Those who rip through our darlings, scribble down notes and then disseminate our precious stories to their even sweeter-smelling bosses?

After receiving yet another ‘Thank you so much for your screenplay, we can see why you’re so enthusiastic about this story (but we just ain’t)…’ letter – have you ever wondered,

well what the hell do these readers want? Can’t they spot raw, raging talent when they read it?

Er no, not exactly. ‘Raw, raging talent’ is a little thin on the ground.

You see, recently I was a reader for a production company,

(I signed a pesky confidentiality agreement, so can’t say much more about said company except that the owner still calls Australia home, enjoys tap dancing in the shadow of Oscar and has something of the wolverine about him.).

Can’t they spot raw, raging talent when they read it?

I clocked up ‘coverage’ (fancy flick-speak for reports) for 25 feature screenplays. And man, what a rollercoaster ride it was. Bit like a movie actually. Spills, thrills – but, sadly, not too many happy endings for this reader.

You know when you see a bad movie and you think to yourself – now there’s two hours of my life I can’t get back? Imagine thinking that script after script after script.

With stories that ran the gamut from vampires and drug addicts to gay nurses in the outback – I read my fair share of crap.

But I struck gold too.

Here’s what you can do to help keep your screenplay in the latter half of that broad-ish spectrum.

Be anal with format.

I read scripts from award-winning filmmakers that were riddled with typos, double pages and stains. It’s distracting. It’s dumb. And you wouldn’t believe how common. Too perfect, never is.

I read scripts from award-winning filmmakers that were riddled with typos, double pages and stains.

Let go of the art, think business.

Your script is ultimately a business document – so make it look like one. The industry standard typeface is ‘courier’ – yes, it’s archaic, but it’s the standard, don’t reinvent the wheel – save that for your PR.

Pretend you only have limited words to play with.

Keep your pages simple. Economical. Hell, reader-friendly. And don’t knock people over the head with interminable BIG PRINT. Just because it’s big, doesn’t mean it’s clever.

Keep the sex simple.

We all know what it is, how it is. So unless gratuituous descriptions of nipples propels your plot forward, don’t waste your words. Good taste can tip over into porn very quickly – which is fine if you’re going to Mr Hefner for finance.

Look Ma, I can do the 3-Act structure.

Readers want to be entertained, but more importantly they want to trust you as a storyteller – that you know how to get from ACT 1 to ACT 3 with speed, confidence and literary flair.

The best reading experiences I had were when I realised from the first page that this writer knew what they were doing and I could just surrender and not work too hard to ‘get them’ or their story.

Readers want to be entertained, but more importantly they want to trust you as a storyteller.

But good ol’ Bill Goldman did say, nobody knows anything.

And in some (rare) cases, not all readers will know a white-hot script when they read it. But hand on my heart (and in my humble opinion), out of the scripts I covered, two, maybe three were outstanding examples of the artform.

The best scripts I read had these qualities in common –

• Big, cinematic stories
• Well observed, believable characters I cared about
• Sparse dialogue and big print
• Confident writing without trying too hard

A reader isn’t God. No, really.

You probably already know a certain amount of pixie-dust is required to make it in this sparkling business they call, ‘show’. And the reality is, it may take a few postage stamps before you find the ‘right reader’ for your work.

But take heart. Cream floats to the top. So if you really have written the next ‘Milk’ or ‘Little Miss Sunshine’, your script will get noticed – and not necessarily by a reader.

After all, isn’t that what you really, really want?

-Phyllis Foundis

Writer, media presenter — and stage diva (on hiatus) Phyllis Foundis has written and bellydanced her way to the tender age of 36. She’s been writing stories, ads, one-woman shows and to-do lists for as long as she can remember.  She loves big shower heads and loathes coriander.

photo credits:
cyberuly
Svenstorm

All new, aspiring writers must master the three act structure first.

That’s the most basic building block of screenwriting.

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At every team practice, Michael Jordan always, always, always returned to the basics – the free throw. And that’s the three act structure for us screenwriters.

It’s not enough to have seen lots of three act films and have the knowledge of how a three act structure works. You need the experience of shaping stories within a three act structure, of building tension, of molding that rising climax, and creating satisfying payoffs. That’s not easy. And I think all aspiring screenwriters should have at least 10-20 scripts under their belt and received feedback on all those scripts and been validated about how well they handled their stories before stepping onto the world stage.

You gotta be damn good. Plus, so much of a career is assignment work and most of those assignments will be three act structures. You need that experience writing three acts so you can deliver great scripts, which is what you’re getting paid to do.

Much of a career is assignment work and
most of those assignments will be three act structures

It doesn’t matter what the concept is with your first 20 stories. What matters is your experience, how well you handled characters and structure, and what you learned from feedback about your own weaknesses. Bergman, Fellini, Godard, Altman all spent YEARS working mainstream and mastering stories in the classical form before they ventured into alternative storytelling. There’s wisdom in that.

