John August

First Person

From Greenlight back to page one

Education, First Person, International

Today’s First Person article comes from Australia via London. I chose it because it demonstrates an important point: you can’t pick the single moment at which you’ve “made it.”

Most screenwriting careers begin with fits and starts, sudden successes followed by dispiriting dry spells. It’s important to celebrate the small victories, but not overestimate their significance. They’re footholds. Use them to reach higher.

——–

first personfaerberMy name is John Ratchford. I’m a 27-year-old Australian writer, currently living in London. I’ve sold one script and had another optioned, but I consider myself a beginning writer. On Twitter, I’m @johnhratchford.

I grew up with three film loving older sisters and spent most of my childhood and early teens being exposed to their diverse taste in films. This wasn’t always a good thing: I’m not sure how many other Australian men can recite large chunks of dialogue from ‘Girls Just Want To Have Fun.’

Late teens I got a job at a cinema, and stayed there for four years, exploiting my free movie privileges to watch everything good, bad and indifferent. Although I’d always harboured creative writing aspirations, it wasn’t until I heard Shane Black speak at a ‘Kiss Kiss Bang Bang’ screening Q&A that I seriously thought about the idea of writing for film.

I became a bit of a screenwriting nerd, reading every book I could lay my hands on and trawling through the old ‘Ask a Filmmaker’ archives on IMDb.

My first effort was a teen comedy set in my home town of Canberra, and I posted several early drafts on Triggerstreet.com. The value of scriptwriting feedback sites like Triggerstreet is sometimes questioned by more experienced writers, but for a first timer from regional Australia the experience of getting feedback from aspiring US screenwriters was brilliant.

Three Triggerstreet-driven drafts later, I submitted my script to the Australian version of Project Greenlight, primarily to garner feedback from Australian readers. I got that and more when my script beat out 700 others to qualify for the top 8.

Suddenly at the age of 23, I was thrust into a reality TV competition with older and more experienced filmmakers for the prize of a $1 million film budget.

Project Greenlight
——-

The Australian version of Project Greenlight was structured as more of an Idol-style knockout competition rather than a documentary about the making of a film. We entered with feature scripts, and the winner would direct their feature, but in between the top eight entrants competed against each other by directing short film scripts contributed as part of a separate competition. Confused? Try competing in the thing.

I found myself in the surreal situation of now directing a short I didn’t write, juggling a cast and crew of twenty, including the late legendary Australia actor Charles ‘Bud’ Tingwell, and trying to hide my complete lack of experience from the seemingly omniscient reality TV crew.

The judges in the competition loved my feature script, but my short film directing skills were perfunctory at best. I made it through to the top 4, thanks largely I think to the goodwill generated by casting Bud Tingwell. I then had to make a second short, only this time the prospect of a $1 million prize was tantalisingly close.

The pressure was immense, and I felt like a bit of a fraud trying to direct someone else’s words again. I changed the short script significantly and now I’m a little bit older I recognise I did this in a way that was disrespectful to the original writer. Perhaps in a bit of karmic justice, this second short wasn’t as well received as the first and I was knocked out of the competition in the semi finals.

I was disappointed, but ultimately relieved. I want to write, not direct, and the pressure of playing ‘young aspiring director’ on reality TV was starting to take a bit of a toll. The eventual winners were writer/director team Kenn and Simon MacRae, who went onto to make a terrific film called ‘The View from Greenhaven,’ and Kenn is currently carving out a directing career in LA.

Post-Greenlight, one of the judges got in touch and asked if she could send my script onto a studio contact. I gratefully agreed. At the same time I’d read an article announcing another major studio was opening an Australian production arm. I googled the details for their Sydney office, gave them a call, and they asked me to send my script through.

Not sure you could pull that off in LA, but in Australia one of the benefits of having a comparatively small film industry is major studios and producers aren’t necessarily out of reach to unrepped writers.

While one studio mulled it over, the other made an offer. I didn’t have an agent, but used an entertainment lawyer and the Australian Writers Guild for assistance with the script sale.

Development
—–

Going from the comedown of losing in Project Greenlight to one of the most famous production companies in the world buying my script was some turnaround, and I couldn’t wait to leave my day job and start a writing career.

