Coincidence

There's a saying in screenwriting: coincidence that make your character's life more difficult is okay; coincidence that makes their life easier is bad.

Consider the example of a hero being chased through a ravine by bad guys. Imagine if a boulder suddenly toppled from the cliffs and blocked the bad guys, allowing the hero to escape. It seems weak - a contrivance to get the hero out of a tough spot. However if the boulder fell in front of the hero, trapping him with the bad guys and making his situation worse, it feels like good drama.

This is because on some subconscious level the audience is aware that someone is crafting this story. But they don't want to see the hand of that storyteller at work. There are unwritten rules that the audience expects the storyteller to abide by. A coincidence that saves the hero feels like the storyteller wrote themselves into a situation and couldn't figure a way out, so they made something random happen to solve their problem. It feels like cheating. If the writer is allowed to let anything happen at any time then there can be no tension.

That type of coincidence is pretty easy to spot. More insidious is when a story element is a little too convenient. It exists to make the writer's life easier rather than growing organically out of the premise. But sometimes it's possible to turn these types of coincidences into strong plot points.

That's a little confusing in the abstract. Let me give an example of what I mean. One benefit of teaching is that it gives me ample inspiration for blog posts. Recently a student turned in an outline where when the hero meets the villain, they discover they are old high school classmates. I asked why that was and the student said, "I wanted them to know each other so the hero would trust the villain."

That's a valid idea, but it's imposing the relationship on the characters because of a plot need, rather than growing the plot out of the relationship between the characters. Thus it seems a little convenient.

I suggested that maybe the high school relationship between the characters could be the reason they come together. Maybe the villain was seeking out this old classmate, rather than running into them coincidentally.

My student's eyes lit up. She immediately began spinning a backstory of high school jealousy and rejection. Suddenly there was a whole new subtext to her main story. A weakness had just become a strength. 

In good stories plot should grow out of the character's goals and relationships. But of course you need certain things to happen in order for your story to work. When you discover something happens in your story just because you, the writer, needs it to, try to think of a reason based in a character's goals for the plot point.

Let's go back to our falling boulder idea. The audience may accept a random boulder trapping the hero. It makes the scene more dramatic and exciting. But what if one of the villain's henchmen pushed the boulder down? Maybe they had been eavesdropping on the hero and knew his planned route. That feels more satisfying, doesn't it? Even when you could get away with a coincidence, motivating it with character is better.

The exception to this rule is when the entire story is based on some kind of random event. In these cases the randomness is part of the thematic underpinnings of the story. For example, what happens when a regular kid finds a bag of money? Or when two musicians witness a mob hit? Or when a businessman is mistaken for a criminal? The audience is willing to buy one "miracle" to set up the story. But every plot point after that should grow out of that random event and the characters. 

In real life random things happen all the time. But in drama we want things to progress logically. Thus the saying, "Truth is stranger than fiction." So turn your coincidences into plot points based on character motivation. It might just enliven your whole story.

Structure vs. Formula

A recent essay on Slate blamed the structural outline in Blake Snyder's book Save the Cat for the formulaic nature of Hollywood movies. The essay has been getting a lot of play lately. It's well written, but the assertion is frankly a little silly.

First, Save the Cat is a popular and widely read screenwriting book, but it's hardly the most popular and most widely read screenwriting book. Second, though Blake Snyder put his own spin on structure, he's basically offering a variation of the three-act structure laid out by Syd Field in Screenplay (originally published in 1979) - and Syd Field was working from ideas laid out by Aristotle. So no, Save the Cat is not the guidebook for every Hollywood movie.

There are other questionable assertions in the article. It implies that Blake Snyder is responsible for blockbusters being targeted toward teenage boys, when in fact that started in the late-70's after Jaws and Star Wars introduced the blockbuster era. Save the Cat was published in 2005. It also claims Snyder was the first to specify page numbers for structural beats when, again, Syd Field did just that in Screenplay. Finally, it repeatedly says Save the Cat's structural breakdown gives a "page-by-page" formula. In fact, Snyder identifies fifteen structural beats. Unless you're making fifteen-minute movies, it's obviously not a page-by-page formula.

