Question sprint
A bunch of interesting questions have backed up in the queue, so let’s see how many we can get through while waiting for the new iPhone to be announced.
I’m currently outlining a spec feature, 98% of which takes place at the Superbowl. I’m on the fence about proceeding, however, because a few creative executives I’ve pitched the idea to were concerned about 1) the production costs and 2) the need to secure the NFL’s approval. One of the execs did say, however, if the NFL took to the script and got involved it would be a potential dealmaker.
While the production costs aren’t as much of a concern for me (given that those particular naysayers hadn’t gotten past the logline), the seeming make-or-break nature of the NFL’s involvement is a bit daunting. Before I take the plunge from outline to first draft, do you think it’s worth the risk?
– Patrick
Los Angeles
Yes. If you believe in the story and the characters, go for it. If a producer or executive likes your script, she’ll be smart enough to the realize that the NFL of it all can be figured out. 1
At a USC workshop this weekend, a student asked me about writing a spec Alien vs. Predator. I gave him roughly the same advice — if you think you can write a kick-ass version of it, don’t let the potential unmake-ability of it deter you. My caveat to him was that in the case of AVP, it’s a really tired franchise, so you’re starting with a significant enthusiasm gap. Better to make your own mythology.
I’m about to re-write a script that I’ve been working on for a little while now. It’s a small character road trip drama in the spirit of 1970s American films (e.g. “Five Easy Pieces”, “Coming Home”, “Sugarland Express” — though not all films referenced there are road trip movies). This is my do or die draft — if it’s no good, then I will abandon it. But I’m hoping that some of your advice will help me avoid that outcome.
My concern is that too many of the scenes right now are overly reliant on dialog and I don’t want to tread into unnecessary exposition. At the same time, I want to be able to reveal character and backstory (and obviously, dialog plays a huge part in that). Do you have any general pointers on how to balance scenes (or sequences) of relatively quiet character moments, with the overall dramatic push that’s necessary to maintain tension? I want to make sure that both aspects remain compelling.
N.S.
Los Angeles
There’s nothing wrong with dialogue scenes if they’re moving the story ahead, or enjoyable enough on their own merits. But I suspect you’re finding that a lot of your dialogue scenes are telling us backstory about your characters, and the thing is, we just don’t care.
That’s hard to hear, but you need to hear it: except for crucial, story-twisting revelations, we simply don’t need to know more about who your characters were before they walked on screen.
So before you start that next draft, take a red pen to any chunk of dialogue that isn’t about what’s happening now. Be brutal. I suspect you’ll find that you have a lack of action and some unclear goals that were hiding behind the chatter.
The movies you cited, along with more recent ones like Lost in Translation, Sideways and Little Miss Sunshine, are all good examples of movies that are talky without ever becoming expositional. Characters talk about what they want, what they fear, but they never dwell on what happened. And each movie finds moments to be quiet. Long stretches of each film play as montage, letting the characters do things without commenting on them.
Let’s say you’re working on a script that’s based on a musician. He’s a fictional musician, so you’ve never heard anything this guy’s produced. As the story unfolds, we watch him build up his song. Is it okay to include the song? Or would that just kill everything and shut the reader down? I guess what I’m asking is, do you include lyrics or just leave them out and hype him like he’s as great as the supporting cast says he is?
– James
Give us lyrics. You’ll want to abbreviate a bit — cut out chorus repetitions, for starters. But it feels like too much of a tease to omit the words altogether.
Often, when I am diligently working on a script, or close to being finished on a script, I find my mind and writing meandering to other ideas. For instance, I’ve written several drafts on a thoughtful spy movie and have an extensive set of notes (from peer review) I plan to implement. Instead of completing the script, I spend time thinking and making notes on new ideas — a drinking road trip film and a sentimental father-son story.
Is this a natural way for new and good ideas to develop or am I merely avoiding “finishing” a project for fear it will suck? Not being a professional, yet, I’m not bound by deadline to turn something in…but how does a disciplined, professional, writer deal with this issue of…distraction?
