.

I spent the next four years establishing myself as a solo working screenwriter, as well as a father.

And I’ve spent these last four years establishing myself as a…for lack of a better phrase…successful screenwriter.

Ding! Four years are up.

And now?

Last week, I had lunch with a friend. Another writer. I look up to him in a very pure way; there’s no creepy jealousy or competitiveness or resentment to infect my relationship with him. I’m not particularly prone to those things, but I’m not inhuman either—I’m lucky that circumstances are such that I can admire someone as cleanly as I admire this guy.

By the way, he doesn’t blog or comment in here, so don’t bother guessing.

Hint…it’s not Josh Olson.

So anyway, we sat at lunch and this guy lectured me. He actually said, “I want to lecture you about something.” And then he did.

Best

lecture

EVAR.

In fact, it was such a good lecture, it sent me hurtling toward my therapist, but in a good way. What this guy said to me was something I really needed to hear, and I really needed to hear it from him. It was the best compliment I’ve ever received, and almost certainly the scariest too. Good for him. His lecture may very well be the thing that sets the table and defines my next four year cycle.

What I’m saying is that I think I just typed FADE IN: on myself yet again.

“Okay,” you’re saying. “Enough preamble. What was the lecture??????”

Ummm…

…would you mind terribly if I didn’t tell you?

Cuz I’m not.

It’s not for you. It’s for me. It wouldn’t apply to you, and that’s true if you’re a hundred times more successful than I or a 15 year-old desperate for some guidance. This stuff was custom advice (although if you really want a hint…I’ll say this…I doubt I’ll use the language I used to describe the last few cycles when it’s time to describe the next one…)

What I can tell you is that you’re in a cycle right now, whether you like it or not.

Did you know? Do you understand it? Is there a rhythm to it?

Are you at the beginning?

Lost in the desert of your own 2nd act?

Nearing the end (that’s the scary one)?

Do you care?

You don’t have to. Honestly. Most characters are blissfully unaware that they’re in the stories we write, so why should we torture ourselves by getting recursive with the narrative of our own lives? I only dabble with the recursion myself. I’m sure Pirandello would think of me as a self-oblivious dolt.

Still, birthdays tend to do this to me.

And so, I’ll think I’ll give some of you a gift.

This gift is for the struggling. Particularly, it’s for the struggling young. This gift is for the people who have begun the “set out on my own” cycle. Maybe you’re in a new city. You’re trying to make it in a new business. You have no experience. You have no connections.

That was me…beginning of Cycle 3.

I don’t archive much of my life, but there’s one piece of paper I’ve saved all these years. I finally scanned it and laminated it, because it’s so important to me. When I arrived in Los Angeles in July of 1992, all I knew is that before anything good could happen to me, I needed to get a job.

I stood out on the corner of La Cienega and Pico, leafed through a payphone yellowpages (ahhhh, the pre-cell, pre-net days), and started cold-calling temp agencies.

I had a pen, which ran out of ink…and a pencil.

Today, I’m a rich guy with a hot wife and two great kids and a nice house and I do what I love for a living.

But fifteen years ago…

….I was this piece of paper.

Note the boxed note in the top middle. The one where I set a meeting with Louise at The Friedman Agency for 2:30 on Wednesday, July 29, 1992. That’s the meeting that gets me my first couple of temp jobs, one of which becomes a permanent job, which becomes a writing job, which gets me a marketing job at Disney, which leads to my career as a screenwriter.

I’m particularly fond of the question mark floating above it. I have no idea why it’s there, but I love that it’s there.

This paper is not some trophy or something. It’s my reverse Ozymandias. Know what I mean?

Look upon my Beginning, Ye Mighty, and smile!

I’m not saying you’re going to be rich and happy and famous. Honestly. I don’t know what you’re going to be. Drug-addicted hobo isn’t out of the question.

What I’m saying is…treasure your beginnings. That’s where all the fun is. That’s what I’m doing right now. Because I’m beginning a new cycle.

Let’s see where it goes.

Ah, Golden Years! So full of life!
We’ve never felt bett—arrghhh, my hip…!I’m not sure if it’s coincidence or cyclical, but every few months, I decide to piss people off. Mind you, it’s not because I care about pissing people off, but I know that if I just offer my unvarnished opinion, there’s gonna be some blowback. The most famous example of this is probably my essay entitled Passing On The Diversity Pass, which not only annoyed some of my own readers, but was sent around the internet by outraged readers. I occasionally track back to the incoming reference links.

As a result, I know that a good amount of people out there think I’m a racist douchemonger (although I did learn one interesting thing…a number of black people are apparently horrified that white people do not wash raw meat before cooking it…a cultural divide I didn’t know existed). So it goes.

Hey…old folks?

It’s your turn.

Last week, letters were mailed out to nearly seventy thousand Americans who have worked in one form or another as a professional television or screen writer. Those letters were a notice that, as a result of a class action lawsuit, lawyers were going to be getting their hands on the files kept by our health insurance fund.

We were given the option of requesting that our private data remain private.

I availed myself.

The class action lawsuit is an ageism lawsuit. The plaintiffs allege that the companies that comprise what we call “Hollywood” systematically and wrongfully discriminate against people over the age of 40, and they’re looking for payback.

One plaintiff, a man I know well and respect, has suggested that restitution take the form of financial compensation plus a new employment system in which all writing jobs be monitored and allotted across age groups.

I reject both the premise and the proposed solution with every ounce of my being.

First, let me get the obvious question out of the way.

I’m not over 40.

In 11 days, I’ll be 36.

On the other hand, if someone found out that DuPont had exposed all Americans to a chemical that makes your feet rot off the second you hit 40, I’d back a class action suit, giving that I only had four short years left to enjoy my toes.

I’ll be in the “protected class” of over-40 writers in four years, and I still say, “No.”

Why?

Because I think the problem isn’t about discrimination.

To me, discrimination in unemployment is the irrational deprivation of employment opportunities on the basis of sex, age, race, religion, creed or sexual orientation. That’s it.

An imbalance in the distribution of employment doesn’t necessarily signify discrimination. If it did, why is the Gray Brigade going after Hollywood first? When was the last time you saw a 50 year-old working at The Gap, or behind the concession stand at a movie theater, or at a video game store, or bouncing in front of a club?

There are two non-discriminatory reasons large groups can be underserved by employment opportunities.

First, those groups aren’t interested in taking the jobs.

Second, those groups don’t fit the requirements for the jobs.

It’s the second category that gets tricky, but it’s certainly a reality. Some jobs require heavy lifting. Some jobs require physical beauty. Such is life.

In the case of writing, it’s true that the large bulk of writing is done by people between the ages of 25 and 50. After 50, the numbers start to dwindle. After 60, they really start to shrink, and once you get into the 70’s and 80’s, you’re talking about a very select (and hardy) group.

Why?

Why would Hollywood discriminate against 50-somethings and senior citizens?

Is it because they just hate old people? No. They hire directors and actors over the age of 50 all the time. Is it because Hollywood is run by the young, and young people hate old people? No, Hollywood is run entirely by men and women in their 50’s and over. Is it because older people are “bad in a room”? Nah, we write scripts, and scripts don’t have faces.

Is it because there’s something intrinsic to the work done by older writers that has a discouraging effect on their ability to get hired?

Uh oh….

What if the answer to that question is (gasp) “yes”?

A few years ago, I spoke to a group of recent Princeton graduates who had just arrived in L.A., fresh-faced and ready to being their careers as writers. I looked out at the room full of 21 to 25 year-olds, and I said:

Here’s the bad news. No matter how talented you are right now, I’m better than you. I’m better than you, because I’ve been doing it for a while, and that experience is invaluable. Ah, but here’s the good news. You have more energy than I do. You don’t have a spouse, or children. You’re not bored. You’re not frustrated. You’re not tired of all the crap I’ve been dealing with for years. Use that. That’s how you’re going to take me down.

It’s true.

Writing novels can be a leisurely endeavor. Writing for television or movies can’t. At the end of the day, we’re employees on deadlines. Whether it’s the trenches of weekly television or the crucible of production rewrites on the movie set, professional screenwriting is a heartless taskmaster of a vocation.

Who succeeds?

Talent trumps everything, but here’s a short list of attributes that tend to help: humility, drive, energy, ambition, work-for-reasonable-pay, low expectations, hunger, fearlessness, no kids, no wife, no mortgage, no life, no need for self-examination, no depression, no bad hip, no doctor’s appointments, no self-respect, no pride, no arrogance, no reminiscing, no condescension, no sense of entitlement, no better days to compare the present to and no victimhood to get in the way of the work.

Not all of those things are what you’d call “good for you” (no life is a bad thing, but hey, if you’re working staff on a sitcom, it’s pretty much s.o.p.). Still, they’re things that tend to help one achieve success in a demanding business, and they’re also things that tend to be associated with life in one’s 20’s and 30’s.

Less so in one’s 40’s and beyond.

Look, I wish I lived in a world where a sense of personal dignity helped you get work in Hollywood, but the desperate and the shameless seem to be lapping those of us who maintain a sense of pride.

There’s another possible explanation (and one of Ted’s observations).

Hollywood isn’t a meritocracy, but that’s partly not Hollywood’s fault. Writing isn’t something one can do as qualitatively consistent as, say, plumbing. In other words, not every script is going to be great.

You may start your career with a couple of great scripts, maybe better than what your average script quality is over the course of your lifetime.

The longer you work, the more evident and predictive your batting average becomes.

Makes sense, right? Sure, Darin Erstad hit .355 in 2000, but he never even broke .300 before or since.

And so, as you make your way into your 40’s, if your overall average is lower than your early average, you’re going to get culled. It’s just a function of being around long enough for people to decide that they don’t really want you after all.

There’s another possible theory, and this is the one that really annoys people when I bring it up.

Maybe our skills start to diminish as we age.

It’s certainly not something that’s inevitable or absolute. There are screenwriters in their 70’s who are better right now than I’ll ever be.

But are they better than they were in their 40’s?

Losing heat off the fastball seems like it’s almost a must-happen. Maybe I think that because I do not and have never bought into the baby-boomer fantasy of “the golden years are the best years of our lives”. This notion that growing old somehow frees us to have fun and live life to its fullest and be the best we’ve ever been is mostly promoted by drug companies selling medicines to old people whose hearts, livers, pancreases, kidneys and penises have stopped working properly.

I believe this is a basic truth of life.

Getting old is NOT fun. It’s not the best years of your life. It’s not golden. As far as I can tell, it’s wrinkly, dry, painful and depressing (particularly when the rash of weddings and baby showers of your youth are replaced by the funerals of your departed friends). The only thing that can save you as you grow old, I suspect, is a fond willingness to embrace the downward spiral in which you find yourself.

To quote George Harrison, “As I’m sitting here doing nothing but aging…”

…well, that’s me and you. I’m growing older with every passing second. My life is finite. My best physical years are already behind me. My brain is likely starting to slide. The very existence of my children—my replacements—signals my inevitable obsolescence.

I believe I’m still getting better as a writer. Experience is the boon of age, counteracting the effects of time. At some point, though, the lines on the graph cross. The net gain begins to slide into deficit.

Why is this so awful to contemplate, much less admit?

One day, I just won’t have it the way I used to. I will write, and no one will want it. That will be a sad day. That day will no doubt be as sad as the day I need bifocals, or the day my knees start to ache permanently, or the day I fall and snap a wrist, or the day the doctor finally gives me the “I’m going to tell you that you’re going to die” look, and then tells me I’m going to die.

Lawsuits are just another way to scream at mortality and pretend we have control.

We do not.

When my time comes, when I’m knocked off my perch, when all the doors finally close in my face, I’m gonna pack up the laptop and retire. I will embrace the verdict of my fellow man, as brutal as it is, because it is as it must be.

The world is for the young…

…said the man who shall be old.

John WellsA while back, I wrote about a magical studio called Writopia, where writers were treated the way they ought to be, and their lives were better, the movies were better, and dogs and cats played happily together in the sun.

Leave it to the incomparable John Wells to try and actually make it happen.

Yesterday, the Writers Co-Op was announced, and it includes eighteen writers: Ron Bass (“Rain Man”), Henry Bean (“Internal Affairs”), David Benioff (“Troy”), Scott Frank (“Out of Sight”), Robert Nelson Jacobs (“Chocolat”), Kazan (“Reversal of Fortune”), Callie Khouri (“Thelma & Louise”), Richard LaGravanese (“The Fisher King”), Phil Alden Robinson (“Field of Dreams”), Bruce Joel Rubin (“Ghost”), Stephen Schiff (“The Deep End of the Ocean”), Schulman (“Dead Poets Society”), Ed Solomon (“Men in Black”), Dana Stevens (“For Love of the Game”), Robin Swicord (“Memoirs of a Geisha”), Michael Tolkin (“The Player”), Rafael Yglesias (“Fearless”), and the writing team of Lowell Ganz and Babaloo Mandel (“City Slickers”).

When I read this, I thought, “Great. Ted Elliott and I had the same damn idea a year ago, and we never did anything about it.” Then I read that it took Wells and Co. took several years to figure this all out, so I guess I’m not that lazy.

The way it works seems pretty simple. Each of the 18 must write one original script for Warner Brothers within the next four years. The Co-Op will act as the producer of the script. The writer will not be rewritten without their approval, which is obviously a revolutionary idea, and the writer will be meaningfully included in the development and production processes from start to finish.

The enticement for the studio is this: if they want to buy the scripts, they will cost in the low mid-six figures. This is an enormously advantageous term for Warner Brothers, as most if not all of the participating writers typically sell specs for no less than a million dollars, and sometimes upwards of three million or more.

So are these writers trading creative rights for money they should be rightfully earning?

Quite the contrary.

I’ve spoken to someone on the business side of things who worked on this deal, and while I’m not going to be so gauche as to spell it all out, I can tell you that if any of these guys get movies made under this Co-Op, they will be rewarded under terms better than I think any writer has ever received.

If Warner Brothers agrees to produce the films, the first thing that happens is that the writer is “made whole” on his quote. In other words, if he or she normally writes an original for $1.5 million but sells a script under this program for $300K, when the script is greenlit, the writer gets the remaining $1.2 million and then additional money as their credit bonus allows.

Beyond that, the writer gets a significant first-dollar gross position.

For those who don’t know what first-dollar gross is, it works like this. If you have, say, 2.5% of first dollar gross, then once the studio meets certain agreed-upon conditions, the studio then gives you two and half cents out of every dollar it earns on the film via theatrical, broadcast, pay-per-view, home video, etc.

What are those conditions? They vary, and I don’t know what they are here, but generally speaking, they’re better than “first we have to recoup our entire investment.” If you have first dollar gross, you’re very likely going to see some real profit out of the back end of the film.

However, most first dollar gross deals state that the upfront money is “against” the back end money. In other words, if you earn $1.5M up front and you have 2.5% fdg on the back end, the studio doesn’t have to pay out profits to you until the amount you’ve earned through your 2.5% exceeds the $1.5M they’ve already paid you.

That’s why first dollar deals sometimes seem better than they actually are. If you make a lot up front, the movie has to do very, very well for you to make significantly more on top of that.

Not so in this case. In this case, I’m hearing that the upfront money for the Co-Op writers is not applicable against the back end, which is a fantastic term for the writers, even considering that part of the profits are kicked back to the Co-Op to help offset operation expenses.

Of course, balanced against all of that reward is a substantial risk: they’re agreeing to sell their scripts at a steep discount of anywhere from 70-90%.

What’s fascinating about this particular group is that it bucks a number of trends. I don’t think any of the writers (save Benioff) is under 40. Quite a few are in their 50’s. Most write challenging fare. If we’re to believe the conventional wisdom, studios are frightened to death of older, high-priced intellectual scribes.

Turns out they’re not, and that’s good news for any of us in the business who plan on aging or being serious (I’m one for two on that account).

In addition, many of these writers are pretty well-known as WGA guild activists. Through one sort of Guild thing or another, I’ve come to know John, Scott, Robin, Phil, Tom, Ron and Stephen. I don’t know if long-time Guild activists (including some people a lot of us think as “militant”) getting in bed with Warner Brothers is a good thing or a bad thing, but since I believe in labor detente, I’m going to say it’s a good thing.

It’s possible that nothing will come of this, the way the much-heralded Sony program fizzled out years ago (that was a deal where writers who met certain criteria could access back end profits on their movies, but the definitions weren’t that spectacular and Sony didn’t really seem to want to make any of those writers’ movies at the time).

Personally, I think this will matter. The business is changing. Whether writers take the reigns through partnerships with financiers or by creating mini-unions like the Writers Co-Op, one thing is clear. The old ways are starting to fade. I fully expect other A-listers to attempt to follow suit. As for me, all I can say is that Ted and I were on the phone for a long time yesterday…

Naturally, a lot of non A-list writers want to know how this affects them.

There’s good news and there’s bad news.

I think if this kind of idea spreads, it puts a downward economic pressure on spec prices, and an upward economic pressure on production prices. In other words, it’s a lot harder to get a million bucks for a spec when studios are suddenly accustomed to paying much less than that to world-class writers.

On the other hand, the barn doors that hid the real prize from us—true back end participation—have finally been flung open. The floor has been lowered a bit, but the ceiling has been raised a lot. Furthermore, studios will become more accustomed to partnering with writers, rather than marginalizing them.

To sum up: if you think the best years of your career are ahead of you, this is great news.

If you think you peaked a while ago, this ain’t gonna make things any easier.

I tend to be an optimist. I don’t know if what Wells and Co. did here is necessarily a good thing for writers per se, but it’s a great thing for the profession of writing, and for that, I applaud them.

Everyone has their idiosyncracies when writing. I’m not too fussy, but I know what I like. I like a room with no windows. I like a split keyboard. I like a big monitor, I like a bulletin board with my index cards up with clear thumbtacks, I like a baseball within arm’s reach (a nice soft training one because I toss it up and down and if it gets away from me, it’s nice to limit the damage).

What I have never liked is listening to music while writing.

I’ve always been a quiet worker. I find music distracting when I work, to the point where I feel frustrated…like a neurological patient who suddenly can’t find words he knows but can’t quite get out.

This isn’t because I hate music. It’s because I love music. I love it so much, it tends to grab my attention completely, and suddenly I’m adrift.

I’ve been playing music pretty much my whole life. My first instrument was the piano, of course, because I grew up in a middle-class Jewish home, and that’s what middle-class Jewish kids played. I wish I could say I enjoyed the piano. I didn’t really. I had some aptitude for it, and I remember doing pretty well at a recital, but I didn’t love it. For me, piano sounded great but felt forced. It never flowed for me.

My next instrument was the clarinet. Why? See Jewish home, middle-class.

I was actually quite good at the clarinet, and as a 10 year-old, I played in the Staten Island Borough-Wide Intermediate orchestra (which drew from the best of the orchestral players in the middle schools on Staten Island). The only problem with the clarinet was that it was a freakin’ clarinet. Don’t get me wrong. I loved being part of an orchestra. I really did. It’s just that…I mean…is it too much to ask for an instrument that doesn’t remind everyone of fellatio?

By the time I entered high school, I had left the piano and woodcock…sorry, clarinet…behind. I started concentrating on my singing, which I enjoyed far more, and which also got me girls. This was a far better pursuit, and I still love to sing.

But singin’ ain’t playing an instrument. You can’t lose yourself while singing, because you’re singing.

And then, one day………I met the drums.

Hallelujah. For the first time in my life, I felt like I had found my instrument. I had a natural feel and improvisational ability with the drums that I never had with the piano or the penisflute, and I threw myself happily into lessons.

I became obsessed with drums, drum gear, drummers…all of it. I bought myself a sweet kit made by Spaun Drums, a custom maker here in Southern California who does terrific work on par with DW and the other high-end bigshots. I bought Zildjians, Sabians, DW double-brace hardware, Pearl Eliminator double kick pedals, Remo heads for my snares and toms, an Evans EMAD for my kick…

…I could go on for hours about all this. But I won’t.

Because five and half years ago, I had my first child, and the drumming sort of stopped there.

It’s not my kid’s fault. I just have this thing about not drumming and waking up a sleeping baby. And then we had another kid. And the last five years have also been the busiest of my career.

Drumming had to take a back seat. So, what filled the gap?

What else?

Guitar, like the drums, is one of those instruments I just have a feel for, although without the benefit of lessons, I’m just a happy strummer. If you’re going to buy an electric guitar, and you’re going to buy one electric guitar, you’ll be buying the American Fender Stratocaster (Deluxe, if you can), and that’s that.

Unless you buy the Telecaster. That’s acceptable.

Nothing wrong with buying other guitars. Some great ones out there. But you have to have a Strat or a Tele before you go any further. Pair it up with a nice amp (tube amp only, please…we must be civilized, no?), find a fun multieffects pedal, and you can rock the brains out yer skull…and yes, quietly enough that the kids don’t wake up.

Still, electric guitars are for fun. Acoustic guitars are what make me happy. I’m self-taught. I can’t solo really, my technique is probably quite dodgy, and I have an annoying habit of playing without a pick, because I like the feel better than way. Still, I know a goodly sum of chords, and my fingers have gotten pretty strong over the years.

So yesterday, I treated myself to a reeeeeeally nice acoustic guitar. The latest addition to the Mazin instrument family is this bad boy.

It’s a Martin HD-28VE. Just a gorgeous guitar. I played some Taylors and a Takamine and a few other Martins, but this one just sounded so great to me. Such a joy to play.

But this article isn’t just about me and my love of music and my latest gear obsessions.

It’s about a major shift that’s occurred in my writing routine.

For the last few weeks, and for the first time ever in my career, I’m writing to music. I’m working on Superhero!, and even though spoof requires plenty of joke construction, this genre just feels so part-and-parcel with music. I can’t hum many film scores, but I know the score to Superman, I know the score to Burton’s Batman, and I can even hum parts of Spiderman.

So I decided to give it a shot. I downloaded Elfman’s Batman, Zimmer & Howard’s Batman Begins and Elfman’s Spiderman. I found pieces that fit the tone of the scenes I was writing (because in spoof, we never ever ever do “funny” music…I hate “funny” music…the music works as a serious counterpoint to the comedy, perhaps never better than with Elmer Bernstein’s original score for Airplane!), and then I just put them on repeat play.

I loved it.

It’s a pretty big breakthrough for me, because after ten years of a routine, any change seems like a breakthrough. The music doesn’t necessarily make the dialogue sharper or the jokes funnier. What it does is help me shape the feeling and purpose and pace of the scene as I write.

It also motivates me to think about which scenes require music and which don’t. The scenes that seem to work best without score are the snappy patter dialogue scenes, and this is really a “duh” sort of observation, because when it’s time to score our movies, those are the scenes we don’t score.

And yet, when you’re writing everything for the first time, all these cues help.

I don’t know if I’ll think of every movie this way, but something tells me I should. I know enough about my own creative process to know that I know very little about my creative process. Anything that helps me stumble to a scene that feels right is worth using.

Funny…I’ve always visualized the scenes. Saw the costumes, saw the faces, imagined the space, determined the angles, heard the sound effects…

…but never the music. Until now. For a guy who loves music so much, it seems like a strange bias to have had.

I blame the dickhorn!

You can’t spoof
a comedy…A number of people have written asking me what I think of Date Movie and Epic Movie…both of which, I must again point out, I had nothing to do with.

The films’ marketing campaigns make fair use of the fact that Date and Epic Movie were created by two of the six writers of the first Scary Movie. You know, the one from seven years ago.

Anyway, I’ve now seen both Date Movie and Epic Movie. I’ll refrain from discussing whether or not I liked the films, because I think they present something far more interesting to unravel.

What the hell are they?

I’m not being facetious. In many ways, Friedberg & Seltzer, the guys behind Date and Epic Movie, have created a new comic genre.

First off, I have to say…these are not spoof films. To understand what a spoof film is, consider the spoof par excellence: Airplane!

Airplane! is, in fact, a comedic version of an overly serious film called “Zero Hour!” And that’s really all spoof is. It’s a comedic version of an overly serious film. Spoofs are not satires (a fact over which Jim Abrahams and I first bonded). Airplane! has no larger point, no insight to offer, no criticism to make. It merely offers us a familiar drama, but stocks the drama with characters who are curiously moronic (so moronic, they can barely tell that each other is a moron). Spoofs use parody, absurdity, wordplay and broad physical comedy to repackage something that was pompous and purposeful into something that is aggressively pointless.

Over the years, the spoof evolved somewhat. The Naked Gun spoofed a genre of television show, rather than a specific movie. Hot Shots! started the trend of spoofing multiple films that are linked by genre, and the Scary Movies are obviously children of that film, although they’ve been pushing the boundaries of spoof. Superhero!, the film I’m working on right now, is, well…I’m not allowed to say anything about that, but I can say its spoof style will be less Scary Movie and more…well, I can’t say.

What I can say is that Date Movie and Epic Movie are not at all spoofs. They feature some spoofesque humor, but they break a few cardinal rules of spoofing.

They do comic takes on comic films. They go after not just one or two or even five movies, but upwards of ten or twenty. And ultimately, they’re not so much movies as collections of sketches in which the lead actors change costumes constantly, become different characters as they need be, and work within the ever-changing dictates of whatever the next sketch is.

Also, they don’t spoof genres, despite their titles. What they seem to spoof is pretty much every notable film that came out in the year or two prior to their release.

Finally, and most importantly, much of what they do is reference a film without actually parodying the film. For example, in Date Movie, Allison Hannigan’s character has a nightmare in which she discovers she’s about to marry Napoleon Dynamite. The Friedberg & Seltzer version of Napoleon Dynamite says the exact same things that the actual Napoleon Dynamite character said, and nothing more. Similarly, at the end of Epic Movie, a Borat look-alike shows up to say, “Is nice!”, but that’s it.

In musical terms, their genre is more like a mashup, whereas spoof is more like a cover or a new song with samples from another song.

So they’re not pure sketch movies like Kentucky Fried Movie, but they’re not spoofs of a film (Airplane!) or a genre (Scary Movie).

They’re actually a genre unto their own. That’s pretty wild. It’s like finding a new species of dog or something.

So what do we call this stuff (easy now…)?

My buddy Scott Tomlinson, who knows a bit about sketch comedy, has the best name for the genre so far: comic film re-enactment.

Got a better name?

Granted, you may need more than two films before you can really christen something a “genre,” and I don’t know how many more of these Friedberg & Seltzer are going to do. All I can say is, as a devotee and disciple and ordained Jedi knight of the ZAZ religion…

…it’s definitely something else entirely.

Turman smash!These days, we’re clocking nearly 30,000 unique visitors a month at The Artful Writer. That’s great, but a lot of you are missing out on one of the best parts of this site: the Forum. Registering is free and easy, and the forum features one of our more popular offerings—the Ask A Pro section.

Right now, John Turman is our Pro, and he’s doling out advice and answers far more valuable than the stuff people pay for…be it in books or conventions or script analysts.

You can join the Forum and check it out for yourself, but for those who are lazy, here’s some of John’s insights and advice…

• …it’s important to respect genre. Genre is just another word for audience expectations. You can cross them, mash them up, violate the expectations, but do it judiciously and know what you’re doing when you break “rules.”

• Seriously, the only thing that gives you an edge is writing. Finishing marketable material. If you’re writing, you should produce 3-4 projects a year, finished works. For pay, or on spec if you’re not paid. These are the closest a writer comes to having a work force. They go out and circulate and maybe come back with money or a job.

• Storyboard work helps a bit when you’re mapping action. Legal background hurts when you’re starting out. Any lack of ignorance hurts when you’re starting out. You should be naive and enthusiastic and wildly productive but if you know a bit of what actually goes on in the business, it’s easy to self-censor and that’s bad.

• Protect your process. Whatever your process is, whatever you need to do to organize your life so that you can finish 3 projects a year. I was speaking at USC and sharing the session with an agent, who went on about how a writer needs to protect his process — the things he needs to do and organize his life and routine to make writing as regular and primary as possible. A great speech. I wish early on that I had an agent who told me those things.

• I recommend that you don’t go out with your script for feedback, to agents, to the market, until you’ve at least begun your next project. An outline, notes, the actual script. This is protecting your process. It’s easier to take negativity, rejection, or even smoke blown up your ass when you’re engaged in another creative work. It keeps the focus on what matters - the work. If someone trashes your script, that’s okay, because the one you’re working on now… that’s the brilliant one. It helps you survive.

• Writing is not about waiting until you’re inspired to create magic. The people who think that aren’t professional writers. They teach candle-making at the Bodhi Tree bookstore. Inspiration comes to the prepared mind. Sit down and work. We all need to write a lot of bad pages to get to the good ones.

• There are useful storytelling theories. You can come up with some yourself. But the paradigms and graphs and charts of rising action… that stuff is mostly crap and has probably overcomplicated the process for more writers than they have ever helped. I have plenty of theories of various sorts and problem-solving tools, that I’ve found for myself, but there’s not the time here for that. Read those books, they can inspire and give an idea or two, but don’t follow them. Most of them are written by failed or lousy screenwriters. See movies, read scripts. Just tell a story and make sure it’s in the right format.

• What we usually miss when we talk about films is the sense of newness and innocence through which we viewed films 10 or 20 years ago, more than the films themselves.

• That’s why an obsession with convention, with how the big writers write certain scenes or handle certain situations, will hold you back. Study them, learn technique and craft, but you had better have something unique of your own to say with that genre and a unique way to say it.