I’d heard horror stories about the notes process, but I found the studio notes were logical, constructive and ultimately improved the script. Everything seemed to be going so smoothly, I started indulging in day dreams of attending the red carpet premiere at the cinema I was working at only two years earlier. I ignored the fact my ex-employer was a suburban mall multiplex and any red carpet would have to wind its way up the escalators and through the food court.

There was another, bigger barrier to my red carpet fantasies: the development period. Just as things seemed to be moving, there would be a delay. That would be sorted out, then something else would stall proceedings. And again, and again. A more experienced writer would have understood a film is a massive undertaking, and delays are a natural part of the development process, but I was not an experienced writer, I was an impatient first timer watching his dream being put on hold.

It was a very strange time for me. I had the elation of the script sale balanced against the fact I was still working the same day job, and outside of emails and meetings, I didn’t have anything tangible to show for my success. I’d tried contacting a few Australian agents for assistance with my script sale, but got zero interest. I’m not sure if this was due to my lack of experience, or the fact most films in Australia are developed via government funding or financed independently –- it’s quite rare to sell a spec direct to a studio in the Australian context.

I did make some great contacts as a result of the script sale, and even got to go to LA to meet one of the higher ups from the parent company, who assured me my script would make a great film. I should have listened to the second part of what he said, which was the same thing everyone was saying: “So…what else do you have?”

The problem was I didn’t have anything. I’d been working on the assumption that once my script went into production things would just kind of fall into place. So I kept waiting.

It took about 18 months of waiting before I realised I needed to move on.

Now
—-

Last year I swallowed a bit of pride and applied to Film School, namely the Australian Film Television and Radio School. Past graduates include Alex Proyas, Rolf de Heer and Gillian Armstrong. If you’re an Australian and want to study film, it’s a pretty good place to be.

It felt a bit strange having sold a script, then going to film school, but any reticence I had fell away after the first class. It was so enjoyable being in an environment surrounded by other aspiring writers and being taught by film professionals, including Ross Grayson Bell (producer of Fight Club). It also helped me get away from the lottery winner mentality of having sold one script and waiting for the rewards, and I began building a body of work, completing two more features and an outline for a TV series.

For our final year of study, we’re required to work on a project with an industry mentor. I’ve relocated to London, and I’m currently learning from the wonderful television writer Dominic Minghella (Doc Martin, Robin Hood). He’s challenged me to try writing something a bit outside my comfort zone, and I’ve been really enjoying the process of working with an experienced professional writer.

Why London? Through my parents I’m eligible for a UK passport, and I chose London because it’s a bigger market than Australia. Just being here also acts as motivation: I came here to develop my writing career.

I’ve recently had a second feature optioned by a great independent producer who’s looking to package it for the US market. I have high hopes and I’m giving the rewrites my all, but this time I’ve also kept on writing and pushing forward on other projects at the same time. My first script is still in active development, and I’m also hopeful it’ll eventually become a finished film.

Between my two scripts and working with Dominic I feel like I’m on the right track. But I’m still working in a non-writing day job, and finding the time to write is a real slog, especially in a city as busy as London.

I think my next step from here is to find work writing for UK television. My goals are to be able pay my bills through writing, and have a job where I can focus on telling stories and improving as a writer. TV writing ticks both those boxes.

Long term I’d love to have a crack at LA, but for now I’ll settle for trying to find my way in London. Any advice your readers have would be very much appreciated, and if I can offer any advice in return, it would be to enjoy early success, but don’t let it become your only success.

Transitioning from comics to TV

Education, First Person, Television

Today’s First Person article comes from the open call. Jay Faerber is trying to transition from writing comics to writing TV, and is doing so with the help of the Warner Bros TV Writers Workshop.

——–

first personfaerberMy name’s Jay Faerber.

I’m 38 years old and I’ve been writing comic books professionally for the past 13 years.

It’s a great, fun job and incredibly fulfilling. But in addition to comics, I’ve got a great love for television, so I’m finally taking the plunge and becoming a TV writer.

This wasn’t a decision I made lightly. In fact, I spent considerable time coming up with reasons not to try my hand at TV writing. I guess I was a little afraid that working in TV could destroy my enjoyment of TV as a viewer. Because despite writing comic books, I read very few comic books these days. The late Robert B. Parker explained it well when he said, “I tend to look at books the way carpenters look at houses.”

