Six people have contacted me so far this week either asking for business help or proposing a business venture. The requests have ranged from giving advice to a friend’s kid to asking for help finding investors for an independent feature to a proposal to collaborate on a spec script.
Most of these requests came from people I consider friends and I certainly don’t mind them asking. But you can probably imagine that I have to turn the majority of them down. If I said yes to every proposal it would be like taking on two new full time jobs every week, and I have my own projects to do! (The thing that does annoy me is when someone tries to make me responsible for their happiness or career – “If you don’t help me I’ll have to give up my dream project!” It doesn’t work. I want to run from those situations.)
I also had two interesting lunches recently that got me thinking about networking. I’m going to leave out the names and change a few identifying details so I don’t upset anyone.
First, I went to lunch with a friend I met seven or eight years ago when we both joined the same writers group. The writers group didn’t last long, but we stayed friends and both of our careers have progressed considerably since then. My friend has an office on a studio lot, which is where I met him for lunch.
While we were eating, I told him about a project I was working on that I would be taking to producers soon. It just so happened that a producer he’s worked with was looking for that kind of material – and had an office on the same lot. So we walked over and he introduced me. Just a quick introduction, but a first point of contact. Then, on the way back to the parking lot, I ran into a successful director I’d become acquainted with socially a while back but haven’t spoken to in at least two years. We spent a few minutes catching up. That’s some pretty good networking considering my only agenda was to have lunch with my friend!
The second lunch was with three former students. One had gotten a job at a small production company after school and then brought the other two into the company. Their careers are off and running.
All of this demonstrates how networking happens in the real world. And here are three lessons I would take away from it:
1. Your best networking is sideways. In other words, your opportunities will mostly come from people at your level. When I first met my writer friend with the office on the lot we were both still early in our careers. And my former students got their breaks from each other, not by schmoozing Hollywood bigwigs. Don’t think of networking as cultivating power players who can do you favors, think of it as building a community of people who can help and support each other. And plan on giving at least as much as you’ll get.
2. Location, location, location. You’re probably not going to run into producers and directors if you go to lunch with a friend in Cleveland. All of the significant agencies are based in L.A. All studio feature development happens in L.A. All network TV development and most cable development happens in L.A. So it helps to live in L.A. New York is okay too – there’s a big indie film community, some cable development, and some of the bigger agencies have branches there. A few other places have small indie film communities – if you want to make ultra-low-budget, personal films then Austin, Texas isn’t a bad place to be. But the bottom line: you’ve got to go where the action is.
By the way – it’s not enough to move to L.A. if all you’re going to do is sit in your room writing. You also have to do things like join screenwriting groups and organizations and take classes and attend seminars. You’ve got to hang out where your fellow filmmakers hang out.
3. Genuine networking often takes time to pay off. People are always talking about what you should do if you happen to get in an elevator with Steven Spielberg. My advice: don’t pitch him your film. I’ve never heard of anybody selling anything this way. If I’ve gotten six requests for help this week I can only imagine how many Mr. Spielberg’s gotten. His defenses will be way, way up. Genuine networking is about building real relationships with people in the business that you actually like. If you do that, then when they see an opportunity to help you, they will. But it might be years from now. That’s okay, you’re in it for the long haul, right? You better be, because overnight success is a myth.
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Only one week left to become a backer of my short film on Kickstarter!
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Thursday, September 20, 2012
Agents and Managers – What’s the Difference?
Most aspiring screenwriters are heavily focused on getting an agent. Most, in fact, focus too much on this when they really should be concentrating on becoming better writers and getting to know people in the business, but that’s another post. Traditionally, getting an agent has been considered the first step in becoming a professional screenwriter.
But over the last fifteen years or so, a somewhat new type of representation has become commonplace: the manager. Many pros these days have both. (Currently I only have an agent but I’ve had a manager in the past.) And many new writers wonder what the difference is.
Legally, the difference is that agents are licensed by the State of California and allowed to solicit work on your behalf. Managers are not licensed and therefore barred from soliciting work. However most do anyway and few writers report a manager that finds them a job!
Another major difference is that agents, if they are legitimate*, are franchised by the Writers Guild of America. This provides protections for the writer, such as limiting agent commissions to a maximum of 10% and allowing the writer to get out of the agency contract if the agent fails to find them work for 90 days (though that rule is seldom needed… few agents would try to force an unhappy writer to stay at the agency.)
So in practice one of the big differences is that agents have specific rules they have to play by and managers do not. That makes signing with a manager a more risky proposition. (And FYI: common practice is that managers take 10% to represent screenwriters. 15% is standard for actors.)
Another big difference that has practical implications is that agents are prevented from producing their clients’ work, hiring their clients, or being active owners in a business that hires their clients. This prevents a lot of conflict of interest. Many managers are managers so that they can also produce. Many management companies are also production companies.
This has advantages and disadvantages for the writer. On the one hand, if the managers are good at producing and the production company gets a lot of movies made, it gives you preferred access to them as buyers. And, if a manager is attached to a script as producer, they shouldn’t take a commission on any sale, saving you your 10%.
On the other hand there’s that pesky conflict of interest. Some of the big management companies are known for only pushing clients’ material if they want to produce it. If they’re not interested in producing, the client is ignored. Also, having a manager attached to a script as a producer could be a negative when others may be considering buying that script. At the very least, they’re going to have to pay your manager and share credit with them. Any attachments (including director or movie star) can help or hurt – it all depends on how the buyer feels about working with that person. And if your script does sell, your manager will likely be more interested in their producing deal than your writing deal.
So when you are meeting with a potential manager you should discuss under what conditions they will come onto your projects as producer, what they bring to the table in those situations, and what happens when they aren’t going to produce. Writers’ feelings vary about what answers they hope to get to these questions, but at least you’ll be informed.
