Who killed Nelson Nutmeg?


I don’t know, do you know?

Of course you don’t.

Do you want to know?

Well, probably not without some context. Let me elucidate …


Tim Clague and Danny Stack are people. Specifically they’re people who write/direct/generally make things. They also host the monthly UK Scriptwriters’ Podcast which they deliver direct to your ears for absolutely nothing.

Nothing. Free.

They give you that.

For free.

For nothing.

Because they’re nice like that.

Or they have some secret agenda involving sterilising zebras, eradicating the genes responsible for toe hair and generally interfering with the natural order of things to leave them joint kings of the world.

Probably the first one though.

If you’re a UK scriptwriter and you don’t listen to the UK Scriptwriters’ Podcast, then you’re a fucking idiot.


Or, you know, you just don’t bother/haven’t heard of it/haven’t got the time or have heard it and aren’t that interested.

Probably the second-delete-as-applicable-option in this case.

Whether you listen to the Podcast or not (I do, I like it. Despite them occasionally abusing me on air for no apparent reason other than apparently deserving it … which is apparently fair enough. I’d abuse me too if I wasn’t me. Which I am. Sadly.) is kind of irrelevant.

Much like most of this blog.

What is relevant is Danny and Tim are making a film and they’d like you to come along for the ride. They’re not demanding or wheedling or asking permission – they’re going anyway, you can come if you like.

Or not.

But as is so often the case in life, coming would be lovelier than not.

You may choose to read that as an innuendo if it makes you feel better.

Tim and Danny are two guys who give unceasingly to the scriptwriting community. Their blogs http:///www.dannystack.com/blog and http://www.projectorfilms.blogspot.com/ are two of the longest running in the blogosphere and packed to the … well, not rafters, um … edges? with helpful and friendly info and advice. Those too are delivered to your eyes for free.

They give and they keep on giving, for they are nice guys.


Well, I think they are, anyway. They certainly seem to be whenever we’ve met. I like them. We’re almost friends.


Internet friends, as Tim has pointed out. On air (on pod?). To everyone who cares to listen. Which I assume means “we can be friends so long as we don’t have to actually interact in any meaningful way” or “no, you can’t come round my house. Ever”.

Which is fair enough. I am ginger (ish).

Anyway, the point is they’re making this film: Who Killed Nelson Nutmeg? and they’d quite like you to join in. They’re doing it anyway, but if you want to give them something back for all the stuff they’ve selflessly given to you, then now’s your chance.

“How can I do this fabulous thing?” you are, doubtlessly, yelling at your electronic blog-reading device. Well, it’s simple, you can go to Kickstarter, to a page which is remarkably similar to this one. So similar, it is this one, in fact. Simply go there and pledge some money. Only a little bit, if you like.


Or a lot. You could always pledge a lot.

But you don’t have to. Every pound is accepted with grace and humility and much appreciation.

I assume.

To be honest, they may sneer at your gullibility and immediately spunk it all on fags and wicker-prostitutes (which are all the rage round the intelligentsia of Dorset), I don’t know for I am not them.

Seems unlikely though. I’ve had noodles with Danny and it was extremely delightful.

You may choose to read that as an euphemism if it makes you feel better.

I’ve not had noodles with Tim, but he did once offer me some sage advice:

“If you’re ever at a screenwriting event, sitting next to someone influential who’s giving advice … just nod sagely. Not as if you’re agreeing, but as if they’ve got it right. Well done them.”


I think that’s what he said, anyway. I might have imagined it.

(I didn’t imagine it, he did say it. He said it about Armando Iannucci in Cheltenham. I’m just pretending to be vague in case he doesn’t want people to know he said it … but he did! He fucking did!)

Sounds like something he’d say.

(Because he did say it!)

It’s good advice anyway.

Free advice too.

It cost me nothing.

Just like all the other free advice they give to you all the time. For free.

So if you, like me, want to know Who Killed Nelson Nutmeg? then you, like me, can go to their Kickstarter page and give, like me, some small pittance towards helping them get their film made.

They’re doing it anyway, why not join them on the ride? And nod sagely at them from the sidelines:

“Yes. Yes, good. Uh-huh. Well done, that’s exactly right.”


Categories: Someone Else's Way | 1 Comment

Too much too soon


I’ve lost a few jobs over the years by being too keen, by doing more work than is required; which probably sounds counter-intuitive, but actually makes sense if you just fucking let me finish, alright? Stop fucking interrupting!

What’s that?

No one’s interrupting except the voices in my head?

Oh really? What the fuck would you know, Mr Sock? You’re just a fucking sock, you’re not real. It’s me doing your voice. Me! Without me, you’re nothing!

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What’s that, Mr Sock?

If I’m going to have a mental spasm I should stop typing until after I’ve had a little lie down?

Oh. Yes, right.

Um … I didn’t type all this, it was dictation software left running. Sorry.

What’s that, Mr Sock? I’m a fucking liar?

Fuck you, you woolly bastard.

Sorry, got distracted there.

Right. So. Where was I? Ah yes, making sense.

The scenario usually runs something like this:

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A producer/director/actor or some combination of all three gets in touch regarding a film project they have which doesn’t really exist. I mean, it sort of does. They want to make something, they have some money of some description and possibly even a track record. The project exists in potentia, but in reality all they have is the vague feeling they want to make a film of some kind. Any kind, maybe, they’re not really sure.

What they are sure about is they absolutely have to film it only on Tuesdays and (for finance purposes) it all has to be set in Pease Pottage … although, for tax purposes it actually has to be filmed in Antigua; but they can easily fake Pease Pottage in Antigua, they just have to digitally erase the palm trees. And the climate.

Pease Pottage Honest


It also has to be a genre film (although not horror, sci-fi, western, a rom-com, martial arts, action, thriller or comedy – although it has to be funny), feature at least three parts for actors over-fifty who refuse to play characters over thirty, a dog, lots of nudity (but not from any of the actors, male or female), a Lamborghini (which can’t be driven), at least one sword fight and show child-abuse in a positive light.