– Greg
The script you haven’t written is always better than the one you’re staring at, cursor blinking, its flaws so obvious that you can’t believe you ever started writing it. That doesn’t change over the course of a career. You will always want to be writing something else.
You’re left with two choices: toughing it out, or changing horses mid-stream.
Look at your spy movie, and ask yourself, “If this script had just landed on my desk, would I be excited enough by the possibilities to do this rewrite?” If the answer is no, feel free to investigate one of your other projects.
Granted, there are times you’ll really need to force yourself to finish a new draft. For instance, if you’re getting paid, or if you’ve promised a draft to someone whose opinion matters. And don’t mistake pragmatism for laziness: If something is difficult but do-able, do it. Not only will you improve the script, but you’ll learn something in the process.
The time to move on is when reaching the “best version” of your script ceases to be interesting to you.
- On the other hand, if she doesn’t like your script, the NFL factor is an easy explanation for why she’s passing. Which saves face for everyone. ↩
Filed under: Psych 101, QandA, Rights and Copyright, Story and Plot, Writing Process
Lessons of the summer, so far
Between deadlines, travel and wedding plans, I haven’t had the chance to blog about this first batch of summer movies, and more importantly, What We Can Learn. So before I get any further behind, let’s pick three of the most notable films to date.
(Mild spoiler warnings throughout.)
Heroes are more important than villains
Iron Man spent 85% of its storytelling energy on Tony Stark. It had the requisite set pieces, all of which were well-staged, but for an action movie it didn’t really break new ground. Where it succeeded was in creating a funny, flawed hero who propelled the story by his own ambitions. He wasn’t just responding to outside threats.
Did the villain get short-changed? Yes — to the degree that his motivations didn’t really make sense. Did it matter? Not much. In order to better establish the villain, we would have needed to spend more time away from Stark, which would have been counter-productive.
The lesson: There’s no equal-time rule for antagonists.
Leo ex machina
Price Caspian featured a terrific and surprising defeat at the movie’s mid-point, which gave me hope that the movie would transcend its kid-lit roots. But when another lengthy battle sequence1 also ended on the south side of success, my worst fears were confirmed: the fricken lion suddenly showed up to save them. And teach them humility. Or something.
Yes, I know: it’s a Christian parable. But that doesn’t make it any less maddening. If it weren’t based on a famous book, no screenwriter would ever get away with that ending.
The lesson: Let your heroes succeed or fail on their own merits.2
Why is he doing that?
I don’t want to pile on the Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull hate-parade. But beyond the tonal issues, I was often at a loss to say why Indy was doing what he was doing. Is he trying to take the crystal skull to the cave, or keep it out of the cave? Does he think Mac is a traitor, an ally, or not really care one way or the other? (Sadly, I think the last option is probably correct.)
It’s this kind of granular motivation I’ve written about before. It’s not psychoanalysis. It’s making sure the audience understands what’s happening in any given moment, so they can anticipate what might happen next. Without this ability to anticipate, the audience is just flung around helplessly, wondering why the great Indiana Jones is just standing there watching special effects.
The lesson: Every scene, every moment, ask the question: What is my hero doing, and why? If it’s not obvious, stop and rethink it.
- I call shenanigans on that PG rating. It may be the most violent “family” movie ever. ↩
- And without interference by supernatural beings who could have shown up in the first reel, sparing a few hundred lives. Thanks. ↩
Are animated specs worth the time?
I have been tossing around an idea for an animated feature film. I have a ton of notes, character breakdowns, beat sheets, outlines, etc., etc. Now its just a question of putting it down on the page. My question is fairly simple and straight-forward: Am I wasting my time?
I’ve read that writing specs for animation should be avoided, as the big animation studios typically take pitches, ideas, and submissions internally. Is this the case?
I know you are credited on Corpse Bride and Titan A.E. I’m assuming those were both work-for-hires. But what do you think about specs?