The biggest logic hole in attributing Hollywood's originality problems to Save the Cat is the historic time line. Many older movies follow Snyder's structural beats perfectly. In fact, if you convert page numbers to percentages of pages, most of Shakespeare's work fits pretty well. Even the Slate essay uses The Matrix as an example despite the fact it came out six years before the book.

When I read the Slate article I debated whether it was worth mentioning in this blog. Who really cares if it's being trumpeted by wannabe writers and lazy critics to justify a feeling of superiority over people who actually make movies? And it probably helped sales of Save the Cat. After all, if you want to write Hollywood movies and someone told you there's a book that all professional screenwriters use as a guide, wouldn't you buy it? (For the record, I think the book is quite good, though the structural stuff is its weakest part.)

But there's a bigger subtext here that appears regularly among aspiring screenwriters (including, occasionally, students of mine): That structure is a restrictive formula that inhibits creativity. And the inverse of that is often promoted by screenwriting "gurus" - that good structure is the key to good movies. Both of these ideas are not only wrong, they're dangerous to new writers.

In fact, structure is an element of craft. Understanding it is no different than understanding exposition, character development, or even grammar and spelling. It's a tool to tell the story. The story you tell can be original or derivative, imaginative or trite - regardless of whether the underlying structure is solid or not.

The parallel in architecture would be knowing the engineering required to keep your building from collapsing. You can make a beautiful building or an ugly building, but first you need to make sure it's not going to fall down!

The fundamental concepts of three-act structure are found everywhere - in European films like Amelie and art films like Beasts of the Southern Wild and classic films like Casablanca. Even, as I mentioned, the work of Shakespeare. Would you call those "formulaic"?

In fact Shakespeare worked within very rigid ideas of what a play should be. He even had to write in iambic pentameter! And he obviously didn't do that accidentally. He was well-educated in his craft. (I wonder if the Shakespearean version of Slate proclaimed iambic pentameter as the reason for unimaginative playwriting.) But Shakespeare accepted the traditions and conventions of his craft and used them to tell stories that have stood the test of time.

The danger of ignoring structure is that if your story is not well structured, it will likely have dull parts and logic holes. Counter-intuitively, it will often be predictable. You might get lucky and instinctively give your story a solid structure. But if you resist learning this aspect of craft, you will not be able to fix a story when instinct fails you. And it will.

On the other side of the coin, the danger of believing structure is the sole requirement of a good screenplay is that you might fail to do all of the other things necessary: create dimensional and compelling characters, build dramatic scenes, and write sparkling dialogue. Not to mention have something of value to say! Solid structure is the beginning of the process, not the end.

And whatever source you go to in order to learn structure, I encourage you to apply your own critical thinking. I don't like assigning specific pages to structural beats, either. That doesn't mean there's nothing of value to learn from Save the Cat. Take what makes sense to you and ignore the rest.

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The Hollywood Pitching Bible, is now available for purchase in print through Amazon, or as an ebook for Kindle and iTunes. You can learn more about the book at the Screenmaster Books website.

Screenwriting Lessons from San Diego Comic-Con 2013

Last weekend I went to Comic-Con in San Diego. If you haven't been, it's a crazy pop-culture circus with both fan and pro components. Among the pro components are panels on industry topics and parties hosted by agencies, studios, and groups like the WGA. Here are a couple of interesting screenwriting-related things I learned/heard during my three days at Comic-Con this year:

What Do You Bring to the Table?

I went to a panel on Pitching Creator Owned Comics that had valuable information for pitching any type of creative project. The main point could be summed up in one line: "Why should a publisher choose your comic over someone else's?" You could transpose that to, "Why should a producer choose your movie idea over someone else's?"

The panel discussed the need to prove your value as an artist. Simply being passionate about the media and your ideas is not enough, yet in creative industries aspiring artists seem to think simply loving something entitles them to create that thing. As one panelist said, "Guess what - everybody is passionate about their idea." The panel chair, Jim Zub, used this analogy about the restaurant business to illustrate (I'm paraphrasing):

Imagine an aspiring chef came into a restaurant and cornered the owner.
Aspiring chef: You should make me the chef of your restaurant!
Owner: Interesting. Why?
Aspiring chef: Because I love to cook! I cook all the time, I eat everything and I love food.
Owner: Have you ever run a restaurant? Or even worked in one?
Aspiring chef: No, but I've wanted to be a chef since I was five, I watch the Food Network all the time and I know the names of all the chefs and I really, really love food!