My secret origin
—–

Because I didn’t want to ruin my love of TV by writing TV, I was content to let my manager shop around my comic books as movie and TV properties, and attach other writers. One of these writers was a baby feature writer who was adapting one of my comics as a feature spec.

Some writer friends of mine asked why I wasn’t writing the spec myself. After all, they were my characters and this baby writer wasn’t bringing a huge reputation to the table. So why not just do it myself?

And that’s what got me started. I remember very clearly the conversation that ensued, and by the end of it I was incredibly energized about trying to transition from comic books into features and TV. So I wrote a feature spec of my comic, Dynamo 5. Adapting my own work was a great way to make the jump into screenwriting. I was kind of intimidated by the format and “rules” of a screenplay, but the pressure was less because I already knew the characters and story so well. Nothing ever came of it, but it was a great exercise.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized my real interest was in TV, not features. I liked the chance to spend a lot of time — maybe years — with a set group of characters. I also liked that in TV, writers write. Feature writers take a lot more meetings and tinker with the same script for a huge chunk of time. With TV, you gotta get stuff done fast so it can be filmed a couple weeks later. I’m used to that kind of pace because of my comic book background, so it was more appealing to me.

Over the next summer I wrote a pilot that my manager showed to a few producers. We got good feedback on the writing, but we were told nobody would be interested in the premise. What was the premise, you may be asking? It was about Internal Affairs cops. And shortly after we decided to shelve it and try something else, Lifetime bought a pilot called Against the Wall, and it was about … Internal Affairs cops. Which proved that at least my instincts weren’t terrible.

Getting on the playing field
—-

The following spring I decided to try to get into one of the TV writing programs. Most networks and TV studios have them, including

* NBC/Universal’s [Writers on the Verge](http://www.nbcunicareers.com/earlycareerprograms/writersontheverge.shtml)
* The [ABC/Disney Writing Program](http://abctalentdevelopment.com/programs/programs_writings_fellowship.html)
* The Warner Bros [TV Writers Workshop](http://writersworkshop.warnerbros.com/), and
* The CBS Writers [Mentoring Program](http://diversity.cbscorporation.com/page.php?id=23).

I applied to the first three, because the CBS program is very diversity driven, and as a white guy, I didn’t see the point in applying.

I wrote a Burn Notice spec, just because it’s a show that’s been around long enough that most people at least have some familiarity with it, and it fits in with my sensibilities.

All three programs I applied to required not only a spec, but also some sort of essay question about my background, and what I’d bring to a writers room.

I leaned pretty heavily on my experience as a comic book writer, since there’s a lot of crossover between the two mediums. Both, for instance, involve telling stories visually. In comics, it’s drilled into us to avoid having two characters simply stand around talking. It’s much more visual if they’re doing something while they’re talking.

That’s why all those old Chris Claremont X-Men stories featured so many scenes of the X-Men in the Danger Room. Most of those scenes were really just exposition scenes, but they were much easier to swallow when the X-Men delivered them while fighting big robots or whatever. And while comics use caption boxes and, to a lesser extent these days, thought balloons, they’re still mainly dialogue driven — just like TV.

In fact, I find certain aspects of screenwriting to be easier than comics. With a comic book script, you have to be constantly mindful of how much an artist can fit into a single panel, or a single page. With a screenplay, you don’t have those constraints.

But you have others. In comics, it doesn’t cost any more to show a planet exploding than it does to show two people talking. (In fact, your artist will likely have more fun drawing the exploding planet!) In film and TV, there’s a huge difference between the two.

Honestly, I kind of thought if I got into any of the programs, it would be the NBC/Universal Writers on the Verge. Two reasons: One, I wrote a Burn Notice, which is an NBC/Universal show. And two, one of my comics (Noble Causes) was optioned by NBC/Universal a few years ago. But the NBC/Universal notification period came and went and I never heard a peep.

A few weeks later, I was completely surprised by a phone call from Warner Bros, asking me to come in for an interview. I was living in Seattle at the time, so I hopped on a plane to LA, where I had an interview with Chris Mack, the head of the workshop. A WB Current Executive was also present in the interview. We talked for awhile about my background, and why I like TV, and what shows I watch, that kind of thing. All in all it was a pretty casual, low key kind of interview.

I flew back to Seattle the next day and spent the next two weeks ticking days off the calendar, since Chris had said to expect an answer in two weeks. And it was exactly two weeks later when he called to said I’d been accepted.

