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How screenwriters will use the iPad

A few thoughts on Apple’s new tablet, and how we’ll be using it in a few months.

1. It should be terrific for reading scripts. Right now, the big Kindle DX does a credible job with screenplays. It’s $489. The iPad is only $10 more, and can handle mail, web, video and a lot more. A few weeks ago, I wrote about reading scripts on laptops turned sideways. The iPad is the elegant version of this solution.

2. While you probably won’t write write a screenplay on it, you could easily make minor changes to a script right on the iPad. If Pages and Numbers can run on the iPad, a credible screenwriting app should be possible. (There’s already a poky one for the iPhone that can handle Final Draft files.)

3. It will be useful for pitches. A few weeks ago, I was in a meeting and wanted to show the team what I envisioned for a specific monster. I passed around my iPhone. An iPad would have been ideal.

4. The touch screen feels ripe for an index card/outlining application. Virtual corkboard, virtual cards. Go.

5. One TV show will use it on-camera by the end of the season. I suspect it will be one of the CBS crime procedurals. We’ll notice it the first few times it shows up, then it will become commonplace, the way TV characters are always on iPhones.

6. While it’s never going to have the detail of a Wacom tablet, I can envision a lot of storyboarding and shot-planning happening on the iPad. A touch interface is very natural way to approach angles and spatial composition.

7. Scaling up blows. While you can run any iPhone app on the iPad, things with text look pretty crappy. Most developers will want to do a new version for the iPad.

8. Comic books. They’re going to look great on it. Marvel and DC need to offer subscriptions and all-you-can-eat plans. (Update: Marvel already does.)

9. I don’t know that the iPad is going to save print media in general, but many film-focussed magazines would probably work as well or better in this format. Right now, I read DV Magazine in its online, Flash-based form, and it’s a surprisingly good experience.

10. There’s still room for the Kindle. The Kindle’s e-ink screen is great for reading traditional, linear books. Amazon’s selection for the Kindle is great, and the fact that they already make a good Kindle reader app for the iPhone means they’ll be able to bring that selection through to the iPad. I like that there’s going to be competition right from the start.

11. “Fine, but I’ll wait for version 2.0.” That’s great. I’ll enjoy using version 1.0 for a year, then get the new model when it comes out. Particularly since you don’t have to buy it with a wireless contract, there’s no penalty for upgrading.

Hiring a new person

I’m hiring a second full-time employee, a position I’m calling Director of Digital Things.

In addition to my actual job of screenwriting and directing, I currently do all the tech stuff: the websites, the wiring, the coding, the iPhone app that’s thisclose to beta testing. And I enjoy it. The luxury of a writer’s life is the freedom to explore and obsess.

But the list of things I’d like to do is so much longer than what I could conceivably do that it makes sense to bring in somebody with similar ambitions and a specific mandate. Rather than, “Wouldn’t it be neat if…” I’d like to be saying, “Hey, figure out a way to do this.”

So I’m hiring somebody who can.

My assistant, Matt, will continue to handle my schedule, travel, research and proofreading. The new person will handle stuff related to this website and many new projects.

I see this as a full-time job. Salary would be commensurate with experience, and there’s health insurance.

I’d prefer the person live in Los Angeles for occasional face-to-face discussions, but she or he would be working outside the office most of the time. The new guy would be free to — encouraged to — pursue outside projects, as long as the real work came first.

After a string of terrific and very different assistants, I’ve learned that hiring someone is never a matter of checklists. Each employee brings experiences and abilities that change the nature of the job.

But I can safely predict this person will need to be very digital, with a good balance of design sense and general geekery. A good candidate for this position would be able to talk about most of the following with ease:

• Great opening title sequences of the last year.

• Pros and cons of breaking out CSS into multiple files.

• The feeds aren’t updating right. Is the problem on WordPress, Feedburner or somewhere else?

• Whatever happened to the Stone typefaces?

• Books you’ve bought just for the cover.

• Is that short URL scheme a good idea?

• Why isn’t Google hitting this page? What SEO should we bother with, and what should we ignore?

• Is it worth outsourcing comments to something like Disqus? Could we get Scrippets to work with it?

• If you were marketing a web series about giant killer plants, what outlets would you target and how?

• Since jQuery’s already loading, what else could/should we have it do?

• Getting an offsite backup server going.

• How quickly can we get The Variant onto the new Apple device?

