John August

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On accents

Television

We’re in the middle of casting the two lead roles for Ops. As I [predicted](http://johnaugust.com/archives/2005/two-sides-to-the-story), the audition scenes have now become gibberish to me. The only advantage to having them so fully etched in my brain is that when an actor makes an interesting choice for a line reading, I suddenly snap back and pay attention.

The two roles are written as Americans, but Jordan and I are both more than willing to change the backstories to accommodate Britons, Australians or other nationalities. After all, almost every country has soldiers. So in addition to hiring on New York and Los Angeles casting agents, Fox was generous enough to bring on casting directors in Sydney and London. We’re getting in new tapes every few days.

Unfortunately, the overseas casting agents aren’t taking us at our word. Almost every actor is trying an American accent.

Almost every attempt fails.

Here’s the thing: If you’re an Australian actor, you can probably suppress your give-away twang, just like most Canadians can — with a lot of effort — distinguish between “about” and “a boot.” But just because you don’t sound Australian, doesn’t mean you necessarily sound American. Often, this lack of accent is worse. We can hear that something’s not quite right, but we don’t know what it is. And while we’re wondering what’s wrong, we’ve lost track of your performance.

Now, obviously, there are some cases where an international actor will simply have to try for a specific American accent, just as an American actor may need to hit a certain British dialect. But if a producer or director tells you to use your natural accent, trust him. It’s not because you suck. It’s because you’re better when you can use every part of who you are.

As a side note, two actors we met with yesterday were Americans whom I’ve only seen play British. [James Marsters](http://imdb.com/name/nm0551346/) and [Alexis Denisof](http://imdb.com/name/nm0219206/) both come from the Buffy/Angel universe. It was jarring hearing them speak, because I kept expecting the same voices I’d heard for eight seasons or so. But even more interesting was recognizing the actors’ own cadences that were the same even without the accent; on a fundamental level, Spike sounds like James Marsters.

To me, it’s further proof that actors shouldn’t dwell so much on accents, but rather focus on giving the words meaning.

Songs and production companies

QandA

questionmarkI’m pretty sure I saw you at The Groundlings on Saturday night. My girlfriend’s on a new TV show, Fox’s “The War At Home” and I attended the event with some of her costars.

I wanted to introduce myself and ask you a quick question, but then realized that a) I didn’t want to be annoying and b) you’ve set up a wonderful format for questions and answers.

Basically, is it stupid to include music cues in spec scripts? I realize the legality of it, and you don’t have full license for the song or any permission for that matter, but sometimes I feel like it really helps paint what you’re trying to convey.

Also, do you have a production company? I don’t think you do. Just curious.

— Chris
Los Angeles

You should have introduced yourself — because that wasn’t me, and it would have been awkward. Awkward stories are terrific fodder for the screenwriter.

For those who don’t know, [The Groundlings](http://www.groundlings.com/start.htm) is a comedy cult institution that for years has been a stepping stone for the performers you see on [Saturday Night Live](http://www.nbc.com/Saturday_Night_Live/) and [Mad TV](http://www.madtv.com/). My good pal [Melissa McCarthy](http://imdb.com/name/nm0565250/) is a member of Groundlings; I try to catch shows whenever I can.

But Saturday night was not one of them.

On Saturday night I was buying vodka at the Mayfair Market on Franklin, just behind [Kiefer Sutherland](http://imdb.com/name/nm0000662/), who was buying cigarettes. The vodka was for a birthday party at [Joey Lauren Adam’s](http://imdb.com/name/nm0000725/) house.

See, I can name-drop! I don’t even disguise them, unlike certain other people. Ahem.

Now, to your question. In my opinion, it’s okay to include a specific song if it’s really crucial to understanding the tone-slash-intent of the scene. But you can only do it once per script. More than that, and you’re writing liner notes.

Question #2: I don’t have a production company per se.

