If you want to be a writer in Hollywood, the reality is you are going to have to pitch your ideas. This isn't always a natural skill for the type of people who gravitate to writing.
There are many types of pitches and many pitching situations – from formal original pitches to pitching for an assignment. From two-minute pitch-fest pitches of your existing script to casual 60-second pitches at industry social events. From a five-minute pitch in a general meeting to a pitch of a new idea to your agent. Feature films, television shows, and web series all require different approaches. Here are seven tips that will help in almost any situation:
1. Give them a log line before launching into plot. Remember, they don’t know anything about the story you are pitching. If you launch into details and scenes, it can be confusing. Give them the basic idea up front. Once they know the idea, they will know how to process the information that follows.
2. Tell them the genre. Don’t make them guess if your story is comedic or dramatic. Don’t surprise them by revealing science fiction elements halfway through the pitch. Let them know up front what kind of story they are going to hear. In television, the genre will probably be evident by who is hearing the pitch, but consider what other information they may need, such as whether your hour drama is open or closed-ended, or whether your sitcom is single or multi-cam.
3. Tell the plot through the character. Just like character is the viewers’ way into a movie or television show, it’s the buyer’s way into your pitch. We only care about the plot to the extent that we care about the character, and to the extent that we can see how the plot affects the character. Don’t simply recite dry plot points, describe how the character feels about the events and what decisions and changes the character makes as a result of those events.
4. Be specific. A pitch is shorter than the final product (movie, TV show, etc.) and you don’t have the advantage of the fully dramatized scenes, so you need to be as specific as possible so that the listener envisions the final product in their mind. Don’t just say the character has a bad relationship with their father, for example. Why is that relationship bad? What is their father like? Choose your words for maximum impact.
5. Practice with real people who don’t know your story. You have the advantage of knowing a lot more about your story than the listener, so you may not recognize what they won’t understand about your pitch. It’s important to test drive your pitch with trusted friends – ones who will be honest with you – to find out where you are being unclear.
6. The pitch should be the same tone as the story. If you are pitching a comedy, your pitch better be funny. If you are pitching horror, it better be scary. Since you don’t have the advantage of actors delivering lines, this can be a challenge. For a comedy you may have to make jokes that won’t be in the movie. That’s okay – you are showing them that you’re funny so that they'll know the script might also be funny. And present your story in a dramatic way. Don’t recite every aspect in the same monotone.
7. Engage with your listener. Make eye contact, read their reactions. Watch for where they get confused so you can elaborate or slow down. It’s okay to have notes for a longer pitch – most buyers will expect that. But never pitch from a computer – it’s very distancing for the listener.
Pitching is a difficult but necessary skill for screenwriters in Hollywood. You need to put as much care into learning the craft of pitching as you do learning the craft of writing. But with practice, anybody can become a better pitcher.
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If you're in Los Angeles, I will be teaching a pitching workshop at The Writers Store on May 7th where I will be revealing many more tips!
Monday, March 21, 2016
Monday, March 14, 2016
Using Preparation in Opposition to Heighten Emotional Impact
(SPOILERS: Children of Men, Aliens, E.T.: The Extra Terrestrial, Whiplash, Star Wars: The Force Awakens)
There’s a technique in screenwriting known as Preparation in Opposition. This is when you heighten an emotional moment or surprise by setting up the opposite. If you’re going to deliver bad news to the character, for example, make them happy. More importantly, set up the audience to believe good stuff is going to happen. Then the bad news is a greater shock.
For example, in Children of Men (screenplay by Alfonso Cuaron & Timothy J. Sexton and David Arata and Mark Fergus & Hawk Otsby), there is a scene where our group of heroes is driving through the countryside. Theo and Julian are blowing a ping-pong ball back and forth, demonstrating a favorite trick, while the other passengers laugh. Theo and Julian are ex-spouses, and Julian admits she’s never been able to pull off the trick with anyone else. It looks like maybe the romance might be rekindled between them.
And then the car is attacked by a gang and Julian is killed. We feel Theo’s devastation at the loss. Imagine if, instead of the playful beginning to the scene, the group in the car were discussing the danger of their mission immediately before the attack. Julian’s death would be much less shocking and Theo’s sense of loss less palpable.
Another example comes at the end of Aliens (story by James Cameron and David Giler & Walter Hill, screenplay by James Cameron). Once the surviving heroes escape the planet and return to their ship, Ripley congratulates Bishop on a job well done – an important emotional moment since she hasn’t trusted him through most of the movie. And then we see acid dripping and BLAM – the mama alien’s tail pierces Bishop’s chest.
This is actually a version of another preparation-in-opposition cliché – just when we think the killer is dead, they rise one last time. But it doesn’t feel cliché in Aliens because the resolution between Ripley and Bishop is genuinely wrapping up a subplot of the film. Also, the mama alien’s reappearance is planted earlier. When the drop ship is taking off, it gets tangled, giving the alien time to get aboard. The plant is not obvious at the time, but in retrospect it helps the surprise make sense.
Too often in weak screenplays we see the surprises and twists coming a mile away. It’s understandable – for a surprise to be believable, after all, the elements need to be planted. But then it’s your job to convince the audience that something else is going to happen. The twist that the queen is still alive in Aliens works because we believe the scene is about something else entirely.
The opposite works too – if you want a happy surprise, have the character give up hope. Before E.T. comes back to life in E.T.: The Extra Terrestrial (written by Melissa Mathison), Elliott and his siblings are given time to mourn his death. In fact, Elliott has just said his goodbyes when E.T.’s heart light comes on. Once again, effective planting helps make the surprise believable. The film has established that we don’t really understand E.T.’s physiology so we can believe that the scientists were wrong about his death, and we know that a message has been sent so the return of E.T.’s ship (which triggers his revival) is not surprising. The result is one of the greatest moments of joy in film history.
Whiplash (written by Damien Chazelle) uses preparation-in-opposition a lot and quite masterfully. The first time Andrew attends studio band – after having been personally selected by Fletcher – he is given an opportunity to take his turn on the drums. The ultimate point of this scene is to show how abusive Fletcher is to his students. The culmination of the scene is when Fletcher rips Andrew apart, embarrassing him and making him cry. This is a crucial plot point, because Andrew will then have to decide whether to quit or accept the sadistic challenge of trying to please Fletcher.
We have already seen earlier in the movie and even earlier in the same scene that Fletcher can be cruel and doesn’t suffer fools, so this is not an entirely unexpected climax to the scene. But Chazelle gives us a preparatory scene in the hallway where Fletcher finds a nervous Andrew and tells him to relax, asking him about his family, and assuring him that he doesn’t have anything to fear – after all, it’s only his first day and he was chosen for a reason. It works, giving Andrew confidence as they return to the classroom.
Because of this, when Fletcher turns on Andrew it comes across as shocking and unexpected, even though we really shouldn’t be surprised. Moreover, Fletcher uses what he has just learned about Andrew’s family to insult him, revealing the whole pep talk in the hall was a set-up. Not only has Andrew been set up, so have we, the audience. It creates a strong emotional bond between Andrew and the viewer.
This technique was used to create the shocking emotional twist at the end of Star Wars: The Force Awakens (written by Lawrence Kasdan & J.J. Abrams and Michael Arndt, based on characters created by George Lucas). Kylo Ren seems to be on the verge of turning from the dark side. He even asks his father for help. This is the culmination of a subplot running through much of the movie. We’ve seen Kylo Ren’s commitment waver before. When it turns out Kylo Ren is actually luring his father to his doom, the impact is heightened by our belief that Kylo Ren could be changing.
