Random Witterings

TV programmes only I’ve seen: #1 – Tales of the Gold Monkey

I had a spare afternoon recently so I sat down and wrote out four new blog posts – four weeks’ worth of pointless tosh … and now I can’t find them. I suspect I saved them to my desktop and then deleted them in some frenzied docu-purge … but I can’t be sure.

Bugger.

So, instead of what was probably a torrent of meaningless rambling, I’m forced to write something meaningful and insightful … or talk about 80’s TV.

Yeah, fuck it, 80’s TV it is.

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There are certain TV programmes I loved as a kid which no-one else appears to have heard of. Well, clearly not no-one because somebody must have heard of them or seen them. I find it highly unlikely I was the only person in the UK to have watched these things … it just sometimes feels like that.

Which is a shame, because these programmes are an important part of my childhood memories – they’re cultural touchstones only I seem to have touched… thus rendering them completely and utterly useless. I mean, what’s the point of holding onto a memory for thirty-odd years if you can’t reminisce about them with anyone? So this post (and any subsequent ones, if I can be arsed) are solely designed to see if anyone else shared these tiny moments of joy in the dark and dangerous past.

First up:

TALES OF THE GOLD MONKEY! What a fucking awesome show! It had everything: planes, violence, a one-eyed dog, sexy (important to a ten year old) women, violence, Nazis, exotic locations and more violence. And cigars.

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Cigars were very important on TV in the 80’s.

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Tales of the Gold Monkey was a cross between (rip off of) Indiana Jones and Only Angels Have Wings (which apparently no-one else has seen either, so it’s pointless mentioning).

Set on a fictional South Sea island (probably – I was ten! I have no idea where it was set.) Tales of the Gold Monkey was a rollicking adventure series, the story of pilot Jake Cutter, played by Decker from Star Trek (not to be confused with Riker from ST:TNG who was completely different. Completely. Honest, he had a beard and everything!).

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Jake was the pilot (and one time owner, until he lost it in a poker game or something like that) of Cutter’s Goose, a frankly awesome sea plane … or possibly the only sea plane I’ve seen portrayed in a TV show. One of the two.

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Jake, together with his alcoholic engineer, Corky(?) …

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… and Jack (a one-eyed dog who barked once for yes and twice for no (or the other way round, probably the other way round) and was the most intelligent character in the show)

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… they flew around a bit and fought Nazis and hunted treasure and punched people and … just generally had adventures. They may or may not have discovered a few lost civilisations – I can’t remember.

Yes, I know I can just use the Internet to fill in the details, but that’s really not the point, is it?

Is it?

What else?

There was Sarah (I think she was called Sarah, she looks like a Sarah in my head) who was … um … something. A US spy, perhaps? Did she run the company which employed Jake? That sounds about right. I think she owned Cutter’s Goose. Or maybe she didn’t?

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Now I come to think of it, maybe Jake lost Jack’s eye in a poker game and not the plane? I’m guessing Sarah was Jake’s will-they/won’t-they love interest and/or added to keep Dads from turning over in the way all 80’s adventure shows added at least one token woman to be tokenly sexy … but then usually dressed them in oddly unsexy, neck to ankle dresses with lots of frills.

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Apart from Jodie in The Fall Guy, of course.

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Oh, and Daisy Duke.

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And maybe one of the truck-bound engineer women in Knightrider? I’ve a feeling there were two of them and one was decidedly more token-sexy than the other … but I may be wrong.

Did this happen on women-based adventure shows like Charlie’s Angels or The Bionic Woman? Did they chuck in a scantily clad bloke just for kicks? Probably not.

Fuck it, I will – just to add balance.

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Tales of the Gold Monkey did have a female co-lead (or co-sub-lead) anyway. Oh and a Dragon Lady-type character who probably wasn’t actually Chinese since I’m not sure they let Chinese people be on telly much in the 80’s.

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In my mind she ran the drug trade and was in league with the Nazis and was very sexy, but I might be getting her confused with a character from Buck Rogers?

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Or maybe even Flash Gordon?

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Fucking hell, did Princesses in space never wear clothes?