Other than that, it’s completely up to me. I can do whatever I want, what have I got?

Besides a fucking migraine.

Oh, and they absolutely have to have a final draft before the end of the month or they’re going to lose the big name stars.

The ones I’ve never heard of.


I know, I know, I should learn my lesson and walk away from these things. And to be fair, I am doing so more and more.

What has tended to happen in the past is in order to make the ludicrous deadline, I need to start working before the contract arrives … which I do, because I’m a trusting soul.

Never, ever trust anyone. That’s a lesson to learn right there.

So I beaver away, come up with a bunch of ideas, talk it over with them, incorporate their feedback into the plot and generally hash it out until we (amazingly) have something they like the sound of.

Even if I have (accidentally) forgotten the child-abuse.

Now they need a one-page synopsis.

That’s all, just one page.

Contract still hasn’t arrived, but that’s fine. It’s only one page after all … but they need it immediately. By nine the next morning.

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Okay, so I should claim I need the contract the next morning too. That’s exactly what I should do and am doing from now on; but on several occasions, I’ve been more trusting … like the fucking fool that I am.

Just one page.

Except it’s not one page, because the idea has to be so convoluted to match the laundry list of conditions that I have to plan it all out on index cards before I can condense it down to one page. Then I find I need to write it all out to make sure it makes sense, because I’m not sure it does.

After staying up ALL FUCKING NIGHT I have a ten page document which is EXACTLY what we’ve agreed on. The deadline is in four minutes, I just don’t have time to whittle it down to one page … so, fuck it. Sorry about this, guys; but I’ve skipped a step – this is where we’re heading anyway and since you don’t need the one pager to show the financiers or the actors, just as a document for us to discuss, then it’s possibly actually better this way.

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Except it isn’t.

Because, although this document features everything they wanted and everything we’ve already discussed and agreed on … it isn’t actually what they want. It isn’t what they want because they have no fucking idea what they actually want.

They haven’t got an idea for a film, the only idea they’ve got is that they want to make a film.

It’s a bit like someone asking you to paint their kitchen, only they’ve no idea what colour they want. All they know is they’d like something dark-ish. Or light-ish. Or something in-between. Maybe a primary colour? Or one of those colours you get when you mix primary colours together? One of those.

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So you pick a random colour. Blue, what about blue? Oh, they love blue! What shade? You discuss it, show them samples, suggest they look at other people’s kitchens which are the same colour … until they state, adamantly, that they want a specific shade.


So you paint their kitchen … and they don’t like it. They didn’t realise that was what blue was. They thought blue was more redish yellow. They didn’t realise I meant blue blue, even though that’s what they said they wanted.

They don’t say this right away, of course. First off they forget to look at the colour of the kitchen for three months because although it was vitally important you stay up all night painting it, they don’t actually need to look at the colour for ages yet. There’s no rush for them, just you.

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The second reason they don’t say this right away is because they decide not to bother saying it at all. The fact you’ve painted the kitchen the wrong colour clearly means you’re not the right painter for them, even though you’ve painted the kitchen the colour they asked for and not got anything on any of the woodwork and even managed to do that fiddly bit across the top of the boiler without spilling a single drop … despite doing a good job, the job they asked for, the fact you’ve painted it a colour which, on reflection, they don’t actually like, means you’re clearly not suited to this job … oh, and hey! Since they haven’t got round to sending the contract yet, they don’t actually need to pay you! They can get someone else to paint the kitchen another colour. Or better yet, just give up on the whole idea because they’ve lost interest in kitchens and might just get the bathroom painted instead. No need to tell the painter what they think of the colour, let’s just pretend he doesn’t exist.


What’s that Mr Sock? I’ve stretched that metaphor well past the point of being useful? Why yes, I do believe you’re right.

No, you can’t come out of the hamper.

Because I don’t like you, you insufferably smug git. Get back in your hamper. Back! Back in your hamper!

Essentially, instead of developing the idea to suit the (pretend) film they think they’re going to make, they just give up and cease all communication.


Maybe if I’d delivered a one-pager it would have been different? Maybe if it was a bite-sized idea they would be more inclined to pass comment and work towards something better? There’s a lot less information in a one-pager which is therefore easier to interpret in a way which makes sense to them. A ten-pager nails down characters and tone and theme and all those sort of things. There’s very little room for interpretation in a ten-pager. A one-pager can be anything.

It also feels easier to change, to discuss, to develop. A ten-pager? Well, it’s all decided now, isn’t it? It’s not what they want, so no point pursuing it. They don’t know what they do want, but they know it’s not this.

And because they didn’t have a strong investment in a specific idea in the first place, just some money and some free time, then they’ve no real interest in continuing. A bump in the road? Might as well just give up then. No, don’t bother telling the writer we’ve decided not to bother – he’ll work it out in a few months time when we haven’t replied to a single email, phone call or text.


This has happened to me a couple of times now. Apparently it takes me a long time to learn a few simple lessons, namely:

  1. Never do more than is expected, no one will thank you for it.
  2. If the client is unclear what they want, keep ideas loose and vague for as long as possible – that way their expectations are being met.
  3. Don’t do anything until the contract is signed by you and them. Not that contracts actually guarantee you’ll get paid. I’ve worked on films where no one got paid, despite their contracts. Where everyone sued the producers, and won … and still didn’t get any money. Films where I was the only person to get even a fraction of my payment, despite not actually having a contract at all. Doesn’t hurt to wait though.
  4. Most importantly: never, ever get involved in these type of projects in the first place, it’s just not worth the hassle.

This all probably sounds very cynical, and in a way it is … but maybe that’s actually a good way to be?#

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Or maybe not?

I don’t know.

I would ask Mr Sock, but we’re not on speaking terms any more. Although his cousin, Ms Teatowel is here and she has this amazing idea for a movie. Well, not idea as such, more of a yen to make something, but that bloke from Eastenders has agreed to be in whatever it is, well, not agreed as such, but he muttered something which sounded a bit like yes when she cornered him in Tesco. Which bloke? Oh you know, the fat one who was always in the background of the market scenes in the first couple of years – never spoke, but he’s quite famous. Or was. She wants to shoot it in one location, in Arabic with Dutch subtitles and it has to feature at least three hamsters and …

Hang on, this is all sounding a little familiar.

