Breakfast with Sharks Read online

Plays designed for the theater and converted to the big screen. Think of Mel Gibson’s Hamlet, which might have been called Dis Dane! if the project had been produced by Jerry Bruckheimer.

  Comic books. Two of the following three projects originated from comic books. Can you guess which one didn’t? Men In Black, X-Men, and Sophie’s Choice.

  Journalism: newspapers or magazines. The Rookie first appeared as a newspaper story.

  Of course, such speculation involves inherently long odds. As stated earlier, something like 50,000 scripts are registered with the Writers Guild of America (WGA) each year; however, you can bet that about 90 percent of those scripts will be poorly written retreads of successful movies that came out the year before. So you can rise immediately to the top 10 percent of all screenwriters simply by avoiding that trap. Remember that the top 5 percent of scripts registered with the WGA in a given year are the only ones that will receive monetary compensation, and you can enhance your odds 100 percent by just using the standard Hollywood three-act storytelling of setup, complication, and resolution to express what is otherwise your own story and unique perspective. Of course, both new and more experienced writers sometimes chafe at the limitations of such a rigid structure. As Ken Dancyger and Jeffrey Rush point out in their excellent book Alternative Scriptwriting: Successfully Breaking the Rules, there are philosophical limitations to the three-act or “restorative” three-act structure. With this storyline, your main character or protagonist must recognize and address a personal flaw or Achilles’ heel that impedes greatness and threatens to destroy him or her. For example, actors like Tom Cruise have created a cottage industry of stories about young men who must overcome the ghosts of their father in films like A Few Good Men, Top Gun, and Rain Man. Resolution of this internal struggle (“I deserve my own destiny!”) leads to a triumphant conquest of an external goal (saving the world, winning the game, vanquishing evil, having a loving relationship with others, etc.). Much like the Book of Job, the protagonist’s world is first destroyed and then “restored” to a higher level than when the story began. If you detect a bit of the “pull yourself up by your bootstraps” puritan work ethic and self-determinism that is the bedrock philosophy of our culture, you’re right. And such a paradigm may not jell well with a story about, say, Eastern culture, where events and circumstances are perceived to be well beyond the control of an individual. American movies as disparate as Memento and She’s Gotta Have It have eschewed three-act structure. All I can say is that if you decide upon another structure for your story, check out Alternative Scriptwriting and make sure you nail your story cold.

  LOW-BUDGET FILMMAKING AS ANOTHER WAY IN

  The low-budget, straight-to-video world is a good way to start working as a writer in Hollywood. Budgets generally range from $350,000 to $3 million, often arrived at by selling in advance the foreign distribution rights, literally based on who the actor is on the video cover. Certain B- and C-list, mainly action-oriented actors command a certain price in the foreign market place. Most of this kind of work is non–Writers Guild union, so a writer can anticipate compensation in the $20,000–40,000 range—far below WGA minimum standards. That sounds like a lot of money for a story about a vampire rock band, but your agent will take 10 percent and the tax man’s take is about 32 percent, leaving you with as little as $11,600 to live on. If, however, you can write fast and deliver a script in about three weeks, the endeavor can be quite lucrative.

  The following are some criteria for low-budget filmmaking:

  Limited locations save money and help with short shooting schedules that last only a couple of weeks versus the ten weeks or longer of a typical mainstream Hollywood production. A big-budget production team will consider shooting two pages of script in a single day to be a very good day. A low-budget crew must find a way to shoot as many as ten pages in the same amount of time.

  Limited use of computer-generated special effects (CGI), because they are very expensive. Instead, low-budget filmmakers like gunplay and car chases, because they are guaranteed adrenaline-inducing but cheap thrills.

  Horror, martial arts, and action are the predominant genres of low-budget films, so avoid submitting a romantic comedy as a writing sample unless the script happens to be Bride of Chuckie.

  Many LB projects are conceived with money in hand first (mainstream studio projects start with a piece of material and then financing). For example, a Hong Kong company partners with an American company to make a karate vampire movie for a budget of $1.5 million. Rather than attempting to read hundreds of spec scripts, the American producers may listen to a week or two’s worth of pitches before hiring a writer. That writer should be prepared to write very fast. Five to ten pages a day is a typical pace for a production schedule that may only be six weeks away.