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I think there was a fornicating vicar who was a Nazi spy and a guy who ran the bar (Golden Monkey Bar?) who might have been in Planet of the Apes.

Or am I making this up now?

Maybe Tales of the Gold Monkey wasn’t as formative a memory as I first thought? There certainly seems to be less of it than I thought I remembered.

I don’t know why no-one except me saw this show. Possibly it was an age thing? It only ran for one season so anyone a year or two younger than me (apart from my brother, who definitely saw it) might not have been allowed to stay up until whenever it was on whatever day it was on?

Or maybe it was shit?

Maybe I’m largely getting mixed up with this:

I’ve got a vague feeling Bring ‘em Back Alive was on at the same time on the other side (yes, THE other side. There were only two channels back then … if you don’t count BBC 2, which no one did when we were ten).

Regardless of the quality of the actual Tales of the Gold Monkey, the version in my head is awesome and I’d love to write a movie version of it. So, you know, if you can arrange that for me it would be greatly appreciated.

I’m going to stop now because I’m bored.

TALES  OF THE GOLD MONKEY – find it, watch it, love it!

Categories: Bored, Random Witterings | 4 Comments

Hi-tech vs. State of the Art

There is no point to this picture

Which is better?

Do they mean the same thing?

Can I arbitrarily choose one over the other?

Does it actually matter?

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Well … yes, it does. The knock on effect of one over the other is an entire page of script and several hours more work.

By the way, this post is really fucking whiny. If you’re having a good day, don’t bother reading this – it’s all a bit pointless.

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There’s that odd point in a script’s life where everyone loves it. It’s done. We’ve spent months heading down numerous blind alleys and years tweaking it as new people come and go from the project and opportunities rise and fall.

Yes, if it goes into production then there’ll be continuous fire-fighting as we try to match the budget or cope with the usual strops, disasters, incompetence, death and just general misfortune … but for now, the script is as good as it’s going to get.

Except for that one lone voice, somewhere in the production tangle, who decides the script is too long. It needs to be under so many pages. Needs to be.

Personally, I’ve never met the people who say this because it always come to me through a third party – the pronouncement comes down from on high and suddenly the script needs to be trimmed.

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My first drafts are always under 110 pages (well, nearly always … except when they’re not) because I control exactly what I’m putting in there. Second drafts are usually shorter because I hate everything I put in the first draft. Third draft onwards stuff keeps getting added – we need this scene and we want this actor who wants to do this and we’ve got this location which we MUST use and someone’s lent us a Ferrari so we need that in there somewhere. Oh and we need a sex scene. Preferably in the Ferrari … but with a towel down.

And so on.

The script gets longer for a bit, then it gets shorter for a bit and finally it balances out somewhere in the mid hundred-and-teens.

Then the “under x number of pages” bomb gets dropped. As it always does, even when the script is already lean and everyone agrees that everything in the script is absolutely essential to the story.

Obviously half of the absolutely essential stuff won’t get filmed because the actors on the day will have a ‘better’ idea, but at the moment it all seems essential.

There’s just too much essential stuff, can I fix it?

I hate this point in the script, it’s a fucking moronic request because I’m not going to make it shorter by cutting anything expensive or time-consuming … I’m going to make it shorter by cheating.

This script will magically lose five to ten pages without actually losing anything worthwhile. It won’t be cheaper to make or quicker to film, it will be exactly the same film … just have less pages.

That’s why it’s fucking moronic.

I don’t blame anyone, I’m not calling anyone a fucking moron … I’m just pointing out the accepted wisdom on what page count actually means in terms of screentime/budget really just means a day or two of pointless fiddling for me.

This always felt impossible when I first started – how can you trim five to ten pages from a script without changing it?

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Well, now I can. I’m sure everyone has their own tricks, but basically I just try to kill all the widows and orphans.

Get rid of them. Every single fucking one. No block of dialogue nor piece of action can have even one word slipping onto the next line. I hate doing this with dialogue, so I’ll do it with action first – if that’s not enough, then I go back through with a dialogue pass.

Frequently I can get away with just tweaking the right-hand margin by one character. Weirdly, if I do this to the whole script, say move the global dialogue margin one space to the right … then it’s immediately noticeable. It all just looks wrong and people can tell I’ve cheated.