The difference you’ll hear most is that managers provide career counseling that agents don’t. These days, this is usually true. In fact, I believe managers arose partly because agents were taking on more clients and doing less career counseling. Most just don’t have time anymore to give you extensive feedback on your spec scripts, for example. They want to be out selling your material.
That’s where (good) managers come in. They will generally be a lot more available to read and give feedback on material, coach you in preparation for pitches, and discuss possible long-term career plans. Of course good agents are involved in these things as well, but the manager should give you more time.
Another crucial difference is that it’s usually easier to get a manager than an agent, especially for a new writer. And, managers often help their new writers find an agent. If you get both, whichever order you get them in, you do want to make sure they can work together. Because they’ll need to. The ideal manager-agent pair has several clients in common so they have an established relationship.
So do you need a manager? As the saying goes, “A good manager is worth more than their commission, a bad manager is worth nothing.” It is certainly possible to be a working writer without a manager – or even an agent. On the other hand, if you could double your income wouldn’t you be willing to give up 10% of the results in return?
If you are considering signing with a manager, you will want to meet with them and discuss the things I’ve mentioned as well as how they think they can help you get to where you want to go in your career. You’ll also want to research their company and what they’ve produced (if they produce). In the end, whether to sign will be a judgment call. Just remember: in the long run it’ll be your talent, work ethic, interpersonal skills and luck that will determine how your career goes, not your representation.
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*If you are considering signing with a small agent at an unknown agency, you should definitely be sure they are franchised by the WGA – you can find out on the Guild website. If they are not, it is a huge warning sign.
---
In other news, I have re-launched my Kickstarter campaign for my short film, Microbe, with some revisions. Please check it out and consider becoming a backer. There are several rewards that might be of interest to an aspiring writer or filmmaker!
But over the last fifteen years or so, a somewhat new type of representation has become commonplace: the manager. Many pros these days have both. (Currently I only have an agent but I’ve had a manager in the past.) And many new writers wonder what the difference is.
Legally, the difference is that agents are licensed by the State of California and allowed to solicit work on your behalf. Managers are not licensed and therefore barred from soliciting work. However most do anyway and few writers report a manager that finds them a job!
Another major difference is that agents, if they are legitimate*, are franchised by the Writers Guild of America. This provides protections for the writer, such as limiting agent commissions to a maximum of 10% and allowing the writer to get out of the agency contract if the agent fails to find them work for 90 days (though that rule is seldom needed… few agents would try to force an unhappy writer to stay at the agency.)
So in practice one of the big differences is that agents have specific rules they have to play by and managers do not. That makes signing with a manager a more risky proposition. (And FYI: common practice is that managers take 10% to represent screenwriters. 15% is standard for actors.)
Another big difference that has practical implications is that agents are prevented from producing their clients’ work, hiring their clients, or being active owners in a business that hires their clients. This prevents a lot of conflict of interest. Many managers are managers so that they can also produce. Many management companies are also production companies.
This has advantages and disadvantages for the writer. On the one hand, if the managers are good at producing and the production company gets a lot of movies made, it gives you preferred access to them as buyers. And, if a manager is attached to a script as producer, they shouldn’t take a commission on any sale, saving you your 10%.
On the other hand there’s that pesky conflict of interest. Some of the big management companies are known for only pushing clients’ material if they want to produce it. If they’re not interested in producing, the client is ignored. Also, having a manager attached to a script as a producer could be a negative when others may be considering buying that script. At the very least, they’re going to have to pay your manager and share credit with them. Any attachments (including director or movie star) can help or hurt – it all depends on how the buyer feels about working with that person. And if your script does sell, your manager will likely be more interested in their producing deal than your writing deal.
So when you are meeting with a potential manager you should discuss under what conditions they will come onto your projects as producer, what they bring to the table in those situations, and what happens when they aren’t going to produce. Writers’ feelings vary about what answers they hope to get to these questions, but at least you’ll be informed.
The difference you’ll hear most is that managers provide career counseling that agents don’t. These days, this is usually true. In fact, I believe managers arose partly because agents were taking on more clients and doing less career counseling. Most just don’t have time anymore to give you extensive feedback on your spec scripts, for example. They want to be out selling your material.
That’s where (good) managers come in. They will generally be a lot more available to read and give feedback on material, coach you in preparation for pitches, and discuss possible long-term career plans. Of course good agents are involved in these things as well, but the manager should give you more time.
Another crucial difference is that it’s usually easier to get a manager than an agent, especially for a new writer. And, managers often help their new writers find an agent. If you get both, whichever order you get them in, you do want to make sure they can work together. Because they’ll need to. The ideal manager-agent pair has several clients in common so they have an established relationship.
So do you need a manager? As the saying goes, “A good manager is worth more than their commission, a bad manager is worth nothing.” It is certainly possible to be a working writer without a manager – or even an agent. On the other hand, if you could double your income wouldn’t you be willing to give up 10% of the results in return?
If you are considering signing with a manager, you will want to meet with them and discuss the things I’ve mentioned as well as how they think they can help you get to where you want to go in your career. You’ll also want to research their company and what they’ve produced (if they produce). In the end, whether to sign will be a judgment call. Just remember: in the long run it’ll be your talent, work ethic, interpersonal skills and luck that will determine how your career goes, not your representation.
--
*If you are considering signing with a small agent at an unknown agency, you should definitely be sure they are franchised by the WGA – you can find out on the Guild website. If they are not, it is a huge warning sign.
---
In other news, I have re-launched my Kickstarter campaign for my short film, Microbe, with some revisions. Please check it out and consider becoming a backer. There are several rewards that might be of interest to an aspiring writer or filmmaker!
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Anthology Movies
(MINOR SPOILERS: Pulp Fiction, The Dead Girl)
“But how does Pulp Fiction fit into three-act structure?”