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Categories: Bored, Career Path, Industry Musings, Random Witterings, Things I've Learnt Recently | 1 Comment

Conversations to quit over #1

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No, no, no, you’re just not getting this. They’re four friends.


They’ve grown up together.

Got it.

And they all went to medical school together.


Now they’re all doctors.

All of them?

Yup. So they all use the same technical jargon.

And the same childhood slang?

Spot on. They use a shorthand only they can understand.

So … I guess they’re all from different ethnic backgrounds and–

No, no. They’re doctors, They’re all white middle-class men.

Pretty sure not all doctors are white. Or men.

These ones are. I’ve already cast them.

Ah. Who’ve you cast?

I’m not telling you, they haven’t confirmed yet.

I see. So you haven’t cast them.

I have! They just haven’t agreed yet. They all said they will do it, but each one wants to be the hero, so they’ve all got to be cool and wry and clever and … well, just awesome. Alpha males.

I’m not sure you can have four Alpha Males in one group.

Just write it and we’ll divide up the roles afterwards. Make them all the kind of guy you’d want to hang out with. Harrison Ford. Make them all like Harrison Ford.

All of them. Four Harrison Fords in one room.

Yes! Just do that!

Can I make one angry Harrison Ford and one–

No, these guys don’t get angry. They’re doctors! They’re intelligent, educated men who always know what … um … word things to say and never stop being …

Harrison Ford?

Yes! I need the first draft in five days.


This is a terrible script – all these characters sound the same. I should be able to cover up the character names and–


Categories: Bored | Leave a comment

The need to know list


As I’ve mentioned before (and will doubtlessly do so again), I hate writing the first ten pages of a script. My first few drafts rarely make any sense until at least a quarter of the way through … and frequently not even then. I tend to start too early or too late or with the wrong character or on an image/scene/idea which has nothing to do with the story or theme.

Sometimes I have too much information and not enough story. Other times I plunge headlong into the story without allowing people the time/information they need to join the train. Usually, somewhere around the third or fourth draft I sit down and write out a NEED TO KNOW LIST.


Now, you may be one of those instinctive writers I’ve heard of (but never met) who automatically do this kind of thing without thought or plan. Good for you, I’m not you but hope to be one day.

Sometimes this all just falls into place. More often than not, I need to sit down and work it out with a pen and paper:

What do the audience need to know in order to get started? What information do I need to get across, cunningly disguised as entertainment?

I tend to start with a list of questions to answer, something like:

  • Whose story is it?
  • Why is it this person’s story and not the person sitting behind them?
  • What’s the central irony of their character which connects them to the film’s theme?
  • What do they want?
  • What’s stopping them getting it?
  • Is there a way to personify that ‘what’? Can I turn the ‘what’ into a ‘who’?
  • What do they need to learn/overcome/realise/let go of which will finally allow them to get what they want?

And probably other stuff I can’t remember at the moment.


I should probably create some kind of form and just fill in the boxes.

Those are generic story questions – not all stories can easily answer those question, nor should they. Usually, the ones which can’t answer those questions are fundamentally flawed somewhere … but not always. Not by a long shot. Some stories are just different and that’s that.


After I’ve answered (or not) those questions, then I move on to world building questions:

  • Are there any special rules to this universe?

This could be things like:

Ginger people are telepathic, brunettes are empathic and blondes are shunned by society.


When we landed on the moon in ’69 we found out the dark side is just scaffolding and nothing above us or beyond the horizon is actually real.


The main character has a bionic left leg and can hop over large buildings … but only on a Tuesday.

Basically, anything which is special to this story, to this universe, anything which is different to the world we live in. I find if I include this information upfront, it’s fine. People are happy. If I suddenly reveal everyone called Keith is bulletproof halfway through, it feels like I’m cheating somehow.

Although, I guess that would be fine if you already knew people called Keith had a variety of special powers, some of which were yet to be discovered. Or that different names denoted different super powers. Or perhaps the bulletproof Keiths just developed their powers mid-film? In which case it will be a surprise to everyone, not least the Keiths themselves.

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I’m sure there are lots of exception to this sort of thing, but I like to have the extraordinary rules laid out for me early on so I can get on with enjoying the story. I tend to be very accepting of unusual stuff in the first ten minutes of a film:

Ah, so in this world, costumed vigilantes can fall ten stories and just get up? Okay, no problem.

As opposed to:

Okay, so in this world there are some perfectly ordinary people who wear costumes to fight crime. Fine … and then halfway through watch a guy fall ten stories onto his face without injury.

Once I’ve got a list of all these things I think people need to know in order to understand the film, I then start crossing things off. Because I’m nearly always putting in too much information at this point.

In one script, I spent the first ten pages wrestling with the protagonist working out how voodoo dolls worked, how she researched them, how she put it all together … until the producer pointed out everyone knows how voodoo dolls work, you just stick fucking pins in them, now can we please all just move on?


Similarly, in Valkyrie, they originally tied themselves up in knots trying to explain that not all German soldiers in WWII were Nazis, some were just soldiers … until they realised it doesn’t fucking matter. People watching German soldiers in WWII uniforms just see Nazis. No one thinks about them as German infantry or paratroopers or whatever – they just see Nazis and it doesn’t really matter, just get on with showing that some of them are good guys and some of them aren’t and stop trying to shoehorn party membership cards into every shot.

Or something like that. That may not actually be true, I don’t know.

The point is, most audiences are smarter than people give them credit for and will probably get the point far faster than we expect. So I examine the Need to Know List carefully and cross out everything I think I don’t need.


Next step is to see what information I can combine with something else. Ideally, I’m looking for scenes which get across two or three bits of information in one go. Preferrably without explicitly mentioning the information I’m trying to get across.