• If we needed to swap hosts in 24 hours, what are the first six things to do?

• Five desert island typefaces, and whether TypeKit is worth it.

• Setting up A/B test pages to track two possible layouts.

A great candidate might also have expertise in several of the following:

• Coding everything from PHP to Flash to Ruby to Objective-C

• Motion graphics and VFX

• Shooting and editing

• Gadgetry and game development

You’ll notice that “writing” is nowhere in these criteria. To date, all of my assistants have been screenwriters, and all of them are now working in the industry. But I don’t see this new position as being a particularly good stepping stone for an aspiring screenwriter.

But it is likely a stepping stone for something else, and a paid opportunity to explore some areas of interest for a year or two. In addition to maintaining existing properties, there’s a range of new projects I’d like to tackle.

Here’s the hiring process:

1. Candidates email digital@johnaugust.com. Include a bio with work experience and background, interests, and (most importantly) links to work you’ve done. I’m particularly interested in seeing websites you’ve designed, along with an explanation of their goals and techniques. But I’m also curious about other projects, like iPhone apps or short films or something else you think I’d be interested in. I’ll be hiring a person, not a portfolio, so let me get a sense of what you’re like.

2. By the second week of February, I’ll narrow down my choices to a few great candidates. I’ll give each candidate a small budget and a reasonable deadline to come up with a site for a specific project, such as The Remnants. We’ll have coffee and talk about what you did and why.

3. I’ll pick the person who seems the best fit.

Do not apply in the comments. Let’s save the comments section for feedback about the nature of the job and general discussion.

Watching OTMM

One Too Many Mornings, the Sundance movie I wrote about last week, just debuted at Park City and online. I watched it — the $9.99 HD download — and would recommend it to many readers of this blog. It’s lo-fi funny, a mumblecore Swingers, with a refreshingly clear sense of what it is.

The movie’s achievably ambitious. The team figured out exactly what assets they had, and how to maximize those strengths. More crucially, they sliced away a lot of the cruft that usually comes along with shaggy indie films. There are no guns, no teary poems, no bad fathers. Its protagonists are a wuss and an asshole, but the script lets them be more than that.

And it looks great, largely thanks to its black and white photography.

Could anyone pick up a camera and make a movie like this? No. There’s talent required. But the film is great example of how little actual money you need to make an honest-to-God movie.

The film’s distribution strategy — allowing viewers to buy it online, or rent it on YouTube — makes it simple for aspiring filmmakers to check it out.

Sitting in on the Prop 8 trial

The federal lawsuit challenging Proposition 8 began last week in San Francisco. I have a direct and obvious interest in the outcome; I like being married.

I have one of the 18,000 California same-sex marriages that remained in effect after the proposition passed in 2008. But it’s a piecemeal situation: the State of California considers me married, but Illinois doesn’t. Iowa does; Idaho doesn’t.

And as far as the U.S. government, I’m a single man.

This lawsuit challenges Proposition 8 on grounds that it violates the equal protection and due process protections of the U.S. Constitution. And if it turns out right, it could be a game changer like Loving v. Virginia, which struck down state laws on interracial marriage.

When the U.S. Supreme Court decided last week to block video from the trial, I lost my chance to see what was happening in the courtroom. Sure, I could follow the updates on Twitter, but the fortune cookie-length summaries didn’t feel like enough connection to a landmark case.

So I flew up to San Francisco to watch the trial.

The proceedings are open to the public. All that’s required is a civic interest and a photo ID.

There’s already ample online coverage about what’s happening, and what’s being said. But none of them put me in the room. With that goal, I want to provide a sketch of what it feels like to be there, since most Americans will never sit inside a federal district court.

Setting

The 17th-floor courtroom is impressive, both in appointment and scale; you could fit a basketball court snuggly in its footprint. Grooved planks of cappuccino-colored wood stretch up to a barrel-vaulted ceiling. At the front of the room, a massive wall of pale polished stone backs the judge’s bench. A single, undersized judicial seal hangs above. To the right of the judge, an American flag drapes around its pole, making it seem like the cloth is simply tacked to the wall by the brass eagle on top.

The court clerk and reporter sit on an elevated platform directly in front of the judge, a tangle of cables dripping over the edge.¹ The witness sits to the judge’s left. A single podium faces the judge, and it’s from this spot that attorneys must direct their questions to the bench or the witness. There’s no pacing around. There’s also no way to physically approach the judge for a sidebar conversation.