I get this question a lot when I’m discussing structure. Usually I dodge it. Because Pulp Fiction (story by Quentin Tarantino and Roger Avary, written by Quentin Tarantino) falls into a category of films known as anthology films, but it disguises that fact. And I don’t like to talk about anthology films because they are difficult to pull off and nearly impossible to sell. But today, I’m gonna break tradition and talk about them!
An anthology film is made up of several short films bound together by theme or location or gimmick. Each short film follows the normal rules of narrative (on which three-act structure theory is based). If you think of the standard feature as a novel, then anthology films are short story collections.
And they have the same pitfalls as short story collections – primarily that the stories usually are not equally good. And presenting them together invites comparison. Audiences tend to walk out of these movies saying, “I liked the second story but not the third story.” They also risk feeling lighter weight since they spend less time on each character and story. And they can lack forward momentum without a single, overarching dramatic question. It’s easier to put a short story collection down than a novel.
One anthology movie that I thought overcame these challenges was Nine Lives (written by Rodrigo Garcia). The movie consists of nine short films, each shot in a single long take. There are a few repeat characters, but basically each film stands alone. And they are all pretty high quality so it works.
Another is The Dead Girl (written by Karen Moncrieff) – a movie that contains five short films all centered around the discovery of a body. It works because the body connects all of the stories and because the final story tells us how the girl in question died. There is a bit of mystery built up in the first four stories that is answered in the fifth. This provides a sense of cohesion to the film.
Anthology films that I think work less well include Four Rooms (written by Allison Anders, Alexandre Rockwell, Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino) and Aria (written by a whole bunch of people).
And something you may notice about all of these films: All were low budget independent movies. So if you want to do something like this, you better be prepared to raise the money yourself.
Let’s go back to Pulp Fiction, obviously a successful example of the form. Pulp Fiction contains three stories told for the most part one after another. There are crossover characters, but each of the stories has a different main character and the plots only overlap in the most minor of ways.
But Pulp Fiction does two things to disguise the fact that these are three separate stories: First, it pulls the opening scene(s) out of each of the three stories and puts them at the beginning of the movie. So we start by cutting between the beginnings of all three stories. Then we see the rest of the stories play out in their entirety one after the other. But we’ve been given three catalysts – three dramatic questions have been introduced. We want to find out how each plays out. We know the movie’s not over until all three are answered. Because of this, people tend to remember Pulp Fiction being more intercut than it actually was.
The second thing Pulp Fiction does is pull out a bit of the Jules story to use as a framing story for the movie. You could argue Pumpkin and Honey Bunny are a fourth story, but I’d say they are simply minor characters in Jules’ story. Jules’ story is the final one told and it ends with the robbery in the café. So Tarantino pulled out the opening of that scene and put it at the beginning of the movie to create a frame.
The first trick leads us to a way anthology movies can be morphed into more traditionally structured movies and become moderately commercial: by intercutting the short stories and pulling one out to be the main story. You then structure the film around the main storyline and the others become loose subplots.
Want examples? Love Actually (written by Richard Curtis), Crash (story by Paul Haggis, screenplay by Paul Haggis & Robert Moresco), Babel (written by Guillermo Arriaga), and Valentine’s Day (story by Katherine Fugate and Abby Kohn & Marc Silverstein, screenplay by Katherine Fugate) all fit this model.
Obviously this approach is a little more marketable. But only a little. Of these, only Valentine’s Day is truly an American studio film. So if you want to do an anthology film, there are examples of success. But be prepared for an even steeper uphill battle than a normal movie.
“But how does Pulp Fiction fit into three-act structure?”
I get this question a lot when I’m discussing structure. Usually I dodge it. Because Pulp Fiction (story by Quentin Tarantino and Roger Avary, written by Quentin Tarantino) falls into a category of films known as anthology films, but it disguises that fact. And I don’t like to talk about anthology films because they are difficult to pull off and nearly impossible to sell. But today, I’m gonna break tradition and talk about them!
An anthology film is made up of several short films bound together by theme or location or gimmick. Each short film follows the normal rules of narrative (on which three-act structure theory is based). If you think of the standard feature as a novel, then anthology films are short story collections.
And they have the same pitfalls as short story collections – primarily that the stories usually are not equally good. And presenting them together invites comparison. Audiences tend to walk out of these movies saying, “I liked the second story but not the third story.” They also risk feeling lighter weight since they spend less time on each character and story. And they can lack forward momentum without a single, overarching dramatic question. It’s easier to put a short story collection down than a novel.
One anthology movie that I thought overcame these challenges was Nine Lives (written by Rodrigo Garcia). The movie consists of nine short films, each shot in a single long take. There are a few repeat characters, but basically each film stands alone. And they are all pretty high quality so it works.
Another is The Dead Girl (written by Karen Moncrieff) – a movie that contains five short films all centered around the discovery of a body. It works because the body connects all of the stories and because the final story tells us how the girl in question died. There is a bit of mystery built up in the first four stories that is answered in the fifth. This provides a sense of cohesion to the film.
Anthology films that I think work less well include Four Rooms (written by Allison Anders, Alexandre Rockwell, Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino) and Aria (written by a whole bunch of people).
And something you may notice about all of these films: All were low budget independent movies. So if you want to do something like this, you better be prepared to raise the money yourself.
Let’s go back to Pulp Fiction, obviously a successful example of the form. Pulp Fiction contains three stories told for the most part one after another. There are crossover characters, but each of the stories has a different main character and the plots only overlap in the most minor of ways.
But Pulp Fiction does two things to disguise the fact that these are three separate stories: First, it pulls the opening scene(s) out of each of the three stories and puts them at the beginning of the movie. So we start by cutting between the beginnings of all three stories. Then we see the rest of the stories play out in their entirety one after the other. But we’ve been given three catalysts – three dramatic questions have been introduced. We want to find out how each plays out. We know the movie’s not over until all three are answered. Because of this, people tend to remember Pulp Fiction being more intercut than it actually was.