When crafting your scenes, you don’t want the outcome to appear too obvious to the viewer. Whatever feeling you’re going to end on, try to set up the opposite expectation in the character and the audience. It will add dramatic and emotional power when the twist comes.
--
Learn more about preparation-in-opposition and other screenwriting techniques in my book The Three Stages of Screenwriting.
And if you're in Los Angeles, I will be teaching a pitching workshop at The Writers Store on April 9th.
There’s a technique in screenwriting known as Preparation in Opposition. This is when you heighten an emotional moment or surprise by setting up the opposite. If you’re going to deliver bad news to the character, for example, make them happy. More importantly, set up the audience to believe good stuff is going to happen. Then the bad news is a greater shock.
For example, in Children of Men (screenplay by Alfonso Cuaron & Timothy J. Sexton and David Arata and Mark Fergus & Hawk Otsby), there is a scene where our group of heroes is driving through the countryside. Theo and Julian are blowing a ping-pong ball back and forth, demonstrating a favorite trick, while the other passengers laugh. Theo and Julian are ex-spouses, and Julian admits she’s never been able to pull off the trick with anyone else. It looks like maybe the romance might be rekindled between them.
And then the car is attacked by a gang and Julian is killed. We feel Theo’s devastation at the loss. Imagine if, instead of the playful beginning to the scene, the group in the car were discussing the danger of their mission immediately before the attack. Julian’s death would be much less shocking and Theo’s sense of loss less palpable.
Another example comes at the end of Aliens (story by James Cameron and David Giler & Walter Hill, screenplay by James Cameron). Once the surviving heroes escape the planet and return to their ship, Ripley congratulates Bishop on a job well done – an important emotional moment since she hasn’t trusted him through most of the movie. And then we see acid dripping and BLAM – the mama alien’s tail pierces Bishop’s chest.
This is actually a version of another preparation-in-opposition cliché – just when we think the killer is dead, they rise one last time. But it doesn’t feel cliché in Aliens because the resolution between Ripley and Bishop is genuinely wrapping up a subplot of the film. Also, the mama alien’s reappearance is planted earlier. When the drop ship is taking off, it gets tangled, giving the alien time to get aboard. The plant is not obvious at the time, but in retrospect it helps the surprise make sense.
Too often in weak screenplays we see the surprises and twists coming a mile away. It’s understandable – for a surprise to be believable, after all, the elements need to be planted. But then it’s your job to convince the audience that something else is going to happen. The twist that the queen is still alive in Aliens works because we believe the scene is about something else entirely.
The opposite works too – if you want a happy surprise, have the character give up hope. Before E.T. comes back to life in E.T.: The Extra Terrestrial (written by Melissa Mathison), Elliott and his siblings are given time to mourn his death. In fact, Elliott has just said his goodbyes when E.T.’s heart light comes on. Once again, effective planting helps make the surprise believable. The film has established that we don’t really understand E.T.’s physiology so we can believe that the scientists were wrong about his death, and we know that a message has been sent so the return of E.T.’s ship (which triggers his revival) is not surprising. The result is one of the greatest moments of joy in film history.
Whiplash (written by Damien Chazelle) uses preparation-in-opposition a lot and quite masterfully. The first time Andrew attends studio band – after having been personally selected by Fletcher – he is given an opportunity to take his turn on the drums. The ultimate point of this scene is to show how abusive Fletcher is to his students. The culmination of the scene is when Fletcher rips Andrew apart, embarrassing him and making him cry. This is a crucial plot point, because Andrew will then have to decide whether to quit or accept the sadistic challenge of trying to please Fletcher.
We have already seen earlier in the movie and even earlier in the same scene that Fletcher can be cruel and doesn’t suffer fools, so this is not an entirely unexpected climax to the scene. But Chazelle gives us a preparatory scene in the hallway where Fletcher finds a nervous Andrew and tells him to relax, asking him about his family, and assuring him that he doesn’t have anything to fear – after all, it’s only his first day and he was chosen for a reason. It works, giving Andrew confidence as they return to the classroom.
Because of this, when Fletcher turns on Andrew it comes across as shocking and unexpected, even though we really shouldn’t be surprised. Moreover, Fletcher uses what he has just learned about Andrew’s family to insult him, revealing the whole pep talk in the hall was a set-up. Not only has Andrew been set up, so have we, the audience. It creates a strong emotional bond between Andrew and the viewer.
This technique was used to create the shocking emotional twist at the end of Star Wars: The Force Awakens (written by Lawrence Kasdan & J.J. Abrams and Michael Arndt, based on characters created by George Lucas). Kylo Ren seems to be on the verge of turning from the dark side. He even asks his father for help. This is the culmination of a subplot running through much of the movie. We’ve seen Kylo Ren’s commitment waver before. When it turns out Kylo Ren is actually luring his father to his doom, the impact is heightened by our belief that Kylo Ren could be changing.
When crafting your scenes, you don’t want the outcome to appear too obvious to the viewer. Whatever feeling you’re going to end on, try to set up the opposite expectation in the character and the audience. It will add dramatic and emotional power when the twist comes.
--
Learn more about preparation-in-opposition and other screenwriting techniques in my book The Three Stages of Screenwriting.
And if you're in Los Angeles, I will be teaching a pitching workshop at The Writers Store on April 9th.
Monday, March 7, 2016
Learning from Failed Movies
(SPOILERS: Eddie the Eagle, Valkyrie, Titanic)
This weekend I saw Eddie the Eagle (story by Simon Kelton, screenplay by Sean Macaulay and Simon Kelton) and was very disappointed. A big part of the reason I thought the movie didn’t work was the screenplay. When confronted with a movie like this, I think it’s important, as a professional screenwriter, to be able to analyze what went wrong and consider how I would have fixed those problems.
Eddie the Eagle is based on the fantastic, heart-warming story of British ski jumper Eddie Edwards. These kinds of projects can be deceptively difficult. Since the true story is so good, it seems like all you have to do is put it into a proper structure, maybe heighten the obstacles, and you’re good to go. The trouble with this approach is that the audience already knows how the story ends.
Granted, Eddie’s story may not be widely known (I remember him, but younger audiences wouldn’t). However, anyone buying a ticket will be going to the movie about the underdog ski jumper who made it to the Olympics. The marketing tells them how it came out. So the first mistake the movie made was that it tried to build suspense through act two as to whether Eddie would qualify for the Olympics.
Let me illustrate the issue with another movie that had the same problem: Valkyrie (written by Christopher McQuarrie & Nathan Alexander). It was a true story about a plot by German officers to assassinate Hitler. However, everyone who knows even a little history knows that Hitler was not assassinated by German officers. The movie tried to build tension over whether the scheme would succeed – for example, there was a long sequence where we were supposed to be on the edge of our seat waiting to see if Hitler would stay in a room where a time bomb was set to go off. Except we already know he won’t, so the sequence came across as tedious instead of tense.
When I came out of Valkyrie, my friend said it was like they tried to make a movie about the Titanic from the point of view of the Captain and whether he would hit the iceberg. Of course, the movie Titanic (written by James Cameron) was a gigantic success… but it wasn’t from the point of view of the Captain. The tension in Titanic was not whether the ship was going to sink – we all knew it would – it was a romance about whether lower class Jack and upper class Rose would end up together, with the fate of the ship used as a backdrop.
So one technique to making a known story interesting is to focus on a different dramatic question than the outcome of the main historical event. In Valkyrie, the main character was an officer who knew from the first moments of the movie that Hitler was bad for Germany and wanted to get rid of him. The officer never wavered in that belief. But there was another officer who struggled with his loyalty to Germany. Could he betray his country by participating in a coup – even if the coup would ultimately be good for his country? What does patriotism really mean? I think an interesting movie could have been made about that character and his struggle.
