Actors and critics often target a script out for praise, and will laud the writer or writer/director for his screenwriting skill. (The actors are talking about their specific roles while the critics are referring to the dialogue.) This script then gets nominated for awards, maybe even an Oscar, and possibly even a win. And so, as soon as it becomes available on-line, or maybe a friend gets his hands on a copy, we are eager to read the screenplay to soak up its insightful skill and craft.
Disappointment kicks in, then frustration. The script is all right, nothing special, okay. The new writer is thinking: “my script is easily better than this, how did this attract so much attention and win so many awards? There’s hope for me and my scripts yet.” The new writer may have a point but what they’re missing are two crucial aspects of the script: 1) its invisible qualities of story regarding characters and narrative momentum; 2) the visual dramatisation and performance of the piece that makes it a successful film.
The disappointment and frustration a new writer feels towards the script is understandable but it usually relates to screenwriting style (and so-called screenwriting rules) rather than actual story content. This is what is ultimately more important than rules and regulations about how a screenplay should be written. Most new writers, and some script readers, will get their knickers in a twist about format, drab writing style and general screenwriting no-nos without really assessing what the characters and story are doing around the writer’s misguided presentation.
It is certainly important to strive for an expert grasp on style and craft, and it’s definitely disappointing to read lazy writing in a professional’s work, but it’s the story that matters underneath it all. I’ve been suitably engaged in the emotion and drama of badly written screenplays. While this sounds like a paradox, the “badly written” term relates to the writer’s style and presentation rather than the emotional weight of their characters and the dramatic value of their story.
However, it should be pointed out that these scripts are rare. As a script reader, you have to keep an open mind that the writer is going to do okay, and because script reading can be a soul destroying process at times, it is difficult to maintain this optimism when the first thirty pages or so feel like you’re wading through thick-sludge.
The other day I was reading a script from an Oscar-nominated writer, and it wasn’t very good. In the first twenty pages, a lot of the scenes started like this:
“EXT. OCEAN. DAY
We see a perfectly still ocean that stretches out before us. It is a beautiful day. Not a cloud in the sky. It’s June and summer’s at it’s (sic) peak. A swimmer splashes in the sea and comes into view. This is MARY. She’s twenty, got a good sense of humour and is enjoying the inhibition of life that her age gives her.”
General screenwriting advice tells us to avoid “We see”, “It is” and “This is” because it allows for lazy and convenient description. Actually, the use of these terms is fine but they should be limited so that you don’t over rely on their safety crutch. (My personal rule of thumb is that there should be no more than two instances of these terms in a script.)
But in this particular script, a lot of the scenes started in this way. The “We see” usually came immediately after the slugline, proceeded by “it is” and then the introduction of a character, “this is”, and their basic characterisation. As I progressed with the script, I tried to stem my feelings of annoyance and frustration that an Oscar-nominated writer should indulge in such lazy and flat description but after a while, I was drawn to the particular characterisation, action and emotions of the characters. These qualities were emerging with some interest, much better than the style and presentation of the actual description.
A perfect blend of style, craft, emotion and drama is the ideal, and obviously this is difficult to achieve. Making the reader feel distanced from your descriptive style and then making them work hard to get into the spirit of the story is not the best way to go about securing interest in your work. But if you get nominated for an Oscar, or are validated in the industry in some way, then this kind of work will always be ‘out there’. And because new writers will study these respected scripts for inspiration, it perpetuates a misleading standard in the business, thus leading to arguments, articles and blogs about the whole evolving scriptwriting process that, ultimately, will never be perfectly mastered…
Jumat, 29 September 2006
Rabu, 27 September 2006
Write What You Want
If you could make a film tomorrow - fully budgeted, top cast, guaranteed distribution - what would it be? There’s a catch. This is the only film you’ll make, as writer or writer/director. This is your cinematic legacy that you leave behind, long after you’ve departed from this mortal coil.
This is a question I sometimes ask of fellow scriptwriters. The answers are always interesting, and often revealing, because here’s the kicker: when someone responds that they’d make a comedy, or a thriller, or a sci-fi adventure, you then ask them what they’re writing now or what’s in their portfolio. And, surprise, there isn’t a comedy, or a thriller, or a sci-fi adventure amongst them.
So, what’s your ideal film? Is it one of your existing scripts? Or is it the project in your brain that you are gearing up for, the one you’re developing your craft for; honing your skill for the “big story” that will wow people’s socks off and guarantee you all the career, fame and moolah that you’ve ever dreamed of?
What films do you most enjoy watching? And do these correspond with your existing screenplay efforts? Or are you surprised to find that what you write is completely different in tone and genre than what you watch at the cinema?
If yes, why is this? Should you be writing what you enjoy at the flicks or should you be writing “what you know” in an attempt to impress people with your original voice?
It’s tricky. New writers are always told to write original pieces because producers are looking for fresh voices but the market is looking for genre-fare, and this is what new writers favour because that’s what excites them about cinema in the first place.
Where do you go? What do you do? Where do you start?
Maybe the advice of “write what you know” should be “write what you want”. This means that instead of misinterpreting “write what you know” as encouragement to scribble a semi-autobiography of your dull existence, you should “write what you want” and tell the story that burns in your brain, the one that’s itching to be told regardless of taste, decency, tone, genre, audience expectation, whatever.
“Write what you want” means finding the passion and energy with the ideas that excite you, and the characters that you think are worth exploring. If it ends up a script that is too hot to handle, that’s fine, because ironically it will serve as a fiercely original and compelling “writing sample” that will open doors for commissioned work from TV and/or film.
This isn’t meant to encourage controversial topics just for the sake of it. What we’re after is original, interesting, lively, entertaining, comedic and compelling stories, no matter what their guise, no matter what their genre. And this can only come from you, rather than any ‘how to’ book or ’48 steps to the perfect genre script’. Write what you want, but write it well, with passion and conviction, and everything else will follow.
This is a question I sometimes ask of fellow scriptwriters. The answers are always interesting, and often revealing, because here’s the kicker: when someone responds that they’d make a comedy, or a thriller, or a sci-fi adventure, you then ask them what they’re writing now or what’s in their portfolio. And, surprise, there isn’t a comedy, or a thriller, or a sci-fi adventure amongst them.