The second thing Pulp Fiction does is pull out a bit of the Jules story to use as a framing story for the movie. You could argue Pumpkin and Honey Bunny are a fourth story, but I’d say they are simply minor characters in Jules’ story. Jules’ story is the final one told and it ends with the robbery in the café. So Tarantino pulled out the opening of that scene and put it at the beginning of the movie to create a frame.
The first trick leads us to a way anthology movies can be morphed into more traditionally structured movies and become moderately commercial: by intercutting the short stories and pulling one out to be the main story. You then structure the film around the main storyline and the others become loose subplots.
Want examples? Love Actually (written by Richard Curtis), Crash (story by Paul Haggis, screenplay by Paul Haggis & Robert Moresco), Babel (written by Guillermo Arriaga), and Valentine’s Day (story by Katherine Fugate and Abby Kohn & Marc Silverstein, screenplay by Katherine Fugate) all fit this model.
Obviously this approach is a little more marketable. But only a little. Of these, only Valentine’s Day is truly an American studio film. So if you want to do an anthology film, there are examples of success. But be prepared for an even steeper uphill battle than a normal movie.
Thursday, September 6, 2012
Picking an Idea
I’m currently in the process of deciding what ideas I want to develop as pitches for any meetings I get after my latest spec script goes out. At the same time, one of these ideas will likely be my next spec should I fail to get an assignment or sell a pitch. I have notebooks full of ideas for movies. So how do I pick one?
I had lunch a few days ago with a producer friend who was talking about how critical it is to pick the right idea. He said he sometimes spends a year working with a writer to settle on the right idea to develop. Of course, neither he nor the writer are working only on that one project… nobody could make a living if they did nothing else for a full year but select an idea! But the point is selecting the right idea is pretty important.
Recently, someone told me something John August said on a panel at the L.A. Film Festival. I’ve been trying to find the exact quote without success, but here is my second hand paraphrasing of his quote: Rather than write what you know or write what’s commercial, you should write what you would pay $15 to go see.
That’s a really smart way to look at it. Last post I discussed the difficult environment the theatrical film business is in. Going to the movies is expensive now, and people have many other entertainment options. You have to give them a good reason to leave the comfort of their couch and home entertainment system and go to the theater. What would make you do that?
It’s surprising how many times I hear students pitch me ideas that seem far removed from the type of movies they say are their favorites. I often wonder if they would really pay to see the movie they propose to write. And when I evaluate honestly, I have to admit I have occasionally pitched movies that I probably wouldn’t go see because I thought the idea was solid and it was the kind of thing the buyer was looking for. But I never got those jobs…
And remember one of my lessons from Comic-Con was the importance of a good hook. We always need to remember that our script will not be read in a vacuum, nor will the movie be released in a vacuum. The script will be competing with hundreds of others, and the movie will be competing with hundreds of other activities a potential viewer could do that evening.
So before I decide to put time and energy into an idea, I will try to come up with a logline and imagine what the poster and trailer might look like. Then I’ll ask myself how excited I would be if that movie were coming out tomorrow (made by someone else). If I would be buying advance tickets online, then it’s an idea to consider. If there's a chance I would be willing to wait for the movie to come out on DVD, maybe it’s not one to pursue. You have to assume if you would be excited to see the movie, so would other people.
By the way, it's wise to do some research on what movies are coming up soon in your genre. This is why it’s so important to follow the trade press (deadline.com, Hollywood Reporter, or whatever your favorite source is). I recently had a student pitch me an idea about a guy who forms a neighborhood watch. I asked him if he knew about the movie The Watch (written by Jared Stern and Seth Rogen & Evan Goldberg). He did not. I suggested he look at the trailer online. As soon as he saw it, he discarded his idea. It happens to every writer sooner or later that a movie comes out right as you’re finishing up a script on the same topic, but a little research can keep the experience as rare as possible.
Another thing to keep in mind is, if you decide to write something, you’re going to have to live with it for months or even years. What may sound cool and clever in the moment might bore you long before you finish the script. Also, you may come up with a catchy logline, but when you flesh out the character and plot, you could find there isn’t any depth there, or you could get stuck on a story point.
I had lunch a few days ago with a producer friend who was talking about how critical it is to pick the right idea. He said he sometimes spends a year working with a writer to settle on the right idea to develop. Of course, neither he nor the writer are working only on that one project… nobody could make a living if they did nothing else for a full year but select an idea! But the point is selecting the right idea is pretty important.
Recently, someone told me something John August said on a panel at the L.A. Film Festival. I’ve been trying to find the exact quote without success, but here is my second hand paraphrasing of his quote: Rather than write what you know or write what’s commercial, you should write what you would pay $15 to go see.
That’s a really smart way to look at it. Last post I discussed the difficult environment the theatrical film business is in. Going to the movies is expensive now, and people have many other entertainment options. You have to give them a good reason to leave the comfort of their couch and home entertainment system and go to the theater. What would make you do that?
It’s surprising how many times I hear students pitch me ideas that seem far removed from the type of movies they say are their favorites. I often wonder if they would really pay to see the movie they propose to write. And when I evaluate honestly, I have to admit I have occasionally pitched movies that I probably wouldn’t go see because I thought the idea was solid and it was the kind of thing the buyer was looking for. But I never got those jobs…
And remember one of my lessons from Comic-Con was the importance of a good hook. We always need to remember that our script will not be read in a vacuum, nor will the movie be released in a vacuum. The script will be competing with hundreds of others, and the movie will be competing with hundreds of other activities a potential viewer could do that evening.
So before I decide to put time and energy into an idea, I will try to come up with a logline and imagine what the poster and trailer might look like. Then I’ll ask myself how excited I would be if that movie were coming out tomorrow (made by someone else). If I would be buying advance tickets online, then it’s an idea to consider. If there's a chance I would be willing to wait for the movie to come out on DVD, maybe it’s not one to pursue. You have to assume if you would be excited to see the movie, so would other people.