If, for example, my story is about a lazy guy who lives in the future surrounded by hovering robots who do all the work for him (doubtlessly later to be somehow turned into one of these robots and forced to experience what it’s like to become a slave to some other lazy git until he finally snaps and leads a robot revolt of some description) then the Need to Know List might include:

  • Lazy person (just him or is everyone lazy?)
  • It’s the future
  • Hover technology
  • Robot technology
  • Is all this tech commonplace or just for the rich or brand new?
  • Robots do all the hardwork

Then the first thing I’d probably cross off the list is the fact it’s the future. That goes in the scene heading, maybe; but other than that the design of the buildings/cars/fashions will tell us it’s somewhen else … not to mention hovering fucking robots all over the place. The fact it’s 2147 or 2232 or 2391 is probably completely irrelevant.

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Unless it isn’t.

Hover technology and robot technology doesn’t need to be explained. We see a robot (or several robots, depending on how widespread this technology is) hovering and we get it. There are hovering robots in this world. Fine. We don’t need to know how they work or who invented the hover technology (unless it’s relevant to the story and that person is going to show up later on) or how the robots were invented/manufactured.

We know what a robot is, we know what hovering is. If we can see it, it’s not important to explain it or where they come from.

Unless it is. Unless, say, the reason he ends up as a robot is because all robots are built using human brains – then I’d have to think about whether or not everyone knows this and is fine with it or whether it’s a surprise to the main character and whether or not to clue the audience in before he finds out?

That this guy is lazy? I could have a character tell him he’s lazy, but that’s a bit shit. It would be better to show him being too lazy to do something simple and then forcing a hovering robot to do it for him. That one scene would tick all the boxes on that rather short Need to Know List.

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If I wanted to show that everyone was lazy, I might have a group of people getting the robot to do things for them. If I wanted to show it was just him, I might show other people doing the thing he’s too lazy to do.

I don’t know. This isn’t exactly something I’ve thought about in any great detail.

The point underneath all this rambling is I like to back away from the script and marshall my thoughts somewhere else before returning for the next round of rewrites. The Need to Know List is a tool which works for me.

To be honest, it would probably work better if I did it before I wrote my first draft.

Bugger, I can’t believe I’ve only just realised that. Surely that’s the one thing I needed to know years ago?


Categories: My Way, Random Witterings | Leave a comment

Easter synopses


There’s going to be some waffle.

Then there’s going to be some stuff about synopses which is quite interesting.

You may wish to skip to about halfway down.

Or you may not.

I don’t know, I’m not you.

You may have already known that.

Unless you are me.

Which would be weird and possibly a bit awkward come bed time.

Hello! I’m back! Did you miss me? Did you even notice I”d gone?

I didn’t notice I’d gone. I didn’t intend to go anywhere, I just accidentally took the Easter holidays off from all writing of all kinds everywhere. Apparently this is the kind of thing which happens when you have a small child.

Did you have a good Easter? I did. I did things like this:

Okay, so I know technically the Easter holidays finished a week ago, but I accidentally took an extra week off to play with my toys. Essentially I was turning this:

2014-04-26 20.57.52

2014-04-26 20.58.10

Into this:


2014-04-26 20.37.402014-04-26 20.38.08Clearly that didn’t take me an entire week to do, but I was … um … doing stuff. Yes. Stuff. That’s what I was doing.

Anyway, I’m back to the mill now. Or desk. More of a desk, I suppose.

(That’s the end of the waffle, by the way)

The thing I’ve been working on recently is not a thing. It’s lots of things. Specifically, lots of synopses for potential film projects to work on with an actor friend of mine, Jay Sutherland*. Here he is, pissed up and in charge of a firearm:

Jay’s great. You should hire him.

So before Easter I was slowly working my way through a pile of ideas, scribbling down one pagers so we can select one to work on and … there’s no easy way of saying this, they were all shit.

All of them.

Not the ideas, the synopses.

Possibly the ideas too, but that kind of self-abuse isn’t helpful right now.

The first draft of all the synopses were shit because I do the same thing every time: describe bits of plot, action and events instead of describing the character.


It’s one of those really simple, blatantly obvious things which I forget every fucking time. Just answer the three basic questions:

  • Who’s it about?
  • What do they want?
  • What’s stopping them getting it?

Okay, so there’s more to it than that. The first two questions work best when they’re connected by irony and the last one works best when there’s some kind of thematic connection; but in essence, thinking about these three questions makes my synopses far, far better.

I also find it useful to think like a DVD cover – describe the above three questions in relation to the first act, hint at what sorts of things will go on in the second act and that’ll do pig. That’ll do.


Some people think you should include the ending in a synopsis. I’m not really one of them. Except when I am. Generally I think it helps to pique a producer’s interest if you don’t include the ending – make them want to question you about it.

Other people think you need to include the ending because producers are too busy to go around asking questions and won’t be interested unless they get all the information upfront.

I guess either or both could be true. I tend to go with the former, I may be wrong.


But there  you go, that’s what  I’m doing – synopsisising like a bastard while interesting things are swirling around in the background.

Not literally. It’s not like I’m surrounded by a maelstrom of flying teapots and china knick-knacks.

Unless they stop when I turn round.

Which they might be. Who knows?

Oh fuck, I’m waffling again. Probably time for a tea break.



* Technically he’s my brother’s best-friend’s brother. But let’s not split hairs. I like him, therefore (in my world) he’s a friend of mine. You’re a friend of mine too, for much the same reason.

† Ha ha! Tricked you! It was all waffle! There was meant to be more substance to this, including examples of the synopses I’m currently working on … but I chickened out because I don’t want people ridiculing me and calling me names.

‡ More people. I don’t want more people ridiculing me and calling me names.



Categories: Bored, My Way, Random Witterings | 1 Comment

Red Planet blues

Red Planet

By now, everyone will have heard about their Red Planet Prize entry.

Well, not everyone. I’m pretty certain not everyone entered. 7 billion entries would be quite tricky to get through and the ones from babies would be terrible.

So no, not everyone; but everyone who entered. Oh for fuck’s sake. I’ll start again.