So, what’s your ideal film? Is it one of your existing scripts? Or is it the project in your brain that you are gearing up for, the one you’re developing your craft for; honing your skill for the “big story” that will wow people’s socks off and guarantee you all the career, fame and moolah that you’ve ever dreamed of?
What films do you most enjoy watching? And do these correspond with your existing screenplay efforts? Or are you surprised to find that what you write is completely different in tone and genre than what you watch at the cinema?
If yes, why is this? Should you be writing what you enjoy at the flicks or should you be writing “what you know” in an attempt to impress people with your original voice?
It’s tricky. New writers are always told to write original pieces because producers are looking for fresh voices but the market is looking for genre-fare, and this is what new writers favour because that’s what excites them about cinema in the first place.
Where do you go? What do you do? Where do you start?
Maybe the advice of “write what you know” should be “write what you want”. This means that instead of misinterpreting “write what you know” as encouragement to scribble a semi-autobiography of your dull existence, you should “write what you want” and tell the story that burns in your brain, the one that’s itching to be told regardless of taste, decency, tone, genre, audience expectation, whatever.
“Write what you want” means finding the passion and energy with the ideas that excite you, and the characters that you think are worth exploring. If it ends up a script that is too hot to handle, that’s fine, because ironically it will serve as a fiercely original and compelling “writing sample” that will open doors for commissioned work from TV and/or film.
This isn’t meant to encourage controversial topics just for the sake of it. What we’re after is original, interesting, lively, entertaining, comedic and compelling stories, no matter what their guise, no matter what their genre. And this can only come from you, rather than any ‘how to’ book or ’48 steps to the perfect genre script’. Write what you want, but write it well, with passion and conviction, and everything else will follow.
Selasa, 26 September 2006
Story Vault: Sketches & Sitcoms
A bit under the weather this week as I've been inexplicably hit by a head-cold which sounds incredibly wimpish, I know, but it's not exactly conducive to a routine that involves reading and writing. Even slouching off and watching TV is difficult when all you want to do is sleep and blow your nose every five minutes. It's my birthday on Thursday too - 35, rock - so I want to ensure that I'm fully fit for my day (read: weekend) of indulgence.
And so, as it's a quiet week, here's another post from the Story Vault archives, taken from November last year, about writing sketches and sitcoms. Although, for those of you who still ask 'how do I become a script reader?', then you might want to check out this post here.
---
Q: I have just written my first attempt at a sitcom - what should I do?
It's great that you've written a sitcom pilot - they're really hard to write - but I think the best advice I could give is to write a half dozen really good sketches to impress potential comedy producers/commissioning editors.
If you'd like to get work writing comedy, this is the best way to go about it. Sitcom scripts are so notoriously difficult to get right, they're unlikely to be looked on very favourably (because so many aren't very good). Sketches, not sitcom pilots, are the currency of the comedy market, especially for new writers. If you can impress and be funny in a few sketches, then you'll get work on sketch shows for radio & TV which will then lead to the holy grail: writing the sitcom.
So many sitcoms rely on the characters and their effective characterisation for most of the humour to work, that’s why sitcom pilots are so hard to gauge if they’re any good or not. A quality gag will always help but it’s very subjective and most jokes we’ll have heard before. Generally, the comedy generates itself from the characters and the situation they find themselves in (a situation that’s usually opposed to the characters’ normal routine).
Check out James Henry's blog . He's part of the writing team for Green Wing and he explains how he got the gig (through a sitcom competition I think but after he won that, he was commissioned to write sketches for Smack the Pony before landing Green Wing - both shows are produced by TalkBack).
James has written a very good comedy pilot called Romeo Loves Jools which you can read on his website. Also check out the Bearded Ladies’ blog. They’re a sketch group currently going through the comedy ranks - expect to see them with their own TV show soon. And the BBC have tips about getting started in comedy here.
I worked for Caroline Leddy at Channel 4 back in the late 90s (bloody hell where has it gone?) and I watched her commission Smack the Pony, Chris Morris, The Book Group (not to mention Spaced, fab, and Black Books, also fab, got to work on it). She’s Head of Comedy and Film now and she oversees the department’s Comedy Lab initiative.
As far as I’m aware, the Comedy Lab is still bubbling away. It’s a strand where they're willing to give new writers a break with more original or alternative fare. Still, unless your script is comedy gold, it's best not to submit directly by yourself. Attach your project with a production company first, preferably one of the regulars like TalkBack, Hat Trick or Objective, and your script will have a much better chance of getting through.
When I worked in the comedy department we received a lot of sitcom scripts that were 99% dire (no real understanding of the genre and very far from funny) while those who submitted sketches usually failed to raise a smile because they were sloppy or immature attempts at humour that only drunken friends could appreciate. Those that were clearly laid out in a professional format and had a proper gag or joke within the first page or so were instantly recognised and called in or referred to someone else. But these were literally 1% of the submissions, very few indeed.
So, it’s best to write about a half dozen really good sketches (which is better than a dozen mediocre ones) and then send them to leading comedy producers like the production companies mentioned above. If they're any good, truly, you'll be called in or referred to someone who can give you work and then develop your career so you can eventually write that sitcom. Radio 2, Radio 4 and BBC7 also have regular opportunities for comedy writers (Radio 4 is the usual breeding ground for all the comedy talent we know and love today).
Also, it’s probably worth mentioning that most comedy scripts are commissioned on a comedian’s work or reputation, not a writer’s. TV comedy likes to deal with performers and comedians who can translate their humour and presence to the small screen. That’s why the Edinburgh Festival is such a hotbed of activity for deals and pick ups (whoever wins the Perrier Award usually gets a TV pilot at least). That’s what comedy writers are up against but if it burns in your soul, then there’s no reason why you can’t be the next Graham Linehan, Arthur Mathews or David Renwick - people who let their comedy genius do the talking.
“Dying is easy. Writing comedy is hard.”
And so, as it's a quiet week, here's another post from the Story Vault archives, taken from November last year, about writing sketches and sitcoms. Although, for those of you who still ask 'how do I become a script reader?', then you might want to check out this post here.
---
Q: I have just written my first attempt at a sitcom - what should I do?
It's great that you've written a sitcom pilot - they're really hard to write - but I think the best advice I could give is to write a half dozen really good sketches to impress potential comedy producers/commissioning editors.
