Let's Schmooze - Doug Eboch on Screenwriting

Hollywood Etiquette for Screenwriters

2013-05-16T14:55:00.000-07:00

The film business is a little culture unto itself, and like any culture there are rules of etiquette. If you’re new to the business, those rules may not be readily apparent. Here’s a small primer for the screenwriter:

Phone Calls

If you leave a message for someone you have a relationship with (your agent, the producer of a project you’re working on, etc.), the rule of thumb is they should return the call within twenty-four hours. The reverse is true as well, though I would recommend returning the call the same day if you can. If you’re trying to reach someone you don’t have a relationship with, give them at least a week, maybe up to two before calling again. If they don’t return the call after the third message, maybe you should take the hint.

If you’ve given someone a screenplay to read, you should generally allow them two to four weeks before following up with them. And four weeks is better than two. The exception is your representation, who should read the screenplay the weekend after you gave it to them, if not before. Remember, though, that people are busy and be patient.

When you do get someone on the phone, respect their time. Have a reason for the call. You should not be calling your agent to “check in” very often. (They may call you for this reason sometimes, though.) A little chitchat can be nice, but get to the point quickly. They have things they need to be doing. Most calls ought to be shorter than five minutes. This does not apply to phone meetings that are scheduled, such as when you’re going to get notes on a script or pitch an idea.

Meetings

The first rule of meetings is to be on time! The producer or exec will probably make you wait, but you should never keep them waiting. It’s a business meeting, so be reasonably well groomed. Writers dress casually in Hollywood, but that doesn’t mean you can look like you just came from the beach or the gym. Also, bring a pen and notepad or some other way of taking notes. There is a whole art to meetings, some of which I’ve discussed in this post.

Meals

Occasionally you will have a lunch meeting. You may even have breakfast or dinner meetings from time to time. Again, be punctual. These days most people frown upon ordering alcohol during the day. Wine or possibly a cocktail with dinner is usually acceptable, but I’d follow the lead of the person you’re meeting with.

There are no real rules about what food you should order, but I’d suggest avoiding messy, hard-to-eat food that might be distracting, like spaghetti or ribs. Even hamburgers can be piled high with messy, drippy toppings. If you order something like this you’re asking for an embarrassing incident. Sandwiches and salads are safe choices. Most people skip dessert at lunch, and you probably don’t want to order the biggest, most expensive thing on the menu if everyone else is ordering salad. You don’t want to look like a pig. Again, it’s best to follow the lead of the people you’re meeting with.

There’s a hierarchy to who pays at a Hollywood business meal. The good news is the writer is at the bottom of the list. If someone asks for a lunch meeting, you’ll eat for free. If they ask you to split the check, it either says something about their lack of clout or about how little regard they have for you. The exception, of course, is if you offer to take someone to lunch in return for a favor or to get advice on the business. Also, movie stars almost never pay for meals, but you’re not likely to be dining alone with a movie star – the producer will probably be there and pick up the check.

Parties

There are many types of industry parties – premieres, holiday parties, networking parties and parties for producers and agents to show off. The rules of etiquette are the same as any party, except I recommend not overindulging on alcohol. You want to do business with these people – don’t make a fool of yourself. Also, don't be too focused on business. It's a party, nobody wants to be cornered and forced to listen to you pitch your latest project.

Holiday and Other Gifts

Gift giving is a competitive sport in Hollywood. At the holidays, agencies, producers and studios send expensive gifts to the people they do business with and the people they want to do business with. If your career gets some heat around the holidays, you will probably receive some nice gifts.

As near as I can tell, there isn’t a consistent expectation of gift giving on the part of writers. This is good news – half of the writers I’ve asked about this have never given gifts to business contacts at the holidays (we’re talking end of year holidays here – Christmas, Hanukah, New Years – though you generally don’t specify religion with business contacts). So if you do nothing, you will probably be okay. If you are going to give gifts, the most likely candidates would be your representation – agent, manager, attorney. If you are currently working on a project, you might consider giving something to the producer or even the studio executives.

The thing to remember is, unless you are independently very wealthy, you will not be able to impress anyone by how much you spend. Keep in mind, your representatives know how much you make. And unless you’re they’re top client, they probably make more than you. A lot more. And they represent much wealthier people who will be giving them gifts, not to mention the very wealthy producers who will be giving them gifts. That $250 bottle of wine you saved up for – they might appreciate it, but it will be on the low end of what they receive in terms of value.

Far better than taking out a loan to buy expensive gifts is to give something personal. It really is the thought that counts – show them you thought about them when picking the gift. This works both ways. The best holiday gift I got was from a previous manager who gave me a humorous holiday book she thought I’d like. It cost less than $10, but it said something about her taste and about her sense of what my taste was. A favorite book would make a good gift from a writer to their agent or manager. So would something related to a shared hobby or interest. Don't get too personal, though – this is a business contact.

Any other etiquette situations you can think of? Leave a comment and I’ll try to address them.

Raise the Stakes

2013-05-10T08:56:00.000-07:00

(SPOILERS: The Proposal, E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial, Almost Famous)

One of the most critical things you must do in a story is establish what’s at stake for the character. What happens if the main character succeeds or fails? The more the character has at stake, the more dramatic and exciting the story. Conversely, if the outcome of the story isn’t going to affect the character, then why does the audience care? Today I want to dig into how we use stakes in screenwriting.

“Raise the stakes” is one of the most common notes a writer will be given. I think this is partly because it’s never a bad note (at worst it’s unnecessary) so if someone doesn’t have anything productive to add, they can throw out, “Raise the stakes” and not sound like an idiot.

However people often misunderstand the nature of stakes. They suggest a writer raise the stakes by increasing the size of what’s at stake. Rather than trying to get one million dollars, the character should be trying to get ten million dollars. But that’s often the wrong approach.

A con man might be trying to scam someone out of one million dollars so he can retire. That’s what’s at stake – he wants to quit his life of crime and live a life of luxury. You could make the scam for ten million dollars, but does that really raise the stakes? The outcome in question is still the same: can the con man retire?

But what if the con man owed a million dollars to some very bad mobsters? If he doesn’t come up with the money, they’ll kill him. We just raised the stakes without changing the amount of money. Now what’s at stake isn’t retirement, it’s life and death.

The key to raising the stakes dramatically is to increase how much the character cares about the outcome of the situation. We care about the story only as much as the character does. The more important it is to the character, the more important it will be to us. So to raise the stakes, make them more personal to the character.

Making the stakes of the story life and death may not be the best solution, though. It depends on the thematic content of the story. If you were writing a romantic comedy like The Proposal (written by Pete Chiarelli), the theme is love. So the stakes should be true love, not life and death. You want the highest stakes for the type of story you’re writing.

Stakes come in both positive and negative flavors. Many of the best stories have both. The character gets something good if they succeed and they suffer something bad if they fail. This gives the audience something to hope for and something to fear. In The Proposal, if Margaret fails she will be deported and lose her job. And if she succeeds she will find love and happiness.

The Proposal starts by establishing the negative stakes. This is the catalyst for the story: Margaret must get married so she can stay in the country and keep her job. Later, she falls for Andrew and the positive stakes appear. Ultimately the positive stakes become more important than the negative.

The positive stakes in The Proposal start to coalesce in the middle of the movie. Often we raise the stakes around the midpoint. In E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial (written by Melissa Matison), Elliot’s brother notices that E.T. is looking ill just after the midpoint. The stakes are raised – before they were just trying to protect E.T. Now they have to save his life.

In Almost Famous (written by Cameron Crowe) the hero, William, wants to be a rock and roll journalist. As a high school student he gets a fantastic opportunity to write a piece for Rolling Stone – the biggest rock magazine there is. And those stakes are raised in the middle of the movie when he’s told they’re considering the story for the cover.

Great, those are high positive stakes: if William can get the story he will achieve his dream. But what if he doesn’t get the story? If he simply feels bad for a few hours and then starts right in on the next big magazine assignment, then the movie wouldn’t feel urgent or important.

So in Almost Famous we’re led to believe that failure to get the story means William will never become a rock journalist. The world of rock journalism is pretty small, after all, and this is portrayed as a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. One way or another this story will give him a reputation. Moreover, his mother does not really support his dream. She’s giving him this chance, but when it’s over she expects him to go off to college and pursue a normal career.

In short, this is a test. Does William have what it takes to be a real journalist? The answer will determine the direction of his life. Each option, success and failure, is spelled out. William will either launch his dream career with a bang, or he will give up his dream and go to law school.

In order for stakes to be effective, you need to trap your character in the story. If the character can just walk away when things get tough, or try again later if he fails, then the stakes aren’t really at stake. In Almost Famous William is going on tour with a band and is expected to deliver a feature article to Rolling Stone by a certain deadline. If he quits you can bet there won’t be any more offers to write for Rolling Stone.

Sometimes people refer to the end of Act I as the “point of no return.” That act break is when the character commits fully to the story. And often this also means accepting the consequences of failure. In The Proposal, once Margaret and Andrew claim to an immigration official that they are engaged, the consequences of failure become real.

Finally, make sure the audience understands the stakes. Paint the picture – if this doesn’t work out for the character what will their life be like? It should be a pretty bleak future. And what will life be like if they succeed? It should satisfy the character’s greatest dreams.

Big stakes mean big drama.

What’s Your Brand?

2013-05-03T11:08:00.000-07:00

To be a professional screenwriter is to run a small business. And like any business, you will be more successful if you establish a strong brand. For screenwriters, your brand is what kind of script the buyers know you can execute well.

Most commonly this is the genre you write in. Most writers, myself included, do not like the idea of being pigeonholed. But it happens and it’s much better if you decide which pigeonhole to be in rather than leaving it to someone else. Plus, there are many good reasons to become known for a specific genre.

First, studios maintain actual lists of writers that they know can deliver in certain genres. If you’re on the sci-fi list, when they need someone to rewrite a sci-fi script or adapt a sci-fi novel, you might get the call. People in the business admire writers who can do a lot of different things, but being a generalist means you’re not a specialist. They won’t think of you when they need the specialist.

You may be thinking, “Well, I just want to write and sell original scripts, so I don’t need to be on those lists.” But given the state of the business where studios are obsessed with underlying IP (intellectual property), it’s hard to make a living writing only original material. Wouldn’t you rather make your rent money adapting a book than working at Starbucks? And it’s a lot easier to get original stuff produced if you’re regularly working on assignments. So you do want to be on those studio lists.

Another reason to have a strong brand is that it is much easier to sell a pitch in a genre you are known to do well. If you’re pitching a broad comedy hoping to get someone to pay you to write the script, you’ll have much better luck if you’re known for writing hilarious broad comedies. If all your previous work is in the horror genre, producers will question whether you can deliver the funny.

A third reason is that buyers and agents tend to specialize as well. I’ve told the story of getting my first agent here before. I had sent around the romantic comedy that I wrote as my Masters thesis at USC (the screenplay that became Sweet Home Alabama). One particular producer liked it a lot, but didn’t buy it. So I sent her my next script – a big action adventure. She told me that her company came very close to buying this second script, but decided they just didn’t have the relationships with the directors and stars that do action adventure. They made comedies. The good news was she offered to help me get an agent.

But that story illustrates how you have to match material to the appropriate buyer. As your career develops, you’ll make contacts and fans in the business. As in my case, the fans you make with your first script will be the people who make movies in that genre. If the next script you write is something radically different, most of those contacts will be useless to you. Yes, in my case I got an agent… but because I switched genres I didn’t get a sale.

Your brand isn’t solely limited to genre. Some writers are known for writing great dialogue, or writing jokes, or writing female characters or writing action, etc. If a comedy project needs a punch up, the studios call the joke guy. If they want to attract a famous actress to a part, they get the writer known for writing great roles for women to do a pass on the screenplay. Being particularly good at something means you can get work.

To some extent this is out of your control. Sure, you can intentionally hone a certain skill, but chances are you’re already good at some things and weaker at others. Most likely, your strengths lie in the genre and type of material you’re most passionate about. So play to your strength and passion!

Savvy writers think about their brand and plan their spec work accordingly. As illustrated above, I didn’t do such a good job of that when I was starting out. Imagine what kind of work you most want to be doing ten years from now. You should be writing and pitching material that will lead you in that direction. An old coworker of mine had a little sign above her computer that said, “Is what you’re doing today getting you where you want to be tomorrow?” You are building your brand with every spec script you write and every pitch you do. Choose your subject matter wisely.

This applies not just to specs. It can be difficult to turn down a work in this business, but remember: if you take a job that’s off-brand you will dilute your brand. Obviously you also need to seize on opportunity, and opportunities aren’t always perfect. But sometimes making a smart short-term decision can actually hurt your chances of long-term success. Sometimes writers will do off-brand jobs under a pseudonym for this reason.

Once you’re an established screenwriter, it is possible to broaden your brand and what you do. Once you’re known for broad comedy, adding action comedy to your repertoire is simply a matter of writing the right spec – but ONLY do this after you’ve firmly established your broad comedy brand. And if you manage to become an “A-list” screenwriter, your brand is “A-list.” But that doesn’t happen after one or two movies. You have to build your career to that level. That will be a lot easier if you consciously pursue a brand.