LA VIE EN ROSE

With that said, once you have three acts down cold, I say play with structure. So much fun! But you must have a solid reason to tell a story using a different structure. I recently watched La Vie en Rose, which had a non-linear structure. We flowed seamlessly from her middle years to her childhood to her later years without much connection (that I could determine on a first viewing). The transitions were great. The individual scenes were great. The placement of the emotional highs and lows in the narrative was wonderful, and the performance by Marion Cotillard was just a tour de force. Her performance in and of itself is worth the time to watch the film.

I say play with structure. So much fun!

But what about that damn structure? I recall reading a review by one of my favorite critics, James Berardinelli, who had this to say:

The film presents Piaf’s life via a broken chronology, leaping back and forth across time without apparent rhyme or reason. The movie dips into nearly every phase of her life, which lasted from 1915 until 1963, showing her in one scene as a dying woman who looks 20 years older than she is and in the next as a young girl during post-World War I France. La Vie en Rose’s blatant disregard of linear progression is similar in some ways to Todd Haynes’ approach to Bob Dylan in I’m Not There, but there’s a key difference. Oliver Dahan may choose to present Piaf’s life in a fragmented fashion, but everything is ultimately connected (and, except for the childhood scenes, there is a single actress playing the lead character). Haynes essentially made six short films and jumbled them together. The end result is more satisfying in La Vie en Rose, although there are still difficulties becoming immersed in a storyline that jumps around so much, especially when there’s no clear purpose for presenting Piaf’s life in this fashion.

There are still difficulties becoming immersed
in a storyline that jumps around so much.

That last sentence just hits the nail on the head. That’s the reason this film is sitting at 75% on Rotten Tomatoes and failed to reach the height of greatness because there was no definite reason to the non-linear structure, which was uneven at times and existed just for the sake of highlighting sections of her life. They did this, I think, to make a story that would’ve been episodic (if told in chronological order) more digestible. But perhaps if there had been a direct causal relationship between the different sections of her life, that one section, say, with a heartbreak, was the reason why, later in her life, she did X, Y, and Z, it might’ve made more sense. In the final sequence of Rose, Edith was lying in her bed talking about her memories, how her mind is making her relive moments she didn’t want to see. I wondered if this whole film was a collection of her memories as it was flooding back to her the final night of her life, but no, that was meant just for the final sequence. A framing device like that might’ve helped, kind of like Point Blank, in the sense that the film is all of her final thoughts before she dies. (In Point Blank, Lee Marvin is double-crossed and the entire film is what takes place in his mind moments before his death as he imagines taking revenge on his betrayers. Great film.)

ANNIE HALL – SEX AND LUCIA

Oh, in Annie Hall, Allen’s non-linear structure punctuated a point he was making about Annie and Alvy, that is, they were fated to always be searching for a love that lasts but never find it. THAT was the reason for his non-linear structure and it worked.

How about Sex and Lucia? I went to see this movie for the structure. It’s true! Yes, the sex was nice, as was Lucia, played by the very pretty Paz Vega. But here’s the thing. The film starts with the beginning. Then, it gives you the ending and ends in the middle. Imagine that! Without getting too deep into the story, they presented a conflict, gave us a tragic ending as it was imagined by the writer living with Lucia as he was writing his book, and then they ended it in the middle where the characters were given the opportunity to choose. Nobody got it. Maybe people were too distracted by the sex and nudity to notice the story. I don’t know. I thought it was pretty damn clever.

So what about films that go in reverse?

MEMENTO

In Memento, the backwards structure helped us to understand the condition of the protagonist. We didn’t know what the hell was going on anymore than he did. Tell me, though, if the last thing Leonard remembered was his wife dying, then how does he remember the fact that he has short-term memory loss? How does that happen?

But I want to talk about Irreversible.

IRREVERSIBLE

I cannot in good conscience recommend this film. It opens with angry men looking to take revenge on another man, and we’re witness to a tragedy that is so realistic and so brutal, it is one of the few times I had to close my eyes as I watched a film. It made me ill. But then we move backwards in time and we’re made to see the reason for their anger, that is, the rape of Alex, played by Monica Bellucci, in one of the longest, most brutal rapes scenes ever portrayed on film. This, too, made me ill.

I had to close my eyes as I watched a film. It made me ill.

But in all that time we watch this rape scene, we realize that the angry man who sought revenge on behalf of his violated lover, actually killed the wrong man. Then, we’re made to see all the different events that led up to the rape. We’re forced to contemplate all those mistakes along the way, because this could’ve been avoided. If only he treated her better and wasn’t such an ass! It is about cause and effect. It also forces us to appreciate more the good moments in life, as we saw in the warm, loving ending. Ebert makes five points about the film that are worth noting.

By placing the ugliness at the beginning, Gaspar Noe forces us
to think seriously about the sexual violence involved.