If you'd like to get work writing comedy, this is the best way to go about it. Sitcom scripts are so notoriously difficult to get right, they're unlikely to be looked on very favourably (because so many aren't very good). Sketches, not sitcom pilots, are the currency of the comedy market, especially for new writers. If you can impress and be funny in a few sketches, then you'll get work on sketch shows for radio & TV which will then lead to the holy grail: writing the sitcom.
So many sitcoms rely on the characters and their effective characterisation for most of the humour to work, that’s why sitcom pilots are so hard to gauge if they’re any good or not. A quality gag will always help but it’s very subjective and most jokes we’ll have heard before. Generally, the comedy generates itself from the characters and the situation they find themselves in (a situation that’s usually opposed to the characters’ normal routine).
Check out James Henry's blog . He's part of the writing team for Green Wing and he explains how he got the gig (through a sitcom competition I think but after he won that, he was commissioned to write sketches for Smack the Pony before landing Green Wing - both shows are produced by TalkBack).
James has written a very good comedy pilot called Romeo Loves Jools which you can read on his website. Also check out the Bearded Ladies’ blog. They’re a sketch group currently going through the comedy ranks - expect to see them with their own TV show soon. And the BBC have tips about getting started in comedy here.
I worked for Caroline Leddy at Channel 4 back in the late 90s (bloody hell where has it gone?) and I watched her commission Smack the Pony, Chris Morris, The Book Group (not to mention Spaced, fab, and Black Books, also fab, got to work on it). She’s Head of Comedy and Film now and she oversees the department’s Comedy Lab initiative.
As far as I’m aware, the Comedy Lab is still bubbling away. It’s a strand where they're willing to give new writers a break with more original or alternative fare. Still, unless your script is comedy gold, it's best not to submit directly by yourself. Attach your project with a production company first, preferably one of the regulars like TalkBack, Hat Trick or Objective, and your script will have a much better chance of getting through.
When I worked in the comedy department we received a lot of sitcom scripts that were 99% dire (no real understanding of the genre and very far from funny) while those who submitted sketches usually failed to raise a smile because they were sloppy or immature attempts at humour that only drunken friends could appreciate. Those that were clearly laid out in a professional format and had a proper gag or joke within the first page or so were instantly recognised and called in or referred to someone else. But these were literally 1% of the submissions, very few indeed.
So, it’s best to write about a half dozen really good sketches (which is better than a dozen mediocre ones) and then send them to leading comedy producers like the production companies mentioned above. If they're any good, truly, you'll be called in or referred to someone who can give you work and then develop your career so you can eventually write that sitcom. Radio 2, Radio 4 and BBC7 also have regular opportunities for comedy writers (Radio 4 is the usual breeding ground for all the comedy talent we know and love today).
Also, it’s probably worth mentioning that most comedy scripts are commissioned on a comedian’s work or reputation, not a writer’s. TV comedy likes to deal with performers and comedians who can translate their humour and presence to the small screen. That’s why the Edinburgh Festival is such a hotbed of activity for deals and pick ups (whoever wins the Perrier Award usually gets a TV pilot at least). That’s what comedy writers are up against but if it burns in your soul, then there’s no reason why you can’t be the next Graham Linehan, Arthur Mathews or David Renwick - people who let their comedy genius do the talking.
“Dying is easy. Writing comedy is hard.”
Jumat, 22 September 2006
Note to Reader
Terry Gilliam’s flawed brilliance and offbeat sense of creativity has provided us with some absolute gems: Brazil, The Fisher King, Twelve Monkeys. Even his films that misfire at the box office give us some intriguing moments because of his idiosyncratic style and loose regard for conventional narrative structure: Baron Munchausen, Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas, The Brothers Grimm.
His latest film, Tideland, promises all of the quirk and style of a Gilliam classic. The basic pitch goes like this: based on the book by Mitch Cullin, this is ‘Alice in Wonderland’ meets ‘Psycho’ as a young girl must fend for herself when her parents die of a drug overdose. So, with some anticipation, I settled down in the Poole Lighthouse cinema the other night to enjoy the viewing experience.
Immediately, my heart sank. Before the film begins, Terry Gilliam himself appears on screen and he starts to explain the nature of the story, and asks the audience to keep an open mind. ‘Some of you will love it, some of you will hate it, but at least at the very end, it will have made you think… And don’t forget to laugh. Thank you, thank you, thank you.’ Oh no. Why on earth has he felt the need to qualify his film to an audience that’s already paid to see it?
The film starts. After five minutes, I know I’m not going to like it. Ten minutes later, I’m bored. Half an hour into the story and it’s given me a headache because of its bleak tone and stuttering sense of pace. With an hour to go, I can’t wait for it to end. According to Mr Gilliam, I’m in the “you will hate it” camp. And I did. I hated it. I kept an open mind. It didn’t make me laugh, and it didn’t make me think. It just made me feel: what a waste. And if this was from a first time filmmaker then all it could hope for would be cult appreciation on the festival circuit.
Terry Gilliam broke a cardinal rule of filmmaking. He appeared on screen to appeal to the audience’s sense of taste and intelligence. It’s a dodgy tactic because by doing so you risk alienating the audience with the very words you hope will help them enjoy the film.
In spec scripts, this happens quite a lot. It’s the ‘note to reader’. What happens is this: script reader looks at his pile of scripts and groans. Hopefully one of these will lighten up the day. The first script is nabbed from the top and after the title page, there is another segment of the screenplay before the story starts proper:
“Dear Esteemed Reader or Charming Exec, I know you have a lot to get through today but the script you are about to read is, I believe, a work of pure genius. It employs an unconventional narrative structure, breaking down the barriers of the three-act template with astonishing style, and the point-of-view changes half way through to show the remainder of the film from the wife's eyes. It’s different, so you should think outside of the box while you’re reading, and you’ll love it.”
Already, the reader is thinking of dumping the script into the bin but he has to read the screenplay in its entirety so he ploughs on regardless. And lo and behold, the story is absolute garbage. The “unconventional narrative structure” turns out to be tangential and misguided shifts into unresolved plotlines and forgotten story strands. The change of point-of-view is usually an indication that it should have been told from the wife's perspective all along, and the quirky elements are oddball inclusions that have no comedic or dramatic value whatsoever. The barriers of the three-act template have been shattered all right, but all in the wrong way.