If you were the restaurant owner, would you give that guy a shot? Probably not. You need to put in the hard work to prove yourself before asking people to give you an opportunity.

Note Giving and Taking

The Writer's Room panel, featuring many TV writers and showrunners, including my friends Javi Grillo-Marxuach and Steve Melching, was fascinating, funny and informative for anyone interested in TV writing. Unfortunately there was too much good stuff for me to recap everything. But there were some particularly good points about giving and taking notes that I'll summarize.

On giving notes, the point was made that people have a limit for receiving criticism. The note-giver should focus on the macro and work toward the micro. If there are big issues, deal with those first and don't comment on specific lines of dialogue or grammar errors. When the big changes are made, much of that stuff will end up being changed anyway. (This came up in discussion about the way showrunners give notes to staff writers.)

On receiving notes, a major point was that you are not hired to be a typist. One panelist said executives live in "ball-shriveling terror" of seeing a line of dialogue they suggested appearing verbatim in a script. Instead, you're supposed to interpret the note and deliver a good version of the idea.

The panelists also discussed the need to dig into the note behind the note, or as one panelist said, "There's a pony in the pile of s**t." So even if the note seems idiotic, the person reading was troubled by something at that point in the script. Try to figure out what it was and fix the underlying problem.

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The Hollywood Pitching Bible is now available for purchase in print through Amazon, or as an ebook for Kindle and iTunes. You can learn more about the book at the Screenmaster Books website.

Interview with Producer Ken Aguado

Today I interview independent producer Ken Aguado, my co-writer on The Hollywood Pitching Bible. Ken's most recent film, Standing Up, was written and directed by DJ Caruso and will be released later this year. Ken has produced several other films including The Salton Sea for Warner Bros., Ticker, which premiered on USA Network, Crazy as Hell, which was distributed theatrically by Artistic License and Sexual Life, written and directed by Ken Kwapis for Showtime.

Prior to his producing career, Ken was a production executive for several companies including Kings Road Entertainment, Miller-Boyett Productions and The Badham/Cohen Group.

What is your role as a producer?

The old joke is that the definition of a Producer is someone who knows a writer. But traditionally a producer shepherds a film or TV project through various stages of the project's creation. In my case, I originated, developed, helped find financing and supervised the production of every film I have my name on.

What do you look for in a script?

One of the main advantages of being a producer is that you get to follow your passion, which means the scripts I look for need only be suited to my tastes, as opposed to – say - the currency of the marketplace or what an employer might want to make. That said, my taste in material is all over the place, but I always start by looking for a character that is sympathetic in a compelling situation. From there I look for scripts that are about something or speak to some relatable authentic aspect of the human condition.

What do you look for in a pitch idea?

The same things I look for in a script with the caveat that a pitch needs to be either very high concept or so well realized that the execution bludgeons you into submission, or both.

What is the biggest mistake that screenwriters make in pitches?

Do I have to pick just one? Most pitches fail because the story fails to pass muster in some way. The story is flawed. Few writers are great pitchers, but a great story will usually shine through. Buyers know this. But the more specific answer is that writers often make the mistake of picking an idea that is really inappropriate to pitch, not high-concept. The only time I can sell a non-high-concept pitch is when the pitch is based on well-known source material or when the pitch is incredibly well worked-out and moving.

How do you work with screenwriters to develop ideas?

If I originate the project, I like to start with source material, if possible. In this age of branding, it’s just easier to sell projects that are based on existing intellectual property. Sometimes writers will bring me their original project. But in either case it is not unusual for my development process to take months and even years of work. I am sure some writers feel that I am torturing them during this time frame, but the experienced writers know how ridiculously hard it is to sell anything today, and there is just no room for any mediocrity. It has to be great, and great can take a very long time to create.

What tips can you give screenwriters for working with a producer on developing a script or a pitch?