But the most important one is this:

The fact is, the reverse chronology makes Irreversible a film that structurally argues against rape and violence, while ordinary chronology would lead us down a seductive narrative path toward a shocking, exploitative payoff. By placing the ugliness at the beginning, Gaspar Noe forces us to think seriously about the sexual violence involved. The movie does not end with rape as its climax and send us out of the theater as if something had been communicated. It starts with it, and asks us to sit there for another hour and process our thoughts. It is therefore moral – at a structural level.

What are your thoughts?

- Mystery Man

I’m famous yet anonymous, failed yet accomplished, brilliant yet semi-brilliant. I’m a homebody who jetsets around the world. I’m brash and daring yet chilled with a twist.

I also write for Script Magazine.

With thanks to Sol.

Feel free to give your feedback in the Questions and Comments below.

COMING SOON to the Story Department:

Best of Mystery Man on Monday
Jack Brislee reviews ‘Understanding Screenwriting’

Enjoy!

Karel

Bantam Dell. New York, NY 2006.

363 pages. ISBN-13: 978-440-50491-7 Amazon Price: US $11.56

THE AUTHOR

Syd Field is one of the most popular screenwriting gurus in the film industry. He tells us that when he started screenwriting, “there were no books or anything about it, and the only thing I had at my disposal was Lajos Egri’s great book ‘The Art of Dramatic Writing’ written in the forties about the craft of playwriting”. He began reading screenplays of filmmakers he admired, particularly Jean Renoir and Sam Peckinpah.

The only thing I had at my disposal was Lajos Egri’s great book ‘The Art of Dramatic Writing’.

Today Amazon lists 1,248 books on screenwriting, six of which are works by Syd Field. He was one of the first to write a book devoted to the craft. When ‘Screenplay: The Foundations of Screenwriting’ first appeared in 1979 it was an immediate best seller. It discussed the principals of dramatic structure, was the first to use examples from modern movies and established Field’s reputation as a first class teacher, writer and script consultant.

If you created the problem you can solve it.

‘The Screenwriter’s Problem Solver’ uses the principles and examples from Field’s other works and applies them to particular problems. “I firmly believe,” he writes, “that if you created the problem you can solve it. Therefore you have to look inside yourself for the answers.” Thankfully this piece of pop psychology (which if followed would render his book redundant) disappears after Chapter Two, and with the naval gazing over Field launches into the types of difficulties a screenwriter might encounter.

If you’ve located the problem in the first ten pages, you may need to rethink and redesign this ten-page unit of dramatic action.

PLOT, CHARACTER, STRUCTURE

There are only three types of problems – problems of plot, problems of character and problems of structure. To locate the problem Field suggests the writing of three essays entitled “What was it that originally attracted me to the screenplay?”, “What kind of story did I end up writing?” and “What have I to do to change what I did into what I wanted to do?” Most readers would have presumed that Essay Three was precisely what this book was going to tell them.

In Chapter 4 he tells us, “If you’ve located the problem in the first ten pages, you may need to rethink and redesign this ten-page unit of dramatic action.” Thank God for screenwriting gurus. How could a mere mortal have thought of that?

When Field provides examples of solutions he has suggested for his students, his brilliance as a script doctor shines through. He discusses a problem a student encountered in a scene where a daughter investigates her mother’s death. Her mother died in hospital, no one can tell her why and one of the nurses left her job immediately following the death. The student wrote a scene where the daughter, having tracked down the nurse, interrogates her. The scene was flat, boring and in the student’s words, felt “soft and fuzzy”. Field suggested forcing the protagonist to wait a couple of hours for the nurse, then adding another character – the nurse’s boyfriend – to step up the conflict. This increased dramatic tension, gave the scene real depth and ripped “soft and fuzzy” right out of the sequence.

THE TROUBLESHOOTER’S GUIDE

The types of problems a screenwriter might encounter are neatly summarised in Chapter 22, ‘The Troubleshooter’s Guide’. The solutions to 37 possible problems with the plot are cross referenced to the chapters of the book, as are the 38 possible problems with character and the 45 possible problems with structure. This cross reference system is mostly good. A screenwriter can run through the list, identify the weakness in the script he or she is working on, look up the appropriate chapter and find a solution.

However, not all problems are matched with clear solutions. Like many other screenwriting gurus, Field is weak on dialogue. Go to Chapter 10, the Troubleshooter’s Guide tells us, if your “Dialogue is too talky, too direct”. But Chapter 10 has only half a sentence devoted to dialogue. “…if your feel your characters are talking too much, or they all sound alike…go back over the material and determine whether you have spent enough time setting up the conflict in the story”. In other words, more time spent setting up conflict will magically change the dialogue.

POOR ON DIALOGUE

Chapter 13 is supposed to offer the solution to stilted and awkward dialogue, but all we are told is dialogue is a function of character. If you can’t write good dialogue you are told to get to know your characters better – hardly a solution likely to turn you into a Woody Allen, David Mamet or Aaron Sorkin.