By now, everyone who entered will have heard about their Red Planet Prize entry. Some of you will be doing the Snoopy dance …

Snoopy Dance

The rest of you won’t.

Charlie Brown


But here’s the thing … it doesn’t matter which group you’re in. Not really.

I’ve blogged about this before: Ivory Tower (that post is far better than this one. I’d go and read that one, if I were you) and six years later the same’s pretty much true – competitions are great, but they’re just diversions from your career.

Okay, so *possibly* winning something prestigious will catapult you to the top of the pile. Doors will open. Contracts will rain down upon you and all will be well in the world.


But probably not.

Probably, even if you win a competition, you’ll find yourself lauded and fêted for a bit … probably for as long as it takes for someone to ask “what else have you got?”

I’ve been there. Years ago I won a thing which got me some coverage, which got a very prestigious Hollywood manager sniffing around … which led to absolutely nothing, because my answer to “What else have you got?” was … nothing good.


Because here’s  the thing (really? Here‘s the thing? I thought the thing was a few lines back?) being a scriptwriter isn’t about a script.

Competitions are, true.

Competitions are all about that one specific script you entered. They aren’t judging you, your ability, your dedication or your craft … they’re judging a script.

Just one.

Not even one, not really. In this case they’re making a judgement based on one sixth of a script.

Their reasons for rejecting that sixth of a script (not you, the script – no one’s rejecting you) are probably bang on the money.

Okay, so there may be mitigating factors. Chances are, no matter how ‘out there’ you feel your premise is, they had several very similar ones in. Perhaps yours was identical in all but character names to five other scripts? Perhaps yours got rejected because they had to choose one and that person on that day preferred the name Algernon to the name Reginald?

Want that one

It doesn’t matter.

Just as your career isn’t hung on one script*, it isn’t hung on one competition either. Winning a competition gives you a brief moment of access and attention – you still have to have the skill and determination to use that moment. You need exactly the same skill and determination (and stick-at-it-ness – I’m sure I know a word for that, but can’t think of one at the moment) to succeed whether you win a competition or not.

Winning isn’t everything, playing the long game is.

Because here’s the thing (another the thing! Fuck me, how many of these singular things are there?) people who win or place in competitions (and I’m not talking specifically about the Red Planet Prize here) don’t always have a career afterwards.

I can think of at least one guy who’s won loads of competitions and it doesn’t seem to have helped at all.

I’ve met another who was a runner up in the Red Planet Prize (and I am talking specifically about the Red Planet Prize here) who had twelve months of access to Red Planet Productions … and didn’t take advantage of it at all.

Why? Because he (or she! Could have been a she! It wasn’t, but it could have been) never really came up with an idea he thought they’d be interested in.


In twelve months.

For fuck’s sake!

Many writers I know are no longer writers. They’ve given up because it’s a hard frustrating battle of constant rejection. Always. All the time. Everyone gets rejected. Everyone. All the time. It’s the whole point of the game:

“Do you like this?”


“What about this?”


“Are you sure?”


To paraphrase John  Sheridan, all you need to have a successful career is to ask the question one more time than they can say no.

The one! Or one of them.

And possibly some talent. And maybe a computer of some kind. And probably enough social skills not to fling your own shit at people who are trying to pay you.

The Red Planet Prize is an awesome competition and a great opportunity for those who get through to the final dozen or so; but it’s just one thing in a whole forest of things; because here’s the real thing – there’s more than one thing.




* Because one script isn’t a career, it’s a script. Statistically, probably a bad one. We all write them. Some of us are unlucky enough to have them made into films.



Categories: Industry Musings, Random Witterings, Someone Else's Way | 5 Comments

Boldly going


I tend to go through little phases with my writing. Certain stylistic things which, for some reason, catch my fancy and make their way into most of my scripts during a certain, brief window of time … before being jettisoned from my tool box like a pair of *insert whatever style of jeans are currently unfashionable here*.#

Currently, I seem to be rather enamoured with intercutting between two people talking to the same third person in the same room at different times.

No, I don’t know why either. I just am.

The problem with that is: it’s fucking difficult to format properly.

I guess the accepted way would be something like this:



          Come on, Mavis, we've got you bang to 
          rights and no mistake.

          Oh lordy, lordy.



The same room, hours later. Cindy interviews REGINA.
          Fuck you copper, I ain't telling you 

          The other woman, the one in the tutu, she
          told us everything.

          Oh lordy, lordy.

          You said that.

          Eat my shit, pig?

          Yeah, and that.
          What about-- ?

          Look, can we just assume you've used every 
          cliché under the sun and just get on with 
          the confessing?

          Oh lordy, lordy?

          Once more! Just once! And my fist is going 
          right up your ...

And so on.

The problem with that example, is it’s really hard to tell who Cindy’s talking to. I mean, this line:

          The other woman, the one in the tutu, she
          told us everything.

Is that said to Mavis or Regina? How about the rest of Cindy’s lines? Who is she talking to?

Another way of writing this might be:



          Come on, Mavis, we've got you bang to 
          rights and no mistake.

          Oh lordy, lordy.



The same room, hours later. Cindy interviews REGINA.
          Fuck you copper, I ain't telling you 


          The other woman, the one in the tutu, she
          told us everything.

          Oh lordy, lordy.

          You said that.


          Eat my shit, pig?

          Yeah, and that.
          What about-- ?


          Look, can we just assume you've used every 
          cliché under the sun and just get on with 
          the confessing?

          Oh lordy, lordy?


          Once more! Just once! And my fist is going 
          right up your ...


I don’t know about you, but I find that fucking horrible.

I also have a weird thing about scene headings without an action line underneath it. Don’t know why, I just do. But writing “Cindy interviews Mavis”, “Cindy interrogates Mavis”, “Cindy’s still getting fucking nowhere with Mavis” is even worse.

So, recently (and I know this is slightly less than interesting; but I’ve started now and am determined to finish regardless) I’ve been bolding the intercut scenes. Rather like this:



          Come on, Mavis, we've got you bang to 
          rights and no mistake.

          Oh lordy, lordy.