  An element to consider here is the fact that many unsavory characters swim in the low-budget waters. Checks bounce or sometimes fail to arrive in this bottom-feeder’s netherworld of the industry, so a writer must go in with eyes wide open and research the company’s reputation in town and over the Internet. For example, the MO of one producer I’ve come across is to start production on three movies simultaneously, all the while well aware that he has financing in place for one. Crews are already hard at work when the checks stop coming or start bouncing, and so are forced to make the painful decision whether or not to work for free in hopes of compensation from the finished product. When enough ill will and creditors have built up, the producer simply disbands the company and, with his limited-liability protection, starts up a new one. People are always desperate to break in to the business, so very soon the producer is fully staffed for a new set of projects. Everyone in the industry knows about this character, but people who fail to ask around will pay the price.

  On the other hand, low-budget Hollywood films can be a great training ground. I can honestly say I have tried to elevate every one of my “gene-spliced lizard people addicted to ozone” assignments above the ordinary fare. It’s important not to be condescending about taking on one of these projects. Remember that the humble, low-budget Piranha (the 1978 version) was directed by Joe Dante from a script by John Sayles. One key to landing these assignments is never to project an attitude that says, “I consider myself way too good for this kind of work.” One time I received a message from a talented colleague who stated that he was going through some rough times professionally, and was now “willing to take a cabana boy assignment” if I knew of one. In response, I offered to do what I could, but knew that the writer’s poor attitude would never see him past the initial meeting with a low-budget producer.

  THE PITFALLS OF TRYING TO WRITE FOR THE MARKET

  Screenwriters are nothing if not resilient risk-takers, so if you say that it only requires one script to knock down the walls of Jericho, you’re right. However, writing specs designed specifically to chase the capricious market is a mistake. One studio reader tells me that ninety percent of the hundreds of scripts he covers each year fall into this category. So the question remains, “How does one particular script, your script, rise above others and be the one?” Director Sidney Lumet answers with a series of what questions in his excellent book, Making Movies : “What is this movie about? . . . What is it about emotionally? What is the theme, the spine, the arc? . . . What does the movie mean to me?” In other words, “Is there a voice?” The unsolicited spec is your best opportunity to put something of yourself on the page.

  The best solution to the “specs taste great”/“assignments are filling” debate is to pitch on projects that interest you (your agent should have boards on every project in development in Hollywood, and will pursue projects closest to your aesthetic). With a little luck, assignments can tide you over financially, even as you continue to write your own stories. These specs should be less encumbered by market considerations. To that end, my own personal goal is to write market-driven material for six months of the year, and for the other six months to write or produce independent films that have Hollywood-level
craftsmanship.

  WHO OWNS WHAT YOU WRITE?

  The answer is, “You do . . . until the moment you sell it.” Of all artistic pursuits, only the screenwriter loses intellectual proprietorship of his finished work. Someone else literally owns the scenes, and the very words we write, and can mold them in any way they see fit. Imagine if Kenny G bought the rights to Beethoven’s Fifth and proceeded to rewrite the symphony until the point where he could claim creative authorship, or if a Louvre curator used Crayolas to increase The Mona Lisa’s bustline, then renamed her Moaning Leeza to boost ticket sales. Many producers and execs are motivated to help the writer realize his vision. But this is not always the case. Take, for example, a co-opting process in which J. F. Lawton’s poignant and bittersweet screenplay about decaying urban life and a Cinderella fantasy gone wrong was transformed into Disney’s hooker-with-a-heart-of-marzipan-feel-good-flick-for-the-whole-family-megahit Pretty Woman. Although the commercial viability of Lawton’s original concept is debatable, the point is that the transformation from pure art to pure market occurred despite Lawton’s very public protestations. Along with the collaborative nature of film, such loss of ownership comes thanks to Hollywood’s Golden Era of the Studio System, which made writers into apprentices and contract craftsmen. I have experienced this situation firsthand after rejecting a producer’s request for a free rewrite of a pivotal scene in my optioned script (I had already given several freebies—“taking one for the team,” as the producer called it). Following my refusal, this producer simply removed the entire scene (leaving a gaping hole at the end of the first act), then submitted the work around town. The result confused readers, and the producer was eventually forced to return to the previous draft. The only way to protect yourself from such an experience is to know as much as possible about the company with which you will be doing business. What is their track record of produced projects (check out credits on the Internet Movie Database (imdb.com), or ask around. What kind of projects do they have in development? Check the Done Deal message board at http://pub130.ezboard.com/bdonedeal for writers who have worked with these producers. Unfortunately, once you’re under contract, there’s little you can do to protect the integrity of your work aside from ensuring that you have a buy-back clause in your sale contract if the producer fails to put the project into production by a specified time period, usually a few years. Then, as the buy-back opportunity draws near, you can shop the project as you envision it to other producers who may be willing to pick up the soon-to-be-previous producer’s development costs on the script. Beverly Hills Ninja was one film that went through this process. Of course, rights will automatically revert back to you if the project has been optioned or “rented.”

