Craig and John take a brief look at the misguided Girls backlash and complaints about nepotism in Hollywood, before segueing to a bigger discussion of spec scripts and positioning:
What are “spec farms,” and how can you avoid them?
What should you do if you and your reps/producers disagree about whether your script is ready to send out?
Is it a good idea to post your script online?
How should you introduce characters in an ensemble? How many is too many?
Todo esto y más en el 34° episodio de Scriptnotes.
PBS Off Book has a nice video about the design of opening credits. Karin Fong compares a great title sequence to raising the curtain before the show.
Not every movie needs elaborate opening titles — the trend recently has been towards simply giving the name of the film and moving on with the story. But I’m a fan in general. Opening credits can be a terrific way to establish the world, so I try to anticipate them when writing the screenplay.
Here’s the opening sequence for Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, which was shot largely as I wrote it:
FADE IN
As OPENING TITLES begin, we find ourselves in a swirl of liquid chocolate, spinning clockwise down a funnel. The accompanying MUSIC is jaunty but mysterious -- we’re clearly in for a ride.
We emerge as the chocolate pours into a mold, one of hundreds inching along a conveyor belt. This isn’t any ordinary factory. Bathed in amber light, the machinery is ornate and polished, with shiny brass joints and spindly levers. Complicated gears tug on oiled canvas ropes, slipping through swinging pulleys.
As the chocolate bars continue along the belt, great bellows swell and gently PUFF on them. A moment later, a press SLAMS down, lifting to reveal the word it has imprinted:
W O N K A
Still moving, we look back along the belt as hundreds of bars line up to be stamped. The molds suddenly flip over, dumping each bar onto its own set of wire fingers. These “hands” zip straight up along an elevator track.
We RISE with them, a good hundred feet up, getting a bird’s eye view of the factory floor. It’s quite dark except for the golden lights right along the machinery itself. Strangely, we don’t see a single person working.
As the chocolate reaches the tip-top of the track, a mechanical arm THWACKS a small package to the underside of each bar. Just as suddenly, the track flings each bar over the top.
The candy bars plummet in free-fall, until the tiny packages pop open, revealing parachutes. Their descent slows until a pair of giant scissors deftly SNIPS the strings on each chute, leaving the candy to drop onto another conveyor belt.
Each piece of chocolate lands perfectly square on its own sheet of foil paper. Looking ahead, we can see the machine that bends the foil around the chocolate. But before we get there,
A HUMAN HAND
reaches in and lifts five bars off the belt.
We only see this man’s hands and the cuffs of his velvet jacket as he sets a thin
GOLDEN TICKET
on the back of each of the bars. One by one, he places these five special bars back in the queue, where the foil-folding machine does its job, perfectly encasing each piece.
Another device attaches the paper wrapper, printed to read: WONKA BAR.
Further down the belt, we find stacking and sorting machines loading up boxes and cases of bars. A mechanical stamp THUMPS down on each cardboard box, marking its final destination: TOKYO, SPRINGFIELD, BRIGHTON, ADDIS ABABA.
CUT TO:
EXT. LOADING DOCK – DAY
Huge snowflakes drift down out of an icy sky that is the color of steel. WORKMEN load pallets of Wonka candy onto waiting trucks.
It’s hard to say what time it is, exactly: there’s no sun to be found, and the streetlights are always on. For that matter, it’s hard to say what year it is. From the trucks, to the clothes, to the typeface on the clipboard, the world seems to exist outside of ordinary calendars. All we can be certain of is that it’s winter.
The last container loaded, the FOREMAN bangs on the side of the lead truck. The convoy moves out.
Keep in mind that the first frame of the film might not be the right time for opening titles.
For example, James Bond movies traditionally stage an entire sequence before the main titles, which serve as a bridge between his last adventure and the new story. It’s like an extra act break.
If you have sequence that sets up the world, the opening titles can help you set up the hero. That’s the approach I took in my will-never-get-made Barbarella:
NARRATOR
At the time, no one knew this child would one day become their destroyer, and in the process, their savior. No one knew her name would become legend. At the time, they knew her only as...
FINNEA
(deciding)
Barbarella.