One of the first things I do when I get a Final Draft script from someone else is put the margins back to where they should be so I can see how long the script actually is. But one space here and there, now and then … it’s less noticeable. Practically undetectable in fact. Two spaces stand out a mile, one space … yeah, fine.

If I’ve used an ellipsis to end dialogue or action then I’m not so bothered – that can run three or four spaces out and it’s not really a problem. To me. Other opinions are available.

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If that’s not enough (and it’s surprising how much space I can reclaim) then I might have to delete a word or two or comb through the thesaurus for a similar word which is one or two characters shorter.

I try to get the first line (of whatever, dialogue, action … sometimes even scene headings) of page 2 onto page 1. There’s always a way, somehow. Then I do the same for the first line of page 3 (onto page 2, not page 1 – that would be fucking weird) and so on. Every page HAS to have the first line on the preceding page.

Except when it’s impossible. Then I don’t bother.

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Sadly, among the first casualties are the bits which make reading the script easier. Passages like:

He shoots …

 

Misses.

 

She shoots …

 

Misses.

 

Reload! Reload! Hurry the fuck up! Reload!

 

She drops her powder – oh shit.

 

Triumphant, he snaps his pistol closed, takes careful aim …

 

… sneers …

 

… and …

 

… the escaped Bolivian rhino smashes through the wall, charges straight over him and tramples him into strawberry jam.

Become:

He shoots … Misses.

 

She shoots … Misses.

 

Reload! Reload! Hurry the fuck up! Reload!

 

She drops her powder – oh shit!

 

Triumphant, he snaps his pistol closed, takes careful aim … sneers … and … the escaped Bolivian rhino smashes through the wall, charges straight over him and tramples him into strawberry jam.

Or maybe:

He shoots … Misses. She shoots … Misses.

 

Reload! Reload! Hurry the fuck up! Reload!

 

She drops her powder. He snaps his pistol closed, takes careful aim … sneers … and … the escaped Bolivian rhino smashes through the wall, charges straight over him and tramples him into a gooey mess.

Or in extreme cases.

They shoot, miss and scramble to reload. She drops her powder. He snaps his pistol closed, aims … and is flattened by a charging rhino.

Now the last sentence is probably better being shorter. The spacing of the first bits just makes it all a bit worse. And that’s my problem with this process – I’m not making it cheaper or more tightly written, I’m just making it a little bit worse for no real reason.

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Because of the way Final Draft (and probably other programs) clumps action or dialogue together, a small change on page 1 can make a HUGE change at the end of the script. In my last script, saving one line on page 1 dragged an action block up from page 2 which knocked on all the way through the script until it moved ALL of page 106 onto page 105. All of it. An entire page of action and dialogue moved to the requisite 105 pages by changing four words:

State of the Art into Hi-Tech.

Saving those nine characters cuts off an entire page of script. Not just one line which had spilled onto page 106, but an entire pageful of text.

And everyone’s happy.

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Everyone except me.

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Because I like the phrase STATE OF THE ART more than I like the phrase HI-TECH. Same all the way through – I originally chose all those words and pacing for a reason. The script is now shorter, but it reads worse as a result.

Does it matter?

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Maybe. Maybe the short, truncated rhythm will put readers off. Maybe it won’t. In the end, if the film gets made, no one will ever know … but, damn it, the script is my art form. It’s what I produce. The film is my work filtered through the minds of a small army of creatives. Sometimes for better, sometimes for worse. But the script … that’s mine and I’m forced to make it (slightly) worse to please people who think the page count is somehow important. Which it isn’t.

Not really.

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But the myth persists and as long as people believe it, I’ll continue to spend hours staring at every page in the vague hope I can delete a preposition or remove a punctuation mark without removing all meaning.

Writing – occasionally it’s hard work.

Beckley

 

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

Stupid script readers

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All script writers instinctively know that all script readers are failed writers.

It’s just a fact.

Not a true fact, but a fact all the same.

We also know that all script readers are fucking imbeciles who wouldn’t understand how a story works if we explained it with graphs and slides and diagrams and possibly even a cute, animated cartoon character.