I then had another two weeks to get myself relocated to LA in time for the first workshop. I know John has had entire blog entries devoted to moving to LA, so I’ll keep this brief.

I think having such a time constraint actually helped in this case. I just threw my two cats in my car, packed a few things, and drove south. I jotted down a few addresses from Craigslist and literally took the second apartment I looked at on the day I arrived in LA. I settled in Sherman Oaks, since I have friends in the area and it’s an easy commute to Burbank. I attended the first workshop, then flew back up to Seattle the next morning, packed up the rest of my belongings, and made the long drive south again in a moving truck and was back here in time for the following week’s workshop.

How the workshop works
—–

The workshop meets once a week, on Wednesday evenings, for about three hours. There are nine of us in this year’s group, although there are really only eight spots (since two guys work as a writing team). There are seven men and two women, and we range in age from mid-20s to late 30s. We’re all white, except for one African-American.

In terms of backgrounds, it’s much more diverse. We have one former child actor. A few people have worked (or are working) as writers assistants on various shows. One has previously written and acted in a cable show. One is a playwright. Two people work as copywriters at an ad agency. One works as a producer on a reality TV show.

I’d say the one thing we all have in common, aside from our love of TV, is some sort of previous experience in entertainment or writing of some kind. I doubt that’s a coincidence. While the workshop doesn’t require previous experience, it sure looks like it’s helpful.

I’ll also point out that I’m the only one in the workshop who relocated from another part of the country. I don’t know how many applicants they received from across the country, and I don’t know if I’m considered an exception or not. But I made it abundantly clear in both my application materials and the interview that I was ready and willing to relocate.

Once the program got under way, each of us wrote a new spec in a simulated writers room-type environment. We got notes from everyone in the group, plus our instructors, and had to hit deadlines for our beat sheets, outlines, first draft, second draft, etc.

Writing our specs took up about half the time of the program. The other half has been lectures on all aspects of the TV industry, from various guest lecturers with firsthand experience.

We’re encouraged to go out for drinks each week after the workshop and bond as a group. And we really have bonded.

As I write this, we’re at the tail end of the program. It started the first week of November and ends the first week of April. We’re starting to get sent around on meetings (which are arranged by the head of the workshop).

One of my classmates has already been staffed, and I’ve been sent on one showrunner meeting and one general meeting so far. It’s an incredibly exciting time.

Sometimes I need to pinch myself when I think of how much my life has changed in the past four months. I went from sitting in my home office in cold, rainy Seattle, writing comic books, to driving onto the Warner Bros lot each week, where I get to talk TV with some amazingly talented writers.

Juggling paid work and specs

Education, First Person

I’m still sorting through emails from readers who wrote in [offering up their experiences](http://johnaugust.com/archives/2011/looking-for-more-first-people) for the First Person series. The blessing and curse is that there are far too many to choose from. Over the next few weeks and months I’ll be featuring a variety of them, possibly bundled in theme weeks. (We have a lot of married writing teams and reality TV producers.)

The first article of this new batch comes from Allison Schroeder, a [young-new-baby screenwriter](http://johnaugust.com/archives/2011/young-vs-new) who works in both features and television. She exemplifies something I’ve seen again and again: a career is shaped by talent, luck and very hard work. It’s like trying to start a campfire in a rainstorm. You can do it, but it takes persistence.

I don’t know Allison, but after reading her article, I realized how many friends and colleagues we had in common. When I asked about it, she wrote back:

> Ironically, you’ve been there for a lot of my big moments probably without realizing it! That Career Fair where I met my mentor, you were one of the organizers. Al Gough’s birthday right before I was staffed on 90210. And Dara’s BBQ the week MG2 was greenlit. You’ve been good luck!

I don’t think it’s kismet or coincidence. She was putting herself in the right places for luck to happen. These were situations that wouldn’t have happened if she didn’t live in LA.

——–

first personallison schroederI’m a working writer in Los Angeles. Those are beautiful words to say. Now there’s a lot of doom and gloom rants, discouraging statistics and articles regarding women in the industry — if you want that, don’t look at me. I love being a female writer in Los Angeles!