The book would be stronger if it included clear subheadings – ie “Problem”, “Solution” and “Example”. Instead each chapter offers a bit of advice, followed by a number of examples that show Field’s favourite screenplays, such as ‘The Shawshank Redemption’, ‘Thelma and Louise’, ‘Witness’ and ‘Pulp Fiction’. In many cases they do not fully illustrate Field’s point, but they do provide an opportunity to read the masters.

The book is packed with a lot of good advice, but in many cases you have to read between the lines to find the solution to your problem. I do not believe that all problems are only a matter of plot, character or structure. What if the story itself is not film-worthy? “Brideshead Revisited” made great television, but with its multiple themes, long time periods and diverse characters, did not make a great film. “Pearl Harbour” should have been a story centred on the dramatic events surrounding the attack on Hawaii. Instead it wandered all over the place, distracting us with sequences that included the Battle of Britain and the Doolittle Raid. “Australia” tried to cram too many themes and ideas into one movie. All three films failed the “is it film-worthy?” test, and this test should be found in Chapter One of any book entitled “The Screenwriter’s Problem Solver”.

Some writers have a better ear for writing dialogue than others. They are just born with a natural talent and ability.

Dialogue should be given a separate category. A film with a strong plot, great characters and classic structure will fail if the dialogue is weak. But Field seems to gloss over this problem. “It’s true that some writers have a better ear for writing dialogue than others,” he says. “They are just born with a natural talent and ability, and its really a gift.” In other words you have either got it or you haven’t got it. Don’t ask Field how to improve your dialogue. Just find new parents.

His final piece of advice on dialogue is a recipe for movie disaster. “The dialogue may not be that great, but it will still work.”

CONCLUSION

This book does offer practical solutions to many screenwriting problems, but the reader has to search for these solutions. It is not the last word, or even the first word in screenplay problem solving, but a useful adjunct. Hopefully it will lead readers to a number of great screenplays that illustrate how professional writers so often find elegant solutions to common screenwriting problems.

- Jack Brislee

Jack Brislee is a business broker and property developer by day and a screenwriter by night.
He has written 12 scripts, one in pre-production in the UK and one in pre-production in South Africa.

He collects and dissects books on screenwriting.

We would like to know which script would in your view most DESERVE the Oscar for Best Original Screenplay?

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Thank you for voting. If you have a Twitter account, please Retweet below!

Each Wednesday in 2010, TSD challenges you to a mini-survey that is in some way related to screenwriting or filmmaking. To suggest a topic, send Solmaaz Yazdiha a note and include the word “poll” in the subject field. The archive is here

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This week I was going to break down SHERLOCK HOLMES because you guys voted for it.

Was going to…

You’ll have to wait. I have been fighting some pretty fierce resistance: I have no desire whatsoever to see that movie again. Why? Not sure.

Possibly because it felt so damn formulaic to me?

Which is exactly what Mystery Man was writing about yesterday in his manifesto for A Screenwriting Revolution.

I have been mulling over that post and was not surprised to see it get heaps of page views but I WAS astonished it didn’t generate a more animated discussion among readers. Perhaps because MM cunningly sneaked in his opinion about Robert McKee – parts of which I share with him and other respected sources – and therefore effectively made two distinctly different points in one post. (This might have divided people about the issue more than if it had been purely about the need for a radical breach with formulaic storytelling and the tyranny of the character arc.)

I’ve replied to MM’s post in a comment and would love to see your feedback, too.

BTW, consider the SHERLOCK HOLMES breakdown postponed, not abandoned.

-Karel

And these are beyond the ordinary musings of a screenwriter, such as, “I’d love to see a nuclear explosion wipe out these ego-maniacal fucks in Hollywood.”

No, my thoughts have centered more around my long-promised, free, screenwriting book that I’ve been working on, which has been tentatively titled, The Screenwriting Revolution. I don’t know when it’ll be available except to say – when it’s damn good & ready.

How can this next generation distinguish themselves?

Let us speak now about the litany of crappy 2009 films. You can blame it on the writer’s strike all you like. The fact is, the craft of screenwriting has been in decline for years, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s time for a revolution, time for the next generation of screenwriters to step up and make their voices heard. And take storytelling into exciting and interesting new directions.

But how can this next generation distinguish themselves?

Let me list a few random thoughts and then I’d like to hear what YOU think would be appropriate for a screenwriting revolution.

Format & Grammar

First and foremost, a writer ought to know how to write and a screenplay ought to look like a damn screenplay. Some might think that sounds so reasonable as to be anything but revolutionary, but this, of all things, continues to be one of my most controversial positions. People love to point out that most screenplays are generally filled with poor writing and poor format and thus, they should be able to write like a child, too. This is one of the great rationalizations for declining standards in films.

First and foremost, a writer ought to know how write and a screenplay ought to look like a damn screenplay.