Every courtroom drama you’ve seen has long tables for the prosecution and defense teams. Take those tables and rotate them 90 degrees. Place twelve chairs around each and you have room for a lot more lawyers, each working off a laptop or a black flat-panel monitor. The plaintiffs’ team fills every seat at their table, while the defense has between five and seven staffers at work, with additional support staff at side chairs or tables. Wire shelves hold rows of binders. It’s all very tightly packed. Any attempt to approach the podium means stepping around others.

There is no jury in this trial. The space where a jury box would be has consumer-grade videocameras on tripods² and two sketch artists. One of them, a man who looks like actor Richard Jenkins, keeps raising binoculars to get a closer look at his subject.

Roughly a third of the floor space is devoted to six divided rows of benches for observers at the back of the courtroom. They’re pews, really, which adds to the churchy feel of the chamber. The first two rows are devoted to counsel and badge-wearing media. The back rows are open to the public. Altogether, maybe 100 observers can watch.

Unlike a conventional trial, the plaintiffs (a gay couple and a lesbian couple) sit with the crowd. There is really no other place to put them.

The chamber has no windows. Occasionally, you can hear thunder from the storms, but the room otherwise seems detached from the outside world.

Characters

Everyone springs to their feet when Judge Vaughn Walker enters. Now in his mid-60s, his Cronkite-ish voice would make him a good narrator for a History Channel documentary. Beyond an opening conversation with the opposing attorneys about newly-filed motions, he says little during the day. Based on recaps of previous days’ events, I expect him to be asking more questions directly of witnesses and counsel, but he mostly seems content to listen. ³

You see little visible difference between the two legal teams. They are both predominately white, predominately men, and invariably dressed in dark suits. ⁴ Crossing paths at the bathroom, you are never sure who is on which side. But everyone is polite, holding doors and squeezing tight in the elevator.

For each witness on the stand, one member of each legal team is empowered to speak. Everyone else keeps to leaning-in whispers or silently mouthed words as binders are passed. Post-It notes are passed back and forth, with additional staffers squeezing in through a side door that’s partially blocked by a large monitor.

Witness testimony is often accompanied by demonstratives, PowerPoint slides that show a graph or related text excerpt. Both teams have staffers assigned to getting these on-screen, along with other pieces of evidence such as video clips. The defendants had brief trouble getting video to play with a clip from the Yes on 8 campaign, but the day was otherwise free of technical issues.

Structure

For each witness, there’s a direct questioning, a cross-examination, and a redirect. During each phase, everything is more or less locked down. Attorneys and observers can (quietly) enter or exit the room, but everyone is expected to sit down and shut up. Judge Walker permits laptops and cell phones for email and tweeting, but beyond the light tapping of fingers on keyboards, it’s library-quiet in the room.⁵

That all changes the moment it moves from direct to cross, or cross to redirect. Suddenly, it’s a flurry of pent-up action and re-setting. It reminds me most of film production, with crews swarming the set the moment the director yells cut. Staffers bring new binders and huddle for quick conversations.

The judge calls a ten-minute break in the morning, and another one later in the afternoon. At lunch, everyone heads downstairs to the commissary on the second floor. I have lunch with the plaintiffs. It’s a small world; Jeffrey Zarrillo manages the same movie theaters in Burbank my husband used to run, and we know some of the same people.

While there is a lot of trial coverage online, I don’t see any traditional media all day. No cameras, no tape recorders, nothing.

The day’s work ends at 4 p.m., after the plaintiff’s redirect of Professor Lee Badgett.

Dialogue

In a trial without a jury, attorneys are not trying to elicit sympathy. That’s not say there are not emotional moments; several witnesses have teared up on the stand. But feelings are not as important as facts. Both sides are trying to get things on the record, which means getting witnesses on the stand to say what they need to say.

For direct testimony, this is pretty straightforward. The attorney asks a structured series of questions that allows the witness to make the required points.

During the cross-examination, the opposing attorney tries to make his case, either by presenting contrary evidence or drilling into a something the witness said. As an observer, this often feels like hearing the setup to a joke, trying to anticipate the punchline. The attorney asks a series of questions, and you wonder, “Where is he going with this?”

A few years ago, I had to give a deposition in a civil trial. I started the day giving very detailed answers, treating it like an EPK interview for a movie I’d written. Then I realized that every new thing I said introduced four more questions. By the fifth hour, I’d figured out the advice generally given to witnesses: listen, evaluate, formulate, talk. And then shut up.