• I don’t believe in the concept of writer’s block. This can make for some awkward times when I’m not getting done. I think it’s all less mysterious and mystical than that. I just think it’s an indulgent concept. And even if it does exist, it serves no good purpose to believe in it. I don’t buy into ‘Demons”. Issues and psychological motivational problems maybe. A decent book on the “problem” of procrastination is THE WAR OF ART by Stephen Pressfield. Treat it like a real job, not magic. Same as living a moral life. Religion is superstition, in writing as in anything. It may give added ‘meaning’ but it creates magical thinking which is ultimately pretty disempowering.

• Conflict is the method of drama. It arises from character. Going back to Aristotle (read ‘Poetics) and before (Plato, Socrates), the Greek philosophical model seeks to resolve conflict through discourse. This is dramatic story-telling in essence. This dialectic is an exchange of propositions. The thesis is the first proposition. It can be a question or plan or idea/value the character holds. The antithesis is the counter proposition or obstacle, an opposing force. The synthesis is what results or resolves, transforming the material and the conflict between the thesis and antithesis into something new. This is where the idea of 3 act structure comes from. I use ‘thesis-antithesis-synthesis’ as philosophical short-hand for the basic structure of drama. As Syd Field would say, get your character up a tree, throw rocks at him, get him down. Going up the tree is the thesis, it’s the character’s solution to some problem. In the tree he has rocks thrown at him (antithesis), complicating the action. The synthesis is how and why he finds a way down from the tree. It’s the under structure of the play or movie, as well as being repeated internally as the basic structure of the smaller units contained within, the scene.

Pretty good stuff, I think, and you don’t even have to buy a pricey ticket to the Screenwriting Expo or anything. I hope to see you there.

No, you’re not…

Time Magazine has apparently gone off the deep end.

According to their typically controversial “Person of the Year” issue, “you” are the person of the year.

You. All of you. The great mass of people in the world. Of their curious choice, Time asks thoughtfully…

Who are these people? Seriously, who actually sits down after a long day at work and says, I’m not going to watch Lost tonight. I’m going to turn on my computer and make a movie starring my pet iguana? I’m going to mash up 50 Cent’s vocals with Queen’s instrumentals? I’m going to blog about my state of mind or the state of the nation or the steak-frites at the new bistro down the street? Who has that time and that energy and that passion?

The answer is, you do. And for seizing the reins of the global media, for founding and framing the new digital democracy, for working for nothing and beating the pros at their own game, TIME’s Person of the Year for 2006 is you.

Oh, for God’s…

No. No you’re not.

The cult of “YouTube and digital cameras and home editing will seize the reigns of global media” really needs to be put down like a rabid dog. Putting aside the manipulative smarm of a large global media corporation smoothly announcing to its paid customers that they are really in charge, this theory is typically propagated for two reasons, both faulty.

Before I say why people believe this, let me tell you why I don’t believe this.

I’m one of those guys who logs on and blogs for free. I’m unpaid, uncontrolled…an unfettered spirit of the new generation.

It just so happens that my blog is (and I say with honesty) good.

It’s actually good. I’m interesting. I’m interesting, I write about interesting things, and I know this, because last month 40,000 different people stopped by at one point or another to read this site or participate in the forum without the lure of advertising or a larger aggregate site or the promise of anything other than text on a screen. That’s pretty good.

I also know that 99% of the blogs about steak frites at the local bistro are horrendous, boring and ugly.

MySpace is the home of horrendousboringugly par excellence. Spend any time browsing there, lately? To me, it mostly appears to be a tidal wave of idiots who believe that the best way to express their incredibly common selves is through flashing yellow text on a purple field while a song with the words “playaz” and “u” in the title plays too loudly in the background.

And folks…I wrote Scary Movie 3, okay? I’m not a snob. But I am an elitist (more on that in a bit).

Over at YouTube, there’s some fascinating stuff (my favorite is the Will It Blend? guy), but again, the vast majority is crap. Boring crap. LonelyGirl15?

Have you watched that stuff?

It’s just…like…well….bad. It’s bad and boring and innocous, sort of like a mini-episode of Dawson’s Creek if there were only one character and the show was short.

But would you pay to watch it? Would you pay to watch any of this stuff?

Even the best and most clever and assiduous of home-media folks create things I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t buy. I enjoy the occasional episode of Red vs. Blue or a StrongBad email, but would I pay for it?

No.

Nope.

The difference between creating something that people will actually leave their homes and travel to enjoy, and creating something that people have to make no effort at all to enjoy is vast and deep. Even television programs, which seem free, need to be good enough to sustain enough interest that you’re willing to sit through commercials.

YouTube has millions of users and millions of videos. But really…honestly…couldn’t you live without…all of it?

I would gladly agree to incinerate all of the content on YouTube in exchange for one more season of The Sopranos.

Let’s get back to the why of it all.

I think there are two reasons people like to believe that the common man is wrestling the fire of media away from the professionals (there’s a third reason, cynical stroking, that I believe is behind Time’s selection).

The first is irrational exuberance over technology. Every time there’s a technological leap, it takes about a millisecond before someone starts talking about how the world will never be the same. This exuberance can become so convincing, otherwise rational people start doing insane things.

Like, say, merging with AOL.

Oh, that was Time again, right?

It’s simple human nature. The Segway is going to change the architecture of cities, and YouTube is going to hand the “reigns” of global media to the common man.

This, by the way, is the good excuse for believing all this stuff.

Far more prevalent, I suspect, is the great scourge of sloppy thought: egalitarianism.

Egalitarians hate the fact that some people are better at stuff than others. Mind you, I’m avoiding a strict discussion of quality, because that’s a messier topic that has whipped the readers of this site into frenzies before.

On a meaningful results basis, though…be it tickets sold or subscribers signed up…some people are better than others at creating the stuff other people want to watch.

Egalitarians don’t want to believe that. They want to believe that it is unfair systems that propel certain people and repress others. YouTube isn’t a website to these folks, you see. It’s a tool of liberation. If only you, Joe McCheetobreath, sitting in your mom’s basement, had the access to mass eyeballs that, say, J.J. Abrams has, why…everyone would be talking about how entertaining you are!

The problem with egalitarians is that they’re just plain wrong. I can’t prove they are. I just have faith.

Like I said before, I’m not a snob. I think all sorts of content can be entertaining if I find that it’s done well, be it existential explorations about life or just a good joke about pee. I’m an elitist, however, because I do think that some people are better at delivering what I like.

Often, those people are better at delivering what a lot of people like.

Earlier, I said that this was a good blog. Lots of people read it.

I’m thinking now, however, that maybe it’s not that good. Maybe the fact that in a month, I’m up to the same number of people that sit through a Ginsu infomercial at 2 AM in Portland isn’t a good thing at all.

Making movies that millions of people see? That’s good.

This place?

You know, I just might have caught myself staring lovingly into Time’s magic mirror of self-deception. Funny…they still sell fake “Man of the Year” mirrors for people to buy. The idea that you were the Man of the Year used to be a corny joke.

Now it’s a legitimate idea being force-fed back to us all.

The stuff on YouTube is fun, and I really like the blogs, but all that’s reflected in this mirror is good ol’ run-of-the-mill delusions of grandeur.

Look away, look away, look away….

Mmm, no,
a little smaller…Writing is freedom, or so say people who don’t write. We who ply the live action screen trade are all-too-familiar with the concept of restraint. Our limitation is that annoying little aspect of life known as “reality”. I used to think the choke collar of reality would tug the hardest when I was trying to dream big.

Hah. Totally wrong.

Reality’s endless jabbing annoys the most when I haven’t been dreaming at all.

Case in point: you cannot walk into an office building.

Try having a character “walk into an office building”. That’s fine for now. It’s fine ten drafts from now. But if you’ve done your job well and the stars align, you’ll find yourself sitting across a table from the 1st Assistant Director in the production offices of the film of your movie, and he’s going to ask you what the hell you mean.

“Now, are we talking skyscraper, suburban office complex, three-office law firm type thing, is it nice, run-down, art on the walls, cheeseball, full of doctors or large businesses or crappy accountants, does it have marble on the floors, receptionist, elevator or walk-up, is it imposing, diminished, old, new, light, dark, clean, dusty, crowded, empty…”

And no matter what you end up answering, the first answer in your head…the real answer is…”Umm, I don’t know.”

Gentlemen and women, the rubber has hit the road. Welcome to production.

While it’s true that all the niggling questions of production will ultimately be determined by the director, that doesn’t mean we can’t help guide the director and the production as they create the world of the film.

No, I’m not suggesting that we write all of this stuff into a script. That would be awful. What I am suggesting is that before you find yourself face to face with the 1st A.D. (the person who’s really the field marshal of the shooting set), you prepare yourself with the answers.

There are lots of ways that we screenwriters can find ourselves disappointed with the rendering of our stories. One of the most common is the “that’s not how I imagined it!” syndrome. Oh? And how did you imagine it?

If you imagined it specifically, and by “specifically” I mean that you could have supplied the 1st A.D. or the producer or the director with a document describing in detail your imagined locations, costumes, hair styles, car makes, and all the other tiny flecks of color in your neural painting…then yeah, you get to be disappointed.

If you didn’t, then one of two things is true. Either you knew everything but decided not to speak up, in which case…your fault. Or, as is more often the case, you hadn’t really thought it through.

I am obsessive about “watching” my scenes before I write them. That’s how I’m able to prattle at length when the 1st A.D. asks me for those details. Still, he catches me every now and then, and I’m forced to say something like, “Dammit.”

It’s a scary “dammit”, by the way. It’s like someone asking me where I was yesterday, and there’s a two-hour period I can’t account for. We’re supposed to know our stories inside and out.

The point is not that we must do this to prepare for production. We must do this because it’s what makes a screenplay worth producing. No one will make a movie that seems like it could be shot anywhere with anyone wearing anything. The more you know about your world, the more it affects the story you set in that world. Do yourselves a favor. Go through your scripts like they were someone else’s, and your job was to actually go and shoot it. The only information you have is what’s on the page.

Make a list of questions.

Answer them.

And when it’s your time to sit down across the 1st A.D., make me proud, wouldja?

Over at Kung Fu Monkey, John Rogers has a cool post about the jargon TV writers use. It’s worth checking out, especially if you’re an experienced TV hand who can help contribute to his list.

That inspired me to share a similar “glossary of terms” developed by David Zucker, Jim Abrahams and Jerry Zucker. I do a lot of work with David these days, and I can vouch for the usefulness of the list. Finding a shorthand (especially in comedy) is a very important part of the self-critical process. Sometimes it seems like we spend all day trying to explain to each other why we’re wrong. A list of established terms helps codify those reasons and legitimize the critique.

The following list (copyright David Zucker, reprinted here with permission) is intended for feature comedy writing. Any of you drama guys have something like this?

WRITING

1. Shoe Leather: The physical traveling or action of a character in a scene. If not in direct service of a joke, it’s superfluous.

2. Drive-By: A joke that appears briefly and then out, as opposed to filling up an entire page or two.

3. Bric-A-Brac: Jokes not intrinsic to a plot or scene that only serve to detract from the point the scene is trying to make.

4. Gilding the Lily: Taking a joke so far that it’s no longer funny.

5. Hair Under the Wings: A joke that compromises the integrity of the plot. A joke proposed for AIRPLANE! involved a shot of Ted Striker’s plane taking off with hair under its wings. Funny, but not good for the audience’s investment in the reality of the story.

6. Ya-ta-ta-ta-ta-da: A joke so hokey it needs washboard and kazoo music.

7. Knocking Down the Posts: It’s not enough to set up a parody, you have to do the jokes. In AIRPLANE!, mere recognition that the girl chasing the plane was a spoof of a particular movie was not in itself funny. The laughs came only when she began Knocking Down the Posts.

8. Floocher Dialogue: Filler lines recited by foreground characters to enable the audience to focus on a background joke.

9. But, I Wanna Tell Ya: An extra beat of Floocher Dialogue added to a punchline to make it less of a swing, or to help the audience hear the next line.

10. Ba Dum Bump: Obvious sitcom-style punchline.

11. Transplant and Whack: The joke is the organ we save. Transplant it to a scene that can live and whack the rest.

12. Blow: A joke funny enough to end a scene.

13. EAT: A setup so obvious that it might as well have one of those restaurant neon signs with the blinking arrow pointing right at it.

14. Cumulative Effect: Too much of one thing is never a good thing. One sex joke may be funny, but too many and it’s diminishing returns.

15. Manic Dumb Show: Slapstick for the sake of slapstick, but without character/plot motivation or wit.

16. People Talking in Rooms: The concept that witty dialogue in confined spaces can often times be as effective as huge comedy action scenes.

17. Turn the Play Inside: Use existing characters in all possible instances instead of creating new parts and endless residuals.

18. Off Message: A line or scene that steers the movie off its main plotline.

19. W.P.A.: Scenes so extraneous to plot that they merely serve to fill up pages. Like those old FDR New Deal programs, they’re strictly “make-work”.

20. Eating Your Young: On second draft and beyond, cutting one’s own jokes or scenes that only seem unfunny because of repetition.

21. Dynamite Plunger (hand signal): At the end of the movie, you can get away with things that you couldn’t in the body of the movie. With only moments until credits roll, it’s often okay to blow the bridge, getting broader and sillier with characters previously grounded in a lot more reality.

22. Schmuck Bait: A twist ending that makes the audience feel cheated, such as the old “It-Was-All-A-Dream”.

23. Bridge Too Far: Taking a joke to its illogical conclusion.

CASTING

1. Cheese Factor: W.C. Fields once said, “If you’re going to smash a car, make sure it’s a beat up car. If you’re going to stomp on a man’s hat, make sure it’s a tattered one.” Thus, in “Scary Movie 3,” the best aliens were the cheap ones (Ed. note: semi-robotic aliens were used for initial scenes, but time and budget constraints forced us to use crappy Dr. Who-quality aliens for reshoots. The resulting aliens were absurd, flimsy, obviously fake…and much much funnier.).

2. Black Hole: Some actors just aren’t well disposed to be funny. Often producers think they’ve scored with two A-list actors but are surprised when the result is “Ishtar.”

PRODUCTION

1. Broken Field Running: Saving a scene by improvising fixes on the set.

2. Outlet Pass (to avoid a #33): An alternate shot, usually in a master, with no attempt at a joke.

3. The Extra’s Socks: A small detail obsessed over by the director, diverting his attention from a real problem.

EDITING

1. Apollo 13: Saving a scene without reshooting through the ingenious use of loop lines, outtakes, footage before “Action” or after “Cut,” reversing film, inserts, etc. Anything to avoid a reshoot.

2. Dailies Laugh: Hilarious in dailies, crickets at a preview.

3. Cutting Out the Cancer: Eliminating dud jokes or superfluous story. The most pressing task after a first preview with Angry Villagers.

4. Flywheel Theory: Keeping the audience laughing is a lot easier than starting them back up from scratch.

PREVIEWS

1. Swing & A Miss: An obvious attempt at a joke that doesn’t work. It is essential to get enough coverage so that every joke attempt connects. Also avoided by shooting an outlet pass.

2. Angry Villagers: The reaction at a first preview when a succession of jokes doesn’t work. The lost momentum inevitably results in the audience turning against the movie, conjuring up the “Frankenstein” image of a mob carrying torches and pitchforks.

3. The Director’s Rail: At the old Sherman Oaks Galleria - the third floor balcony rail outside the multiplex. After a first preview, most directors want to vault over it.

4. Sonny on the Causeway: Thinking a joke is a sure-fire winner, then getting ambushed by the silent audience reaction.

5. Filling up Compartments: Each bad joke, like a torpedo hit, fills a compartment. Too many in a row sinks the ship.

6. Hail Mary: Usually after the last preview (no time left on the clock), an ADR or an edit thrown in as a last ditch effort to make a joke work. The risk being, of course, a Swing & A Miss.

7. The Lion: Telegraphing a joke. In NAKED GUN 2 1/2, a lion attacking Robert Goulet didn’t get a laugh until a third preview Hail Mary, in which the set-up was eliminated.

MISCELLANEOUS

1. Going Through the Guard Rail: Any outrageous comment, joke, or statement in the writing room that results in absolute silence and appalled looks.

2. Calling in an Air Strike (On Your Own Position): Saying or doing something self-defeating.

3. Dancing Around The Calf: Rejoicing over some idea or concept that seems great at the time. Dancing typically continues until a wiser voice arrives to point out how stupid the idea or concept actually is.

The Colonel…a dying breed?A week or so ago, I received an email from a manager named Rick Siegel, who is a principle at a management firm called Marathon Entertainment. He has a message he wants to get out to writers, and he thought I’d be a good place to start.

His message? Managers are in danger of extinction.

Before I begin editorializing, let’s answer the oft-repeated question: what’s the difference between an agent and a manager?

The simple answer is that agents are representatives licensed by the State to procure work for their clients. Managers are representatives who aren’t licensed by the State and can’t procure work.

So what do managers do?

Well, in the strictest sense, they’re supposed to, um, manage, your day to day affairs. Agents get you the job. Managers can deal with your ongoing needs in relation to the job. Agents get you that writing assignment on location, and managers make sure your hotel room is waiting, your schedule is accurate and up to date, etc. Other managers are less hand-holders and more partners. They may produce your work and advise on creative issues.

Of course, there are many managers who don’t operate like that at all. They act as agents. They do procure work and they do negotiate deals.

One of those managers is Rick Siegel.

The problem?

It appears to be illegal.

There’s a statute on the books in California called the Talent Agency Act. It says, among other things, that only licensed talent agents can procure work for clients. They can only charge 10%. They cannot produce or otherwise “own” their clients’ material. They must be bonded and insured.

Oh, and if anyone else tries to do what an agent does without getting a license, then they have a wee bit of a problem.

Their client can file a complaint with the State Labor Commission. If the Commissioner finds that an unlicensed individual has done the job of an agent, then any contract between the unlicensed individual and their client, written or verbal, is considered null and void ab initio. That means the contract isn’t just null from the verdict forward, but it’s considered retroactively null and void, and the unlicensed individual can be compelled to disgorge commissions they received from up to one year prior to the date of the complaint.

What’s this all mean? Well, according to Rick, we’ve got a situation where lots of managers are doing the job of “agent” for their clients, but if their clients decide they don’t feel like forking over big commissions once they get a job, they can tattle to the Labor Commission and get out of paying the bill.

Free lunch.

Rick is right. That is pretty much the way the law is written. Rick is also fighting this. He sued Nia Vardalos over commissions, but as that was settled out of court, I can’t really tell you how it turned out. More interesting is his case against Rosa Blasi, an actress who fired Rick, then went to the Labor Commission and argued that he had been acting illegally as an agent for her. She asked the Commissioner to negate her contract ab initio, and he did.

Rick also lost a parallel lawsuit against Blasi, but he appealed…and here’s where things get interesting.

From what I’ve read about the Blasi case, it appears that the appellate judges ruled that if a manager is found to be illegally acting as an agent, he’s on the hook to fork over commissions on the deals in which he acted illegally, but not on the hook for the commissions on the deals in which he didn’t illegally do the job of “agent.”

The case has headed back to court. I don’t know where it’s going, but I do know this: the WGAw is filing an amicus brief on behalf of Blasi and against Siegel. Rick suggested that I should be against this filing.

I respectfully told him that I was not against it. I’m for it.

The entire point of the Talent Agency Act is that representation of artists needs to be paired with accountability to the law. Just as lawyers can’t argue cases without being admitted to the bar and doctors can’t prescribe medicine without a medical license, talent agents need to be regulated. The reason is simple. There is an enormous potential for abuse.

In that regard, think of managers as “builders” instead of “licensed contractors.”

Some of the abuse comes in the form of punitive commissions. It’s not uncommon for managers to get 15% of their clients’ gross earnings. That’s ridiculous.

Some of the abuse comes in the form of conflict of interest. Many managers produce their clients’ projects (I’ve been one of those clients). At that point, who are they most interested in representing: their client, or the studio paying their producing fee?

Don’t get me wrong. There are decent managers out there. Excellent managers. Honest managers. On the other hand, they are unaccountable to the law…with one exception.

The Talent Agency Act…the very act that Rick believes ought to be amended to exclude “managers” from its provisions (as if anyone and everyone couldn’t just dub themselves “manager” and thus avoid the burden of law). I think that if Rick wants to do the job of an agent, he should just drop this “manager” thing and become an agent. If he doesn’t want to be an agent, that’s fine, but then he shouldn’t expect to flout the law with impunity.

Rick also believes the Talent Agency Act is being enforced unconstitutionally, which I also disagree with, but that’s a whole ‘nother ball of wax.

I grant that there is something disconcerting about a manager having to fork over commissions that were honestly earned because other commissions weren’t honestly earned, but I’d rather the law be tough than understanding.

So, where do I agree with Rick?

He believes that if the current trends continue, managing will no longer be a viable pursuit. The economic risk of providing a service to someone who can get out of paying for it easily and legally is simply too great.

I agree. I think a lot of managers are eventually going to go the way of the dodo. Some will always stay, but the heyday of the manager is probably drawing to a close.

Rick believes this is bad for writers. He thinks double representation is a good thing.

I’m not so sure. I had double representation for a long time. In the end, I don’t think the cost-benefit analysis worked out in my favor. I just have an agent now. That method has worked for writers for decades.

No reason it can’t work for decades more.

If you have a manager or wish to have one, don’t think that I’m discouraging you. I’m not. Do know your rights, though. The deck may be stacked against us in a lot of ways, but this is one part of the business where we really do hold the aces.

Go on, ask…I’ve got a pretty good queue of Q&A’s lined up, and I’m going to get to each and every one of them. In the meantime, however, something pretty cool just started up in the Artful Forum that you really ought to check out.

In addition to listening to me blather each week about my point of view, I’ve roped some pro friends of mine into making themselves available to answer questions. It’s called “Ask A Pro”, and if you’re familiar with what John August does over at IMDB, then you get the idea.

I’m going to run this on a rotating basis, so for stretches, one pro will be answering the questions, and then when they burn out, we’ll head on to a new one.

Right now, we’ve got Cormac & Marianne Wibberley lined up to lob answers back at you.

If you haven’t joined the forum yet, it’s free and easy. Just follow this link to get there and register. The forum also features an integrated chat room (and word on the street is that actual screenplays sales have taken place in the chat room, so honestly…what the hell are you waiting for???).

I want to take this opportunity to thank the Wibberleys for being our inaugural writers in the Ask A Pro section of the forum, and I also want to thank all of you who continue to make this site a pretty popular destination. We’re up to nearly 25,000 unique visitors a month. That’s quite an impressive community.

For those of you who prefer my blatherings to anything else, there will be a fresh post in just a day or two.

It’ll never work!Five years ago, Steve Jobs introduced a nifty little mp3 player called the “iPod”.

Maybe you’ve heard of it.

Among the myriad articles celebrating the success of the iPod—a device so transformative, one can actually argue it has changed the way we live—one can find some other precious nuggets that reveal something wonderful about humanity.

William Goldman said it best: “Nobody knows anything…”

Here’s Mazin’s Corollary: “…but you have to believe that you do.”

Allow me to reprint for you a few sample comments from the forums at MacRumors, a popular site for Mac enthusiasts. These comments were written while members of the forum first heard the details of this new device called “iPod.”

I still can’t believe this! All this hype for something so ridiculous! Who cares about an MP3 player? I want something new! I want them to think differently! Why oh why would they do this?! It’s so wrong! It’s so stupid!

It’s now at the online Apple Store! $400 for an Mp3 Player! I’d call it the Cube 2.0 as it wont sell, and be killed off in a short time…and it’s not really functional.

All that hype for an MP3 player? Break-thru digital device? The Reality Distortion Field is starting to warp Steve’s mind if he thinks for one second that this thing is gonna take off.

Any way you spin this it is: 1. Not revolutionary. Big capacity mp3 players already exist. With Creative Labs’ entrance into the firewire arena, future nomads will have similar specs and better prices. 2. A bad fit. This product is outside Apple’s core competancy - computing devices. When many are calling for a pda, they release an MP3 player. 3. Without a future.

Here’s to another bullet in the foot…

This iPod is for spoil rich kids with insane parents or an Apple fan as fannatic as a Taliban. It has good features but forget about getting it for $399!!!! Never, who gets that thing is a very stupid person. Steve Jobs is under terrible consuling or is under too much pot. This propusal is not realistic at all. If Apple does something like this again is going down.

Won’t last. Another Cube.

In its current incarnation, the iPod will fail because it’s being sold into a relatively small market, and due to its limited functionality and high price. It’s another Cube, and I can’t understand why it’s so plainly obvious to us but not to Apple.

Heh. Now that’s amusing, huh? You can read the thread for yourself here. Sure, not every forum member was negative. Quite a few were positive…almost prescient!

Still, one common thread runs between most of the haters and the boosters.

Certainty.

More to the point…certainty masquerading as knowledge.

Unfortunately, that’s what screenwriting is.

Look, we are movie theorists. We write documents that present a text-only rendition of what we believe a good movie would be. We do not deliver it and say, “This is rather bad. Do not produce this.”

We say, “This will make a very good movie.”

Certainty.

Of course, we just don’t know. Like all speculative endeavors, we use our talent and our experience to craft the strongest possible theory with the greatest possible chance, but the best-laid plans…

You do realize that’s how bad movies happen, right?

Notice that a number of those unfortunate Cassandras I quoted above referred to Apple’s short-lived Cube, a notoriously ill-fated adventure in computing.

The iPod is a good movie. The Cube is a bad movie.

Both made by the same company…in the way that Patton and Captain EO were both written by the same man.

When you’re building your device (or writing your script), you do the best you can. In the end though, you are quite certain that you’ve done something good. Of course you are. Why would you stop building or writing if you didn’t think the device or script were ready?

The hard part is that our certainty sometimes backs the Cube and sometimes backs the iPod. The people we show our work to sometimes praise the Cube, and sometimes curse the iPod.

None of that will ever change the fate of the product.

And so…we’re stuck in a terrible Zen puzzle.

In order to write successfully, we must be certain that we are writing something the right way, even though such certainty is impossible.

We have to believe that we’re building the iPod.

Even when we’re building the Cube.

No, don’t go that far back…I’ve been writing for this site for a year and a half, and I’ve been dreading this post since I began.

It didn’t take long after the launch of The Artful Writer for The Question to be asked. It’s been asked a lot since then. A lot. Honestly, I’ve been resisting those words “How did you get your start?” for two excellent reasons.

Firstly, I find it terribly boring.

Secondly, I don’t think it’s going to have much relevance to anyone else.

Still, people keep asking, so here it is. I’m going to write it long, because I’m too tired tonight to be concise. Wherever I find places to possibly draw conclusions that might actually be helpful, I’ll bold them out. If I were you, I’d skip all the non-bolded text, but hey, you might be one of the people who asked The Question.

In the beginning (also known as 1992), I was a college lad who wanted to go into show business. I ran a public affairs radio program at school that had been started ten years earlier by a student named Garth Ancier. My experience writing, editing and producing media for broadcast sort of lit a fire in me.

One of the other alums of the radio program was working on a new sitcom called “Brooklyn Bridge,” and he promised me a production assistant job in the fall. I was thrilled. I’d graduate, spend one last lazy pot-smokin’ summer, and then hit L.A. in the fall and begin my career in the biz.

Two weeks before I graduated, the alum called to tell me that one of the other producers gave the job to a nephew. Honestly, I can’t remember if it was actually a nephew, but that makes it sound more annoying.

There are no sure things in this business. You have acheived something only when you can talk about it in the past tense.

I didn’t panic. No sir. After all, the summer before, I had interned at the Fox Network, and I was picked from hundreds of applicants, so obviously I was special. I would make it. Sure I would.

(later, my first boss, Dan McDermott, then the VP of Current Programming, would tell me that he chose me because I was, and I quote, “the least dorky.”)

And so, on July 5th, 1992, I packed my meager possessions into my meagerer Toyota and began driving across the country. I had $1400 to my name. I pretty much knew no one.

You don’t need to “know someone.” However, I definitely recommend having more than $1400 in your pocket. That was stupid.

I arrived in Los Angeles and quickly got an apartment to share with another college buddy who had come out to L.A. too. After first, last and the safety deposit, I was basically one month away from homelessness. Time to get a job. I went to The Friedman Agency to get a job…any job…but I figured since they placed you in the entertainment business, that was a plus.

Mind you, at no point had I ever considered writing. Okay? I just wanted to get a job. Sure, I had noodled on some spec sitcom scripts and thought myself a budding comic genius, but I never once thought that writing was something sane people could actually do for a living.

Louise at the Friedman Agency wasn’t interested in my fancy degree or my GPA or my permanent record. All she cared about was that I could type 110 words per minute.

Learn to type.

My first gig was at The William Morris Agency. In 1992, their employee manual was still xeroxed endlessly from an original hard-typed document. Yours truly was paid eleven bucks an hour to type the entire thing into Word Perfect.

If you work at William Morris and have read your employee manual…YOU’RE WELCOME.

My next temp job was at a boutique advertising agency called Jacobs & Gerber. Their gig was basically to produce promos for CBS shows. My position? Xerox temp. Because I applied myself diligently to my tasks, I was granted a permanent position as Xerox Boy.