So getting back to Eddie the Eagle, in the second act, Eddie has to jump 61 meters to meet a newly imposed safety requirement to make the British Olympic team. He goes on the European ski jumping tour in a long sequence of practicing and competing, trying to make the distance. Practice and repeated attempts are probably the way he did it in real life, but it’s not that interesting on film, and it’s not tense since we know that eventually he will succeed.
But the truth is, we know how most stories are going to come out – even fictional ones. In action movies, we know the hero will beat the bad guy. In romantic comedies we know the lovers will end up together – and in romantic tragedies, they won’t. What usually makes a story interesting is not whether the hero will win or lose, but how.
Here was one of Eddie the Eagle’s big challenges: a ski jump is difficult but simple. You slide down the hill, you lift off, and you land… or you don’t. It’s hard to make the technical aspects of the sport interesting. So if I were writing this story, I would have looked for some kind of internal challenge Eddie had to overcome, some sort of self-doubt, fear, arrogance, etc. The arc of the movie would be about how he overcomes that flaw to achieve the goal we know he will achieve. (There are other possible alternative stories – it could have been about him raising money for his training, for example. But this is a heartwarming sports story, so I would look to the character for the solution.)
A second problem Eddie the Eagle has is that it doesn’t just use every sports movie cliché, it doubles down on them. Is it a cliché that the really good athletes will be mean to our scrappy underdog? Then the really good athletes in this movie will be the cruelest people on Earth! (This is the worst kind of cliché… one that isn’t true in the real world.)
I want to focus on one cliché in particular: the unsupportive father. Practically every line out of Eddie’s father’s mouth in this movie is some version of, “Give up your silly dream and get a job,” with the occasional, “Don’t expect me to pay for your skiing” thrown in. (And then, of course, in the very last scene Eddie’s father tells him he’s proud of him, for no apparent reason other than it’s the last scene and that’s the movie cliché.)
Now, an unsupportive father might be a good obstacle to put in Eddie’s way. But given that it’s a cliché, the writers ought to have tried to find a variation on it. Perhaps they should have thought more about why the father was unsupportive. Here are three ideas:
1. Focus more on the financial aspect. Skiing is an expensive sport and Eddie’s family is working class. There’s only the briefest nod to this when his father mentions they haven’t taken a vacation in three years, but it’s not treated as that significant a sacrifice. If Eddie’s father was shown to really struggle for every dollar, it would be plausible that he would resent his son’s spending so much on what the father thinks is a waste of time.
2. Eddie’s father could worry that his son will make a fool of himself, and want to protect his son (and himself) from ridicule. Maybe there could be a scene in the local pub where Eddie’s father hears people making jokes about his goofy son’s attempts to be an athlete. Then there would be some subtext if the father goes home and tells Eddie he should give up his silly pursuit.
3. Eddie’s father could be worried that his son will get hurt. Eddie had bad knees as a child and spent a lot of time in a hospital. It would be perfectly reasonable – and even sympathetic – if his father feared ski jumping was too dangerous a sport for his fragile son.
I think any of these options would have been far more interesting and engaging than the one-note lout we’re given. When you find yourself writing a cliché, try to get deeper into the character. A believable character motivation can make the cliché seem fresh and unique.
And when you see a bad movie, use it as an opportunity to learn how to make your own writing better.
--
Hone your craft with my book, The Three Stages of Screenwriting
This weekend I saw Eddie the Eagle (story by Simon Kelton, screenplay by Sean Macaulay and Simon Kelton) and was very disappointed. A big part of the reason I thought the movie didn’t work was the screenplay. When confronted with a movie like this, I think it’s important, as a professional screenwriter, to be able to analyze what went wrong and consider how I would have fixed those problems.
Eddie the Eagle is based on the fantastic, heart-warming story of British ski jumper Eddie Edwards. These kinds of projects can be deceptively difficult. Since the true story is so good, it seems like all you have to do is put it into a proper structure, maybe heighten the obstacles, and you’re good to go. The trouble with this approach is that the audience already knows how the story ends.
Granted, Eddie’s story may not be widely known (I remember him, but younger audiences wouldn’t). However, anyone buying a ticket will be going to the movie about the underdog ski jumper who made it to the Olympics. The marketing tells them how it came out. So the first mistake the movie made was that it tried to build suspense through act two as to whether Eddie would qualify for the Olympics.
Let me illustrate the issue with another movie that had the same problem: Valkyrie (written by Christopher McQuarrie & Nathan Alexander). It was a true story about a plot by German officers to assassinate Hitler. However, everyone who knows even a little history knows that Hitler was not assassinated by German officers. The movie tried to build tension over whether the scheme would succeed – for example, there was a long sequence where we were supposed to be on the edge of our seat waiting to see if Hitler would stay in a room where a time bomb was set to go off. Except we already know he won’t, so the sequence came across as tedious instead of tense.
When I came out of Valkyrie, my friend said it was like they tried to make a movie about the Titanic from the point of view of the Captain and whether he would hit the iceberg. Of course, the movie Titanic (written by James Cameron) was a gigantic success… but it wasn’t from the point of view of the Captain. The tension in Titanic was not whether the ship was going to sink – we all knew it would – it was a romance about whether lower class Jack and upper class Rose would end up together, with the fate of the ship used as a backdrop.
So one technique to making a known story interesting is to focus on a different dramatic question than the outcome of the main historical event. In Valkyrie, the main character was an officer who knew from the first moments of the movie that Hitler was bad for Germany and wanted to get rid of him. The officer never wavered in that belief. But there was another officer who struggled with his loyalty to Germany. Could he betray his country by participating in a coup – even if the coup would ultimately be good for his country? What does patriotism really mean? I think an interesting movie could have been made about that character and his struggle.
So getting back to Eddie the Eagle, in the second act, Eddie has to jump 61 meters to meet a newly imposed safety requirement to make the British Olympic team. He goes on the European ski jumping tour in a long sequence of practicing and competing, trying to make the distance. Practice and repeated attempts are probably the way he did it in real life, but it’s not that interesting on film, and it’s not tense since we know that eventually he will succeed.
But the truth is, we know how most stories are going to come out – even fictional ones. In action movies, we know the hero will beat the bad guy. In romantic comedies we know the lovers will end up together – and in romantic tragedies, they won’t. What usually makes a story interesting is not whether the hero will win or lose, but how.
Here was one of Eddie the Eagle’s big challenges: a ski jump is difficult but simple. You slide down the hill, you lift off, and you land… or you don’t. It’s hard to make the technical aspects of the sport interesting. So if I were writing this story, I would have looked for some kind of internal challenge Eddie had to overcome, some sort of self-doubt, fear, arrogance, etc. The arc of the movie would be about how he overcomes that flaw to achieve the goal we know he will achieve. (There are other possible alternative stories – it could have been about him raising money for his training, for example. But this is a heartwarming sports story, so I would look to the character for the solution.)
A second problem Eddie the Eagle has is that it doesn’t just use every sports movie cliché, it doubles down on them. Is it a cliché that the really good athletes will be mean to our scrappy underdog? Then the really good athletes in this movie will be the cruelest people on Earth! (This is the worst kind of cliché… one that isn’t true in the real world.)
I want to focus on one cliché in particular: the unsupportive father. Practically every line out of Eddie’s father’s mouth in this movie is some version of, “Give up your silly dream and get a job,” with the occasional, “Don’t expect me to pay for your skiing” thrown in. (And then, of course, in the very last scene Eddie’s father tells him he’s proud of him, for no apparent reason other than it’s the last scene and that’s the movie cliché.)
