I was going to post about how men in skirts hitting each other with sticks can help you be a better scriptwriter … but I can’t be bothered.

So I’ll just wish you all a

MERRY CHRISTMAS

and leave it at that.

Eat, drink, fall asleep and … other stuff.

Now it’s time for the song and dance.

Do me a favour, do it right now. Come on, don’t be shy, no one’s watching you. Unless you’re on a bus or in the library or something, in which case everyone’s watching you, you fucking freak – but hey, fuck ‘em.

What I want you to do is sit on a slightly uncomfortable chair about six feet from the nearest wall.

Are you sitting comfortably?

Well fucking knock it off. Sit upright, no slouching. Face the wall, take a deep breath and talk about your latest project.

To the wall. Out loud. Imagine it’s interested and you have to be interesting. See how long you can talk about one of the characters or the plot or the writing process before you dry up, repeat yourself or completely forget what you’re talking about while you’re talking about it.

Don’t just do it in your head, that’s cheating and you can trick yourself into thinking you’re doing alright. Actually talking out loud is far more difficult – in exactly the same way you can think about a scene and know you’ve got every detail nailed down … only to start writing it and realise you haven’t got the faintest idea what it’s about.

Now imagine there’s someone just to the right of the spot you’re looking at, just out of your eye-line. They’re listening intently and judging you. Oh and they’re recording everything you say with the intent of broadcasting it to the whole fucking world.

Try it. It’s not fun. Well not much fun, anyway. It’s quite funny if you enjoy embarrassing yourself. It’s also how I spent Thursday afternoon – staring at a wall (it was green) and babbling about spaceships, explosions, aliens and, for reasons I can’t quite remember at the moment, bananas.

Actually, I have to admit I loved every minute of it – my first proper ‘Behind the Scenes’ interview. I say proper because I have done one before, but it was by accident. I’d stupidly wandered on set to have a mosey around and found myself chatting to one of the actors – who was armed with a camcorder and was asking a lot of questions. Halfway through our chat I realised he was recording it for the EPK and I suddenly lost the ability to form coherent sentences.

At least I’m mostly positive that particular tape will never see the light of day. It’s possible my disjointed ramblings this time can be edited into a couple of lines which make sense – but I don’t hold out much hope.

My favourite technique appears to be to forget what I was going to say and sit quietly trying to remember. After a while I realise I’ve also forgotten what I was talking about … and then I realise I’ve been sitting silently for the best part of a minute before asking if I can start again.

I can’t begin to imagine how difficult press junkets are, although I guess with journalist after journalist being wheeled in to ask you the exact same questions you either eventually start getting it right or you lapse into a kind of automatic pilot where it doesn’t matter what questions people ask you, you talk about how great it was working with ‘x’. Where ‘x’ is any one of a dozen people you threatened to kill on a daily basis.

Just not to their face.

I implore you, have a go. Talk to your wall today. If you’re feeling adventurous, why not film it and post it on your blog? Then we can all have a good fucking laugh at your ineptitude.

Unless, of course, you’re all really good at it and it’s just me who’s incapable of talking in complete …

…

???

Fuck, what was I talking about?

When you’re writing a script, it’s absolutely vital to keep your target audience in mind. There really is no point writing something they don’t want to see.

Of course, frequently, your target audience doesn’t know what they want to see and it’s up to us to try and persuade them; but the maxim remains true – you’re not writing to please yourself, you’re writing to please them.

And by target audience, I of course mean the director and/or producer – they are the initial target audience for your script. You may think the target audience is 16-24 year olds (whatever the fuck that actually means) but in reality you’re writing what the producer or director thinks 16-24 year olds will like.

If you’re writing comedy it’s not about what you find funny, it’s about what they find funny. If it’s a drama, it’s what they find dramatic. If they think the dialogue’s stilted because they don’t believe people talk like that, there’s no point playing them the recording of your friends’ conversation you’ve lifted verbatim …

Well, actually, that might work. Or they might just think you’ve got freakish friends and fire you by association.

Anyway, the point is: you’re writing to please the people who have hired you.

Obviously, in an ideal world you can pick and choose your projects and collaborators so carefully you will never write something you’re only half interested in and you will all instantly agree on the best way to make the film.