CUT TO:
A BURST OF COLOR
At first, it’s not clear what we’re looking at. Abstract shapes form a kaleidoscopic swirl while COCKTAIL MUSIC sets the mood.
A PAINTBRUSH reaches into frame. The brush holds steady while the canvas moves across it, creating a graceful line. It’s only now that we...
BEGIN MAIN TITLES.
In VARIOUS SHOTS, we start to see more of the paintings and the artist:
A THUMB flicks droplets of paint, which hang in mid-air. LIPS blow the paint at the canvas.
TWO COLORS are swirled together on a palette. Going WIDER, we see the palette has a navel -- it’s the artist’s stomach.
Looking past a canvas, we see the artist’s DARK HAZEL EYES as she works.
From behind, we see the bare back of the artist as she paints in the nude. She’s slowly turning counter-clockwise, while the canvas stays relatively still.
Unused brushes float past a window, showing outer space beyond. We MATCH CUT through the window to go...
EXT. SPACE SHIP / SPACE – CONTINUOUS
Where we get a look at Barbarella’s ship. It’s a tiny skiff, perfectly round, driven by gravitonic induction. If it were a car, it would be a VW Bug.
INT. SHIP – CONTINUOUS
Just because it’s a spaceship, doesn’t mean it can’t be comfortable. The walls are lined with carpeting, while the seats are agreeably plush. If it weren’t for the navigation controls and the windshield, it would make a groovy studio apartment.
As she moves the canvas down, we finally get a good look at our artist, BARBARELLA. Now 25, there’s an exuberant innocence to her, like the first day of spring made flesh.
Her greatest strength is her complete lack of worry. She’s never had a bad moment in her life.
As the TITLES END, she tucks her brush behind her ear, finished with her work. Her painting shows an abstract daisy, bursting with life.
BARBARELLA
I think I’ll call it, “Anthem to the Glory of Eldoria’s Magnificent Spirit.”
(to the air)
What do you think?
Her question is met with an EXPLOSION, followed by a blaring SIREN.
The ultimate decision about a title sequence will come down to the director, but if you’ve scripted it in a way that helps tell the story, you’re likely to see it used in some form.
One caveat: If your script starts with a montage of smaller moments that you intend to play under the opening titles, write the words OPENING TITLES. Otherwise, you may end up with both a title sequence and an empty-feeling minute of movie at the start.
Craig and John just have to talk about the double-barrel craziness of the Joe Eszterhas/Mel Gibson spat. How often do you have screenwriters lobbing incendiary accusations at movie stars?
Well, pretty often, actually. But almost never so publicly. And the already-certifiable, formerly-A-list-ness of it all makes it especially gossip-worthy, so forgive us if we go on for a while.
That settled, we follow up on the Amazon Studios deal and what it means for screenwriters not currently in the WGA. One listener calls Craig an idiot, which leads to a discussion about what “professional screenwriting” even means.
John wants aspiring screenwriters to stop using the term “breaking in,” because it doesn’t accurately reflect the early stages of a writer’s career. Meanwhile, Craig takes umbrage at the idea of “trust fund screenwriters.”
We end with some questions and answers:
What is a screenwriter’s quote, and how does it get determined?
How do international screenwriters get U.S. visas?
It sounded like a job that was hand tailored for me. It sounded like a way out of the job I hated. But most of all, it sounded like the perfect way for me to get my foot in the screenwriting world door. I would be working shoulder to shoulder with one of the big names in screenwriting. Eventually he’d have to agree to at least read my script or help get me started, right?
I made a silly little animation to send along with my application. It gave a bunch of funny reasons why John should hire me. Sprinkled in were some legitimate ones. I thought I nailed it and pretty soon after I sent it, John emailed me and said he wanted to interview me through iChat.
Greg’s application was terrific, and his animation/design skills were spot-on. I got 67 applications for the job. I interviewed five candidates. Greg did great.
I can’t tell you how nervous I was for that interview. I’m terrible at interviews for jobs I don’t give a shit about. Now imagine what I was like when I felt this was my dream job (well, second dream job next to writing). I took a tough yoga class in the morning to tire me out but it didn’t really do anything, I was still bouncing off the walls.