Point-of-View

2013-04-25T18:56:00.001-07:00

(SPOILERS: The Others, Rear Window, The Usual Suspects)

For novelists, one of the earliest critical decisions they have to make is what point-of-view the novel will be told from. (I’m using “point-of-view” in the literary sense here, rather than as the technical term for a camera angle shot from a character’s eyes. Hopefully you remember this from English class - first person: "I did it," second person: "You did it," third person: "He did it.")

For most screenwriters, point-of-view is not something we consider much. With a few experimental exceptions, all movies are technically third person point-of-view. The camera acts as an omniscient narrator observing the action. However in practice you can create limited points of view that can have a powerful effect on the film.

The most common form of limited point-of-view attempts to create a first person effect. To achieve this you have one character that is in every scene. The audience doesn’t get to see anything the character doesn’t see. This is usually the main character, but wouldn’t have to be – you could have a viewpoint character observing the story in the same way that Watson narrates the original Sherlock Holmes stories.

There are a few reasons you might do this. First, it creates a strong identification with the character in question. The audience experiences the story as the character does. That’s why thrillers and the more psychological type of horror movies often use this first person approach. It is almost always used in mysteries so that the audience knows exactly what the investigator knows. This allows them to try to solve the mystery before the character.

The classic Rear Window (screenplay by John Michael Hayes) uses this approach. We only see what Jeff sees through his window. We have to piece together the mystery along with him. When Lisa has broken into Thorwald’s apartment and Jeff sees Thorwald return, tremendous tension and suspense are created by locking us in Jeff’s place. We also begin to feel the claustrophobia he is feeling, as we are stuck in the apartment just like him.

For Rear Window the limited point-of-view is part of the thematic and conceptual nature of the story. Occasionally even the logic of the story depends on limiting the point-of-view in this way. For example, The Others (written by Alejandro Amenabar) limits the point-of-view to the character of Grace. Since this is a spooky movie, limiting the point-of-view creates a strong emotional identification with Grace and increases the unease we feel. But it is also critical for the big twist ending. If we saw another character’s point-of-view, we would know what was really going on.

(If you see Oblivion (screenplay by Joseph Kosinki and Karl Gajdusek and Michael Arndt), out in theaters now, you might consider what point-of-view they use and what affect it has on the story.)

You can also choose to limit point-of-view to a small number of characters. Maybe you’re doing a story about a team of criminals performing a heist and want to limit point-of-view to only the team members. Or maybe you’re writing a romance and want to limit point-of-view to the two lovers to heighten audience identification and focus.

Point-of-View can also be related to other narrative devices such as voiceover and framing stories. Take Goodfellas (screenplay by Nicholas Pileggi & Martin Scorsese). The story is told from the point-of-view of both Henry and Karen Hill, who each have voiceover. This causes us to interpret the action from their perspective. Everything about the movie, from the editing to the cinematography, reinforces this dual point-of-view.

The Usual Suspects (written by Christopher McQuarrie) is a very interesting example. On the surface it does not have a very limited point-of-view, but if you look carefully you’ll realize the movie is mostly from Agent Kujan’s perspective – despite the fact he isn’t in many scenes! But the main storyline is told while Kujan questions Verbal Kint. We’re seeing the story Verbal tells Kujan play out on screen (almost all of the scenes outside of this storyline are Kujan gathering additional information to use in questioning Verbal).

But of course since Verbal is telling the main story, it’s really more from his point-of-view. Look carefully at Verbal’s story, though. He’s not in every scene. He couldn’t really know some of what happens – he would be repeating what other people have told him. Or he’s lying. By telling the main story from Verbal’s point-of-view, the film creates an unreliable narrator (another reason you might choose the first person approach). We, the audience, are hearing the tale along with Kujan and have to decide if we believe it.

To make things more head-spinning, neither Kujan or Verbal are the main character from a structural standpoint. That would be Dean Keaton.

Of course you can always just have a wide, omniscient point-of-view. It’s a lot easier, and some stories won’t benefit by limiting point-of-view. In fact, the majority of movies probably use a third person approach. But it’s good to make this a conscious decision.

In Other News…

Those of you who follow me on Twitter (@dougeboch) will probably already be aware that I’ve been working on a book about pitching. Well, here’s the official announcement.

The Hollywood Pitching Bible: A Practical Guide to Pitching Movies and Television by Douglas J. Eboch and Ken Aguado will be available in late August.

Ken is a long-time studio executive and producer. In addition to being the former president of both Miller/Boyett Entertainment and Kings Road Entertainment, he has produced several films including The Salton Sea (Warner Bros.) and Sexual Life (Showtime). And of course you all know me! Between us, Ken and I have done hundreds of pitches and Ken has heard thousands, so we think we have something to offer on the matter!

I’ll keep you updated as the release date approaches.

Try It from the Villain’s Point of View

2013-04-18T20:41:00.000-07:00

One of the cardinal rules of writing good characters is that everybody should think they’re the star of the movie. And one of the cardinal rules of writing good villains is that the villain should think they’re the good guy – they need to be able to justify their actions on some personal ethical grounds, even if their ethics are twisted.

But in practice we develop our stories from the perspective that our main character is, well, the main character. This is mostly good. We want our hero to be active. We want them to solve their own problems. We don’t want them overshadowed by minor characters. Sometimes, though, we need to take a look at the story from another point of view.

Recently one of my students was struggling with a mystery story. There wasn’t enough threat or conflict as the hero followed the clues to solve the mystery. I pointed out that the villain wasn’t doing anything. He was simply waiting until the hero figured out that the villain was the guilty party, and then there was a big climactic showdown.

But that isn’t realistic. In real life, murderers take action. They cover their tracks or go on the run. They might actively try to mislead the people investigating them. A particularly villainous villain – the kind that makes for a good movie character – might sabotage or physically attack the investigator.

I suggested my student write a short treatment of her story as if the villain was the main character. What would he be doing? How would he respond to the hero’s actions?

I did the exact same thing for a mystery story I developed a couple years ago. Writing a two-page treatment of the same story but with the villain as the main character was enormously helpful. Suddenly, the villain was sticking his nose into the investigation, screwing it up and covering his tracks. I went back and revised my original outline to incorporate the villain’s actions. Things got a lot more challenging for my hero.

I find this exercise particularly useful for mysteries because often the mystery is the villain’s identity. That means the villain can’t be in direct conflict with the hero without giving everything away. The villain’s actions happen mostly off screen, and thus we tend to forget about them. But by figuring out their story, you can discover how their actions might affect the main character.

The technique can be useful in other genres, too. In an action movie, for example, writing a treatment of your story from the bad guy’s perspective can help you maintain the logic of the his actions. If you were the villain, would you really attack the hero at this point? Or would you wait for a better opportunity? The more clever the villain, the more heroic the hero is.

Consider one of the greatest action movie villains, Hans Gruber from Die Hard (screenplay by Jeb Stuart and Steven E. de Souza). Hans is extremely clever. He is engaged in a complex, challenging heist, one that has nothing to do with John McClane. And he sees himself as an “exceptional thief,” someone supremely talented and deserving of the rewards of his efforts. You could easily write a treatment of Die Hard where Hans is the main character and McClane is the villain threatening to disrupt his elaborate plans.

This same technique could be applied to other, non-villainous minor characters, too. You might try writing the story from the perspective of the love interest in a romantic comedy, for example. This will force you to make your supporting characters active rather than reactive. The love interest isn’t going to wait around forever for the hero to make his or her move!

It would be a waste of time to do this exercise for every minor character in a screenplay, but for significant characters who strongly impact your main character’s story, it can not only bring those characters to life but improve the plot.

How to Get Buyers Emotionally Involved in Your Pitch

2013-04-12T16:12:00.001-07:00

Getting someone to buy a pitch is hard. You’re essentially asking them to invest tens of thousands (or even hundreds of thousands) of dollars on the hot air coming out of your mouth. The buyer will be a lot more likely to take that leap if they get emotionally involved in the story.

So how do you do that? Just like in a script (or movie), character is our way into the pitch. You have to pitch the story from the character’s point of view. Most writers, though, tend to pitch plot. The characters come off as just mechanical components of the story and therefore the listener engages with the pitch intellectually instead of emotionally.

This is probably best demonstrated with an example. Here is a plot-oriented pitch of the opening sequence of Sweet Home Alabama (though in actuality I sold that as a spec script, not a pitch):

Melanie Carmichael is a fashion designer in New York preparing for her first big fashion show. She is also dating Andrew, the handsome son of the mayor – basically the perfect guy. Her life is good.

After the fashion show, Melanie is picked up by Andrew’s driver. Melanie is taken to a strange building where Andrew is waiting. He leads her into a dark room, and suddenly the lights come on, revealing they are at the Tiffany’s jewelry store. Andrew gets down on one knee and proposes to Melanie. She hesitates, but eventually says yes. Andrew gestures around the store and says, “Pick one.”

They drive to a big social event, and Melanie asks Andrew if they can keep the engagement secret for a while. She wants to tell her parents about it in person. It comes out that Andrew has never met her parents. Andrew agrees, but when they get to the event, Andrew’s mother notices the ring on Melanie’s hand and reveals the engagement to the press.

The next day Melanie flies down to Alabama. She drives to Jake’s house. And it is here that we learn Melanie is already married. Jake is her high school boyfriend and husband. He’s a charming good-ol’-boy. But he has been refusing to sign the divorce papers that Melanie keeps sending him. They argue and Jake calls the sheriff.

The sheriff turns out to be a childhood friend of Melanie's, but when Jake reveals that Melanie was the one behind a youthful indiscretion involving the sheriff's mother's tractor, he arrests her. It seems she was a bit wild in her teens.

That’s an accurate representation of what happens in the beginning of the movie, but it’s dry and cold. The listener could probably imagine what the film will be but they wouldn’t be caught up in the tale. But look what happens when we refocus this from Melanie’s point of view:

We open on Melanie Carmichael, a young New York fashion designer, preparing for her first show. She’s anxious – this is her big debut. But her boyfriend, Andrew, calls to give her encouragement and calm her down. The show is a big success and Melanie is practically floating when Andrew’s driver arrives to take her to a big fundraiser with his mother – who also happens to be the Mayor.

The limo drops Melanie at a strange building where Andrew is waiting for her. She’s so delighted to see him, it doesn’t occur to her to wonder about the location until he leads her into a dark room. “Where are we?” she asks. And with that the lights come on to reveal they are in Tiffany’s jewelry store.

Melanie’s shock grows when Andrew gets down on one knee and proposes to her. She is flabbergasted and asks him if he’s sure. He insists he is. She breaks out in a huge smile – of course she’ll marry him! He gestures at the collection of rings and says, “Pick one.” It’s every girl’s dream.

But as they continue to the fundraiser, Melanie starts to have some doubts. She asks Andrew if they can keep the engagement secret until she can tell her parents. He wants to call them right away, but Melanie thinks it would be better if she told them herself. “I have to meet them sometime,” Andrew protests. Melanie assures him he will.

When they get to the event, though, Andrew’s mother takes Melanie’s hand and feels the ring she’s turned backward to hide. In front of the gathered press, Andrew’s mother blurts out, “You’re engaged!?” Melanie sighs. So much for keeping it secret.

The next morning Melanie is driving through rural Alabama. She pulls up in front of a house. Jake, a handsome, charming, good-ol’-boy, comes out on the porch. But Melanie is not swayed by his Southern charm. She shoves divorce papers in his face. For Jake is her high school boyfriend and husband.

Melanie has been trying to get Jake to give her a divorce for years, but he keeps sending the papers back. Melanie insists Jake sign the papers immediately, but Jake is put off by her haughty attitude and calls the sheriff. Melanie is worried about that – until she discovers the sheriff is an old high school chum. But when Jake informs the sheriff that Melanie was the one who dumped his mother’s tractor in the pond, Melanie ends up in jail. It seems she was a little wild in her teens.

It’s a subtle difference; more in the way things are phrased than what is said. But by describing the action in terms of Melanie’s goals, feelings and reactions, we begin to care about her and what will happen to her.

Buying a pitch is a business decision, of course, but this is a business of people. To get someone to take a risk on your story, you need to get them to be passionate about it. It’s not only important that your story be good, it’s important that you tell it in an emotionally engaging fashion - by telling it through character.

Book Reviews: The Perfect Pitch and Writing Movies for Fun and Profit

2013-04-04T13:53:00.000-07:00

Today I’m going to review a couple of books I’ve read recently on the business of screenwriting. Screenwriting is a business, after all, and if you’re serious about doing it you have to learn that aspect of it.

The Perfect Pitch – by Ken Rotcop

The first book is The Perfect Pitch by Ken Rotcop. Rotcop had some success as an executive and producer of B-movies and TV movies, mostly back in the ‘70’s and ‘80’s. He also created PitchMart, one of the earliest pitch fests. These things would seem to make him qualified to write a book on pitching, however they also are the source of the biggest flaws I found in the book.