That’s tough. There are all kinds of producers out there. Some are good at development and some are good salespeople. Most established producers must have one or both of these qualities. But the best advice is to seek out producers you trust for their integrity and the quality of their ideas and make the effort to keep working with them. Working with the right producer means finding a valuable and trusted collaborator. This may sound obvious, but in practice many other unrelated priorities tend to intrude.

What things should a screenwriter do to maintain a career once they've gotten that first sale?

First of all, don’t stray too far from the kind of material you just sold. A long career will offer writer opportunities to reinvent themselves, and if your career stalls you may have to do it anyway. The second thing to do is make sure your next project is great. I like to tell writers that one good script is a fluke; two good scripts is a career. Hollywood is awash in writers who sold one script and then crashed and burned because their second script wasn’t great. Lastly, find your “voice” as a writer, but don’t fall in love with the sound of your own voice. The kiss of death in any career – writer or otherwise – is when you stop seeking out considered opinions because they tell you something you don’t want to hear.

How do you find new writers? What are you looking for from them?

I almost never seek out new writers. Working with new writers is a ton of work for me. No matter how much innate talent they might have, there is just so much they don’t know about the craft and the business. I don't try to avoid new writers, but I know plenty of experienced writers and I have no shortage of my own ideas and subjects for film and TV. When I do meet a new writer it’s almost always via a personal recommendation from a friend. Thereafter I need to see some seed of inspiration, and understanding of the craft, in their work. You can’t wing it as a writer, there’s too much you need to know. Read every good script you can, see every movie and TV show, know something about the history of cinema and TV, learn how to write clearly and effectively – then we’ll talk.

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Ken and my book, The Hollywood Pitching Bible, is now available for purchase in print through Amazon, or as an ebook for Kindle and iTunes. You can learn more about the book at the Screenmaster Books website.

Two Ideas for Effective Networking

Over the last couple of weeks I have been to several different events that have offered me the opportunity to network. I've also observed some pretty painful attempts at networking at those events. (I am going to change the details of the stories to avoid embarrassing anyone because I don't want to get a reputation where people are afraid to talk to me at industry events!)

At one of the events, an industry party with several high level writers, directors and stars, I saw an aspiring feature writer approach a big TV showrunner. The feature writer was polite and complimentary, asked to take a pitcher with the showrunner, and the showrunner was happy to oblige. Then the feature writer said, "Can I tell you about the script I'm working on?" and without waiting for an answer launched into a decent elevator pitch.

I saw the TV showrunner immediately tense up. When the feature writer asked if he could send the script, the showrunner told him to contact his agent and made a beeline for the bar.

Realistically, what do you think the feature writer's chances of getting a positive response from that showrunner were? The showrunner doesn't know the feature writer at all and reading a script takes a couple hours. Besides, showrunners don't really buy feature scripts, so what's in it for the showrunner? And then there's the legal risk...

An elevator pitch is called that because of the idea that if you're on an elevator with a VIP, you have only a few seconds to sell them your idea. But in the real world you aren't going to sell an idea on an elevator anyway. You're just going to scare the VIP.

At an industry dinner that same week I was seated by a producer and an actress who were doing a web series for a big new web company. As I'm currently in discussions to direct a web series myself, I was very curious about their experiences with that company. I asked them several questions about their project that led to a bigger discussion about the future of web series and eventually an exchange of business cards. At one point the producer asked about the web series I was doing and I gave him my elevator pitch. But I never asked him to do anything for me.

This leads me to my first big tip for effective networking: ask smart questions.

I was asking the producer about his experience because I was genuinely more interested in the information than anything else. If you're an aspiring writer (or director or producer or actor for that matter), then when you meet someone established in the industry, think about what you could learn from them and ask them a smart question.

Don't ask something generic or self-serving like, "How do I get an agent?" Instead, ask them something specific and relevant about something they have done. (Of course it helps if you know something about what they've done - which is one reason keeping up with industry news is important.) And don't go in with an agenda to work up to pitching them your material. Just try to make a positive impression and then see what happens.

In some scenarios, an even better approach is not to ask them anything specifically about the business. For example, at a film festival, ask them what films they've seen. At Comic-Con, ask them what panels they've been to. Asking questions is a good way to start a conversation and starting a conversation is the best way to build a relationship.

Here's tip number two: send thank you notes.