We have a natural instinct to move things along and fill awkward silences, but the best witnesses take their time, unhurried and unflappable. When asked, “Would you also agree..,” they don’t. They restate their points in simple terms.

It’s nothing like movie or TV courtrooms with their zippy rhetorical boxing. Rather, it’s slow and calculated, like a chess match. During one particularly soporific stretch, the defense asked Professor Badgett to work through a lot of hypothetical math. Written figures are dry; spoken figures are numbing. To her credit as a witness, she cooperated without ever indulging his conclusions. But the audience thinned noticeably as the cross-examination reached its third hour.

The verdict

The trial is expected to wrap up as early as next week, so anyone hoping to see it in person should plan on getting there soon.

Depending on the testimony, it can be riveting or dull. Like church, you may find yourself squirming, trying to find new ways to sit on the benches without your tailbones breaking through your flesh.

But no matter how strongly you feel on the issue of same-sex marriage, it’s a fascinating opportunity to see a part of government that otherwise functions off-screen. I’d recommend a day in court to any interested citizen.

For a broader overview of the issues in this case, I’d point you to an excellent piece in the New Yorker.

1. The court reporter’s transcript shows up in real-time on attorney’s laptops. I found myself reading it at times, amazed at her ability to keep up. ↩
2. The video is carried via closed circuit to a spillover courtroom for the public. ↩
3. Except this: Judge Walker admonishes San Francisco City Attorney Dennis Herrera for an underling’s poorly-executed deposition, saying that the aide needed a “woodshedding.” It’s a really uncomfortable moment, like a professor announcing a student’s failing grade while passing back exams. ↩
4. After a careful census, I decided the men on the plaintiff’s team had slightly longer, shaggier hair. ↩
5. I had forgotten my iPhone charging cable, so I kept my phone switched off to save the battery. This e-chastity ended up being a good thing, as it forced me to pay attention and take notes on paper, which became this sketch. A kind-hearted woman let me borrow her cable to charge up before my flight home. ↩

One Too Many Mornings

My friend Leo pointed me towards One Too Many Mornings, a really truly indie that’s playing at Sundance this year. As it turns out, I know the director (Michael Mohan) through his work at the filmmakers’ lab.

The movie looks great in its lo-fi simplicity, but what interests me even more is how the filmmakers are approaching distribution.

In the wake of The Nines, I’ve written several times about how getting a movie made is substantially easier than getting a movie seen. The mythical Sundance experience — fierce bidding wars to land the next indie smash — are over. Most films don’t sell, and the few that do struggle to reach even a tiny audience.

Some filmmakers like Todd Sklar have opted to self-distribute, essentially taking the indie band approach and touring theaters around the country. That’s great if you enjoy being in a van.

The Mornings team is doing what I would try: skipping theatrical altogether. The day after the premiere, you can download their film or get the DVD. You can even buy a piece of the set, or buy the filmmakers lunch.

They’re not going to make a lot of money, but my hunch is they will be able to get a lot more people to see their movie this way. That should be the main goal of any indie.

Writing while at a studio

I work at a major studio in town as an assistant. But the joke is that whatever I write is owned by the studio. It kind of freaked me out today and although I know you’re no lawyer, is that just something people say jokingly?

I could understand if I use a work computer, but does that mean even when I’m at home? Should writers not take assistant jobs at studios?

– Chris
Sherman Oaks, CA

Screenwriters have always been assistants, because studios are a great place to learn about the realities of the industry. And in the fifteen years I’ve been working, I’ve never heard of a situation where the studio claimed legal right to a screenplay an assistant had written.

Not saying it’s impossible, but it doesn’t happen as a matter of standard practice.

You’re right to use your own computer and your own time — and that would hold true even if you worked at a Chevy dealer. If the studio has you sign a document establishing that anything you write belongs to them, well, take that seriously. Consider looking for a different job.

In most cases, what’s more important than the legalities are the formalities. If you’ve written some scripts and are in the process of looking for an agent or manager, it’s custom to talk about it with your boss and let her read something if she asks to. Don’t use her contacts as your contacts; your networking should be with other assistants.

You’re looking to preserve a relationship, both with your boss and the studio. Be respectful, even deferential, and you’re unlikely to run into any problems.

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