By the way, it's wise to do some research on what movies are coming up soon in your genre. This is why it’s so important to follow the trade press (deadline.com, Hollywood Reporter, or whatever your favorite source is). I recently had a student pitch me an idea about a guy who forms a neighborhood watch. I asked him if he knew about the movie The Watch (written by Jared Stern and Seth Rogen & Evan Goldberg). He did not. I suggested he look at the trailer online. As soon as he saw it, he discarded his idea. It happens to every writer sooner or later that a movie comes out right as you’re finishing up a script on the same topic, but a little research can keep the experience as rare as possible.
Another thing to keep in mind is, if you decide to write something, you’re going to have to live with it for months or even years. What may sound cool and clever in the moment might bore you long before you finish the script. Also, you may come up with a catchy logline, but when you flesh out the character and plot, you could find there isn’t any depth there, or you could get stuck on a story point.
So at this stage I’m doing initial development on many ideas. In a few weeks I’ll see which ones I’ve managed to really flesh out and still seem cool. Hopefully I’ll have at least one that I want to proceed with!
Thursday, August 30, 2012
What Summer 2012 Boxoffice Means for Screenwriters
As we head into Labor Day it’s time to take a look back at this summer’s boxoffice and try to figure out what it might mean for screenwriters. Analyzing the movie business is always a dicey task… one of the reasons it’s so fun to do! So here are some of my observations and theories... make of them what you will:
Franchise Films are Risky
Only two big summer franchise films were unqualified hits: The Avengers ($618 million) and The Dark Knight Rises ($422 million). Both also did well internationally. Some observers have pointed to The Dark Knight Rises trailing The Dark Knight slightly, but the movie is still enormously successful. The Amazing Spider-Man (see below), Men in Black III ($178 million) and Prometheus ($126 million) did okay – as in break-even, probably-get-a-sequel okay. But John Carter, Battleship, Total Recall and Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter were all bombs. And The Bourne Legacy (see below), Madagascar 3, The Expendables 2 and Ice Age: Continental Drift underwhelmed to the point the future of the franchises are questionable.
That’s not a very good track record for extremely expensive films. Perhaps the studios’ recent strategy of spending more money on fewer, bigger films is not so wise after all.
Every summer there are also a few films that are surprising hits. This season those films are Ted ($214 million), Magic Mike ($113 million), and Snow White and the Huntsman ($155 million). Those three have helped ease the losses of some of the big failures, but though all may get sequels, only one – Snow White – could really be considered a new franchise. And the future of that franchise is in danger because of the scandal around the director and star’s affair.
Reboots and Remakes are Even Riskier
The Amazing Spider-Man reboot has done okay with $258 million (plus a nice $422 million internationally), but it’s still likely to gross less than any of the previous three. The Bourne Legacy (without Jason Bourne) will be the lowest grossing in that series. Total Recall is a disaster ($55 million). And, as mentioned, Prometheus – loosely tied to the Alien franchise – did only so-so. Maybe originality isn’t overrated.
3D is Over
At least in the U.S. Back in 2009 Avatar got 83% of its domestic gross from 3D screens. In 2010, Alice in Wonderland got 71% from 3D and Shrek Forever After got 62%. 3D looked like the future. But this summer, 3D accounted for only 45% of The Avengers’ gross, 51% of Prometheus’ gross, 32% of Brave’s gross, 38% of Madagascar 3’s gross, and 44% of The Amazing Spider-Man’s gross.* And this is with higher ticket prices tilting the scales toward 3D! 3D is still going strong internationally, but I’d bet those audiences will grow tired of it the same way American audiences have. We may be seeing the end of what has turned out to be a fad.
The Independent Film Market Shows Signs of Health
Summer is never a big season for indie films, but two did quite well this year: Moonrise Kingdom ($43 million) and The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel ($45 million). And several other small films did decent business, among them Beasts of the Southern Wild (almost $9 million), The Intouchables ($7 million) and To Rome with Love ($15 million). You could even argue Magic Mike was an independent film based on the way it was financed, though ultimately it was a studio release.
How to Get the Audience to the Movies?
The industry has a big problem. It’s harder and harder to get people to go to the movies these days. So many people now have huge TVs and great sound systems at home. And TV has gotten really good with the explosion of cable programming. Not to mention the Internet, videogames… basically all the stuff you’ve been hearing about threatening the moviegoing habit. Add to that the high cost of tickets and you’ve really got to give the audience a reason to come out. That’s why studios have been focusing on the big event films and trying to push 3D.
I don’t have a good answer to the industry’s problem, except that the health of independent films shows that people will come out if the story draws their interest. The writer in me wants to conclude that the key to a healthy film business is good storytelling and therefore writers should be given more power, but I know it’s not that simple.
But maybe this summer will cause the studios to start making more, and more varied, movies. Perhaps they’ll stop going all-in on big franchise properties and spread the risk across a diverse slate at a range of budgets. That would be good for screenwriters. But I’m not holding my breath!
Franchise Films are Risky
Only two big summer franchise films were unqualified hits: The Avengers ($618 million) and The Dark Knight Rises ($422 million). Both also did well internationally. Some observers have pointed to The Dark Knight Rises trailing The Dark Knight slightly, but the movie is still enormously successful. The Amazing Spider-Man (see below), Men in Black III ($178 million) and Prometheus ($126 million) did okay – as in break-even, probably-get-a-sequel okay. But John Carter, Battleship, Total Recall and Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter were all bombs. And The Bourne Legacy (see below), Madagascar 3, The Expendables 2 and Ice Age: Continental Drift underwhelmed to the point the future of the franchises are questionable.