Is writing your Plan A? Is your current job Plan B? Switch the letters. Make your current job Plan A. Why? The better you do what you do, the more opportunities you will receive…and opportunity is the currency all prospective writers need the most.

It was late October, 1992. I was a $20,000 a year Xerox Boy, and I was happy. So happy, that in a fit of anarchic mirth, I created a silly Halloween memo with fake blood stains and everything and passed it around the office.

An hour later, I was summoned to the office of the President of the company, an extremely sour and unimaginative creep named Albert Litewka.

And he fired me. Improper memo protocol, or something equally inane.

Sometimes you get fired.

As I cleaned out my desk in a stunned state, I got a call from the Creative Director of the agency. He liked my memo. “Yeah, well, it got me fired.”

He got me unfired.

Talent helps.

Having appeared on the radar, I was quickly moved from Xerox Boy to junior copywriter. And while I had only made a jump from $20,000 to $23,0000 a year, the difference to me was enormous. I wasn’t an assistant anymore. I was a writer.

An awful one, but a writer nonetheless.

For the next two years, I churned out scores and scores of ads. And in those two years, I learned something that I wish every writer would learn before attempting to write a screenplay.

I learned how to write for production. That skill is something that simply isn’t taught at your UCLA extension or your USC class. It can’t be. Production is expensive. Even if the ads were only thirty seconds, I still got to write a ton of stuff that then got prepped, shot and posted.

Try and write for production any way you can. There simply is no substitute.

An exec at the agency was pals with a young marketing executive at Disney named Oren Aviv. Oren was looking for a guy who could write copy for movie posters and trailers. I was hired.

My career as a studio executive began. And for a while, I lived and breathed marketing. You can read about some of the lessons I learned (and their relevance to what we do) here.

Oren was a pretty ambitious guy (which clearly paid off…he’s only President of Production at Disney now), and he wanted to reach beyond marketing and into film production, so he encouraged me (and my then writing partner) to come up with ideas for movies.

Note again…I would not have been in this position had I not made Plan B my Plan A.

My partner and I saw Apollo 13, and while we enjoyed it, we thought it would have been much better if one of the astronauts was a complete idiot.

We pitched “Space Cadet” to Oren, he pitched it to Roger Birnbaum…

…and Roger bought it.

So there you go. Hard work and typing skills gets the boy into the right place at the right time, and he’s finally given his big break.

All I had to do is actually prove that I could write. And prove it I did. The script was good. The movie? Not so good. But the script? Good. Or at least…good enough.

I’ve been working as a screenwriter ever since.

So I’m sitting at a little get-together with some other screenwriters recently, including Masters of the Scribosphere John August and Josh Friedman. Naturally, we talk briefly about blogging, and I mention that my site is a bit on the boring side compared to John’s because I never really talk about anything personal per se.

John pointed out, correctly, that this is going to have to either change, or I’m going to have fewer and fewer posts to make as time goes on.

In a desperate effort to avoid a future where you guys log on to read about some intestinal problem I’m having, I’m going to fill the gaps here and there with some more posts about the actual craft of writing.

And yet…who am I to theorize on writing?

I’ll be honest. My ideas come with no force of authority. They’re yours to take or leave as you’d like. In fact, they’re mostly half-baked. Here’s my first half-baked theory: event compression.

Now, we’re all familiar with character, theme, narrative and all the other good stuff that make up a screenplay. Recently, though, while working on a script for an animated film, I started thinking about another variable.

How much movie time does an event of X importance take?

Event compression is different than pacing, which is the relative sense of “how much stuff is happening in X amount of movie time.” Instead, event compression describes how expansive or cursory each “stuff” is. Here’s the example that led me to think about this.

In my current script, a penguin is going to travel from the south pole to the north pole. In order to get to the north pole in time, he must seek the help of a magical creature who lives on an island a few hundred miles off the coast of Antarctica.

The penguin begins his journey on page 23. Now, I know that there’s a lot of stuff that’s going to happen once he gets to the island, and I know there’s a lot of stuff that’s already happened.

But when the penguin sets off on his journey, he’s a bit sanguine about how easy this will all be, because he’s a naive little creature who’s seen nothing of the world.

Hmmm, sounds like I, the screenwriter, should give him a quick dose of reversal even before he gets to the island (so that I can re-reverse by making the island seem great, then re-reverse again by revealing the island and the monster to be treacherous, etc. etc.).

I decided to have the penguin hit by a terrible storm. A tempest. A tempest with tsunami-sized waves and a massive, penguin-eating giant squid for good measure.

If done the way I intend, the tempest will last about 30 seconds.

Why? Well, because the tempest isn’t exactly story-advancing. It’s designed to reveal to our hero that he’s not as well-equipped as he thought. He’ll get that point quickly. No need to belabor it.

Now, let’s imagine I were writing in live action.

A 30 second tempest? Ummmmm, no. No one is going to go through the time, energy, expense and danger of a simulated tempest just for a 30 second bit of character illumination.

The fact is that animation provides me the freedom to…

…and this is where I thought, “event compression!”

Event compression works both ways, of course. Any story event can be compressed or expanded for effect. We can do this without speeding up the story itself, in fact. We can choose what to make a meal of, and what to let go in the blink of an eye.

By altering event compression as you desire (within the limitations of our production medium), you can often avoid a sense of plodding or flatness or linearity. Changing up your event compressions keeps the audience on their toes. It offers a strange verisimilitude to life itself, which doesn’t have actual event compression, but often feels like it does.

Remember, compressing an event doesn’t mean it has to be paced quickly. Pacing and compression are two different things.

For example, let’s say your hero is about to box for the first time. You can write a slowly-paced, highly compressed scene in which he steps into the ring, and we watch in “real time” as he and his partner dance around each other for 30 seconds, not even touching each other. And that’s it. Next scene is the lockerroom. Your hero is getting his gloves cut off. And his face is hamburger. We can extrapolate.

The pacing was languid, but the event itself has been compressed to almost nothing. Two different variables manipulated independently.

Or you can write a fast-paced, highly-expanded scene, which would be similar to any of the climactic fights in a Rocky movie. They’re long—you see every damned round—but each round is full of fireworks.

This independence of pacing and event compression is true for both scenes and the overall feel of the movie’s time.

Dinner parties, first dates, car rides, fist fights, strolls through the park, a hitman’s first kill…doesn’t matter what the event is, and you should feel free to expand or compress as you desire.

But do think about it, though. It was something I was doing before I knew I was doing it, and all things being equal, a conscious understanding of a writing variable is probably better than an unconscious one, if only because you have more control.

Ed. Note: Today’s post is written by a guest author, Howard Michael Gould. This piece originally appeared in Written By (the WGAw magazine), and I really enjoyed it. Howard has generously allowed us to reprint it here for your enjoyment.

Each word is garbage. If I can even think of a word. When I do somehow manage to spit out a line, or couplet, my characters all sound the same, bland and lifeless. I’m sure as hell not funny any more. Who knows, maybe I never was. And I’ve lost all sense of how to shape a scene. No one would want to read this script, let alone produce it. My mother was right: I should have gone to law school. Who am I kidding? I couldn’t have hacked that, either.

Face it: my talent, such as it ever was, is gone — again — and this time it’s never coming back. This is the script, this is the job on which when I finally won’t be able to fool them, when I’ll get found out for the fraud that I am and always have been, and I’ll never work again. And then it’s all over.

That’s what it’s like, every line, every page, the first time through, from “FADE IN” until “THE END.” Two decades, maybe forty full-length scripts, plus all those TV episodes, you’d think it would get easier. But it never does. It gets harder with every year, more terrifying with every script.

I call it Page Fright.

I haven’t discovered a cure, but over time I’ve lurched into a design for living with it. Basically, I do everything I possibly can to shorten the hell.

I start by noodling notes for as long as I need to, just a conversation with myself on the computer screen, toward figuring out all the answers, all the story lines, all the basic beats. Then I put each beat on a virtual index card (with my beloved Writer’s Blocks software), using a different color for each story. Next, I separate the cards into acts, then shuffle them around until they’ve landed in an order which feels like it has some kind of a flow. I transfer these cards into a word processing program, and spend as long as I need to fleshing that out into as full a prose outline as I can manage. Every character is named and described, all sluglines accounted for, there’s even some dialogue if it happens to come to me. Unless it’s a production rewrite with a tight clock, I’ll allow myself as many unhurried weeks as I need to complete all those steps, and the outlines can run anywhere from fifteen single-spaced pages (on, say, a book adaptation) to almost fifty.

I find this “pre-writing” period relatively painless; some parts, like pushing the index cards around, are almost fun. Sure, there are points when I get stuck, but somehow, even when I’m under a production deadline, it all feels fairly free of pressure. I know how to do this stuff.

It’s only when that process is complete, when I’m at last ready to “write,” that the terror descends. My mantra becomes this: as fast as I can; as bad as I have to. I compose on the computer (I’m a very quick typist) and I don’t look back, don’t even re-read the page I’m on, even if I know something I’m writing now doesn’t square with something from before. I back up the file regularly, but never print it. I’ll only quit for the day at the end of a scene, and not until I’ve knocked off at least eleven pages if it’s a weekday, six pages on the weekends. On a hurry-up production rewrite I might force a fifteen page minimum. If, by some miracle, I catch a wave, I might even race through twenty or twenty-five. I think I did my whole first pass at Mr. 3000 — probably 95% new dialogue — in five days. As fast as I can; as bad as I have to.

On average, I can get this over with in a week and a half. But once in a while the script runs long, and by the time the draft presses into its third week, I start feeling physically ill, as if my heart is going to stop beating unless I consciously will it to keep going. I’ve had moments, in fact, when I’ve decided that it would be easier just to let the heartbeats stop than to try to fake my way through one more wretched and humiliating scene. Of course, that’s never worked, either.

Eventually, though, the ordeal does end. I can finally press “print,” and then hold in my hands something which at least looks like a script, oddly unfamiliar to me though it still is, not having re-read a word of it. I usually say that this document has no value except, literally, as an insurance policy; that is, I always let my wife know that if I get run over by a bus tomorrow (please?), she can turn this in and get paid for the step.

Then, unless I’m under a tight deadline, I’ll let it sit for two or three dreadful days, not out of some well-considered intention to gain critical distance, but because I simply can’t muster the courage to actually look at what I’m sure must be absolutely the worst piece of cow dung anyone’s ever slopped onto paper.

Finally, I face up to reading it. And guess what? It does suck. Always.

But here’s the thing: it never sucks quite as badly as I thought it would. First off, the structure is generally sound, thanks to all those weeks of outlining. And there are also pleasant surprises, every time, lines or half-pages where somehow I’d actually managed to hit the ball pretty cleanly, though they must have happened so fast and amidst so much misery that I’d totally forgotten about those happy little accidents the instant they occurred.

Anyway, during this read I make notes on the script, both general and specific, trying to treat it like somebody else’s writing, like something from back when I used to run TV shows, maybe a disappointing first draft delivered by some freelancer who turned out not to be as talented as I’d thought. I scribble notes into the margins, notions on how to fix every scene — again, in a nod to my TV days — as if I were giving these instructions to a bunch of staff writers who’ll go and do a pass on this script while I’m off running a different room.

The next draft, the second, is the one where I get serious, where I work and re-work each scene and each line painstakingly, where I won’t move on to the next until I feel like I’ve truly licked it. I do this scratching by hand, in red pen on the script and in black on extra looseleaf pages. This second pass could easily take longer than the first one. But a few years ago, under the pressure of a hard deadline, I discovered that if I hole up somewhere out of town, away from my family and away from the comforts and distractions of my home and office, and with the pressure of a hotel bill and a check-out date, I can manage this entire grueling draft in four long and intense days. I also found that the work itself gets better through this kind of immersion, that I’m more likely to stumble on some felicitous connection between page 78 and page 16 when I’ve been working on those scenes only a day or two apart. I’ve been going out on the road to do my second draft of every script ever since.

What I bring home looks laughable, whole pages crossed out in red and rewritten in the margins, almost no pages with even half of the original writing untouched. But once this scrawl is retyped cleanly, it’s an almost reasonable facsimile of a presentable script. The back of the beast has been broken. One more pass over several easier days, and it’s ready for my wife to read; two or three more brief passes after that, and it’s ready for the world.

And guess what? Now the sun is shining, the birds are singing, and I’ve got 110 pages or so which represent the best that I’m capable of.

And by that point I’ve pretty much forgotten that I was ever worried about this script at all.

We’re all Bill…Yeah, you read the title right.

You are a failure as a screenwriter.

The good news is that you’re not a failure at something that actually matters in life like, say, bridge construction or angioplasty. You’re a failure at something silly like writing movies. Of course, you don’t want to build bridges or clean out arteries. You want to make money and see your name on the big screen. Well, prepare for the Path of Failure.

Before you start wondering if I’ve turned into the Great Santini, or maybe if I’m playing a little trick on you like Terry Rossio did with his fantastic essay entitled Throw In The Towel, rest assured that I mean this in a gentle way. After all, I’m a failure too. Yes, I write screenplays for a living. How many drafts? Oh, I don’t know. Maybe 150 by now? And how many of those drafts were so-called “final” drafts? Let’s say twenty. And how many of those actually made it to screen? Try four.

Now ask me how I feel about two of those four. Better yet, don’t.

Four out of 150, and I still wish I could rewrite them. Yikes. I’m a failure. I know you think that once you get paid to write, you won’t feel this way. But you will. And it hurts. Maybe you’ve been paid to write but you’re unproduced.

Nope. You’ll still be a failure.

Maybe you’ve been produced, but you haven’t had a hit.

Sorry. Doesn’t matter.

Maybe you’ve had one hit, but if you had two hits…

Give it up. The failing will never cease.

Still, I wouldn’t part with the failure. I have come to embrace the failure as my friend. And why not?

When I was a kid, I spent endless hours with Legos. Never mind that my boxy creations seemed to indicate a proclivity designing prisons for some Orwellian state. I loved the building…the endless trial and error…the rethinking and replanning…in short, the failure. The mistakes. The dead ends. Success is just a crack hit. It feels nice for the moment, but it is, in its very nature, done.

In order to succeed, you have to see failure for what it really is. It is not a Judgment of You. It is not a Sentence. It is not Permanent. We may call our bad writing “bad,” but it’s not bad. It’s wonderful. It’s the crawl before the walk, the walk before the run. If you haven’t solved your screenplay yet, rejoice. You are one of the chosen few who isn’t delusional about your own writing. If you recognize your useful failure, you just might have a shot in this business. You, the Failure, are not afraid of rewriting, improving, rethinking, and most importantly, fearlessly tearing down the creative idols you erected in order to raise up new ones. This is important. You have to be a Failure if you’re going to be a Success. Is that a little more Zen than you’re accustomed to hearing from me?

Perhaps. Then again, screenwriting is an amalgam of the rational and irrational (remember our discussion about Nietzsche?), and I particularly delight in the irrational.

Failure is the Penultimate. It is the step just before Success.

Or maybe just more failure.

But you don’t mind, do you? The next draft is the one that’s going to work. Really. Seriously. Keep telling yourself that.

Eventually, you might be right.

I have not seen Lady In The Water.

What I have done is read Michael Bamberger’s book The Man Who Heard Voices, a non-fiction account of M. Night Shyamalan’s creative journey to bring Lady In The Water to the screen.

I’ve also read a large number of reviews of both the book and the movie.

This is my defense of M. Night Shyamalan, which may seem a bit surprising to anyone who’s been reading this site for a while. After all, Shyamalan talks about himself as artiste, uses the new age lingo that Ted and I despise, doesn’t seem to understand that he’s the employee of a corporation, and prizes singularity of vision over all else.

First, let me say that I have enjoyed some of his films, and I’ve not enjoyed others. I’ve never met the man, and I can only assume he’s been modestly amused (or maybe not) by my parodies of his films. I am, however, fascinated by the current swarm of commentary surrounding him.

Lately, it’s become fashionable to say that M. Night Shyamalan is an ego case out of control, a spoiled multi-millionaire who refuses to listen to anyone else, and every bad review he gets for his latest self-indulgent affair is nothing more than a just dessert.

I think that’s a bit harsh. Bamberger’s book does occasionally drift toward hagiography, and some of Shyamalan’s qualities that Bamberger thinks are as impressive and special as a Tiger Woods drive are, well, not. Bamberger, a sports writer, is a bit out of his element. Watching Derek Jeter drive a fastball over the left field wall at Yankee stadium is a beautiful thing, but it doesn’t make him Babe Ruth…or even Albert Pujols. Bamberger studies Shyamalan, but he’s too easily impressed by the man’s intuition and craft. Lots of successful writers and directors are intuitive, and most practice studied craft.

What Bamberger does capture, though, is the depth of Shyamalan’s insecurity and self-doubt. Whenever faced with doubt or rejection, Shyamalan descends into a miserable internal dialogue. His external dialogue involves repeated requests for faith or belief, but that’s baloney. Shyamalan doesn’t want mere faith or belief. He wants appreciation. He wants the audience to love what he wants them to love. He’s putting on a show, just like the rest of us in this business, and he craves their enjoyment.

That’s why his internal dialogues are so interesting, and so familiar.

Yes, the man makes millions of dollars. Yes, he’s managed to seize the very kind of creative control that most writers only dream of. Yes, he seems to reactively reject the concerns of Nina Jacobson, Dick Cook and Oren Aviv (full disclosure—I worked for Oren Aviv for two years as a marketing executive).

On the other hand, he actively seeks the input of a snippy internet reviewer, his assistants, his family…practically anyone near him. Shyamalan takes a lot of lumps for his precious behavior—he gets incredibly fretful when people don’t read his script right away the second they get it, and he gets even more agitated when they don’t respond the second they’ve finished it—but I understand that.

I feel the same way. I don’t talk about it, and I sure as hell don’t complain about it the way Shyamalan does, but I feel it. Of course I do. When we write screenplays, we obviously pour a tremendous amount of emotion and concern into it, and thus we are tremendously vulnerable to our readers and our audience.

Shyamalan’s ego, pretentiousness and preciousness are all superficial. What he really seems to be, more than anything else, is scared in a very identifiable and human way.

I get scared all the time.

When you write something that you believe in, the odds are that your beliefs will be attacked by someone. Maybe your employers. Maybe your friends. Maybe your wife. Maybe the critics. Here’s the tough part. Are they right? Are their interests aligned with yours? Should you change it? Should you not change it?

What if you do the wrong thing?

What if you defend your work because it’s what is best for the work?

Does that make you an ego case? Does that mean you’re intractable?

What if you change the work because you think that others might be right?

Does that make you weak? Does that mean you’re any less of an author, your conviction and purpose dilluted by vacillation?

I don’t know if I’m going to like Shyamalan’s latest movie, but I’m glad I read the book about him. I picked the book up expecting to be turned against him. Instead, I found myself wanting to meet him just to say, “Yeah, me too, man.”

M. Night Shyamalan and I are very different people and very different writers. We approach our craft differently, we approach the business differently, and we approach people differently.

I wonder, though, if our fears and motives aren’t exactly the same.

So it is written…Among the various songs of doom we hear in Hollywood (the box office is over!, people hate movies!, we’re out of ideas!), the one that’s always managed to sneak past my cynicism and actually worry me is this one: “Video games will kill us all!”

Of course, they’re not going to destroy the movie business any more than television did. The gaming industry, however, is enormous in every sense of the word.

I’m a gamer. I’m not a hardcore gamer, but what I love, I love. When a new Splinter Cell game is released, I get it. That day. I own a GameCube, a PS2, an Xbox and an Xbox 360. I play sports games, platform games, puzzle games, racing games…hell, I’ll play anything.

Anything except those damned RPG’s. Role Playing Games. Dungeons and dragons crapola. Elves and clerics living in ridiculous fantasy worlds, picking locks on treasure chests and worst of all, constantly referring to each other by names that have absurd apostrophes.

“K’shanna! You have discovered the Sword of V’landroth!”

What is that? USE VOWELS!

Anyway, point being…I do not like those games. And thus, it was with great concern that I discovered that the highest rated game for the Xbox 360—by far—was an RPG.

It’s called The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion.

I bought it. I bought it against my better nature, against my better instincts and knowing full well that I would open myself to endless mockery from my wife.

Let me first say this.

Best

Game

EVAR.

Now let me get to the larger point.

This game was written. Of all the games I’ve played, this one was not only the most clearly written, it was the most dependent on its writing. And yet, the writers of the game are not credited as writers. They did not earn minimums for their work. They do not have credit protections. They do not receive residuals. Not one penny of residuals for one of the best-selling games of all time.

This is Wrong.

I’ll back up to explain why writing is so important to this game. Yes, you fight monsters. Yes, you run around in dungeons. And yes, godDAMMIT, people have those ridiculous names with the apostrophes. The structure of the game, however, works like this.

Your character walks around a very, very large region of land consisting of nine cities and scores of smaller hamlets. You meet literally hundreds of individual non-playing characters. A large number of them have individual stories to tell. These stories, into which you become embroiled, are quests. Some quests are small. Some are large. Some are fast, and some are multiparters. The quests begin to stack up like firewood, each with loads of dialogue. At one point, I had about thirty quests that I was involved in.

You’re like a hero-for-hire wandering through a collection of short stories, and in each short story, it’s up to you to find your way to resolution.

Some of the quests are obvious. You meet a man whose wife was killed by goblins. You kill the goblins to avenge her on his behalf, and he grants you a reward. Some are trickier. Should you choose to kill a character who hasn’t threatened you, you are visited in the night by a shadowy man who represents the Dark Brotherhood. He invites you to join the Brotherhood and become a killer for hire. This spools out into a dozen quests, one of which involves you attending a dinner party and convincing each of the guests to kill each other. You get caught up in adultery, politics, betrayal, religion, the bizarre whims of demigods…and in every instance, the action and the goals and the choices you make are entirely in service of story.

On top of that, there are hundreds of readable books in the game. Yes, a writer sat down and literally wrote books so that players could read them.

So…who is the writer of Oblivion?

As best as I can tell, it’s these guys.

Quest Design was done by Brian Chapin, Kurt Kuhlmann, Alan Nanes, Mark E. Nelson, Bruce Nesmith and Emil Pagliarulo.

Additional Design was done by Erik J. Caponi and Jon Paul Duvall.

Additional Writing was done by Ted Peterson and Michael Kirkbride.

I say “as best as I can tell” because that’s what scrolls by after a long list of guys who programmed the texture maps for the trees and stuff.

I want these guys to be treated like kings, because they did great work. What to do, though? Video game writing isn’t covered by the WGAw or ANY union, for that matter. It’s the wild west out there, and that’s the way the employers like it, even though familiar Hollywood names like Les Moonves are sitting on the Board of Directors of the company that produced Oblivion.

As union guys go, I’m an extreme pragmatist. I know that the video game industry will never be organized and under union jurisdiction the way Hollywood is, and that’s for one simple reason. A large majority of the work is done overseas or in Canada. Ubisoft, Square Enix, Nintendo, EA…good luck trying to convince the French, Japanese and Canadians that they should abide by U.S. labor law.

On the other hand, there are still games made here, and I think we ought to be organizing them. Oblivion is made here. It’s indisputably written. My goal to bring wage minimums, pension and health care, credits protections and profit participation to the video game industry pretty much starts with one single game.

I don’t know the entire title, but I have the first part.

The Elder Scrolls V.

Welcome…Somewhere during the recent battles here on Artful Writer, it occurred to me that while we spend a whole lot of time criticizing our industry for the way it treats writers, I’ve never seen anyone lay out a reasonable description of how the ideal industry would operate.

Naturally, some people think they’ve done that, but I don’t have any time for ideas like “we get rid of work-for-hire laws, forbid studios from hiring rewriters and force directors at gunpoint to shoot what’s on the script and nothing more or less.” If you want to masturbate, there are millions of other sites on the web to visit.

If you want to talk about something that could actually exist, come sit near me for a while as I tell you about a wonderful studio called Writopia.

Just like other studios, Writopia buys film rights to books and plays, purchases specs and commissions scripts from original pitches. Once you enter development with Writopia, though, you notice some immediate differences.

There is one producer and one studio executive assigned to your project. The three of you are a team. All for one, and one for all. You have some job security, as Writopia eschews one-step deals. Writopia’s philosophy is that every professional writer deserves at least two bites at the apple before any decision is made to go with someone else.

It’s nearly impossible that your first draft will unpleasantly surprise them, because Writopia Studios require the writer to first deliver a story treatment. By doing this, the team gets an opportunity to solidify just what this movie really is before the first script is even begun.

When the writer is done with the draft, he delivers it and is paid.

On time. No questions asked.

In order to improve the odds of the team’s success, the producer and executive create one set of notes that they both believe in. This set of notes is next read by the Chairman, who has greenlight authority. If the Chairman doesn’t approve, the producer and executive redo their notes until he does. Then, the writer gets them.

Next, there’s a meeting just to discuss the notes. The notes are frank. If the studio thinks the material is very bad, they say so. If they think something’s very good, they say so. There is no glossing or sugar-coating or unnecessary diplomacy. Writopia’s motto is “respectful honesty.”

From that meeting, the writer heads off to write the second draft. When he’s done, he turns it in.

He’s paid.

If the studio determines that a new writer should be brought in, the executive calls the writer directly to tell him what’s happening and why. They offer to keep the writer in the development loop by alerting him to hires and sending him the subsequent drafts. It’s the writer’s choice whether or not to stay in the loop.

Eventually, the day comes when a director is hired and the script is greenlit. Writopia Studios stands by its development process. If a director decides to upend the apple cart, the studio doesn’t simply give in because “they have a director, and we don’t want to lose him.” They fire the director and get a new one that shares the collective vision of the movie. The director is not the king of the movie. The director is a very important part of what was once a three-man and is now a four-man team.

Furthermore, Writopia Studios has a policy of not granting “film by” credit to anyone, nor do they put boxes around any names in a credit block.

Writopia ensures certain creative rights for the writer during preproduction, principle photography and postproduction. There must be a writer’s office, there must be a writer’s trailer on location and there must be a writer’s seat with his name on it at video village. The writer must attend all table readings. The writer must attend the big production meeting that occurs shortly before commencement of principle photography.

The writer’s name is on the clapper slate.

Through mutual consent with the director, the writer will have full access to the set. Writopia always tries to make “all-services” deals with its writers as it nears production. The studio wants a writer on the set every single day. The studio encourages its directors to take advantage of the writer’s narrative, character and dialogue expertise during all phases of production.

The writer is required to give notes on the first cut, and the writer is required to attend all test screenings until such time as the studio determines that there will be no further production.

The writer is given the same number of premiere tickets as the director.

The writer and director are encouraged to do their DVD commentary together, as a team.



If Writopia Studios existed, I think it would eliminate every reasonable gripe writers have. Could it exist?

Yes.

The key to it all is spreading the Craig n’ Ted religion. Take the emphasis away from the document of the script. Put the emphasis on the projected movie. Expand the definition of the job of screenwriter. We can make repeated moral arguments for our rights (the current, failing strategy) or we can do our jobs in such a way that the companies realize ensuring our rights would be better for the movie.

Think Ted and I are wrong? Keep fighting your fight. Let us know if you win.

But if you think we’re on to something…

…we’ll call in a drive-on for you.

Grosso goes all inA landmark case is finally making its way to a courthouse near you (if you live in L.A.), and it could potentially affect how every screenwriter does business in this town. Possibly for the better, but possibly for the worse.

Call this one a case of “be careful what you wish for.”

Here’s the background. In 1996, a writer named Jeff Grosso submitted a screenplay about the world of undergound poker to a production company named Gotham Entertainment, which had a first-look deal at Miramax.

Miramax did not make the film. However, they did produce the movie Rounders in 1998, which is also about the world of underground poker.

Grosso sued.

As we’ve pointed out endlessly here at The Artful Writer, ideas are not considered intellectual property. No one owns them, therefore theft of ideas is impossible. In order to claim that Miramax and the writers and producers of Rounders stole his movie, Grosso had to show that they stole some of the unique literary expression contained in his screenplay.

He failed to do that. The Ninth Circuit rejected his claims of infringement, stating that the two scripts had substantially different moods, pace, themes, settings, character, sequences and dialogue. The only commonalities were basic poker terms that weren’t unique to the writers, but widely known by anyone who plays the game.

But if infringement were all that Grosso charged, I wouldn’t be writing about it.

Grosso also charged that Miramax had violated an implied contract with him.

An implied contract is defined as:

A contract not expressed by the parties but, rather, suggested from facts and circumstances indicating a mutual intention to contract. Circumstances exist that, according to the ordinary course of dealing and common understanding, demonstrate such an intent sufficient to support a finding of an implied contract. An implied in fact contract does not arise contrary to law or the express declaration of the parties.

Grosso alleged that by accepting the submission of his screenplay, Miramax entered into an implied contract with him. The essence of the implied contract? That if they used his script, they’d have to pay for it.

Used. Now, apparently there’s a different standard for “use” and “infringe.” “Use” can mean “use of ideas,” and so, the Ninth Circuit denied Miramax’s motion for dismissal on that charge. The case goes to a jury now.

Lots of screenwriters have seen this case as a new sword to wield against the companies. Many have had the experience of pitching a concept, getting passed on, and then seeing a film with a similar idea in a movie theater a few years later.

It’s no surprise, therefore, that lots of writers are rooting for Grosso.