This too is a fact. Despite being completely wrong.

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How can it be a fact and be wrong at the same time?

It can’t, you fucking idiot … and it’s not. Those statements are true/wrong at different times.

Script readers are imbecilic, know-nothing wannabe-writers … immediately after reading their notes and for about an hour or so afterwards. Possibly more, depending on how right their notes actually are. After that, there’s a gradual dissolve from being wrong/stupid to being right/annoying.

Sometimes they’re even embarrassingly right.

Even when they are genuinely wrong about something, the fact they’re wrong about it is important.

Let’s say a moronic script reader (for I have just read his/her notes and am near blind with rage) has completely and utterly missed the point of something I’ve written. Ten pages of their twelve page report is going on and fucking on about how the script fails to properly address something I haven’t even fucking mentioned and didn’t intend to.

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They’ve read the script, wrongly assumed two guys are having an affair with each other and then further assumed that it’s woefully unclear that they are having an affair when they’re fucking not.

Fucking.

Each other.

“The writer needs to bring the affair more to the front,” they witter “if the audience are to understand the emotional implications for all concerned.”

“Perhaps there’s more to be mined from exploring how the men feel about their affair given the prevailing homophobic sentiments of that organisation at that point in history?” they’ll chunter on and fucking on.

“Maybe,” they’ll ramble, in an endless fucking stream of pointless fucking wrongness “the dual protagonists should get caught? Since the main strand of the movie is the consequences of their actions, this might help lift the dramatic question out of the murk and … “

Blah, blah, fucking blah.

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There aren’t even any fucking men in this script! They’re all women! And none of them are having an affair! Not with each other or anyone else! The reason the consequences of their actions are not mined more is because there are no fucking consequences of their fucking actions because they’re not fucking fucking! Why the fuckity fuck can you not see that?

Ah, finally, a sensible question.

Why can’t they see it? Why do they think there are men in this script who are having an affair?

Instead of assuming stupidity, let’s assume this is a well-educated, well-read, intelligent individual who, for some reason, has misunderstood the point I’m trying to get across.

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Why?

That’s what’s important here.

I could rail against them and their inability to comprehend simple fucking English. I could decide they’re just too fucking stupid to read my script … but the fact remains, whether they’re smart or dumb … they misunderstood my script.

That means my script can be misunderstood.

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Possibly by everyone.

This will never do.

If this script reader, no matter their qualifications, experience or ability, has made this mistake then maybe everyone else will?

Maybe calling one woman Ashley and the other Sam was a mistake? Maybe there’s some line somewhere which is ambiguously worded which will confuse the fuck out of everyone who reads the script? Maybe there’s nothing wrong with the script, but some of the people who read it are bringing their own opinions/baggage and assuming things to be true which weren’t intended?

Whatever the reason, something probably needs to be fixed.

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Even, and this is probably rare, even if the script reader is a fucking moron … the script still needs to be fixed so that no one else will ever make the same mistake.

Maybe that means underlining the introduction of the two women, ASHLEY and SAM? Maybe it means picking more feminine names? Maybe it means combing through for words like affair or longing or desire and deleting/changing them?

The problem as I see it is less one of misunderstanding and more one of miscommunication – I haven’t communicated the idea properly and if one person has gotten the wrong interpretation then so might the next. And the next. And the next … because, at the end of the day, I have no control over the IQ of the people reading my script and even the smartest people make mistakes … especially when it’s not crystal clear to begin with.

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I can’t choose whose desk this does or doesn’t land on – all I can do is try to make sure it’s clear, simple and moron proof.

Which is tricky when (possibly) the stupidest person reading it is the moron who wrote it in the first place.

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Categories: Industry Musings, Random Witterings | 1 Comment

Repointing the pyramid

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Somebody I follow recently tweeted:

Saying the script’s great but the end needs tweaking is a bit like saying “Great pyramid, but can you move the point six inches to the left?”

Actually, it might not have been recently. Or someone I follow. Or even on Twitter. I have no idea. Not even convinced it’s 140 characters and I’m far too lazy to bother counting to find out.

It might be a famous quote.