Now, does the reader’s dislike for the material originate from the writer’s note at the beginning? It certainly doesn't help. It’s not right to try to tell people what they should think and feel about the story. A reader, and especially an audience at the cinema, is willing to go that mile with you by experiencing the story first-hand, so there’s no need to flag attention to how you feel everyone should be emotionally prepared for what’s in store. It’s condescending and insults their intelligence.
Terry Gilliam’s “disclaimer appeal” at the beginning of Tideland was disconcerting but I tried to put it out of my head in order to enjoy the film for what it was. Unfortunately, the story didn’t engage me on any level, and I wonder if Mr Gilliam hadn’t forewarned us at the start, would I have felt the same way?
Note to readers and appeals to audiences are a no-go area for writers and directors. You’ve written your script and/or made your film. They represent your feelings and intentions, and you hope an audience will appreciate the story. You don’t need to ask them for favours before they settle down to watch the show.
I attended a short film screening once and the directors were asked to say a few words before their film was shown. One director stood up and said: "I'm not going to talk about it. That's why I made the film, so it could speak for itself". At the time, I thought he was a ponce - he was only asked for an introduction for pete's sake - but after his film was over, it was clear he had made a good point. (By the way, a director making an introduction to his film in front of a live audience is great, it's the 'disclaimer appeal' that's a no-no.)
REMINDER: If you've got a question about script reading or scriptwriting, then don't be shy, ask away! Also, if you'd like to write for the blog in a guest post, like this, or this, then email me with your article...
His latest film, Tideland, promises all of the quirk and style of a Gilliam classic. The basic pitch goes like this: based on the book by Mitch Cullin, this is ‘Alice in Wonderland’ meets ‘Psycho’ as a young girl must fend for herself when her parents die of a drug overdose. So, with some anticipation, I settled down in the Poole Lighthouse cinema the other night to enjoy the viewing experience.
Immediately, my heart sank. Before the film begins, Terry Gilliam himself appears on screen and he starts to explain the nature of the story, and asks the audience to keep an open mind. ‘Some of you will love it, some of you will hate it, but at least at the very end, it will have made you think… And don’t forget to laugh. Thank you, thank you, thank you.’ Oh no. Why on earth has he felt the need to qualify his film to an audience that’s already paid to see it?
The film starts. After five minutes, I know I’m not going to like it. Ten minutes later, I’m bored. Half an hour into the story and it’s given me a headache because of its bleak tone and stuttering sense of pace. With an hour to go, I can’t wait for it to end. According to Mr Gilliam, I’m in the “you will hate it” camp. And I did. I hated it. I kept an open mind. It didn’t make me laugh, and it didn’t make me think. It just made me feel: what a waste. And if this was from a first time filmmaker then all it could hope for would be cult appreciation on the festival circuit.
Terry Gilliam broke a cardinal rule of filmmaking. He appeared on screen to appeal to the audience’s sense of taste and intelligence. It’s a dodgy tactic because by doing so you risk alienating the audience with the very words you hope will help them enjoy the film.
In spec scripts, this happens quite a lot. It’s the ‘note to reader’. What happens is this: script reader looks at his pile of scripts and groans. Hopefully one of these will lighten up the day. The first script is nabbed from the top and after the title page, there is another segment of the screenplay before the story starts proper:
“Dear Esteemed Reader or Charming Exec, I know you have a lot to get through today but the script you are about to read is, I believe, a work of pure genius. It employs an unconventional narrative structure, breaking down the barriers of the three-act template with astonishing style, and the point-of-view changes half way through to show the remainder of the film from the wife's eyes. It’s different, so you should think outside of the box while you’re reading, and you’ll love it.”
Already, the reader is thinking of dumping the script into the bin but he has to read the screenplay in its entirety so he ploughs on regardless. And lo and behold, the story is absolute garbage. The “unconventional narrative structure” turns out to be tangential and misguided shifts into unresolved plotlines and forgotten story strands. The change of point-of-view is usually an indication that it should have been told from the wife's perspective all along, and the quirky elements are oddball inclusions that have no comedic or dramatic value whatsoever. The barriers of the three-act template have been shattered all right, but all in the wrong way.
Now, does the reader’s dislike for the material originate from the writer’s note at the beginning? It certainly doesn't help. It’s not right to try to tell people what they should think and feel about the story. A reader, and especially an audience at the cinema, is willing to go that mile with you by experiencing the story first-hand, so there’s no need to flag attention to how you feel everyone should be emotionally prepared for what’s in store. It’s condescending and insults their intelligence.
Terry Gilliam’s “disclaimer appeal” at the beginning of Tideland was disconcerting but I tried to put it out of my head in order to enjoy the film for what it was. Unfortunately, the story didn’t engage me on any level, and I wonder if Mr Gilliam hadn’t forewarned us at the start, would I have felt the same way?
Note to readers and appeals to audiences are a no-go area for writers and directors. You’ve written your script and/or made your film. They represent your feelings and intentions, and you hope an audience will appreciate the story. You don’t need to ask them for favours before they settle down to watch the show.
I attended a short film screening once and the directors were asked to say a few words before their film was shown. One director stood up and said: "I'm not going to talk about it. That's why I made the film, so it could speak for itself". At the time, I thought he was a ponce - he was only asked for an introduction for pete's sake - but after his film was over, it was clear he had made a good point. (By the way, a director making an introduction to his film in front of a live audience is great, it's the 'disclaimer appeal' that's a no-no.)
REMINDER: If you've got a question about script reading or scriptwriting, then don't be shy, ask away! Also, if you'd like to write for the blog in a guest post, like this, or this, then email me with your article...
Rabu, 20 September 2006
Talking the Talk
Ever have a conversation with yourself inside your head? Y’know, when you’re fighting with your friend or partner, and you imagine how your next conversation is going to pan out: “I didn’t sleep with her! I merely suggested that she was attractive.” “Oh, how do you expect me to react to that??” “There’s no reaction needed, that’s the point! I love you!” “Oh, well,that’s okay then…c’mere” (big hug).