Like most screenwriters of a certain level, I have a [loan-out company](http://johnaugust.com/archives/2005/when-should-a-writer-become-a-corporation). I am an employee of that company, as is my assistant, Chad. But it’s not a true production company with financing and a slate of pictures in development. I probably could pull a production company deal at a specific studio, but to me, it’s not really worth it. I’d rather work with all the studios.

Curse of the Pop-In

Film Industry

flandersJosh Friedman, whose purported [screenwriting blog](http://hucksblog.blogspot.com/) is actually just an excuse to make up pseudonyms for our mutual acquaintances, recently [wrote](http://hucksblog.blogspot.com/2005/09/swimming-with-shrimps.html) about almost bailing on an assignment because he didn’t want to drive to Santa Monica.

While that may sound ridiculous to most readers, I can relate. I increasingly share his Life’s Too Short principle, particularly when it comes to dealing with westside traffic.

His attempted solution is smart, but runs into a vexing problem:

Agent’s Assistant calls Producer Friend’s Assistant and says I want to convert Santa Monica meeting to a lunch. The assistant explains that this is not possible as Producer Friend’s Fancy Boss wants to “pop his head in the meeting.”

As far as I know, “pop-ins” are strictly a Hollywood phenomenon. Basically, the powerful boss who is too busy and important to have a sit-down meeting with you has several goals with this maneuver:

1. Confirm that you are an actual person who appears sane.
2. Establish dominance over the junior executive.
3. Be able to say, “I met with Josh Friedman last week…”

Just this morning, I survived a pop-in. They’re not always bad.

But what can be very frustrating is the Pop-In That Never Comes. Here’s how it happens.

The meeting starts. You talk about the weekend’s movies. Executive says, “Fancy Boss will be popping in at some point.” You say, “Great.” You talk about the project. You make decisions. Someone takes notes. Everything is going well.

And at just the moment the meeting should be over, Executive realizes that Fancy Boss has never popped in. She goes to check on Fancy Boss, to see if he’s going to be able to stop in. Yes? No? Two minutes? How soon will he get here?

(You hear this conversation while you’re sitting in the Executive’s office, wondering why every single person in Hollywood has that big fat [CENTURY](http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0714838489/) book on her shelf.)

Executive comes back and apologizes, saying “Fancy Boss is running late, but he really wanted to meet you.” At this point, you’re officially screwed. You could demur and say that you have to get back to feed the baby (note: babies are handy excuses), but there’s no question that all the positive mojo has now been lost in a sea of awkwardness.

What usually happens is that just as you come up with your excuse, Fancy Boss swoops in, shakes your hand and then hurries away. The total encounter takes less than 30 seconds. And then you get a call later from your agent saying, “Fancy Boss said he really liked you…”

Sigh.

On friends, colleagues and jealousy

Psych 101, QandA

questionmarkWhen you were first getting started as a writer, did you meet other hopeful screenwriters? And, if so, did you grow, over time, to absolutely despise them?

Because I’m feeling this. When I first moved to LA a few years ago, I met a whole bunch of disreputable screenwriter wannabes. I made friends with them. We helped and encouraged each other. But in the last year or so, I began to grow weary of their company and their lame-ass superficial ideas. I wrote a script that landed me a fairly prestigious agent and have since gone on to have meet and greets and do all the things that other screenwriters do who haven’t yet sold a break-through script. I’ve pitched for assignments. I’ve duly submitted new scripts that haven’t yet tweaked the fancy of some mid-level studio exec. I’ve met with producers. I’ve played the whole game. I feel like I’m on the cusp.

But I’m still sort of in that netherworld between WGA-sanctioned writer and struggling wannabe. The thing is, all the struggling screenwriters I’ve grown to know in the last few years… well, truth be told, they irritate the fuck out of me now. I have no patience for them anymore. And they seem to have no patience for me. They’ve grown really demanding. It seems like for every new door that opens for me, they feel like I owe them the passcode. The secret handshake. The “in.”