That’s not a very good track record for extremely expensive films. Perhaps the studios’ recent strategy of spending more money on fewer, bigger films is not so wise after all.
Every summer there are also a few films that are surprising hits. This season those films are Ted ($214 million), Magic Mike ($113 million), and Snow White and the Huntsman ($155 million). Those three have helped ease the losses of some of the big failures, but though all may get sequels, only one – Snow White – could really be considered a new franchise. And the future of that franchise is in danger because of the scandal around the director and star’s affair.
Reboots and Remakes are Even Riskier
The Amazing Spider-Man reboot has done okay with $258 million (plus a nice $422 million internationally), but it’s still likely to gross less than any of the previous three. The Bourne Legacy (without Jason Bourne) will be the lowest grossing in that series. Total Recall is a disaster ($55 million). And, as mentioned, Prometheus – loosely tied to the Alien franchise – did only so-so. Maybe originality isn’t overrated.
3D is Over
At least in the U.S. Back in 2009 Avatar got 83% of its domestic gross from 3D screens. In 2010, Alice in Wonderland got 71% from 3D and Shrek Forever After got 62%. 3D looked like the future. But this summer, 3D accounted for only 45% of The Avengers’ gross, 51% of Prometheus’ gross, 32% of Brave’s gross, 38% of Madagascar 3’s gross, and 44% of The Amazing Spider-Man’s gross.* And this is with higher ticket prices tilting the scales toward 3D! 3D is still going strong internationally, but I’d bet those audiences will grow tired of it the same way American audiences have. We may be seeing the end of what has turned out to be a fad.
The Independent Film Market Shows Signs of Health
Summer is never a big season for indie films, but two did quite well this year: Moonrise Kingdom ($43 million) and The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel ($45 million). And several other small films did decent business, among them Beasts of the Southern Wild (almost $9 million), The Intouchables ($7 million) and To Rome with Love ($15 million). You could even argue Magic Mike was an independent film based on the way it was financed, though ultimately it was a studio release.
How to Get the Audience to the Movies?
The industry has a big problem. It’s harder and harder to get people to go to the movies these days. So many people now have huge TVs and great sound systems at home. And TV has gotten really good with the explosion of cable programming. Not to mention the Internet, videogames… basically all the stuff you’ve been hearing about threatening the moviegoing habit. Add to that the high cost of tickets and you’ve really got to give the audience a reason to come out. That’s why studios have been focusing on the big event films and trying to push 3D.
I don’t have a good answer to the industry’s problem, except that the health of independent films shows that people will come out if the story draws their interest. The writer in me wants to conclude that the key to a healthy film business is good storytelling and therefore writers should be given more power, but I know it’s not that simple.
But maybe this summer will cause the studios to start making more, and more varied, movies. Perhaps they’ll stop going all-in on big franchise properties and spread the risk across a diverse slate at a range of budgets. That would be good for screenwriters. But I’m not holding my breath!
--
Note: All boxoffice is to-date and domestic unless otherwise noted. Some films are still in release. Source: boxofficemojo.com
*Source: Hollywood Reporter
Note: All boxoffice is to-date and domestic unless otherwise noted. Some films are still in release. Source: boxofficemojo.com
*Source: Hollywood Reporter
Friday, August 24, 2012
“Hello, my name is…”
In response to my last post, C.S. Wyatt asked if I would address introducing characters. He noted how many scripts he sees that force name and expository character information into dialogue in a painfully fake way. (This is a little different topic than the one I wrote about way back in 2009, which was more about how to introduce your character with oomph – though they are related.)
Let’s start with how we let the audience know the character’s name. The first question I would ask is, “Is it really important that the audience know the character’s name?” Obviously there are some memorably named movie characters – Indiana Jones, “Bond, James Bond,” Luke Skywalker, etc.
But there are plenty of excellent movies where the character name doesn’t really seem to stick with us. I doubt most people could have named the characters in Pretty Woman (written by J.F. Lawton) or Little Miss Sunshine (written by Michael Arndt) or, for that matter, my own Sweet Home Alabama more than a couple hours after seeing the films. Since I’ve recently written a lot about it, many of you might be able to name the lead character in Inception (written by Christopher Nolan), but I imagine most people just think of him as “Leonardo DiCaprio.” And none of these movies seems to have suffered from forgettable names.
That last example may give us a clue as to why. In a movie we have an actor’s face – whether famous or not – to help us identify who the character is. And, as you might already be thinking, this is a tool we don’t have in a script. But what we do have is the character’s name printed above each line of dialogue. In essence, that is our “actor.”
But just as casting directors think about casting actors who don’t look similar enough to be confused for each other, screenwriters really ought to choose distinctive names for their characters. I always make sure none of my main characters names start with the same letter, partly so Final Draft will auto-fill with a single keystroke, but also because it helps keep them distinct. I also try to vary the number of syllables in my main characters’ names and avoid rhyming. It’s much easier to keep Kevin, Joe and Alexander straight than Steve, Stan and Sam.
It also helps to use memorable names, though you do want to be careful not to fill up your script with oddball names that will start to come off as goofy. But it’s usually best to avoid common, ordinary names like Dave, Mike or Mary. If you do use them, give them to the minor characters. Or, if you want your main character to have a common, ordinary name, then surround him with characters with more unusual names.
Another way to help the audience remember the name is to use it in the title. People won’t likely forget who the main characters are in Thelma and Louise (written by Callie Khouri) or When Harry Met Sally… (written by Nora Ephron) Of course, this can lead to boring titles. Dave (written by Gary Ross) was a great name for the main character – an ordinary man who has to pretend to be the President – but as a title it really doesn’t grab you and make you want to know more.
But let’s get to the original question of how to reveal the name in the script. It is, of course, natural for people to introduce themselves when they meet. If you’re doing a kind of romantic comedy “meet-cute” then an introduction probably slides in easily. But introductions are inherently boring and you want to avoid having a big group of people meet up and introduce themselves. Just like when you meet a bunch of people at once in real life, the audience will never remember all the names anyway.