In the real world, you occasionally have to bow to the will of someone who you fundamentally disagree with. The real skill, of course, is to find the middle ground where everyone is happy. Which is tricky.

Particularly since producers and directors tend (and I stress tend since there are no absolutes here) to think very differently.

Hopefully, you’ll all be focussed on telling the best story at the script stage – but best is an ambiguous term and everyone will have different ideas about what it actually means.

For a writer, that tends to mean the most coherent, emotionally moving story. Whether that emotion makes you cry or makes you hang on the edge of your seat as giant robots knock the fuck out of each other – writers tend to be all about making sure the characters’ actions and the plot make sense.

Producers tend to think in terms of selling the movie and what elements they can beg, borrow or steal. If they can film in Puerto Rico for free – one of the scenes needs to be set in Puerto Rico. It adds production value. If they know four female and three male actors who are interested in working for next to nothing – then that’s who has to be in the story. If the producer bumps into Brad Pitt and he says he loves the project, wants to work for free, invest in it and let you have his house as a location – then guess what? The best way to tell the story is for the 19 year old female protagonist to become a middle aged bloke living in LA. Or wherever else Brad Pitt may have a house.

Possibly the only time this isn’t true is when it’s an adaptation – I can imagine a producer turning down Julia Roberts in those exact same circumstances if she wanted to play Batman (then again …) but if it’s a completely new project – the producer (hopefully) understands what it takes to actually get the film financed, made and sold.

The director, on the other hand, tends to think in terms of images and will give you instructions like:

“I don’t care where it’s set, who’s in it or what happens, but I really, really want a dog with a fridge for a head. I think that’s a great image and really opens up dramatic possibilities.”

It doesn’t open up dramatic possibilities at all – it just makes life really fucking complicated; but they have this image in their head and they want to see it in the film. They think in pictures, whereas producers think in numbers.

And please don’t get me wrong – neither of these things is a bad thing and I’m not saying either side has no interest in any other element because if they’re good at their job they will be interested in everything which goes into making a script great from characters to plot to motivations to arena and whatever; but there frequently can be a bias towards a certain type of thinking.

And this is why it’s really important to keep your target audience in mind. By all means talk about why a character is doing something or how this smoothes the weird transition from act one to act two; but remember to frame at least part of your ramblings in a way your target audience can understand.

If you want to tell a story about a depressed sofa who’s fed up with people sitting on it all day – then tell the director what it could look like and how certain images really leap out at you, while you’re telling the producer how many people love sofas, associate with sofas and what kind of merchandising deals you could do with DFS.

This stuff isn’t that difficult but it’s taken me a while to work it out. Sometimes it’s easier to get your idea across than others and I think when someone’s struggling to see the beauty in the idea it’s because you’re using words which don’t make sense to them.

Telling a writer he has to have a talking sofa in the film because you can get a great merchandising tie-in is unlikely to fly. Telling the same writer about the characterisation of the sofa and how it fits into the plot will get him salivating.

Well, probably not; but you get the idea.

Now, can anyone think of a title for a talking sofa movie? I’ve got this great contact at Habitat …

One of the things no one tells you about script writing (or perhaps they told you, I was either asleep or mitching off that day) is you don’t spend much time actually writing scripts.

And I’m not talking about the hours wasted on Internet porn, Simpsons marathons and just generally sitting around scratching your arse waiting for inspiration – I’m talking about the time you spend doing proper work with your fingers (of both hands) pushing buttons on the keyboard in order to produce words on the screen. In the last three or four months, the percentage of actual work time I’ve spent actually writing (or re-writing) actual scripts is roughly zero.

0%*

That’s shit in anyone’s book.

‘How can this be?’, you doubtlessly don’t care enough to ask. ‘What the hell have you been doing with your time?’

Well. all the other stuff:

Loglines, synopses, treatments, pitches, writer’s visions, character breakdowns, index cards, email ping pong, ADR lists, web content, this blog and other promotional stuff, commenting on various aspects of various productions, CVs, applying for new jobs, funding applications, updating my website … etc.

Then there’s all the other stuff, the stuff which winkles me away from my keyboard and forces me to confront the real (and reel) world:

Meetings, conference calls, the SWF, general networking, watching edits, watching web content, reading books for potential adaptations, watching films for potential remakes. watching referenced films so I know what the fuck the director/producer actually wants … etc.