Now, an unsupportive father might be a good obstacle to put in Eddie’s way. But given that it’s a cliché, the writers ought to have tried to find a variation on it. Perhaps they should have thought more about why the father was unsupportive. Here are three ideas:
1. Focus more on the financial aspect. Skiing is an expensive sport and Eddie’s family is working class. There’s only the briefest nod to this when his father mentions they haven’t taken a vacation in three years, but it’s not treated as that significant a sacrifice. If Eddie’s father was shown to really struggle for every dollar, it would be plausible that he would resent his son’s spending so much on what the father thinks is a waste of time.
2. Eddie’s father could worry that his son will make a fool of himself, and want to protect his son (and himself) from ridicule. Maybe there could be a scene in the local pub where Eddie’s father hears people making jokes about his goofy son’s attempts to be an athlete. Then there would be some subtext if the father goes home and tells Eddie he should give up his silly pursuit.
3. Eddie’s father could be worried that his son will get hurt. Eddie had bad knees as a child and spent a lot of time in a hospital. It would be perfectly reasonable – and even sympathetic – if his father feared ski jumping was too dangerous a sport for his fragile son.
I think any of these options would have been far more interesting and engaging than the one-note lout we’re given. When you find yourself writing a cliché, try to get deeper into the character. A believable character motivation can make the cliché seem fresh and unique.
And when you see a bad movie, use it as an opportunity to learn how to make your own writing better.
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Monday, February 29, 2016
Using Scenes of Preparation and Aftermath to Reveal Character
(Spoilers: The Godfather, Silence of the Lambs, The Hangover)
One of the fundamental challenges of writing for film is figuring out ways to show what’s going on in a character’s head. Character is the audience’s way into the story. If we don’t know what the character is thinking and feeling, we won’t have strong emotional reactions to the events on screen. The problem is especially difficult in “set piece” scenes – scenes of spectacular action or humor or horror, where the spectacle of the scene may not allow for much dialogue on the character’s part.
This is where scenes of preparation and aftermath can be helpful. As you might guess, scenes of preparation are where we see the character preparing for an upcoming event. They give us an opportunity to see what the character expects will happen. Are they confident? Nervous? Preparing for trouble?
In The Godfather (screenplay by Mario Puzo and Francis Ford Coppola), there is a scene of preparation for Michael’s assassination attempt on Sollozzo. The Corleone family and their key men are having dinner, waiting for a call that will reveal the locale of the planned meeting. Tom, the consigliore, worries that there’s too much of a risk and suggest they call the whole thing off. The call comes, and the Corleone’s make a plan to plant a gun for Michael at the location. Sonny makes a big deal about how important it is that the gun is there.
All of this sets up how dangerous the coming event is, and how worried everybody is for Michael’s safety. Because of this, when the scene happens, we feel Michael’s anxiety and fear, even though there is no overt dialogue about it. How could there be? It would give away the plot to Sollozzo.
There are two plants (besides the gun information) in the scene of preparation that also help illustrate how Michael feels. First, the Corleones learn the meeting is in Brooklyn. But when Michael is picked up by Sollozzo, they head over the bridge toward New Jersey. Michael says, “We’re going to Jersey?” raising Sollozzo’s suspicions. We know that Michael is worried the information he got was wrong. When the car pulls a U-turn, we can read the relief on Michael’s face. But we wouldn’t understand this without the set-up in the scene of preparation.
The second plant is the detailed instructions of what Michael is to do after retrieving the gun. He’s to come out of the bathroom and immediately shoot Sollozzo and his police captain accompaniment, then drop the gun. But when Michael comes out of the bathroom, he sits back down at the table. And when he finally does shoot Sollozzo and the cop, he forgets to drop the gun right away. We understand his fear and tension because he doesn’t follow the plan. But we only see this because we know the plan.
Scenes of aftermath allow us to check in on the character after an event to see the impact on the character. When Clarice first visits Hannibal Lechter in prison in Silence of the Lambs (screenplay by Ted Tally), she’s careful to keep her emotions hidden. But when she comes out of the prison, she weeps as she heads to her car and has a flashback about her father. In this aftermath scene we see that, despite her careful control, Lechter has indeed gotten to her.
One of the things that I think made The Hangover (written by Jon Lucas & Scott Moore) so successful is that we really care about the three major characters. That emotional attachment comes in the downtime between the big comedic moments. It’s that downtime where we see the characters react to what just happened.
One of the best examples is the scene where the guys are waiting for their car in the impound lot. Stu is pissed off at the way the cops have just treated them. But Alan is worried. He confides to Phil that he fears something really bad may have happened to Doug (the lost groom). It’s neither a particularly funny nor particularly memorable scene, but it is important because it reminds us that there’s a person they care about in this story who might be in danger. This gives the plot emotional stakes. We care about the outcome because we care about these guys.
Scenes of aftermath often turn into scenes of preparation as the characters digest previous events and make new plans. In the impound lot scene, Phil comforts Alan and then Stu tries to reassure Alan with a new plan: searching the car for clues.
You can use scenes of preparation and aftermath to track character emotion throughout the script. In The Hangover, each time we pause for aftermath scenes, the guys’ fear has escalated. In the breakfast scene, Stu’s a little worried, Phil and Alan less so. But they all assume it’ll be pretty easy to find Doug. In the aftermath of the wedding chapel scene, they’ve started to realize things got more out of control the previous night than they thought. In the impound lot, Alan worries that Doug might be dead. We see that Stu is similarly worried when he ends his improvised piano song with the line, “But if he’s [Doug] been murdered by crystal-meth tweakers, well, then we’re shit out of luck.” Finally, after the guys discover Mr. Chow’s hostage is not their Doug, they give up all hope.
Aftermath scenes are also useful to give us the closure of the happy ending. The Hangover ends with the guys at the wedding, looking at the pictures on the camera together, and reveling in their adventure and friendship. It’s not a plot scene, it’s a scene that gives us a resolution to the emotional journey.
When outlining your script, think about where you will want to touch base with the characters’ emotional progress and put in scenes of aftermath and preparation. When rewriting, if you find that you are losing connection with the characters’ feelings, consider adding a scene of aftermath. Though preparation and aftermath may be the “mortar” more than the “bricks” of your story, without these scenes you will have difficulty achieving emotional impact.
--
In other news, if you're in Los Angeles, I will be teaching a pitching workshop at The Writers Store on April 9th.
--
Learn screenwriting craft with my book, The Three Stages of Screenwriting
One of the fundamental challenges of writing for film is figuring out ways to show what’s going on in a character’s head. Character is the audience’s way into the story. If we don’t know what the character is thinking and feeling, we won’t have strong emotional reactions to the events on screen. The problem is especially difficult in “set piece” scenes – scenes of spectacular action or humor or horror, where the spectacle of the scene may not allow for much dialogue on the character’s part.
This is where scenes of preparation and aftermath can be helpful. As you might guess, scenes of preparation are where we see the character preparing for an upcoming event. They give us an opportunity to see what the character expects will happen. Are they confident? Nervous? Preparing for trouble?
In The Godfather (screenplay by Mario Puzo and Francis Ford Coppola), there is a scene of preparation for Michael’s assassination attempt on Sollozzo. The Corleone family and their key men are having dinner, waiting for a call that will reveal the locale of the planned meeting. Tom, the consigliore, worries that there’s too much of a risk and suggest they call the whole thing off. The call comes, and the Corleone’s make a plan to plant a gun for Michael at the location. Sonny makes a big deal about how important it is that the gun is there.
All of this sets up how dangerous the coming event is, and how worried everybody is for Michael’s safety. Because of this, when the scene happens, we feel Michael’s anxiety and fear, even though there is no overt dialogue about it. How could there be? It would give away the plot to Sollozzo.