This is called transtalk * when you imagine a conversation you’re going to have (or replay one that’s just finished) and line up the perfect dialogue and reaction that typically favours yourself in the exchange. Of course, most of the imaginary dialogue will be with someone you know quite well, so you’re basing their reaction on how you perceive their characterisation, and how they feel about you. In your head, the conversation plays to your corner, and you end up being the victor. More importantly, you save those nuggets of rapport for the next time you see them in order to wow them with your scathing insight or added argument.
Pitching is a lot like this. You spend a lot of time mumbling to yourself, outlining the way you’re going to talk and pitch, and you imagine their reactions so you can have the perfect response or idea at hand to impress them at the meeting. In your head, it goes great, but just like transtalk, the reality of the exchange immediately goes into an unforeseen tangent.
This tangent throws your line of thinking and all of a sudden, your carefully prepared dialogue seems inappropriate or clunky or contrived. As you begin to talk, your body becomes all too aware of itself. Your posture. Hands moving. Their looks towards you. Even the physical sensation of your lips moving to impart your voice seems to be incongruous in some way. It’s like you’ve stepped out of your body and are watching the show thinking: “who is that guy??”
Don’t worry though. Tangents are good. They’re your friend. Pitches frighten us because it’s a professional meeting where a certain level of preparation and presentation is expected. It’s naturally nerve-wracking. However, it’s okay to slip into that tangent that the exec has thrown because you will know all the key details of your story, and it’s about getting that across in the best way possible. Relaxed and informal is your best bet. Go with the flow.
If the exec is chatting about football and the pitch hasn’t started yet, simply try to segue the conversation into your pitch. This way you can begin your spiel with a natural ease rather than waiting for the ‘go’ from him. The best pitches occur when you’re not even called in to pitch, i.e. you’re completely unprepared. They’ve read your spec, like your work, and would like to meet. You shake hands, have the diet coke, a nice chat and then the question: “so what are you working on now?” or “what else have you got?” “Oh, I’m tinkering with a sci-fi thriller at the moment, nearly done with that”. “Yeah, what’s it about?”
“What’s it about?” The bastard. Now it’s a pitch. But it doesn’t feel like a pitch. A casual and easygoing tone has been established because of the friendly meet, and even though you don’t have any witty one-liners or succinct phrases at hand to explain your project, your pitch goes surprisingly well because the brain has automatically attached itself to what the story is and what it’s about. Hey, your natural witty nature has even come up with a few amusing asides. Shake hands, leave office and go for a drink. (The fact that you will never hear from the exec gain is beside the point.)
Over-preparation for pitches can stymie us with our words and expression because we get nervous standing in front of the suit. A good knowledge of your characters and story will get you through because your natural communicative instincts will dreg up the salient details in a neat and inviting fashion. Save the transtalk for the arguments at home.
* not a real word
This is called transtalk * when you imagine a conversation you’re going to have (or replay one that’s just finished) and line up the perfect dialogue and reaction that typically favours yourself in the exchange. Of course, most of the imaginary dialogue will be with someone you know quite well, so you’re basing their reaction on how you perceive their characterisation, and how they feel about you. In your head, the conversation plays to your corner, and you end up being the victor. More importantly, you save those nuggets of rapport for the next time you see them in order to wow them with your scathing insight or added argument.
Pitching is a lot like this. You spend a lot of time mumbling to yourself, outlining the way you’re going to talk and pitch, and you imagine their reactions so you can have the perfect response or idea at hand to impress them at the meeting. In your head, it goes great, but just like transtalk, the reality of the exchange immediately goes into an unforeseen tangent.
This tangent throws your line of thinking and all of a sudden, your carefully prepared dialogue seems inappropriate or clunky or contrived. As you begin to talk, your body becomes all too aware of itself. Your posture. Hands moving. Their looks towards you. Even the physical sensation of your lips moving to impart your voice seems to be incongruous in some way. It’s like you’ve stepped out of your body and are watching the show thinking: “who is that guy??”
Don’t worry though. Tangents are good. They’re your friend. Pitches frighten us because it’s a professional meeting where a certain level of preparation and presentation is expected. It’s naturally nerve-wracking. However, it’s okay to slip into that tangent that the exec has thrown because you will know all the key details of your story, and it’s about getting that across in the best way possible. Relaxed and informal is your best bet. Go with the flow.
If the exec is chatting about football and the pitch hasn’t started yet, simply try to segue the conversation into your pitch. This way you can begin your spiel with a natural ease rather than waiting for the ‘go’ from him. The best pitches occur when you’re not even called in to pitch, i.e. you’re completely unprepared. They’ve read your spec, like your work, and would like to meet. You shake hands, have the diet coke, a nice chat and then the question: “so what are you working on now?” or “what else have you got?” “Oh, I’m tinkering with a sci-fi thriller at the moment, nearly done with that”. “Yeah, what’s it about?”
“What’s it about?” The bastard. Now it’s a pitch. But it doesn’t feel like a pitch. A casual and easygoing tone has been established because of the friendly meet, and even though you don’t have any witty one-liners or succinct phrases at hand to explain your project, your pitch goes surprisingly well because the brain has automatically attached itself to what the story is and what it’s about. Hey, your natural witty nature has even come up with a few amusing asides. Shake hands, leave office and go for a drink. (The fact that you will never hear from the exec gain is beside the point.)
Over-preparation for pitches can stymie us with our words and expression because we get nervous standing in front of the suit. A good knowledge of your characters and story will get you through because your natural communicative instincts will dreg up the salient details in a neat and inviting fashion. Save the transtalk for the arguments at home.
* not a real word
Senin, 18 September 2006
Blogging Apocalypse
The purpose of this blog has been mainly to give a practical and realistic insight into what it’s like trying to maintain a career as a scriptwriter (and script reader) in the UK. Well, friends, we need blog no more as Tim Clague, the Bafta nominated writer/director (and Bournemouth legend), has come up with the perfect diagram summation of The Scriptwriter’s Life.
Basically, Tim’s diagram (and I’m not usually a fan of illustrations of this type) highlights the key areas in which a scriptwriter, whether he be amateur or professional, should be spending his time. Everything from the personal, professional to heck, the down right spiritual: what you need to be reading, researching and writing in your goal to become a professional scribe.
Check it out.
Print it off.
And post it over your computer.
All other blogs are now redundant.*
* but we’ll keep going anyway.