Add onto that travelling time between various meetings, putting time aside to watch current films/TV so you know what everyone else is doing (or was doing a year ago) and the general thinking time needed to actually come up with all this shit and there’s very little time left for writing.

Not that lack of time’s really the issue since currently none of the six-million projects I’m working on are at the script stage. It just frustrates me sometimes that I write because I love it, yet writing is the smallest part of the process. It’s probably the most difficult, but the sheer weight of material you have to get through in order to sit down and start a new script is mind-boggling.

To be honest, I’ve kind of forgotten how to write one anyway – it’s been that fucking long.

That’s not to say I’m not doing any creative writing – I’ve just finished three weeks (interrupted by other stuff) of combing through an ADR list. This basically consists of sitting there with the rough edit of the film and staring intently at a scene trying to work out how long the actor’s face is out of shot then trying to sum up in one line everything which happened in the previous three scenes which (because of lack of time, money or competence) are no longer in the edit.

What the fuck does that mean? Why isn’t he wearing any trousers? Didn’t he just get shot in the head?

Sometimes scenes are lost, sometimes they get moved around, sometimes new scenes are added late in the day – the ADR list has to cover all of this.

On top of this, there’s the odd moment where either a line got improvised and makes no fucking sense, or perhaps it references something or someone who’s no longer in the film, or just plain doesn’t work – all those have to be replaced by something better of the same length.

Then there’s the pure effects shots, or long shots where you can’t see the actors, or scenes dipping in and out of cars – all of the voice over dialogue can be changed. Not necessarily because it doesn’t make sense – but there’s always that thought: can it be funnier? The car one is quite interesting – you can change any of the conversation you hear when the camera’s outside the car, but it has to match up with what they’re saying when the camera’s inside the car. Sometimes that switch has to occur in the middle of a sentence. This entails writing a line then reading it back in the character’s voice at the same pace and tone as the actor to see if it fits.

Oh and here’s a free piece of advice – if you do this on the train, people will stare.

And point.

But mostly stare.

It’s quite an interesting experiment which shows you how many choices there are with each single piece of dialogue. Frequently I find myself writing ten or so choices for each line because I can’t decide which one I like best. When I’m writing a full scene it all flows and a specific word or phrase choice seems more obvious than the others – when you’re looking at each line individually there are thousands of potential options, of which you have to select the one which is the most concise, the most informative and the most funny.

It’s quite fun.

As a specific example, one of the ADR notes required a term similar to ‘desk jockey’. Now I don’t want to use ‘desk jockey’ because I’ve heard it before and it’s already been used a few times in this film – I want a new term which I’ve never heard before … from a 1974 NYPD officer.

I managed 15 options† before I gave up and moved on – which I thought was perhaps a little overkill, but it’s kind of fun and I got lost in the possibilities.

Anyway, enough of this jibber-jabber – I’ve got to get back to work … not actually writing a script, of course; but I’m sure I’ve got some index cards to shuffle.

Unless there’s anything good on the telly?

————————————————————————————————

* I have a sneaking suspicion this isn’t true – please feel free to comb through the last few months of blog posts and call me a liar.

† Made up number, I didn’t count them.

I love you.

Can I have some more money, please?

Yours with surprisingly flexible principles,

Phill

we’ve known each other a fair while now and I have some vitally important news for us. I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell us this, but it really is rather important and once we’ve gone through the denial, the outrage, the pleading and the depression and finally moved into a state of benign acceptance, we’ll be a lot happier and a lot better off.

Not financially, obviously; but mentally and spiritually, which is a close second. If we can accept this truth then writing scripts will be a lot more enjoyable … or at least, slightly less frustrating.

Are we ready? Here it comes:

SCRIPT WRITERS DO NOT WRITE FILMS, WE WRITE FILM SCRIPTS.

There, I’ve said it. Are we shocked? Upset? Maybe a little confused?

Let me explain.

A feature film is two hours of footage distilled from a process which takes several years to complete (roughly seven, if Hollywood gurus are to be believed). It involves a small army of people working excruciatingly long hours, doing all sorts of clever things with lights and costumes and sets and gripping their foleys and other filthy stuff.