The first flaw is that most of the information seems dated. It is not unexpected that some of the anecdotes would reference companies that no longer exist (The UPN network figures in one story). The business is constantly changing, but that doesn’t mean old anecdotes aren’t relevant.

What is more problematic is that the methods of doing business are not up to date. For example, the book refers to messengering scripts when now most are sent via email as pdf attachments. This may not seem like a very important error, but it could lead a writer to behave in ways that appear amateurish.

This gets even worse when The Perfect Pitch discusses the marketplace and what people are looking for. For example, at one point Rotcop says studios don’t buy many books, but that networks buy books for movies-of-the-week. Um, eight of the top twenty-five movies last year were based on books (not even counting comic books) and when was the last time you saw a movie-of-the-week on network TV? And the focus of The Perfect Pitch often seems to be on the kind of B action films and thrillers that Rotcop used to make but are no longer really part of the marketplace.

The second problem is that Rotcop’s approach to pitching is all about crafting a pitch to get someone to read an existing screenplay. These types of pitches are perfect if you’re doing Rotcop’s Pitchmart, but they don’t reflect the kind of pitching most professional writers are called upon to do. The kind of pitches Rotcop describes tend to be shorter and leave out the ending. That works if you have a spec screenplay to hand over, but if you’re pitching an unwritten, original idea or pitching to get an assignment, this is absolutely the wrong way to do it.

Rotcop argues against pitching unwritten ideas for reasons of copyright protection, but that premise is false. If you’re worried about theft you can always write up a treatment and register that. And the reality is that few writers can make a living only writing on spec. Maybe that was possible back in the ‘80’s, but as I’ve said, times are different now.

So is the book worthless? No. There is plenty of very good general information about communicating and selling ideas. The problem is how to distinguish that from the misleading and out-of-date information. A beginner will have a lot of difficulty separating the good advice from the bad. Most experienced writers probably already know the good stuff.

Unfortunately there are not a lot of books out there on pitching, so it may be worthwhile to pick this one up. Just take any specific advice with a huge grain of salt.

Writing Movies for ~~Fun and~~ Profit – by Robert Ben Garant & Thomas Lennon

When I started reading this book, I became very sad. Not because it wasn’t good (it’s great) and not because it reveals the depressing parts of the industry (I’m already well versed in those) but because if I had this when I was starting out my career would probably have gone a lot more smoothly.

Garant and Lennon are working screenwriters (and actors – they created and starred in Reno 911). They have worked on many produced movies and know what they’re talking about. And since they’re comedians, the book is often hilarious.

The book is divided into two parts. The first is about selling your movie and is excellent. It contains tons of accurate and up-to-date info on how the business really works and how screenwriters can succeed in it, or at least survive. Garant and Lennon are absolutely clear from the title through the glossary that this book is for people wishing to work on studio movies. They don’t waffle on acknowledging that development frequently kills good scripts and writers have little power over the final film.

I think this is good – you won’t have any illusions about the life of a Hollywood screenwriter after reading this. The book is very clear about the emotional slings and arrows you will face. More importantly, it gives you lots of practical strategies for success in the studio world. There are chapters like, “The Art of Nodding or How to Take Notes.” And by delivering the truth with humor, Garant and Lennon make it a lot easier to accept.

The second section is supposed to be on how to write a screenplay, but it doesn’t really succeed at that. There is some writing advice, but it’s pretty superficial and Garant and Lennon quickly veer back into business stuff, like acquiring book rights and how credit is determined. Also, like most of these books, it’s better at addressing the types of movies its authors have done – in this case broad comedy. Sometimes Garant and Lennon almost seem to forget there are other types of movies. So don’t buy this book expecting to learn anything about how to actually create a screenplay.

Writing Movies for ~~Fun and~~ Profit is a quick read. In fact, the authors use “funny” type setting to make it seem longer than it is (such as putting a single sentence on a page for emphasis). But there is still more useful information packed into this book than all other book I’ve read on the business of screenwriting combined.

If you want to be a working, professional screenwriter in Hollywood, I would put this book on your must-read list.

Using Advertising in Your Script

2013-03-29T14:28:00.003-07:00

(Spoilers: Casablanca, Silence of the Lambs, The Matrix, Cinderella Man, Little Miss Sunshine)

In screenwriting advertising is a term for a technique where you build anticipation in the audience for an upcoming event. I didn’t invent the term, though I haven’t heard it used often. But it’s a technique I find very helpful for a variety of reasons.

First, advertising can help build up something you want to be important. One common example is the advertisement of a character before they are introduced. For instance, in Casablanca (screenplay by Julius J. Epstein, Philip G. Epstein and Howard Koch) we see people refer to Rick several times before his appearance.

When Strasser arrives in Casablanca, Renault tells him they’ll arrest the man who robbed the couriers at Rick’s that evening because, “Everybody comes to Rick’s.” Strasser then replies that he’s already heard about this Café and Rick. Then, at the bar, a customer asks if Rick will have a drink with them and is told Rick never drinks with the customers. These bits of advertising tell us that Rick is an important person that we should pay attention to – all before he appears on screen. Victor Laszlo is advertised in a similar way, discussed frequently before his actual appearance.

Another great example of advertising is the introduction of Hannibal Lecter in Silence of the Lambs (screenplay by Ted Tally). The ten minutes or so leading up to his entrance is all about people telling Clarice how dangerous Lecter is and the safety procedures that must be used in dealing with him. She’s even shown a photo of what he did to a nurse who didn’t follow those procedures. This is matched by the visuals as we see Clarice led ever deeper in the psychiatric prison, passing numerous checkpoints and a room filled with guns, until she’s brought to a dungeon like hallway. When Lecter is finally revealed, standing primly in a neat cell, and greets her politely, we’re already terrified of him. Imagine the movie without that build up. Would Lecter, a middle aged, intellectual, slightly pudgy man in a cell, seem remotely threatening?

This technique also works for building up events. In The Matrix (written by Andy & Lana Wachowski), the power and abilities of the agents are advertised well before Neo’s big climactic fight against Agent Smith. Trinity is terrified of them in the opening, and Cypher tells Neo that if he encounters an agent he should do what the rest of them do – run. It’s made clear that a person can’t possibly beat an agent. And because of this, when the fight between Neo and Smith actually occurs we’re prepared for it to be an epic challenge.

Similarly in Casablanca the regular flight out of the country is advertised from almost the very opening of the movie when refugees look longingly up at the plane and say perhaps someday they’ll be on it. Throughout the movie this flight is held up as an elusive and desirable thing. By the time Rick, Ilsa, Laszlo and Louie are at the airport for the big climax, the question of who gets on the plane has taken on enormous significance.

This is a particularly important technique for sports movies. If there’s going to be a climactic game or race or match, we have to understand how it differs from the other games or races or matches we’ve seen up to that point. Cinderella Man (story by Cliff Hollingsworth, screenplay by Cliff Hollingsworth and Akiva Goldsman) offers a good example in the form of a scene where Braddock is forced to watch films of Max Baer’s fights where Baer’s opponent died. This is the culmination of considerable advertisement of what a powerful and dangerous fighter Baer is, making the final fight a battle of life and death rather than just another boxing match.

Advertising helps your story maintain forward momentum. By reminding the audience of upcoming events, you build anticipation. This can be particularly helpful if your story threatens to become episodic. Road movies often have this problem. It’s a good idea to remind the audience of the final destination every so often so they don’t lose focus on why the characters are on the journey in the first place. Throughout Little Miss Sunshine (written by Michael Arndt) there are scenes of Olive practicing for the pageant and discussions of whether beauty queens eat ice cream. Though the journey has little to do with the actual pageant - it's mostly about the family's dynamics - we are reminded that a pageant is coming and look forward to seeing what will happen.

You should certainly plan your advertising as you outline, but often advertising is something you’ll need to add in the rewriting phase to fix problems of focus and momentum. In any case, figure out what you want the audience to be anticipating and paying attention to, and make sure you let them know how important those things are.

Learning to Write Better Dialogue

2013-03-21T14:48:00.000-07:00

One of the more common questions I’m asked by students and aspiring writers is how they can write better dialogue. This is one of the things that really seems to split new writers. Some have a natural facility with dialogue, though they can often improve how they use it. Others struggle to write a single line that doesn’t seem wooden and forced.

Writing good dialogue encompasses many things. Good dialogue should be natural, reflect the character, advance the scene, be lean, and depending on the situation may need to be witty, provocative, funny or moving. Of these skills, the inability to write naturalistic dialogue seems to be the most challenging weakness to overcome.

I’m probably not the best person to advise on this because I’ve always been able to write naturalistic dialogue without much effort. I never remember “learning” how to do it and I don’t have any particular tricks for capturing realistic speech while I write. A former agent once said I wrote “smooth” dialogue, meaning it flows nicely and is easy to read (this was actually the set up to some criticism: he said that my ability to write smooth dialogue let me get away with some lazy writing).

But if you don’t have an instinctive ear for naturalistic dialogue, there are a couple techniques that seem to help develop that skill. The first is a variation on the character diary exercise I use to develop character voice. On the first day of my Screenwriting One class, I assign the students to write a diary entry in the voice of someone they know who talks in an unusual way. This turns the exercise into one of listening, rather than creating.

If you want to develop your dialogue writing skills, I would suggest picking someone who speaks very differently than you and writing a fictional diary entry in their voice every morning for a week. Listen to the vocabulary and slang they use. Listen to the rhythms of their speech – do they babble on and on, never finishing a sentence, or speak in short, staccato bursts? Then the next week pick someone else and repeat.

The second exercise is one I was given in my first screenwriting class. We were required to keep a notebook where we jotted down ideas, characters, incidents, and bits of dialogue that we encountered throughout the day. Every week we had to show it to the professor. He didn’t care what was in it, just that we were doing it.

Again, this is an exercise in listening. The cashier at my dorm commissary had a habit of saying, “no joke,” after every other statement. For example, “The stew is really popular today, no joke.” The first week of school I jotted that down in my notebook, and years later I used it for a character in a screenplay. Would I have remembered that if I hadn’t had the notebook assignment? Who knows, but listening and observing is a skill that takes practice.

Of course movie dialogue isn’t actually a realistic representation of normal speech. We cut out all of the “ums” and digressions, false starts, clichés and repetition in the average conversation. But we do want the pared down, heightened form of speech that is movie dialogue to have the rhythms of actual conversation. I believe that if you practice actively listening to the way people use language, you will find it much easier to achieve that.

When it’s time to write a scene, your preparation comes into play. You should have already thought about your characters’ voices – maybe using the character diaries to develop them, as I do. Now, identify what each character in the scene wants. If the characters have conflicting goals that will be best, but not every scene works this way. In any case, you should identify the obstacles the character faces getting what they want.

If you’ve properly thought through these elements the dialogue should be a lot easier to write. Good dialogue is action – it’s the character saying something to achieve their goals. They are doing something when they speak not just talking about something. They may be seducing, lying, threatening, or manipulating but they are active. Your job is to figure out what this particular character would say to achieve their goal, and how they would say it.

Ultimately you shouldn’t be thinking too hard about your dialogue as you write the scene. If you’ve prepared yourself, your characters and your scenes properly, the dialogue will flow without a lot of conscious effort. And then you make it even better when you rewrite!

(For improving dialogue during rewriting, see my post on character passes.)

Mailbag #2

2013-03-14T17:16:00.000-07:00

Welcome to another edition of the Let’s Schmooze mailbag where I answer reader questions on screenwriting.

From Marc Wobschall: Are dates on computer files sufficient for copyright purposes? I read that mailing yourself a hard copy may not be enough.

First, the disclaimer. I am not a lawyer. Do not rely on me for legal advice!

I don’t recommend mailing yourself a hard copy of a script or relying on computer files for copyright protection. In theory, both can serve to establish a date that something was created and so might be useful if you were sued or wanted to sue someone else, but how much value that would be in a trial is debatable. (It would be some.) I do recommend keeping dated records of everybody you send material to. I also keep a writing journal where I note what I worked on each day, which has been incredibly valuable to me in some legal and pseudo-legal situations.

Note that technically your work is copyrighted the moment you put it down in “fixed form” such as in writing or in a Final Draft file, however proving when that happened can be an issue. Also note that not everything is copyrightable. Titles, for example (although other laws such as trademark can apply). Basic ideas. Anything delivered verbally. Facts – you can’t copyright a recipe, for example, only the way in which you write it. Also, you cannot copyright something based on intellectual property you don’t own.

The best protection is to register your work with the U.S. copyright office. The current cost is $35. In addition to an iron clad dating of when the work was created, this step offers additional benefits such as being able to recover legal fees and extra damages in a lawsuit.

The WGA offers a registry service that also basically serves as a date stamp. It’s cheaper ($20, $10 if you’re a member), but only lasts five years and doesn’t convey the same legal protection as registering the copyright with the government. However it can be useful because you can register things you couldn’t copyright. For example, if you pitch your take on adapting a novel, you can write up your pitch and register that, even though you couldn’t copyright it since you don’t own the novel. This would establish what your unique ideas were (it is illegal for producers to steal your original, unique ideas as long as you’ve written them down.)