Basically, Tim’s diagram (and I’m not usually a fan of illustrations of this type) highlights the key areas in which a scriptwriter, whether he be amateur or professional, should be spending his time. Everything from the personal, professional to heck, the down right spiritual: what you need to be reading, researching and writing in your goal to become a professional scribe.
Check it out.
Print it off.
And post it over your computer.
All other blogs are now redundant.*
* but we’ll keep going anyway.
Kamis, 14 September 2006
Unique Ideas
While I was at Channel 4, we used to get about 20-30 spec submissions a week. We accepted unsolicited material (don’t know why) and promised to respond within six weeks of submission (not always true). I opened the post, logged the scripts (title, writer, date received) and then sent them to our script readers for their assessment (we used around four readers).
Generally, the scripts were sitcom pilots (we were the comedy department after all) while some were comedy-dramas and the remainder were sketches (some written on cardboard!). When the readers’ reports came back to me, I would type up rejection letters using some snippets of the coverage as a specific reason for refusal. Sometimes I’d skim some of the scripts just in case they had any promise or glint of hope. Then I’d put all the scripts and rejection letters on my bosses’ desks and they would read the reports, read my rejection letter, and then sign the letter or amend as they see fit.
Anyway, we could always rely on a few similar or regular ideas popping up in the pile. And we would routinely receive hellfire emails or damning letters threatening to sue because “Channel 4 had stolen my idea!!!” or the “BBC has nicked my exact script, word for word, so it must have been you who passed it on!”.
It’s easy to understand a writer’s frustration when one of their ideas suddenly appears on television or at the movies, and easier to empathise with their suspicion if they submitted something similar to the very same production company or broadcaster a few months before. We’ve all heard of the horror stories of producers/Hollywood/your gran nicking your blockbuster idea for themselves (ok, maybe not your gran) but in reality, how often is this true?
How original is your original idea? Could you really have come up with a concept so unique and distinctive that no-one on this Earth could have imagined something similar? And why would a producer/commissioning editor deliberately risk being sued by stealing your idea in the first place? It’d be easier to pay you a low fee (as you’re a new writer) and then kick you off the project. And producers regularly inform us: “please do not send us any unsolicited material. We can’t read them because you’d sue us if we did something similar.” That’s the main reason they don’t accept unsolicited stuff. The other reason is that most of it sucks-ass.
In the comedy spec pile, the most frequent sitcoms that we received were:
1. Flatshare sitcoms. Most were derivative and unfunny. The ones that were fresh and original and funny were Spaced, Friends, Men Behaving Badly etc.
2. Cupid. A sitcom following cupid around doing hilarious things. Not.
3. Student/campus sitcoms.
4. God/Devil. See Cupid. Although the animated God, The Devil and Bob tried hard.
5. Extras. Someone was grumbling about Ricky Gervais’s Extras recently, saying the BBC had nicked their idea. Well guess what? Take a ticket buster. Ricky Gervais earned the right to do what he wanted after The Office, and he chose Extras, and he and Stephen Merchant stamped their unique voice all over a familiar concept.
6. The Gay Friend/Straight Friend relationship sitcom. This emerged as a hot new trend towards the late 90s so some scripts had spark and interest. Then along came Will & Grace and that was the end of that. Also, see flatshare sitcoms.
7. Flatshare sitcoms. Did I say that already?
8. Funeral parlour sitcoms. “Putting the *fun* into funeral!” A funeral sitcom did make it on to BBC2 a few years ago I believe. I can’t remember the name of it. I think C4 had the script while I was there. It wasn’t great but it had comic talent attached, so that gave it some leeway.
9. The Mismatched Couple. See Gay Friend/Straight Friend sitcom.
10. Flatshare sitcoms.
So, next time you get in a strop about C4’s latest sitcom or BBC’s new comedy drama being EXACTLY like your script, WORD for FRICKING WORD, take a break. Relax. Breathe. And ask yourself, could it be possible that someone had a similar idea to me? Only they did it better or at least had more contacts? Hmmm. Strike it. Move on to the next brilliant original idea that no-one else could have ever dreamed of, not in a million years.
Generally, the scripts were sitcom pilots (we were the comedy department after all) while some were comedy-dramas and the remainder were sketches (some written on cardboard!). When the readers’ reports came back to me, I would type up rejection letters using some snippets of the coverage as a specific reason for refusal. Sometimes I’d skim some of the scripts just in case they had any promise or glint of hope. Then I’d put all the scripts and rejection letters on my bosses’ desks and they would read the reports, read my rejection letter, and then sign the letter or amend as they see fit.
Anyway, we could always rely on a few similar or regular ideas popping up in the pile. And we would routinely receive hellfire emails or damning letters threatening to sue because “Channel 4 had stolen my idea!!!” or the “BBC has nicked my exact script, word for word, so it must have been you who passed it on!”.
It’s easy to understand a writer’s frustration when one of their ideas suddenly appears on television or at the movies, and easier to empathise with their suspicion if they submitted something similar to the very same production company or broadcaster a few months before. We’ve all heard of the horror stories of producers/Hollywood/your gran nicking your blockbuster idea for themselves (ok, maybe not your gran) but in reality, how often is this true?
How original is your original idea? Could you really have come up with a concept so unique and distinctive that no-one on this Earth could have imagined something similar? And why would a producer/commissioning editor deliberately risk being sued by stealing your idea in the first place? It’d be easier to pay you a low fee (as you’re a new writer) and then kick you off the project. And producers regularly inform us: “please do not send us any unsolicited material. We can’t read them because you’d sue us if we did something similar.” That’s the main reason they don’t accept unsolicited stuff. The other reason is that most of it sucks-ass.
In the comedy spec pile, the most frequent sitcoms that we received were:
1. Flatshare sitcoms. Most were derivative and unfunny. The ones that were fresh and original and funny were Spaced, Friends, Men Behaving Badly etc.
2. Cupid. A sitcom following cupid around doing hilarious things. Not.
3. Student/campus sitcoms.
4. God/Devil. See Cupid. Although the animated God, The Devil and Bob tried hard.
5. Extras. Someone was grumbling about Ricky Gervais’s Extras recently, saying the BBC had nicked their idea. Well guess what? Take a ticket buster. Ricky Gervais earned the right to do what he wanted after The Office, and he chose Extras, and he and Stephen Merchant stamped their unique voice all over a familiar concept.