There are two plants (besides the gun information) in the scene of preparation that also help illustrate how Michael feels. First, the Corleones learn the meeting is in Brooklyn. But when Michael is picked up by Sollozzo, they head over the bridge toward New Jersey. Michael says, “We’re going to Jersey?” raising Sollozzo’s suspicions. We know that Michael is worried the information he got was wrong. When the car pulls a U-turn, we can read the relief on Michael’s face. But we wouldn’t understand this without the set-up in the scene of preparation.
The second plant is the detailed instructions of what Michael is to do after retrieving the gun. He’s to come out of the bathroom and immediately shoot Sollozzo and his police captain accompaniment, then drop the gun. But when Michael comes out of the bathroom, he sits back down at the table. And when he finally does shoot Sollozzo and the cop, he forgets to drop the gun right away. We understand his fear and tension because he doesn’t follow the plan. But we only see this because we know the plan.
Scenes of aftermath allow us to check in on the character after an event to see the impact on the character. When Clarice first visits Hannibal Lechter in prison in Silence of the Lambs (screenplay by Ted Tally), she’s careful to keep her emotions hidden. But when she comes out of the prison, she weeps as she heads to her car and has a flashback about her father. In this aftermath scene we see that, despite her careful control, Lechter has indeed gotten to her.
One of the things that I think made The Hangover (written by Jon Lucas & Scott Moore) so successful is that we really care about the three major characters. That emotional attachment comes in the downtime between the big comedic moments. It’s that downtime where we see the characters react to what just happened.
One of the best examples is the scene where the guys are waiting for their car in the impound lot. Stu is pissed off at the way the cops have just treated them. But Alan is worried. He confides to Phil that he fears something really bad may have happened to Doug (the lost groom). It’s neither a particularly funny nor particularly memorable scene, but it is important because it reminds us that there’s a person they care about in this story who might be in danger. This gives the plot emotional stakes. We care about the outcome because we care about these guys.
Scenes of aftermath often turn into scenes of preparation as the characters digest previous events and make new plans. In the impound lot scene, Phil comforts Alan and then Stu tries to reassure Alan with a new plan: searching the car for clues.
You can use scenes of preparation and aftermath to track character emotion throughout the script. In The Hangover, each time we pause for aftermath scenes, the guys’ fear has escalated. In the breakfast scene, Stu’s a little worried, Phil and Alan less so. But they all assume it’ll be pretty easy to find Doug. In the aftermath of the wedding chapel scene, they’ve started to realize things got more out of control the previous night than they thought. In the impound lot, Alan worries that Doug might be dead. We see that Stu is similarly worried when he ends his improvised piano song with the line, “But if he’s [Doug] been murdered by crystal-meth tweakers, well, then we’re shit out of luck.” Finally, after the guys discover Mr. Chow’s hostage is not their Doug, they give up all hope.
Aftermath scenes are also useful to give us the closure of the happy ending. The Hangover ends with the guys at the wedding, looking at the pictures on the camera together, and reveling in their adventure and friendship. It’s not a plot scene, it’s a scene that gives us a resolution to the emotional journey.
When outlining your script, think about where you will want to touch base with the characters’ emotional progress and put in scenes of aftermath and preparation. When rewriting, if you find that you are losing connection with the characters’ feelings, consider adding a scene of aftermath. Though preparation and aftermath may be the “mortar” more than the “bricks” of your story, without these scenes you will have difficulty achieving emotional impact.
--
In other news, if you're in Los Angeles, I will be teaching a pitching workshop at The Writers Store on April 9th.
--
Learn screenwriting craft with my book, The Three Stages of Screenwriting
Monday, February 22, 2016
Meaningful Objects
(Spoilers: The Apartment, Notorious)
Film is a visual medium. As screenwriters, once we’ve built the story structure, much of our attention often goes to dialogue. But we should be looking for more visual ways to tell our stories so that we can take full advantage of the filmic medium. One of those ways is to create meaningful objects – props that are imbued with meaning that helps tell the story.
Besides making your script more visual, there is another benefits of creating meaningful objects: they can provide opportunities for layering subtext into scenes. This often comes when one character knows information about the object that another does not. Today I want to look at two examples of masterful use of meaningful objects for telling stories.
The first is in The Apartment (written by Billy Wilder & I.A.L. Diamond). In the story, C.C. Baxter owns an apartment that he loans out to executives at his company, including Mr. Sheldrake, as a place to carry on affairs. Baxter has a crush on elevator operator Fran Kubelik, who, unknown to Baxter, is Sheldrake’s mistress.
The object in question is a make-up compact. It is introduced when Sheldrake comes to visit Baxter in his new office – the result of a promotion that was Baxter’s reward for sharing the apartment with executives. Baxter returns the compact to Sheldrake, saying it was left at the apartment the night before. Baxter points out that the mirror is broken and says he didn’t do it. Sheldrake replies that it broke when his mistress threw it at him.
This set-up of the compact is elegantly done. First, there’s a reason to bring the compact up – Baxter returning it to Sheldrake. In bad screenplays, characters might produce the object and explain it for no apparent reason. When you are setting up a meaningful object, create a good reason for it to be brought into the story, even if that reason is unrelated to the object's purpose in the plot. Second, the crack in the mirror is a way to identify this particular compact in the future – and again there is a reason for this detail to be pointed out to the audience: Baxter fearing he’ll be blamed for breaking it.
Once the compact is introduced, it is then ignored for a few minutes of screen time. Soon we have a scene set at an office Christmas party where Baxter brings Kubelik to see his new office. While Baxter is getting them drinks, Kubelik learns from Sheldrake’s secretary that Kubelik is only the latest of Sheldrake’s conquests. This provides a layer of subtext to the scene once Baxter returns. He’s flirting with Kubelik, showing off a bowler hat he’s bought. She’s trying to be nice, but we know she’s heartbroken at the recent revelation.
Then the compact makes a reappearance. Kubelik brings it out to show Baxter what he looks like in his hat. When Baxter sees the crack, the audience knows that Baxter now knows Kubelik is Sheldrake’s mistress. Baxter doesn’t say anything, but the revelation adds a new layer of subtext to the scene. The dialogue in this scene is about Baxter’s promotion and new hat, but the subtext is about Kubelik and Baxter’s heartbreaks, the latter revealed entirely through the visual use of the compact.
Don’t miss the exceptional subtlety of this. Kubelik doesn’t know Baxter knows her secret. By using the meaningful object, the writers have allowed the audience to follow this revelation without the need for a separate scene to explain it in dialogue.
Imagine how the writers’ thought process may have gone: They knew they needed Baxter to learn about Kubelik and Sheldrake, but didn’t want it to be through dialogue. So they came up with the idea for the compact, which had the advantage of allowing the revelation to happen in a scene that includes Kubelik’s character, creating subtext. The writers then had to figure out how to plant the compact and had the idea to have Baxter return it to Sheldrake. Finally they had to figure out a way for the audience to recognize the compact and came up with the cracked mirror.
The second example I’d like to discuss is in Notorious (written by Ben Hecht), and the meaningful object is the key to a wine cellar. The story is about Alicia, the daughter of a Nazi turned U.S. government spy, who has married a Nazi living in Brazil named Sebastian in order to uncover a secret plan. Alicia’s U.S. handler is Devlin, and they’ve fallen in love. Alicia has learned that something is being kept in Sebastian’s wine cellar, but it’s locked and she doesn’t have the key. Alicia and Devlin plot to sneak into the wine cellar during a party at the house.