In general it is a bad idea to sue someone for copyright infringement in Hollywood unless it is egregious and you have absolutely iron clad evidence – and even then it’s not a great idea. Copyright infringement suits are incredibly, incredibly hard to win. And if people suspect you’re litigious they will be very reluctant to read your work. Hollywood is a small town - people talk. An ill-conceived lawsuit can end your career.

From H.E. Ellis: I decided to try my hand at screenwriting by attempting to adapt my own novel. This is much harder than I had initially anticipated because I wrote my protagonist to express a great deal of interior monologue.   So I guess my question is, how does a writer express a character's inner thoughts without bogging down the story in excess exposition or resorting to some hokey "narrator" device?

Why don’t you give me a hard one! (That's sarcasm.)

This is one of the fundamental challenges of screenwriting, and one of the reasons adaptations aren’t necessarily easier than writing original stories. Mostly in screenwriting we don’t express the characters' inner thoughts directly. Instead, we find ways to dramatize what’s going on in their head. We set up situations that require them to act in ways that show what they’re thinking. Forcing them to make choices is often a good way to reveal their thought process. This is why we often say movie characters need to be active. We reveal character primarily through behavior.

There are a couple of techniques to reveal inner thoughts more directly. One, as you mention, is voiceover. It can be effective (see Goodfellas – screenplay by Nicholas Pileggi & Martin Scorsese) but it is also often used badly. (See this post and this post for more on voiceover.) Another is to give the character a confidante, one person they trust and with whom they can share their feelings (see the cop John McClane talks to via walkie-talkie in Die Hard - screenplay by Jeb Stuart and Steven E. de Souza - or any best friend in any romantic comedy). Again, this can be risky – you don’t want to fill up your script with scenes of a character talking about how they feel.

It’s hard to advise you on your specific situation without knowing the novel, but often when doing adaptations the screenwriter has to make significant changes to force the character into more active situations. Sometimes, unfortunately, this necessitates major plot reconstruction.

Got a question on screenwriting? Let me know and I'll try to address it in the next Mailbag.

More Mistakes I've Made

2013-03-09T14:42:00.000-08:00

Last post I talked about some of the mistakes I made early in my career. Here are a few more:

I over-relied on my agents for work

When I was trying to break in to the business, I hustled to get my scripts to producers, development execs, anyone who would read them. I had to. Then I got an agent. The agent got my scripts out to a whole bunch of new people, which resulted in meetings with a bunch of potential new employers. Everything was heading up.

And then things went quiet. What happened? Well, I stopped doing the hustling I’d been doing and relied on my agent to promote me. And he did to an extent, but not as enthusiastically as I had. Nobody will be as dedicated to your career as you. Getting an agent doesn’t relieve you from the job of developing your network in whatever additional ways you can.

Besides, my agent did his job. Here’s the big thing new writers usually don’t realize: Agents do not get you work. They get your spec writing to people and get you in rooms with people who like it. They open doors for you. It’s up to you to walk through them, and what happens on the other side is on you. My agent had introduced me to a bunch of new people, and he was expecting me to take those contacts and run with them. I didn’t, or at least not as aggressively as I could have. (See last post: Didn’t keep in touch with people I met.)

Note that agents do other important things for you. They negotiate contracts, harass employers when your pay is late, and help you choose material, among other stuff. They are very valuable. But it’s on you to nurture your contacts, continually produce new material, and convince people to hire you.

I didn’t ask questions about the business

Learning to write is hard. It takes time, energy and a thick skin. I went to school for several years to learn how to do it well. But school didn’t prepare me for how the business works. When I went into meetings, I didn’t really know what was expected of me. I went into some “general” meetings without preparing a pitch – I was told they were get-to-know-me meetings. When the producer asked what I was working on, I fumbled through some lame description of a current spec.

In one meeting, I had the foresight to prepare three pitches (something I wouldn’t do now, but not really a “mistake” per se). The producer shot all three down after a few sentences by saying, “Not for us, what else you got?” I didn’t want to say “nothing” so I started pitching any story idea I could think of – most remembered from my idea notebook, a couple off the top of my head! I pitched well over a dozen. Obviously none of them sold – they were half-baked. I should have said, “I’m kicking around a few other things but let me develop them and come back.”

There were many other things like this that boil down to: I didn’t know what was expected of me. I can easily make the excuse that someone should have prepared me better – my film school professors, my agent. But really I should reserve the most blame for myself. If I didn’t know, I should have asked.

I tried to negotiate for myself

I don’t want to get into specifics on this one, but let’s just say there were a couple contracts early in my career where I tried to negotiate the terms on my own. Often that was because the producer made me an offer or asked what I wanted to get paid. Tip: the producer would much rather negotiate with the writer than with an agent or lawyer. A few times I negotiated for myself because I was trying to save legal costs on a “free option,” a deal where I would take no money up front in return for a potential payoff down the line.

Negotiating for yourself is always a bad idea. When you agree to something, even just a ballpark figure, it is nearly impossible for your representatives to go back and raise that number. And your reps know the value of your work in the marketplace much better than you. Trust them (this includes when you think you deserve more than they say). I left money on the table a few times by not insisting that the buyer talk to my reps. Fortunately I never made the mistake several of my friends did of getting into onerous, long term contracts for no money. That’s even worse.

I’ve had a few questions come in, so next post will be a mailbag post. If you have questions, send them my way via email, the comments section here or Twitter.

Avoid My Mistakes

2013-03-01T13:22:00.000-08:00

Everyone makes mistakes and I’ve made my share when it comes to the screenwriting business. One of the useful things about a blog is I can share them with you so, if you listen to me, you can avoid making the same ones. At least that’s useful to you. Unfortunately I can’t change my past!

I’ve made so many mistakes it’ll probably take a few posts to cover them all, but let me get started with a couple biggies.

Mistake #1: I didn’t stick to one genre.

The problem with this is that when you are successful at something, people will want you to do it again. In Hollywood this is partly tied to genre. If you write a successful romantic comedy (as I did) they will want you to write more romantic comedies. If you want to write horror films instead, you can… but you will be seen as a beginner again. You won’t be able to capitalize on your previous success. It’s hard to get established in Hollywood, if you get a break you don’t want to throw it away!

I have a good excuse for my failure. I didn’t set out to write romantic comedies, I set out to write adventure and sci-fi movies. And in fact it was a big action-adventure script that got me my first agent. And it was that same script that got me into Original Films. But Original Films wasn’t able to set up that script, so they asked what else I had. All I had was a sci-fi script and Sweet Home Alabama – the script I’d written for my Master’s thesis.

They liked Sweet Home Alabama and started developing it. Meanwhile I continued to write adventure and sci-fi. Then Sweet Home Alabama got made and was a big hit. And all I had to show people were adventure and sci-fi scripts. I was unable to piggyback off of the success of the movie as much as I should have.

Not that I’m complaining – that movie really launched my career. It was, however, a bit of random chance that it was that script that got produced first. I don’t know that I would have done things differently if I could do them again – other than writing at least ONE other romantic comedy!

But the lesson is, try to figure out what genre you most want to do and focus on doing that. You can work in multiple genres in Hollywood, but wait until you’re well established in one before branching out.

Mistake #2: I didn’t keep in touch with people I met.

When my agent first sent my script around (the aforementioned action-adventure script), a lot of people didn’t buy it but liked it enough they wanted to meet with me. This was true of the next two or three as well. I met with a lot of good, high-level producers and executives. And many of them I only met with one time.

It’s not that the meetings went badly, it’s that I didn’t follow up. You need to nurture relationships in this business. You want to build a base of fans who will be excited to see new material or to hear a pitch. (You’ll rarely sell a pitch to someone the first time you meet them.) You want to stay on their radar for when they have open assignments. You also may want them to refer you to an agent one day.

Email makes it pretty easy to stay in touch with people. You don’t want to harass them, but I like to touch base with my contacts every three or four months. Don’t just drop them a “hi, what’s happening?” note. They’re busy and don’t have time for that. But perhaps offer up a few loglines you’re kicking around and ask if they’d be interested in hearing a pitch on any of them. Even if they aren’t, you’ve kept yourself on their radar.

You can also send them bits of news, but try to keep it relevant. Think about the junk email you get cluttering up your inbox. If you made a short film, go ahead and send them a link. If you wrote a play that’s premiering locally, invite them. But don’t send them newsletters about your life.

And of course if you write a new spec, send it to them. All of this assumes that you are constantly creating new material. You should be. That’s one mistake I didn’t make – I wrote three spec scripts per year the first few years after I graduated college.

There were so many more mistakes I made, though. Mistakes I’ll discuss in future posts.

You Are the Product

2013-02-21T14:19:00.000-08:00

A friend once told me a story about a pitch meeting he and his writing partner did. At the end of the pitch, the producer asked if they could send over a one-page summary of the story. It’s not uncommon to be asked for such a thing. There are only a handful of people in Hollywood who can buy a pitch without consulting with someone else. A summary provides a document they can show these other people.

When the writers told their manager about this, the manager advised them not to do it. His reason: “You are the product.”

This struck me as important for a couple of reasons. First, the primary implication of the manager’s statement is that the product being sold in a pitch is not an idea, it’s a writer (or in this case writers). Thus if someone else at the company needs to evaluate the product they should meet with the writers, not read a summary of the idea.

I agree with this (see my post on the value of an idea)… to an extent. Obviously there are many cases where a producer has bought one pitch from a writer after rejecting several other pitches from the same writer. Maybe the better way to look at it is that the primary product is the writer and the secondary product is the idea.

In the bigger career picture this is an important thing to understand. If you want to be a professional screenwriter you must learn your craft and how to function within the industry. This might seem obvious, but too often people spend all their energy trying to come up with the perfect high-concept idea without bothering to learn how to write well. (Which, again, doesn’t let you off the hook for coming up with good ideas.) If the product is you, you need to be a product worth buying.

The other important implication is that this manager does not think providing a written summary is smart business. This is an old debate in the screenwriting community. On the one hand, a summary can help the executive sell the idea to their supervisors and company. It can help them remember details of the pitch. And it protects the writer’s version of the story, hopefully preventing the executive from mangling the idea. Some writers even provide a summary at the end of the pitch without being asked – these are called “leave behinds.”

On the other hand, the executive you pitched to might have a better understanding of how to present your idea in a way that will appeal to their boss or partners. More importantly, a summary gives an executive something to reject. You’d much rather get in the room with the person doing the deciding, and that’s more likely if you haven’t given them a convenient piece of paper to judge. It is more difficult to portray your passion and enthusiasm for a project on the page than it is in person, and enthusiasm is contagious. And even if they don’t like the idea, if they like you it could lead to other work – after all, you are the product.

The decision often hinges on the situation. I once did a pitch for an assignment for foreign producers who did not speak English well. Prior to the pitch, I told them I would provide them with a written version afterward, just in case they had trouble following. The irony was they hired me in the room and I never had to give them the written version, but it was a situation where I felt the benefits of doing a summary outweighed the negatives.

If you do decide to do a summary, remember that it is a sales tool, not a writing tool. If you’ve been following this blog, you know that I believe plot is the enemy of pitching. In a pitch you need to focus on hook and character. The same philosophy holds for this piece of paper.

Since your summary will be one page (and it should only be one page!) you will not be able to capture the entire scope of the plot. Moreover, you don’t want to play tricks like reducing font or margins. The page should be inviting to read. It should get the reader excited about the idea and – most importantly – excited to meet the writers in person! This is the time to be as charming, witty and evocative in your writing as you are able.

Remember, the product is you.

Mailbag # 1

2013-02-15T17:26:00.000-08:00

From time to time people ask question via email or in the comments section of this blog. Sometimes those questions warrant a full post, sometimes the answers are shorter. I’ve decided to do a “mailbag” post from time to time to answer some of the shorter questions. I’m going to kick it off with a question I received from Joel Meyers:

Q: Was just wondering if you were interested in commenting on the trick of how often and how to repeat key information, mainly object plants and key names (Kaiser Soze! Kaiser Soze! etc.) in scripts.

Repetition can help something stick in the audience’s mind – like the Kaiser Soze example from The Usual Suspects (written by Christopher McQuarrie), or like how people keep talking about and asking about Rick in the opening of Casablanca (screenplay by Julius J. Epstein & Philip G. Epstein and Howard Koch). How often you need to do this is difficult to answer out of context. How long does the audience need to remember the piece of information? If it’s going to come back at the end of the scene, one repetition is probably enough. But if you are going to plant the object in Act One and not pay it off until Act Two, you may need to hit it harder. Also, how distinctive is it? Kaiser Soze is a pretty memorable name. John Anderson won't stick as well.

More than repetition, I think the key factor is the way the name/object/information is presented. If you want something to stick in the reader’s mind, you need to draw their attention to it. This means not burying it in a long descriptive paragraph or list of names. Create a little scenario that highlights the name/object/information.