The best way to get out names and other basic character info (job, relationships to other characters, etc.) is to create situations where the information naturally comes up (see my post on Show, Don’t Tell).
There are several ways to do that. One is to have other characters talk about the character when they’re not around. This is one of the benefits of advertising the character before their appearance. In Casablanca (screenplay by Julius J. Epstein and Philip G. Epstein and Howard Koch), several people talk about Rick who owns Rick’s American Bar (helpful to name the place after him). Customers ask employees where Rick is and if they can have a drink with Rick. Finally we cut to a hand signing a check “Rick” and then pan up to reveal our main character. I doubt the audience will forget his name!
Having other characters talk about the character is also a good way to get basic exposition out. By the time Rick appears in Casablanca, we know he’s American and that he runs a bar and that he never drinks with customers. You also need, of course, a character who doesn’t know the information. For example, in Little Miss Sunshine, making the suicidal uncle character a newly arrived member of this family unit allows the father to explain why the son has taken a vow of silence.
And creating a little conflict can motivate people to offer up information they wouldn’t normally say. I often reference the introductions of Joe and Jerry in Some Like It Hot (screenplay by Billy Wilder and I.A.L. Diamond, story by R. Thoeren and M. Logan). They debate what they should do with their first paycheck – get Jerry’s tooth fixed, bet it on a dog, or pay off their many debts. Creating this argument gives them a reason to bring up how broke they are. Since both of them know this fact, it would be clunky if they just said something like, “Boy, we sure have a lot of debts.”
Introducing basic character information is a combination of exposition, dialogue and dramatization. It can be a big stumbling block for inexperienced writers. Make sure you create a plausible situation for the information to come out, and do your best to show rather than tell.
Let’s start with how we let the audience know the character’s name. The first question I would ask is, “Is it really important that the audience know the character’s name?” Obviously there are some memorably named movie characters – Indiana Jones, “Bond, James Bond,” Luke Skywalker, etc.
But there are plenty of excellent movies where the character name doesn’t really seem to stick with us. I doubt most people could have named the characters in Pretty Woman (written by J.F. Lawton) or Little Miss Sunshine (written by Michael Arndt) or, for that matter, my own Sweet Home Alabama more than a couple hours after seeing the films. Since I’ve recently written a lot about it, many of you might be able to name the lead character in Inception (written by Christopher Nolan), but I imagine most people just think of him as “Leonardo DiCaprio.” And none of these movies seems to have suffered from forgettable names.
That last example may give us a clue as to why. In a movie we have an actor’s face – whether famous or not – to help us identify who the character is. And, as you might already be thinking, this is a tool we don’t have in a script. But what we do have is the character’s name printed above each line of dialogue. In essence, that is our “actor.”
But just as casting directors think about casting actors who don’t look similar enough to be confused for each other, screenwriters really ought to choose distinctive names for their characters. I always make sure none of my main characters names start with the same letter, partly so Final Draft will auto-fill with a single keystroke, but also because it helps keep them distinct. I also try to vary the number of syllables in my main characters’ names and avoid rhyming. It’s much easier to keep Kevin, Joe and Alexander straight than Steve, Stan and Sam.
It also helps to use memorable names, though you do want to be careful not to fill up your script with oddball names that will start to come off as goofy. But it’s usually best to avoid common, ordinary names like Dave, Mike or Mary. If you do use them, give them to the minor characters. Or, if you want your main character to have a common, ordinary name, then surround him with characters with more unusual names.
Another way to help the audience remember the name is to use it in the title. People won’t likely forget who the main characters are in Thelma and Louise (written by Callie Khouri) or When Harry Met Sally… (written by Nora Ephron) Of course, this can lead to boring titles. Dave (written by Gary Ross) was a great name for the main character – an ordinary man who has to pretend to be the President – but as a title it really doesn’t grab you and make you want to know more.
But let’s get to the original question of how to reveal the name in the script. It is, of course, natural for people to introduce themselves when they meet. If you’re doing a kind of romantic comedy “meet-cute” then an introduction probably slides in easily. But introductions are inherently boring and you want to avoid having a big group of people meet up and introduce themselves. Just like when you meet a bunch of people at once in real life, the audience will never remember all the names anyway.
The best way to get out names and other basic character info (job, relationships to other characters, etc.) is to create situations where the information naturally comes up (see my post on Show, Don’t Tell).
There are several ways to do that. One is to have other characters talk about the character when they’re not around. This is one of the benefits of advertising the character before their appearance. In Casablanca (screenplay by Julius J. Epstein and Philip G. Epstein and Howard Koch), several people talk about Rick who owns Rick’s American Bar (helpful to name the place after him). Customers ask employees where Rick is and if they can have a drink with Rick. Finally we cut to a hand signing a check “Rick” and then pan up to reveal our main character. I doubt the audience will forget his name!
Having other characters talk about the character is also a good way to get basic exposition out. By the time Rick appears in Casablanca, we know he’s American and that he runs a bar and that he never drinks with customers. You also need, of course, a character who doesn’t know the information. For example, in Little Miss Sunshine, making the suicidal uncle character a newly arrived member of this family unit allows the father to explain why the son has taken a vow of silence.
And creating a little conflict can motivate people to offer up information they wouldn’t normally say. I often reference the introductions of Joe and Jerry in Some Like It Hot (screenplay by Billy Wilder and I.A.L. Diamond, story by R. Thoeren and M. Logan). They debate what they should do with their first paycheck – get Jerry’s tooth fixed, bet it on a dog, or pay off their many debts. Creating this argument gives them a reason to bring up how broke they are. Since both of them know this fact, it would be clunky if they just said something like, “Boy, we sure have a lot of debts.”