The key is introduced when Alicia slips it off Sebastian’s key ring while they get ready for the party. She’s almost caught – Sebastian comes in just as she gets the key off of the ring and takes both her hands, the key clutched in her right fist. Sebastian kisses her left palm and moves to kiss her right one. To avoid him discovering the key, Alicia throws her arms around him and drops the key behind his back, then kicks it safely under a table.
The reason for the key is inherent in our heroes’ plot to get into the wine cellar, but this introduction with a moment of suspense cements the key’s importance in our mind. The suspense continues during the party as Alicia and Devlin try to get to the wine cellar before the butler runs out of wine and has to go down for more. The complication is that Sebastian is jealous of Alicia and doesn’t like seeing her with Devlin.
Alicia and Devlin finally manage to slip down to the wine cellar and find the clue they’re looking for, but the wine runs out upstairs and Sebastian and the butler head down. As Devlin and Alicia leave the wine cellar and head out a back door, Devlin notices that Sebastian has seen them. Devlin grabs Alicia and kisses her. When Sebastian comes outside to confront them, Alicia claims Devlin tricked her outside and forced her to kiss him. Devlin is kicked out of the party and it seems our heroes have gotten away with their plot.
Here is where the key makes its reappearance – or rather doesn’t make its reappearance. Sebastian and the butler go to the wine cellar. Sebastian pulls out his key ring… and discovers the key is gone. We see on his face that he’s put two and two together and figured out our heroes’ trick. He turns to the butler and says they should just give the guests liquor and champagne. The information has been delivered visually, adding subtext to the mundane dialogue with the butler at the end of the scene, all because of the use of the key as a meaningful object.
If you have a scene with on-the-nose dialogue or you need to give a character information, consider creating a meaningful object. You’ll need to figure out how to introduce the object and imbue it with the necessary meaning. But once you do that, you can use the object to create powerful scenes layered with subtext.
Have your own favorite example of a meaningful object? Share it in the comments!
--
Check out my book: The Three Stages of Screenwriting
“In the crowded field of scriptwriting how-to books, Doug Eboch’s The Three Stages of Screenwriting is a standout and a must-read. Why? Three solid reasons: He really, truly knows what he’s talking about. It will help everyone, from novice to pro, become a better writer. And, most impressive of all, it is entertaining as hell - as engaging and fun to read as one of Doug’s scripts.”
-Ross LaManna (Rush Hour)
Film is a visual medium. As screenwriters, once we’ve built the story structure, much of our attention often goes to dialogue. But we should be looking for more visual ways to tell our stories so that we can take full advantage of the filmic medium. One of those ways is to create meaningful objects – props that are imbued with meaning that helps tell the story.
Besides making your script more visual, there is another benefits of creating meaningful objects: they can provide opportunities for layering subtext into scenes. This often comes when one character knows information about the object that another does not. Today I want to look at two examples of masterful use of meaningful objects for telling stories.
The first is in The Apartment (written by Billy Wilder & I.A.L. Diamond). In the story, C.C. Baxter owns an apartment that he loans out to executives at his company, including Mr. Sheldrake, as a place to carry on affairs. Baxter has a crush on elevator operator Fran Kubelik, who, unknown to Baxter, is Sheldrake’s mistress.
The object in question is a make-up compact. It is introduced when Sheldrake comes to visit Baxter in his new office – the result of a promotion that was Baxter’s reward for sharing the apartment with executives. Baxter returns the compact to Sheldrake, saying it was left at the apartment the night before. Baxter points out that the mirror is broken and says he didn’t do it. Sheldrake replies that it broke when his mistress threw it at him.
This set-up of the compact is elegantly done. First, there’s a reason to bring the compact up – Baxter returning it to Sheldrake. In bad screenplays, characters might produce the object and explain it for no apparent reason. When you are setting up a meaningful object, create a good reason for it to be brought into the story, even if that reason is unrelated to the object's purpose in the plot. Second, the crack in the mirror is a way to identify this particular compact in the future – and again there is a reason for this detail to be pointed out to the audience: Baxter fearing he’ll be blamed for breaking it.
Once the compact is introduced, it is then ignored for a few minutes of screen time. Soon we have a scene set at an office Christmas party where Baxter brings Kubelik to see his new office. While Baxter is getting them drinks, Kubelik learns from Sheldrake’s secretary that Kubelik is only the latest of Sheldrake’s conquests. This provides a layer of subtext to the scene once Baxter returns. He’s flirting with Kubelik, showing off a bowler hat he’s bought. She’s trying to be nice, but we know she’s heartbroken at the recent revelation.
Then the compact makes a reappearance. Kubelik brings it out to show Baxter what he looks like in his hat. When Baxter sees the crack, the audience knows that Baxter now knows Kubelik is Sheldrake’s mistress. Baxter doesn’t say anything, but the revelation adds a new layer of subtext to the scene. The dialogue in this scene is about Baxter’s promotion and new hat, but the subtext is about Kubelik and Baxter’s heartbreaks, the latter revealed entirely through the visual use of the compact.
Don’t miss the exceptional subtlety of this. Kubelik doesn’t know Baxter knows her secret. By using the meaningful object, the writers have allowed the audience to follow this revelation without the need for a separate scene to explain it in dialogue.
Imagine how the writers’ thought process may have gone: They knew they needed Baxter to learn about Kubelik and Sheldrake, but didn’t want it to be through dialogue. So they came up with the idea for the compact, which had the advantage of allowing the revelation to happen in a scene that includes Kubelik’s character, creating subtext. The writers then had to figure out how to plant the compact and had the idea to have Baxter return it to Sheldrake. Finally they had to figure out a way for the audience to recognize the compact and came up with the cracked mirror.
The second example I’d like to discuss is in Notorious (written by Ben Hecht), and the meaningful object is the key to a wine cellar. The story is about Alicia, the daughter of a Nazi turned U.S. government spy, who has married a Nazi living in Brazil named Sebastian in order to uncover a secret plan. Alicia’s U.S. handler is Devlin, and they’ve fallen in love. Alicia has learned that something is being kept in Sebastian’s wine cellar, but it’s locked and she doesn’t have the key. Alicia and Devlin plot to sneak into the wine cellar during a party at the house.
The key is introduced when Alicia slips it off Sebastian’s key ring while they get ready for the party. She’s almost caught – Sebastian comes in just as she gets the key off of the ring and takes both her hands, the key clutched in her right fist. Sebastian kisses her left palm and moves to kiss her right one. To avoid him discovering the key, Alicia throws her arms around him and drops the key behind his back, then kicks it safely under a table.
The reason for the key is inherent in our heroes’ plot to get into the wine cellar, but this introduction with a moment of suspense cements the key’s importance in our mind. The suspense continues during the party as Alicia and Devlin try to get to the wine cellar before the butler runs out of wine and has to go down for more. The complication is that Sebastian is jealous of Alicia and doesn’t like seeing her with Devlin.
Alicia and Devlin finally manage to slip down to the wine cellar and find the clue they’re looking for, but the wine runs out upstairs and Sebastian and the butler head down. As Devlin and Alicia leave the wine cellar and head out a back door, Devlin notices that Sebastian has seen them. Devlin grabs Alicia and kisses her. When Sebastian comes outside to confront them, Alicia claims Devlin tricked her outside and forced her to kiss him. Devlin is kicked out of the party and it seems our heroes have gotten away with their plot.
Here is where the key makes its reappearance – or rather doesn’t make its reappearance. Sebastian and the butler go to the wine cellar. Sebastian pulls out his key ring… and discovers the key is gone. We see on his face that he’s put two and two together and figured out our heroes’ trick. He turns to the butler and says they should just give the guests liquor and champagne. The information has been delivered visually, adding subtext to the mundane dialogue with the butler at the end of the scene, all because of the use of the key as a meaningful object.