Lots…except, say, Brian Koppelman and David Levien. Brian and David are the credited writers of Rounders. It is their claim that the screenplay for Rounders is wholly original to them, and given that the Ninth dismissed Grosso’s infringement claim, it appears that they’re right.

If Grosso should win, what does this mean for the Koppelman and Leviens of the world? Imagine pitching an idea totally original to you, and being told by the studio that they’ll buy it, but only as a rewrite of a prior idea someone else pitched them, because of implied contract.

Imagine selling a spec to a company, only to be told that your original screenplay is actually going to be considered an adaptation of a five year-old spec they didn’t buy…because there’s an implied contract, don’t-you-know…

The truth is that there is no implied contract. Hell, Grosso never even met with any Miramax execs. I hope that the jury sees fit to deny Grosso’s claim.

Of course, if they don’t, not much will change. The studios will simply require all writers to sign statements acknowledging, prior to submission, that there is no implied contract.

If Grosso wins, it will be an empty victory, and possibly a true annoyance. Screenwriters live in an unfair world, to be sure, and studios often bully us. We don’t need “heroes” like Jeff Grosso, though.

I’ll take my chances with writers like Koppelman and Levien. You know. The ones who actually do the work.

A little like this…Comedy writers everywhere breathed a sigh of relief a week or so ago, when the California State Supreme Court ruled in the case of Amaani Lyle vs. Warner Brothers Television.

Ms. Lyle, who had been working as a writers’ assistant for the show Friends, alleged that she experienced sexual harrassment on the job because the writers spoke graphically and disturbingly about sex.

She’s right about that second part. You can read her description of the sort of things they said (and her account seems accurate enough to me) here.

She lost.

Thank God.

Put aside the fact that Ms. Lyle was warned before taking the job that she would be required to be in a room where writers often spoke graphically and offensively. Put aside the fact that Ms. Lyle’s response to that warning was “No problem.”

Comedy writing rooms are, and must be, completely free. The entire point of comedy is to subvert. That’s what makes things funny. Anything that any one person finds funny is sure to be found obnoxious or offensive by someone else.

Anything.

I will go on record with the following.

I work in comedy rooms. I have committed the following sins in comedy rooms, all in the service of trying to be funny.

Racism, sexism, ageism, elitism, homophobia, anti-Semitism, mockery of the disabled, mockery of the mentally ill, mockery of the mentally retarded, mockery of Jesus Christ, mockery of children, mockery of child abuse, mockery of rape, mockery of domestic violence…and last but not least…the occasional celebration of pedophilia, necrophilia, beastiality and any other paraphilia you can think of.

On occasion, those sins lead to some very funny jokes that mass audiences have paid to see and enjoyed.

A lot of times, those sins either lead to jokes that never saw the light of day, or led to other, cleaner jokes, that did.

People often enjoy comedy that tiptoes up to the line. To write that sort of comedy, though, you need to be free to cross the line entirely…and then pull yourself back. It’s essential, really. It doesn’t make me a racist, Jesus-hating homphobe who kills children and porks dogs. It just makes me someone who likes making people laugh with touchy issues.

How else to characterize comedy writers…like the guys who wrote the following monologue for The 40 Year Old Virgin?

Mooj: Life is about people. It’s about connections.
Andy Stitzer: It’s all about connections.
Mooj: It’s not about cocks, and ass, and tits.
Andy Stitzer: Yeah.
Mooj: And butthole pleasures.
Andy Stitzer: It’s not about butthole pleasures at all.
Mooj: It’s not about these rusty trombones, and these dirty sanchez.
Andy Stitzer: Please stop.
Mooj: And these cincinatti bowties, and these pussy juice cocktail, and these shit stained balls.
Andy Stitzer: Mooj, just please stop.

Amaani Lyle is a woman who apparently wanted to be in the steak business, but when she was asked to mop up the blood in the backroom killing floor, she decided not only that it was gross…but that it was harming her to be there.

And so, she sued Warner Brothers Television for subjecting her to the hazardous environment of the Friends writing room.

The judges happily disagreed, although they didn’t really go far enough. The majority opinion ruled that being offensive is obviously a necessary freedom for creative people, and that since the writers clearly weren’t singling this woman out or even referring to her in any way, it was obviously not a case of harrassment.

The other judge, Justice Chin, agreed with the decision, but wanted to make the ruling on 1st Amendment grounds.

Creativity is, by its nature, creative. It is unpredictable. Much that is not obvious can be necessary to the creative process. Accordingly, courts may not constitutionally ask whether challenged speech was necessary for its intended purpose.

Well put, brother Chin.

The way I think of it is this: it is impossible to conceive of an America in which filmgoers could sue the filmmakers for offending them with violent, sexual or otherwise objectionable film content.

Why should the people paid to take our notes be able to sue us for creating that content in their presence and speaking it aloud?

Even grouches have
good days…At this point, it’s fairly safe to say that Scary Movie 4 will be the number one film this weekend, and it will have opened to a rather large sum of money.

That’s a good thing.

I’ve been through this opening weekend ritual a few times now. Sometimes, it’s been good. Sometimes, it’s been tragic. It’s always fascinating, and as a writer, I inevitably face a weird moment where I try and decide if I actually succeeded or not.

Seems like it would be an easy thing to determine, right?

On the one extreme, occupied by some critics and graduate students, film is a qualitative absolute. There is good, there is bad, and they will use their amazing minds and sharpened perspective to tell you what films are which.

I reject that, merely on the evidence that these absolute arbiters of quality routinely disagree with each other.

On the other extreme, there’s total relativism. All criticism is rejected as meaningless (“They hated Citizen Kane!,” say those folks), and popularity is viewed as a better determinant of success.

The problem is that total relativism isn’t very useful either, because it’s impossible to write something specifically to be popular. In order to be popular, you have to be something…and what is that something? If we reject the notion of some kind of inherent quality, then what the hell is guiding us when we do this stuff?

And so, we descend into the metaphysics of quality. Given that this very question is part of what drove Robert Pirsig insane for a while, I’m not going to gaze into that abyss too deeply.

I will, however, address a few of my critics.

Scary Movie 4 got the same range of reviews that SM3 got, and according to David Zucker, it’s the same range of reviews that Airplane! got and Naked Gun got as well.

They run from “This is lowbrow stupidity and it’s incredibly unfunny” to “It’s occasionally funny but not funny enough” to “It’s often funnier than not” to “This was really funny and smartly stupid.”

I’ll paraphrase a few things that critics say over and over and over (don’t they read each other?).

“If you don’t like one joke, wait ten seconds. Another is on its way!”

“It’s not up to Zucker’s classics like Airplane!, but it’s still funny.” (for Airplane!, it was the same review, but replace “Airplane!” with “The Marx Brothers” or “Bily Wilder” or some other comedy totem)

“Scary Move 4 fails to scare up laughs.” (good lord…there’s like 1,000 versions of that crappy pun)

“Another stupid movie full of mindless, pointless slapstick aimed at the bottom of the barrel.”

“Scary Movie 4 isn’t a parody at all.”

Those last two annoy me. I honestly don’t mind if a critic doesn’t think the movie is funny, and our comedy is definitely mindless and pointless, but I really hate it when they insult the audience. One critic complained that this movie couldn’t possibly appeal to anyone like her with a three-digit IQ.

At the risk of being proud, odds are I’m smarter than her. And I love the movie.

The parody comment is also odd, because when critics complain about Scary Movie 4 not being a proper movie parody or spoof, what they really seem to be complaining about is that it’s not a satire. They bemoan the lack of insightful barbs or witty critique.

They don’t get it.

We don’t do satire. We like it when other people like Moliere and South Park do satire, but it’s not what we do.

I fear that I’ve turned this essay into a bitter complaint about our critics, when the truth is that I was really happy with the reviews. The vast majority, both good and bad, were honestly fair.

My favorite is probably this one, not just because it’s very favorable, but because the reviewer truly understands how we approach these films. I don’t mind if people don’t like the results, but I really hate it when they misunderstand our intentions.

Anyway, after all that, it’s as clear as day to me that the film was a success. It achieved our intentions.

We really wanted to entertain our audience. We know who they are. We know what they like. We did our best to make the majority of them laugh for the majority of the time. We could have done better. I’d like to do better next time (and yeah, you know there’s gonna be a next time). Still, we did pretty damned well, and I think we did it all with love.

See, unlike some of the nastier critics who scorn the audience itself for laughing, we love them, because we are them. We may be older than many of them, but David and I have a very healthy love for the juvenile and silly. We always will. When we make these movies, the two of us are really trying to make each other laugh…and if we’re both laughing, we just assume the people we love will also laugh.

Usually they do. Sometimes…not so much.

But if we can ignore the distractions and the smirkers and satirists and irony-peddlers and the jaded and fight our way through the schedule problems and the production problems and the budget problems and still get something “cleverly stupid” on screen (as the New York Times said), and the people we love enjoy it…

…then I feel like a success.

So if you’re one of those people, and you know whom you are and whom you ain’t, I’m honestly sorry if you didn’t like the film, and I’m honestly thrilled if you did.

The rest of ya? Give it a chance. You might turn out to be a merry idiot like me.

The takeaway for those of us who write films for a living is simply this. Who do you love? Write for them. If you love the critics, write for them. If you love women, write for them. If you love young people, write for them. But always write with love.

You just might get loved back!

I’m the voice
of this guy…A couple of years ago, I spoke to a room full of recent Princeton graduates—all aspiring screenwriters. I asked them a fairly simple question. “When is the job of the screenwriter over?” Some said when the script is done, some said when the movie got greenlit, a few said when the movie started shooting.

All fine answers, but in my opinion, all wrong answers.

The screenwriter’s job is over when the film is print-mastered and prepared for duplication. For those of you less production-savvy, I’ll adjust that slightly.

The screenwriter’s job is over when the movie premieres.

When I say “screenwriter,” what I mean is “the screenwriter currently employed.” There should always be a screenwriter currently employed on the project (see my essay on The Stand By Writer), and that writer’s skills may be required until the very last moment the story can be affected.

For instance, on Monday, we did our final mix on the final reel of Scary Movie 4. As it so happens, I’ve enjoyed the great pleasure of being the “Mel Blanc” of the movie (so says our post-production supervisor). If you see the movie, odds are that every single grunt, groan, single word, off-camera shout or generally non-descript utterance is yours truly. It’s quite possible that I may imitate an actor or two for a line here and there (not that I’d ever admit that or tell you which actor, I ain’t talkin!). Even better, I actually have a real role in the film as the voice of the Saw Puppet.

A Saw Puppet with a secret!

Okay, enough bragging about stuff that’s not that impressive.

The point is that there were opportunities even up to the final minutes to adjust off-camera lines and dialogue for the puppet, and before I or anyone else could perform them…someone had to write the words.

And if I weren’t there, who was going to write those words? (“You, Lieutenant Weinberg?”)

Let me now make a larger point.

It’s not just good for writers to be around to work on this stuff. It’s good for everyone else, including the mixers and music editors and dialogue cutters and producers and post-production supervisors to be comfortable having writers around working on this stuff. We cannot live on the one hand under the delusion that our jobs end when we finish typing the script document, and complain on the other hand that we’re not viewed as part of the team.

If we’re not a purposeful part of the team, then we are not part of the team. Mind you, I’m not in this for a crew jacket. I want to be part of the team in order to influence the movie. See, the calculation that many miss is this: work leads to power.

Let’s all say it together.

Work leads to power.

Credits are nice, and starting the process is great, and getting the green light is wonderful. But continuing to WORK on the movie is what earns us the ongoing influence and actual power-over-the-film that we really want.

I started writing on July 1st. I stopped writing on March 27th. Somewhere in there, I wrote treatments, I wrote drafts, I wrote scenes, I wrote lines, I wrote ideas, I wrote moments, I wrote versions and I wrote explanations. All writing. All on equal footing in my mind. All necessary.

If you believe yourself when you type “The End,” then you’re in for some surprises when you see what happens to the movie at the real End. And yes, this might mean taking fewer jobs and sticking with one gig longer. It might mean short-term financial losses in exchange for what will probably be long-term financial gains. It’s worth it. You will be a linchpin. You will be a filmmaking partner.

Work leads to power. Raise your carpal-tunnelly fist in the air…and keep it up there until the dupers start spinning.

A: What Do You Mean If?

The Hundredth
Monkey…I remember the phone call like it was yesterday. See, my partner and I had just gotten an actor attached to our first screenplay, the movie was greenlit, and there was an article in Variety. So when a guy called me about it at home, rookie me figured it was just some screenwriter-adoring reporter calling to lavish more attention upon moi.

Hah.

In fact, it was another screenwriter. A pissed off screenwriter, in fact, who found it rather “odd” that I had written a screenplay that was EXACTLY LIKE HIS!

EXACTLY!

See, mine was about an idiot who went to Mars on board a space shuttle, and his was about an idiot who went to Mars on board a space shuttle.

The similarities, you see, were astounding.

Now, honestly, I felt for the guy, but as Hyman Roth once said, this (cough) is the business (cough) we have chosen.

There are thousands of screenplays developed every year. Only a hundred or so will get made. Given that another thousand will get developed next year, and so forth and so on, it seems quite likely that the original screenplay you’re working on is not as original as you think. It’s mostly original, but somewhere, someone’s got something that’s at least a wee bit like it, and possibly a large bit like it.

Yes, that means the day after you finish the final rewrite on your spec script about three Dutch riflemen who track the Yeti across the Sahara, you’ll be in competition with another Dutch riflemen Yeti Sahara project.

It’s almost inevitable.

Call it The Hundredth Monkey phenomenon.

The story goes like this. Supposedly, a researcher was observing macaque monkeys washing sweet potatoes in the ocean. One monkey taught another how to do this. Then another taught another. The 99th monkey taught the 100th monkey how to do this, and then lo and behold, suddenly all the monkeys on the island instantly knew how to do this.

Critical mass had occurred. The idea had “caught on.” It was “out there.”

Of course, the hundredth monkey phenomenon is baloney.

Still, you will find that the sheer volume of screenwriting competition will be enough to duplicate your efforts. Don’t freak out. In fact, be happy. This is actually great news.

You want this.

If you are a good writer, nothing will elucidate your skill more than an excellent rendition of an idea twelve other people have tanked, kapish?

And if you hear that another studio is developing a similar project, and you intended to write something commercial, well…obviously you’re writing something commercial, right?

So take a deep breath. Good writing will win the day, and similar stories can easily co-exist. If Antz couldn’t kill A Bug’s Life, nothing’s going to kill your script.

The Big ManYou sell your script, you fight your way through development hell, you lock horns with the studio, you stay on the project, you parry and thrust with the director and get your star and the green light flashes go.

Congrats.

But before you get to Roger Ebert and the red carpet and the box office stats, the odds are good that you’ll be hearing from Ain’t It Cool News. Love him or hate him, Harry Knowles is a factor in our lives. He may not affect things the way the mainstream media believes he does, but he’s out there, his correspondents are out there, those pesky TalkBackers are out there, and they won’t shut up.

Nor should they. I know a lot of filmmakers get annoyed by Harry and AICN. I take a more moderate point of view.

AICN’s meat and potatoes are early script reviews and test screening reviews.

I’m not a big fan of early script reviews. I understand why people are interested in them, and there are worse things in the world than generating curiosity in one’s work. On the other hand, works in progress really are works in progress. Don’t get me wrong—I’m all for audience input into the process. I love test screenings. Still, writers need some time to be able to flail around a bit before getting a project on its legs. Sometimes you have to go too far or break some rules to help you eventually find your way. God forbid someone gets their hands on an experimental draft and craps on it.

But that’s not the AICN function I want to talk about today.

A week ago, we test-screened Scary Movie 4 for an audience in Burbank. By all of our estimations, the screening went very well. Our numbers were very good, but for a spoof comedy, it’s less about numbers and more about laughs. The audience laughed. A lot. They laughed all the way through.

It was a good screening.

Somewhat predictably, two reviews ended up on AICN. Now, I happen to be a long-time and fairly frequent reader of AICN, so I know how to translate reviews of a movie like Scary Movie 4. Given that it’s a third sequel, given that its target audience is younger than the average AICN reader, and given that its level of comedic sophistication is fairly low, the possible reviews would probably work out as follows:

“Like getting smashed in the face by Satan’s balls over and over” = bad
“A few laughs, but mostly boring and stupid” = average
“People around me were laughing a lot, but honestly, did the world need this movie?” = good

One of the reviews seemed average, and one seemed good.

I’m not precious about this stuff. I understand that a movie like Scary Movie 4 isn’t going to light a fire of excitement under anyone with a little bit of cynicism in their bloodstream. People see a movie with the number “4” on it, and even the optimists must conclude that a gross exercise in commerce is afoot.

Which is true. It’s not like the studio is looking to change the world. They want money.

For me, however, it’s not a gross exercise in commerce. For me, I’m honestly trying to start and keep an audience laughing solidly for 80 carefree minutes, so when the reviewer says the audience was laughing their asses off, that’s enough of a takeaway for me.

But what about the Talkback section?

Ohhhhh, those talkbacks. Should they be listened to? Harbinger of the audiences to come? Ignored? Weird obese virgins nattering at each other about minutia?

Ain’t it or ain’t it not cool?

I like reading the talkbacks because I really do get a sense of where the project is or isn’t connecting. It’s one thing to theorize about what that “4” means in a public relations sense. It’s another to hear people talk about it in a blunt fashion. I like knowing who people really do think is cool, and I like knowing who people really do think is lame. That’s important. It’s not productive to sit in my room and scowl about how the talkbackers are a bunch of vulgar jerkwads obsessed with oneupsmanship (although some of them are). There are bits of collective truth to be mined from those threads.

Thing is, talkbacks are insular. They’re their own subculture that has turned back and around on itself. It’s not like you’re getting a hundred honest opinions. You’re getting a hundred statements that are partially honest opinion, partially competitive writing, partially intentional deception, partially delusion and partially deconstructive critical anarchism.

That’s why you somehow have to learn to take the talkbacks seriously without taking them seriously, if you dig.

Kevin Smith, who never fails to fascinate, has opted on at least two occasions to literally respond, item by item, to talkbacks. This would seem to define “insanity.” The best he can do is use a bully pulpit to beat up some guy whose name is something like TheRealVinzClortho, but it’s not like Clortho will feel anything but delight at the recognition. The worst he can do is actually appear to lose the exchange with a talkbacker making a valid point. Either way, fighting the talkback is like firing a gun into a black hole. As was the case with Kevin Smith, the talkback simply assimilated his responses and then begain talking back about them.

If the talkbackers find this article, someone will no doubt talk back about it too. I will probably get bludgeoned for it. That’s the tricky part about even mentioning talkbacks. They get pretty recursive.

In that regard, one of the smartest things Harry Knowles did was put that question mark after the title of his site. AICN is an endless question. Ain’t it cool? Sometimes yeah, sometimes no. There’s plenty to learn from all that chaos. Don’t fear it, don’t take it personally, don’t believe every word of it, don’t deny every word of it…and above all, don’t fight it.

It is what it is, and it ain’t what it ain’t.

See the writer?Something happened to a colleague of mine that epitomizes what I call the “The Invisible Writer” snub. She and her husband are one of the credited writers of Disney’s upcoming remake of The Shaggy Dog. A day or so ago, they read the following quote in The Hollywood Reporter from the director of the film, referring to himself, the producer and the star, Tim Allen.

In our case, we felt we wanted to carry on the tradition of the father sort of having to bear the weight of the burden of turning into a dog. And it just gave Tim a great opportunity to play all that sort of fantastic physical comedy that comes into play when the dog mannerisms are overtaking the human — such as sticking your face into a cereal bowl instead of using your spoon to eat cereal and all these dog instincts. When you go to kiss your wife goodbye you can’t help but lick her face rather than kiss her. Things like that. Tim was just incredibly embracing of the whole physical part of the role and had a lot of fun with it.

Hmmm. Where are the writers? Oh. Here they are…in another quote from the director.

We definitely beat our heads against the wall with a few writers.

Here’s the interesting part. My writer friends attest that they had a great relationship with this director. So why would he talk like this? They resent the generic reference to “writers” that had to be overcome, and they certainly weren’t happy to read a quote that ascribed the authorship of creative decisions and specific jokes to practically everyone but them!

I remember watching a press junket for one of my movies. When asked about the script, the director didn’t even mention my name. In fact, all she did was talk about her favorite lines that weren’t scripted!

“How was the process from script to film?”

“It was great. We found a ton of stuff while we were shooting. Just ad libbing, coming up with jokes on the set. My favorite line in the movie wasn’t even in the script!”

Uh huh. Why you little….

So why does this happen (and boy, does it happen all the time)? Are directors that egotistical? Are they purposefully ignoring writers because of enmity? Are they intentionally characterizing writers as obstacles because they really believe they are (and are they)? Are they overemphasizing the authorial contributions of actors because it’s a good business move?

All possible, but I have a different theory.

I think directors de-emphasize the writer and overemphasize all non-writer contributions to the movie because they are flat out frightened that their actual contributions are insignificant in the face of what we, the writers, have contributed.

Yes, directors often believe in the auteur theory. But doesn’t that theory strike some of you as overcompensating? Isn’t it the academic equivalent of a 50 year-old man with erectile dysfunction tooling around town in a Lamborghini, his arm around a stripper?

The truth is that directing is very hard. And acting? Also hard. Still, when you direct a film from someone else’s script, you’re itching to prove to the world that you didn’t just follow someone else’s paint-by-numbers instructional manual for making the film.

This holds especially true for comedies, where so much of the apparent value of the film is in the dialogue or the concepts. It turns out that directing comedy is perhaps the hardest of all directing skills, because it requires an enormous talent for timing and tone.

The thing is, people don’t know they’re laughing at timing and tone. They think they’re just laughing at the idea of, say, a man getting his chest hair waxed off. They are, but they’re also laughing at the performance of the actor, the realistic tone of the scene, the timing of the cut between set ups, punches and reactions, the presence or lack of score, the framing, the…

…well, all the directing stuff.

Directors and actors know that’s all going on, but they also know that the writer who dreamed the bit up in the first place is the real hero. It’s only human to want to then crow about the very things that you think the audience will appreciate you for as a director. Besides, if you don’t, then what the hell did you do, right?

Okay, so that’s my theory about why directors pull this crap.

Now here’s my plea to them.

Stop it. Please, please, please just stop it. It’s a much stronger move to acknowledge the positive relationship you had with your writers. It’s a much more confident projection to credit them for their wonderful ideas. It makes you look smart for working with them, it makes the movie sound more literate and crafted, and, quite frankly, it’s the moral thing to do.

The whole world automatically credits the director more than the writer. Don’t be greedy. When the little voice in your head prods you to talk about that great line you came up with on the set because you don’t want people to see you as somehow diminished by the achievements of the writer, ignore it. Praise the writers instead. Be humble. If the development was difficult, don’t blame the writers. Thank them for prevailing against tough circumstances or cracking a tricky problem.

You’re the director. You control what the audience will see and hear.

Let them see and hear us.

We’ve earned it. And no matter what you might fear, your star won’t lose a single watt of shine.

One of the big differences between successful film directors and successful film writers is that directors have experience and skill talking with actors, and screenwriters typically do not.

That’s a huge problem. While nothing can ever take the place of experience, there are a few things to keep in mind when you find yourself talking to an actor performing a role from your script.

Let’s establish why it’s important that screenwriters and actors feel comfortable speaking with each other. The director is always responsible for the actor’s performance, and the director is typically the only individual giving the actors performance notes during the actual shooting. However, in the time leading up to production, it’s good for writers and actors to be able to discuss the character with each other in a dramaturgical way. When we talk about the character’s backstory with the actor, or their intentions in a specific scene as written, it’s a good thing. It’s best to make sure that the director is comfortable with you speaking with the actors. Some directors hate it and want their actors to remain untouched by any other human’s hands, so to speak.

If you learn how to talk to actors, odds are that you will be trusted to always do so.

Okay, on with the advice.

First, you have to understand that actors and writers are very very very very very different sorts of people. Our creativity is entirely internal. Theirs is largely external. We think. They portray. We imagine. They become. Our craft is focused through the written word. Theirs is focused through their bodies, their faces, their eyes.

So when you talk to an actor, you don’t have to approach them like a dog you don’t know, but it does help to put yourself in their shoes. You may love your words, but they have to say them, and while your name will always be associated with the movie, their face will exist saying that line over and over and over until the sun explodes.

Therefore, if they have an issue with the dialogue, don’t get defensive. This isn’t a play—actors generally know that other actors have performed the lines in a play, so they’re “safe”. In a film, this moment is the only moment there will be. This performance is the only one that they can ever deliver. The actors will chisel the words in stone. Work with them to find ways to get your intentions across as effectively as possible through your actors. After all, if they hate the line, they’re either going to tank it, ad lib it, or ask the director to rewrite it.

If the actor is at all famous, put that out of your mind. They are stared at like an oddity all day long, and they are painfully aware that there’s an instant unnaturalness between them and any non-famous person. Don’t allow yourself to show that unnaturalness. Don’t talk about how big of a fan you are, blah blah blah. Talk about your movie. Talk about this role. Be professional in every regard.

When you’re dealing with multiple actors, be aware that actors are just as flawed as we are. Maybe we get a little precious with our words, or tend to write things that are better as concepts than as actual scenes. And maybe some actors tend to view the story solely in the context of their character.

Never fall into the trap of defending the writing on the basis of its literary quality. They don’t care. They’re not meat puppets. The production hasn’t rented their face to mouth-flap up and down for the words in the script. A good performance will never be believed by the audience if it’s not believed by the actor giving it. Defend the writing in the context of their character and their performance.

At times, you will be negotiating between multiple actors in the cast. Don’t play favorites, and don’t borrow from Peter to pay Paul. Stick to what’s best for the story. If you get into a disagreement with an actor about a particular scene, then simply defer to the director. Easiest strategy in the world.

When you’re talking with actors, be aware of your own mood. Jerry Lewis wrote a now out-of-print book about directing, and in it he made an interesting point. Actors often assume that your mood is a reflection of how you’re feeling about them. No, that doesn’t mean they’re self-absorbed narcissists. It’s just a symptom of their craft, which is very much a “I behave, you respond to my behavior” effort. If you’re cranky about something, leave it outside the door before you walk into the actor’s trailer.

Keep in mind that when actors sometimes seem grumpy with writers, it may be because they’re actually intimidated by us and what we represent. We’ve given them a person to be and a world to live in, and sometimes they feel insecure or defensive when talking with us about the pages. Let them know that you’re not going to bite. If you project that you care more about the movie than your script document, they’ll loosen up around you.

Finally, try and pick quiet times and quiet places to talk about the screenplay with the actor. Trailers are great for that, be it hair/makeup or their own. The dance of give-and-get is delicate, and a lot of actors don’t want to be watched publicly as they ask for help about their character. Besides, it’s hard to have any kind of meaningful, open discussion about feelings, emotions, choices and intentions when grips are lugging lights and ladders past your head.

In the end, writers and actors aren’t from different planets, even if it feels like it sometimes. We need each other to make the movie work. Don’t be afraid of them, don’t patronize them, don’t be in awe of them, don’t ignore them. The truth is that for all their insecurities and foibles and obsessions, I love actors. If you want your terrific screenplay to ever be a terrific movie, you should learn to love them too.

I was going to wait a bit longer before rolling out part deux, but we’re in danger of having the comments discussion duplicate some of the content of the original exchange, so I’m shrinking the window. I should add for casual readers of this site that the comments section for the first installment of this debate is about the best we’ve ever had, and should be considered as useful to read as these posts themselves.

Okay, on with the final chapter…

MAZIN: Josh, I think you’ve fallen prey to the whole “misunderstand Craig” thing.

Like you, I’ve compiled my list of dealbreakers, and while “a film by” isn’t one of them because I personally think the credit is so moronic as to have no impact whatsoever, there are other things upon which I insist.

It is also my great and pressing desire to see that a number of “best practices” become standard practices for all writers, and I hope to swing a very heavy bat on behalf of us all. I want a writer’s trailer on every set. I want writers at every test screening.

However, I approach this knowing full well that the one thing the WGA nor I can ever possibily legislate is good feelings.

By the by, wanting to advance the creative rights of writers and believing that writers can be a whiny and selfish lot are not mutually exclusive positions. I personally think writers can be whiny and selfish but no more so than directors, so I don’t really factor it into my personal equations.

So let me flip this around to you, because I think this is an important discussion, and because I think you and I actually have the same basic goals in mind.

How do we legislate better treatment? You and I both know that sometimes writers simply do not get along with producers or directors. Unlike a television show, there is only one “episode” in theatrical. When “they” have decided that they don’t need more from us, then what can we meaningfully do to reinsert the writer into the process as a welcome participant?

One of the things that frustrates me is that certain creative gains become distasteful chores for all parties involved when there isn’t a true partnership. The writer insists that he receive his contractually obligated screening. The director doesn’t show up. The producer sends an assistant to take the notes from the writer and toss them the second we’re gone.

All entirely legal and to the letter of the creative rights.

One of the things that I hope to accomplish in the near future is figuring out how to structure creative rights so that the companies can’t violate the spirit of them unless they feel they have cause. In other words, let’s stop pretending that there aren’t problems. There are. If there are, maybe there’s a grievance system where the WGA can help get the writer in a room with someone who actually cares what they think.