The same room, hours later. Cindy interviews REGINA.
          Fuck you copper, I ain't telling you 

          The other woman, the one in the tutu, she
          told us everything.

          Oh lordy, lordy.

          You said that.

          Eat my shit, pig?

          Yeah, and that.
          What about-- ?

          Look, can we just assume you've used every 
          cliché under the sun and just get on with 
          the confessing?

          Oh lordy, lordy?

          Once more! Just once! And my fist is going 
          right up your ...

Which I feel reads much better. Okay, it’s shit; but that’s beside the point. You may disagree, but please don’t – it unsettles my ego.

I’ve also started doing it for bits of a scene which occur away from the main characters. So, for instance:


Sam squeals with fear, points at the alley below. Bemused, 
Wilf peers over the edge - what the hell is Sam pointing at?
There's nothing there but:

Bins, a cat, a used condom.

          What? What is it?

Sam shrieks with fear, points even more pointedly:

The cat chokes on one of the condoms. There's a bit of 
newspaper meandering around the alley.

          What? Use your words, goddamn it!

Point. Point. Shriek. Point:

A cat. A condom. A newspaper. A Burmese Zombie Ninja. 
Nothing unusual!

          Seriously, just spit it out or my fist
          is going right up your ...

And so on.

I don’t know if this sort of thing is allowed or not, but it works for me and fuck you, it’s my script+.

Oh and apparently I now end every scene with the threat of intimate cavity violence.



# At fourteen I reached breaking point with fashion and decided it could fuck off. Fashion means looking like a twat but not realising it until a year later. Far better to be stylish than fashionable I thought. Never quite managed it, but the thought was there.

I don’t know about you, but I’m so bored with fashion cycling endlessly through the 60s, 70s and 80s (the 90s being a brief pause before we all went back to the 60s). Can’t we have something different? I vote for Elizabethan gear to come back into fashion: tights, codpiece and a fuck-off ruff – that would be awesome.

+ Unless you’ve paid me for it, then technically it’s your script. But still fuck you. I have my own funky style, that’s why you hired me and … what’s that? Difficult? Me? You’re never going to hire me again? Oh … well. Yes. Um … uoy kcuf (that’s me taking it back).

Categories: Bored, My Way, Random Witterings, Sad Bastard | 3 Comments

The blog tour

There’s this thing going round …

Don’t worry, it’s not contagious.

Well, technically it is. I mean, plenty of people have had it before me and plenty more will have it afterwards, so it’s sort of contagious … but not really. You can’t catch it by being sneezed on or sitting on the wrong toilet or licking a doorknob.

At least, I don’t think you can. If anyone wants to go and lick a doorknob and report back, that would be extremely helpful.


But no, you can’t. I already knew that, I just sent you off to lick things because I enjoy wielding that kind of power over you. You can’t catch it from doorknobs because it’s an Internet thing. Specifically the Internet thing called The Blog Tour.

It’s a meme, I guess. Do they still call them memes? Or have they got a new name now? Like ‘zupers’ or ‘demdams’ or ‘xxyjrnmm’? I have no idea, for I am old and … well, sadly not grey yet. Still ginger, but working on it.

Anyway, back in my day we called them memes and we did them when we were told to do them. Which I have been. By Jason Arnopp, no less, in this very blog post here.

He tagged me …

Do you crazee kidz still call it tagging? Or have you given it a new name like ‘catweezling’ or ‘flibbart’ or ‘m’hinge’?

Stalling? Me? Why, yes, I suppose I am. No, I don’t know why either.


Jason tagged me and now I have to answer these four questions …

Well, I don’t have to. It’s not like Arnopp’s going to visit me in the dead of the night and scoop out my kidneys with a warm spoon. Actually, he might. He’s like that.

Four questions!

1) What am I working on?

Ooh, lots.

Sort of.

I guess it depends how you define ‘working on’. Scriptwriting isn’t really a digital job. It’s not on or off. Projects hang around for years after they’ve been ‘finished’, sometimes looming out of the fog of the distant past like an iceberg which needs completely restructuring so that it’s made of blancmange instead of ice because the producer has found a financeer who’s got a girlfriend made out of blancmange.

Or something like that.

Similarly, but completely differently, I’m working on scripts without actually writing anything because I’m either thinking about it or the client is and any month now they’re going to get back in touch and I’m going to explode into a frenzied bout of typing … despite looking, to all intents and purposes, like I’m lying on the sofa watching Person of Interest.

So I guess a better way of wording this would be “What projects have you got active?”

Well, since you put it like that:

    1. A high concept drama/thriller feature thing.
    2. A high concept, family-friendly action-adventure franchise based on a pre-existing public domain property which is incredibly well-known throughout the whole world and yet no one’s ever made this kind of film about it.
    3. A sci-fi/adventure TV pilot which is something I’ve written just for me. Hopefully for someone else at some point, but just for me at the moment.
    4. A series proposal for someone else.
    5. And a veritable pile of one pagers for a friend so we can pick which one to develop into a script.

2) How does my work differ from others of its genre?

It doesn’t? Or it’s worse? One of those two.

3) Why do I write what I do?

Because it either interests me or someone’s paying me to or both. Ideally both. In the past, if someone was paying me to write something which didn’t interest me, I tried to fit it with a theme which did interest me. Nowadays I just say no. Saying no is much easier.

4) How does my writing process work?


I tend to start with the idea and think about it for as long as possible.

Possibly longer.

Then I try to find the irony in it – which character would be best to tell this story? Who’s the most unlikely person to go through this journey? When I have the idea, the story and the character then I try to distil it into a sentence.

After that, I brainstorm the shit out of it, just writing down anything which pops into my head which may or may not fit into the film. If I really, really like the first thing I think of, I pop it to one side and try to think of something better. I think it’s pretty important not to stop on the first thing you can imagine … because that’s often the first thing everyone else can imagine too.

Which is not good.

Except when it is.

Afterwards, I collate the brainstorming document into a slightly neater version which actually makes sense.

My pile of ideas, characters and motivations collected, I go back to the sentence and turn it into a logline(ish) and a synopsis. I’ll probably do this three of four times until I’m happy with it.