If you have a scene with on-the-nose dialogue or you need to give a character information, consider creating a meaningful object. You’ll need to figure out how to introduce the object and imbue it with the necessary meaning. But once you do that, you can use the object to create powerful scenes layered with subtext.
Have your own favorite example of a meaningful object? Share it in the comments!
--
Check out my book: The Three Stages of Screenwriting
“In the crowded field of scriptwriting how-to books, Doug Eboch’s The Three Stages of Screenwriting is a standout and a must-read. Why? Three solid reasons: He really, truly knows what he’s talking about. It will help everyone, from novice to pro, become a better writer. And, most impressive of all, it is entertaining as hell - as engaging and fun to read as one of Doug’s scripts.”
-Ross LaManna (Rush Hour)
Monday, February 15, 2016
The Disturbing Truth Behind Hollywood’s Record Year
You may have heard that Hollywood set a record for total domestic box office in 2015. And that the year included the two biggest openings of all time (Jurassic World and Star Wars: The Force Awakens). The industry is going gangbusters… or so it would seem.
As I read the various year-end box office analyses, I wondered how much of the record box office for 2015 is the result of Star Wars and Jurassic World? And how would the box office stack up to previous years if it weren’t for those two gigantic movies?
Of course, it’s not fair to remove the top two movies from one year and then compare it to the full box office of another year. But with a little quick research on boxofficemojo.com, I was able to calculate the box office for each of the last five years without the top two movies of that year, and then without the top five movies of that year. You can see the results in this table:
What I discovered is that when we look at everything below the top two movies, this year’s box office ranks fourth out of the last five years. When we look at everything below the top five movies, it is the worst year of the last five years.
But what does this really mean? After all, those top movies did come out each of those years. Well, consider that there are six major Hollywood studios. Not every studio can have one of the top five films. And nobody would operate a studio to score just one big hit. The hundreds of studio movies below the top five matter for the health of the industry. And the box office for those films was not so great last year.
Another little detail about 2015: a lot of big studio movies bombed. Victor Frankenstein had the worst opening for a studio release in 2,500 or more theaters. Jem and the Holograms had the worst start of all time for a major-studio release. We Are Your Friends had the worst opening for a Warner Brothers film released in more than 2,000 theaters. Sandra Bullock had the worst opening of her career (Our Brand is Crisis) and Johnny Depp had his worst opening in a wide release movie (Mordecai). The studios lost a lot of money on those five movies, which adds a little perspective to the five big hits.
It’s been widely discussed that the movie business is becoming bifurcated into gigantic franchise hits and small independent films. The mid-budget movie is vanishing as a studio product. It looks like the studios are engaged in an increasingly high risk/high reward game.
Why China May Not Be the Savior We’ve been Waiting For
Despite the trumpeting of 2015’s record box office, most people in Hollywood are aware that the domestic business has been pretty flat for years. And many of those Hollywood people are looking to China as the market that will keep the business growing. It is certainly true that U.S. studios are making a bigger and bigger share of their revenue internationally, and China is going to be the biggest international market very soon. There are some astonishing numbers – last year Chinese box office grew 48.7%. In 2015, Chinese box office was $6.79 billion, and is predicted to surpass the North American box office ($11 billion, as discussed above) in 2017. (source: The Hollywood Reporter)
But there are two reasons to temper excitement over these numbers.
First is U.S. market share of Chinese box office. In most foreign territories, U.S. films far outpace the domestic products. There are exceptions, such as India where Bollywood films are much more popular than Hollywood films. Unfortunately, when it comes to market share, China looks more like India than, say, Europe. Chinese films took 61% of Chinese box office in 2015. Only three U.S. films landed on China’s top 10 chart for the year. And while Chinese box office increased 49% in 2015, U.S. share of that box office fell 16%. This trend is likely to continue as the Chinese government aggressively bulks up their film production industry.
Second, people often confuse box office with studio revenue, forgetting that the exhibitors take a cut. In North America, studios usually get 50%-60% of the box office. In China, they only get about 25%.
So, as we see Chinese total box office grow, it’s important to remember that Chinese films are taking most of that money, and of the box office that is attributed to U.S. films, the value is about half what it would be in North America.
All of which means, there may be some bumpy roads ahead for Hollywood.
--
Master screenwriting with The Three Stages of Screenwriting
As I read the various year-end box office analyses, I wondered how much of the record box office for 2015 is the result of Star Wars and Jurassic World? And how would the box office stack up to previous years if it weren’t for those two gigantic movies?
Of course, it’s not fair to remove the top two movies from one year and then compare it to the full box office of another year. But with a little quick research on boxofficemojo.com, I was able to calculate the box office for each of the last five years without the top two movies of that year, and then without the top five movies of that year. You can see the results in this table:
What I discovered is that when we look at everything below the top two movies, this year’s box office ranks fourth out of the last five years. When we look at everything below the top five movies, it is the worst year of the last five years.
But what does this really mean? After all, those top movies did come out each of those years. Well, consider that there are six major Hollywood studios. Not every studio can have one of the top five films. And nobody would operate a studio to score just one big hit. The hundreds of studio movies below the top five matter for the health of the industry. And the box office for those films was not so great last year.
Another little detail about 2015: a lot of big studio movies bombed. Victor Frankenstein had the worst opening for a studio release in 2,500 or more theaters. Jem and the Holograms had the worst start of all time for a major-studio release. We Are Your Friends had the worst opening for a Warner Brothers film released in more than 2,000 theaters. Sandra Bullock had the worst opening of her career (Our Brand is Crisis) and Johnny Depp had his worst opening in a wide release movie (Mordecai). The studios lost a lot of money on those five movies, which adds a little perspective to the five big hits.
It’s been widely discussed that the movie business is becoming bifurcated into gigantic franchise hits and small independent films. The mid-budget movie is vanishing as a studio product. It looks like the studios are engaged in an increasingly high risk/high reward game.
Why China May Not Be the Savior We’ve been Waiting For
Despite the trumpeting of 2015’s record box office, most people in Hollywood are aware that the domestic business has been pretty flat for years. And many of those Hollywood people are looking to China as the market that will keep the business growing. It is certainly true that U.S. studios are making a bigger and bigger share of their revenue internationally, and China is going to be the biggest international market very soon. There are some astonishing numbers – last year Chinese box office grew 48.7%. In 2015, Chinese box office was $6.79 billion, and is predicted to surpass the North American box office ($11 billion, as discussed above) in 2017. (source: The Hollywood Reporter)
But there are two reasons to temper excitement over these numbers.
First is U.S. market share of Chinese box office. In most foreign territories, U.S. films far outpace the domestic products. There are exceptions, such as India where Bollywood films are much more popular than Hollywood films. Unfortunately, when it comes to market share, China looks more like India than, say, Europe. Chinese films took 61% of Chinese box office in 2015. Only three U.S. films landed on China’s top 10 chart for the year. And while Chinese box office increased 49% in 2015, U.S. share of that box office fell 16%. This trend is likely to continue as the Chinese government aggressively bulks up their film production industry.
Second, people often confuse box office with studio revenue, forgetting that the exhibitors take a cut. In North America, studios usually get 50%-60% of the box office. In China, they only get about 25%.
So, as we see Chinese total box office grow, it’s important to remember that Chinese films are taking most of that money, and of the box office that is attributed to U.S. films, the value is about half what it would be in North America.
All of which means, there may be some bumpy roads ahead for Hollywood.