It may even have been something I overheard in a public toilet, but that seems unlikely.

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Whoever said/wrote it in whatever context, pat yourself on the back and (if you read this) feel free to identify yourself in the comments so others can (virtually) pat you too.

Because it’s a great analogy.

Recently I’ve had to do the opposite. I’ve had a script which needed the beginning moved six inches to the left. Or right. To be honest, no one was really sure where it needed moving to.

The problem was, no one who read the script cared about the protagonist. For he is a massive cock. Which was kind of the point. The idea was to have the protagonist gradually reveal himself to be the antagonist and for his girlfriend to gradually take over as the protagonist.

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Which, structually, works really well.

In terms of caring about the protagonist … not so much.

The problem is, the stakes don’t really become apparent until halfway through the story. Until then, it’s interesting … but only in an intellectual way. That’s not good enough, it needs to be interesting in an interesting way.

The solution was clear, the proper protagonist needs to be more of a protagonist from the beginning. Dual protagonists from the word go. More than that, she needs to be the primary protagonist in a 51/49 percent split. It’s about both of them, but it’s more about her than it is about him.

Sounds easy enough, just give her more dialogue, subtly refocus the early scenes so she’s the instigator from the get go, essentially shuffle him six inches to the left and her six to the right until she’s in the spotlight instead of him.*

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Easy.

Except it’s not. Because it turns out, under the glare of the spotlight, that as a character, she’s paper thin. Bordering on transparent.

She seemed fully rounded and well thought out with motivations and goals and all the stuff a character is supposed to have … but somehow, moving her into the spotlight made all that stuff disappear. And, as a consequence, the entire film collapsed with her.

Now this isn’t a writing boys vs writing girls moral. It’s not about me developing male characters better than female ones. It’s about a character designed to be a protagonist being more meaty than one designed to (initially) support the protagonist.

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If it helps, think about (arbitarily) trying to tell Star Wars (the proper Star Wars, the first one. I’m not down with all that Episode 4 – A New Hope retconning bullshit. It’s fucking called Star Wars because that’s its fucking name) from Obi Wan’s point of view.

Obi Wan’s a great supporting character, but really all he does is impart wisdom, fill in some backstory and then get killed. That is his function. He doesn’t learn anything or need anything, there’s no central irony to his character … or at least none I can think of with PEOPLE FUCKING SHOUTING! IN MY FUCKING EAR! WHAT? WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT?

Oh right, I have to move. Hang on.

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I’m back.

I should probably stop typing everything I’m thinking but … well, I’m in the flow.

Sorry, where was I?

Oh yes, so Obi Wan works well as a supporting character in Star Wars, but if you decided to tell the whole film from his point of view then you’d (probably) find out he’s a bit on the thin side. You’d need to give him an inner goal or a need or perhaps a more concrete goal from the off.

Maybe you’d need to go into more depth concerning how he feels about being the last (as far as he knows?) Jedi?

Or maybe there’d need to be more about how he secretly looks out for Luke (assuming he does?).

Or maybe even a good hour of him looking in the mirror and wondering what the fuck happened considering he’s apparently only in his mid-forties. I mean, seriously, what the fuck? What kind of bad paper round would you have to have as a kid to look like that in your forties?

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See? All this prequel bullshit makes life so complicated.

No prequels, just the trilogy. Just the trilogy, just the trilogy …

Imagine me rocking back and forth and dribbling, if it helps.

The point is, in order to move any secondary (tertiary?) character into the lead role isn’t as simple as repurposing a bit of dialogue or the odd scene, it involves a complete and utter tear down and rebuild of the script.

It’s repointing the pyramid.

Finding a motivation, need and want for a protagonist which ties in thematically and carries an inherent irony AFTER the script has been written is a complete and utter pain in the arse.

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Five fucking times I’ve started, got as far as page 40 and realised it makes no fucking sense.

Yes, I should have planned it out before I started rewriting.

But I didn’t.

Not properly.

Every time I started, it seemed to work. It seemed to be clear and obvious and … well, it fucking wasn’t.

But I’ve cracked it now. I think. Maybe. It seems to be working anyway and I’ve got to the final act. In a way, I guess I’ve moved the base of the pyramid six inches to the left without moving the point.