You need to embrace learning and knowledge and the joy of using your brain and writing brilliantly. The fact is, quality screenwriting begins here. If everyone else is writing like shit, that’s even more of a reason for you to write gold, because it’ll make you stand out. At the end of the day, it’s not about what everyone else is doing. It’s about what YOU are doing and how your work reflects upon YOU.

If you don’t like what I’m saying – great. I’m going to write circles around you.

Reject the Gurus

On the one hand, I believe that you should be a brilliant, well-read writer who has digested many, many guru books so that you will know what many people around the world think about screenwriting. (Although I would suggest getting those books from the library, if possible. I wouldn’t give those people a dime of my money.) Then you should study films (and stories) for yourself. You will probably realize that, more often than not, the art of storytelling is never black-and-white but endlessly grey and that gurus are generally limited in their imaginations, which is why they’re not writing stories.

You should be a brilliant, well-read writer who has digested many, many guru books.

Truth be told, I’m at my wit’s end with Robert McKee whose idea of a seminar is bullying people like a thug into accepting his limited ideas about storytelling. That he even acts like a pompous ass should be the first red flag to observers because it means he’s intellectually stifled (and thus, must resort to bullying) particularly when he’s challenged with solid exceptions to his narrow-minded “principles.” HE just wants stories to be told the way HE likes them to be told.

Let’s count three little ways he’s wrong:

- McKee wrote in his book, Story, (pg 104): “The finest writing not only reveals true character but arcs or changes [to] that inner nature for better or worse, over the course of the telling.” What a rank steaming pile of horseshit. How about one of the most iconic figures of the spy genre, and with a few exceptions, such as On Her Majesty’s Secret Service and Casino Royale, James Bond RARELY had an arc. That is a fact. This isn’t debatable. We don’t want him to change. We love him just the way he is. He gets the job done and he does it with style. Can you imagine how different he’d be today if he had a change to his inner nature in every single film? He’d be a villain now, would he not? Bond proves the point that when it comes to franchises, arcs are not a requirement for satisfaction or longevity. I loved the point Ebert made in his Quantum of Solace review about Bond’s best quality. Bond is not some dumb action hero. He is a figure who rises above all of the baddies of the world and rarely lets them get him down. “This is a swampy old world,” Ebert wrote. “The deeper we sink in, the more we need James Bond to stand above it.” Exactly. THAT is the bigger point to his character and why we love to spend time with him again and again and again. Is there anything wrong with that? Hell no.

- Not just McKee but most gurus teach you that every protagonist in every story MUST be sympathetic. Then please explain to me the universal appeal of Ebenezer Scrooge. There is joy to be had in watching the transformation of a totally unsympathetic protagonist, is there not? The Lives of Others was a fantastic film about the transformation of a monstrous Hauptmann Gerd Weisler. How about satire? The whole point of satire is to ridicule the protagonist who has to be unsympathetic. Most recently, I watched In the Loop, which had me rolling in laughter. I don’t think there was a sympathetic character anywhere in that film. But, you see, that’s the point because it’s SATIRE. In the end, almost all of those unsympathetic characters got their comeuppance, which is quite satisfying.

- Who is the most complex character in the history of literature? Hamlet. And in McKee’s Story, he praises the complexities of the prince (page 378): “Hamlet isn’t three-dimensional, but ten, twelve, virtually uncountably dimensional. He seems spiritual until he’s blasphemous. To Ophelia he’s first loving and tender, then callous, even sadistic. He’s courageous, then cowardly. At times he’s cool and cautious, then impulsive and rash, as he stabs someone hiding behind a curtain without knowing who’s there. Hamlet is ruthless and compassionate, proud and self-satisfying, witty and sad, weary and dynamic, lucid and confused, sane and mad. His is an innocent worldliness, a worldly innocence, a living contradiction of almost any human qualities we could imagine.” Does that sound like a sympathetic protagonist to you? No.

What was Hamlet’s overriding quality? He was passive.

He is a character with depth, which is far more intriguing and valuable to the art of storytelling than flat sympathy. Hamlet was so brilliant that he is the only character in all of Shakespeare’s canon who could have written his own play. But what was Hamlet’s overriding quality? He was passive. He was caught inside a revenge story and yet because he was so brilliant, he was free from it. He could see all sides of everything and pontificated as much. He could exact revenge – or not. It didn’t matter, because he saw everything. He was, as Harold Bloom wrote, “a reflecting pool, a spacious mirror in which we needs must see ourselves.” It was through his passive nature that the genius of Shakespeare and his life-altering poetry shined through in ways never seen before.

So what say you? Shall we dumb down the art of storytelling to simplistic formulas or shall we find inspiration in the greatest characters ever created and shoot for the moon?

To Hell with Structure

Let me say, first of all, that every aspiring writer should be experts on structure, especially the 3-act form. You should know the 3-act backwards and forwards, and I don’t mean being book smart about it, either. I don’t care how easily you can rattle off to anyone anywhere how the structure works. I’m talking about the knowledge that comes from the experience of writing many, many scripts within the 3-act structure. You need enough writing experience in your life of shaping stories to fit the 3-act structure, of building tension, of molding that rising climax, and creating satisfying payoffs so that you can feel the 3-act structure in your bones as you compose a story. That never happens overnight.