--
Master screenwriting with The Three Stages of Screenwriting
Monday, February 8, 2016
Conceptual Synchronicity
(Spoilers: The Martian, Gravity, Raiders of the Lost Ark, Sicario, Spy)
Today I want to coin a term: Conceptual Synchronicity. I'm using this to describe when two parts of a story heighten each other.
I often discuss this in relation to the character/plot dynamic. The question we often ask is, “Why this character for this story?” There should be a core aspect of your main character that synchs up with your plot. You should ask yourself, who is the best character to be in this situation? Best could mean many things – it may be the character best qualified for the challenge, or the character worst qualified for the challenge, or the character whose core belief would be challenged by some aspect of the story.
Let’s look at some examples.
In The Martian (screenplay by Drew Goddard), Matt Watney is an accomplished scientist and an optimist. He is the only type of person who could survive being stranded on Mars with limited resources. The conceptual symmetry in this story is taking someone who is extremely competent, and then putting them in a situation that poses a challenge even to their competence.
This is somewhat the opposite approach to the one taken in Gravity (written by Alfonso & Jonas Cuaron). Though the situation is similar, in this story Ryan Stone is a neophyte astronaut who has lost purpose in her life. She is the least qualified astronaut (admittedly, still a highly qualified category of people) to survive a disaster in space. And the situation she finds herself in will challenge her to decide how badly she wants to live.
Raiders of the Lost Ark (story by George Lucas and Philip Kaufman, screenplay by Lawrence Kasdan) combines both approaches. Who is the most qualified person to race against Nazis on a hunt for the Ark of the Covenant? An archeologist who is skilled with a gun and bullwhip. But Indiana Jones also doesn’t believe in the religious/supernatural aspects of the object of the quest, making him in some ways the worst person for the job. Ultimately he will come to question his non-belief in the climax of the story.
Sicario (written by Taylor Sheridan) is about the moral grey areas in the war on drugs along the Mexican border. Who is the best character to put into that situation? Sheridan chose an ethical, by-the-book police officer. When this character is thrown into this morally ambiguous world, she will find it difficult to figure out the right thing to do.
In a completely different genre, Spy (written by Paul Feig) places a frumpy, unglamorous desk jockey into the world of espionage, getting humor from the fish-out-of-water situation. Feig has built a character completely unsuited to the James Bond-like environment (while still giving her enough skills to succeed).
Note that synchronicity doesn’t mean symmetry. Often the thing that gives you conceptual synchronicity is opposition. This can create dramatic irony (such as in Sicario) or comedic irony (such as in Spy).
The idea of conceptual synchronicity doesn’t just apply to the basic concept of your story. You should ask yourself what is the best/worst choice for every major story element. And the possibilities should be evaluated in relation to your other story elements. In Spy, they make the villain a beautiful, glamorous, sophisticated international arms dealer – the conceptual opposite of the heroine.
In The Martian, Watney’s improvisational problem solving and faith in his ability is contrasted with the bureaucrats back on Earth with their cautious risk analysis and PR concerns. The two approaches to the situation provide a conceptual synchronicity that adds thematic depth to the story.
You can apply this theory on a scene level as well. In Raiders of the Lost Ark, when Indiana Jones finds the Ark, it is in a room filled with snakes – his personal phobia. And in Sicario, when the lonely Kate finally pushes herself to try making a connection with a man, he betrays her, playing on her biggest insecurity.
In a way, the concept I’m calling conceptual synchronicity is simply asking yourself what is the most interesting choice in any situation, given the premise you’ve concocted. Making choices that resonate with other aspects of your story will increase the dramatic power of the entire script.
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Check out my book: The Three Stages of Screenwriting
“In the crowded field of scriptwriting how-to books, Doug Eboch’s The Three Stages of Screenwriting is a standout and a must-read. Why? Three solid reasons: He really, truly knows what he’s talking about. It will help everyone, from novice to pro, become a better writer. And, most impressive of all, it is entertaining as hell - as engaging and fun to read as one of Doug’s scripts.”
Today I want to coin a term: Conceptual Synchronicity. I'm using this to describe when two parts of a story heighten each other.
I often discuss this in relation to the character/plot dynamic. The question we often ask is, “Why this character for this story?” There should be a core aspect of your main character that synchs up with your plot. You should ask yourself, who is the best character to be in this situation? Best could mean many things – it may be the character best qualified for the challenge, or the character worst qualified for the challenge, or the character whose core belief would be challenged by some aspect of the story.
Let’s look at some examples.
In The Martian (screenplay by Drew Goddard), Matt Watney is an accomplished scientist and an optimist. He is the only type of person who could survive being stranded on Mars with limited resources. The conceptual symmetry in this story is taking someone who is extremely competent, and then putting them in a situation that poses a challenge even to their competence.
This is somewhat the opposite approach to the one taken in Gravity (written by Alfonso & Jonas Cuaron). Though the situation is similar, in this story Ryan Stone is a neophyte astronaut who has lost purpose in her life. She is the least qualified astronaut (admittedly, still a highly qualified category of people) to survive a disaster in space. And the situation she finds herself in will challenge her to decide how badly she wants to live.
Raiders of the Lost Ark (story by George Lucas and Philip Kaufman, screenplay by Lawrence Kasdan) combines both approaches. Who is the most qualified person to race against Nazis on a hunt for the Ark of the Covenant? An archeologist who is skilled with a gun and bullwhip. But Indiana Jones also doesn’t believe in the religious/supernatural aspects of the object of the quest, making him in some ways the worst person for the job. Ultimately he will come to question his non-belief in the climax of the story.
Sicario (written by Taylor Sheridan) is about the moral grey areas in the war on drugs along the Mexican border. Who is the best character to put into that situation? Sheridan chose an ethical, by-the-book police officer. When this character is thrown into this morally ambiguous world, she will find it difficult to figure out the right thing to do.
In a completely different genre, Spy (written by Paul Feig) places a frumpy, unglamorous desk jockey into the world of espionage, getting humor from the fish-out-of-water situation. Feig has built a character completely unsuited to the James Bond-like environment (while still giving her enough skills to succeed).
Note that synchronicity doesn’t mean symmetry. Often the thing that gives you conceptual synchronicity is opposition. This can create dramatic irony (such as in Sicario) or comedic irony (such as in Spy).
The idea of conceptual synchronicity doesn’t just apply to the basic concept of your story. You should ask yourself what is the best/worst choice for every major story element. And the possibilities should be evaluated in relation to your other story elements. In Spy, they make the villain a beautiful, glamorous, sophisticated international arms dealer – the conceptual opposite of the heroine.
In The Martian, Watney’s improvisational problem solving and faith in his ability is contrasted with the bureaucrats back on Earth with their cautious risk analysis and PR concerns. The two approaches to the situation provide a conceptual synchronicity that adds thematic depth to the story.
You can apply this theory on a scene level as well. In Raiders of the Lost Ark, when Indiana Jones finds the Ark, it is in a room filled with snakes – his personal phobia. And in Sicario, when the lonely Kate finally pushes herself to try making a connection with a man, he betrays her, playing on her biggest insecurity.
In a way, the concept I’m calling conceptual synchronicity is simply asking yourself what is the most interesting choice in any situation, given the premise you’ve concocted. Making choices that resonate with other aspects of your story will increase the dramatic power of the entire script.
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Check out my book: The Three Stages of Screenwriting
“In the crowded field of scriptwriting how-to books, Doug Eboch’s The Three Stages of Screenwriting is a standout and a must-read. Why? Three solid reasons: He really, truly knows what he’s talking about. It will help everyone, from novice to pro, become a better writer. And, most impressive of all, it is entertaining as hell - as engaging and fun to read as one of Doug’s scripts.”
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