I've been working this summer with Inner City Filmmakers, an organization to train inner city kids for film industry jobs. They have lots of guest speakers. The people who run Inner City Filmmakers always encourage the students to send thank-you notes after those events.

It's a brilliant idea. Ever been to a panel with someone you'd really like to talk to, only to have to fight through a mob of people afterwards to try to get ten seconds of their time while they're edging toward the exit? What if, instead, you sent them a thank-you note afterwards? Most people can be reached via their company or agent, and those addresses are easy to find.

The note is your chance to make an impression - but not to pitch your material. Comment specifically on something they said that you found enlightening. Make sure to mention what you do - "I think your breakdown of the relation between text and subtext will really help my own writing" - but keep the focus on them. It also helps if you made some sort of positive impression such as asking a good question during a Q and A period (remind them of the question and thank them for their response).

There's something special about sending an actual hand-written card. It would definitely make an impression. But if you can get an email address, that has a benefit as well since it's very easy for them to reply. And if you ask a polite follow up question, the chance of a reply will be higher. Most of all be patient and be grateful for any response you get.

Though I've given you two tips here, I really don't like to think of networking as a strategic thing. You'll notice both of these tips come out of an attitude of respect and good manners. And respect and good manners are probably the most important techniques for networking.

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Next week I'll be posting my interview with producer Ken Aguado (The Salton Sea)

Hang a Lantern On It

There are lots of little tricks professional screenwriters have to overcome small problems in their scripts. Many of them have clever nicknames. One of those tricks is called Hang a Lantern on It.

The idea here is if you have something a little unbelievable, you can have the characters point to how unbelievable it is. If a character says, "Wow, did you see what just happened? That's crazy!" then the audience will understand that the unlikely thing has been done on purpose. If you ignore it, the audience could think it's just bad writing.

This works best with small things that are plausible but might seem like an accident. For example, in the scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark (story by George Lucas and Philip Kaufman, screenplay by Lawrence Kasdan) when Indy is talking to the FBI, the FBI guys seem surprisingly ignorant of Biblical history. So at one point Indy asks, "Didn't you guys ever go to Sunday school?"

Now of course it's completely possible someone wouldn't know much about the Ark of the Covenant, but it could also seem like the scene is more about explaining things to the audience (which of course it really is) and the dialogue could start to feel forced. So by having Indy make this little joke, it brings the forced dialogue into the world of the story and makes the agents' lack of knowledge part of the scene.

Sometimes the technique can be used to sell even big logic issues. In The Terminator (written by James Cameron and Gale Anne Hurd), after Reese has rescued Sarah Conner and is explaining to her what's going on, she asks, "So you're from the future, too?"

Reese's response: "One possible future, from your point of view. I don't know tech stuff."

And as simply as that they don't have to explain the time travel paradox. The characters acknowledge that it doesn't quite make sense, but Reese establishes that there is an explanation; it's just that none of them know it. The audience goes along with it - because they want to buy into the story - and the movie can continue on with the important stuff.

There are limits to this technique though. You can't use it to paper over real logic holes in your story. It's simply a way to address those small moments that might make the audience go, "Really?"

It's even better if, when you hang a lantern on a problem, you also provide an explanation. For example in Star Wars (written by George Lucas) it might be a little implausible that a farm boy could pilot a fighter ship. So, when Luke is given an X-wing for the final battle, a commander questions his abilities. And Luke's friend from back home reassures the commander that Luke was an exceptional pilot back in the day. Problem acknowledged and dealt with.

Here we start to bleed into another technique: Eliminating Alternative Possibilities. This is necessary when there is a simpler solution to a problem than the one you need the character to choose. You have to eliminate that solution as a possibility.

This commonly comes up in thrillers or mysteries where someone who is not a professional detective investigates a murder. When most people encounter a murder they don't investigate it, they call the cops. So why does your character choose to investigate themselves? You have to give them a reason. Maybe the cops don't believe them. Or the character thinks the cops have the wrong guy. Or the character is wanted by the police.

A smaller example is in Little Miss Sunshine (written by Michael Arndt). The story is about the family going on a road trip so the daughter can compete in a beauty pageant. But if everyone just piled in the car and took off for California, the audience might think, "Wait... why does the whole family have to go? Why would the teenage brother and the suicidal uncle want to go on this trip?"