The 3-act structure is nothing less than a cheap security blanket for the most insecure industry in the world.

But once you accomplish that, you should say, “To hell with structure.”

Truth be told, the 3-act structure is nothing less than a cheap security blanket for the most insecure industry in the world. The people of Hollywood cannot free themselves from the absurd belief that the structures of previously successful 3-act films will guarantee success in future stories. While I certainly love Casablanca, I would never tell anyone that this one script should be the model for all screenplays. How fucking ridiculous is that? Who wants to see a thousand variations of Casablanca? Each genre has its own unique set of rules and clichés. What works in one story in one genre does not necessarily work in another story in another genre. Not every compelling story can be so easily shoehorned into the sometimes simplistic and formulaic 3-act structure. There is so much joy to be had from so many other structures, such as The Godfather, which was a 4-act structure like many Italian operas.

Alfred Hitchcock was notorious for breaking structure. Many of us think back on the Psycho shower scene as being shocking by the fact that there was this surprising, scary, brutal murder that took place in the shower. However, we forget that so much of the shock in that moment sprung from the fact that Hitchcock was killing off his protagonist. We were following this woman and getting involved in the drama of her life and then – eek-eek-eek! – she’s dead. Gone. Hitch totally pulled the rug out from underneath us and we were suddenly lost, narratively speaking, by her death. Who do we follow now? Where does the story go? We’re all alone in this motel with this crazy killer! Has there ever been a guru suggesting that great horror films should follow Hitch’s model of Psycho by killing off the protagonist halfway into the film? Who says you can’t kill off your protagonist? A good long study of Hitchcock reveals many, many interesting (and successful!) breaks in structure.

Question: do you honestly think that by following formula and doing what everyone else is already doing is going to get you noticed? Consider how Memento put Christopher Nolan on the map or how Pulp Fiction made Quentin Tarantino famous or how Rashomon shined a light of well deserved international acclaim onto Akira Kurosawa, one of my favorite directors. Most recently, we had the non-linear narrative approach of (500) Days of Summer written by first-time screenwriters Scott Neustadter and Michael Weber. I recall Kelly Masterson’s debut screenplay, Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead, was a break in structure that impressed Sidney Lumet enough to turn into a film. An argument could be made that new writers with structurally ground-breaking work move to the front of the line.

But have solid reasons for doing what you’re doing and never lose sight of the fact that your characters always come first. You find success by how the break in structure serves your characters.

Final Thoughts

So how can we start a revolution? Hmm. I’ll toss up three ideas:

• By rejecting the simplistic formulas and structures outlined by the gurus.
• By embracing experimentation.
• By supporting each other as a community.

What say you, readers?

- Mystery Man

I’m famous yet anonymous, failed yet accomplished, brilliant yet semi-brilliant. I’m a homebody who jetsets around the world. I’m brash and daring yet chilled with a twist.

I also write for Script Magazine.

_________________________

photo credits:

• another_finn (gun)
  
• tj scenes (che)
• Wesley Fryer (mouse revolution)
  engineroomblog (anarky)
  

_______________________________

With thanks to Sol.

Feel free to give your feedback in the Questions and Comments below.

COMING SOON to the Story Department:

Mystery Man and the SCREENWRITING REVOLUTION! (Tomorrow)

Enjoy!

Karel

Rather than a lengthy response in the comments, here are some thoughts on the agent’s commission percentage and hiring an entertainment attorney instead of having an agent.

1) 10% commission from agents rather than 15%

10% agent commission seems to be closer to the market mean.

As a relative newbie in the big world of screenwriting business, I spent most of my LA time with development execs and producers and only minimally with agents (for the reason that the execs and the producers are the people that matter and are the ones who are buying).

The fundamental point in the essay that prolificity of output is the critical factor for agents is a finding synthesised from multiple people who were all independent from each other. It is not a point that should be dismissed.

Ditto for the last point that no reputable agent slugs you with an upfront fee.

2) Why bother with agent if you have a script sale + entertainment attorney already.

In principle, the difference between an agent and an attorney is that the agent is a haggler for better conditions whereas the attorney is a fine print checker.

Theoretically, a typical attorney will only ensure that the terms and conditions of the sale or option deal are not below industry par, that the deal contains no glaring gaps where the producer can exploit film profits without letting you have a cut, and so forth.

This is not the same as saying that the attorney will make any effort to *maximise* the benefits that you could win after some wrangling with the producer. (That is supposed to be the agent’s role.) In principle, an attorney’s job is not to try to get the best deal for you that can possibly be squeezed out of the party. It is merely to make sure you are not being swindled with the deal that is currently on the table.

In practice, I have gathered that it’s a little more complicated than that in LA.