Anyway, that’s how I think. Coming up with wish lists is the easy part; figuring out how to make it all stick and be impactful in a real way is the challenge.

OLSON: Craig wrote:

Like you, I’ve compiled my list of dealbreakers, and while “a film by” isn’t one of them because I personally think the credit is so moronic as to have no impact whatsoever, there are other things upon which I insist.

Again, fine for you in your personal dealings. But as an official rep for working writers, it’s a fight you need to take seriously. Look at it this way - you want to use my posts on your web page, but you want to cut out any profanity or insults because you object to them for some reason. On a web page which is read by - what? I have no idea how many people, but far less than see any movie. “A film by” is an insult. It’s profanity. And it’s seen by far more people than read your web page.

And here’s the thing - whereas saying “!%%?” on your web page has no impact whatsoever on anything of import, the use of “A film by” continues to eat away at respect for writers, which, in turn, affects our ability to ply our trade.

I’m sorry you think it’s moronic and meaningless. I’d wager if you ever write something that’s of real lasting importance to you, in which you’ve poured a great deal of personal conviction, care and passion and told a story that is deeply personal to yourself, then had someone else cavalierly claim authorship because this system allows - hell, encourages - them to, my guess is you might not feel the same way. I could be wrong, but my sense is that you get how systemically diminishing the importance of writers affects our ability to do our jobs and to be effectively and fairly compensated for it.

I apologize for not being as up on these things as I should - I didn’t know until I read JL’s post why you were the beneficiary of such largesse on your last movie.

(Craig’s Note: Josh is referring to a post by another writer who stated that I have a uniquely positive relationship with a studio head, and this needs to be taken into consideration when evaluating my opinions.)

Good for you. That must be lovely. But I cannot imagine you are so blinkered you believe that your experience is in any way reflective of most screenwriters’ experiences.

You also need to understand that you got those perks because you managed to ingratiate yourself on the right person by being easy going and pleasant to work with. None of those things are standard issue in this system… for writers. On the other hand, the world is full of directors who get every single one of those perks and don’t have to be pleasant, easy to get along with, or good friends with the cat who runs the studio.

The film by credit matters, and it’s a tremendously important issue. The film by credit matters because the more a lie is repeated, the more people believe it. You and I recently had a discussion about your feelings for the President. It ended when you finally acknowledged that he hadn’t actually achieved anything that you could point to unequivocally and say, “Yes. That is good.” What he HAS done is talk a good game. I’ve been amazed over the last five years how this creepy, frightened looking little man has been able to simply come on TV and describe himself as steely eyed, tough and determined, and people buy into it, even though it’s crystal clear to anyone watching that he is none of those things. The film by credit is the same thing. It is a lie that’s repeated so often, many people believe it. And guess what? SOME OF THOSE PEOPLE PAY US.

It matters. It matters a hell of a lot.

The fact that Bob Weinstein treats you like a pasha has exactly zero bearing on any of this, and you need to know that the implication of your posts on the matter is that rather than complaining or pressing for change, we should all do our best to ingratiate ourselves on Bob Weinstein.

You take every opportunity you can to complain about writers, to put them down and to characterize them as whiners and complainers and babies. That’s fine if you’re just one more of us schmucks, but as our representative at the bargaining table? It ain’t right, man. You need to step outside your personal experiences and look around a bit.

MAZIN: JL, while lovely and well-meaning and a friend and colleague of mine, is wrong. My relationship with Bob is highly unusual, but it is largely a post facto product of how I worked and what I did on Scary Movie 3. Just about every bit of nice treatment I received on that movie was received prior to my pashahood.

You’ve got me wrong on the “film by” credit. I hate the “film by” credit. I think it is immoral and evil. When I directed, I was offered the credit, and I turned it down. I will direct again, and I will never take the credit.

However, it is a petty evil. More to the point, I don’t think anyone in the audience gives a damn. They’re more concerned about whether the theater has Junior Mints. Therefore, when I approach projects, I put that credit much lower on my hierarchy of stuff to worry about, because there are many other things that affect me personally and in more impactful ways.

I work with David Zucker. He doesn’t take the credit. I work with Todd Phillips. He does. That factor is pretty damn minor compared to a hundred other factors that make me want to work with them both again.

I will remind you that I did not make that admission about the President, and I reiterated that I didn’t make it, and until Uday and Qusay are brought back to life and Saddam Hussein is returned to power, I will never make it.

The fact is, Josh, that I do and have expended serious energy pushing for change. Actually doing it, Josh, turns out to be more difficult than writing about doing it. I invite you to join the actual non-virtual fight, which involves sitting in a room with CEO’s and DGA officials and anyone else we have a beef with and actually getting what you want.

Unfortunately, you have to strip away all of the armor you’ve collected and earned over the years, including the shiny new Oscar thingy, because when you’re collectively bargaining, you are a scale writer.

I’ll say again that I do NOT characterize “writers” as whiners and babies, although some writers factually are whiners and babies. Some are flat out insane. So what? I work and worry about the ones who aren’t.

Now, even after all of that, MG is actually hoping to hell that I continue to be his representative.

(Craig’s Note: I’m referring here to another poster who expressed concern when I mentioned I would not be running for a second term on the Board of Directors of the WGAw.)

Maybe MG knows a little more about what I actually do for writers than you do, Josh. Maybe MG knows that fourteen tons of your rhetoric have done less for him than the Stockholm Syndrome pasha bootlick has.

Maybe MG knows that you have no idea what I’m really like as a person, nor do you know how I go about the business of spending time and energy advocating for ALL members with our union and the companies.

Or maybe not. Maybe fourteen tons of your rhetoric just about equals what I do. I don’t care.

Either way, I don’t plan on running again. Due to recent developments in our union, there are certain things I can only do if I’m not on the Board…and I want to do them if they become necessary.

OLSON: Craig wrote:

However, it is a petty evil. More to the point, I don’t think anyone in the audience gives two flying fucks.

Um…. You realize that that’s a complete and total non-sequitur, right? It’s like saying segregation was a non-issue because people living in the Ukraine didn’t give two flying fucks about seperate water fountains in Mississippi. This has nothing to do with the audience. This has to do with how directors and writers are perceived by the people who write the checks and dole out the cookies. Not eveything is about the audience, Craig. I’m the last guy in the world to argue that they should give a damn about any of this.

The fact is, Josh, that I do and have expended serious energy pushing for change. Actually doing it, Josh, turns out to be more difficult than writing about doing it.

I’m quite certain.

I invite you to join the actual non-virtual fight, which involves sitting in a room with CEO’s and DGA officials and anyone else we have a beef with and actually getting what you want.

And some day I may do that. Right now, though, you’ll forgive me if I see communicating my concerns with my Guild reps as joining the fight.

I’ll say again that I do NOT characterize “writers” as whiners and babies, although some writers factually are whiners and babies. Some are flat out insane. So what? I work and worry about the ones who aren’t.

Craig, let me step back a bit, because I can come across pretty contentious, and I am a Huey Newton type when it comes to writers rights. I do not mean this as a cavalier smack or an angry response, and you’ve done a good job so far of not taking my comments as insults. I’ve read your posts for quite some time, and most of the time, when you’re discussing writers and their concerns, you’re dismissing them in a fairly insulting manner.

You routinely focus on the negative aspects of some writers, and use those to justify various and sundry mis-treatment of all writers. I cannot recall the last time I saw you be as dismissive of directors, studio execs or producers as you are of writers. You very much seem to have an axe to grind, whether you’re complaining about how pretentious we are, or how whiny we are, or how ignorant we are of reality. I never see you talk that way about anyone else. All of that - wherever it comes from (And your post about why writers don’t hang out with other writers was extremely telling, and extremely inaccurate in my fairly vast experience) HAS to factor into your attitude about the people you represent, and THAT is what worries me. If the guy sitting at the table who’s supposed to carry my water harbors an innate hostility towards me and my concerns, that’s troubling. And anyone who reads your posts couldn’t possibly come to any other conclusion.

I’m sorry you don’t like hanging out with other writers. I’m sorry you think proper attribution of credit is irrelevant. I’m sorry you think anyone why shoots higher than just pleasing the largest audience possible is pretentious. And if none of those actually applies to you, rather than telling me how untrue those characterizations are, why not ask why it is that so many people read that so clearly in what you write here?

Watch Straw Dogs some time if you haven’t lately (or ever.) Peckinpah was trying to say things about the nature of relationships, and of men, but what really comes through the clearest and the loudest is his tremendously screwed up view of women. Not intentional, not conscious, but it’s there, clear and bright as day.

MAZIN: Josh wrote:

[The “film by credit”] has nothing to do with the audience. This has to do with how directors and writers are perceived by the people who write the checks and dole out the cookies.

Uh huh. Okay. Well, I’ll take your point, and pose a question. How will legislating against the “film by” credit change the way we are perceived by the people who write the checks and dole out the cookies? (Hint: history has proven that the companies already agree with us that the credit is stupid, so there’s no influence or standing to actually gain. It’s also proven that they don’t want the DGA to go on strike over this stupid credit, which is what happened the last time the companies agreed with the WGA and tried to kill it.)

That aside, I can safely say that you and I have the same interest in mind. We want the cookie dolers to look at writers more respectfully and considerately than they currently do.

Right now, though, you’ll forgive me if I see communicating my concerns with my Guild reps as joining the fight.

Okay, fair enough. I deserve that.

I’ve read your posts for quite some time, and most of the time, when you’re discussing writers and their concerns, you’re dismissing them in a fairly insulting manner.

You routinely focus on the negative aspects of some writers, and use those to justify various and sundry mis-treatment of all writers. I cannot recall the last time I saw you be as dismissive of directors, studio execs or producers as you are of writers. You very much seem to have an axe to grind, whether you’re complaining about how pretentious we are, or how whiny we are, or how ignorant we are of reality. I never see you talk that way about anyone else.

Right. Well, I dispute your initial statement, because most of the time when I’m discussing writers and their concerns, I’m doing it in a very boring and legalistic way, because that’s often the only kind of language that actually facilitates change with the companies.

Furthermore, I do not believe I have ever justified mistreatment of writers as a group. Some individual writers reap what they sew. That’s just a fact. After all, we’re humans. Some of us are no good.

You do make an excellent point, though, when you note that I reserve the bulk of my criticism for writers, and not for the “others”.

Here’s why.

I’m talking amongst colleagues, and I’m urging us, a group with which I identify and to which I belong, to CHANGE.

I can’t urge producers and directors to change. They are Others. They’re on the opposite side of the table (most of the time). I’ll approach those guys with a smile on my face and a knife in my hand and get as much as I can possibly get for me, for you, for all of us.

But how do I approach me and you and all of us? How do I talk to la famiglia? Honesty and forthrightness. We will never get stronger if we don’t stop talking about our weakness. Crying won’t help ya, prayin’ won’t do ya no good.

Chalk it up to tough love. What’s the point of urging producers to be fairer or more considerate or more respectful? Please. Like they care about those things? They’re not in that business. Producers must be negotiated with. They must be convinced, wheedled, cajoled, and ultimately, they must be overcome.

Writers? I just want us to grow up. I think we can do better. I’d rather be the jerk who holds up a mirror than the demagogue patting people on the back. I think frank and self-critical examination is healthy and valuable, just as I think humoring and agreeing and rah-rahing and pity parties and soft saline-absorbent shoulders are unproductive and generate complacency and self-denial.

If the guy sitting at the table who’s supposed to carry my water harbors an innate hostility towards me and my concerns, that’s troubling. And anyone who reads your posts couldn’t possibly come to any other conclusion.

I don’t harbor an innate hostility to you and your concerns. I disagree with some of your positions, but overall, I’d say we’re actually on the same page.

This “only possible conclusion” line is so you, Josh. Yes. That’s right. No other conclusion but yours is even possible.

I’m sorry you don’t like hanging out with other writers.

My article clearly said the opposite. In fact, I specifically talked about the kind of writers I like having relationships with. It’s just that I tend to not do it in person as much as via telephone and email. I’m basically an introvert. Sorry.

I’m sorry you think proper attribution of credit is irrelevant.

Anyone who even has passing knowledge of me and what I care about knows how ignorant that comment is. Go read my articles on credits. Or consider that I’m currently co-chairing the Screen Credits Review Committee. I’m obsessed with the proper attribution of credits.

The difference between us is that I’m more obsessed with the ones I know I have a prayer of improving. Even if you put aside all other issues, the demographics of our own membership make fighting the possessory credit a waste of time. We would have to strike to get it. There are a lot more TV writers than screenwriters. They’re not striking over this. Anyone who tells you that the WGA will ever be successful in forcing out the “film by” credit is blowing smoke up your ass.

I’m sorry you think anyone why shoots higher than just pleasing the largest audience possible is pretentious.

I don’t think that, I’ve never said or written that, and I have said and written to the contrary.

And if none of those actually applies to you, rather than telling me how untrue those characterizations are, why not ask why it is that so many people read that so clearly in what you write here?

Too late on not telling you how untrue they are. Besides, I enjoy defending my own honor. Still, you pose another good question. Here are some possible reasons “people” (whomever they may be) misinterpret what I write in such a gross manner.

1. I’m a bad writer.
2. People are sloppy readers.
3. I’m hitting a nerve, and I’m getting a defensive response.

It’s probably a combination of all three. I turn this exchange back to you for the final salvo.

OLSON: Craig wrote:

How will legislating against the “film by” credit change the way we are perceived by the people who write the checks and dole out the cookies? (Hint: history has proven that the companies already agree with us that the credit is stupid, so there’s no influence or standing to actually gain. It’s also proven that they don’t want the DGA to go on strike over this stupid credit, which is what happened the last time the companies agreed with the WGA and tried to kill it.)

First of all, I’ve already discussed this, and second of all, history has proven no such thing. And as I touched on in the last post, the “film by” credit has already been legislated against us. If it helps your conservative soul live with it more, don’t think of it as creating new legislation… think of it as eradicating old legislation. Happy now?

I can’t urge producers and directors to change.

Um….. That’s sort of your job.

How do I talk to la famiglia? Honesty and forthrightness.

If you want to stick with the mafia analogy, you don’t do that in front of strangers.

Chalk it up to tough love.

Which I’ve always perceived as the first resort of the black-hearted. Sorry.

I’d rather be the jerk who holds up a mirror than the demagogue patting people on the back.

Again, I have no issue with that. None. As long as you’re just one of us, even if I disagree with your points, I respect your right to feel differently. But when you’re our rep, no. It doesn’t wash. As our rep, it’s not your job to tell us what’s wrong with us. It’s your job to fight for us, and not weaken our position with the folks across the table.

And so ends the debate. I look forward to keeping this ball rolling for a while with Josh and the rest of you in the comments section.

In a previous post, I wrote about how I like to foster relationships with writers who are better than I. I suppose I should have qualified that to say I like to fostering good relationships with those writers, but I’ll take contentious over nothing.

Enter Josh Olson, currently nominated for an Oscar for his outstanding work writing A History Of Violence.

Josh and I have tangled before in the political debate forum at WriterAction, a BBS for WGA members only. Recently, though, we had a debate about a very important and personal topic for both of us. The exchange covered a lot of ground, but it largely centered around our differing philosophies of how professional film writers ought to view the relationships between each other and their employers, how union representatives ought to behave, and above all, what attitude is ultimately the most productive one if your self-professed goal is to improve the professional lives of screenwriters.

The whole thing was pretty much kicked off by another individual who stated (and I paraphrase) that everyone in Hollywood pretty much owes their jobs to writers, as we provide the genesis for the process that employs everyone.

I argued that we need everyone else as much as they need us, because without people to produce our screenplays, our screenplays are unsellable. No us, no them. No them, no us.

I now present Part One of the great debate. The posts are edited only for the occasional obscenity (as we do have young readers) and in places where other individuals’ posts were referenced.

Thanks to the administrators of WriterAction for granting their permission to reprint these posts.


MAZIN: (in response to another person’s comment) I agree that our task is either as difficult as or MORE difficult than practically any job done on or for a movie. And I agree that if a writer is scorned, there’s a fair chance it’s because that writer is an a-hole. Saying things like, “You wouldn’t have a job if it weren’t for me” is consistent with that aforementioned scorn-generating quality.

OLSON:

And I agree that if a writer is scorned, there’s a fair chance it’s because that writer is an a-hole.”

No offense, but if you really believe that, you’ve either had a truly blessed experience in this business, or you’ve never actually worked in it.

MAZIN: Clearly, I’ve worked. Perhaps my experience is blessed. I don’t know. I work and play well with others in my sandbox. I’ve been treated poorly a few times, but mostly treated with respect and decency. I have watched writers be assholes and get treated poorly. But there’s no hard and fast rule.

OLSON: I’ll put my rep as a pleasant, decent, nice and easy guy to work with up against anyone here, Craig. Anyone. And while I have watched writers be a-holes and treated poorly, I’ve also worked in a system for almost two decades that by its very design treats writers badly as a matter of course. That you’ve managed to work in the business for almost ten years and not see that speaks to an amazing streak of luck that I’m sure everyone here finds enviable. But you need to know you’re an amazing exception.

Or it could just be that your bar is pretty low. To most of us, the writer is one of the most essential and important people in the process, deserving of just as much respect and recognition as the cast and the director. If you don’t buy into that, I suppose it would be possible to work here and not get the general frustration most writers feel at their treatment.

MAZIN: Yes, it may be that my bar is low, and it may be luck. Or maybe I just do things differently. Maybe people just want to love me because I’m so squeezable. I don’t know.

I’ll reiterate, though, that I have been treated poorly at times. And I get the frustration, because I’ve felt it. I do try and not dwell on the frustration, but simply steer around a-holes who frustrate me.

OLSON: Craig, please don’t take this personally, or as an insult or an attack. It is an observation, and one that is shared by many people who are familiar with your posts here and on your own web page - and I’m talking lots of people, including some of the biggest writers in this business…. when I read your posts on the treatment of writers, the complaints of writers, and issues related to the treatment of writers, the phrase that often comes to mind is “The Stockholm Syndrome.”

Dismiss that with a joke, by all means, but to many of us, this is our bread and butter, and a monumentally serious concern.

MAZIN: I can’t take your comment personally, but I can’t be removed from it via humor…so…I guess I’ll look at it from a purely intellectual point of view.

Some of the biggest writers in the business disagree with me, which I think is to be expected. Some of the biggest writers in the business agree with me, which I think is to be expected.

I am, after all, controversial. That’s not a point of pride…because I’m definitely not taking this personally. It’s just true. I hold some opinions that are controversial.

The implication of the Stockholm Syndrome is:

1. That a writer’s natural state is that of a victim/hostage
2. A writer who does not view his employers as hostage takers or abusers only fails to view them this way because their abuse has psychologically damaged them.

I dispute that our natural state is that of a victim or hostage, although it’s clear to me that many writers feel like victims and hostages. I’m not denying those feelings. I’m saying that our feeling-state of victimhood is not consistent with the reality of the actual status power we can wield if we just view ourselves as film-making partners.

Therefore, while I can never prove that I’m not insane or warped or servile or abused, it is my contention that I am not abused.

On my last movie, I was paid well. I was treated well by the director, the producer, and the head of the studio. I was meaningfully consulted on all aspects of pre-production, production and post-production. My name was on the call sheet. I had a trailer on the set. I had a seat at video village. I gave notes on all cuts of the movie. I was present at all test-screenings of the movie. I was meaningfully consulted on all aspects of the marketing of the film.

Prior to the production of that film, I had no hit movies to my name. No Oscar nominations either.

So…am I a victim dreaming that he is a film-making partner, or are you a film-making partner dreaming that you are a victim?

I’ve already acknowledged that victims and crimes DO exist. They happen often, in fact. Nonetheless, I will not spout feel-goodisms in order to buck us all up in a mutually satisfying Oprah moment of communal victimhood worship.

Writers are professional entrepreneurial adults. Professional entrepreneurial adults are responsible for their fates.

Here’s the message that “some of the biggest writers in the business” have given me.

“Your website would be better if you stopped coddling writers and just told them to stop acting like babies all the time.”

I don’t do that, because I don’t think writers are babies all the time, but you’re kidding yourself if you think I’m some special Quisling case.

There’s plenty of people who think like me, and there are plenty who are far harsher in their view.

Believe it or not, fellow bread and butter eater…this is MY monumentally serious concern. Writers will always be externally limited. We don’t have to be internally limited as well.

OLSON:

I’ve already acknowledged that victims and crimes DO exist. They happen often, in fact. Nonetheless, I will not spout feel-goodisms in order to buck us all up in a mutually satisfying Oprah moment of communal victimhood worship.

Writers are professional entrepreneurial adults. Professional entrepreneurial adults are responsible for their fates.

Indeed. I bust my ass to make sure I don’t screwed on deals. Before I was in the Guild, I was almost always paid well above Guild minimum, and made a point of standing firm on issues that many writers don’t, sometimes at the risk of losing a job. My agent is psyching himself up for the fact that on future projects, for instance, I’m making it a deal breaker that if I’m the sole writer, nobody can take a “film by” credit, and I’m considering taking a similar position on audio commentary tracks. I wish I could have taken those positions when I first broke in, but I simply could not. There’s a certain amount of clout that comes from my current position, and I intend to maximize that.

I’ve always been this way - I’ve always done my own work, fought my own fights, and because I’ve been around a decent amount of time, and because I’ve worked all sides of the fence, I’m a little more capable at some of this than some people. And if you and I are two writers just shooting the shit, and you say you don’t care about those things in your deals, I say, Go with God, my son. But if you’re a representative of my union, I say you damn well better care about those things, because suddenly your attitudes about these things affects MY livelihood.

I do those things because I can, but you know what? I shouldn’t have to. Those things ought to be a given in ANY writer’s deal, because I’d much rather spend my time writing and playing goddam video games than ensuring that I don’t get screwed by a system that is designed to treat me like an interchangable cog in the wheel.

Because in the end, Craig, it’s not about whether or not you or I have worked with producers or directors who personally treat us well or badly. It’s about whether or not we work in a system that is designed to degrade our input.

There’s plenty of people who think like me, and there are plenty who are far harsher in their view.

If they’re on the board of directors of my guild, I’d love to know their names, because while they might be representing someone when they’re sitting at the negotiating table, it ain’t writers.

That concludes this first chapter of the debate. I’ll be back in a few days to bring you the next installment. In the meantime, feel free to continue the debate amongst yourselves. Josh has graciously agreed to let me publish this exchange here, so I ask the home-team crowd to be as respectful of him as you would of me.

Bloop!I’m not sure if Hollywood’s predilection for paranoia is a good or bad thing. I suppose it’s always better for an industry to constantly worry about upheavals and plan accordingly, but every so often, this town starts to spasm uncontrollably over something absurd.

Enter the Bubble, written by Coleman Hough and directed by Steven Soderbergh.

Bubble decided to opt for a much-publicized release strategy that was supposed to foreshadow the future of film distribution as well as the end of the world as we know it. The “day and date” strategy, as it is oddly known, involves releasing a film both theatrically and on DVD (and possibly via broadcast or cablecast as well) on the same day.

Theater owners panicked. Writers and directors panicked (because DVD residuals are based largely on the concept that DVD’s are a “supplemental” market, and they’re clearly not when you’re doing a day-and-date release).

Studios panicked, because they couldn’t tell if this inevitable, sure-to-be-the-future release pattern was going to decrease theatrical profits and increase video profits, increase them both, shrink them both, turn water into blood…or what.

Well, B-Day happened, and shock of all shocks…

…Hollywood got had.

Let me first say that I haven’t seen the movie, but I do have enormous respect for the talents and past work of Mr. Soderbergh.

That aside, the Bubble strategy was clearly about hype. This is a film that, by all accounts, shouldn’t have gotten a theatrical release at all. The movie grossed about $70,000 on its opening weekend. It was only in 32 theaters, but its average was a rather anemic $2200, well below what you’d hope to see for an arthouse movie.

Similarly, no one watches HD Net.

The logic behind the traditional release pattern still stands.

First, release the movie theatrically. Theater-going is still an incredibly popular pasttime, and despite the advent of DVD and home theaters, nothing beats seeing a crowd-pleaser with an actual crowd.

Second, using the theatrical release as either an investment with modest return or as a promotional loss leader, release the DVD. The relative high return on investment for DVD’s is your best chance at real profit, and hit movies can generate multiple DVD releases.

Third, repeat the first two exercises in as many foreign countries as you can.

This strategy is a good one. Is there a shrinking window between step one and step two? Yes. Is that because of piracy? In part. You’ll find that the window is much smaller for bombs. Poor theatrical runs means you can’t count on much anticipation getting built for the DVD. Getting the DVD out quickly to capitalize on what little bit of cultural currency you have makes sense.

Nonetheless, it’s suicidal to really consider day-and-date for studio films…unless you know ahead of time that your movie’s a bomb. Even then, day-and-date may kill you overseas, where films that have been released in a true theatrical pattern are worth far more for rebroadcast than direct-to-video films.

If Bubble were the sort of film that the financial backers had real faith in, they wouldn’t have done this. At least, I don’t think they would have. An arthouse film with a chance for success needs a theatrical arthouse run, starting on as few as 2 screens. It needs critical acclaim, and then a few nominations for awards. Then you build your theatrical release, and cash in on the ensuing DVD release.

Until people start rejecting theaters (and a 6% downtick doesn’t mean rejection, it just means a 6% downtick), to go day-and-date is to kill your chance for real success. Let the handwringers keep wringing. War, television, VHS…all touted as the death knell for movie theaters. Now it’s the Bubble. I give Soderbergh and Cuban a lot of credit for finding some way to hype their movie, but there’s nothing to fear here.

We’re going to be walking down those sticky aisles for a looooong time.

Jacob Weinstein is such a smartie.

I wrote this post because I’ve sat through a few test screenings recently (which went well, thank God), and it struck me that unless you’re prepared for the audience’s sense of entitlement and total lack of concern for you and your feelings…you just might throw up in your popcorn bucket.

For those of you who said you could never work for such a person, all I can tell you is that one day you will—if you’re lucky enough.

On that day, if you’re anything like me, you will be a nervous wreck. The Boss really does kick you when you’re down. I’ve been in at least one bad screening where, after the film stumbled a bit, you could hear the catcalls and jeering begin, like hyenas circling the wounded gazelle.

Until that day, if any critic or reader or executive treats you in a way that you think is harsh or cruel or capricious, just remember: you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

Who is he?I want to talk about the worst boss in Hollywood.

Since I work in Hollywood, I have to be a bit discreet about this. I don’t want to get in trouble, but I feel like I should warn you all, since many of you work in the business, and the rest of you want to work in the business.

I’m even using the phrase “the Boss” so as not to specifically say this person is a producer or a director or an exec or what. All I’ll tell you is that it’s not one of the Weinsteins.

Where to begin?

The Boss is rude. The Boss doesn’t care about niceties, and will literally insult you to your face. I’ve sat in a room with the Boss and been mocked, sneered at, and called a loser. He’s called my writing “stupid” to my face.

Yeah, the Boss goes ad hominem all the time. In fact, he’s never constructive. He almost always bitches aimlessly at you, as if you’re already dead to him. As if there’s no hope that you’ll do better.

Now, maybe that would be worth it if the Boss gave good notes, but most of the times, the Boss has no clue what he actually wants.

He says he want this, but he really wants that. He says he likes something, but then he trashes it to everyone else the very next day. Sometimes he says he hates something, but he secretly likes it.

It drives me crazy.

Maybe all of that would be tolerable if the Boss were hard-working, but he’s the laziest guy I know in this business. He just sits there. It’s amazing to me how little he knows about filmmaking. In fact, he pretty much knows nothing about filmmaking. Zippo. He just sits and shrugs. You have to fight for every reaction. He’s cynical, jaded, and bored with you before you even walk in the room.

Wait. It gets worse.

Maybe…MAYBE…all of this would be fine if only the Boss appreciated how hard I work. He doesn’t. In fact, The Boss really has no clue how much I work, nor does he seem to care. He’s literally said to me, “What you do is so easy.”

I’m quoting the Boss. Granted, that was a really bad day for him, but still, it hurt. I mean, here I was working my heart out for this guy, and all he could say was, “Anyone could have done this better. Literally. Anyone.”

The Boss never gives encouragement. If you’re down, he kicks you.

But folks…here’s the sick part.

I love working for the Boss. Maybe it’s because he’s so brutal. I don’t know. All I know is that earning the Boss’ approval has become more important than earning my own approval. Hell, half the time I’m modelling my own sense of what is good on what I think the Boss will enjoy, even though predicting that jerk is nearly impossible. Somewhere along the line, making the Boss happy has become like crack for me.

So, I ask…what do you think? Am I helpless? A masochist? What would you do in my shoes?

More importantly, could you deal with someone like the Boss?

Naturally, you should feel free to guess who the Boss is. I bet some of you already know.

No, he’s not Satan. But if you meet him…have some courtesy.

Won’t you guess his name?

Bitter, bitter,
bitter…A few days ago, I became embroiled in a bit of a contretemps in our Artful Forum over what I felt were classically cliched objections to “Hollywood” and how it treats screenwriting.