Each department depends wholly on all the other departments in order to make a good film. Only when absolutely everyone is working at their best will the end product be of the desired standard. Okay, yeah, maybe one department can slip slightly and the sheer wonderfulness of the rest will compensate – but in the main, it takes everyone firing on all cylinders to come good.

A film script, on the other hand, is 90-120 pieces of paper with some ink on them.

Paper and ink which tells a wonderfully complex story, perhaps (or something about masturbating monkeys, if you’re me) but it’s just paper and ink all the same.

Can we see the difference?

When we sit down to write, no matter what software or computer we’re using, a feature film does not appear on the monitor. Nor does it appear from the printer when we push ‘print’. No. What we get appearing before our very eyes, commanded by our very own tippy-tapping fingers, is a film SCRIPT.

Film script, not feature film – can we see the difference now?

Our product, the thing we’re trying to sell, is the script. That’s the thing we have to try and make as good as possible – because we have no control over the feature film. It literally has nothing to do with us.

I know, I know, it’s very nice to be able to point at a film and say to the girls we’re trying to impress:

“That’s my film, that is.”

By the way, if there are any girls reading – does that work? Would anyone be impressed by that? Because the ones I try it on tend to fall asleep before I’ve finished my sentence.

“That’s my film.”

No it isn’t. It’s a film LOOSELY based on our script. The best we can hope to say is:

“I wrote the script for that.”

Because, and once again I draw our attention to this important distinction:

SCRIPT WRITERS DON’T WRITE FILMS, WE WRITE FILM SCRIPTS.

I know some of us want to be recognised as the author of a film, or the creator, or get that ‘A film by’ credit; but really, why? Why do any of us feel we deserve that credit when we’ve had absolutely nothing to do with:

Casting
Acting
Cinematography
Direction
Producing
Editing
Lighting
Set design
Props
Stunts
Visual Effects
Sound Effects
Music
Catering
And pretty much everything else we can possibly imagine?

I mean really, come on – fair’s fair. I even think the ‘Written by’ credit is a little misleading. In reality it should always say ‘Script by’ and even that’s not usually true after the fucking directors have stuck their oar in and everyone from the producer to the tea-boy has given us notes.

Please don’t get me wrong – I’m not saying we don’t deserve credit for writing incredibly beautiful, thrilling, action-packed or moving words (about masturbating monkeys); but by the time the actors have improvised all over the script – how many of those words actually make it into the finished film?

We’re very quick to claim the director, the producer or whoever ruined our scripts; but we’re very slow to realise the resulting feature film really has nothing to do with us. It’s just not ours – it’s theirs.

We did not write that feature film, we wrote the script.

The script is our end goal, it’s the thing we have to perfect – or at least make as good as possible. We should hold our scripts up as an example of our ability and pin our self-worth on their quality, rather than wasting tears on a feature film which makes no fucking sense and looks like it was filmed by two chimps fighting on a trampoline. They didn’t ruin your script, it still exists as an individual work of art(ish) – they just made a shit movie out of it.

I met a visual effects designer once who was working on a high budget Hollywood movie. One he thought was a complete pile of shit. Apparently everyone involved (apart from the producer, writer and director) knew it was going to be a pile of shit. Why then, I asked, did he get involved? Because he knew the effects, the ones designed by him, would be fucking awesome and seen by a lot of people who would happily hire him for the next project.

His work, the product he was selling, was going to be good no matter how shit the film was.

Personally I think we should all adopt that attitude. We can’t control the final film, we can barely even influence it – going round telling people it’s ours when it’s a pile of shit doesn’t really help.

If we tell people we wrote the script for ‘Pile of Shit 2: Revenge of the Shit’ and they point out it was a pile of shit, we can agree. The film has nothing to do with us, once the script leaves our hands it’s … well, out of our hands. It doesn’t matter how good the script is, if every other department is incompetent (or follows incompetent direction) then it will be a shit film.

Then kicker, of course, is when the film is superb, it’s really nothing to do with us either. True, we have contributed a major part to its success; but it’s still not really our film.

We should always do our job to the best of our ability – and that job is to write a script, not a film. Once again:

FILMS ARE NOT WRITTEN, THEY ARE MADE … AND NOT BY US.

Unless we produced and/or directed it – in which case we should be fucking ashamed of ourselves.