Firstly, a *good* attorney may well be prepared to exercise some proactivity to ensure you get an improvement on terms and conditions, where such a move is feasible/realistic given your market status and the quality of the screenplay. Such proactivity would mean he is playing a quasi-agent role for you.

(By the way: As in all types of businesses, “good” does not necessarily mean high-fee-charging or big name. For example, a talented young gun wanting to establish a market prescence will have the enthusiasm and energy to deliver above-average service for his first clients, with the expectation that they’ll come back to him for more business.)

Secondly, there ARE entertainment attorneys in LA who parade themselves as being BOTH a haggler AND a fine print checker. I am not in a position to authoritively comment how well such two-in-ones perform on average. My best guess is that it all depends on the specific experience, intelligence, and energy level of each individual attorney-agent.

(The general business adage that a jack of all trades is ‘a master of none’ is right some of the time in my own general business experience. But not always!)

Thirdly, in the case of a screenwriter’s first script sale, what I have gathered is that you can not seriously expect to exert much bargaining clout. For you’re still only a new-name even with a definite sale being wrangled out. (My sense is that it is in the SECOND screenplay sale that you start being able to qualify for extra ‘goodies’ in your sale contracts.) So, in this context, there may be an argument to not bother with an agent at that stage.

Factoring all these considerations into account, my recommendation is that, in the case of your first screenplay sale, the engagement of an agent (or not) could well come down to a knife-edgey cost-benefit judgement call.

IF you have a proactive and cluey attorney and IF you are yourself a native LA-ite with some contacts in the film industry already, then you probably could get away with not bothering with an agent with your first sale.

If, however, you are an out-of-towner, new to the country, let alone to LA city, with no industry contacts or mentors yet, I would suggest that you engage an agent and suffer the commission … As you are prime fresh meat for exploitation.

If you exist somewhere in-between these two poles, then it really would be a down-the-wire cost-benefit call you are just going to have to sit down and decide for yourself.

I hope this is helpful and clear.

And …

3) The feasibility of one great script versus four good ones.

On paper, it would seem that it is better to win a commission that nets, say, 200k in one go for the whole year, than to work on four separate scripts that net, say, 50k each.

(Important Note: These figures are illustrative only! I don’t claim to be yet industry savvy enough to know how representative these numbers are in the real hurly-burly of LA deal-making!)

But there are business cashflow considerations to factor in here. Can a given agency AFFORD to wait for an extra, say, 5 weeks with no income to pay the rent on the premises, the electricity bill, the wages of the administrative staff, etc, until it finally receives the great lump sum award?

If a particular agency is managed with tight fiscal discipline and/or has multiple reliable deals being hammered out at any one time, ALL the time, then maybe it can afford the wait.

But my general experience (at least in Australia) is that most businesses are nowhere near so well managed finacially. They could never afford to wait 5 weeks without suffering a major cashflow crisis. I have reasons to believe that Americans, on average, are cannier entrepreneurs than the average Australian business person, so my past experience may be skewered here.

But, then again, human nature is such that most people – even business people – do not exercise great fiscal discipline even when there is a practical, bottom-line, long term gain to be had by doing so. So I’m willing to bet that most agencies prefer the cashflow convenience of quicker, smaller, sales than the long haul of a big sale.

Though, at the same time, I absolutely do not rule out the exceptional few in LA who may well be able to ride out the longer wait and therefore pocket the greater gain. There are some *really* sharp operators in that town!

I hope I have now made the logic behind my claim in the essay clear.

That’s all from me.

-Steven Fernandez

Steven Fernandez is a writer-director of short films and theatrical shows in Sydney, Australia. He is currently writing Human Liberation – an epic novel and screenplay package set in mythic ancient Greece.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Blake Snyder began his Hollywood career at the tender age of eight, working as a voice over artist for his father, Emmy award winning producer Ken Snyder.  When Blake’s voice broke his father had to fire him, but he stayed in the industry, earning a degree in English from Georgetown University and a part time job with Disney as a writer.

He became a full time writer in 1987 and sold his spec screenplay, “Stop!  Or My Mom Will Shoot” in 1989 for $500,000.  By 2004 he had sold 13 spec scripts, two of which earned him seven figure cheques.

I think it would be nice if the guy writing the book on how to write a screenplay had actually sold something.

In 2003 he decided to share his screenwriting ideas and began working on “Save the Cat” and teaching weekend workshops for writers, filmmakers and executives.  At the same time he provided script analysis for major studios such as Disney and DreamWorks.

In the introduction to “Save the Cat” he says, “I think it would be nice if the guy writing the book on how to write a screenplay had actually sold something.”  Blake Snyder was that guy.  Unfortunately he died suddenly in August 2009 at the age of 51.

THE LOGLINE

“Save the Cat” is packed full of valuable advice that should help even the most experienced screenwriter.  He begins with the logline, that pithy one sentence that captures the essence of the movie.  While loglines are a fundamental tool for selling the script, they also help the writer focus on the essence of the story.