So in the dinner scene the characters discuss who's going - hanging a lantern on the logic issue - then they go through all of the various possibilities and eliminate any alternatives. Grandpa is the little girl's coach. Mom can't drive a stick shift. They're not supposed to leave the uncle alone. And so on.

When you give trusted friends your script to read, one thing you should ask them to do is mark any place where they thought something was unlikely (sometimes people not involved in filmmaking are better at this, by the way). If it's really a logic hole, you may have to fix it. But if it's minor, you might be able to solve the problem by hanging a lantern on it.

Do You Need This Scene?

With few exceptions feature films are between 90 and 140 minutes in length. And marketable screenplays must be in an even narrower range – between 90 and 110 pages. This may seem like a lot when you're staring at FADE IN followed by a blank page, but it's really not much time to tell a compelling, deep story with a complex character. So you have to be efficient.

That means you can't afford any scenes that don't pull their weight. You should know – specifically – what purpose each scene is playing in the story. Today I want to look at some valid purposes for a scene. Every scene in a screenplay should do at least one of the following things:

Advance Plot – Any scene where the story moves forward is a plot scene. As you might expect, this is the most common purpose for scenes in movies. But a scene is only considered to be advancing the plot if the situation in the story has actually changed from the beginning of the scene to the end of the scene. Don't confuse activity with advancement. Scenes that advance subplots are a subset of this category. 

Reveal/Advance Character – This includes character introduction scenes, scenes where we learn something new about a key character, and any scene where the character changes. The way we reveal character is through behavior (dialog can count as behavior as long as the character is trying to accomplish something with what they say). Often character scenes also have another purpose. For example, a scene may both introduce a character and advance the plot. You should avoid too many pure character scenes, though a handful are acceptable.

Preparation – Often we need scenes to prepare for the big plot advancement scenes. Usually these are scenes where the characters are preparing themselves for the upcoming event. Preparation scenes allow us to plant things that will pay off in later scenes and to get out critical exposition. In fact, there's a subset of preparation called the expository scene – the scenes where James Bond is getting briefed on his mission, or where Indiana Jones describes what is needed to locate the Ark of the Covenant. (Expository scenes are usually boring, so limit yourself to one if at all possible.) Preparation scenes also give us a chance to show how the character feels about the upcoming event – and are thus often also character scenes.

Aftermath – Often we want to have a scene of aftermath showing the impact of a plot scene. The impact is frequently an emotional one on the character, so these are usually also character scenes, though sometimes the aftermath is more expositional, showing how the situation has changed as a result of the last plot action. It is not uncommon for scenes of aftermath to morph into scenes of preparation. And any denouement scenes at the end of the film would be considered aftermath scenes, showing how the story has affected the character and the world.

Pay Off the Genre – If you are doing a comedy, you better have several really funny scenes in your script. If you're doing a horror film, you better have some really scary scenes. Usually and ideally these scenes also advance plot. But every once in a while you need to include a standalone scene just to deliver on the expectations of the genre. A good example would be the fake orgasm scene in When Harry Met Sally... (written by Nora Ephron). It doesn't really have anything to do with the story, but it's the most hilarious scene in the movie. This is the key – if you're doing a purely genre payoff scene, it better be great!

There are two times I use this list in my writing process. First, when I have what I believe is my finished outline, I'll go through and identify the purpose of each scene - specifically to that story. So the purpose of a scene might be: "Character advancement – Kelsey decides to trust Dominic."

The second time is when I'm preparing to do my second draft. I'll go through every scene in the first draft and reevaluate what its purpose is – and whether it is fulfilling that purpose effectively. It's important to be honest with yourself here. The purpose of the scene should be apparent. If you're reaching to come up with the reason the scene needs to be in the script, it probably doesn't have a real purpose.

And if it doesn't have a purpose, it should be cut.

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In other news: Sweet Home Alabama is going to be on Lifetime Sunday at 7 pm PST. I'll be live-tweeting along with it. If you'd like to hear some of my trivia and experiences, follow me on Twitter at @dougeboch. Or you can see my twitter feed on my website: www.douglasjeboch.com