6. The Gay Friend/Straight Friend relationship sitcom. This emerged as a hot new trend towards the late 90s so some scripts had spark and interest. Then along came Will & Grace and that was the end of that. Also, see flatshare sitcoms.
7. Flatshare sitcoms. Did I say that already?
8. Funeral parlour sitcoms. “Putting the *fun* into funeral!” A funeral sitcom did make it on to BBC2 a few years ago I believe. I can’t remember the name of it. I think C4 had the script while I was there. It wasn’t great but it had comic talent attached, so that gave it some leeway.
9. The Mismatched Couple. See Gay Friend/Straight Friend sitcom.
10. Flatshare sitcoms.
So, next time you get in a strop about C4’s latest sitcom or BBC’s new comedy drama being EXACTLY like your script, WORD for FRICKING WORD, take a break. Relax. Breathe. And ask yourself, could it be possible that someone had a similar idea to me? Only they did it better or at least had more contacts? Hmmm. Strike it. Move on to the next brilliant original idea that no-one else could have ever dreamed of, not in a million years.
Selasa, 12 September 2006
Homage
I want to do homage but don't know how to distinguish the difference between that and plagiarism. Can you reference in romantic comedies or are there specific genres where this is acceptable? Also, if you can think of any examples who do this. I know Severance did, and also Spaced.
Homage: acknowledgement of superiority; respect, dutiful reverence (pay homage to; do homage to).
I think there are very few films that deal with homage for the entirety of their story. Homage usually presents itself in the form of an imitable style, or reference, or an influence from another film, and these references could be in the form of a line of dialogue, a particular shot/camera move or a whole scene/sequence.
Usually, when homage occurs, it is the writers or filmmakers’ personal reference to material that has heavily influenced them in their career (and personality). Homage should not be mistaken with spoof. Spoof is where you parody a certain genre or story elements for comedy value, whether it’s affectionate or scathing is up to you.
Spaced (written by Jessica Stevenson & Simon Pegg, directed by Edgar Wright) and the subsequent Shaun of the Dead (written by Simon Pegg & Edgar Wright, directed by Edgar Wright) pays homage to a lot of styles and genres. Shaun of the Dead was a comedy horror, and a very affectionate and energetic homage to the films that rock the filmmakers' world. They knew their genre inside-out, and Shaun of the Dead was their love letter to that particular style and fun.
Similarly with Quentin Tarantino, arguably all of his work is homage to the films and filmmakers that have fired his imagination and fuelled his inspiration. From Reservoir Dogs right through to Kill Bill Vol 2, QT rifles through his encyclopaedic cinematic brain to champion and copy the stories that excite him the most. Critics may pan his approach as plagiarism but there’s no denying his verve and distinctive style with these well known genres and techniques.
With Severance, it’s clear that writer James Moran and director Chris Smith have a love of the genre but they didn’t just sit back and crank out the horror-by-numbers scenario of people being picked off in the woods. They went a bit further with style and content, putting their own mark and approach on a familiar genre, and the final result makes for a deadly entertaining flick.
Plagiarism is the shameless use of other people’s work and claiming it as your own. It has nothing to do with homage. Look at Spaced, Shaun of the Dead and Severance. Plenty of homage to be enjoyed there but lots of new ideas and individual voices within that framework. There’s no blatant rip-offs or copied bits of material. It’s all to do with your own particular style and approach on something that has inspired and entertained you to want to make films in the first place.
Homage in any genre is acceptable. Lots of writers/directors put in references to their favourite scenes, dialogue or films but it could be so oblique or hidden that only they know it’s there. Homage in romantic comedy doesn’t particularly come to mind but the leading figures of the genre like Richard Curtis, Woody Allen, James L Brooks, Rob Reiner, Billy Wilder and Nora Ephron have all created iconic moments, imagery and dialogue that have invariably seeped their way into pop culture, and possibly even into other romcoms that are keen to impress.
On a subconscious level, every writer and filmmaker is paying tribute to the films and stories that have inspired them along the way. It’s probably impossible not to; we’re all influenced by our cinematic mentors and the opportunity to put in a nostalgic reference or two is hard to resist.
More deliberate attempts at homage should be an entertaining and fun experience in itself (kids’ animation films regularly homage dialogue or famous scenes from other movies so that adults get their kick too). Ideally, homage will not come at the expense of the original story that you’re trying to tell within your chosen genre. Keep it new and interesting, and the homage references will create an added benefit rather than a lazy sense of plagiarism.
Homage: acknowledgement of superiority; respect, dutiful reverence (pay homage to; do homage to).
I think there are very few films that deal with homage for the entirety of their story. Homage usually presents itself in the form of an imitable style, or reference, or an influence from another film, and these references could be in the form of a line of dialogue, a particular shot/camera move or a whole scene/sequence.
Usually, when homage occurs, it is the writers or filmmakers’ personal reference to material that has heavily influenced them in their career (and personality). Homage should not be mistaken with spoof. Spoof is where you parody a certain genre or story elements for comedy value, whether it’s affectionate or scathing is up to you.
Spaced (written by Jessica Stevenson & Simon Pegg, directed by Edgar Wright) and the subsequent Shaun of the Dead (written by Simon Pegg & Edgar Wright, directed by Edgar Wright) pays homage to a lot of styles and genres. Shaun of the Dead was a comedy horror, and a very affectionate and energetic homage to the films that rock the filmmakers' world. They knew their genre inside-out, and Shaun of the Dead was their love letter to that particular style and fun.
Similarly with Quentin Tarantino, arguably all of his work is homage to the films and filmmakers that have fired his imagination and fuelled his inspiration. From Reservoir Dogs right through to Kill Bill Vol 2, QT rifles through his encyclopaedic cinematic brain to champion and copy the stories that excite him the most. Critics may pan his approach as plagiarism but there’s no denying his verve and distinctive style with these well known genres and techniques.
With Severance, it’s clear that writer James Moran and director Chris Smith have a love of the genre but they didn’t just sit back and crank out the horror-by-numbers scenario of people being picked off in the woods. They went a bit further with style and content, putting their own mark and approach on a familiar genre, and the final result makes for a deadly entertaining flick.