Snyder makes the painful exercise easier by introducing the four components of a successful logline.

Many writers hate dreaming up loglines, much preferring the creative process of scene construction and character development, but Snyder makes the painful exercise easier by introducing the four components of a successful logline – irony, a compelling mental picture, an idea of the audience type and cost and a killer title.

TEN CATEGORIES

Under the heading, “Give Me the Same Thing…Only Different” he places Hollywood movies into ten categories.  Genre always generates fierce debate amongst screenwriters and many will disagree with Snyder’s categories, but as he points out “…if you are looking for exceptions to the rules you’re missing the point of the chapter, which is to use categorising as a storytelling tool.”

This is the essence of Snyder’s approach.  His book is a catalogue of sharp ideas and brilliant suggestions, rather than a high browed academic discussion of storytelling.  Many other books, he writes, “…treat the movies with waaaaay too much awe and respect – they’re just movies.”

If you are looking for exceptions to the rules you’re missing the point of the chapter.

HOLLYWOOD STYLE?

The excessive number of “a’s” in “way” is not a misprint.  This is Snyder writing a screenwriting book that, “talks the way we (Hollywood professionals) talk”.

The knowledge that “Save the Cat” imparts outweighs any condemnation of style.

I found this talk, with its one sentence paragraphs and whiz bang approach to grammar a bit tedious, but my criticism is both personal and irrelevant.  The knowledge that “Save the Cat” imparts outweighs any condemnation of style.

STRUCTURE

The chapter on structure introduces a number of new ideas, but also repackages elements of the accepted three act structure with different names.  He calls his structural template the “Blake Snyder Beat Sheet”, or more modestly the “BS2”.

There are 15 elements in his beat sheet – six in Act I, seven in Act II and two in Act III.  As Act II is usually twice as long as Act I, it could probably do with more than seven beats.  Most structural problems occur in Act II, and a more in depth analysis of this act would, in my opinion, greatly help many writers.

I am not sure that all successful Hollywood movies include 25 pages of “Fun and Games” (pp 30 – 55) or 20 pages of “Bad Guys Close In” (pp 55 – 75).   I also think that calling Beat 3 – the “Set Up” (pages 1 – 10) is a little bit strange when most screenwriters call the whole of Act I “the set up”.  Once again these criticisms are only mild.  Many successful Hollywood movies do share these elements.

Oh, and btw, screw ‘Memento’.

In his 2007 book, “Save the Cat Goes to the Movies”, Snyder provides 50 excellent examples that illustrate the BS2 – five movies in each of the ten genres.  But like most writers on screenwriting he does not provide examples of successful screenplays that do not fit his thesis, although he does acknowledge their existence with, “Oh, and btw, screw ‘Memento’”.

In Chapter 5, “Building the Perfect Beast”, Snyder adds two important elements to the “index cards on a notice board” approach.  Each card is marked with a +/- to represent the emotional change in the scene, and a >< to represent conflict.

A writer who finds a series of blanks next to these symbols is missing emotion, drama and conflict and has a dead screenplay.  Snyder’s cards reveal immediately which scenes must be eliminated.

LAWS OF PHYSICS

Chapter 6, “The Immutable Laws of Screenwriting Physics”, introduces clever concepts that will greatly enhance a screenplay and help the writer avoid many traps and pitfalls.

It makes you feel like a genius.  Suddenly you’re in on the tricks of screenwriting.

The title of the book – “Save the Cat” – is an excellent technique to help the audience empathise with the hero.  Other concepts, which Snyder labels “Pope in a Pool”,  “Double Mumbo Jumbo”, “Laying Pipe”, “Too Much Marzipan”, “Watch Out for that Glacier”, “The Covenant of the Arc” and “Keep the Press Out” are excellent screenwriting suggestions.

As Snyder says, these techniques make you “…realise why things are done, what that scene was really for, and it makes you feel like a genius.  Suddenly you’re in on the tricks of screenwriting…”

FIX IT

His chapter on error fixing, which identifies problems such as “Talking the Plot”, “The Emotional Colour Wheel” and “Take a Step Back”, examines “typical trouble spots that others have faced”.  (For a more comprehensive examination of this area see Syd Field’s “The Screenwriter’s Problem Solver”).

THE LAST BOOK?

Snyder disproved his own subtitle, “The Last Book on Screenwriting That You’ll Ever Need”, by writing two more books in the “cat” series.  They indicate that Snyder had a lot more wisdom to impart, and his untimely death is a great loss to the industry.

CONCLUSION

My criticisms of “Save the Cat” are minor.  This book is packed full of excellent advice and should be read by all screenwriters.

- Jack Brislee

Jack Brislee is a business broker and property developer by day and a screenwriter by night.
He has written 12 scripts, one in pre-production in the UK and one in pre-production in South Africa.

He collects and dissects books on screenwriting.