For example, in Jaws (screenplay by Peter Benchley and Carl Gottlieb) it’s critical for the ending that the audience know there are SCUBA tanks tied on the boat and that if a SCUBA tank is punctured it could explode. So there’s a little beat in an early scene where Brody pulls a rope that causes the tanks to roll on the deck. The other guys then yell at him about how dangerous they are. We are reminded about the tanks later when Hooper goes for a dive, but it’s not the repetition that sticks with us as much as the earlier attention drawn to them.

In my screenwriting class I recently showed the scene from Aliens (story by James Cameron and David Giler & Walter Hill, screenplay by James Cameraon) where Ripley gets into the loader to prove to the soldiers she knows how to use it. This establishes the presence of the loaders for when she climbs in one to fight the queen alien at the end.

I think the key to making this work is to create a reason for attention being drawn to the planted object so it doesn’t seem forced. In Aliens Ripley is trying to impress the soldiers. In Jaws we’re seeing how uncomfortable and inexperienced Brody is on a boat. Attention is drawn to the objects, but in a way that has importance within the current scene. Thus the audience isn’t alerted to the fact these objects will come into play later.

For more on establishing character names, see this post.

My second question comes out of the pitching class I teach:

Should you tell the ending to your pitch?

My co-teacher, producer Ken Aguado, commented on how often he’s heard the advice not to give away the ending of your story in a pitch – he’s even heard it from professional teachers. He said it amazes him because of how wrong the advice is.

So the short answer is yes, you must tell the ending. But there’s an exception that I’ll get to in a moment.

In most pitches you are trying to convince someone to pay you to write a screenplay. You are asking them to part with a fairly large amount of money based on the tale you’re spinning. They are not going to do that if you don’t tell them how it will end. It doesn’t matter how intriguing your set up. If you want them to pay, tell them the WHOLE story.

But there is an exception: when you are trying to convince someone to read a script you’ve already written. Traditionally, though, when you were in this type of situation your pitch would have been pretty short and casual. You’re in a meeting with a producer who already likes your writing and is curious what other scripts you have. You’re just giving them the basic concept to see if it’s something they’re interested in.

But over the last decade we’ve also seen the rise of "pitch fest" events where completely unknown writers get five minutes to pitch to lower level development people. In these cases you are competing against dozens of other writers and you have to give a long enough pitch to stand out and establish your storytelling ability… but you may want to leave off the ending so there’s something more to be discovered in the script.

I think this is the source of the advice not to reveal your ending, but that can screw up writers who don’t understand that this is not the way you pitch in a meeting.

Have a question you want me to answer? Post it in the comments section or send me an email.

Cutting and Combining Characters

2013-02-08T17:42:00.000-08:00

One of the problems that effects many screenplays is too many characters. Even in stories with a strong main character there can be a small army of minor characters cluttering up the action. Good writers will make an attempt to cut and combine characters whenever possible.

Why is having a lot of characters bad? Well, for one thing it can be hard for the audience to keep track of who is who. Also, when you have a lot of minor characters it gets difficult to fully develop any of them. You have a lot of one-dimensional pawns running around instead of living, breathing people that you can use to expand the ideas and themes of your story.

This isn’t to say fewer is always better. Would The Usual Suspects (written by Christopher McQuarrie) have been better with a gang of three criminals instead of five? Most certainly not. But I thought Contagion (written by Scott Z. Burns) and Love Actually (written by Richard Curtis) suffered from too many characters. You didn’t have any time to get to know or care about many of the characters.

I am not immune to this. In the draft of Sweet Home Alabama that I originally sold, the character of Andrew (played by Patrick Dempsey) had two parents – a politician father and an overprotective mother. Those parents were combined into a single character – his mother (played by Candice Bergen) in the movie. I don’t miss the character of the father at all, and the result is a stronger, more dimensional supporting character that was juicier and attracted a star.

Most of the time you don’t want more than one character performing the same plot/story function. You probably don’t need two mentors advising your hero, or two friends to serve as sounding boards – though if each of those friends also serves another purpose that could justify their presence. Redundant characters can usually be combined into a single person.

Ideally each significant character will represent some alternate viewpoint on the theme. In Up In the Air (screenplay by Jason Reitman and Sheldon Turner) Ryan has two sisters – one who demonstrates the upside of marriage and one the downside. Natalie shows an idealized vision of love and Alex a more cynical version. There are no duplicate points of view, no third sister who also has a failing marriage.

True stories can present a particular challenge because it can be hard to let go of someone who was really involved. But many historical movies combine multiple people who each performed one small role in an event into a single person who is more involved throughout the story. Also, they often cut out people who were present but not actively involved. Sometimes five children become three, for example. It makes for a better movie and as long as it doesn’t radically misrepresent events, few people will mind.

I always take a look at my list of significant minor characters in the outline phase and consider whether any can be cut or combined. This exercise can produce surprising benefits. In my latest script, for example, I needed the main character’s best friend to have a troubled marriage and I needed the main character to have a business rival. The best friend’s husband was active mostly in the first half of the story, the rival in the second half. Then I asked myself, what if I combined them?

It was hard to get my head around it at first, but once I did the resulting character became exponentially richer and more complex. Plus, suddenly there was a whole other layer of subtext to the scenes – the best friend’s loyalty. If her husband is also her friend’s business rival, then she’s caught between two loyalties. Combining those two characters added unexpected dimension to a third.

And that’s a good thing because after doing some research I realized there are other people that would have to be involved in the main character’s business. Suddenly I have several new characters I have to work into my outline. I’m going to look at where I can combine those roles with existing characters, and where I can’t, I’ll look for how I can have those characters offer a distinct point of view on some element of the story.

That’s another good thing to think about – if a character simply has to be present in the movie for logic or plot mechanics, give them an individual take on a thematic element of the story. You might have them represent a potential future for the character if they make a certain choice, for example.

I mentioned I go through this analysis in the outline phase. There is a good chance you'll have to go through it again in the rewrite phase. Things change as you write and you may end up with redundant characters despite your best efforts. It's always wise to consider whether every character is really pulling their weight when you rewrite.

The goal here is not to write screenplays with as few characters as possible. The goal is to make sure that every character performs a vital role in the story. You have such limited time in a movie that you don’t want to waste any of it.

Creating Distinct Characters

2013-02-01T14:50:00.000-08:00

Blog reader Joe Sola recently asked me via email if I would discuss differentiating characters. I’ve talked a lot about developing the individual character and about giving each character a distinctive voice. But much of voice comes out of deeper aspects of character, and I haven’t talked much about creating characters that will play off of each other in interesting and dramatic ways. Most movies, of course, rely on multiple characters interacting with each other to create drama. And if you’re writing an ensemble or team movie, that’s going to be all the more critical.

The first thing to point out is that the same techniques I use to develop my main character will be used for all the other major characters. Chief among these is identifying what they want within the context of the story. What goal is driving them? What is at stake for them in the outcome of the story? For some I will also identify an underlying psychological need – giving them their own internal journal or character arc.

Often the above decisions are derived from and/or create much of the conflict in the film. If there’s a villain character or a rival character, for example, their goal should be in opposition to our hero’s goal. That becomes one of the major obstacles to our hero’s success.

I will also write at least a few lines on each of the three dimensions – physiological, psychological and sociological – for every significant character. And here’s the first place where significant characterization differences between them will likely appear. The older, wealthy industrialist should act and speak differently from the young, idealistic artist.

If you find you have several characters who are too similar, which is a common problem since the world of your story will likely contain similar people, this is a good starting place to find distinctions.

Let’s say you’re writing a story about a group of coal miners. There will be obvious similarities – it may not be plausible to have the coal miner with a PhD from a wealthy family. But too often our first instinct is to have every miner conform to some stereotype in our head – they’re all in their twenties, big and brawny, uneducated, lusty beer drinkers.

But do they have to be? In real life some miners are young while others are older. Some are married, some single, some divorced. Many are probably big and brawny but I bet there are a few short guys and skinny guys working in mines as well. That might affect how they interact with their fellow miners. It’s likely few miners will be highly educated but that doesn’t mean their intellectual level is the same. One might be a real moron, another smart (but unschooled), a third with average I.Q. but going to night school to try to improve himself. Maybe one of the miners is a sex-crazed alcoholic while another is a teetotaler Christian fundamentalist. Maybe one is gay.

In your outlining phase take some time to consider the range possible in the various physiological, psychological and sociological elements of your characters. Are you using the whole range? Pushing a character farther or in an unexpected direction can open up all kinds of depth in your story.

Let’s look at an example: the three brothers in The Godfather (screenplay by Mario Puzo and Francis Ford Coppola). There are necessarily a lot of sociological similarities, so the characters are primarily differentiated in the psychological range. Sonny is a hothead, Michael is thoughtful and confident, and Freddy is nervous and avoids conflict. Michael is further differentiated in that he’s the only brother who fought in the war, where he was a hero, and that he wants to get out of the family business. These simple distinctions have huge effects on the characters’ behavior – and their ultimate fate.

The more specific you are here the better. Specificity makes the characters feel like real people. Think about your friends or your coworkers. How do you differentiate them? It’s the specific details of their characters, isn’t it? Creating clearly distinct characters makes them more believable which in turn makes the audience care about them.

But in fiction we want to do more than just capture reality, we want to bring a point of view to the proceedings. Our stories are organized around a theme or subject or idea. You can improve both your characters and your story’s thematic depth if you differentiate the characters by giving each a different attitude or point of view on the subject matter.

Look at the different attitudes of the three main characters in Ghost Busters (written by Dan Aykroyd and Harold Ramis): Egon is intellectual, pursuing the ghosts out of a purely academic interest. Ray exhibits a childlike excitement about the prospect of ghosts. And Venkman is the sarcastic skeptic who initially doesn’t really care about the paranormal at all; he just wants to meet coeds. These different attitudes toward ghosts make the characters distinct within the subject/world of the story.

Little Miss Sunshine (written by Michael Arndt) provides an even better example. There are a lot of characters to develop. Thematically, the story is about winning and losing. And each character approaches success and failure in a distinctive way that affects their behavior and voice.

The father, Richard, believes there are winners and losers and that anyone can be a winner with the right plan. Olive approaches her desire to be a beauty queen with innocence and optimism and almost no self-doubt. Her brother is pursuing his goal with a methodical and single-minded purpose. Grandpa has rejected traditional definitions of success and is focused on enjoying his remaining years. Mom is just trying to keep her head above water and wishes Richard would be more help. And the uncle is suicidal, having given up all hope of achieving his goals.

I hope that’s helpful, and I’d like to thank Joe for the question. If you have a topic you’d like me to discuss, feel free to send an email or make a comment. I make no promises – I’m not a jukebox – but I am always looking for ideas for posts.

How to Look Like an Amateur

2013-01-24T14:28:00.002-08:00

Recently on the excellent Good in a Room blog, Stephanie Palmer did a post on how to avoid being seen as a rookie. The post was mostly related to pitching and much of it was advocating an online class she’s offering.* However it got me thinking about the various ways aspiring screenwriters expose themselves as rookies or amateurs. Here are a few of the ways I’ve observed that you could brand yourself as not professional:

You don’t know format, acceptable length, or standard style. Producers and development execs are fond of saying they’d buy a script written longhand on paper bags if it was good enough. They’re lying. There is so much material flooding the market they need ways to cull it down to a manageable amount. The first filter they use is, “Has the writer bothered to learn proper screenplay format, and for that matter Basic English?”

Professionals write scripts in the proper format. They know grammar and spelling. They deliver scripts in a length range that is suitable for production and appropriate for their genre. They know not to put camera direction in their scripts.

These are basic standards. If a writer hasn’t learned them, the assumption is they haven’t learned the bigger things like character development and structure. And they obviously haven’t worked professionally. You can learn these things from any number of books or blogs, and by reading a lot of screenplays – something professional screenwriters all do.

You only have one piece of material. “Writers write,” as the old saying goes. It’s nearly impossible to write a good screenplay on your first try. Quality writing takes practice. And to be a working professional requires a certain self-discipline and ability to finish. That means professionals will have a stack of sample scripts ready to show.

Maybe you’ve managed to write one great screenplay. Good for you – you’ll get attention. But if you show it to an agent, the first thing they’ll want is to see another one. If a producer likes it but can’t buy it for whatever reason (it might not have to do with quality – it could be budget or they have something else similar), they’ll want to see something else. At the very least you should be working on something that you can show them in a month or two. If you’ve only written one thing they will doubt your ability to produce consistent professional work.

You aren’t up on the business. Professional screenwriters understand they are entrepreneurs working inside a larger industry. They’ve educated themselves about that industry and keep up on the latest news.

Can you name the major studios? Do you know the difference between an agent and a manager? Do you know what movie topped the box office last weekend? Can you name the biggest hits from last year? Do you know the hot films at Sundance? Do you know what the latest big spec script sales were? Have you seen the latest hit films? At this time of year you should have seen most of the Oscar nominated films, too.

There are two reasons this is important. First, this is the kind of stuff likely to be discussed in meetings and you want to be able to participate in the conversation. Second, you don’t want to be in the embarrassing situation of pitching a story identical to the latest script sold or latest indie film sale. In the Internet age it isn’t hard to stay informed. You can read Deadline and subscribe to Done Deal. It’s also not a bad idea to subscribe to the Hollywood Reporter, Variety, or both.