If you haven’t heard the tired litany, let me perform it for you. You see, Hollywood sucks. There’s this thing called “good writing,” and Hollywood grabs it with its rapacious claws, mulches it through a horrifying machine that crushes the life out of it, bleeds the soul away, conforms all unique expression to a bland formula, and then grinds the edge off the work until the whole piece is as smooth and inoffensive as a bar of soap, all in the service of pleasing the great, unwashed, stupid crap-loving masses.

A few months ago, Ted wrote a good piece called Art Vs. Commercial: The Non-Battle of the Ages. In it, he talks about the way so many people believe that “commercial” is the privative of “artistic,” when, in fact, the two exist on entirely different qualitative axes.

Consider this the companion piece to Ted’s article. What I’d like to talk about is why I think people engage in this kind of rhetoric.

First, I should probably state as clearly as possible that it’s bunk.

Hollywood turns out a remarkable breadth of entertainment. There’s everything from the stupid and vulgar to the sublime and remarkable. Sometimes, things are stupid and vulgar and sublime and remarkable all at once. In the end, no one is interested in “cutting the balls” off of writing or killing the spirit of the script or smashing the truth in it or any other violent metaphor you can imagine.

All anyone in Hollywood wants to do is entertain an audience. Depending on the audience, they will attempt to reach that goal in any number of ways. Some audiences are narrow. Others are broad. Some are young and male, others are parents with small children. You audience will determine how you craft and shape the writing.

I suppose it’s possible that some of the gripers believe that’s backwards…that writing should exist in and of itself, and audiences ought to find it. Unfortunately, as long as screenwriters need other people’s money to see their stories realized, there must always be some creative calculation involved.

Still, I don’t think that’s really what’s going on.

I think what’s happening instead is that a lot of writers are both creative and nerdy, and the intersection of creative and nerdy often leads to a syndrome I call “pop culture absolutism”.

Let me explain.

It stands to reason that screenwriters should be a dorky lot. The craft requires intelligence, literacy and an enormous tolerance for solitude. It specifically does not require looks, physical fitness or social skills. I remember sitting at a large meeting of WGA members and thinking, “Jesus, we’re ugly.”

Myself included.

While there are some screenwriters who got along okay in high school, I suspect quite a few weren’t exactly what you’d call “popular”. This probably applies more to dramatic writers than comedy writers (the comedy writer opined), as comedy writers can make friends and even get laid just by making other people laugh.

The dramatically inclined nerd? Well, they tend to be laughed at. Or called “fag”. Or perhaps they’re just underappreciated. There are very lovely and brilliant but quiet and quirky fifteen year-olds who get no love from their peers, even though those same fifteen year-olds will earn millions of dollars as thirty year-olds.

And so, through abuse or underapprecation, a resentment of popularity itself is born. Popularity is seen as the ultimate hypocrisy, the grating evidence of an upside-down world in which true human quality is rejected and effortless superficiality is king.

Critics of popularity may have a point about that. Nonetheless, a worship of anti-popularity is just as egregious. A long time ago, I made a conscious decision never to censor my own appreciation of entertainment or art. No matter what. Sure, my taste in music tends to run from The Beatles to Green Day, but I also like “Since You’ve Been Gone” by Kelly Clarkson.

Go ahead. Make fun of me. I don’t care. I like it.

I like it even though it is formulaic, popular, blatantly marketed and somewhat bland. It’s still catchy and fun, and when it’s on the radio, I listen to it. Every time. Frankly, I find that act far less offensive than pretending to like something allegedly cool that I don’t really like. I just don’t like Sigur Ros. At all. In fact, I hate Sigur Ros. I am willing to say that as far as my taste is concerned, Kelly Clarkson is better than Sigur Ros.

Somewhere, a college radio DJ’s head just exploded.

My larger point is that while some people legitimately like Sigur Ros, other people try to like it and run in fear from Kelly Clarkson because they believe that popular is bad. Once they let an intellectual calculation creep into their evaluation of quality, ego begins to override apprecation.

And just like that, Hollywood is crap and The Cremaster Cycle is brilliant.

They have become pop culture absolutists, unwilling to accept that culture has no inherent quality beyond the quality of the experience of the audience.

I write the cinematic equivalent of Kelly Clarkson. My movies are Chicken McNuggets. They’re Budweiser. There are people in the world who literally get angry when they talk about movies like the ones I make, the way that pop culture absolutists will mock gag over Kelly Clarkson, the way that food purists will assail McNuggets as evidence of some gustatory crime, the way that booze snobs will call Budweiser “warm piss” and refuse to drink anything but some beer from Djibouti that “no one knows about.”

You know…unpopular.

The truth, though, is that Hollywood and Kelly Clarkson and McDonald’s and Budweiser aren’t actually commiting crimes against some absolute standard of quality. They’re just popular. That’s all. They’re common. They’re not special. They’re comforting, normative, unchallenging and perhaps a bit shallow, but they’re also enjoyed.

Hollywood doesn’t actually try and “destroy quality.” It just disagrees with many screenwriters about what quality is. Some screenwriters believe quality is inherent in the writing itself and must be special and intriguing, thus being appreciated by a select few with absolutely good taste.

Hollywood is interested in the quality of the audience’s experience of a movie, and it tends to like the biggest audience possible. It is entirely relativistic.

I believe Hollywood has it right.

There may come a day where I want to entertain a smaller audience. That’s fine. I’ll still be relativistic, and I’ll still aim to be popular with that small audience, and I won’t allow ego and self-congratulatory snobbery to ever gain a foothold in the process. After all, aren’t Kelly Clarkson and Sigur Ros doing the same damn thing? Aren’t they both trying to entertain audiences with music?

All that matters is how well they achieve that goal.

This, by the way, is why all movie critics are completely irrelevant and without any influence whatsoever.

When you write, forget about your own attitudes or residual bitterness towards the concepts of popularity and “mass market.” None of that is going to help. First, determine whom your audience is, and then work like a dog to entertain them. The best entertainers are driven by that alone, and suggestions of objective quality are ignored. Personally, I don’t care that some reviewers say I’m funny and others say I’m unfunny.

What the hell does that mean? If you divorce the concept of “funny” from the concept of “audience”, then “funny” is worthless. Who cares if someone has anointed me as absolutely funny or unfunny?

Is the audience laughing?

One of my favorite entertainers, Kurt Cobain, once said of Nirvana:

I’ll be the first to admit that we’re the ’90s version of Cheap Trick or the Knack but the last to admit that it hasn’t been rewarding.

If you ask me, Nirvana was a hell of a lot better than Cheap Trick or the Knack ever was, but that’s just my opinion, and Cobain’s point is that he didn’t see himself as absolutely better than pop groups like Cheap Trick. I’m sure most of his audience did, but that’s a testament to Cobain’s ability to achieve the entertainer’s only true goal.

The same relativism goes for screenwriters and movies. In the end, it’s not being popular or “Hollywood” or critically panned that makes a movie suck.

It’s an audience saying “that movie sucked” that makes a movie suck. Nothing else.

An unfair
stereotype?Let’s start the new year off with a bang. I’m going to talk about race. Please join me, if you will, in a zig-zaggy race through everyone’s favorite minefield. Be fearless, friends.

A few days ago, Alex Epstein wrote a post entitled The Diversity Pass, in which he argued that writers ought to do an intentional pass through their scripts to make certain characters black, some Asian, some Sikh…but to do so in a way that specifically avoids casting any of those ethnicities in ways that tie into negative stereotypes. He writes:

Because we live in an imperfect world, I think, you can’t cast anybody as anything. My rule is you can’t cast towards a [pernicious] stereotype. That rules out a few juicy roles, unfortunately. On our show, for example, Rick can’t be Black because he’s a shiftless, irresponsible rock star. Eve can’t be black because Eve is dumb as a post. Instead, let the evil, Machiavellian Pierre Reynard be Black. Eve could be Asian; might be funny to have a stupid Asian character, for once, instead of having every Asian be a bright eyed keener. Casting for diversity doesn’t mean ethnic characters have to be nice or good people; then ethnic actors would never get to have any fun. Just don’t reinforce the stereotype.

Now, I happen to like Alex’s blog and his book, and I think he’s a smart guy, but this just sent me reeling, because it violates what I think ought to be an important rule of screenwriting.

Do not use movies to axe-grind messages, unless the point of the movie is its message.

Let’s say you’re writing a show about an office. Alex is concerned that the janitor shouldn’t be black or Latino…that’s too stereotypical…so let’s make the janitor a white guy. While we’re at it, the accountant shouldn’t be Jewish or Asian…too stereotypical…so let’s make her black. The boss can be white if he’s an idiot, but a beloved boss? Hmmm…how about a Palestinian woman, or maybe Sikh? Don’t see that too often. Just write the characters as you normally would…and then change their race afterwards in a “diversity pass”.

Absurd.

Oh…not just absurd.

Racist.

Allow me to explain.

For a long time now, we’ve all been subject to certain politically correct archetypes that came to exist primarily because the filmmakers felt some sort of guilt or squeamishness about a reality they viewed (often properly) as unfair. The vast majority of judges in the United States are not black women, but you certain see the Black Female Judge a lot. Too much. In fact, it’s kind of getting silly. The anti-racism is so overt, it’s literally racist in and of itself. The suggestion is that black people need to see a steady parade of black judges, or else they’ll be…what?

Sad?

Less willing to go to law school?

Just because it’s unfair doesn’t mean we can all pretend it away…in any convincing fashion, that is. The first person to write the Black Female Judge did something interesting. The fiftieth person to do it was a racist hack.

The same goes for muggers in superhero movies. You know…the guys in the wool caps that the hero beats up on when he’s discovering his powers. They tend to be non-immigrant white guys in their 30’s. Some stubble, perhaps, to signify evil. Please forgive me for my political incorrectness, but when was the last time someone in New York City was mugged by a blond guy?

Or, for that matter, a Mormon?

Or a old Chinese woman? Hell, wouldn’t that be interesting and barrier-smashing and responsible?

No. It would be weird and stupid.

The reason people write what I call “obviously diverse characters” is because they are afraid of being made fun of for writing “obviously stereotyped characters.” See, you can’t show a black mugger anymore, because the fact is that prior to the racial sensitivity revolution, black actors were cast in absurdly racist ways. I defy anyone to listen to the criminal in that Dirty Harry movie say, “I gots ta know…” and defend it as not racist.

On the other hand, it appears that many white writers have fallen into the Kipling trap, assuming the white man’s burden of solving racism by pandering to ethnicities by doing things like “the diversity pass”, thus creating new stereotypes based not on hatred or derision, but pity or noblesse oblige.

Do you know why a character should be black? Do you know why a character should be white?

Here’s a hint.

It’s because they must be that way. That’s what’s best for the character. And if their ethnicity is remarkable…as in the case of the Scandinavian mugger or the Hmong police officer or the white valet guy…then that ethnicity should be necessary to the character.

Why should such a central aspect of a character’s being be determined for any other reason?

If you start changing ethnicities for their own sake, you become obvious. Even worse, you emit an aura of effort when your story should seem effortless. If you are dedicated to exploring issues of race and culture, do so honestly and purposefully as part of your story. Paul Haggis knows how to do this. So does David Milch (who gets credit for making his mobsters Italian-American, and then dealing with the very issues this creates for Italian-Americans).

When I wrote my adaptation of Harvey, I included a character who operated an elevator in a high-end apartment building in New York. He was black, because every elevator operator I’ve seen in New York is black. His race was part of whom he was, and it informed, albeit it in a subtle way, how he felt about the main character.

Other parts of his character were more important.

The doorman was Dominican, even though there are doormen of every race, because I needed him to be Dominican. The man who operated the gate leading to the asylum where Elwood Dowd will be committed is an Indian (of India), because he had a very specific story to tell about what he was in his country…and what he is now in this country.

The fact that all of the gate-keepers in the screenplay were non-white was also purposeful.

Race is not to be treated like a cookie or a trick or a bit of formatting to balance out your creative margins. It is an incredibly important part of whom we are (yes, even for you WASPs…don’t let anyone fool you into thinking otherwise). When we play with it casually, we are making a mockery of that reality as well as an obvious mess of our scripts. I think Alex gives away something when he writes in his post that (my emphasis added):

I find my first pass on a script tends to be a bit too Whitey McWhite. The main characters, whether in a TV pitch or a spec feature, usually have some ethnicity because there I’m thinking about balance, and I’m trying to give jumping-off points for stories to the core characters, and ethnicity is part of that. But the secondary characters often wind up lily-white the first time out. I’m thinking of the characters in terms of their contribution to the story. Unless their ethnicity is a story point, they don’t get an ethnicity.

What’s that?

White is an absence of ethnicity?

Ah, no.

If you haven’t determined an ethnicity for your character, then you haven’t thought enough about your character. “White” is not the absence of something. I’ve written Polish characters, Italian characters, English characters and German characters.

I’ve written WASP’s, Jews and everything in between.

With a purpose.

In the comment section below Alex’s post, he asked me some direct questions.

Craig, lemme turn it around. Is it okay by you to (a) leave your script non-racial, which most people will read as white, or (b) have your one black character also be your one really dumb character? Or are you doing what I’m talking about, just without noticing it? Do you really think writers have no responsibility?

Every character must have a race and ethnicity, just as they must have a gender, height, weight, marital status, sexual orientation and state of physical attractiveness. Their race and ethnicity will inform them, to varying extents, just as their gender, height, weight, marital status, sexual orientation and state of physical attractiveness does.

Yes, your one black character can absolutely be your one really dumb character, but I want to know what purpose his stupidity serves, and I want to know why he is black.

If it seems like I’m beating up on Alex, I apologize. I’m venting a bit of frustration that he’s tapped into. I mean him no harm (I really do like his blog, I swear!).

Still, it’s a frustration nonetheless, and its source can be found in my answer to his final question.

Writers have an enormous responsibility, and that is to tell a good story. Let that be our guide. If our movie isn’t about social justice, put the story first and all utopian visions of what the world ought to be like second.

Anything less is bad writing.

We ain’t himEd. Note: This is a reprint of a post that was first published February 5, 2005. You may click here to view the original comment thread, or feel free to comment under this reprinting.

For as long as I’ve been a working screenwriter (nearly a decade now), I’ve been hearing versions of the following argument: “Playwrights retain copyright! Playwrights can’t get fired! No one can rewrite them or change their words! Why aren’t we screenwriters treated like playwrights?”

And for nearly as long a time, I thought the answer was simply that the typical compensation and employment opportunities for screenwriters were much more substantial than those for playwrights.

Well, I was wrong. While the above is true, it’s not the reason we’re treated differently. No, the real reason goes to that good ole “c” word we like to bandy about here at The Artful Writer.

Yeah, it’s copyright.

Again.

Performance vs. Derivative Works

At the height of the battle against the possessory credit, I recall John Carpenter (a man so enamored of the possessory credit that he routinely features possessory titles like John Carpenter’s Ghosts of Mars) saying something that really pissed me off.

“As a director, I am the author of my movies. I know that’s not a popular view with the writers, but I’m sorry. If the writer thinks he’s an auteur, then let him thread up his screenplay in a projector and we’ll take a look at it.”

Well, as it so happens, I don’t think the “auteur” of a film is either the director or the writer. No one is the auteur of a film. I believe, almost evangelically, that studio films are collaborative. The concept of “film authorship” is prima facie absurd. You can’t thread a screenplay through a projector any more than you can shoot footage without actors, a DP, gaffers, grips, production designers, costumers, etc.

But let’s stick with the relevant point. Carpenter was definitely right about one thing. A script is not a film. It’s a piece of non-film intellectual property. The owner of that intellectual property has certain rights, and one very important one is the right to prepare derivative works.

Federal copyright statute defines a derivative work as:

…a work based upon one or more preexisting works, such as a translation, musical arrangement, dramatization, fictionalization, motion picture version, sound recording, art reproduction, abridgment, condensation, or any other form in which a work may be recast, transformed, or adapted. A work consisting of editorial revisions, annotations, elaborations, or other modifications, which, as a whole, represent an original work of authorship, is a �derivative work�.

In short, if you take a screenplay and recast it or adapt it or use it as the basis for a new work, then you have created a derivative work.

A film is a derivative work.

The important thing to understand about derivative works is that they, too, are also intellectual property. They get their own copyright. In a simple world, a writer writes a script. Copyrighted. The writer prepares a derivative work from his own script, as is his right. The new work, a film, is now also copyrighted, and the screenwriter cum filmmaker owns the copyright.

Note that even in that simple world, the writer must transform the script into a film. After all, the only exploitative value of a screenplay is precisely its ability to be adapted into a derivative motion picture work.

A screenplay is intellectual property created solely to be transformed into new intellectual property.

Now, let’s talk about our playwright friends.

A play, just like a script, is copyrighted intellectual property. However (and this is the crucial distinction), the play is not meant to be transformed into a new intellectual property. With some general exceptions, there are no easily-exploitable derivative works to be made from the play.

The play is meant to be performed.

Remember that in order for something to be considered intellectual property, it must exist in a fixed form. A performance is not a fixed form. When someone struts and frets his hour upon the stage, it’s over when it’s over. It’s gone. You cannot copyright a performance.

As such, financiers of plays allow playwrights to retain the copyright because it’s not of tremendous value. The real prize is the license to perform the play.

Now, let’s return to the screenwriters. In our case, the performance of a screenplay is practically worthless. No one wants to go see actors sit in chairs and read a script. In our case, the primary exploitation of a screenplay can only occur if the studio has the right to prepare derivative works.

As it turns out, the cleanest and most advantageous way to secure exclusive rights to prepare derivative works is to be the author of the original work. This is why studios purchase original works on a “work for hire” basis, which makes them the copyright holder of the intellectual property.

Of course, the film isn’t the only derivative work one can prepare from the script. There’s merchandising, novelizations, theme park rides, songs, and, of course, other screenplays.

Rewrites, in other words.

As it turns out, movie studios are pretty good at exploiting the value from their properties. Much better than individuals generally are. And the commoditization of film and DVD’s makes the marketplace much larger than that for plays.

As such, copyrightless screenwriters have, on the whole, greater job opportunities and higher paychecks and better benefits than screenwriters with copyrights (typically in Europe) or playwrights.

Even if we did retain copyright, its value would be endlessly diluted by licensing arrangments, so it can’t be that the copyright itself is the Holy Grail. What screenwriters really hate is the fact that by selling the very authorship of their screenplay, they are enabling the new author to prepare new works, both revised screenplays and films, without their input or approval.

This, unfortunately, is a byproduct of the incremental nature of the screenplay: a work that, unlike any other fictional literary work in existence, is designed specifically to be transformed into another work.

Does this excuse some of the mistreatment even the best of us receive? Certainly not. Yet, understanding the basis of our current position is the first step towards improving it. Here’s hoping.

Why are we the only ones in the movie business who get hired and fired like migrant workers? Why are we writers the only ones in the movie business who create story and are then ignored or belittled? Why are we the only ones who get overlooked when it comes to press and marketing? Why are we the only ones forced to implement ridiculous notes? Why are we the only ones who literally save movies from being complete disasters, only to be overlooked and forgotten and uncredited?

Why, oh lord…whyyyyyyyy?

Hey, we’re not the only ones.

For a long time, I’ve said that actors get attention because they’re pretty and fascinating (undeniable) and directors in film retain enormous power because the economics of the movie business make them the most important individual in the chain of production (arguable, but I think I’m right).

This means that writers get the short end of the stick not because the world has it out for us, but because the business’ default position is to not care about anyone unless there’s good cause, i.e. a clear connection to profit or protection of investment.

In the sense that the dismissal of writers isn’t particularly intentional, but is instead more a function of a general callousness, it has to be pointed out that we’re not special. I know this may come as a disappointment to those who have invested a large amount of personal energy in the “persecution” model of screenwriting, but it’s true nonetheless.

I know this because I see it happening to others. Actually, I see it happening even more egregiously to others.

Take the case of the film editor.

When you watch a film editor work, it becomes immediately clear that they are story tellers. They’re telling a story in a very different way than we writers do, but they’re doing it nonetheless. As fate would have it, they are not beholden to the script. They are beholden, instead, to whatever film it is that the director (to a lesser extent) and the company (to a greater extent) desires.

Given that they are not beholden to the script, their creative freedom in telling the story is enormous. With mere frames, they can change a character from bold to shy, from hero to goat, from predator to prey. They can rewrite the entire narrative of the movie (yes…rewrite…what else to call it?). And yet, they are overlooked, ignored, unattended to, hired and fired with abandon, occasionally stacked three or four at a time, re-edited and re-edited again, and constantly under the barrage of notes from people who do not understand the limitations and requirements of their craft.

Sound familiar?

Of course, they tend to get paid less as well.

As we head towards the end of the year, here’s a toast to all of the put-upon, ignored, toiling away in the dungeon storytellers in this town. No one knows we’re here, no one cares we’re here, no one will miss us when we’re gone…

…but if we really needed all that validation, we would have taken acting classes, right?

Oh, me…I’ve talked before about an apparently intractable schism in the professional writing community—one on side you’ve got so-called “first writer advocates”, and on the other side, you have so-called “rewriters”.

Putting aside the relative sloppiness of those names, I’ve decided to lower my lance and tilt firmly at one of the most persistent and inaccurate myths of screenwriting.

The “first writer” does not necessarily do anything special or more difficult than subsequent writers on a project.

Going first isn’t harder. Going first isn’t special. Going first doesn’t earn you a halo or a special place in writer heaven for your sacrifice.

Going first is just…going first.

The martyrous argument sounds a bit like this. “Nothing is harder than the initial act of creation. The first writer faces a blank page, and the first writer creates a world out of nothing. Any writer brought in to revise the first writer is working from a head start. They’re standing on the shoulders of the first writer. Rewriting isn’t real writing…it’s something lesser and derivative.”

Bullshit.

I say this as a writer who has done both. I’ve written originals and I’ve rewritten other writers. There is no correlation between chronology and difficulty or effort.

There are many instances in which a company commissions or purchases an original screenplay and then determines that little beyond the basic idea is worth saving. At that point, a subsequent writer may be brought in to do a “page one rewrite”, in which everything is reimagined. Having done a few of those, I will argue that page one rewrites are more difficult than writing originals. Why?

First, consider the nature of the first writer’s generous grant to the subsequent writer—the idea.

Having an idea doesn’t take effort, nor does it earn you any spiritual or professional regard. Ideas are worthless. Literally. They are not intellectual property. They are not possessable. They are not creditable.

The process of creating a fictional narrative from an idea is writing.

The original writer “has” an idea (and it’s not really original…seriously…find me an idea that no one’s already used in some form or another, and I’ll buy you a car) and then writes a narrative. The owner of the narrative says “this is bad” and hires someone else to fashion a new narrative.

That writer faces the exact same task as the first writer, with one slightly daunting difference: he has less creative freedom. He’s not free to make some of the bad choices that the first writer made. In fact, unlike the first writer, the second writer is aware that there are certain mine fields to be avoided at all costs.

Think that makes writing easier? Nope. It’s harder. It’s useful information, but the task becomes more difficult when you can’t take one or more of the readily apparent or easy paths the first writer was free to wander down.

Still, the first writers will say that the second writer has the subconscious gift…the advantage…of the first writer’s work. The first writer’s work necessarily spawns some kind of narrative “rolling start” that the second writer can use.

That would be a very convincing argument…if the first writer hasn’t read any books or seen any movies or television shows in his life.

We all have a rolling start when we write. The very nature of screenplay is grounded in the collective story sense we all carry in our heads, be it by instruction or genetic code. We constantly crib from mythology, from the Bible, from movies, from plays. My approach to writing an “original” draft is absolutely no different than my approach to a page-one rewrite.

Same process. Same effort.

Entirely different reward.

Ted and I had lunch today, and he told me a funny story that revolved around the phrase “post hoc ergo propter hoc”.

Yes, we have odd lunches.

Anyway, when it comes to screenplays, it seems that many people hold the fallacy of post scriptum ergo scriptum deterioris.

“After the screenplay…therefore a lesser screenplay.”

By the by, if anyone knows Latin, let me know if I’ve gotten the syntax correct.

First writer advocates may carry this slogan into their battle with rewriters, but the only writers they’re hurting are themselves, of course. By classifying rewriting as a lesser process, they’re giving away a secret about their own work process, and the news isn’t good. Rewriting can be, and often should be, just as difficult and demanding and important as the first draft. Only writers can be so odd as to think that a page filling process is superior to a page changing process.

If you have problems getting to the end of your screenplay, that might be true…but that’s not my problem. It’s your problem, and I don’t like be punished or discounted because you think filling pages is harder than deleting the whole mess of them and starting again.

Post scriptum ergo scriptum novum.

After the screenplay…therefore a new screenplay.

So climb down from the cross, wouldja, my fellow first writers?

20-20 vision, yo…After taking some expected abuse for my article on real-life mentors and why they’re mostly worthless, I figured I’d leave off the tough love angle for a bit and talk about the kind of mentors I like.

The character archetype of The Mentor is one of the classics, and that’s why the Mentor often seems lame. After thousands of years Mentoring heroes, it’s getting to the point where we cringe at the thought of the alcoholic sports coach or the wise old woman or the dance instructor who bangs a big stick on the floor and promises to “make you sweat!”

And yet…the Mentor is one of the most useful characters. Mentors let us watch our protagonist struggle and grow. They give our characters secrets and wisdom. Without them, our heroes can seem lost or, at the very least, friendless.

If they’re grumpy types, that’s fine. If they’re fresh-faced young kids from Reseda trying to fit in with the Encino crowd by learning karate, it’s a bit harder.

As always, my advice circles back to the relationship between the character in question (The Mentor) and the elemental dramatic proposition of the story you’re telling (Theme). What is the Mentor’s relationship to Theme?

Simple.

The Mentor knows the Theme.

This suggests a new problem. If a Mentor—and let’s say for the sake of example that we’re talking about Glinda the Good Witch—is defined by her knowledge of the Theme, and the protagonist, Dorothy, is defined as a individual ignorant of the Theme who must come to learn the Theme in order to succeed, then why doesn’t the Mentor just TELL the hero the Theme?

Ginda could certainly float down in her bubble and say “Dorothy, you shouldn’t have run away. There’s no place like home, and you truly do appreciate your home, don’t you? You do? Good. Click your heels together three times. Trust me. It’ll save you a lot of trouble.”

Most people will tell you that Glinda doesn’t do this because Dorothy needs to learn this lesson on her own. After all, if Dorothy is just told the Theme but doesn’t survive the Wicked Witch and the Flying Monkeys and the apple-throwing trees and the Palace Guards, then she won’t really have learned the Theme.

It’s true that Dorothy does need to go through this on her own. The problem is that this makes Glinda psychotic. Suddenly, she’s a hoop-skirted version of the villain from Saw or Se7en. She knows the simple trick that gets Dorothy home, but she’s going to watch as Dorothy enters a serious of potentially deadly predicaments, because you can’t really know something until your friend is set on fire, right?

Well, that doesn’t seem quite right, does it?

So what’s the reason Glinda does what she does?

Here’s my big theory on Mentors. Ready?

They’ve seen the movie.

Hmmm?

Yeah.

Glinda isn’t just magical because she’s a witch. She’s a god, and she is not bound by the temporal experience of the narrative. She’s looked backwards and forwards. She knows what happened to Dorothy before they met, and she knows what is going to happen. Just like The Oracle in The Matrix, she speaks in ways that belie her total knowledge of the entirety of the narrative, because a) it’s more interesting, and b) it’s what she’s meant to do.

Ever notice how unsurprised mentors are when the hero finally gets it? That’s because they knew it was coming. Glinda almost looks patronizing when she tells Dorothy she had the power with her the whole time. And The Oracle definitely patronizes Neo. Most of her sentences end with an unspoken “but that’s obvious, idiot.”

The fact that the world as we know it is actually a computer simulation designed to keep us under control is as much news to The Oracle as it is to the rest of us who have seen the movie. The fact that Neo is “The One”? She’s seen it. The way he beats Agent Smith? She’s seen it.

Because the mentor has seen what must come to pass, they can deliver information in dribs and drabs to the hero. Too much, and they’ve spoiled the hero’s learning process. Not enough, and the hero will be floundering. At no time is the mentor concerned that the hero will fail.

Even when they say they are.

In fact, it’s a great slight of hand to have the mentor doubt the hero, because it helps hide the antidramatic nature of the mentor from the audience. Yoda chit chats with Obi-Wan about how Luke might not make it. It’s baloney. They both know he’s going to make it. Yoda always talks about cloudy things, but that’s just to force Luke to look and see and discover for himself. Yoda sees all.

He probably saw those god-awful prequels coming, but hey, mentors aren’t omnipotent.

Just omniscient.

Now as you think about this concept, it might occur to you that the mentor is still bizarre. I mean, if they know how the story is going to unfold and end, then why are they at all concerned with living within the narrative of the hero’s story? Doesn’t it bore them?

All I can tell you is that I’ve watched Star Wars a hundred times. If it’s not boring me, why should it bore Obi-Wan? All stories are repetitious and redundant. It’s not the brilliant twisty endings that make stories wonderful. It’s the journey itself.

In that sense, the mentor is a lot like us…particularly after we’ve already seen the movie once. Maybe some of you identify with Luke when he’s racing towards that exhaust port, but as a screenwriter, I always identify with Obi-Wan.

“Use the Force, Luke.”

“Why, Craig?”

“Because it will be a fantastic way to end this story.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve already seen it come to pass a hundred times, and I’ll see it come to pass a hundred more times.”