Hope this finds us well and doesn’t upset us too much, just read, digest, absorb and get back to doing what we do so well (or so mediocrely, if you’re me) – writing scripts.

Love

Phill

first of all, can I just say thank you for deigning to come down from Mount Olympus and walk among us mere mortals? We really do appreciate and respect your innate genius and your ability to magic an entire movie out of thin air without any help whatsoever.

Except a small army of extremely professional experts.

But apart from them, it’s all you. Give yourself a round of applause.

Oh, you already are.

Can I also add a personal thank you for condescending to make a film from one of my scripts? That’s particularly nice of you and I really am ever so grateful to be part of your vision.

Despite the fact the producer came up with the story and I wrote the script.

But apart from that, it is your vision. And I’m being momentarily and uncharacteristically serious about that. I know there are plenty of writers who get massively bent out of shape about the credit ”A (insert name of pretentious twat here) film”; but not me. Nope, I’m quite happy for you to have it. As I will doubtlessly explain at great length in another post at some point in the future, of all the people involved in the film making process, you directors come the closest to deserving that credit and hey, you’ve got to market the film somehow, right?

It does, however, give me a nice gooey feeling inside to know if you fuck this film up, the next one you work on (providing you’re clever enough to shunt the blame onto someone else) will be “From the producer of …” or “From the writer of …” or even “From the people who brought you…” which could be the caterers from some past hit for all I know.

So you’re welcome to the God-like credit. Have it. It’s yours. Well done you.

I do have one request though. Just a tiny one. A teensy little one, nothing major. Could you, and I’m really trying to word this politely now, could you … no … would you mind awfully, leaving the fucking script alone you ball-achingly stupid cock-ring?

I’m not saying you can’t develop the script, I’m not saying you can’t bend the story to your will, change character names, the ending, the theme or even the fucking plot; but for the love of God (who doesn’t exist and certainly isn’t you) will you stop tweaking minor things and demanding a fucking writing credit?

It’s just fucking rude.

I’m pretty certain you don’t just wander on set, rip a sleeve off someone’s dress and demand a wardrobe credit. The lighting guys would probably have a complete and utter hissy fit if you nudged a light two inches to the left and claimed you deserve a lighting design credit. And I’m absolutely fucking certain you don’t push the actors out of the way, pick up a teapot and claim an acting credit – so why the fuck do you feel it’s perfectly acceptable to change “Hi” to “Hello” and claim a co-writing credit?

I mean, what the fuck?

Fine, if you want the protagonist to die in the first scene, that’s up to you; but here’s how you do it – you ring me up and you ask me to change the script. It’s your fucking movie, you can ask me to do whatever you want (as long as the producer lets you) and I will make the changes – after hanging up, kicking the cat and calling you a cunt, of course.

This is my job, this is why I was hired – as a story expert. Just like the DOP is the camera expert (or lens expert or whatever the fuck he does) I’m here to carry out your will in script form. Just ask me. Go on, try it. Why is my fucking department the only one you feel the need to weasel a fucking credit out of? Why? Answer me god damn it!

I’m fucking sick of getting emails telling me so-and-so has been cast as Billy – only for me to wonder who the fuck Billy is. There’s no fucking Billy in the script. Ah, you say, I’ve added an old man to the lesbian sex scenes.

What? What the fuck? Why would you do that? Why didn’t you behave like a decent fucking person and ask me to make the changes?

I would have told you you’re being a fucking twat and an old man, by definition, isn’t a fucking lesbian; but after I’d calmed down, I would have changed the scene so that it wasn’t a lesbian sex scene.

I’m not being precious about this – a script, as soon as it’s sold, stops being my property – it’s yours, that’s fine. If you want to remove me and hire another writer then that’s fine too. Of course, I’ll slash your tyres and set fire to your gonads; but it’s part and parcel of the industry. At least if you hire another writer you’re hiring another expert, I …

Hmm, I’ve just realised, I’ve been describing myself as an expert – bit of false advertising there. Sorry.

Anyway, fucking knock it off. I’m perfectly capable of altering the script to fit your idiot fucking idea of what a script should be. If I prove I can’t do it, by all means replace me but at least have the fucking courtesy of letting me do my fucking job.