You aren’t familiar with other work in your genre. If you write sci-fi you will be meeting with people who like sci-fi. They will talk about other films in the genre, as well as books, comic books, etc. Nobody can possibly see and read everything, but if you are unfamiliar with a lot of the things they reference, it marks you as someone who is out of the loop.

This is bad for a writer. You need to have familiarity with your genre so you don’t inadvertently write and pitch things that have already been done. Professionals know their genre.

You don’t behave like a professional. You’re not a team player. I’m using the term professional in this post to indicate writers who work fairly regularly. To work regularly in film you have to get along with other people. This means you dress and behave appropriately in meetings. It means you are on time. It means you are prepared. It means you can take script notes and discuss story changes without getting angry or defensive or bursting into tears.

Especially in the early phase of a business relationship, the person potentially hiring you will be looking for signs of whether you will be easy to work with. If you’re late to meetings it’s likely you can’t meet deadlines. If you’re unpleasant to be around, mercurial, a prima donna, then working with you will be a chore.

You don’t know how to pitch. Okay, pitching is hard and many professionals don’t do it well. But if you work regularly you will be asked to pitch a lot. Successful professionals will acquire at least a basic competence at telling a story verbally. And if you pitch well it will instantly create a sense of professionalism that might overcome a lack of experience.

You do too much razzle-dazzle and rely on gimmicks rather than talent. Breaking in is hard and staying in is just as hard. The competition is intense. Which leads writers to try to give themselves a leg up with gimmicks. This includes bringing outlandish props to a pitch or using unusual packaging to deliver a script. It also includes trying to hard sell or hard schmooze people.

This business requires a lot of selling and it’s useful to know some sales techniques, but ultimately you’ll succeed because you have talent and a solid work ethic. If a writer needs to resort to trickery it raises the suspicion that they may be trying to compensate for a lack of ability or effort. Professionals are adept at selling but they make sure their primary sales tool is quality work.

You stink of desperation. Again, this is a competitive business and nobody succeeds without a lot of failure and rejection along the way. The buyers know this but they also want to feel confident in you. They get worried if they get the sense you’re someone nobody else wants to work with. Even if you don’t have a lot of success to point to, you need to create the impression that you’re on the way up.

If you seem desperate they will shy away. You should have confidence in yourself and your material. You shouldn’t complain about how unfair the business is or how mean all the other buyers have been to you. Professionals are the opposite of failures, so if you project failure then you mark yourself as not a professional.

To a certain extent it doesn’t matter if someone sees you as a rookie. People love hot new talent in Hollywood. If you are young and unproduced, maybe fresh out of school, they will know you likely have a day job and aren’t hobnobbing with movie stars. And they won’t care – as long as you demonstrate the tools and attitude of a professional.

Film is a high risk/high reward business. Making films requires an enormous investment in time, money and politicking. The buyers want to have confidence that you will hold up your end. So it’s not that you’re trying to trick them into thinking you have experience you don’t have, it’s showing them you’re ready to take the next step – that you’ve done your homework and that you’re prepared.

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*I don’t have any first hand knowledge of Ms. Palmer’s class but based on her experience and blog I suspect it would be valuable to anyone who wants to pitch better. Also, I am not in any way affiliated with Ms. Palmer or Good in a Room.

Setting the Scene

2013-01-17T11:03:00.000-08:00

One of the first decisions you’ll be making when you start writing a scene is the location where it’s set. This will often be dictated by your story needs. But to the extent that you have some choice, there are a few things you should consider.

First, what will be visually interesting? We’re writing for film, remember. Maybe you have a scene of a girl telling her boyfriend she wants to break up. Initially you’ll probably think about setting this scene at one of their houses or at a restaurant. But wouldn’t it be more visually interesting if they were on a trail above a waterfall? Or in a mall? Or at an ice skating rink?

Second, the setting can enhance the dramatic or comedic elements of the scene. What if the break up was happening at church during a service? Or in front of a line of parents bringing their kids to sit on Santa’s lap at the mall? Or while they’re attending a wedding? You’ll get added mileage from the setting that will add to the dramatic conflict.

When writing description and action, it’s important to remember that you can only write what we can see and hear because film can only deliver visuals and audio. You can’t write smells or textures. You can’t say, “The room is hot and smells of rotten eggs” – how would the audience know that?

Similarly, you can’t tell us what a character is thinking or feeling. You can’t say, “Marcus enters, feeling frustrated by a long day at work and the fact his girlfriend didn’t return his call.” Again, how will the audience know that?

There is a bit of a grey area here. You could say, “Marcus enters looking frustrated.” My rule of thumb is if an actor can express it, I can write it. An actor can express frustrated. They can’t express “I had a long day at work” without some dialogue or behavior. If that fact is important, you better figure out a way to get it out in exposition.

Writing physical action like fight scenes, shootouts or car chases is a tricky balancing act. Imagine you have a fistfight in your story. Some writers will write out every blow, feint and stumble. Others will simply say, “They fight” and leave it to the stunt coordinator and director to sort things out – after all if the film gets produced that’s what will happen on set anyway.

I think the best approach is something between these two. You want to describe the action in enough detail to bring it alive for the reader, but not so much that it’s tedious and slows the pace. Here’s how I might write a fistfight:

Andy and Pete circle each other, fists clenched, feinting and testing each other.

Finally, Andy has had enough -- he makes his move, catching Pete with a thundering roundhouse.

But Pete barely staggers. And now they are both going at it, trading vicious blows, blood and bruises spreading across their faces.

Pete is bigger, stronger -- but Andy is faster and meaner. He keeps it going longer than he has any right to. In the end, though, Pete lands a blow straight on Andy’s nose.

Andy crumples to the ground, senseless.

There is a widespread – and not unfounded – belief that development execs and producers skip the action/description lines and only read the dialogue. I even once had an exec say she skipped the action scenes in my adventure script because, “all action scenes are pretty much alike.” She then went on to complain that the script felt “disjointed.”

This rather clueless exec aside, I think the best way to prevent people from skipping your action lines is by writing efficient and evocative description that contain valuable information. Any decent reader is going to read the action lines on the first couple pages. If what they read there is vital and entertaining, they’ll keep reading them. But if your description is bogged down with excessive and irrelevant detail, the temptation to start skipping or skimming is enormous. Remember, development execs, agents, managers and producers read dozens of scripts a week so they need to get through them quickly.

There’s another reason to be judicious. If you throw a bunch of detail at us, we might miss the important stuff. If you want us to know a character is married because she’s wearing a wedding ring, then you need to highlight that fact – say something like, “She absently fingers a wedding ring with a very large diamond.” And don’t bury that line in three paragraphs describing her appearance and clothing or we’ll likely miss it.

Another thing to consider is the use of camera direction – things like:

We cut to a close up of Sam’s face.

The camera tracks along with Megan as she rides her bike down the street.

Most of the time this is to be avoided. This is the realm of the director and cinematographer and they don’t like some writer telling them how to do their job. First of all, you’re probably not as good at determining shots as they are. Second, it’s too early to really know what the best shot is. You haven’t seen the actors rehearse and you don’t know the layout of the location. Also, bringing up the camera takes the reader out of the story and reminds them they are reading a screenplay.

There are exceptions when a very specific camera angle is crititical for telling the story. For example, when you are following the feet of a killer through a scene because you don’t want to reveal their identity yet. And you might come up with an awesome opening shot that sets the stage for the movie visually that’s so good it’s worth describing. But you should use these extremely sparingly.

Like most things in writing, the more specific you are, the better. You are painting a picture in the reader’s mind and creating a guide for the people who will produce the film. Don’t just say, “Sam climbs into his car,” say, “Sam climbs into his late model Mercedes E.” Or “Sam climbs into his rusty Ford Pinto.” It’s an important distinction, don’t you think?

Finally, most screenwriters have a rule of thumb: no more than four lines (not sentences) of description in a paragraph. You want to leave a lot of white space on the page so it reads easy.

Elf Analysis: Dramatizing the Internal

2013-01-12T12:05:00.000-08:00

Back in December I was doing a series of posts on the movie Elf (written by David Berenbaum) when I was rudely interrupted by the end of the year and the need to post my best-written movies of 2012 list. I was not quite done with Elf yet, though, so let me return to it for a post or two.

One of the biggest challenges to screenwriters is dramatization, particularly of the internal journey of the characters. Good screenwriting follows the adage “show, don’t tell.” Bad screenwriting tells – or rather has the characters tell, describing their thoughts and feelings with on-the-nose and expositional dialogue.

Way back in December I talked about how Buddy’s arc in Elf is learning to accept himself as he is. One way to show an arc is to place the character in similar situations at the beginning of the movie and at the end and demonstrate how their reactions are different.

Buddy starts the movie at the North Pole feeling like he doesn't fit in with the other elves. Because of the premise of the story, this was pretty easy for Mr. Berenbaum and the filmmakers to dramatize. What is the difference between a human and an elf? Size, for one. We see Buddy being too big for the elf world – squeezed into a chair in a classroom, hunched over in a tiny shower, etc.

Mr. Berenbaum also came up with the idea that humans can’t make toys at the speed of the other elves. This is shown in a scene where Buddy confesses to his supervisor that he is way behind on his quota of Etch-a-Sketches that he’s making. (The bad version would have been for the elves to sit around and discuss how Buddy doesn’t fit in.)

In the climax of Buddy’s story, he’s given up hope when he encounters Santa who has crash-landed in Central Park. Santa needs Buddy – Buddy’s the only one who can fix Santa’s sleigh. It’s a notable change from Buddy’s failure with the Etch-a-Sketches in the opening. Buddy’s not a burden to the Santa enterprise, he’s a necessity.

We also see how Buddy’s unique place in the world (human raised by elves) saves the day because it turns out the repair isn’t enough. They’re going to need some Christmas spirit to power the sleigh. And that spirit comes from previously cynical people that Buddy has converted with his joy and enthusiasm.

Finally at the end of the film the filmmakers show Buddy and Jovie first singing with his human family, then visiting Papa Elf up in the North Pole with a new little baby. Buddy fits in – and not because he’s changed, but because he’s found his place in both worlds by being himself. In mythology terminology, Buddy is now Master of Both Worlds.

Walter’s internal journey is also well dramatized. Walter rejects Buddy repeatedly before finally accepting him at the end. But this is actually part of a bigger problem – Walter prioritizing work over family. And this is shown through dramatic scenes that force Walter to make choices. Choices are another great way of revealing character’s internal journey.

When Buddy first comes to visit Walter at work and says that he’s Walter’s son, Walter kicks him out. We later see that security has been told not to let Buddy back in. Walter does not even accept that Buddy is his son. Then at home we see Walter take his dinner and eat in his room because he has work to do. He chooses business over family.

Later, after Walter’s been forced to accept the truth, we get another business meeting where he makes a choice – the pitch from Miles Finch, the famed children’s book writer. Buddy and Miles get into a fight over Buddy’s misimpression that Miles is an elf and Miles’s sensitivity about his height. Walter takes a side – Miles’s side, telling Buddy to get out. Walter chooses business over family again.

But then later Walter is in another business meeting when Michael comes to tell him that Buddy has run away. Walter has to make a choice between work and family yet again. And his boss actually demands he choose work. But Walter refuses, leaving the meeting.

You have to lay the groundwork for this change of heart, of course. If a character simply behaves one way in one scene and another scene then they just seem inconsistent. But we believe Walter’s change because we’ve seen him become aware of his failures with his family over the course of the film. When he kicked Buddy out after the meeting with Miles, Walter felt bad. When Michael accuses Walter of only caring about himself, we understand why Walter finally shifts his priorities.

I mentioned in a previous post that Walter has to prove his acceptance of Buddy by singing a Christmas carol at the end of the movie. This is a great demonstration of his change of heart. And in fact singing is a device layered throughout the film to reveal both Walter’s and Jovie’s arcs. Let’s look at how this is done in more detail.

Singing is first planted in the opening scenes of the movie. When Buddy is in elf class, he is taught: “The best way to spread Christmas cheer is singing loud for all to hear.” We also learn that Santa’s sleigh is powered by Christmas spirit (augmented by a jet engine). This is an important plant that will come back later.

We get an additional little reference to singing when Buddy first visits Walter and Walter thinks he’s there to deliver a singing telegram. Mostly this scene just shows Buddy’s willingness to sing. But then he goes to Gimbles and meets Jovie. She’s grumpy so he suggests they sing a carol. Jovie says she doesn’t sing, especially in front of other people – another very important plant.

The singing device pays off when Buddy overhears Jovie singing in the shower and joins in on the duet – and Jovie yells at him. This both reinforces Jovie’s shyness about singing and creates a connection between the two characters through song.

Finally, we reach the climactic scene. Santa’s sleigh is struggling to take off in Central Park because Christmas spirit is at an all time low (and this makes total sense to us because it was planted in the opening.) Jovie hears this and remembers Buddy’s advice: “The best way to spread Christmas cheer is singing loud for all to hear” (paying off the opening plant). She climbs up above the crowd and begins singing.