  5

  SECTION 215: SPECS AND ASSIGNMENTS

  What Is a Spec?

  Specs vs. Assignments

  How to Turn Specs into Assignments

  What Kinds of Assignments Should You Take?

  The Weekend Read

  Post-Weekend-Read Notes

  EXTRA CREDIT READING:

  Screenplay: Writing the Picture by Robin Russin and William Missouri Downs

  Writing is easy. All you do is stare at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead.

  —GENE FOWLER

  WHAT IS A SPEC?

  Spec screenplays are original source material written by a writer not under contract who “speculates” that he or she will create a market for a particular project by writing it. Specs are scripts for movies that no one has paid you to write, but that you believe might entice someone to purchase the finished project. Remember that voice in Field of Dreams ? “If you build it, they will come.” A writer working on a spec relies on that same concept, except that at this exact second, about 50,000 other people besides you and Kevin Costner are hearing that voice. And they all believe that a spec is a lottery ticket to fame, wealth, and excitement. At this writing, the top fee that has been paid for a spec is $4 million for Panic Room. Despite what you hear about scripts being churned out over a long weekend or bus ride from Newark to Trenton, good specs take time to create. Unfortunately, time is the one luxury none of us has, especially in Hollywood, where time is measured at twenty-four frames per second.

  Of course, you may spend months on a script for which there will be no buyer is a risk, hence speculation. That’s because some ideas are deemed to be commercially unviable enterprises for a mass audience. For example, the courtship of James and Dolley Madison has very limited appeal, but even without such marketability, a spec is the best means to show what you can do. A screenplay polished to perfection is the way to gain access to key decision-makers who are constantly seeking that one wild-card plot or character element that the studio can use to freshen up an otherwise formulaic project. For example, Die Hard had a blue-collar cop with a penchant for Will Rogers and family values battling suave and ruthless German thieves. Without such unique elements, Die Hard would be no different from dozens of other heist movies. If you can consistently deliver such elements, that will be your calling card.

  SPECS VS. ASSIGNMENTS

  Beginning writers are encouraged to “write what you know or what you’re passionate about,” but the logic doesn’t seem to jibe with a Hollywood determined to churn out high-concept fare. Often the realities of the marketplace do not correlate with such passion, and the writer’s voice may be lost during a struggle between the commercial and the personal. Indeed, the script-to-film developmental process is such a rollercoaster ride that sometimes we forget why we even became writers.

  You may have spent two years perfecting your spec script before it ever saw the market. If you intend to get assignments, however, you have to be willing to work fast. Usually drafts of assignments are turned in within a time frame of ten to sixteen weeks. For example, my very first studio writing assignment was for Miramax Studios, a place that is notorious for hands-on development, or for extremely intrusive micromanagement, depending on your perspective. Assignments occur when a studio or production company owns a project or has an idea for a movie, but needs a screenwriter to develop it into a screenplay. Potential writers are selected via writing samples and past credits. These hopeful scribes are paraded through like a conga line of harem girls—each must “pitch” or tell to a producer or studio executive various possible story lines that might be suitable for the existing project or concept the producing entity would like to bring to the screen. These pitches can last from as little as a minute and a half to forty-five minutes, which can feel like an endurance test. In my own case, after driving hard to get the gig over a two-month period—sometimes pitching a new take on the project as often as three times in a week—I was then asked by the head of production to turn in Act One (the first thirty pages) in two weeks.