Introducing basic character information is a combination of exposition, dialogue and dramatization. It can be a big stumbling block for inexperienced writers. Make sure you create a plausible situation for the information to come out, and do your best to show rather than tell.
Friday, August 17, 2012
Character Diaries
In the last post I mentioned my character diary exercise. This is an exercise I do to help develop my characters’ voices prior to writing my first draft. One common test of dialogue is to black out the character names in a script and see if you can identify which character is saying each line. The point is that each character should speak in a unique voice.
Writing a backstory for your characters will give you information that influences how they speak – their socioeconomic background, education level and career, for example. You can also define how the character uses language. Are they verbose or reticent? Are they more emotional or more analytical? Are they confident, forthright, deceitful, nervous, shy, mean, sarcastic, polite? What kind of slang do they use?
All of this helps, but I find in practice I write the best dialogue once I start to “hear” the characters in my head. Once that happens I don’t have to consciously think about how they would phrase something. The character has become a real person in my mind and I’m just writing what that person would say in this situation. And the best tool I have to jump-start those voices in my head is the character diary.
The technique is simple: write diary entries in the voice of the character. Think like an actor. Become the character and just write about an average day.
Don’t worry about whether your character would actually keep a diary; pretend they would. And if the character is illiterate, write as though it were a verbal, recorded diary. The point is to get their speaking style, after all, not their writing style.
Here’s a way I used this technique on a recent script: I was writing a story about a crew of six on a NASA mission to Mars. Now, most astronauts will have fairly similar backstories and temperaments. They’re all going to be well-educated, highly motivated risk takers with an interest in science and a lot of self-discipline.
So I had to really work to differentiate the characters. I spent considerable time thinking about what the range of personal traits and backstories could be in this narrow demographic group. I tried to make each as distinct as possible, focusing on how they got into the space program, why they chose their specialty, and what role they perform on the team. For example, one could have worked their way up out of poverty while another came from a wealthy background. One might be the motivator while the other is the stoic, reliable go-to person. One is detail oriented while another can be relied on to always keep the big picture in mind.
Then I wrote one diary entry for each character for every three months of the two-year training period leading up to the mission. In addition to creating distinctive voices, I was able to explore the interpersonal relationships and conflicts that developed between them prior to the start of the script. As a result, from the very first scene these felt like characters that had a history together… because in a way they did, at least in my mind.
Of course like any pre-writing task there is a danger in getting carried away in a subconscious avoidance of facing that blank page. You don’t need to write a diary of the character’s entire life. You might try doing a couple entries they would have written just prior to the start of your story, plus a few spaced out over the course of their life, and perhaps even an entry set mid-story. Sometimes even writing a single entry is enough! However, for some projects, like my NASA story, doing a bunch of diary entries can be an extremely useful part of my development process.
In the screenwriting class I teach, one of the first assignments is for the students to write a diary entry in the voice of someone they know who doesn’t speak like them. It’s a lesson in listening to how people use language as much as it is in writing. If you struggle with dialogue, this might be something to try.
And as I mentioned last time, I usually do another quick diary entry before I do my character passes in the rewriting stage. It all helps to get the characters speaking in their unique voices in my head.
Writing a backstory for your characters will give you information that influences how they speak – their socioeconomic background, education level and career, for example. You can also define how the character uses language. Are they verbose or reticent? Are they more emotional or more analytical? Are they confident, forthright, deceitful, nervous, shy, mean, sarcastic, polite? What kind of slang do they use?
All of this helps, but I find in practice I write the best dialogue once I start to “hear” the characters in my head. Once that happens I don’t have to consciously think about how they would phrase something. The character has become a real person in my mind and I’m just writing what that person would say in this situation. And the best tool I have to jump-start those voices in my head is the character diary.
The technique is simple: write diary entries in the voice of the character. Think like an actor. Become the character and just write about an average day.
Don’t worry about whether your character would actually keep a diary; pretend they would. And if the character is illiterate, write as though it were a verbal, recorded diary. The point is to get their speaking style, after all, not their writing style.
Here’s a way I used this technique on a recent script: I was writing a story about a crew of six on a NASA mission to Mars. Now, most astronauts will have fairly similar backstories and temperaments. They’re all going to be well-educated, highly motivated risk takers with an interest in science and a lot of self-discipline.
So I had to really work to differentiate the characters. I spent considerable time thinking about what the range of personal traits and backstories could be in this narrow demographic group. I tried to make each as distinct as possible, focusing on how they got into the space program, why they chose their specialty, and what role they perform on the team. For example, one could have worked their way up out of poverty while another came from a wealthy background. One might be the motivator while the other is the stoic, reliable go-to person. One is detail oriented while another can be relied on to always keep the big picture in mind.
Then I wrote one diary entry for each character for every three months of the two-year training period leading up to the mission. In addition to creating distinctive voices, I was able to explore the interpersonal relationships and conflicts that developed between them prior to the start of the script. As a result, from the very first scene these felt like characters that had a history together… because in a way they did, at least in my mind.
Of course like any pre-writing task there is a danger in getting carried away in a subconscious avoidance of facing that blank page. You don’t need to write a diary of the character’s entire life. You might try doing a couple entries they would have written just prior to the start of your story, plus a few spaced out over the course of their life, and perhaps even an entry set mid-story. Sometimes even writing a single entry is enough! However, for some projects, like my NASA story, doing a bunch of diary entries can be an extremely useful part of my development process.
In the screenwriting class I teach, one of the first assignments is for the students to write a diary entry in the voice of someone they know who doesn’t speak like them. It’s a lesson in listening to how people use language as much as it is in writing. If you struggle with dialogue, this might be something to try.
And as I mentioned last time, I usually do another quick diary entry before I do my character passes in the rewriting stage. It all helps to get the characters speaking in their unique voices in my head.
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