The only question I have now is … was did the client mean his left or my left?

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Bugger.

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* Does that work? Would that not put both of them in the spotlight? Or both of them out? Wait, let me think about this. I need some volunteers and a lightbulb. Or my fingers. I’ll do it with my fingers. Yeah, it works. Kind of.

Categories: My Way, Random Witterings, Things I've Learnt Recently | Leave a comment

Too much too soon

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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.

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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.

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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.

Great.

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.

naked-sock-puppet-marionette-chaussette-nue

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.

la-la-la-not-listening

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.

lost-mobile-phone

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?#

images (4)

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.

images (5)

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

The need to know list

TfG_what-do-I-need-to-know-1020x400

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.

funny-to-do-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.

images

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.

Probably.

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.

Or:

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.

Or:

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.

images (1)

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?

Stormtrooper-Hindsight

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.

1495

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.

images (2)

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.

images (3)

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?

stupid-questions

Categories: My Way, Random Witterings | Leave a comment

Easter synopses

A FRIENDLY WARNING

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.

KISS

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.

thatll-do-pig-thatll-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.

Everything-You-Know-Is-Wrong-250x364

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.

3464852_f520

——————————————————————-

* 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.

Possibly.

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.

Things

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.

double_facepalm

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?”

“No.”

“What about this?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“No.”

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.

fail-if-stop-writing

 

——————————————————————————————————-

* 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.

JFTR

 

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

Boldly going

boldly-go

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:

INT. INTERROGATION ROOM - DAY

DETECTIVE CINDY questions MAVIS.

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

                    MAVIS
          Oh lordy, lordy.

                                               INTERCUT:

INT. INTERROGATION ROOM - DAY

The same room, hours later. Cindy interviews REGINA.
          
                    REGINA
          Fuck you copper, I ain't telling you 
          nothing.

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

                    MAVIS
          Oh lordy, lordy.

                    CINDY
          You said that.

                    REGINA
          Eat my shit, pig?

                    CINDY
          Yeah, and that.
         
                    REGINA
          What about-- ?

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

                    MAVIS
          Oh lordy, lordy?

                    CINDY
          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:

                    CINDY
          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:

INT. INTERROGATION ROOM - DAY

DETECTIVE CINDY questions MAVIS.

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

                    MAVIS
          Oh lordy, lordy.

                                               INTERCUT:

INT. INTERROGATION ROOM - DAY

The same room, hours later. Cindy interviews REGINA.
          
                    REGINA
          Fuck you copper, I ain't telling you 
          nothing.

CINDY AND MAVIS

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

                    MAVIS
          Oh lordy, lordy.

                    CINDY
          You said that.

CINDY AND REGINA

                    REGINA
          Eat my shit, pig?

                    CINDY
          Yeah, and that.
         
                    REGINA
          What about-- ?

CINDY AND MAVIS

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

                    MAVIS
          Oh lordy, lordy?

CINDY AND REGINA

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

Yuck.

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:

INT. INTERROGATION ROOM - DAY

DETECTIVE CINDY questions MAVIS.

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

                    MAVIS
          Oh lordy, lordy.

                                               INTERCUT:

INT. INTERROGATION ROOM - DAY

The same room, hours later. Cindy interviews REGINA.
          
                    REGINA
          Fuck you copper, I ain't telling you 
          nothing.

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

                    MAVIS
          Oh lordy, lordy.

                    CINDY
          You said that.

                    REGINA
          Eat my shit, pig?

                    CINDY
          Yeah, and that.
         
                    REGINA
          What about-- ?

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

                    MAVIS
          Oh lordy, lordy?

                    CINDY
          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:

EXT. ROOFTOP - DAY

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.

                    WILF
          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.

                    WILF
          What? Use your words, goddamn it!

Point. Point. Shriek. Point:

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

                    WILF
          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.

Gloves-CopBlock

 —————————————————————————————————————-

# 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.

Why?

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.

dw__stalling_for_time_spoilers_by_blackbirdrose-d48o6j3

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?

Badly?

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

photoshoot-homepage

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

Danny3d

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.

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*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

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