  Where Do Assignments Come From?

  Relatively few spec scripts sell in a given year, so most working writers make money by doing assignments from concepts that are not their own. The ideas for these assignments usually come from three sources: material previously acquired that is still in development; ideas generated by executives and producers themselves; adaptations of novels, magazine and newspaper articles, or plays.

  For the working professional screenwriter, an argument can be made that competence and craft are more important than a singular point of view. In this case there is a clear distinction between specs and assignments. Often the demands of the assignment dictate the form and style. Assignment writers go about their business with expert, craftsmanlike efficiency. The average filmgoer would be hard pressed to correlate The Joy Luck Club with Rain Man or My Best Friend’s Wedding, but they are the work of a single writer, Ron Bass. Undeniably, the very best screenwriters have elements of voice by virtue of their ability to assimilate many environments and points of view, and to encompass disparate genres and subject matter. The best writers understand the demands of studio writing: the numerous story meetings and eyes over the shoulder; rewriting fellow scribes while acquiescing to di
rectors and star talent. Often these writers are brought in to a project in the last stages of preproduction to script-doctor an element or two into the work of another writer. At this phase, millions of dollars, as well as careers, are at stake, so the pressure is enormous. The payoff for such a skill is indeed lucrative, but this kind of writer is anonymous outside of a sliver of the industry.

  Nailing down what’s missing in someone’s project is called cracking the story. Writers who land assignments regularly must be able to quickly mix and match story elements, often while the producer is sitting before them. Note that some professional writers prefer assignments because the groundwork for shaping the story and characters has already been done. All that’s required are a few elements that are the particular writer’s specialty. For example, perhaps a script that is otherwise tight lacks quips or one-liners. At other times a writer who specializes in giving stories emotional resonance may be called in to “punch up” a story, as in a science-fiction script, that is gadget-laden and complex.

  Working writers also take assignments because they’re guaranteed a paycheck and aren’t subjected to the ever-changing whims of the marketplace. Such screenwriters aren’t as emotionally invested in the project’s outcome, either. The downside is the difficulty of making a story “your own,” particularly when much of the work has already been done by someone else, and many people will be telling you what to write next. Such projects can have a nine-to-five workaday feel that may chafe those who chose writing as an escape from such a world. Further, much assignment work is market-driven, as in “Disney owns the rights to this franchise and wants to make a sequel,” or “We have money and a space in our schedule for a teen slasher project.” Again, such projects may be less than satisfying creatively. And while spec markets have a sky’s-the-limit California Gold Rush feel, fees for assignments are more rigidly defined by a studio or producer’s budget and are usually far less lucrative. While a complete unknown can pen a script that could potentially sell for a million dollars, a working writer may be limited to the amount of his or her last assignment plus 15 percent (basically a raise for landing a second project). An agent may refer to this amount as his client’s “price.” So a writer paid $100,000 on an assignment can ask for $115,000 on the next. Of course, the studio may have allocated only $70,000 for a rewrite, and you will have a tough decision to make. If it gets out that you worked for a much lower quote, then studios will try to get you for that lower amount. Your agent will be challenged to come up with a reason why you accepted the lower amount, as in “He wrote that for half his price because Tri-Star is giving him first crack at their Wendy Witch project.” But, usually, executives will save time and trouble by only bringing in writers of a certain level and price range, and you will soon be familiar with all the other writers on your level. Thus, it’s doubtful that you’ll run into legendary writer William Goldman (Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid) in the reception area also waiting to pitch on Evil Sock Puppets II. Personally, I once found myself going head-to-head with the same writer on three projects in two years. I landed the first, he the second, and neither of us got the third.