The interview went ok. Not great by any means but probably not terrible. I waited for days in agony for a response from John. I finally got one. He informed me I was one of three finalists. Joy! The next step? We would all be given a test project and the one he liked the best would be hired.
For the test project, I challenged the candidates to build a site somewhat like Snopes, but centered around logical fallacies rather than hoaxes. You can read the original instructions to see what I was looking for.
I was curious to see both artistic skills and problem-solving. I encouraged candidates to contact me as much as they needed to while they were working. After all the candidates submitted their sites, I looked at what they did.
Later that week I got a call. I didn’t recognize the number but it was a fancy 310 area code. My heart raced. I picked up my cell phone and ran out of the office while I answered it.
“Hey Greg, this is August,” the voice on the phone said. It was John. And he didn’t even call himself John. Is that what all big screenwriters do? Call themselves by their last name?
I’m pretty sure this was misheard or misremembered, because I’ve never called myself August in my life. (But if I somehow actually did, I apologize. Perhaps I’ve blocked it out my memory for douchiness.)
I went into my car for some privacy. I could hardly contain myself. He was calling me. That had to be a good sign right? I was finally going to get out of this shitty job and start headed towards being a screenwriter. All would be right with the world!
“I wanted to call and let you know that I decided to go with someone else,” he said.
“Oh. Ok. Thanks for letting me know,” I said, in shock.
“Sure. Thanks for applying. I wish you the best in the future,” he said and hung up. That was it. There was no explanation. No consolation. Just a short little rejection.
I sat in my car for a long time after that. I was crushed. Beyond crushed. I was like the T-800 in the hydraulic press at the end of The Terminator.
I can honestly say the worst part about hiring people is not-hiring people.
I don’t remember calling Greg specifically, other than a fuzzy representation that’s probably a fabrication. But I remember making those calls. They killed me.
There’s no clear protocol for how the conversation is supposed to go after the news is broken. Should I explain what was not-especially-awesome about their work, or how they seemingly misunderstood the assignment? Should I tell them that, honestly, some of the contenders were just head-and-shoulders better?
Maybe I should have asked each applicant during the interview: “Hey, so, if you don’t get the job, would you rather I call you or email you?” But I hadn’t done that. So I called. And it sucked.
As a screenwriter, I’m used to being on the other end of these calls. I don’t get most of the jobs I want. I meet on projects that don’t go anywhere, and write scripts that never become movies. I get fired and rewritten. While my economic well-being doesn’t depend on a single job anymore, it never gets less painful.
Sometimes it’s my agent who calls to break the bad news. Other times, it’s the producer. (It’s never the director, FYI.)
I can’t say whether it’s better to rip the Band-Aid off quickly or slowly. But I’ve definitely found that it hurts less if you have something else to focus on. One of the luxuries of screenwriting is that you can always just write something new. You’re not waiting for permission. The studio may own one project, but they don’t own you. Fuck’em.
Greg Tung said fuck John August, and good for him. He went on after this to create a very cool site called Scare Yourself Every Day, which has gotten him a lot of notice:
And SYED has been the best thing that’s happened to me. Better than that job because this is something I did on my own. Something that actually affected other people. Something that inspired. If you said I could go back in time and get that job but SYED would not have happened, I’d never take that deal. Not in a million years.
Craig and John answer questions about specificity, television and what to do when your great idea sounds too much like a movie that’s already been made.
The big news this week is potentially very big news: Amazon Studios has completely revamped their business model, ditching the terrible parts and transforming into something potentially very good for writers. Notably, Amazon is now a WGA signatory, which offers the promise of residuals and credit protection for screenwriters.
Will it work? It’s too early to say. But when a new player with deep pockets enters the film industry, it often helps loosen the purse strings. More importantly, the Amazon deal sets a precedent for other tech companies considering taking the plunge.
Along the way, Craig talks about directing and John takes his daughter to work. All this and more in this episode of Scriptnotes.
Craig and John take a brief look at the misguided Girls backlash and complaints about nepotism in Hollywood, before segueing to a bigger discussion of spec scripts and positioning:
