My trumpet

One of the most frustrating things about scriptwriting is never being able to share the good news until it no longer means that much to you.

I mean, yes it’s exciting to get a film produced or released but often by then the sheen’s worn off a bit and everyone involved has compromised on a lesser version of the project than the gleaming potential project everyone signed on for.

Okay, so this might be an experience exclusive to me, but the ‘finished’ interpretations of my work have been … disappointing. What seemed exciting at the script stage or the casting stage or even the shooting stage can be significantly less so by the time of release. If for no other reason than it’s years later and it can be hard to maintain the excitement for that long.

The bits I want to shout about and get excited about in public are the bits I’m frequently not allowed to talk about.

“Don’t blog about this until we say so!” is often the refrain.

Which is annoying because, more often than not, the finished product never materialises. There are so many hurdles for a film to fall on that actually getting one made is very, very unlikely. At which point it becomes bad form to talk about them.

So a writer who’s been working continuously can end up with massive holes in their CV, looking like they haven’t worked in a decade when it’s actually been the most exciting decade of their career. I haven’t quite racked up that much time since my last produced film, but since I can’t talk about the uncredited rewrites on produced and released stuff it certainly looks like it’s heading that way.

Annoyingly I can’t tell anyone about that time I had a director hand me a laminated a book of script feedback, all of which were 10 out 10 or 5 out 5 reports from various readers or production companies.

I can’t tell you about the time that proper, genuine, A list Hollywood actor agreed to play a small role in a film … only to find out we couldn’t afford him.

I can’t tell you about the time a second (better) A lister agreed to do the same small role and then decided he wanted to play the lead instead. When we told him we couldn’t afford him, he lowered his fee until we could.

I can’t tell you about meeting one of my favourite actors and having him tell me something I’m still not sure I heard correctly.

Nor can I talk about the time I was actually wanted on set because the director (weirdly) assumed I had a rapport with (and could therefore ‘handle’) an A list actor who was notoriously difficult on set.

I can’t tell you about any of those things because ultimately all of those projects fell apart before completion. One of them fell apart three times, the last time for no apparent reason … or at least no reason anyone is prepared to tell me.

I want to tell you everything, but I can’t. Which is frustrating.

This is the problem with being a scriptwriter. We live with constant rejection and negativity, failing more times than we succeed. And when we pull off the herculean task of getting a film made … we get pilloried for it online by people who ascribe blame to us for things we had no influence on, like casting, editing, line delivery, improvisation, music choice, wardrobe and, you know, pretty everything else which goes into film making.

So I’m taking inspiration from a Facebook post by writer-director and all round nice guy Jonathan Glendening who posted snippets of positive feedback he’s been getting on his latest project. It’s a great script, hopefully one he’ll get some traction on, but even if he doesn’t it was nice to read other people’s opinions on it.

I read that and I thought, what the hell, why not?

Why not blow my own trumpet for once? Why not share some of the positive news for my latest script, the one I’m currently shopping around and could do with some publicity?

So here it is, a few snippets from the feedback I’ve gotten from my new coming of age, time-travel, comedy-horror feature script. A script I’m really proud of and would really like to see produced.

… original and laudable for its ambitious blend of genres, while still managing to be production friendly.

.. extremely funny, blending British physical comedy reminiscent of an Edgar Wright film with irreverent, fearless, female-driven wit that brings Phoebe Waller-Bridge to mind.

… the writer’s voice is organic, true to itself, and consistently leaps off the page.

… a deftly written coming of age horror comedy with a stellar sense of humour.

… enormously entertaining and full of funny bits.

The horror content is over-the-top gory in the best way and comic in its excessiveness.

… clever plot twists throughout.

The ending is satisfying and upbeat.

… so gory and wild.

… has the potential to become a cult sensation a la SHAUN OF THE DEAD or EVIL DEAD II.

And so on.

I am immensely proud of this script and really enjoying reading people’s responses to it. Hopefully you’ll get to see it one day* and hopefully the finished product will provide the same reaction as the script.

But in the mean time I’m going to revel in the small victories and enjoy a brief moment of praise. If you’ve got something you want to crow about, no matter how small or irrelevant it may seem, feel free either here in the comments or as a reply on whatever social media platform led you here.

Come on, don’t be shy. You’re amazing, blow that horn!

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* The film, not the script. I mean, you can read the script if you like, you just need to ask. Hopefully the film will one day be produced in a manner which does the script justice.

Don’t pitch the twist

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If there’s one mantra I have to keep repeating to myself in the hope of it eventually sinking in, it’s this: don’t pitch the twist.

I don’t know why it’s so hard to remember … actually, I do know why, it’s because the twist is usually either the most insanely exciting piece of the project or the spark of imagination which drew me to it in the first place. Often both.

The script I’m currently selling has two twists: the second is right near the end and is completely hidden until you realise it was right in front of you all along; but the first twist is the problem. The first twist comes about an hour into the film, kicking it from a coming of age/time-travel story with comedic and horror elements into a primarily horror story.

It’s not a complete left turn because the horror elements were always there, just subtle and not the main focus, but it is a sudden shift of gear … followed, I guess, by a second gear shift at the beginning of the third act when the whole thing goes fucking mental, full on demonic slasher.*

The second twist is easy to not pitch because it’s akin to revealing who the murderer is in a murder-mystery. I think we all know not to give that away. Unless it’s Columbo.^ The first twist though … it just keeps slipping out. I find myself adding it in to the one-pager or in conversation and I really, really shouldn’t.

Why?

I’m glad you asked, or this post is just one long ramble about stuff we all know.~

The problem with pitching a twist is it’s no longer a twist. It’s now an expectation, something the reader is waiting for. Potentially they’re even getting bored because they perceive everything which comes before that twist as just a red herring or useless information.

That’s not the experience I want the readers to have.

It’s definitely not the experience I want the viewers to have. They won’t be told the twist before seeing the film (hopefully) and I want the reader to have exactly the same experience as the viewer. I want them shocked, or surprised or … just going “ooh”!

“Ah, I hear you say,# but what if the twist is the thing which makes people buy the project? If it’s the most exciting thing to you writing it then it’s the most exciting thing to them reading it. Didn’t think of that, did you?”

Well, I did, actually, but thanks for joining in.

The twist will not be in or on any of the marketing material for the film because we hope it will catch the viewer off guard. If we can’t sell the film to the audience using the twist then we have to be able to sell it to them using the other elements. In other words the non-twisty bits have to be equally as exciting to our target audience as the twist and its fallout. The Prestige, The Sixth Sense, The Usual Suspects$ … these are all interesting and pitchable without their respective twists. Duelling magicians at the turn of the Century, a boy who sees dead people, six criminals, five of them are dead, guess who the murderer is … at least two of these sound interesting without mentioning the twist.

If the story isn’t interesting without the twist then, guess what? The story isn’t interesting, try harder. It’s remarkably difficult to sell an uninteresting story without some serious attachments or track record.

So I try not to pitch the twist. I try to make sure the story is interesting in and of itself so the twist adds to the excitement rather than creating it.

I try … but I often fail. It’s something I need to get better at, hence you can often find me chanting my mantra to myself, over and over whilst rocking back and forth and drooling:

Don’t pitch the twist, don’t pitch the twist, don’t pitch the twist …

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* Whilst still being a sweet mother/daughter getting to know each other tale, natch.

^ Not revealing Columbo is the murderer, because that would be a great twist, but … you know what I mean.

~ Like most of them.

# Because I’m hiding under your bed.

$ Huh. Do all films with twists in begin with ‘The’? Is that a way to tell if there’s a twist or not?

Memento – guess not.

Nagging yourself

So I’ve got this script I’ve been working on with a director and it’s in good shape. Great shape, if I’m honest.

If I were being really honest (as opposed to my normal self-effacing, self-abasement) I’d say it’s my favourite thing I’ve ever written, stopping just shy of calling it ‘the best’ because … well, I don’t tend to think that highly of my own abilities.

But there you go and there it is, my favourite script for a long, long time.* It rockets along at a fair old clip, being simultaneously entertaining and meaningful. It’s a comedy horror with a complex time-travel plot which can be enjoyed at a superficial level but reveals more depth with each subsequent reading.

It’s great†, I love it … except for this one section about the halfway mark. For about ten minutes or so it gets a bit … not so great. Maybe. I don’t know. It seems fine, but then there’s this little voice telling me it’s not.

I find it really difficult to be totally objective with my own scripts. According to others (for I fear to toot my own horn) I’m brutally honest and insightful when I read their scripts. With my own I find it a little trickier. Luckily the director for this project is a writer in his own right and has sensible, insightful suggestions of his own which have really helped lift the script.

Sadly, that still doesn’t help with this section.

He’s just as invested and steeped in the mechanics of the story as I am. We’re both looking down on the maze instead of experiencing it at ground level like a reader does. Even when we put ourselves in the place of the reader, trying to experience the maze from within we still hold an image of it from above. Basically, we know what’s going on so it’s hard to tell if anyone else will find it risibly easy to guess or completely impenetrable.

Which is why having peers external to the project to read the script is invaluable.

This script has been read and dissected by others and some people identified that section as mildly problematic, but didn’t know why. Others didn’t find it a problem at all. It’s a change in pace but maybe that’s fine? Maybe it’ll work better on screen?

Yeah. Maybe. It has to get there first though says the little voice.

And so we’ve begun sending the script to producers, waiting for feedback, waiting to find out if that section is “fine, stop worrying, I didn’t notice anything wrong” or “completely ruins the story”.

The first producer to come back with feedback loved the script … but thought it got a little dull between pages 48 and 60. It lost her a bit.

Bugger. I know that’s just one opinion, but it matches the one I’m hoping to be wrong about. My little voice is now whistling smugly to itself.

So the director and I break it down.

The sequence fulfils a function. It’s introducing characters who become red herrings later on. In fact the script at that points shifts into being a “whowilldoit”^ but that in itself is a red herring because none of these people do it. The script becomes a murder mystery for about 20 pages and then turns into something much more unpleasant. These 12 pages serve an important function, without introducing this small gang of characters and giving them all distinct personalities and a motive for the coming murder then the script is not the murder mystery we’re selling it as.

I mean, it’s not anyway. Well, it kind of is but there’s this twist and … yeah, it’s complicated, shifting genres at least twice.

So yeah, it serves a function.

The characters are interesting, there’s definitely good meat for the actors in these pages. So that’s fine.

The location is … a bit dull. But we’re saving the budget for the ending and, honestly, we can’t think of any other situation in which these characters would be together in one place but able to be split off into individual scenes so the protagonist can investigate them. She has to be free to move around so she can find the red herring clues.

I feel like it’s the location which makes it a bit dull? Maybe? Is that what that little voice is trying to tell me?

Or maybe it’s because the characters aren’t really doing anything other than dropping clues and giving themselves away? Maybe they need to be playing Laser Quest or trying to build a gazebo or something? Maybe we need to add more action to this sequence so that … nah. The script’s 105 pages long. It’s too long for what it is.

So maybe … maybe … hang on …

The function of this sequence is to sow the red herrings which make this seem like the murder mystery we’re selling it as. It’s there so people will begin to try to piece together the clues which won’t amount to anything because the genre is about to shift and it’s going to be a completely different film to the one people were expecting.

Sort of. I mean it’s in the same wheelhouse, enough so that it won’t upset the punters. It’s not like we’re trying to sell a slasher flick to the rom-com crowd~ or anything like that. Maybe it’s best to think of it as a gear change rather than a genre shift?

So actually the red herring is in the marketing of the script/film. We tell people it’s a murder mystery before they read/watch and when we get to that point we can very, very quickly segue into the second part of the film. How many pages do we actually need to fill in order to make this bait and switch land?

1? 2? Certainly not 12.

And suddenly it becomes clear – my little voice is right. The sequence is problematic because it doesn’t need to be there. How much misdirection do we actually need? Just enough to be clear that one of these six people committed the murder, enough time for the audience to begin to form their suspicions and then … we’re off to the races.

I should have spotted this before. Cutting 10 of the 12 pages gives us space to intensify some of the emotions at the beginning and the end. A 105 page script becomes a 98 page script# and it’s a blast from beginning to end.

Why didn’t I spot this redundancy before? Who do I never fully believe that little voice telling me something’s wrong? I’m not nagging myself for no reason for God’s sake.

I guess I did listen to the voice, I just didn’t ask myself the right questions. Or rather, I just didn’t frame the questions in the right way.

Regardless, it’s fixed now. 98 pages of glory. Or, you know, 98 pages of a dosh garn good read.

And with that I think it’s done. It’s ready to be properly sent out into the world and then … we shall see what we shall see.

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* Excluding the one I wrote for you, obviously. That one’s both my favourite and my best or I wouldn’t have taken your money.

† Maybe. I mean, it’s not bad. I quite like it. A bit.

^ Time travel. Tenses are tricky.

~ I suspect you can shoehorn a rom-com plot into a slasher flick far easier than a butt-tonne of murders into a rom-com. I mean, I think rom-com fans will come to see a murderous rom-com, but at least some of them wouldn’t be happy if they didn’t know that going in. Whereas as long as the slasher flick delivers the corpses I think horror fans would be only to delighted to realise it’s a secret rom-com.

# If you read a lot of scripts you’ll know how psychologically comforting a sub-100 page script is. A turgid 105 pager goes on forever. 98 pages … eh, even if it’s dross it won’t take up too much of my time. It’s the 99p in the land of the poundshops.

What the fuck?

I’m writing this blog from a plane (such is the wonder of technology these days) and the most bizarre thing has happened.

To set the scene, there are five cabins on this aircraft: first, business, premium economy, economy and standing room only. The airline, the greedy bastards, have realised they can do away with seats for the poorest passengers and just cram them in by giving them little straps to hang onto. I’m in premium economy, for I’m on my way to my secret writing island and can endure a modicum of luxury – we get actual red wine instead of white wine with food colouring in it. I feel sorry for the people crammed in at the rear and think it’s an outrage that people get treated like that, but I guess there’s nothing I can do about it.

Anyway, we were halfway across the Atlantic (or the Pacific, doesn’t really matter which) when the captain informed us we had to divert around a rather nasty thunderstorm ahead and would be passing over some island or other. For reasons which weren’t immediately clear, some of the passengers in First got really upset about this.

Later on we discovered it was because they’d embezzled huge amounts of money from the local government and could be arrested if they crossed their sovereign airspace. Like I say, that wasn’t immediately clear at the time and all we knew was a couple of ‘them’ had descended from the dizzy heights of first class and begun pretending they were ‘just like us’ and ‘men of the people’.

Which was weird.

There was one who looked a bit like a novelty rubber frog which had been run over, one who looked a bit like a womble who was carefully styled to appear like he’d been run over and the other was a sort of generic evil-lawyer stereotype who gave the impression if he did get run over it would be beneficial to all of humanity. All three made my skin crawl, but … you know … what they do is none of my business.

Or at least, it wasn’t until they began stirring the pot and getting everyone riled up about air traffic control. It began slowly, but eventually grew in intensity until a good portion of the passengers were really, really upset about the diversion and demanded air traffic control stopped interfering in their journey. The unrest grew so bad that the captain came out to try and explain how things like planes and weather worked, but no one would listen. Or at least not those who’d already listened to the novelty frog, the womble and the lawyer. Apparently everyone was furious about trained professionals doing the complicated jobs they were trained to do.

Which was also weird.

The novelty frog, the womble and the lawyer were particularly successful at riling up the standing passengers who were already hot and bothered and furious at having to stand the whole way. It turns out they had booked seats but had had their tickets changed at the last moment because of some cost cutting measure put in place by the CEO of the airline … who I later discovered was the lawyer-looking mother fucker. Weirdly, instead of blaming him for their woes, on the whispered advice of the first class cronies, they began blaming air traffic control for their aching arms.

Yeah, I know. Weird.

They managed to whip the passengers up into such a fury that eventually the captain offered to hold a vote as to whether or not they’d follow the advice of air traffic control or would take back control of their journey and plough on into the storm regardless. The frog, the womble and the lawyer insisted the storm would be brief (or didn’t actually exist, I’m not sure which, things got a bit confusing and contradictory at that point) and they’d soon be out the other side into the glorious sunshine, free to take whatever route they chose.

The captain, on the other hand, insisted this would not happen and that there was a fifty-fifty chance the storm would bring the plane down and we’d have to ditch in the freezing sea.

The vote was held but between the people who weren’t really paying attention and didn’t vote, the ones who didn’t vote because they found the whole thing ridiculous and the people who weren’t allowed to vote because they’d gone to the toilet at the time, the angry mob won by a narrow margin.

Which was not only weird but surprising.

It turns out the frog, the womble and the lawyer had been very sneaky with the information they’d been giving to people. Instead of loudly announcing what they were doing, they went around whispering it so they could tell different things to different cabins and different demographics. If people were racist, they told them ATC were all people of colour. If they were particularly xenophobic, they told them ATC was entirely staffed by foreigners. If they were (legitimately) complaining about having to stand, they told them ATC had insisted on having fewer seats onboard.

Which is completely nonsensical, why would ATC get involved with an airline’s seating plan?

The weirdest lie though was that ‘no-one in ATC had been interviewed for their position and they were all just on some kind of jolly whilst simultaneously instigating an evil plot to take over the skies’. To be honest, after talking to many of these voters since I’m not sure they all really understood what ATC stands for. I mean one of them told me they were upset about the ATC dictating the navigation of boats, another told me she ‘just wanted to mix things up’ whilst a third (and this honestly happened) voted against ATC because they thought it was unfair to Monaco.

Monaco! What the fuck? We’re nowhere fucking near Monaco.

Anyway, for whatever reason, the vote was taken and the ‘plunge into the storm’ crowd won. The captain, instead of saying ‘Thanks very much for your opinion, I’ll go and see if there’s a clear route through the storm and get back to you’ immediately resigned, sat himself down in first class and got pissed.

There was a bit of a scuffle where for a few horrifying seconds it looked like either the womble or the lawyer were going to try to fly the plane before they pretended they were being gracious and stepped aside to let one of the first officers take command. There are two first officers on board, one (the woman) has now assumed the role of captain whilst the other (the man) just seems to be pooh-poohing everything she says without offering any alternative strategies.

The first officers seemed determined to deliver the will of the passengers by plunging into the storm. Which seemed fair enough until a couple of off-duty and retired pilots came forward and told us all, very clearly and very succinctly that the plane, in all probability, would not survive. They outlined in gruesome detail what would happen to us all if the plane ditched in the middle of the ocean and how quite a lot of us, particularly the ones standing at the back would probably die. Even if we survived the initial ditching, we’d probably starve to death before being rescued.

Which is a lovely thought.

The frog and the lawyer (the womble seems to have disappeared, no idea where he went) insisted this was just Plan: Panic designed to scare us. They pointed out that plenty of planes had flown through clouds before with no problems and that planes flew just fine before ATC was invented.

The experts pointed out that it wasn’t a cloud, it was a thunderstorm and that the skies had changed significantly since the pre-ATC days … but the frog and the lawyer got all the ‘stormers’ chanting ‘storm means storm’ and drowning out any voice of reason.

Those of us who voted to stick with ATC’s plan and go around the potentially life-threatening storm received death threats and mouthfuls of abuse and were told the vote had been taken and there was no changing our minds now we’d found out exactly what going through the storm meant.

Meanwhile the two first officers just kept arguing about the best way to go through the storm. Apparently they’ve been trying to figure out which way will kill the least number of people.

Which is fucking horrific.

‘Why do any of us have to die?’ Asked those of us who voted not to die.

‘Because storm means storm!’ yelled the novelty frog.

Those of us who paid for WiFi access found the application forms for ATC in an attempt to prove they did go through an intense selection process and did know what they were doing … only to be accused of being the posh premium-economy elite by the two guys from first class. This refrain got picked up by the stormers (in both the cabins above and below us) who now seem to think we’re the ones lying to them and are somehow responsible for the whole situation. ‘If you love ATC so much why don’t you just get on a plane which obeys them!’ the stormers yell, seemingly unaware that we had boarded a plane which did exactly that.

Some of the stormers since the vote seem to have changed their mind in light of the new evidence. Some haven’t. Some ATCers (which doesn’t sound so cool as stormers) have changed their minds in the other direction. No one has any idea how many people still want to plunge into the storm and every time someone suggests finding out, the stormers just carry on screaming ‘storm means storm’!

I’ve just seen the frog, the womble and the lawyer strapping on parachutes and heard them arranging for a boat to be waiting for them in the drop zone. A boat big enough to hold three people, even when larger boats were available.

Meanwhile, as we continue on our non-ATC sanctioned heading, the two first officers are still arguing. The woman who’d assumed command keeps offering the same route but calling it different things. ‘We could go left, right, left and skirt the storm. That way we’re not really obeying ATC but not actually going through the storm itself’ she said only for the other FO to refuse on the grounds it didn’t fulfil the will of the passengers.

‘We could go the opposite of right, the opposite of left and then the opposite of right again’ she rebutted, seemingly completely oblivious to that being THE EXACT SAME FUCKING THING. Again, her route was refused without any alternative being proposed.

At this point I began wondering if I needed to start stockpiling the pretzels. I mean, assuming we survive the ditching (total destruction is apparently only 95% certain) then I’d quite like not to starve to death. On the other hand, I don’t really want to go to all the effort of squirrelling away food I don’t need if we give up on the storm-plunging insanity and land safely. Logic tells me to err on the side of caution, but logic’s not the full story for I can be an emotional Phill.

Just recently, with all the wavering between to storm and not to storm both factions of passengers have organised demonstrations. 250 of the ATCers marched on the cockpit to demand a return to sanity.

They were ignored. I think they’ve started a petition now. They seem to be quite excited about it, but at least a fraction of the signees are ‘stormers’ adding fake names to it so they can … oh, who fucking knows?

The novelty frog meanwhile organised a march from the standing cabin to the front which garnered a whole 3 participants. The novelty frog himself didn’t actually join in, of course, he just continued prepping his parachute. I’m not even sure if those 3 are still walking or have given up somewhere around the economy cabin.

So that’s where I am right now: plunging headlong towards a storm which may or may not destroy a plane full of people who may or may not still want to do the plunging, wondering if I should be stuffing my socks with pretzels in case I find myself starving to death while the people with the ability to actually do something about it keep arguing about which one of them should be in charge of a disaster brought about by a handful of corrupt, self-serving wankers who manipulated everyone into voting on something no-one had previously cared about beyond a bit of light grumbling.

I know what you’re thinking, it sounds too fucking bizarre to be true. I wish you were right, but if you’re reading these words then you’re not. This is my life, I’m not dreaming and if no one comes up with a better plan soon then it’s probably all about to get really, really unpleasant.

 

A time and a place

Somebody† once said that “comedy has a time and a place”, meaning that specificity is funnier than ambiguity.

At least, that’s what I think it means.

Sitcoms should be set somewhere, not just a generic town but Surbiton or East Cheam or Torquay. Locating the characters in a physical location helps define them, the range of stories and the type of humour.

They should also be set some-when. This is something I feel quite strongly about, not just where comedy is concerned but for all genres. When I read a script the first thing I want to know is when it’s set. It’s hard to get a decent mental image of someone ‘dressed in their Sunday best’ or ‘polishing his new car’* if you’ve no idea whether the script is set in the ’20s or the present day.

I expect to read the time period in brackets at the end of the first scene header.^ If someone doesn’t include the time then I guess it could be read as default Present Day, but just like a story where you don’t see a character’s face makes me suspect it’s a character who’s being deliberately kept secret, not reading the time period makes me wonder if it’s a deliberate trick.

Now I’m expecting the rug to be pulled out from under me, if it doesn’t happen it’s always faintly unsettling. On screen you can see instantly roughly when a story is set (assuming it’s not opening at a present day ’80s fancy dress party or something) so why not mention it right off the bat?

Similarly, keeping the location vague rarely makes it feel inclusive because either that place looks like your home town or it doesn’t.# Knowing where in the world the story takes place as quickly as possible helps the viewer concentrate on the story.

I’ve been watching two TV programmes recently which having confusing time periods: Sex Education and Star Trek: Discovery.

The first episode of Sex Education confused the hell out of me. The adults are wearing ’50s clothes in their ’50s houses. The kids are wearing ’70s clothes. Except those kids who are wearing ’80s clothes, driving a new ’90s car. The school looks American but everyone’s talking in an English accent. The English accented Head Boy is even wearing an American Jacket.

When the fuck is this set? And where? What am I watching?

Which is fine, I guess. For some reason this is the look they wanted for the show: deliberately confusing. The problem I have is while I’m being confused by all the visuals I’m not concentrating on the characters or the story. I’m not empathising with anyone because I’m trying to figure out the basic details, the minimum information I need to get started.

I’m not sure this is a great idea.

Similarly, ST: Discovery – what the fuck is going on there? Two seasons in and I still keep wondering why it’s a prequel? I mean, why? What possible benefit is there to telling a prequel story when everything on screen tells you it’s set sometime after Voyager? It’s almost like they got to the end of production before someone decided to make it a prequel.

“But it’s clearly a sequel, it looks nothing like the pre-Kirk era.”

“Fuck it, it’ll be fine. Just change the dates on the screen. Ooh! And call those new aliens Klingons!”

“The aliens which look and act nothing like Klingons?”

“Yeah, fuck it. Just dub everything into Klingon. People won’t notice.”

I just don’t understand why? So they can introduce Spock’s hitherto unspoken of sister? Why is she Spock’s sister? Why is that important? What does it add beyond a quick nod of recognition followed by weeks of … wait a minute. It’s not even like they’re filling in any details we’ve longed to hear about for years.

I mean, at least the Star Wars prequels told the origins of characters we already knew. I’ve always thought a Star Trek series set aboard Pike’s or April’s Enterprise would be cool. I felt ’90s ST became a little too utopian for effective drama, all those well balanced, nice people weren’t great for storytelling. A prequel show has the opportunity to be a little more ‘Wagon Train to the Stars’. Less tech is more interesting, let’s see how they cope without stuff … but a prequel with more tech?

I guess the difference between these examples (at least for me, I’m aware my opinion isn’t valid outside my own head) is I care about the characters in Sex Education. I relate to half of them and can see my friends reflected in the rest. It may not look or feel like anywhere I’ve ever lived but the characters feel familiar and once I’d gotten over the weirdly conflicting visual information I was hooked.

Discovery, not so much. I mean, the characters are okay … but they keep doing nonsensical things which make it hard for me to believe in them. I think the show has many problems (and the odd nugget of joy) but a good chunk of them would be resolved by not being the prequel it doesn’t look like.

I guess the point I’m trying to make (apart from character is king) is why add more confusion than is necessary to tell the story? If something’s not meant to be a mystery, don’t make it one. Don’t deliberately try to confuse the audience$ about things which don’t need to be confusing.

Not knowing when or where something is set is disorientating. If there’s no story need for doing it, why do it?

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† Was it Galton and/or Simpson? Or maybe Barry Cryer? I can’t remember. Maybe it was me? Sounds a bit too clever for me.

* I would never write something like this because a car tells you a lot about a person. The kind of person who polishes a new Ford Ka is a very different to the kind who’s just bought a new Lamborghini. Probably. Unless they’re the kind of person who’s got one of every car ever made, in which case they might be equally happy with whatever they’ve bought.

Maybe.

^ Which, I suppose, makes it the second thing I want to know since it immediately follows the location.

# I think this is only true of a story which takes place in your home country. Or one you know well. As a kid I had no concept that Hill Valley was geographically adrift because I just assumed all American towns look like that. Take the town in Gremlins, for example, that looks nearly identical!+

+ Yes, I know. That’s the joke.

$ Or me. Don’t try to confuse me. I confuse easily and then cry about it.

In defence of traditional martial arts

I want to take a break from my regular scriptwriting rambling to talk about one of my other passions, martial arts. I may find some vague link to writing at the end, but probably not.

If you’re not involved in the world of hitting people for fun there’s a weird running argument online about the value of traditional martial arts, (things like Karate, Kung Fu, Aikido, Taekwondo … etc). The main thrust of the argument is that they’re inherently useless because nothing except for MMA or possibly Brazilian Jujitsu will win a fight. Maybe boxing at a push.

I tend to disagree with this. I’ve trained in a few different martial arts over the last couple of decades, picking up the odd back belt here and there. I’m currently learning Tiger Crane Kung Fu from Neil Johnson in Lewes and will (hopefully) continue to do so until one of us gives up or dies.

One of my black belts is in what the internet deems the ‘most useless’ of martial arts, Aikido. You can never win a fight with Aikido, goes the refrain.

I have two issues with this line of thinking.

1) How do you define useless?

At no point during my Aikido training did I think I would eventually be able to use it to square up to a trained professional in a ring and win a fight. I did it because I enjoyed, because it made me happy, because I made friends doing it, because we used to stop in the middle for a biscuit and a cuppa, because it kept me supple and active, because the black skirt looks like Darth Vader’s, because my Sensei was a lovely, lovely bloke, because … well, lots and lots of reasons really.

It was so clearly not a fighting art that it wasn’t even taught as a martial art, it was taught as a physical philosophy. My classes were intended to be physical exercises which helped promote a way of thinking about life and confrontations. The principles of Aikido work equally well in verbal confrontations as in physical ones and I use them to improve my interactions with people on a daily basis.

As fun as Aikido was, Kung Fu has always been my first love (Lau Gar from Carl Jones in Swansea, Wing Tsun from Paul Hawkes in Crawley and Lau Gar again from Carl Sims in Brighton before switching to Tiger Crane – each change being necessitated because either I or my instructor moved rather than me being fickle!) Kung Fu doesn’t really have a direct translation into English (or so I’m told), it kind of means ‘good health’ or ‘self improvement’ or something like that.

I tend to like the idea of it meaning ‘self improvement’. This, to me, is one of the most important aspects of a martial art. I think humans are happier when their life has direction, that we all need achievement and progression to be happy, whether that comes from work or a hobby. Martial arts help provide that, you’re always working towards something, improving on old skills whilst learning new ones. You have grades or belts to achieve, giving you a way of marking your progress over time.

Kung Fu is a fighting art, yes, but more than that it promotes health, vitality and fitness. It’s good for both physical and mental health, for concentration and confidence. I’ve seen students start a class barely able to look people in the eye but a few years later have the wherewithal to actually interact with humanity.

Fighting is a game for the young, Kung Fu can be practised for an entire lifetime and can help extend that lifetime. I struggle to see this as ‘useless’.

Which brings me to my second niggle:

2) You can’t win a fight with traditional martial arts.

I suspect the problem here is the definition of the word ‘fight’.

What is a fight? Is it two highly trained professionals squaring up to each other in a ring? Or is it someone taking a swing at you in a pub? Is it a shoving match in a takeaway restaurant? Is it a verbal argument? Perhaps one that escalates?

Is it, maybe, all of these things?

Here in the UK we’ve spent the last two years screaming ‘Brexit means Brexit’ and ‘Leave means leave’ at each other without bothering to define what either of those things mean, rendering the whole argument pointless.

A ‘fight’ can be many things. Sometimes several different things in quick succession.

Could a twice-a-week Aikido practitioner hope to win a cage fight against a six-hours-a-day MMA fighter?

Probably not. Almost certainly not, but I guess nothing’s impossible.

Can someone use the principles of Aikido to deflect a drunken swing and immobilise an assailant?

Yes. I’ve done that. Was that a fight?

I’ve also stopped someone hitting me in a night club brawl simply by adopting a Kung Fu fighting stance. The guy in question was charging at me with his fist raised, as soon as I dropped into a fighting stance he stopped, lowered his fist and pretended to be interested in a nearby section of wall before selecting an easier target and hitting him instead. Was that a fight?

I’ve de-escalated a verbal argument which was getting very aggressive and threatening by calmly offering to fight both of the shouters. They backed down and then sent one of their girlfriends to apologise. Was that a fight? Did I win?

Did I win the fight when one of a group of teens attacked me and knocked me over? I performed an Aikido roll and came back up to my feet right in his face … at which point he shit himself and ran away. Who won that one?

None of these things are a ring fight, but all of them perhaps come under the umbrella term of ‘a fight’ in which traditional martial arts were useful. I’ve had people try to punch me and fail because I blocked it or stepped out of the way. Techniques which would never, ever work against a sober, trained fighter work perfectly well on a night out.*

I see people on YouTube debunking all sorts of breakaway techniques by grounding themselves in a firm stance and gripping someone in a completely static manner … and then looking smug when the technique fails. Which is a little bit like someone opining that a hammer is a useless tool because it can’t be used to change a plug.

The correct Aikido technique to use if someone grips you in a solid and completely static grip†, tensing their muscles and holding on for dear life is to … wait. Maybe have chat until they get bored and let go? People who grab you with threatening intent will probably try to push or pull you or hit you with the other hand. Either don’t let them grab you or react to whatever else they’re doing. If they’re just holding you without doing anything else then maybe they want to be friends?

Most people I’ve ‘fought’ against in a real situation can barely stand up, not in a martial arts sense. They don’t have perfect footwork, they don’t have a balanced stance and they’re usually drunk. Almost any body movement, trained or not, throws them off balance or makes them fall over.§

I guess the other side of this argument comes from the people who think training a couple of nights a week in a traditional martial art makes them Bruce Lee or Batman or something. The kind of people who go on forums and yell ‘my art’s better than yours’ without ever having trained anything else. Or ‘we don’t compete because our art is too deadly!’ which always smacks of bullshit to me.

Some arts are better for fighting than others, but it’s  really more dependent on the person than the art. Realistically the only way to be great at fighting is to get into lots of fights. ‡

If I have a point at all in this long ramble, it’s that traditional martial arts aren’t useless and they can be used to win a fight, depending on your definition of ‘useless’ and ‘fight’. If nothing else, martial arts should give you an understanding of balance, a stance to work from, the confidence to stand face to face with someone who’s aggressive, an awareness of how people move just before they hit you, a familiarity with being hit and the ability to react rather than freeze.

All of these things are useful, but perhaps not so useful as doing something you enjoy with people you like. I don’t really get into fights anymore. I’m never really in a situation where that sort of thing happens, but I still train because it’s fun and that to me is all the usefulness I need.

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* Let’s be perfectly honest here, if you want to win most ‘street’ fights then your best  option is just to stay sober. You’re more likely to see trouble coming, less likely to inadvertently cause the trouble in the first place and it’s far, far cheaper than training all day every day.

Hurts less too.

† If you’ve let someone grip you and root themselves in a firm, static stance then you’ve done the equivalent of letting your opponent in chess take all of your pieces bar the King before you decide to make your first move. Mind you, if they settle into a static grip it’s a bit like they’ve got to that point and decided not to make any more moves anyway.

§ Which I guess is where the oft-touted wisdom of ‘most pub fights end up on the ground’ comes from. They probably do, mainly because neither person knows how to stay on their feet. I don’t want to end up on the ground. It’s dirty down there. I’ll stay standing while the other person sprawls on the floor, thank you very much.

‡ There was a Karate club in Swansea which used to engage in what they called Kingsway Katas on a Friday night after training (The Kingsway being a street with lots of pubs and clubs on it). Basically, under the watchful eye of their Sensei, they would go out after training, get drunk and get into fights. I’ve no doubt they won a lot of these fights … but fucking hell. These are the kind of people who watched The Karate Kid and thought Cobra Kai was a cool club.

I feel they’ve missed the point somewhat, but each to their own.

In the background

 

A film script I’ve been writing has a second level of story which (hopefully) won’t be obvious on first viewing. It’s a story which reflects on the theme and deepens your understanding of the events, but happens almost exclusively in the background. The kind of thing which helps give a film longevity and makes people want to re-watch to see how much of it they’ve missed.

The problem with that is it’s all well and good having stuff on screen that happens solely in the background, but I find it tricky to do in a script. The act of writing it down draws attention to it. Writing IN THE BACKGROUND or WE’RE* NOT FOCUSING ON THIS, BUT … is all well and good, but you can’t read that stuff without paying attention.

Sure, you can bury it in a big chunk of text, but then people reading get annoyed because their brain keeps skipping over stuff. I know that’s the point, but annoying people isn’t.

So how do you do it?

No, seriously, how do you do it?

I tend to put that stuff in italics with a note to the reader on the first occurrence like:

We’re not focusing on this, but IF YOU CARED TO NOTICE: in the background there’s a giant rubber duck hiding behind a car. The audience probably won’t notice, the protagonist certainly doesn’t.

And from then on just title each unobserved piece with IF YOU CARED TO NOTICE:

But is there a better way?

What would you do?

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*Oh no! I used a ‘we’ in an action line! But that breaks all the rules! I’ll be put up against the wall and shot! No one will ever buy my work again! Oh hang on … no, that’s right. No one cares. Sorry, as you were.

Reading rules

I think one of the most important tools a scriptwriter should have in their arsenal is a good peer group.

If you don’t know any scriptwriters, you really need to rectify that situation. I kind of lucked into a whole bunch of peers thanks mostly to the efforts of the esteemed Piers Beckley who used to run a writers drink/meet up in London and very kindly invited me along.

I politely declined a few times before finally overcoming my inherent shyness and joining in.

Best thing I ever did.

Firstly, being exposed to a roomful of other writers is good for you. Having someone who understands how difficult it is to plot out a film or create interesting characters or the ins and outs of film structure is invaluable. Friends and loved ones are all very well and will often listen and make encouraging noises (or, you know, glaze over and go ‘huh?’ every now and then) but you can’t beat talking to someone who actually knows what all the drivel you’re spouting means.

Secondly, you need them for the bitching. Scriptwriting is already hard enough without having to go through the actual process of getting something made. Having a group you can go to to complain about the stupid notes you’ve received allows you to vent without actually swearing at the person who gave you the note. This in turn gives you the space you need to realise the note isn’t actually as stupid as you first thought.

If you’ve had the kind of career I’ve had, it also gives you the opportunity to moan about all the stupid decisions made during or after the shoot which completely and utterly undermined the hard work of everyone else involved.

This kind of bitching helps us all build up a list of those who should never be worked with or at the very least allows us to lower our expectations going in.

The third advantage is the sharing of opportunities and contacts. I try to pass on opportunities whenever I find them because although I’m possibly in direct competition with some of my peer group, I’m not really. Either the person concerned likes my script/idea or they don’t. If someone I know can profit off a bit of info then I’m all for that. Personal successes are few and far between, filling up the gaps with the success of people I care about helps keep my enthusiasm high.

Every now and then I hear of someone who refused to introduce a writer to a producer they know who’d be a perfect match for their script and I find it a bit weird. I love matching people up. I love it even more when someone I know gets a commission out of an introduction, I find it very satisfying and can’t really fathom what it must be like to live in fear of someone else getting one up on you.

But hey, each to their own.

The most important use for a peer group (in my opinion*) is having a small army of script readers ready and willing to aggressively rip your work to shreds. This is, without a doubt, the most useful thing one writer can do for another … so long as they’re being honest.

Friends and family who read stuff tend to just go “Yeah, it’s good” which is in no way helpful. Especially when you know it probably isn’t.

Having a peer point out every deficiency and flaw is so, so useful. Honesty is the only way to really grow as a writer.

So with all that in mind, I have some loose rules about asking people to read my stuff. Just a few guidelines to (hopefully) avoid pissing people off.

1) I never ask anyone to read my work for free if they offer a paid script reading service.

I extend this rule to all walks of life – I wouldn’t ask a plumber to fit a bathroom for me for free, or a childminder to babysit my daughter without pay so why would I ask a professional script reader to do their job for free?

I may ask them for advice if I know them well, discussing an idea or issue in a conversation … but I’d never ask them to read a script for free.

I would, however, read a script for them quite happily. I don’t charge to read friends’ scripts. Or even enemies. I’m not a script reader and my opinion is suspect at best and should be treated with caution.

2) I don’t expect people to read my work without offering to read theirs.

In fact, I offer to read other writers’ work without any thought of asking them to read mine. I like being helpful, I like being useful. I read scripts for friends who I know would never, ever read one of mine in return. Some will, some won’t … it doesn’t matter. I like being nice to people and don’t expect anything for it.

Hmm … which I guess means I don’t expect anyone else to hold to the same rules I set for myself.

Some people may think that makes me a sucker.

Those people can fuck off.

3) I don’t ask people to read anything if they seem stressed or too busy.

Which is a shame, some of the people I respect the most are in near constant demand as a writer (or certainly seem to be) churning out episodes of Doctors or Casualty or their next novel or a mindbendingly impossible number of other projects a year. They have enough on their plate, I don’t want to add to it.

Which is a shame, because some of these people have opinions I really, really value.

I would, however, happily read anything they wanted me too, up to and including a novel. Again, I want to help.

4) I never ask anyone to read more than one draft of the same project.

This is something that really galls me. Every now and then I get contacted by a new writer looking for an opinion. I’m quite happy to read their stuff, so long as they’re prepared to accept the criticism. And by ‘accept’ I don’t mean take everything I say as gospel, but rather ‘not get upset because I didn’t tell them their first draft was a flawless work of art’.

The problem comes when that person, someone I don’t know who’s contacted me through this blog (which is fine, please do. Why not #PhonePhill?} then sends me a second draft. And a third. And a fourth, all the while refusing to take on board any of the points I raised with the first draft.

I don’t really get this. Either you value my opinion or you don’t, either is fine, but if you don’t value my opinion why are you still seeking it out?

One free read per project. That’s fair. I don’t want to put people through the same misery time and time again!

5) I don’t hassle people who don’t read things in a timely manner.

Or don’t get round to reading it at all.

We’re all busy, people are being kind. If they don’t have time, they don’t have time. It’s just one of those things, not something worth getting upset about. No one owes me a read, even if they said they would.

There are probably more ‘rules’ I set myself … but to be honest I’ve got some work to do …

… and I think this has gone on long enough, don’t you?

If you haven’t got any scriptwriting buddies, get some. There must be some somewhere nearby. Writers are lovely people (sometimes) and creating your own peer group really pays off. Why not organise your own monthly or quarterly meet-ups?

You could even invite me, if you like.

I won’t come because I’m shy and don’t like to leave my office very often, but it never hurts to ask.

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*As if none of the rest of this were my opinion.

Suspiciously positive

Last week’s blog post wasn’t actually written last week, it was written months and months ago … and then I lost interest. So when I mentioned a script that was about ready to be sent out to trusted friends for a read through, that’s already happened and the results are in.

It’s always a nail-biting time waiting for those first opinions. Okay, so this time it wasn’t a spec script, it’s one written with a friend whose opinion I respect and trust. We’ve argued with each other and slagged off bits of the script and finally come to a consensus about what the film should be. The question now is: does what we intend come over on the page?

I mean, the version in our heads (which may or may not be the same version) sounds great and works brilliantly. It’s funny and scary and exhilarating and intriguing … but maybe we’ve talked each other into things which don’t make sense? Or maybe it just doesn’t translate properly onto paper? Maybe we’ve missed out the key bit of information which makes the protagonist as fun as we think she is?

It’s always stressful opening yourself up to critique, even when it’s just from people we know.

However, the results are in and on this occasion … the opinions are overwhelmingly positive.

Which is weird.

And suspicious.

You’d think I’d be elated by all the positive feedback, but … well … I enjoy rewriting. I like the process of figuring out what’s wrong and how to fix it. I expect to throw away a minimum of 50% of any first draft.

Minimum.

An excellent first draft is fifty percent utter toss, in my ill-informed opinion.

I expect to replace roughly 50% of each new section in each subsequent draft until the fourth draft hits something reasonably coherent.

So far, that’s how this script has progressed. Draft 4-ish went out for opinions and received broadly positive comments.

Scratch that, it’s received a veritable fountain of praise.

Which has left me feeling like a puppy who’s chewed through a sofa and been petted rather than smacked with a rolled-up newspaper. I’ve got one eye still closed, waiting for the pain which doesn’t appear to be coming.

That’s not to say there wasn’t criticism, but it’s mostly about clarity of certain points. This script is a time-travel murder-mystery spanning several realities. One of the characters turns up in three different guises at two different ages. Another spends a good portion of it not existing. The story teeters right on the confusion event horizon and it doesn’t take much to miss a plot point which leaves the reader falling into the black hole of ‘huh’?

There’s all sorts of bits which will be blindingly clear on screen but which are difficult to differentiate on the page and some of these things did confuse some of the readers … but they’re an easy fix. In most cases it involves merely underlining, bolding or separating crucial sentences out into separate paragraphs.

Other things just need spelling out clearly and succinctly.

All of those things have been addressed now and apparently the script is good to go.

Apparently.

It remains to be seen what producers think about it since they have different criteria to writers and directors, but hopefully they’ll like it as much as everyone else has so far.

There’s still a long way to go to get this made, but it’s a nice way to start the New Year and I’m looking forward to seeing how it all pans out.

The power of three, the peril of two

Hello, how are you? What have you been doing with yourself?

I’ve been beavering way, writing this and that, having the biggest film of my career quietly fall apart without the slightest idea why.*

One of the ‘this’es I’ve been writing is a feature script I’m very proud of, one of my favourite to date. It’s kind of everything I love in a film whilst being utterly achievable on a small budget.

Except the bits that aren’t.

The project was born of a #PhonePhill conversation (or one of many such conversations) with Calum Chalmers. This is a completely unintended and lovely side effect of the whole #PhonePhill thing. It was never meant to spawn anything other than chat.

But there you go. Chat led to chats led to ideas led to a feature script. It’s currently residing with a couple of trusted friends who are reading and (hopefully) tearing the fucking thing to shreds.

As pleasant as this process has been and and good as Calum and I think we’ve got the script (me as writer, him as director) there’s always a chance we’ve completely overlooked something. Or that something we think makes sense doesn’t. Or that there’s somehow a massive and glaring plot hole right in the bit between the opening and closing credits.

It strikes me that even if we have nailed it and gotten a water-tight, plot-tight, sense-making script … we still have to face the Peril of Two.

For me, the preferable way of writing is to have the script triumvirate (writer, director, producer) in place from the very beginning. That way, when we’re all in agreement, the script stands. Anyone else who has an input after that has to run the gauntlet of three people who are already in agreement.

That’s the Power of Three.

The peril of having just two (writer and producer or writer and director) on board during scripting is there’s a very high chance I’ll have to do the whole thing again when the third member arrives. Everyone likes to put their stamp on the project and (for the most part) everyone has good ideas which help refine what’s already there … but for some reason there seems to be an inordinate number of producers or directors who sign onto a project because they love the script … and then demand a complete page one rewrite.

So, okay, if the idea is awesome and it’s just the execution that’s appalling then fair enough. But it often seems to be a complete change of the core idea itself.

“I love this script, love it. Please choose me to realise your ideas … only, maybe instead of a drama about homeless teens it could be a thriller about some murderous ostrich eggs?”

Or, on one memorable occasion a few years ago, a prospective producer told the director and I the equivalent of telling George Lucas:

“I love this penetrating family drama about moisture farming, it’s a world I understand really well … but then it veers off into this weird space thing. We need to cut all the space stuff and get back to the core of the story.”

Yeah … I’m not sure you’ve understood this script.

Frequently the incoming person goes through all the ideas we discarded during development, the ones we tried but don’t work. Those aren’t bad ideas, they just don’t have a place in this script and we have to try and remember all the arguments and discussions we had which led to one or both of us letting go of what we’d become erroneously attached to.

That’s frustrating and time consuming … but that’s not the Peril of Two.

The peril comes when the one of us who’s not me is so enamoured with the incoming director/producer they agree with them. Suddenly, the script they paid me for, the one we worked on together which they loved and fulfilled their brief completely … is no good. In the absolute worst case scenario I’ve been secretly blamed for managing to accommodate all of their ideas, for making their flights of fancy work.

That’s quite annoying. Sometimes I get to rewrite it, which feels like a waste of time when it’s essentially a new project and means burning all the ideas developed so far … and sometimes I get replaced. Which, to be honest, is probably the preferable outcome.

It’s annoying though. Annoying when you get hired to write an idea, the client loves the idea, the client finds someone else to help make the idea … only to have the new person say they don’t like it, the client to agree and then claim it was my idea in the first place and they don’t know what I was thinking†.

Luckily, that’s an extreme case and doesn’t happen very often. I like to think I’ve got better at spotting those people and avoiding working for them in the first place. I’m pretty sure I have, it hasn’t happened for a long time at any rate. The last time it happened the director told the ‘moisture farming guy’ where to go, so that was a win.

Hopefully that won’t happen this time. I’m pretty certain (almost, if not 100% certain) there won’t be any secret blaming with Calum, he’s not that kind of guy, but sooner or later we’ll have to start bringing other people into the mix and then … well, we’ll have to see what we shall see, won’t we?

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* It fell apart very quietly. So quietly in fact I had literally no idea it wasn’t happening until I tried to find out where and when I was supposed to report for the shoot.

Still don’t know why.

It was probably cancelled by aliens. Or ghosts. Those are the only two possible explanations.

† Imagine you were a prop designer, hired to design a new TARDIS. The producer gives you the brief – make it red, like the Glasgow Police Boxes originally were.

You suggest sticking with the traditional Doctor Who/Metropolitan blue might be better, but they disagree. They want to take a bold new direction, a Scottish direction. It’s their TARDIS, they want it red and they want to pay you to design it.

So you do your research, find the exact shade of red the original boxes were painted, you work out which red will most closely resemble it under studio lights and location lighting and … you know, stuff. You submit the plans and the producer loves them – this is exactly what they wanted!

Then someone else comes along and points out that making the TARDIS red is a stupid idea. The producer actually respects/is a little afraid of this person so they blame you having the idea in the first place and get you fired.

Hooray.