Now like all love stories, there’s been some heartbreak and tears, some highs and lows, but rarely have I ever felt my gender was holding me back. In fact, at times, it’s helped me. Execs, producers, actors, and directors want to hear a unique voice that feels authentic. And I write quirky, strong female characters, often drawing from personal experience. One of my very first spec scripts Stickgirls — which I wrote as both a pilot and feature — followed two young teenagers, essentially a Stand By Me for girls. That sample led to my first staff writing position on the new 90210 and later to my first feature, Mean Girls 2. But before my big break, I worked, and worked hard as a PA, an assistant, and writer-for-free.

How it all started
——-

I graduated from Stanford University for undergrad and after two years as a consultant, I returned to school at the University of Southern California for my MFA in the Film Production Program.

Everyone has a different opinion on film school; all of us who started together left USC with different impressions. Would I do it again? Yes. Why? First, I understand how a set works which helps a lot when I’m writing a screenplay as production nears. I know what the AD means when she asks for changes. Second, the alumni and my friends. I don’t have a manager, so my friends give me notes. I never turn in a script without someone reading it first. I call it the “stupid check” — as in, am I a talentless hack that will embarrass myself by turning in this draft? They say no, I breathe easier, and hit send.

After graduation, it took some time to find a job in the industry (I tutored during those months) but I finally landed as a PA on Pineapple Express. Everyone on the film was incredibly open to questions about the process, about writing. They honestly wanted to help me with my career – and I think this had a lot do with the fact I took pride in my job. I was the best damn grocery shopper they’d ever seen. Seriously.

I know writers who fear getting a job in the industry because they won’t have enough time to write. And I understand that, I do. But I feel that to work in the industry, you, well, need to work in the industry. Don’t be above getting people coffee!

My big break
—–

During this time, I met a mentor at a USC Career Event. I started developing with him and his writing/producing partner. I wrote two pilots and a feature on spec, but the writer’s strike didn’t exactly help the odds of a sale.

I continued to work as an assistant, replying to a USC job posting and moving to Smallville as a Writers’s PA. Until one day, about a year later, I was manning my boss’ desk at Smallville and I got the call.

My mentor casually asked, “Hey, do you want to be a staff writer on 90210? We’re the new showrunners.”

Uh, yes please.

And that was it. I met with the network soon after; they read Stickgirls and approved me. I met with UTA that same day; they became my agents ten minutes after I walked out of the network meeting.

It happened “overnight.” Well, if “overnight” means after two years of hard work, building relationships, and endless writing.

People often want to know how much I wrote during my assistant years. In terms of time: many hours a week. In terms of material generated: two original pilots, one TV spec, two features, a novel, and a pile of tossed out pages. I meet many aspiring writers who haven’t finished a single script. That’s not going to be a path to success.

After that first job
—–

I now work in both features and television.

After 90210, I created a pilot for MTV with Wilmer Valderrama, called Brooklyn Sound. It didn’t get picked up but it was a great experience. They had absolute faith in my abilities regardless of my gender or experience, and I will forever be grateful for that.

Compliments are far more rare than criticism in this industry. One of my successful writing friends (who I met when she was an assistant, I her intern) told me silence means you’re doing a good job. When I have self-doubt, I remind myself of that. No news is good news.

A lot of my scripts will never see the light of day. So when one’s actually greenlit, the game changes.

allison schroderBudget, logistics, stunts, company moves, clearances, censorship can rapidly change a script. Coming from film school, I knew all the steps involved to make a script come to life. I had built sets, hung lights, set-up craft service, held the boom mic, loaded film, managed budgets, rented costumes. When I showed up on the Mean Girls 2 set (directed by the fabulous Melanie Mayron) and saw the lead character’s house decorated for Halloween, the gravity of the moment hit me.

I had written the words almost too casually: FLASHBACK – HALLOWEEN.

Which meant a team of art department geniuses had transformed the exterior of the house into a Halloween fantasy. As a screenwriter, you’re writing the blueprint for hundreds of people. It’s made me consider my words far more carefully as I write now. Am I giving enough information for all the departments? Am I clearly stating the tone, mood, and action of the scene for the director? Am I filling the silence?

Juggling paid work and spec work
—–

After Mean Girls 2, I was hired for Mean Girls 3 and an MTV television movie. Plus I was developing a pilot and finishing the first draft of my spec feature. Ah multi-tasking!

A lot of my friends work in teams or focus on either television or features. I work alone and like to do both. So I make sure to prioritize according to deadline. I don’t miss deadlines. I am not late.