“And does it work?”

At which point I grin and say, “I ain’t tellin’.”

When you write your mentors, let them read your treatment first. Let them know the ending. Only then will they be able to do their job.

Where’s crafty?Ed. Note: In preparation for this post to be reprinted in Written By (the magazine of the WGAw), I’m adding more terms and definitions, including some that our commenters suggested. Thanks for all of your input!

If we have a philosophy here at The Artful Writer, it’s that screenwriters need to become more production-oriented, because we don’t write scripts…we write movies.

Once you get to the Promised Land of the set, you’ll find that you don’t exactly speak the language. The natives have a fascinating patois that they use to implement a very particular protocol. In an attempt to save you the confusion I’ve experienced in the past, here is my handy dandy guide to set lingo.

20: When you want to know where someone is, don’t say “Where’s Joe?” That’s the mark of a rookie. You want a “20” on Joe. An alternate is to get on the walkie and ask, “Does anyone have eyes on Joe?”

50-50: When you hear someone suggest a 50-50, it means a two-shot in which both actors share the screen equally. You can have a 50-50 head on, or a profile 50-50. This term is used exclusive of an over, which is a shot over one actor’s shoulder to another, or a single. Singles can be clean (just one actor) or dirty (one actor with a bit of another in the frame).

Abby Singer: The second-to-last shot of the day. Apparently from an A.D. named Abby Singer who routinely announced that a shot was the last of the day, only to learn that there was one more.

apple box: Ubiquitous crates used for everything from door stops to seats to actor-heighteners. There are full apples, half apples and quarter apples. Ask to sit on a half-apple, and you’ll be looked upon as a veteran of the trade.

day for night: When you’re shooting a night scene during the day. Naturally, this happens on stages.

circle: Film is expensive to print, and it’s annoying to have to pour through endless dailies when you know there’s a particular take that was great. Directors tell the script supervisor to “circle that take”, and only circle takes are printed. Happily, the uncircled takes are still developed and can be mined for hidden gold when your circle take turns out to be worthless in the cutting room.

cowboy: Another common shot description, denoting a frame that runs from mid-thigh to the top of the head. Taken from Westerns, where the shot was commonly used.

crafty: The typical nickname for Craft Services, aka “the table with the fattening food on it.” The locale for snacks and drinks. “Can you run by Crafty and get me a cookie?”

flying in: When something is requested to be brought to the set, it “flies in”. I don’t know why. It just does. “Can I get a double filter for this light?” “Double filter, flying in.”

gag: Not a joke, but any bit of film trickery or special stunt. For instance, if you’re doing a war scene and you need a soldier to run by and get an arm blown off, that effect might be called an “arm gag” if you’re doing the gag practically, rather than with CGI.

go to 2: Most of the crew are wired into a walkie system. Channel 1 is the main line. Everyone generally stays tuned to that one (certain departments just stay tuned to their own channel to avoid the chatter on 1). When you need to speak to someone, you ask for them on 1. When they respond, the caller will often say “go to 2”, meaning “let’s not busy up channel 1 with our conversation that no one else will want to hear, so go to 2 and we’ll talk semi-privately”.

going again: When the director wants another take right away, the AD will announce “going again” to the crew to avoid any disruptions. After six takes or so, this phrase can begin to take on a certain bemused twang.

honeywagon: A trailer that houses multiple dressing rooms with bathrooms. When you’re looking for someone and they’re in the honeywagon, a PA will tell you that they’re going “10-100” or “10-1”. Otherwise, they’re going “10-200”, which takes a bit longer.

last looks: The AD’s warning to hair, wardrobe and makeup that they’ve got dwindling seconds to beautify the actors before the cameras start to roll.

Linda Stills: Linda is a person, but her last name isn’t Stills. She’s the stills photographer. Crews can be large, and when you have three folks named “Linda,” it gets annoying to ask for one on the walkie and get the wrong one. Beyond that, no one really cares what your name is. On a set, you are your job. If you’re Linda and you’re the still photographer, they call you Linda Stills. They’ll call you Jim Hair and Ellen Crafty and Craig Writer. Seriously. The name on my trailer door says Craig Writer.

lunchahalf: When the crew goes to lunch, it’s usually for an hour, but sometimes the production shortens lunch (with costs to be paid to the crew). When the AD calls “lunchahalf,” it means you’re getting 30 minutes for lunch…and they really mean 30 minutes, so eat fast.

The Martini: The last shot of the day. In Vancouver, they call this “The Window.”

MOS: A shot done without any sound recorded. Why MOS? No one’s exactly sure. The most popular explanation is that it’s an abbreviation of “mit-out sound”, which is how the German directors in the early Hollywood era would say “without sound”. Other explanations are “microphone off set” and “minus optical sound”, but frankly, none of them really make sense. A true Hollywood mystery.

overlap: There are two kinds of overlapping. One is good, and one is bad. The good kind is done for editorial purposes. When shooting, you always want to overlap the action that comes just before the moment you’re aiming for and just after the moment you’re aiming for, so that the editor can cut into the action fluidly from the preceding shot. That’s the good kind. “Shouldn’t she enter frame cleanly before doing her line so that she overlaps?” The bad kind has to do with sound. When two actors are on screen together, their dialogue can overlap because we see them. When you’re doing a single on an actor, though, you don’t want an off-screen actor’s voice overlapping with the on-screen actor’s voice, because you can’t see them. You want it clean.

pick: When you have a shot where an actor is hoisted into the air, “pick” describes both the harness they wear as well as the shot itself.

picture’s up: There’s a lovely kabuki aspect to the beginning of a shot. Once everyone’s ready to shoot a take, the first A.D. says “on the bell!” That alerts the crew to prepare for a shot. “Picture’s up” is followed by “roll sound” and “roll camera”, which tells the sound and camera guys to get the tape and film speed going (given that one day all sound and images will go directly to a drive or chip, these phrases will eventually be as quaint as MOS). The camera operator will say “camera’s set” to let you know he’s speeding, the sound guy will say “sound speed” to let you know the sound is ready, and then it’s time for the director to call “action!”

practical: Used to define action that occurs entirely in real-time in front of the camera. You could have someone run on a gravel floor on a green screen stage and then make it look like they’re on a rooftop in post, or you could film the actor running on an actual rooftop and do the scene practically.

roundy-round: Shooting typically involves two or more angles, or coverage, of the same action. The simplest example is a conversation. First we shoot me talking to you, then we shoot you having the same conversation with me. Later, we’ll cut it together. When you shoot the first actor, there are small relights that occur for size changes (going from an over to a single, for instance), but those relights are minor compared to what must occur when you move everything around to shoot the other actor. When you hear “roundy-round”, that means the crew is turning everything around to the other side. Go to crafty. Have a snack. It’s gonna be a while.

show: This one still takes getting used to. If you’re like me, everything I watch on TV is called a “show” and everything I see in a theater is a “movie”. Film crews, however, call everything “shows”. The movie that they’re shooting? A show. “Hey, didn’t I work with you on the last show?” More than anything, this will make you seem like an insider when you’re on a movie set.

transpo: Transportation. Be good to the Teamsters, and they’ll be good to you.

video village: On every set there’s a small encampment (and sometimes three of them) where you’ll find set chairs positioned around monitors pulling in video feeds from the cameras.

wild: Use this word for anything that isn’t fixed into position by either physicality or narrative sequence. If a set has a wall that can be detached, that’s a “wild wall”. When you’re shooting a scene and just want to run the actor through a series of lines or reactions without regard for the rigidity of the script, you do “wild lines” and “wild reactions”. When you need to just grab audio, you ask for “wild lines”.


I hope you found this short list useful. It’s not everything, but it’s a start. Next time you walk on set, stop by crafty, mention that you wrote the script for the show, swing over to video village, compliment the director on his choice of a cowboy, and then enjoy a large coffee.

“Large coffee”, by the way, is a large coffee.

Scary, yes, but
good for ya…Mentors are highly overrated. I know everyone’s supposed to have one, and everyone probably does, which is why I figure they’re overrated. I mean, think of the Great Mentored Mass out there absorbing wisdom at their masters’ knees and yet never actually succeeding.

Blame the mentor.

Mentors are wonderfully avuncular support systems. They nudge you slowly, carefully nurture your talent, pick you up when you fall and tell you confidence-restoring tales of how they once stumbled.

Meanwhile, they’re rich and successful, you’re not.

Face it. Their mentorship is probably 95% about making them feel good about themselves.

The other 5% is inefficient mollycoddling of the mentored, who would probably get a lot further with a few swift kicks to the rear.

That’s why I always say what screenwriters really need (pro or otherwise) is a benefactor.

A benefactor doesn’t give a sweet crap about your self-esteem, nor are they interested in picking you up and dusting you off. They probably like you personally, but if you got a brain tumor that killed your writing ability, it’s almost certain they’d stop calling after a few weeks. They’re too busy for encouragement, they’re too selfish to be a shoulder to cry on, and they’re way too mean to ever ever ever be avuncular.

Seriously, watch out for avuncular. Avuncular people will put the sleep of death on you.

No, benefactors are mostly interested in doing whatever the hell it is that actually needs to be done to make you better than you are now, because they’re paying you for a product.

The concept of the benefactor (or patron of the arts, if you prefer) is as old as both creativity and hunger. Artists and craftsmen have always sought the patronage of the wealthy. The wealthy, by dint of their voracious appetite for more wealth, are ambitious enough for themselves and us. That’s why the relationship is so wonderful. They give the artist a certain purpose beyond his own squirrely mind. Mozart was a genius no matter what he played, but he tended to actually get the work done when he was being ordered to.

Mentors let you get drunk and dream the day away because, in part, they honestly don’t care if you ever make it. In fact, they secretly want you to fail, which may be why they became mentors in the first place.

Benefactors dump cold water on your head and drag you to the typewriter because your lazy, writer’s blocked self-indulgent artsy-fartsy crap is getting in the way of their plans.

In its best form, the artist-patron relationship becomes stable and pleasant. Most big-time screenwriters naturally gravitate towards one or two steady patrons of their art. The patrons provide direction and purpose beyond the mere ego direction and purpose the screenwriter would rely on otherwise, and the screenwriter provides the patron with works of value and, just as importantly, style.

Consider the case of Jerry Bruckheimer. Jerry doesn’t write movies. He’s a patron. A benefactor. More to the point, he’s a steady patron of Ted and Terry’s. Beyond the money that he makes off of the movies that they write, they have added a certain sensibility and style to his oeuvre.

Yes, patrons have ouevres.

At least…the good ones do. Or try to.

My patron is Bob Weinstein. John August loves to work with Tim Burton. David Koepp works repeatedly with Spielberg. Akiva Goldsman found a patron in Brian Grazer and Imagine.

None of these writers (including me) is married to our benefactor. We all flit around here and there, but slowly and surely, like the pairing off process that happens before a prom, matches are made.

They have real staying power, and they help both parties grow as craftsmen, businessmen and entertainers.

If you’re a pro, try and find that single patron. Become a “company man” for a bit, because it will actually free you in the exact ways you might have expected it would not. You find yourself trusted. Treated like an equal. Consulted. Depended upon.

Needed.

If you’re an aspirant, ditch the kindly old man with the twinkly eyes who makes you feel warm inside after a hard day at the laptop. Find someone crazy enough to want to pay you to write. Doesn’t have to be a script. Earn some money writing anything. Learn how to work for a patron. They, and only they, can transform you into a professional writer. Everyone else is just killing time.

Your time.

Write twice, shoot
onceSomewhere out there in the world, there’s an ultimate feature screenplay format sheet. I know that Warner Brothers has one, but that’s just them. I’ve seen a few in books here and there, but where did they get their numbers?

And why the hell do any of us care?

It’s really a matter of money. If we do our jobs well, someone is going to have to take our script and break it down into budgetable eighths of a page. They’ll have to create a schedule, where each day is no more than a certain amount of pages. Given that, regulating exactly how much shootable material there is per page would be nice. After all, how much shooting time does one page of nothing but two people talking in a restaurant cost?

Depends on your margins. Your font. Your line spacing.

Because professional screenwriters and amateur screenwriters all delight in masturbatory procrastination (including actual masturbation, henceforth to be known as “procrasturbation”), here’s my format sheet, approved by a real live 1st A.D. who employs this for all of the features he works on. Use it happily, knowing that your 105 page comedy really is a 105 page comedy, and not a 149 page time bomb.

With this format, you should achieve an approximate count of 50 lines per page.

Font: Courier New, 12 pt.

Top Margin: .6 inches Bottom Margin: 1.4 inches

Scene Headings (Slug Lines): Left Margin - 1.3 inches, Right Margin - 1 inch. One blank line before. Single-spaced.

Action Lines: Left Margin - 1.3 inches, Right Margin - 1.2 inches. One blank line before. Single-spaced.

Character Names: Left Margin - 3.3 inches, Right Margin - 1.0 inches. One blank line before. Single-spaced.

Dialogue: Left Margin - 2.3 inches, Right Margin - 2.7 inches. Single-spaced. (You hear me? SINGLE spaced. Not half-spaced. No one likes a cheater.)

Parentheticals (“Wrylies”): Left Margin - 2.8 inches, Right Margin - 3.5 inches. Single-spaced.

Transitions (e.g. “CUT TO:): Flush Right. Left Margin - 1.5 inches, Right Margin - 1 inch. One blank line before. Single-spaced.

Bottom “Continued”: Left Margin - 5.5 inches

Now go! Gaze upon the bloated monstrosities that were your once-slender screenplays! Cut! Cut! Cut!

Egon, my hero…I know the kind of movies I’ve done, and I know the kind of movies I’ve been doing, but when people have asked me the kind of movies I want to do, I’ve always had a hard time putting the genre into words.

I’ve called it “smart stupid movies” or “comedies about something” or “thematic idiocy”. None of those phrases comes close, however, to the accuracy of a line I read in an interview with the most excellent Harold Ramis.

He calls a movie like Groundhog Day a “madcap redemption comedy”.

Bingo.

Not all of his madcap redemption comedies are great. One is kind of bad, actually. One is good. Groundhog Day is absolutely brilliant. Frankly, I’d happily put my name to a thousand bombs if only to be associated with one Groundhog Day (Ramis shares screenplay credit with Danny Rubin).

What I love about the phrase “madcap redemption” is that it shines a light on why I love comedy so much. While I love a good spoof movie (duh), comedies that allow us to laugh at the tragedy of our own existence…and then give us hope that idiots like us can win…well, that’s my kind of story.

It’s nice that William Wallace can paint his face blue and white, kill a field full of Englishmen and then get his guts ripped out and die for our sins, but there’s something more illuminating about Bill Murray learning that just because life is meaningless doesn’t mean we are, individually, without purpose.

Why? Because he’s not a superhuman. He’s an all-too-human. He’s us. The heroes of comedies are shlumps like me and you. That’s why I love Tootsie and The Ref and There’s Something About Mary more than I like, say, MASH or Being There or Dr. Strangelove.

Don’t get me wrong. I like those last three movies a whole lot. It’s just that I’ve always found good satire to be thought-provoking, good spoof and farce to (hopefully) be gut-busting, and good madcap redemption comedies to be just…wonderfully satisfying.

Granted, this is all personal preference. On the other hand, I’ve been lucky enough to work on some madcap redemption comedies in the past (all yet to be produced), and I’m working on one right now that is getting made (no, not Scary Movie 4…if you bug me about which one, I’ll tell you in the forum), so I hope this begins a trend.

More to the point, I hope that Ramis’ definition actually catches on as a genre-definer. These kinds of comedies should be made more often.

Next up…a belated report on that WGA East/West compromise. Following that, a bunch of Q&A’s, and then hopefully another production-related article or two, as I’m now back in Vancouver.

Directing’s over
there, writing’s
over here…So here’s the kind of story that drives screenwriters nuts. We’ve created a small village in which to shoot, and we’ve built about five buildings. In order to save some money, the producer opted to not finish the back of one of the buildings, and wouldn’t you know it, but suddenly we find ourselves needing to shoot behind that building. The back is half wood siding (good) and half plywood (bad).

What do we do?

Well, every studio film crew has a guy called the “stand by painter”. If you need something painted on the spot, he’s your man. The stand by painter managed to paint the plywood in such a way that it looked like wood siding, and that’s all we needed.

Here’s the part screenwriters hate.

There’s a stand by painter, but there’s no stand by writer???

I relayed this story to a friend. He’s an Academy Award nominated writer-director (a truly great one at that). He’s directed movies from what he’s written, he’s directed movies from what other writers have written, and he’s written movies that others have directed…so he’s got a pretty good perspective on this whole concept. He’s very much in favor of the stand by writer, but he believes that the objection to this concept isn’t so much from the companies as it is from the directors.

So directors…I’m talkin’ to you. Here’s my pitch for the stand by writer.

I’m lucky enough to work with a secure director who enjoys my presence on the set. And since I work for a studio that would like to see me direct one day, I’ve been sort of “practice directing” in my head on this movie (note to the DGA…in my head, okay?…not stepping on anyone’s toes). I think about how to shoot the scenes. I think about pacing, angles, wardrobe, performance notes, editorial decisions, overlapping, transitions…all the stuff required of a studio director.

What I’ve come to learn is that “directing thinking” is vastly different than “writing thinking”.

When I write, my mind wanders. Possibilities are necessarily expansive. The totality of the story is constantly at the forefront. An hour goes by where I just think. Decisions aren’t really decisions—the delete key is ever so close, and what was certain an hour ago is now preposterous.

When I’m in my directing mind, what I’m doing is concentrating entirely on the work of the day. I have a scene. Pages. The story of that scene must now be reverse engineered into geometric perspectives, angles that I diagram onto a blueprint of the set, just like this. Sizes must be considered, as well as how the scene will hopefully be edited. Continuity must always be monitored. There is no time to go backwards. There is no time to stop and think for a while. The day is long, exhausting and entirely focused on the capturing this one scene.

When you’re in the directing mind, it’s only natural that the obsession of the writing mind are neglected. It’s only natural. Why not have a writer there to turn to when you realize that you need some additional dialogue to help bridge a transition? Why not have a writer there who can offer a second line of defense against errors of omission? Remember, everything’s being shot out of sequence. And even though there’s a script supervisor, a producer, a line producer, an assistant director and a studio executive, at Hour 12 of a long shoot day in which everyone is concentrated on getting this one shot off right before the crew goes into overtime, the one person who is probably thinking hardest about this moment in the context of the whole story in chronological order…

…is the writer.

Consider this story, which is instructive for two reasons.

The link doesn’t work unless you cut and paste it into your browser window. The URL is http://www.wordplayer.com/forums/scriptsarc05/index.cgi?read=40628

First, it proves the writers’ point. We should be there.

Second, it proves the directors’ point. We are often unnecessarily negative, and our attitudes can be undermining.

If we could remain positive and helpful on the set, we’d be a major boon to the production. It would be possible, I think, to collectively bargain for a guaranteed offer for “stand by writer” services. Those services would not encompass the writing of actual pages, but would simply account for our presence and consultation. The writer could turn the offer down, but at their option.

The key, of course, is understanding exactly how one is supposed to behave on a set. Thinking about the job from the director’s point of view can help every one of us understand why they’re loathe to have another “author” around.

Think of it this way.

What if you were hired to write a screenplay, and a director was attached. And what if the studio said, “Oh, and by the way, the director would like to sit in a room with you while you write. And read what you’re writing over your shoulder. And then comment.”

Ummmm, no.

Still, that’s pretty much what we’re asking to do when we request a presence on the set. Given that, I suggest we approach the task with the utmost respect to our directing brethren. They are the coauthors of the movie, but just as we are the sole authors of the screenplay, they are the sole authors of that shooting day’s work.

See how that works?

If writers could learn to be respectful of this fact, and if directors could learn to be less fearful of writers, the stand by writer would help accomplish something that everyone wants.

Better movies.

A screenwriter
enjoying some more
studio notesBack in the early 1800’s, a philosopher named Hegel (whom David Hume could out-consume) devised a theory of rational inquiry called the “dialectic”, in which we start with an intellectual position called the “thesis”, challenge it directly with an opposing position called the “antithesis”, and then hopefully sit back and watch as a new, superior intellectual position rises from the conflict. That position is the “synthesis”. The synthesis then becomes a new thesis, to be opposed by a new antithesis, to give rise to a new synthesis…

And so it goes.

While Hegel got more than few things wrong in his life, he certainly was prescient about the kind of struggle that goes on during the development of screenplays.

Naturally, we writers provide the theses. The studio then provides the antitheses, and what we hope is that the resulting syntheses are better scripts.

Doesn’t always work out that way, of course.

What’s worse, the conflict isn’t exactly as painless and clean as the theory would lead you to believe. It’s messy, it’s annoying, it’s emotional, and a lot of times, it makes you nuts.

Still, I write this today in appreciation of the Taskmaster.

Some producers and studio execs are “the buddy”. Some are “the collaborator”. Others are the “distant parent”. In the end, none of them are as unpleasant to work with as “the Taskmaster”, but for what it’s worth…none of them are as productive to work with as the Taskmaster.

The Taskmaster’s refrains are simple but effective. “Not good enough. Do better. Improve, improve, improve. You are never done. There is no finality. Everything is open for rewriting. Everything can be made better. No deadline is too soon. No scene is too good. I am not satisfied. I will never be satisified. You can stop writing when the movie is in theaters.”

I hate the Taskmaster, but I love the Taskmaster. I stamp my feet, bitch and moan. I protest that it can’t get better, that there’s not enough time, that at some point we have to just let things be, that it was fine yesterday so why isn’t it okay today…

…and then I realize that it can be better. And once I write the new version, the thought of going backwards and using the version I had just so vigorously defended is, well…awful.

Should I hate the Taskmaster for being relentess? Why? What is he relentless about, if not the belief that I’m better than I realize? The crucible of endless challenging forces me to arrive at a synthesis. The scene is good. Let’s shoot it!

But out of the corner of my eye, I see the Taskmaster picking that whip up again…

And so it goes.

What slump?John August has written a very thoughtful post about why the great Box Office Slump of ‘05 is nothing more than an endlessly repeated bit of media Cassandraism.

It’s struck me the same way. This bit, in particular, resonated with me:

The movies stunk.

Whew! Glad we got that settled. You hear that Hollywood? You have to start making better movies! Movies people want to see!

Thank God we have the conventional wisdom. All we have to do is keep repeating it, and everything will be okay.

Indeed. This summer’s movies weren’t any worse than the summer’s before. Nor were they better. If this summer was a failure…please, God, may I fail like this?

The movie business is just fine.

So, apparently, is the hysteria industry.

Invent it, see it,
adapt to it…We begin shooting this coming week with two shoot days in L.A, so I flew back home this evening. The filmmaking community is usually responsibile for every first class seat on the Vancouver-LA runs, so it’s always interesting to see who I’ll wind up sitting next to.

This evening, it happened to be an extremely successful writer-producer-director. We started talking about screenwriting, directing and our work methods, and he mentioned something that dovetailed beautifully with an experience I had just two days before.

On that two days before, I walked the set we’ll be using for our second week of shooting. Walking the set is a wonderful thing. As screenwriters, we invent a reality, but our reality is made hyperreality by the convenience of our own minds. Just as in dreams, people move fluidly through our imaginations, spaces conform and rearrange in edits and glimmers, and dimensions change according to our creative whim.

Sooner or later, though, someone is going to have to draw up blueprints that very much constrain the spaces we’ve imagined. For those of you brave enough to have read my little essay on Nietzsche, you’ll recognize this blueprinting as part of the Apollonian requirement of art.

In other words, Dionysius gets you the green light but Apollo hammers some wood together so you have a place to shoot.

When a screenwriter has a chance to walk the set, all sorts of wonderful things start to click into place. Finally, you’re in the real world and out of your head. You invented the reality, now you’re seeing the reality…and what follows is the need to adapt to the reality. Walking around in the space gives you all sorts of ideas, and also sends you scurrying back to the laptop to trim unnecessary dialogue or imagine extra stage direction. You are forced to work to camera angles. You are required to eliminate pointless motion through space. You are asked to connect two people who may or may not be near each other or in view.

It’s fantastic. Once you walk the set, you can finally begin to tell the story best.

So…back to my flight buddy.

He’s a writer and a director, and as a director, he goes on location scouts. Once he finds a location that he really likes, he asks to just sit there at the location while he writes.

Pretty smart. His suggestion to me (and one I now rapidly hand off to you) is to try, whenever possible, to write in places. If you’re doing a scene in a mall, take your laptop to the mall and use your actual presence in the space to direct your storytelling. If you’re doing a scene in a bedroom, trudge into the bedroom. If you’re doing a scene between two people on a date, plotz down on a bench on the 3rd Street Promenade and write as you take in the social buzz.

We can’t get sounds, smells and sights on to a piece of paper, but it’s our job to get as close as possible. If you don’t have a set to walk…go find one.

I, too, am a Jew that can pitchMaybe if I had a resume like John August’s or Ted’s, I’d speak a little more glowingly about the work I do. I’m genuinely humble about my writing, and when I talk with guys like Scott Frank and see how humble they are, I feel even less entitled to acknowledge any theoretical writing laurels, much less rest on them.

I’m not so Christ-like about my ability to pitch. I’m proud of that. I’m good at it. And today, I’m going to do my best to teach you what I know.

I’ll probably regret this.

I’m proud of my ability to pitch because I enjoy anything in this business that feels like it exists in a clear continuum with the stuff of the Golden Age. Pitching is showmanship, hucksterism, theater, dance, psychology, chutzpah and good old fashion creativity…all rolled into ten minutes. The rooms are tough, the stakes are high, the odds are long…

Yup. I love it.

Ready?

First, ask yourself this question…and answer honestly.

Are you good in a room?

By “good in a room”, I mean, are you a good story-teller? Do you enjoy public speaking? At parties, can you grab the attention of a group by telling an anectdote or a joke? I’m not asking if you like parties or other human beings. God knows I don’t. I’m asking if you can work them, or if you end up being that quiet guy who listens to the guy who can work the room.

Are you the quiet guy? Not all is lost. I’ll deal with you in a bit. Ted and Terry have a great method for you.

Are you good in a room? Good.

First, understand what it is that you’re pitching. You’re not pitching a script. You’re not pitching a story.

You’re pitching a movie. Don’t give me that blank look. You’ve already done it. Ever see a movie and then have someone ask you to describe it? That’s movie pitching.

What you want to do is achieve the same effect with the producer or exec. You want them to believe that you have already seen a great movie, and you’re just telling them about it.

In order to do that, you have to know your entire movie. The whole thing. You need a treatment. You’re not going to show them this treatment. You’re going to use it as the basis for your movie. By writing the treatment, you’re allowing yourself to watch your own movie in your head.

Good! You’ve written your treatment, and you’ve watched your movie in your head.

I hope it’s a good movie. I can’t help you if it’s not. But if it is…then maybe this style of pitching will give you a fighting chance. It’s worked for me.

What you have to figure out now is how much of the movie you want to tell, what you want to accentuate, and what you want to hold back. Generally speaking, here’s how I think it works best:

Milk the plot set up first. Really set the stage. Describe the character as if you’re all watching him for the first time. Give no details. Let them wonder. Go for mystery. Like this.

“We open on a man. Handsome. Sweaty. Leather jacket and fedora. We don’t know who or where he is, other than that he’s a movie star, and it’s a jungle. He walks into a cave…the guys with him scramble. Too afraid. He approaches a golden idol, hidden in here for what must be centuries. It’s right there! Why doesn’t he take it? What is he afraid of? He makes his choice. Takes the idol. Nothing. He did it! (you swig water here) And that’s when the 5 ton boulder comes dropping out of a chute, rolling towards him with unstoppable fury…”

Hoo-daddy! What’s good about cold opening your pitches is that it sucks them in. That’s why we do it in movies, right? And pitches are movies, right? Build the mystery. Let them wonder. And then when you’ve got them…

Anticipate and answer their questions. Now it’s time to tell them about Indiana Jones. What they want is the basics. Who is he, what does he do, what makes him special, what does he want out of life, and what’s his basic flaw? Bullet it. This isn’t the time to be fancy. And if possible, try and use this information to lead to the big plot point.

“It’s 1935. Indiana Jones is a world famous archeologist who spends half the year in a tweed jacket teaching at a university, and the other half on incredible and deadly adventures to retrieve lost treasures from exotic places. They say he’s dodged death a hundred times, and they’re right. But that doesn’t mean he’s happy. He once loved, but she left him, and now he collects women like he collects his artifacts…it’s all about the hunt. Belief in the power of love…or the power of the objects he finds? Nope. Maybe that’s why he’s skeptical when the CIA comes to visit him. They want him to find a supposedly unfindable object that’s supposed to have incredible powers…and he’s got to find it before Hitler does. And what is it? (swig your water) Only the lost Ark of the Covenant. The golden container of the tablets that Moses brought down from Mount Sinai. A direct connection to God himself.”

That’s exposition, character, backstory, theme, and the major plot point of Act One. Weave it. Milk it. Get into it. If you’re ashamed of your own story, you’re dead in the water.

No, I’m not going to pitch out the rest of Raiders. You get the idea. Pitch the action like it’s happening RIGHT NOW! (duck!). Pitch the character, theme and plot points as woven paragraphs, where the execs and producers see how the elements intertwine and feed into each other.