What I want to know is, did you go through this? Did you, at some point, have to sort of leave your fellow strugglers behind? I don’t want to lose my friends, but at the same time, I feel like it’s really important for me to separate myself from them right now. I also feel like, if the shoe were on the other foot, they wouldn’t think twice about blowing me (and all my scripts) off. I mean, they’re calling me and asking me if I’ll send their latest script to my agents… who have only hip-pocketed me and who I can barely get on the phone as it is.

Hollywood is such a weird place. I feel like I’m still learning all the ins and outs of the politics that go with it. How have you dealt with fellow screenwriter friends who haven’t yet crossed that line, but who still count you as a friend, with all the benefits that come with that friendship? Does that make sense?

I’d really appreciate some advice.

–Jay
Los Angeles

Your letter pretty well encapsulates a lot of what I have felt, and to some degree continue to feel, about Los Angeles and the film industry.

To a surprising degree, screenwriting can be a meritocracy, where good writing (and savvy) leads to a fulfilling career. Talent and hard work are rewarded; laziness is punished. The lag between cause and effect can be frustratingly long, but there’s reason to have faith.

From your letter, it really does sound like you’re off to a good start. Congratulations. Work your ass off, land an assignment, and write the hell out of it. Then do it again, and again, and again. You’ll know you’re doing well if you’re too tired to go out drinking with your old screenwriting buddies.

Yes, I’m saying to let ’em go. Not all of them, necessarily. But it’s time to thin the herd.

I think there’s an important distinction between friends and colleagues. Here’s the single most important question to ask yourself: __Who is happy for you?__ A true friend is glad you’re finding success, without any ulterior motive for himself. Be smart: hold onto your friends. I have honest-to-goodness friends who I met the second day I arrived in Los Angeles, who will be my friends until I die.

But I also have colleagues, mostly other screenwriters, who are important to me even though they’re not really friends. With colleagues, it’s okay to feel some jealousy. Even small twinges of [schadenfreude](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Schadenfreude). Particularly at the beginning of my career, I was constantly comparing my success to their success, and it made me work that much harder. Yes, we helped each other out when we could, but the biggest help by far was by continually raising the bar, not just in the quality of our writing, but what we were able to achieve career-wise.

Most of your so-called screenwriter friends are probably fall into the “colleague” category. Some of them are definitely worth keeping in your life. Ask yourself which ones you think are actually good writers. Here’s the test: whose scripts are you genuinely excited to read? If you dread cracking open Jim’s scripts, and dread giving him notes, then you really don’t believe in him as a writer. You’re not doing him or yourself any favors keeping up the charade.

You don’t have to tell him, “Jim, buddy, I think your writing sucks.” Just be too busy to read the next draft. Say it’s too much like something you’re working on. (And remember that trading scripts works both ways. It’s not fair to ask for his notes if you’re not willing to do the same.)

Jim may think you’re an asshole. That’s his right. But the process of adding and dropping friends and colleagues isn’t unique to this business. I’m guessing you’re in your 20’s. With certainty, I could say you’d be going through the same thing no matter where you lived, or what you were doing. Things change. People move on.

What’s different about this business is the musical chairs aspect. Hollywood only “needs” a very small number of screenwriters. Maybe it’s a hundred. Maybe it’s three hundred. Whatever the figure, it’s a very small number compared to the vast legion of wannabe screenwriters in Los Angeles.

The cliche is that every waiter in LA is an actor. The truth is that every non-waiter is probably working on a screenplay. So when these aspiring screenwriters see you climbing those first few rungs of the ladder, it’s no surprise there’s some jealousy and resentment. After all, just a few months ago, you were exactly where they were.

In some ways, it’s easier to begrudge a person a little success than a lot of success. There’s a relatability, a why-not-me factor. It sucks for them. It sucks for you. Accept that and move on.

If it’s any consolation, look around at all the aspiring actors in your midst. They’re going through the exact same winnowing process, but at least you’re being judged on your words. Imagine how much more frustrating it would be to succeed or fail based on the whims of a casting director who liked your look, or felt you could stand to lose 10 pounds.