Incidentally, if you’re producer reading this – this bit takes a long fucking time to get to. It takes a lot of thought to get to the point where I can ‘jot down’ a quick one-pager.

Then I hit the index cards like a fucking banshee. Which basically means just putting them down on the table or up on the board, depending on how saucy I’m feeling that day. I start with eight cards and give each section of the film a name like “Finding the cheese” or “Run! It’s Jesus!” or something like that.

When I can sum up each eighth of the film with a pithy, annoying phrase then I break each bit down into a beginning, middle and end and add extra cards in until there are (roughly) five or six cards per eighth. I usually go back to the neatened brainstorming session to make sure I’ve not forgotten anything/changed my mind.

Now, it’s treatment time. My treatments tend to be roughly ten pages which makes one page roughly equivalent to one rough page. Roughly.

Incidentally, if you’re a producer reading this, to “bash out” a quick ten-page treatment involves thinking of EVERYTHING WHICH IS GOING TO BE IN THE FUCKING FILM IN ITS ENTIRETY FROM BEGINNING TO FUCKING END. That’s why it takes a little while. Just saying.

I tend to do three or four drafts of the treatment too – until I’ve got something I really like.

Then it’s script time, which is like Hammer Time but with less trousers. Scripting is where I realise the map isn’t the territory and none of it makes any fucking sense from the trenches. I probably do five or six drafts of each script before it gets to production … and then five or six more during pre-production and five or six more during production.

Incidentally, if you’re a producer reading this, it is five or six drafts. Only naming every third one a new draft doesn’t stop all of them being a new draft, it just stops you paying for them.

The general rule of thumb is all the changes made during development make the script better, all the changes made during pre-production make the script cheaper and all the ones made during production just fucking ruin it.

And that’s my process. I follow this religiously. Except when I don’t. Which is most of the time.

Wow! Those were long answers, weren’t they? I like my answer to number two best, because it’s short.

Still with me? We’re nearly done. The only thing left is to tag the three folk I want to pass this thing onto. Obviously, I’d love to pass it on to all of you; but some of you have already had it and are therefore immune. The rest of you who aren’t tagged … sorry. Unless you didn’t want to be tagged, in which case … you’re welcome.

Rosie Claverton


Rosie Claverton is a screenwriter and novelist. She grew up in Devon, daughter to a Sri Lankan father and a Norfolk mother, surrounded by folk mythology and surly sheep. She moved to Cardiff to study Medicine and adopted Wales as her home.

Her short film “Dragon Chasers” aired on BBC Wales in Autumn 2012 and her debut mystery novel “Binary Witness” will be published by Carina Press on 5th May 2014.

Currently exiled to London, she lives with her journalist husband and their pet hedgehog.

Rosie’s brilliant. She wrote on Persona and was utterly wonderful at it. She’s a great writer. Hire her.

Danny Stack


Hi, I’m Danny Stack. Phill asked me to provide a short bio of around 75 words, so I’ve wasted quite a few already with this intro. And I decided not to go with the ‘third person’ bio style, too, just to give it a go, but it’s actually much more awkward doing it this way than saying ‘he doesn’t like referring to himself in the third person’. Anyways! I’m a screenwriter, script readery-type person who also directs when I get the chance. And, um, my 75 words are up so I should point you to my website, I guess http://dannystack.com

If you’re a UK writer who doesn’t know Danny either through his own work, the Red Planet Prize or his podcast with Tim Clague … then shame on you. Give up now, you’ve failed to demonstrate the minimum required level of interest in your chosen career.

Rob Stickler

SticklerRob Stickler wants to be a successful writer. He finished his first feature length script at eighteen and hasn’t given up yet.

He main focus is scriptwriting. People sometimes like his stuff.

He is Welsh and a vegetarian. His hobbies include drinking tea and reading comics in the bath. He dislikes flags, meanness and writing about himself.

He lives in the Midlands with his wife, their son and a cat called Nyssa.

Rob was one of the first wave of scriptwriting bloggers from back in the dark days of the Internet (2007). A wild time, a time without laws or iPhones, a time when people had to be content with phones which could browse all of the Internet, had proper GPS navigation and could make video calls.*

Okay, I’m done now. I’m going to stop.


*Yes, I know iPhones can do 2 of those 3 things now; but they couldn’t then. This sentence is here purely to annoy one person who reads this blog and expects me to try and annoy him.

Categories: My Way, Random Witterings | 1 Comment



Years ago, when I first started writing, I made several very wrong assumptions.

The first was that my initial goal was to ‘break in’, as if there were some walled garden somewhere where all the TV/movie people hung out. Possibly a darkened and debauched nightclub with lots of drugs and morally ambiguous men/women/goats.

There isn’t. There’s no ‘in’ to break into. Behind the wall you’re looking at, whatever the stage of your career, is just another wall. Sadly, it’s walls all the way to the grave.

The second assumption was that I could start small, get a micro-budget film produced, then a low-budget, then a medium-budget … and so on until I was filthy fucking rich and could start my own debauched nightclub and hire my own damned goats.

Wilder and Betsy The Sheep

Yeah … that didn’t work either.

But the assumption I want to talk about today is fact checking. I used to think there was a department for checking facts in a script. I figured I could just get things vaguely right and someone somewhere would send me a list of corrections during pre-production.

I mean, there’s probably a whole department for this sort of thing, right? I think I was imagining some kind of dimly lit office crammed with desks where miserable old men slave away in front of piles of reference material.


“Phill Barron’s written another script!” one would say.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, what facts has the useless cunt got wrong now?” would chirp another.

Then they’ll fall on my script like a horde of ravenous … um accountants? Fact checkers? Damn, can’t really think of a good analogy there.

Anyway, they’d spring into action and instantly correct me on my spurious and inaccurate portrayal of 17th Century submarines.

They had submarines back then, right? Pretty sure they did. Probably made out of wood or hollowed out pumpkins or something.