And for fuck’s sake, for fuck’s fucking sake, can you please, please, pretty please, stop handing over the scripts you’ve fucking bastardised and filled with spelling, grammar and format errors to actors, agents and the crew? The ones where the plot doesn’t make any sense because you’ve relocated every other scene to Italy because you fancy a holiday. The ones where you’ve changed the character’s name but not all of the time, just enough of the time for it to stop making any fucking sense. The ones where you’ve put dialogue in the action lines and action in dialogue, with some random fucking words in the margin that might be your shopping list for all I fucking know – can you please, please stop giving those out to people WITH MY FUCKING NAME ON THE FRONT.

And no, the solution isn’t taking my name off the script and replacing it with your own, mis-spelt and in turquoise crayon. The solution is doing exactly what you do with every other fucking department under your command – command them to make the changes for you.

What’s another word for that?

Oh yeah … fucking direct me you power hungry cunts.

Other than that, hope you’re doing well and I’ll see you soon.

Love,

Phill

I was going to write a very angry post today about Directors and their inability to be decent fucking human beings … but then I thought again.

‘Why?’ I hear you ask. Surely I’m about due for an ill advised, ill thought out and mostly untrue sweary rant? I mean, it is almost Christmas after all.

Well, because I spent all day yesterday working on the third draft of a treatment for a feature project I’m really excited about and (once the inital ranting about nonsensical notes has abated) am getting more excited about with each successive draft; I’ve just finished a very leisurely and rather lavish breakfast which included lashings of tea; I’m spending this morning knocking out a few sketches for another feature film’s website; this afternoon I’m looking at ideas for a series of webisodes to promote a third feature film and tomorrow I’m running through an ADR list and suggesting final dialogue for a stupendously exciting feature film which might actually be finished any year now!

On top of that, this is the current view from my window:

And this is waiting for me as a treat on Sunday:

So today, I don’t really feel much like ranting. I mean, come on – does life ever get any better than this:

I think not. No rants today.

Selling a script is a lot like selling a car – you just want to get the damn thing off the drive because it’s annoying your wife.

Um …

Okay, selling a script is nothing like selling a car unless you count ‘having the same word in the sentence’ or ‘a financial transaction involving the exchange of goods’ as similarities.

Oh, which I guess they are.

Maybe selling a script is like selling a car?

No. No it’s not, is it?

Although, by an amazing coincidence, I am trying to sell this car:

… and can’t really figure a way to mention it on a scriptwriting blog.

Go on, what do you say? It’s blue, mostly shiny and got all sorts of neat gadgets. Like wheels. Four of them. Five if you count the spare. Six if you count the steering wheel, which is probably cheating.

Climate control, electric windows, electric mirrors, electric sunroof, headlights, immobiliser, power steering, central locking, CD player … um, what else?

Once owned by a completely un-famous (but vaguely infamous) scriptwriter – does that stir you in any way? I think the car’s immortal, I’ve certainly never been able to kill it despite a homicidal approach to roundabouts and a complete lack of interest in maintenance.

I once drove it through a puddle so deep the water was lapping at the windows. Well, I say puddle, pond is more like it. Lake maybe? No, pond – let’s not exaggerate.

Ooh! The interior is exactly 26 seconds into the past. That’s right, the interior is in a different time zone – a weird and fabulous land where the radio still plays the intro of the song while the rest of the world is on the first verse. Seriously, if you approach the car with a portable radio you can hear the time shift. If you shine a light into the windscreen, you can get into the car before the light hits the interior!

Granted, that does make reading road signs rather difficult; but what’s life without danger?

Longer. That’s the answer. In case you were wondering.

Come on, what do you say? It looks a bit like K.I.T.T. – assuming K.I.T.T. was Japanese and a bit shit. Volunteer a reasonable price and it’s yours! I’ll even throw in a personal visit from me as I drive it to anywhere in the world of your choosing!

Subject, of course, to you paying the petrol and my return train ticket/flight/submarine fare.

Come on people, how can you afford to pass up this, the bargain of a lifetime?

It really is for sale, honest.

Two words I never thought I’d find contained in one sentence in a set of script notes.

At least, two words I certainly never thought I’d be asked to put into an action line in a script.

When I envisaged my writing career, all those minutes ago, I never dared dream that one day someone would instruct me (whilst paying me) to write those two words in a script.

My life is now complete.

And yes, it is exactly what you think it is.