We know what this means because we know she’s shy about singing in front of other people. We’ve also seen that she was cynical about Christmas at the start of the movie and that she was charmed by Buddy’s enthusiasm for Christmas trees on their date. So when she sings we know that she’s overcome her cynicism.

But wait! They get even more mileage out of the singing device – because Walter’s there, too. And when the crowd starts singing, Michael notices that Walter is just mouthing the words. Finally Walter joins in – and Santa’s sleigh flies. The ending is powerful and emotional and yet nobody is talking about their feelings. They are taking actions that demonstrate those feelings.

I tracked this out to demonstrate several things. First, it’s important to find devices like singing that can be used to illustrate the characters’ internal feelings. Second, it shows how useful planting and payoff are – everything comes together in the final scene because it’s been carefully set up from the very beginning of the movie. I don’t know, but I’d guess that the opening plants were added after the filmmakers figured out what they needed for the ending. Finally, notice how these plants and payoffs pull us through the story, providing forward momentum and a sense of cohesiveness.

Best Written Movies of 2012

2013-01-08T10:49:00.000-08:00

It’s time for my best written movies of the year list. Sorting through the choices, a couple of things stand out. First of all, this was really a pretty strong year for screenwriting – particularly when compared to last year. I think only The Descendents (screenplay by Alexander Payne and Nat Faxon & Jim Rash) from last year would definitely have made my top ten this year.

Second, there don’t appear to be any movies that are candidates for classic status – films that will be lauded and referenced in years to come (possibly excepting The Avengers, but that would be because of its unique role in tying together Marvell’s multi-franchise film world approach. On it’s own terms it’s just an above-average team adventure movie).

However, the bench on quality is deep this year. Normally there’s a big drop from my number five to my number ten film, but this year the gap between five and fifteen is minimal. So lots of worthy entertainment for your ticket dollar, but not much that was genuinely life changing.

Anyway, on with the list! I have to give my usual disclaimers: This is the list of what I think are the best written movies, which is not the same as the movies I liked the best. Also, though I watch a lot of movies, I haven’t seen everything. So obviously if I didn’t see something it’s not on this list. And remember, this is my list… if you don’t like it you can make your own (also feel free to comment but please be polite)!

1. Argo (written by Chris Terrio) – Tense, edge-of-your-seat suspense plus a healthy dose of humor and rich, efficiently drawn characters. A great ride that also feels moderately important.

2. Django Unchained (written by Quentin Tarantino) – Tarantino’s best film since Pulp Fiction is also one of his most straightforward stories. It has a lot of the best of Tarantino – rich characters, witty dialogue, tense scenes, fun action and style – with very little of the worst – pointless digression and pacing problems. Its terrific fun from a filmmaker with a real voice.

3. Robot & Frank (written by Christopher D. Ford) – Great because of a complex, lovable main character and his complex, lovable robot. Also has some genuine twists and a powerful emotional message… not to mention quite a few laughs!

4. Looper (written by Rian Johnson) – Both a tight sci-fi thriller and thought provoking meditation on good and evil, aging, and the need for human connection. Plus some mind-bending ideas about time and time travel. Engages on the intellectual, emotional and visceral level.

5. Wreck It Ralph (story by Rich Moore & Phil Johnston & Jim Reardon, screenplay by Phil Johnston & Jennifer Lee) – Two of the most charming and tragic characters of the year in Ralph and Vanellope. Plus, tons of humor and sly nostalgic beats for the video game generation.

6. Life of Pi (screenplay by David Magee) – Thoroughly engaging despite a high degree of difficulty (the character is alone in a small space through most of the story). Probably the most spiritually thought provoking movie this year. A little difficult to rank because so much of its power comes from the visuals rather than the script, but there are no big flaws I can see in the writing.

7. Silver Linings Playbook (screenplay by David O. Russell) – A fairly standard romantic comedy structure enlivened by complex and original characters and a powerful thematic undercurrent about mental illness. Takes a little longer than it should to get going, but delivers a great, emotionally satisfying ending. And, it’s pretty funny.

8. Lincoln (screenplay by Tony Kushner) – Another thought provoking film with enough emotional content to keep us engaged. I love the intimate look we’re given of Lincoln the man. Bonus points for high degree of difficulty given the relatively dry nature of how the conflict unfolds.

9. Cloud Atlas (written for the screen by Lana Wachowski & Tom Tykwer & Andy Wachowski) – This one may surprise some people. I would remind you this is a list of best written movies. The film stumbled from some unfortunate make-up and an unconvincing delivery of the pidgin language, but that was not the screenplay’s fault. The writing craft here is rock solid and thematically ambitious. Characters are well drawn and the action is tense and engaging. An interesting, flawed film, but a really good script.

10. Beasts of the Southern Wild (screenplay by Lucy Alibar & Behn Zeitlin) – This choice is also a little problematic as I felt the story was stretched a bit to fit a feature running time. But it’s also one of the most distinctive and original films in a year that didn’t have enough that was distinctive and original. Makes the list for its voice and for capturing the specific world of a little girl in an unusual society.

As I mentioned, there were a lot of other very well written films this year that might make this list were I in a different mood when compiling it, so I’m going to list eight Honorable Mentions in no particular order: The Avengers (story by Zak Penn and Joss Whedon, screenplay by Joss Whedon), Ted (story by Seth MacFarlane, screenplay by Seth MacFarlane & Alec Sulkin & Wellesley Wild), Zero Dark Thirty (written by Mark Boal), The Hunger Games (written by Gary Ross and Suzanne Collins and Billy Ray), Skyfall (written by Neal Purvis & Robert Wade and John Logan), The Perks of Being a Wallflower (screenplay by Stephen Chbosky), Celeste and Jesse Forever (screenplay by Rashida Jones & Will McCormack), and Flight (written by John Gatins)

And for my Worst Written Film of the Year: Prometheus (written by Jon Spaihts and Damon Lindelof) – A bunch of logic holes, one-dimensional characters and pseudo-intellectual claptrap trying to pass itself off as profound.

Dishonorable mention: The Bourne Legacy (story by Tony Gilroy, screenplay by Tony Gilroy & Dan Gilroy) – elevated exposition above action and character in one of the least thrilling thrillers ever.

On Resolutions and Writing Habits

2013-01-02T17:47:00.001-08:00

I have more to say on my in-depth analysis of Elf, but with the new year upon us tradition demands I take a break to post on a couple of other topics (I’ll return to Elf in a week or two). One of those topics is my Best Written Films list, which will be my next post. Today I want to discuss the tradition of making New Year’s resolutions and the broader topic of writing goals and habits.

Habit is a powerful force, one that can work for you or against you. For example, I try to exercise five times a week. When I’m in that routine it isn’t hard to get motivated to go to the gym or for a run. In fact I get frustrated and grumpy if I miss a workout. But if that habit is interrupted for any length of time – by illness or travel, say – then I find it takes a great deal of willpower to get off the couch and back to the gym afterward.

The good news is we can change our habits with a little effort.

Most writers write at a certain time of day – this is a habit. Some get up at 4 am and write before their family wakes up. I usually do two writing sessions – one in the morning and one in the afternoon – when my schedule allows. I have difficulty writing at night. I just can’t seem to focus and my motivation is weak. But it wasn’t always like that.

I remember having lunch with one of my college screenwriting professors a few years after I graduated. I told him I had completed three new specs in the previous year, all while working a full time day job. He was amazed and asked about my writing habits. I told him I made it a point to write for a minimum of an hour every day after I got home from work, no matter how tired I was. I didn’t require that I produce a lot or that it was any good, just that I sat at the computer for an hour. And those hours added up.

He didn’t think that would work for him – it usually took him several hours just to get up to speed. As a result he only wrote on weekends when his teaching responsibilities didn’t interfere. I suggested that perhaps the reason it took him several hours to get up to speed was because he only wrote on weekends. I felt my daily habit kept momentum going so I didn’t need so much warm up.

I don’t know if he tried my technique or if it worked for him – I believe different writers function best with different habits. But obviously I was productive and he felt he wasn’t, so he probably needed to make some kind of change to his habit.

A few years ago I realized I had developed a bad habit. I was wasting way too much time playing computer solitaire. So I made a rule that I could play three games of solitaire and then I had to start writing. Now it’s become almost like a superstision. And by the time I finish my third game, I’m excited to get to my script.

I’ve recently learned this is a common habit-building technique known as a “trigger.” It’s basically the Pavlov’s dog approach. Give yourself an easy, unthreatening routine that you perform just before the activity you want to make a habit. After a while, your subconscious will associate the two. So if you always make a pot of coffee before sitting down to write, making a pot of coffee will signal your brain to switch to “writing mode.” Most people find it easier to start making a pot of coffee than to start writing, so it eases you in.

I like to make New Year’s Resolutions, both personal and professional. It’s hard to make resolutions for the whole year, though. For one thing, by April I’ve forgotten all about the resolutions. Plus, it’s hard to know what will be the best thing to be doing in December. If I resolve to write three specs what happens if I get an assignment or maybe get inspired to write a novel? Of course I can change my resolutions and nobody will care in the slightest, but doesn’t that kind of defeat the purpose?

So though I do pick a few broad goals for the year, they are usually related more to improving my habits than achieving specific milestones. And, I’ve started making monthly resolutions (another idea I’ve discovered is not particularly original). Those have turned out to be far more valuable.

It’s a lot easier to focus on improving one thing for a month than sticking to several things for a year. And studies have shown it takes about three weeks of repetition for something to become a habit. So if, for example, you resolve to make one networking call or email per day in January, by February you won’t need a resolution to continue the practice because it will have become a habit.

I’ve gotten into the bad habit of spending the first hour or so of my day reading blogs, returning emails and checking Facebook. Nothing wrong with any of that per se, but I long ago realized I’m at my most creative and productive when I’m most rested. That means I’m using the best part of my day for tasks that don’t require much mental power.

So my January 2013 resolution is to spend at least the first thirty minutes of my day doing “idea development.” I’ll take some potential project and brainstorm or do character development or noodle with an outline. I’ll spend my most creative and productive time doing tasks that require the most creative energy. Facebook and blog reading can wait until I’m worn out.

I can’t tell you what your resolutions should be, of course. But I will suggest a few things that might spark some ideas. Obviously you could resolve to change a writing habit, as I did. You could also resolve to improve some business habit – make a daily networking outreach, enter a certain number of writing contests, more regularly follow industry news, practice pitching every day, etc.

Or you could make an educational resolution. A writer friend of mine once resolved to “master character development.” That’s a little amorphous for me, but you could take a class and resolve to listen carefully to the feedback. Or read a book that addresses a particular weakness. Or work on spelling and grammar.

You could try to improve a creative habit. I used to write my first drafts very quickly and as a result most of my scenes were underdeveloped. Then years ago I started making it a point to stop at the beginning of every scene and think through what the scene was about, what the characters wanted, and what I could do to really develop the scene in an unexpected way. As a result, my first drafts got a lot better. You might resolve to write dialogue that’s more reflective of character or to avoid clichés or whatever your personal creative weakness is.

And whatever you resolve, I wish you good luck with it!

Elf Analysis: Buddy’s Internal Journey

2012-12-28T09:42:00.000-08:00

(SPOILERS: Elf)

Last post I discussed the external journey of Buddy the elf in Elf (written by David Berenbaum). Today I want to discuss Buddy’s internal journey, often referred to as the character arc. It is a little difficult to identify Buddy’s arc in Elf because his personality at the end of the movie is much the same as it was in the beginning. In fact, it took me a little thought to identify the internal journey.

I’ve made the point in the past that good stories should change the character internally – if not, they aren’t really very significant in the character’s life, and if that’s the case why are watching the movie? So is Elf not a good movie? Or does it work in some other non-traditional way?

The internal journey grows out of the character’s need, and last post I said Buddy’s need is to believe in himself. That’s set up in the beginning when he can’t meet the work demands of the other elves and judges himself “a cotton-headed ninny-muggins.” And it pays off in the end when Buddy is the only one who can fix Santa’s sleigh. But perhaps “believe in himself” was not the best way to phrase what Buddy needs. More useful is to say that Buddy needs to accept himself. In essence, Buddy needs to not change.

This is a bit unusual, but if you think about it, it’s really just an example of one of the three forms I’ve identified of the interplay between want and need: Buddy’s need is to realize he has the wrong want. He wants to fit in. He needs to accept that it’s okay that he’s different.

So though it may not be immediately obvious, Buddy is changed by the story. He goes from wanting to be like everyone else to accepting that he can fit in by being who he is. And that is, in fact, dramatized in the story.

The not-fitting-in part is obvious during the status quo section – Buddy is too big for the elf world, he can’t work as fast as the real elves, etc. In the first half of Act Two, Buddy finds he doesn’t fit in well in New York. In the second half he has trouble fitting in with his family. He even tries to change to make Walter happy – donning a suit, for example. All without success, leading to Walter kicking him out at the Act Two Turning Point.