– Jack Mulligan
Go ahead and write it. It’s very unlikely that an animation spec will get sold and produced, but remember, that’s not the only goal of writing a spec. You write specs to get your next job, and if you can write a great animated spec, do it.
Both Titan A.E. and Corpse Bride were rewrites of movies already close to production. In both cases, I didn’t need to write at all differently than live-action. There were small semantic changes — in animation, you number for sequences rather than scenes — but when reading the script, you wouldn’t necessarily know that it was going to be animated rather than live-action. So don’t freak out about some special formatting you see in a printed script or guidebook. Just write it like a normal feature.
Last year, I had a meeting with Disney Animation, in which they talked through all of their upcoming projects. It’s clear they really develop in-house, and aren’t searching the town for new material. And I suspect that’s true for all of the majors.
But the animated spec you write could be a great sample for live action, particularly if it showcases comedy and set-pieces. If you write Shrek, you can write funny, and someone will want to hire you.
Writing silent scenes
I have a question about formatting for a script I’ve been working on. The concept involves some scenes being completely silent, but with an occasional sound coming through (i.e. everything’s silent, including speech, until someone breaks a glass and the shattering is audible).
I’ve tried a couple of different methods of formatting this but I’m not sure what makes the most sense. In early drafts, I just designated the scene as “Silent” at the beginning and capitalized the sounds that broke through. My writers’ group found this to be strange so in my latest draft I tried it with “M.O.S.” attached to every action that was supposed to be silent, but they didn’t like that either.
So now I’m kind of stumped on how to translate this idea to the page. Is there a way to format it that makes sense? I want it to be as clear as possible to readers.
– Cali
Seattle
My hunch is that you are doing too much, and it’s slowing down the read. A modern screenplay isn’t a list of camera angles and sound cues. It reads more like journalistic, present-tense fiction. (Think Hemingway, not Faulkner.)
If certain scenes are going to be silent, and other ones aren’t, my inclination would be to flag them in the scene headers, the same way you call out special events like [RAINING] or [DRIVING]. So in your case…
Within scenes, putting those few audible sounds in UPPERCASE makes sense. Remember, treat your readers like audience members, and think about it from their perspective.
For example, in the second pilot Jordan Mechner and I wrote for Ops, we had an extended sequence with no natural sound. It was important to showcase why this was going to be cool:
Look at your silent scenes from your reader’s perspective, and try to read them without knowing what’s happening next. You’re not nearly as curious what is sounds like as what it feels like to have the sound missing. Write that.
Filed under: Formatting, Ops, Projects, QandA, Words on the page
I’m getting married
This morning’s decision by the California Supreme Court means I no longer have to be an unwed father. And for a change, even our Governor is onboard:
I respect the court’s decision and as governor, I will uphold its ruling. As I have said in the past, I will not support an amendment to the constitution that would overturn this state supreme court ruling.
Granted, he could have simply signed his name on bills when I asked him, but better late than never.
His quote refers to the dark cloud on the horizon, a ballot initiative to amend the state constitution, which is pretty much the only way to overrule the court at this point. But that’s tomorrow’s fight.
As it stands, I’m planning on getting hitched this summer. It’s been a very long engagement.
Does a screenwriter have to be well-read?
Based on my score in this list of 1001 important books, the answer is no.
I got 38.
Some disclaimers are in order. First, the list includes only fiction. If it included non-fiction, I’d score much higher. I only counted books I actually read — seeing the movie doesn’t count. The list makes some questionable choices (The Lord of the Rings trilogy counts as one book, while Alice in Wonderland/Through the Looking Glass is two), and some notable exceptions (Dune, anything by Faulkner1). But there were enough titles that I recognized and hadn’t read to make me feel a bit ashamed.
The list comes from 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die
By all means, share your score and criticisms in comments.
(Original link via Jason Kottke.)
- I mistyped Faulkner’s name when doing a search. Unfortunately, I’d already credited myself for The Sound and the Fury. ↩
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