Many writers miss deadlines. Yes, we’re creating “art.” But this is business, a job, and I don’t take that lightly.

But I will call and ask for a few more days if I need them. I called MTV yesterday and said, “I could turn this in today but I feel this first act isn’t working.” The executive and I brainstormed for an hour, and I’m taking the week to do an overhaul. You want everything to be the best it can be, but I’m also mindful of their production schedule.

I’m still very much starting out my career. Which means I have to constantly be working on spec scripts — both features and pilots — to make people see me differently, hire me for something besides teen comedies. I have to be strategic, balancing assignment work and my own projects.

For personal projects, I normally send my agents a handful of ideas and they point me at the ones that might work. Because I don’t have a studio hounding me, it’s all about discipline.

Paid projects always take precedence, followed by projects that I’m doing for a specific production company or a producer that showed interest, followed by passion projects. My specs are always personal in some regard. Write what you know has worked well for me.

Sometime, your brain hurts from all the juggling. Switching from teenage slang to old Southern rhythms in my pilot, from two teen stories — one all about guys, one all about girls — plotlines could get confusing. But you manage. I alternated weeks on the teen stories based on deadlines. I wrote the pilot when my mind needed to jump into an alternate world. And then I took a break. After a massive writing spree, I need at least a week to decompress.

Where I go from here
—

My writing teacher at USC said this profession is a marathon, not a sprint.

I’m always looking for the next job. Always. As I move forward, I’m pushing myself to take chances. I don’t feel pigeonholed as a woman or a teen writer. I feel it’s up to me to write what I want to be hired for.

Here’s a little secret. Female action writers, especially in television, are in hot demand. So to continue to expand my writing career, I need to step outside my comfort zone. That doesn’t mean I plan to turn my back on teen work. I love it. It comes naturally to me. But to move to the next level, to theater-released features, to television development, I must continue to write new samples.

Writing my own work often takes longer than when I’m on assignment. One of my feature specs, I’ve been stuck on for years. It’s personal, it’s autobiographical, it’s hard to write. Other specs are finished within weeks. I try not to beat myself up too much, but there are dark days where I sit in my pajamas, stare at my cats (no judgement please) and wallow.

I am only allowed to wallow for twenty-four hours. It’s a rule. Then I have to get back at it.

And no matter what the project, when I write, you can always hear my voice — maybe not literally in all cases, but my sarcasm here, my Southern roots there, even a line or moment of dream fulfillment.

My biggest obstacle to overcome as I move forward has less to do with outside forces, and more to do with me vs. the blank page. I have a poster that reads: “Type or Die.” That pretty much sums it up.

Young vs. new

First Person, Follow Up

A reader follows up about [yesterday’s post](http://johnaugust.com/archives/2011/looking-for-more-first-people):

> Just wondering if you meant “young women directors,” or “NEWCOMER women directors.” Because of course women have been so underrepresented, many of the new ones aren’t young in years anymore. And there’s nothing ageist in any of the other categories.

I meant young. I’m curious about the experience of women who make films in their late teens and early 20s. We hear a lot about the equivalent male directors, enough that the occasional distaff exception (e.g. Lena Dunham) is genuinely newsworthy.

But the point is well-taken: “young” is often used in Hollywood when “new,” “green” or “inexpensive” would be better choices.

This actually happened, I swear, at lunch in 2001:

FAMOUS PRODUCER

Let’s see, what else. Oh! We just got the rights to (interesting project).

ME

I saw that in the trades. Congrats.

FAMOUS PRODUCER

Studio’s really excited. They see it as a franchise. Starting to look for a writer.

ME

It’s a tough one. It’s out there. I think I’ve seen every episode.

FAMOUS PRODUCER

(realizing)

Oh, you’d be great. Obviously. But I think we’re going for a younger writer.

A beat.

ME (V.O.)

I’m thirty.

The producer meant “less expensive.” Mostly.

Since a screenwriter’s price tends to rise with his credits, and it takes years to build those credits, young writers tend to be cheaper. They’re paid less because they have less of a track record.

In a moment of unusual candor, the producer could have said, “We’re looking for an inexperienced writer — or better yet, a team — with maybe one produced credit who will work tirelessly and bend to the studio’s will, without complaint, all for right around scale.”

But she didn’t say that. She said, “young.”