In the aftermath of the Act Two Turning Point, Buddy says, “I don’t belong here. I don’t belong anywhere.” But then at the Epiphany Santa tells Buddy he’s the only one who can save Christmas (by fixing the sleigh) and Walter finally tells Buddy he loves him. Buddy realizes he is valuable just as he is. And then in the denouement we see Buddy happily married to Jovie and with a baby, interacting warmly both with his adoptive father at the North Pole and his biological family in New York.

So Buddy does have an internal journey. But I would also say the movie gets more of its emotional depth out of how Buddy changes others with his unique spirit.

This is particularly true of Walter. He goes from a workaholic who ignores his family and doesn’t care about anyone to a loving father who sacrifices his job to keep his family together. Walter has the biggest arc of the movie.

Jovie, Buddy’s love interest, also has an arc. At the beginning of the film she tells Buddy she’s just trying to get through the holiday season. Later we learn she’s showering at the store because her water has been shut off. We also see her spending Christmas Eve by herself watching TV.

We don’t actually know that much about Jovie, but we can infer from these clues that she is beaten down and having a rough time in life. And we see how Buddy’s unfettered joy and wonder cheers her up. At the end of the movie, she’s the one who takes it upon herself to revive the Christmas spirit in the crowd of New Yorkers – something we couldn’t imagine her doing when we first meet her.

This story matters to Buddy because he starts out unhappy and ends happy. But perhaps in this case the real reason the story is worth our time is not so much how the main character changes but how he changes the other characters.

In the next post in this analysis I’ll dig a little deeper into how the internal states of the characters and their arcs are dramatized, one of the biggest challenges for a writer of film.

The Structure of Elf

2012-12-20T11:22:00.000-08:00

(Spoilers: Elf)

Last post I looked at the conceptual decisions writer David Berenbaum made when scripting the movie Elf. Now I want to explore the structure of the movie, but from the point of view of how it grows out of these conceptual decisions.

The main character of Elf is Buddy. This may seem obvious in hindsight, but there was actually another potential choice: Buddy’s biological father, Walter. Walter goes through the biggest arc of the movie and makes several critical decisions. And Elf is similar to a type of movie where a seemingly crazy outsider comes in and disrupts the main character’s life, ultimately causing them to be a better person. (Examples would include Anger Management, written by David Dorfman, and What About Bob, Story by Alvin Sargent & Laura Ziskin, screenplay by Tom Schulman.)

So actually making Buddy the main character is a bit unusual. But it’s a smart choice because Buddy is the one who’s a fish-out-of-water in this premise. I’ll take a more full look at Buddy’s character in the next post. For structural purposes, though, the important thing is that we identify Buddy’s want and need within this story. These will determine the external and internal storylines respectively and keep Buddy as the main character.

We should first look to the premise: this is the story of Buddy the elf looking for his father in New York. Ah ha – he wants to find his father. Not bad, but Mr. Berenbaum decided this is a story about family, not a search. So it’s not about finding his father, but rather winning his father’s love. (His need is to believe in himself, but I’ll deal with that more in my next post when I discuss the internal journey.)

For a story to be dramatic the character needs big obstacles. If Buddy finds his father and his father is happy to see him, then it’s all a little too easy, isn’t it? So Mr. Berenbaum decided that Walter should be an unloving guy, a bad father even to the son he does know – in the language of Christmas, he’s on the naughty list. That’s the primary obstacle.

(The major secondary obstacle also grows naturally from the premise: Buddy is a fish-out-of-water. He will have difficulty navigating New York. But this is secondary and we want our structure to come from the main character facing the primary obstacle.)

So given this conceptual foundation we should be able to determine organic structural beats. Buddy is a Christmas elf so his status quo is living in Santa’s workshop in the North Pole. We know Buddy wants to fit in so his dilemma must be that he doesn’t fit in. The Catalyst is when this dilemma is crystallized for the audience.

Q: What would best crystallize this dilemma for the audience?

A: Buddy learning that he’s actually human. And that happens about twelve minutes into the movie.

The Act One Turning Point may be a little trickier. It should be when our character is locked into the story, the point of no return. They must resolve their dilemma or suffer the consequences. In Elf, Buddy sets out to find his biological father, expecting to find a home where he will be accepted for who he is. The Act One Turning Point could have been when he sets out on his journey, but remember, this isn’t the story of a search, it’s the story of winning his father’s love.

Q: What would lock Buddy into the story of winning his father’s love?

A: His father refusing to accept that Buddy is his son. And sure enough, when Buddy shows up at Walter’s office around twenty-five minutes in, Walter thinks he’s crazy and kicks him out. Buddy now has to win over Walter or be doomed to unhappiness.

Next comes the fun and games section of the script. This is where the premise of an elf in New York is explored, with all the action at Gimbles. The next big structural beat we need is the Midpoint, a high point that should mirror the ending. Since, based on the conceptual decisions, we know the ending ought to be happy, we should ask:

Q: What victory could Buddy achieve that brings him part way toward his goal?

A: Walter could accept the fact that Buddy is his biological son. And this is what happens about halfway into the movie.

Mr. Berenbaum also wisely raises the stakes here by having Walter’s wife invite Buddy to stay with them, and by having Walter get in trouble at work. This gives him new material to develop as we approach the Act Two turning point. And we determine that beat by asking…

Q: What’s the worst thing that could happen to Buddy in the context of this story?

A: He’s kicked out of his human family. And sure enough, after Buddy ruins Walter’s meeting, Walter tells him to get out, that he wants nothing more to do with him.

Now we’re in Act Three. We see the aftermath of this event – Buddy loses hope. Now we need the epiphany, the thing that will show Buddy how to ultimately succeed.

Q: What does Buddy need to succeed?

A: He needs to believe in himself. And this happens when Santa tells Buddy that he trusts him to fix the sleigh. And shortly thereafter Walter finds Buddy and apologizes and tells him he loves him.

But we still need the big climactic resolution. We’ve already determined we want a happy ending. And since this is a Christmas movie, someone really ought to save Christmas, and that someone should be our main character. But we also need this resolution to relate to our main storyline. The way we find the resolution is to ask:

Q: How is Buddy’s dilemma resolved?

A: Walter accepts him.

But what represents acceptance? Walter’s already said he loves Buddy. But actions speak louder than words. Mr. Berenbaum wisely uses the Christmas spirit to test Walter’s acceptance and dramatize that it is real.

Buddy is full of Christmas spirit; Walter consistently rejects it. So the way we know Walter really accepts Buddy is when he sings along with the crowd at the end. And Mr. Berenbaum then found a way to have this action save Christmas by establishing that Santa’s sleigh is powered by Christmas spirit. Walter’s transformation gets Santa flying again. This is a good example of how it’s not just a matter of figuring out the correct structural beat, but figuring out how you’re going to dramatize that beat.

There you go, the structure of Elf. Not terribly complex, but it does have a nice cohesiveness that comes from the fact Mr. Berenbaum grew his structure organically from his underlying conceptual decisions.

Here’s an interesting thought experiment: what would Elf's structural beats be if Walter was the main character? Do you think that movie would work as well as the one they made?

By the way, I’m curious what people think of this approach to analyzing structure. Was it helpful? Informative? Confusing? Please let me know in the comments section.

Conceptual Decisions in Elf

2012-12-15T12:55:00.002-08:00

(Spoilers: Elf)

In the spirit of the season, I’ve decided to spend a few posts analyzing Elf (written by David Berenbaum).

Normally when I – or most other screenwriter guru types – analyze a movie, we start by diving right into the structure. However, lately several of my students have been struggling with structuring their screenplays because they haven’t really figured out the bigger conceptual ideas.

It’s really hard to know what the story structure should be until you know what the story is really about. How do you make the decisions as to what the Act One Turning Point or Midpoint are? Too often we begin the discussion of how-to-write assuming that the writer has a fully fleshed out story concept. But seldom do stories just spring to mind fully formed.

So I want to start by looking at some of the big conceptual decisions Mr. Berenbaum made. Of course I have no idea how he went about his idea development process. But even if we can’t say exactly how he made his conceptual choices, identifying those choices will demonstrate the kind of things you need to figure out in your story before you can properly break the structure.

Let’s start with the logline: Elf is the story of a human raised as an elf in Santa’s workshop who goes to New York to seek his biological father. That’s the high concept idea, the thing that sells the movie. And it suggests a lot – it gives us a good sense of the character’s external journey and a hint at where the internal journey may lie.

Again, I don’t know how Mr. Berenbaum developed the story. Perhaps he first had the idea of an elf in the city. Or a human raised by elves. Or maybe the whole premise came to him all at once. Regardless, it’s important to note that there are actually two big ideas here: 1) a human raised by elves, and 2) that character searching for his father. I find that most really good concepts are actually two big ideas put together.

Here’s an interesting thought experiment: What if the story was simply about a human raised by elves – if it left out the part about going to New York. Imagine what that movie might be. Can you imagine a good version? Did you have to add a different second idea?

Let’s consider what underlying concepts Elf’s logline suggests. First, it’s a fish-out-of-water-story times two. We have a human who is out of place in the elf world, and then an elf who is out of place in the human world.

Second, it’s about family. Buddy (the human/elf in question) is looking for his father. This dovetails nicely with the fish-out-of-water idea. Buddy doesn’t feel like he belongs at the North Pole, so he’s seeking out his human family. And, given our fish-out-of-water angle, he shouldn’t fit in well there, either.

Third, this is a Christmas story, so it ought to take advantage of the mythology of Christmas.

Now may be a good time to bring up genre, tone and rating. There are several ways one could take this concept. It could have been done as a raunchy, R-rated, anti-Christmas comedy (like Bad Santa). Or it could have been done as a G-rated, sentimental children’s adventure (like the Rudolph TV special). It might have even worked as a straight-up romantic comedy, but that would be fighting the concept. The filmmakers of Elf chose to do a PG-13 all-audience broad comedy.

So that decision influenced how they addressed the underlying conceptual elements. The fish-out-of-water element obviously has great potential for humor, and based on the tone/genre/rating choice, that humor ought to be broad, goofy and largely inoffensive. In terms of the family element, the tone would suggest a happy ending where Buddy finds a family. And in terms of the Christmas element, we would expect a positive angle celebrating Christmas as a time of love, joy, optimism and hope.

And sure enough the movie delivers exactly those things, achieving a tonal and thematic consistency. Now the structure should start to grow organically out of these conceptual decisions. I’ll look at how that happens in my next post.

Note that these conceptual decisions are the ones I encouraged writers to make in my post titled, “What Kind of Movie Is It?”

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Not According to Plan

2012-12-06T11:12:00.000-08:00

SPOILERS: (Aliens, Little Miss Sunshine)

What are your plans for the weekend? What are your plans for the holidays? What are your plans for the script you’re currently writing?

Chances are you have an answer to those questions. We make plans all the time. It’s the only way we get anything done! Your characters should be making plans as well.

Over the last month I’ve read several scripts that suffered from lethargy and/or a feeling they were too episodic. The underlying cause was that the main characters were failing to make plans. They were reactive to events rather than driving the story. Giving the character plans keeps them active and gives the story forward momentum.

But remember, things should never go according to plan.

That’s one of the key ways to create drama and twists. The character makes a plan but then something goes wrong. In fact, often it can help to work backwards. If you have an idea of something befalling the character to make their situation worse, have them plan on a completely different future. Often this means creating a scene of preparation.

For example, in the middle of Aliens (story by James Cameron and David Giler & Walter Hill, screenplay by James Cameron) Ripley and the soldiers discover all the colonists have been killed by the aliens. After they fight their way out of the alien hive, they stop for a scene of aftermath that becomes a scene of preparation. In this scene, Ripley suggests they just nuke the entire installation from orbit – “It’s the only way to be sure.” After some debate, the soldiers decide to do just that and summon their shuttle to return to the ship.

However an alien has climbed abord that shuttle and it immediately crashes, derailing the characters’ plans before they even begin. Time to make a new plan. They head to safety in the housing complex.

So why devote screen time to a debate over a plan that doesn’t even make it to the first step? Why not just have them move to the housing complex? Besides revealing things about the various characters through debate, the nuke-them-from-orbit plan sets the audience up for the twist of the shuttle crash. We’re pointed in one direction and then blindsided by the turn of events. This is an example of the preparation-in-opposition technique of heightening drama.

If things do go according to plan then it will seem too easy. We want to see our beloved characters struggle to achieve their goals. That’s what makes good drama. Consider Little Miss Sunshine (written by Michael Arndt) – how interesting would the movie be if the family just hopped in the car and drove to California as they planned? What makes that movie dramatic is the car breaking down and grandpa dying and the cop pulling them over with time running out. In fact, it’s when things don’t go according to plan that the character is forced to grow.

If I might humbly suggest an exercise: Consider your current script. What are your character’s plans at the beginning? When do those plans go awry? What are their new plans? When do those go awry? If you find a spot where you can’t identify your character’s plan, maybe you should have them make one. If you find things going according to the character’s plan for more than ten pages, maybe you need to have something go awry to heighten the drama and force character change.

If you’re having trouble figuring out what the character’s plans should be, consider what they want. What’s their goal in this story? If you have trouble identifying that, stop what you’re doing and figure that out immediately!

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