Plagiarism is the shameless use of other people’s work and claiming it as your own. It has nothing to do with homage. Look at Spaced, Shaun of the Dead and Severance. Plenty of homage to be enjoyed there but lots of new ideas and individual voices within that framework. There’s no blatant rip-offs or copied bits of material. It’s all to do with your own particular style and approach on something that has inspired and entertained you to want to make films in the first place.
Homage in any genre is acceptable. Lots of writers/directors put in references to their favourite scenes, dialogue or films but it could be so oblique or hidden that only they know it’s there. Homage in romantic comedy doesn’t particularly come to mind but the leading figures of the genre like Richard Curtis, Woody Allen, James L Brooks, Rob Reiner, Billy Wilder and Nora Ephron have all created iconic moments, imagery and dialogue that have invariably seeped their way into pop culture, and possibly even into other romcoms that are keen to impress.
On a subconscious level, every writer and filmmaker is paying tribute to the films and stories that have inspired them along the way. It’s probably impossible not to; we’re all influenced by our cinematic mentors and the opportunity to put in a nostalgic reference or two is hard to resist.
More deliberate attempts at homage should be an entertaining and fun experience in itself (kids’ animation films regularly homage dialogue or famous scenes from other movies so that adults get their kick too). Ideally, homage will not come at the expense of the original story that you’re trying to tell within your chosen genre. Keep it new and interesting, and the homage references will create an added benefit rather than a lazy sense of plagiarism.
Minggu, 10 September 2006
Back to Work
Hello friends and neighbours. It’s good to be back. Here’s a quick round-up of things that might be of interest before normal service resumes this week.
SCRIPTS:
The long, quiet and frustrating summer is languishing in its final days now so hopefully the turnaround and response will come in soon. Still waiting to hear from EastEnders (although that’s not looking good) and Run For Home (my script with Parallel Films). Origin (my latest horror) hit a development hurdle with my producer taking a job at the Irish Film Board, leaving the project in a state of flux. However, there are alternative routes emerging for that one. Aliens FC keeps puttering away, just, and other opportunities involving another soap and a computer game (!) should come to light in September.
So far this year I’ve completed four new scripts, three of them TV pilots (two half hour & one 15 mins), and at least one of these has a good chance of development when it goes to Cartoon Forum this month. And I’ve started a new spec away from my usual comfort zone which I hope to finish by the end of the year.
OPPORTUNITY:
Channel 4 are running a competition for comedy writers. There are different levels of prizes but the best is the chance for the sketch to be performed at the Secret Policemen's ball in October. Full details HERE.
Mesh, Channel 4’s cutting edge digital and interactive animation scheme is now in its sixth year. Mesh seeks to blur the lines of distinction between disciplines and to develop talent in digital animation across all media platforms. Check out the website for full details.
And still with Channel 4, Lupus Films have been assigned to commission and acquire animation shorts for the channel. Three commissions are available, running time 3 minutes. Tone should be light hearted and narrative driven, and themes of love and family life would be ideal for the target audience they have in mind (on after the US comedies in the morning or after the midday news).
Acquisitions should have a running time between 3 and 8 minutes long, paying £250 per minute.
Send your ideas for commissioned films in the form of a short proposal (no more than an A4 sheet) with at least one design by 25th September 2006 in an enveloped marked ‘Daytime Shorts Submission’ to Lupus Films, Studio 212 Blackbull Yard, 24-28 Hatton Wall, London EC1N 8JH. If you have a completed film which fits the brief and is available for acquisition, send it on DVD by the above date to the same address.
The new UK scriptwriting competition is Make Your Mark in Film, a nationwide hunt for screenwriting talent, with up to £3,000 up for grabs. Check out the website for full details.
CELEBRATE:
Huge hurrahs for James Moran’s latest triumph with the release of Severance, and Scott the Reader will need to change his moniker to Scott the Writer after securing a semi-final spot in the revered Nicholl Fellowship in Screenwriting. No mean feat. Awesome dudes.
SCRIPTS:
The long, quiet and frustrating summer is languishing in its final days now so hopefully the turnaround and response will come in soon. Still waiting to hear from EastEnders (although that’s not looking good) and Run For Home (my script with Parallel Films). Origin (my latest horror) hit a development hurdle with my producer taking a job at the Irish Film Board, leaving the project in a state of flux. However, there are alternative routes emerging for that one. Aliens FC keeps puttering away, just, and other opportunities involving another soap and a computer game (!) should come to light in September.
So far this year I’ve completed four new scripts, three of them TV pilots (two half hour & one 15 mins), and at least one of these has a good chance of development when it goes to Cartoon Forum this month. And I’ve started a new spec away from my usual comfort zone which I hope to finish by the end of the year.
OPPORTUNITY:
Channel 4 are running a competition for comedy writers. There are different levels of prizes but the best is the chance for the sketch to be performed at the Secret Policemen's ball in October. Full details HERE.
Mesh, Channel 4’s cutting edge digital and interactive animation scheme is now in its sixth year. Mesh seeks to blur the lines of distinction between disciplines and to develop talent in digital animation across all media platforms. Check out the website for full details.
And still with Channel 4, Lupus Films have been assigned to commission and acquire animation shorts for the channel. Three commissions are available, running time 3 minutes. Tone should be light hearted and narrative driven, and themes of love and family life would be ideal for the target audience they have in mind (on after the US comedies in the morning or after the midday news).
Acquisitions should have a running time between 3 and 8 minutes long, paying £250 per minute.
Send your ideas for commissioned films in the form of a short proposal (no more than an A4 sheet) with at least one design by 25th September 2006 in an enveloped marked ‘Daytime Shorts Submission’ to Lupus Films, Studio 212 Blackbull Yard, 24-28 Hatton Wall, London EC1N 8JH. If you have a completed film which fits the brief and is available for acquisition, send it on DVD by the above date to the same address.
The new UK scriptwriting competition is Make Your Mark in Film, a nationwide hunt for screenwriting talent, with up to £3,000 up for grabs. Check out the website for full details.
CELEBRATE:
Huge hurrahs for James Moran’s latest triumph with the release of Severance, and Scott the Reader will need to change his moniker to Scott the Writer after securing a semi-final spot in the revered Nicholl Fellowship in Screenwriting. No mean feat. Awesome dudes.
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