Now, notice that I wrote all that Raiders stuff out? Actually wrote it like dialogue?

This is the key, people. Here’s my biiiiiiiig secret.

Write your pitch before you pitch it.

It’s intuitive, right? We’re writers. We are paid to write words for prettier people to say. Pitching is our moment on the stage. Why shouldn’t we script it first?

Write the whole thing out. Nnnnnoooooo, you’re not going to recite the damn thing like a school play. No, you’re not going to memorize it.

Here’s what I do. I write it out. By writing it in my own voice, I quickly start to get a grasp for how I’m going to tell the story.

I print that document and sit facing a wall.

And then, without looking at the document, I start pitching my movie. Out loud. To the wall. The moment I stop for even a second, I look down at the page, see how I roughly scripted it, and then…

I start again from the very beginning. I do this even if I hit a slight bump near the very very end.

All the way back. Start again.

It usually takes about two hours to get through this process so that I can smoothly pitch for eight minutes. Smoooooothly. No bumps. No glitches. This is crucial. Remember, you’ve already seen this movie, right? If you’ve seen it, why would you be trying to remember it mid-pitch? No, you must be absolutely confident of this movie. If you’re not, they won’t be either.

As I go through this forwards-and-backwards prep, I find things start occuring to me. I begin emphasizing some parts of my scripted pitch and ignoring others. I find new turns of phrases. I discover the parts that get me excited. I find the theater in it.

And when I’m done…I’m ready. The effect is a well-thought out, well-organized, apparently entirely off-the-cuff extemporaneous telling of a movie.

In short, it’s a good pitch.

Okay, now if you’re not good in a room, you’re going to do everything above just as I suggest, but you’re going to add a prop.

Ted and Terry bring an entire corkboard with their movie plotted out on index cards. What the cards do for them is help provide a focus for the producers and execs…and them…that isn’t their faces.

Apparently, they don’t enjoy public speaking the way I do. No problem. The corkboard shifts the heat of the spotlight away from them, and instead of relying on pure showmanship, they’re using their cards as a visual reference for their audience. They bring the producers and executives through the movie via their pitch and their cards.

So…it’s the big day. Any last steps?

Step one: Arrid Extra-Dry. Forget “controlling” your sweat. You want to be able to strike a match off your pits.

Step two: Know where you’re going. Get there early, but don’t go in early. Show up exactly at the time of your appointment. You’re going to wait regardless, but that’s irrelevant. Don’t think about your pitch at all. That will screw you up. Just read Variety or stare at the wall and laugh about how superior you are to the world. You’re not, but just do it. It helps.

Step three: When offered a drink, accept water. Never soda. Too gassy. Just water. Don’t drink it now, even though you’re probably as thirsty as a guy with a bullethole in his gut. Wait until you start pitching. Then use it as a prop. When you get to a cliffhanger (drinks water) take a slug. Make ‘em wait.

Step four: When you’re done, stick around for a brief period of time to hear any immediate reactions, but not too long. You’ve got another pitch to get to right away…even if you don’t.

Step five: Profit.

Mmm, no,
a little smaller…Writing is freedom, or so say people who don’t write. We who ply the live action screen trade are all-too-familiar with the concept of restraint. Our limitation is that annoying little aspect of life known as “reality”. I used to think the choke collar of reality would tug the hardest when I was trying to dream big.

Hah. Totally wrong.

Reality’s endless jabbing annoys the most when I haven’t been dreaming at all.

Case in point: you cannot walk into an office building.

Try having a character “walk into an office building”. That’s fine for now. It’s fine ten drafts from now. But if you’ve done your job well and the stars align, you’ll find yourself sitting across a table from the 1st Assistant Director in the production offices of the film of your movie, and he’s going to ask you what the hell you mean.

“Now, are we talking skyscraper, suburban office complex, three-office law firm type thing, is it nice, run-down, art on the walls, cheeseball, full of doctors or large businesses or crappy accountants, does it have marble on the floors, receptionist, elevator or walk-up, is it imposing, diminished, old, new, light, dark, clean, dusty, crowded, empty…”

And no matter what you end up answering, the first answer in your head…the real answer is…”Umm, I don’t know.”

Gentlemen and women, the rubber has hit the road. Welcome to production.

While it’s true that all the niggling questions of production will ultimately be determined by the director, that doesn’t mean we can’t help guide the director and the production as they create the world of the film.

No, I’m not suggesting that we write all of this stuff into a script. That would be awful. What I am suggesting is that before you find yourself face to face with the 1st A.D. (the person who’s really the field marshal of the shooting set), you prepare yourself with the answers.

There are lots of ways that we screenwriters can find ourselves disappointed with the rendering of our stories. One of the most common is the “that’s not how I imagined it!” syndrome. Oh? And how did you imagine it?

If you imagined it specifically, and by “specifically” I mean that you could have supplied the 1st A.D. or the producer or the director with a document describing in detail your imagined locations, costumes, hair styles, car makes, and all the other tiny flecks of color in your neural painting…then yeah, you get to be disappointed.

If you didn’t, then one of two things is true. Either you knew everything but decided not to speak up, in which case…your fault. Or, as is more often the case, you hadn’t really thought it through.

I am obsessive about “watching” my scenes before I write them. That’s how I’m able to prattle at length when the 1st A.D. asks me for those details. Still, he catches me every now and then, and I’m forced to say something like, “Dammit.”

It’s a scary “dammit”, by the way. It’s like someone asking me where I was yesterday, and there’s a two-hour period I can’t account for. We’re supposed to know our stories inside and out.

The point is not that we must do this to prepare for production. We must do this because it’s what makes a screenplay worth producing. No one will make a movie that seems like it could be shot anywhere with anyone wearing anything. The more you know about your world, the more it affects the story you set in that world. Do yourselves a favor. Go through your scripts like they were someone else’s, and your job was to actually go and shoot it. The only information you have is what’s on the page.

Make a list of questions.

Answer them.

And when it’s your time to sit down across the 1st A.D., make me proud, wouldja?

Ah, the Slu…I mean,
Sutton PlaceAs promised, here’s the first of an ongoing series reflecting my life in production. As hard as production is, it would be nice if it happened a bit closer to home than, say, Canada. Why am I here? And why are so many productions hurtling towards B.C.? I asked these questions of my producer today. What I learned are that there are three major reasons a movie like ours makes sense in Vancouver.


The Exchange Rate

There was once a time when you could travel north of the U.S. border and buy a mansion with a yacht parked in the front yard for a handful of nickels.

Welllll, maybe not. Still, the exchange rate has always been favorable, even though lately it’s much less so. Currently, a U.S. dollar will get you about $1.20 Canadian.

When you’re at Denny’s, that’s not such a big deal. When you’re spending forty million dollars, it starts to add up.


The Price of Labor (sorry, Labour) & Services

Generally speaking, producers can find better deals in Canada for the vast array of services and vendors that a production requires. In addition, while the crews in Vancouver are very skilled, the union scale structures tend to be a bit lower than their American counterparts. More importantly, the union fringe payments like pension and health also tend to be lower in Canada (perhaps because the Canadian government provides a higher level of health insurance to all of its citizens than we do).


The Federal & Provincial Tax Rebates

This is the biggie. In order to draw production to Canada, along with the jobs and local spending that production brings, the Canadian government and most (if not all) of the Provinces provide tax rebates to filmmakers. The basic idea is that a production must employ a certain amount of Canadian labor. Those laborers will pay taxes on their income, which goes to the Province and Ottawa. In turn, the governments will then rebate the productions a percentage of that tax collected (I’m simplifying, but this is the general idea).

The upshot is that for every job a production gives to a Canadian, they’re going to get some cash back.

So…what’s this all really worth? After all, there are additional costs inherent to shooting in Canada. Key personnel must be flown up to Vancouver and housed…and then there are those per diem checks to be handed out as well. The advantages must outweigh the costs by a significant amount.

They do.

For an average studio picture that costs about 52 million dollars to shoot in L.A., you’d probably spend about 40 million to make that same picture in Vancouver.

And that, my friends, is why I’m typing this at a desk in my one-room apartment at the Sutton. By the way, I’m enjoying all the recommendations from the locals (just don’t tell me how much the Sutton stinks…it serves me well and most of our production folk are housed here, which makes it convenient). Even though I’d probably eat scrambled eggs every day, my wife is reading the comments section and is planning some nights out for the two of us once she arrives.

Anyone know any really nice romantic restaurants where she and I can gaze into each other’s eyes and talk about the beauty of tax incentives and exchange rates?

My beautiful prison…Well, I’ve been sitting on a wee bit of a secret here at The Artful Writer, but it’s kind of a cool one, because it’s going to shape how the next couple of months of posts are going to work.

I’m in Vancouver now, hard at work on Scary Movie 4, and I’ll be with the pre-production, principle photography and then, after a return to L.A., the post-production.

What that means for you is that I’ll be doing a lot more production-related essays here. I encourage you to keep the questions coming, and no doubt I’ll be dealing with some credit issues and copyright topics as well, but my life is going to be firmly planted in the world of locations, camera angles, casting, blocking, rewriting and editing.

Of key interest to me (and hopefully you) is how all of these tasks and disciplines relate to the job of the screenwriter. I’m going to try and approach all of the segments of pre-pro first, with an emphasis on the role the screenwriter can play in helping the production get ready for shooting…and the role the production can play in helping the screenwriter perfect the story that’s about to be shot.

Before I get too deep into that stuff (and it’s piling up around me already…), the first question I’m going to try and handle this week is the most obvious one: what the hell am I doing in Vancouver?

The truth is that I have a fairly weak understanding of the advantages that Canada offers productions. I’m going to get as many nuts and bolts as I can to explain why so many films shoot here, and I’ll be back with the answers as soon as I come up for air.

Posts have been humming along at a two-or-three per week clip, but that will probably slow to about one per week. The days (and soon nights) are long. Hopefully, however, the quantity of useful info per post will rise.

Stay tuned!

“In a world…”You’re a screenwriter, so here’s an easy image to conjure. There’s a 20-something writer alone in a small room, tapping away at his keyboard. Awful posture. He’s doing his best to write a screenplay that will sell, but in the end, he’s not sure any of it’s going to work.

From that point in time, it’s easy to project out a hundred different fates for this guy and his script, and most of them end in failure. This time, though, let’s be generous. Let’s follow that one magical strand forward, watching along the way as he sells his script. A star and director are attached. The movie gets the green light. It’s filmed, and now the only thing left is the release. As we reach the end of this timeline, we find ourselves in a very familiar spot.

Another 20-something writer is alone in a small room, tapping away at his keyboard. Even worse posture. He’s doing his best to write some ad copy that will sell the first guy’s movie, but in the end, he’s not sure any of it’s going to work.

I’ve been both of those guys.

To be sure, there are plenty of writers who just don’t care if their movies find a large audience. All they want to do is write a good story they can be happy with, and damn the rest of America and the world if it’s not a hit. I, on the other hand, due to either weakness or vanity, have this irrepressible desire to write movies that lots of people see. Since I started out as someone who sold movies, I have a certain insight into the totality of the process. It’s seductive to think that it’s the studio’s problem, but the reality is that you can build marketing success into your screenplay…or lay the seeds of your own marketing doom.

In 1994, I became a marketing executive for Buena Vista Pictures, which is Disney’s distribution arm. I wrote poster lines and trailer copy and all the words for the annoying television ad announcers. I wrote and produced marketing campaigns for Touchstone Pictures, Walt Disney Pictures and the now happily defunct Hollywood Pictures. Some of the campaigns were can’t-misses for big movies like Crimson Tide (“Danger Runs Deep”, I thought, and lo, a poster was born). Some were for movies that we in the marketing department really elevated to a big opening weekend, like The Santa Clause (“This Christmas, The Snow Hits The Fan” I thought, and moms and kids thought, “Okay, I’ll give that a shot”).

Some we just muffed. And others, well…there were some we just couldn’t do anything with.

During my two years in marketing, I found that there were certain elements that were necessary for a successful marketing campaign. The funny thing about those elements was that they were either there in the beginning, i.e. the screenplay…or they weren’t.

Please don’t view this as some horrendous method of commercializing your wonderful art. I’m sure your screenplay defies all that come before it, and you would never consider marring it with base concerns like the content of the television commercials and trailers and posters that will attempt to attract patrons to it.

Still, if you’re at all interested in having your movie seen by the largest audience possible, here are a few things to at least consider before you send your script off to be made into a film.

A Great Title

As brilliant as it was, not many people went to the theater to see The Shawshank Redemption. If you think it’s because of a lack of big stars or subject matter, I could cite ten hits that would prove you wrong.

It was the title. What the hell is a Shawshank Redemption? The movie sounds like bible study or perhaps an instructional film on how to prepare lamb.

Look, Stephen King is a genius. Far be it from me to second guess his title choices. I’ll go one step further. Frank Darabont is twice the screenwriter I’ll ever be. It’s possible that they knew the title would give them trouble, but they just didn’t care. I can accept that.

Can you? Think carefully about your title. Does it evoke a feeling? Does it communicate the genre of the film? Does it worm through your brain a little?

If it needs to be punchy, is it short? If it needs to be epic, is it cool?

Show me a horror movie trailer that ends with the title Saw, and I learn a lot. Someone is going to saw through a human at some point. That’s a given. And at three letters, it’s kind of hard to forget. Even better, if someone says, “Saw, what’s that about?” and I say, “It’s a horror film,” they’re going to go, “Oooh, gross,” without any other information given.

Which is what you want.

Let’s talk about the other end of the spectrum. You can do a big epic title if you need to, but it really has to sell something interesting. It was very smart of Disney to call their swashbuckler Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl. Sure, it’s long, but “Pirates of the Caribbean” is a ride. We’ve all ridden the ride.

A million times.

“Curse of the Black Pearl” says, “Forget the ride. There’s more. And there’s a curse, so that means the supernatural will be involved…and that means this movie won’t be the boring men-in-stockings sword orgy you were probably expecting.”

Exceed Expectations

Good trailer movies have a “twist”, and by that, I don’t mean the oh-my-god-Verbal-Kint-is-Keyser-Soze sort. I’m talking about the twist that elevates your story from the expected to the unexpected.

Mass audiences love genre films. They love horror movies, they love cop movies, they love action thrillers, they love romantic comedies.

On the one hand, that means they’re already inclined to see your genre film. On the other hand, they won’t be if they feel like they’ve seen it already…and they’ve seen a lot.

If you’re writing a cookie-cutter concept, it’s going to be very hard to sell. It may be reeeeeally good, but when it’s run through the two minute and thirty second duck press of the theatrical trailer, it’s not going to be distinguishable from everything else on the shelf at Blockbuster.

Conversely, your movie may be crap, but if it takes a familiar genre and then turns it on its head or exceeds it in some interesting way, trailer audiences will take notice.

Intelligent people may argue over whether or not Underworld is a good film. From a marketing point of view, however, it’s a dream come true. Genre audiences have seen vampire movies. They’ve seen werewolf movies. They’ve seen the Matrix films. And they’ve seen Romeo & Juliet stories. How about vampires and werewolves beating the shit out of each other Matrix style, while star-crossed lovers from opposite sides try and stop the war?

Well, that would defy my expecations of a typical monster flick. The movie nearly earned its production cost back in gross receipts its opening weekend.

Let’s take my favorite example (this is mostly because I like sucking up to Ted and Terry, but also because they make it easy). Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl appeared to be an expected genre film. Pirates. Seas. Swords. Bosoms and wigs. But then…well…

Create Trailer Moments

…the pirates turned into walking skeletons.

Exceeding expectations is wonderful. But more than anything else, a good trailer moment will help sell your film.

Trailer moments are those magical little snippets of film that just grab people by their imaginations. They’re typically dialogue-free (we’ll discuss dialogue in a moment), and by their very nature, they require no context to be impressive.

Allow me to remove my lips from Ted and Terry’s butts and instead, kiss my own ass for a bit. Say what you will about Scary Movie 3, but the trailer for the movie was one of the best I’ve ever seen (kudos to the Dimension marketing department). It was so good, it’s one of the only movie trailers Entertainment Weekly ever put on their “Must See” list.

As of this date, this second-sequel-with-no-big-stars still holds the record for the biggest opening weekend in October box office history. 48 million bucks on a sleepy pre-Halloween weekend. And why?

The reveal of Michael Jackson screaming like a little girl.

It’s a great trailer moment, and it told the audience everything they needed to know about the film.

When you’re writing your screenplay, ask yourself if there’s one indelible image that a marketer can just drop into a trailer. Something no one’s seen before. Something that will crack them up or shock them or make them say “Cool!”. Pirates become walking skeletons, a man offers a woman a diamond ring and then snaps the box shut on her fingers, a hand comes out of the back of a woman’s head, a bridge is seen exploding in a rear view mirror as Dakota Fanning shrieks…

Trailers don’t have time to place your scenes in context. Think of a great trailer moment that fits your screenplay…and write it.

Physical Humor

If comedy trailers seem like an endless parade of kicks to the crotch, understand that there’s a reason for this.

Dialogue jokes play okay in trailers.

Physical comedy plays great in trailers (especially overseas).

Sure, kicks to the crotch are done to death. If you’re writing a comedy, make sure there’s at least one great moment of physical comedy, because the marketers are going to need it. Old School had a lot of good jokes, but that tranquilizer dart going into Will Ferrell’s neck sealed the deal for a lot of moviegoers.

One Great Line

This is the hardest thing to pull off when writing. I debated whether or not to even mention this, because trying to write a great line is a sure-fire way to ensure that you write crap.

Still, a great, short line of dialogue can really help sell a film. One of my favorite movies of all time is Unforgiven. It’s a morally complex film with men of ambiguous natures committing crimes in the name of honor and law.

None of that sort of thing matters when you’re cutting a trailer. Movie advertising is reductive in nature; a great line of dialogue may sell the audience on a character, even if the pitch is, well, misleading.

Having a character say, “You just shot an unarmed man,” and then hearing Clint Eastwood respond “He should’ve armed himself” is definitely going to give audiences the wrong idea. It’s out of context, it’s not what his character is really about…and it’s perfect for a trailer. There’s a reason the trailer announcer never says things like, “In a time of moral quandry, one man was indecisive about how violent he should actually be…”

Who the hell’s gonna see that?

Here’s another movie that would have otherwise seemed like homework: The Last Of The Mohicans. A period piece that would have otherwise done okay business with the Merchant-Ivory crowd, the movie’s marketing materials practically boiled down the entire story to one simple line:

“You stay alive, no matter what occurs! I will find you.”

Swooning ensued. The fact that Daniel Day-Lewis appeared to be standing under a waterfall as he spoke this line didn’t hurt.

The marketing for this period piece romance with sub A level stars was good enough to open the film at nearly 11 million dollars (in 1992) in only 1500 theaters, and that was enough to send the total domestic gross into the 70 million dollar range.

Compare that to Howards End, a film that opened just a few months earlier, was also a period piece romance with similar level stars (you could make a good argument that Anthony Hopkins was actually a bigger star than Day-Lewis). Howards End was, by most accounts, a better film than Mohicans.

Yet, without a great heart-pounding line or trailer moment, the movie mustered only 25 million or so for its theatrical run.

If your screenplay isn’t particularly visual in nature, ask yourself if there’s one great line that might captivate a trailer audience. It doesn’t have to be shocking or hysterical, but it must contain one very important thing…

A Promise

All good trailers and television spots for movies are nothing more than promises. The marketers can’t show you the entire movie. They can’t give you the experience of the unfolding narrative, nor can they exploit the quiet moments that are only earned after watching what leads up to them.

Think about it. Marlin picking up an apparently-dead Nemo and flashing back to a memory of his son as the “egg that survived” is only a tear-jerker if you’ve seen the rest of the film. As a trailer moment, that would be an absurd dud.

No, all a good trailer can do is give the audience the promise of a good film. Some concepts have a good promise inherent to them (shark in the water!!!). Some do not (like whatever the hell Last of the Mohicans is about…sorry, never read the book).

That’s fine. Your job is to make sure that somewhere in your screenplay, there’s a moment that crystallizes the promise of your story, the possibilities of the adventure your hero will undertake. It can be a line, a moment, a joke…anything. People don’t go to the movies because they know they will be entertained.

They go because they expect they will be entertained.

They formulate those expectations based on stars and subject matter and reviews…but a good trailer and television campaign can do wonders. Don’t obsess over it or mangle your work in anticipation of it. Given the reality of this business, odds are the time won’t ever come.

But just in case it does, please ruminate for just a while on your counterpart, the lonely studio marketer. If he could talk to you, he’d probably quote one of those great trailer lines.

“Help me help you.”

Which one’s the hero?A few years ago, I was asked to adapt Mary Chase’s play Harvey for Miramax Films. I read the text about a hundred times (and watched the Jimmy Stewart film twice…it’s incredibly faithful to the play), and I struggled. It wasn’t the updating aspect of the task that was difficult; the themes of the play and the essential character relationships are universal. What started to drive me nuts was the character of Elwood P. Dowd. Something was preventing me from arranging this updated story around him.

After about 10 days of misery, it finally occured to me that I had been hoodwinked. Bamboozled. Elwood P. Dowd, the alcoholic with the troubled past, the man who sees an invisible rabbit, the man who is in every scene of import, the man who delivers the big monologues, the man who you absolutely needed to cast with the biggest star you could find…

…was not the hero of the story!

Five days later, my treatment was complete. I had unlocked the secret of Harvey. Elwood Dowd still dominates the content of the screenplay, but the hero of the story is the doctor who is treating him.

Somtimes certain characters are so spectacular and fascinating that we come to believe that they are the heroes. And yet, “hero” isn’t a function of page count or casting, but rather what I call “thematic character structure”.

If you’d like, you can read my whole theory about that here.

This sort of thing pops up more frequently than you’d think. For instance, a reader writes in:

I have a supporting character that seems to fill a far greater purpose than I originally anticipated. The supporting character seems to fit Wikipedia’s definition of Hero. However, I’ve always thought of the Hero as the main character… John August’s glossary seems to agree.

Well, the hero is the main character, but let’s unmoor the concept of “main” from the concept of “purpose” or “page count” or “originality”. There is a class of character that is incredibly purposeful and original and can dominate the page and screen, but will never be the hero.

Christ figures are the perfect example. Elwood P. Dowd, for all his drinking and hallucinating, is really just a Christ figure. He is perfect in temperament and apparently sinless and loving towards all. That’s not a hero; it’s a messiah. He is fascinating to listen to and his quirks dominate the screen, but he is not an adventurer seeking to discover and then embrace a theme.

No, he is the theme. He’s theme-as-man, just as Christ is God-as-man. The Word As Flesh, and all that good stuff.

It is the hero’s task to discover, understand, and then embrace Elwood. Kevin Spacey in K-Pax, Jeff Bridges in Starman, Bill Murray in What About Bob?, Johnny Depp in Edward Scissorhands…these characters are already perfect. Flawed humans will be intrigued by them, then doubt them, then betray them…and finally come to love them and be transformed by them.

In other words, Jesus isn’t the protagonist of the Gospels.

Jesus Christ is a particular type of deity. There are other types. Greek gods, for instance, were a bit more selfish and aggressive. Jack Sparrow is certainly in the mold of the Greek god (with a bit of Loki thrown in) who pursues his own interests, helping and hindering the hero as he sees fit. He’s a force of nature—amusing and dominating in every regard, but not the hero. Jack Sparrow is beyond growth or theme. He’s not even human, really. When Jack Sparrow dies, he’s going to disappear out of his clothes and become a constellation (okay, maybe he won’t, but would you be suprised if he did?).

The confusion probably centers around the words “hero” and “main character”. We want to believe that heroes are people who do typically heroic things, and we want to believe that main characters are the ones who draw our eyes and attentions.

The fact is, though, that The Subtle Hero is often the most compelling kind of protagonist. We are the subtle heroes of the stories of our own lives, and we find it easy to identify with subtle heroes as they experience the gods and monsters of their own adventures. Subtle heroes are sometimes so subtle, we hardly realize they’re there at all (I still maintain that Nick is the hero of The Great Gatsby). That’s fine. I’m sure 99 out of 100 people think Jimmy Stewart is the hero of Harvey, and the same number think Johnny Depp is the hero of Pirates Of The Caribbean. That misunderstanding has done nothing to impede their enjoyment of the story. The fact is that Dr. Sanderson and Elizabeth Swan are the protagonists of those stories, and their roles in the thematic character structure is what glues those stories together and makes them, well…good.

The audience doesn’t need to understand that.

We do.

Yeah, that’s pretty much what it feels like…My first job in this town was copywriting for a boutique ad agency that did nothing but promos for CBS. It was a nice entry to the business; I learned about television and marketing and the bottom line.

I also learned how to write a large quantity of material in a very short amount of time that would conform to various demands and specifications. More importantly, I was accountable for that material. Responsible. I learned to surf my own adrenaline in that job, and it’s a skill that has served me well for many years now.

Writing under pressure is a symptom of the vicissitudes of this business. It’s not an inevitable curse; it’s like smallpox. We could definitely wipe it off the face of the Earth if we all really tried, but frankly, it’s not really a priority for the people spending the money.

There’s an old saying my ad agency boss had on her door. “Good, Fast, Cheap: Pick Two”. That cutesy little saying has proven to be one of the truer things I’ve ever been taught, and it occurred to me early on that the guys who are Good and Fast are the most useful. After all, who wants to be known as Cheap? And when you’re writing studio films, Good and Fast writers are the ones everyone wants to be in business with.

The problem, though, is that sometimes “Fast” is “Too Fast”. When you move at lightspeed (as I’m doing on my current project), frustration sets in. The deadline is pushing down on you. Your need to do your best work (otherwise known as your need to avoid doing work you know isn’t your best) is pushing up.

The resulting squeeze is enough to make you insane. Still, it’s amazing what you can accomplish if you simply commit. I’ve had producers make demands of me that I thought were nuts. On the other hand, part of me simply says “I can do it” no matter what they ask.

That part sometimes gets me in trouble. More often, though, it allows me to accomplish goals that even reasonable doubt would have forestalled.

Writers who haven’t yet experienced the pressure of the Good and Fast deadline haven’t really tested themselves yet. There’s a crucible phenomenon that occurs when you’re chucked into the fire of some hellish time frame, and I’ve often done my best work in those situations. Conversely, when given months to write, I sometimes lose myself in my own head, and the work suffers.

I mentioned earlier that pressurized writing doesn’t need to occur. I wonder, sometimes, if it isn’t best that it does. It’s not particularly fun or pleasant or Zen or fulfilling as much as it’s exhilarating and maddening and nuts.

Still, if you squeeze a lump of coal hard enough…

Whether you’re a pro or an aspirant, it’s worth a try. Blank page to first draft in five weeks, including a treatment. When you’re racing the clock like that, there’s no time for self-doubt. No time to go backwards or decide the whole thing’s a mess.

And there’s a wonderful built-in excuse if no one likes it. That alone ought to be enough to recommend the Pressure Draft.

Besides, if it turns out you’re Good and Fast, then you get to be a little more Expensive too.

A few articles back, I mentioned that I had an assistant. This sparked some curiosity (and a number of offers to take my assistant’s place), and one reader in particular felt I ought to at least describe what a writer’s assistant does and talk about whether or not the rest of you need one.

I don’t know what a writer’s assistant does, and I don’t think anyone needs one (but they’re useful).

I know what my assistant does, and most of it is unrelated to my writing. When I’m in production (or preproduction, as is the case right now), the writing takes on a full-day, all-encompassing scale, and the little matters of life start to be neglected. Someone has to chase down that electrician, make sure the gopher guy is killing the gophers in the yard (I am currently losing this battle), handle the paperwork for my Canadian work permit, check the voice-mail, direct me to where I’m going, remind me about the 14,000 things I have going on at once, and when my eyes start to roll into the back of my head…get me some coffee.

My assistant does these things.

Now, other writers’ assistants may do other tasks. Some take notes, others proofread, some do coverage…it’s really up to the writer who employs them. I’m a bit of a fussbudgety control freak, so I like to do a lot of the creative stuff myself.

The truth, though, is that few writers employ assistants. In fact, my assistant isn’t really my assistant. He’s an assistant to the production who also looks after me. To be fair, there’s a direct correlation between my current caffeine level and the future box office prospects of whatever I’m working on, so it’s money well spent.

Typically, if you’re not in production (or approaching production) you really don’t need a full-time assistant. Of course, if you’re the type who is looking to mentor someone, it’s certainly an option.

I wouldn’t enter production without an assistant, however. Maybe it’s just me, but I get lost in my work very very very very easily. Days could go by. They’d find me on the floor underneath my desk, badly dehydrated and snorting toner. Not pretty.

Since I’m writing about this particular topic, I might as well take the opportunity to publicly shame my assistant, who has failed to complete the first draft of his alleged screenplay in any reasonable amount of time.

I’ve given him another deadline. He’s got three weeks. I’ll publish his address and phone number if he blows it.

Of course, I’ll have to ask him for that info first. Can’t find it…where did I put that…dammit…Ian? Ian?

And the light that is
green shall shineth
upon thee…Much has been made of “development hell”, that creative netherworld into which screenwriters trudge dutifully, fairly certain that they’ll never make it back alive. While any screenwriter worth his salt can rattle off a list of complaints about development hell, a reader recently asked me to imagine what development h