I mean, come on – if it’s in a movie then someone must have checked it, right? Surely they don’t let idiots like me just make this shit up? I mean what if I get this stuff wrong? What if I can only remember four of The Beatles’ names and make up the other seven? What if I can’t remember which country Africa’s in? Or which end of the EM spectrum gold is on?

This is important shit! When you’re writing high-quality, much loved toss like Strippers vs Werewolves, people want, nay need, to know the facts they’re presented with are not only accurate but … um … something else. More accurate?

Turns out, there isn’t a fact department. At least not on the films I’ve worked on. There’s just me.

only me

Which is a shame really, because I know absolutely fucking nothing about absolutely fucking everything.

This is a problem, because one of the skills I think you need as a scriptwriter is a basic working knowledge of everything. Or at least the ability to find someone who does know.

Thank fuck for Wikipedia, I say, because they know everything, right?


just the facts

Categories: Bored, Industry Musings, Random Witterings | Leave a comment

What’s in a name?


I’m never quite sure what to do with minor characters. Or rather, I know what to do with them, but not what to call them.

Conventional wisdom is to just call them Thug #1 or Florist #17 (which is a lot of florists). The problem with conventional wisdom is not everyone agrees and, frankly, I’m one of them. Keeping track of three or four Thugs in an action sequence is really difficult. Okay, so they don’t all have to talk and you can sometimes get away with:

Bob shoots three THUGS in the head. *


But what about when you have six thugs who split into teams of two? What if you have three heroes running around dealing with them on different floors of the same building? And then the Thug-teams meet back up and join together?

Sure, you can still call them THUG(S) #1 – 6 but it’s a bit of a dull read.

Wiser conventional wisdom says give them all an adjective as a name: SKINNY THUG, FAT THUG, STUPID THUG, TRANSVESTITE THUG … and so on.

That works well … except when it doesn’t.

images (1)

Some scripts have lots of Vox Pops from one-line characters. Or have the protagonist meeting small groups of near-identical speaking characters at regular intervals like TAKEN, for example. I’ve not made the slightest effort to find the script for TAKEN, but I can imagine running out of adjectives towards the end of the script CREPUSCULAR BADDIE, HOMOGENEOUS BADDIE, TUTU-WEARING BADDIE …

Similarly, listing them up to BADDIE #113 would be quite wearing.

Then you get the producers (usually the micro-budget ones) who want all the characters to have names, citing the logic that it’s easier to get a slightly better actor to agree to a low-paid cameo if they’re playing CAESAR BING as opposed to FACELESS NOBODY #7.

This is an opinion which varies from production to production and while I don’t think it’s terrible advice, some producers think it’s nonsense and just panic when they generate a cast list and see forty-odd named characters.

images (2)

Personally, I think it’s best not to do this until you know that’s what this particular producer wants. Especially if you have a lot of people getting beaten up or shouting during the first few pages – it’s just confusing and scares readers who don’t know which names they have to remember. I’d rather only the major characters were named in the first ten pages or so, but that might just be me.

When a producer does insist every character is named, then I find I still have the issue of keeping track of who’s who. SEBASTIAN on page 93 – did we meet him on page 4? No, that CASPIAN. Or was it a talking SEABASS? Oh look, I’ve lost interest.

Was GERALD one of the biker gang or one of the scientists? They’ve been arguing for several scenes now and I’m beginning to lose the will to care.

images (3)

Sometimes I experiment with different naming systems. If someone gets into trouble with a small gang of ROWDY YOUTHS … I might give them names which belong together, like FANCY, SPOOK, CHOO-CHOO, BENNY and BRAIN. Or HERCULES, SHIRO and LEE. Or SCOTT, ALAN, VIRGIL, GORDON and … um … BRIAN? WAYNE? MAYNARD? Fuck, can’t remember. Oh dear.

Point is, these names only belong together if you’re of a certain age and wasted too many Saturday mornings in front of the telly.

LAUREL and HARDY might be good names for two bumbling security guards … unless the reader is in their early twenties and has no idea who Laurel and Hardy were.

“Oh, those two guys from that black and white poster?”

images (4)

Fucking criminal, I know – but nobody’s famous forever.

Other times I’ve tried giving a group of DISPOSABLE MERCENARIES colours for names: RED, YELLOW, GREEN, BLUE … That seemed to work quite well during a particularly convoluted fight scene.

Very recently, I had a multitude of characters commenting on the action to camera, like an expanded Internet-based Greek chorus. We occasionally came back to the same person, but the number of them keeps growing. I tried calling them by their job title – but most of them weren’t in situations where their job was easily recognisable from their clothes/backgrounds – unlike, say, PARAMEDIC or NAZI.

So I tried giving all the characters an adjective-based name … but that wasn’t really working either because there were too many of them.

Then, after a dressing down from a frustrated producer on a different project who thought “giving all of the minor characters proper names is just standard and why the fuck aren’t you doing it?”, I panicked and rewrote every script I was working on … but this one just didn’t lend itself to that kind of thing. If you call the Paramedic STEVE, then you have to include an action line explaining he’s a paramedic, whereas a PARAMEDIC can just start talking.

Then I had a brain wave – why not give every character an alliterative name? NURSE NERYS, DOCTOR DAN, RENE THE RETRO-PHRENOLOGIST?

Yes! This was genius! Why hadn’t I thought of this before?


Because it’s fucking stupid, that’s why.

Never, ever do this.

Unless you want to. Because, obviously, rule number one is never, ever take advice from me.

I still haven’t found a solution I’m happy with. Or perhaps I just still haven’t found a solution which works every time. I’m searching for the Grand Unified Theory of Minor Character Naming … but perhaps there isn’t one?

Perhaps it’s something I should just review on a script by script basis?

Or perhaps I’m just writing this because I’m avoiding writing something useful and feel better knowing you’ve just wasted a significant chunk of your day too?

Yes, that sounds more likely.

images (5)


* With one bullet? Or one after the other with three bullets? This is a terrible action line. Never put this line in a script.

Categories: Bored, Industry Musings, My Way, Random Witterings, Sad Bastard, Someone Else's Way | 1 Comment

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