Breakfast with Sharks Read online

  Deadlines can be generated by circumstances beyond the script when working on assignment. The studio may have a bankable star (a recognizable actor like Brad Pitt, whose participation in the project guarantees a certain level of publicity, audience anticipation, and budgetary commitment by the studio) or director under contract who is only available during a certain window of time. For example, say Denzel Washington is only available for three weeks in November before moving on to another movie for which he is under contract. Or the studio may have a space in its release schedule, say May, so it needs to fill that spot with a film shot in September. Given the constraints of time and energy to make such a deadline, it is no wonder that movies are such a pragmatic art.

  The writer’s Pyrrhic victory from surviving such pressure is finally realizing the dream of seeing his or her work on the big screen. I should tell you that at that exact second of the above studio assignment, I had no more than the three-page outline and only a whiff of a clue where to go from there. The prospect of two weeks to turn in thirty to forty pages of story that would be scrutinized by executives on both coasts had me apoplectic. You see, the story I’d sold the studio had been reworked and revised at least a dozen times in the space of a month. In other words, I had nothing more than a rough concept that my REM-addled mind had burned rubber on at 5:30 a.m. the very morning I pitched it as the latest installment of “Michael Lent hangs on desperately to land this assignment.” But many of us ultimately thrive on and do our best work under such pressure. If that isn’t the case for you, then that is another reason to keep writing specs.

  HOW TO TURN SPECS INTO ASSIGNMENTS

  Excellent specs that tell a story well or have a strong voice, but are hampered by a perceived limited appeal to a mass audience, are considered to be “writing samples.” Such work can still get you work on more-mainstream Hollywood projects. It’s an exec’s job to be acquainted with writers doing interesting work. Often a development person will bring you in seemingly to tell you how much they loved your script, but then lament the impossible realities of actually getting such a project made. Actually, the exec is trying to ascertain whether you have or are open to more-commercial fare. This is how spec writing often turns into assignment writing.

  To turn specs into assignments, your goal is to be prepared with the following:

  1. A list of all your existing projects, each of which can be described in a sentence or two.

  2. A list of projects on the executive’s development slate (see Chapter 9 for how to obtain this).

  3. A list of completed films produced by the production company, so that you have sense of budget and content considerations. Obviously, you don’t want to discuss your groundbreaking nineteenth-century Hopi Indian project with a company that makes teen comedies.

  Streamlining the presentation of your work is crucial, but be prepared to open closed doors and provide details if called upon to do so. There’s really no faking preparation.

  I once submitted to Miramax Films a character-driven screenplay that had recently fallen out of option with the previous production company. My manager stated up front that we would not accept an option on the project. In other words, all outright purchase of the script or nothing. Within two weeks, the script went all the way to the top, came back down, and we got nothing. End of story? No. The script was liked by several execs, and my manager had the foresight to request a meeting to discuss the project, even if the result was a pass. Since passes are typical for scripts that do not already have the elements of known director, producer, or star attached, the reasons for rejection often have no bearing on the talent of the writer or merit of the project. Thus it’s in your best interest to get over the initial disappointment and awkwardness (remember that the exec championing your project has lost some face), and begin building the long-term relationship as quickly as possible.

  So, this kind of meeting at the studio begins with a discussion of the merits of the passed-on spec and some circumspect analysis of the nature of the pass. Next comes the other project at hand. The exec’s main objective here is to determine whether this particular writer understands the mythology and lexicon that distinguishes the project as marketable. Once it’s established that you “get it,” further information about the project is dispensed. Your objective should be to adapt to a new story line as quickly as possible each time a concern or agenda is raised by the executive. And the best way to “adapt” is to stay loose and calm, not sweat small details of the story, and not be “married” or beholden to any one specific element, like how a main character should be defined. Strive for fluidity. Note that adapting is not the same as being a rubber-stamp yes-man. No studio exec worth his Platinum AmEx expense account wants his thoughts parroted back verbatim. A writer quickly learns that the court-stenographer method of developing material often leads to disaster. Instead, immediately embellish anything that seems to excite the exec. Take the good ideas and make them great.

  The process of acquiring a coveted assignment can be tough. However, despite enormous difficulties, here is a seven-point strategy to turn your specs into assignments:

  1. Understand that a spec that garners some interest but no sale is a powerful entrée.

  2. If a producer contacts you about a writing sample, request a meeting to discuss this project and others—even if you live outside L.A. and must pay your own way.

  3. Meet-and-greets are the lubricant of the industry. Execs must maintain relationships with material sources (writers) at all times, even though they may only have the capacity to hire a tiny handful of the many people they meet.

  4. Arrive at your meeting with a couple of other film ideas to pitch.

  5. During the meeting, find out specifically what the exec liked about your script. Later, casually ask what else the exec is excited about working on these days.

  6. All production people enjoy discussing their slate. Following that discussion, segue back to the particular strengths of your own spec. If the exec mentioned that your dialogue was memorable, now is the time to say, “I’m sure you’ll put me on the short list if you need a dialogue pass on [X] project.” It may seem like some kind of Jedi mind trick, but long after the exec has forgotten the specific script you were brought in on (and they will), you will be remembered as that “dialogue guru,” “action scene specialist,” etc. I have even heard of producers saying to their staff after such a meeting, “That writer is really great. What do we have around here?” In that situation, the company had passed on the writer’s spec but was looking to bring in a beginning scribe for a $10,000 or $20,000 assignment on owned material, just to build the relationship.

  7. If you don’t have representation, ask if the exec likes any of the agents with whom he or she is dealing. This is a bone many execs will gladly throw.

  WHAT KINDS OF ASSIGNMENTS SHOULD YOU TAKE?

  The Secret About Assignments

  Many writers only tolerate spec writing as an escalator to what they assume will be the more secure and financially lucrative world of assignment writing for production companies and the studio. Often that’s not the case. Not long ago, a friend who had sold a high-profile spec was being inundated with assignment offers. All of the potential projects seemed well below his talent. “But the money is right there!” he pleaded. When we hooked up again a few months later, I asked which project he had chosen. “None,” he said. “I chased a couple and went to a bunch of meetings. I’m back working on my new spec.” We shared a lament about the dirty secret of assignments: They often require lots of free work and can take months and months to lock down. The reason is that a producer may know that a project has problems, but has no clear idea of how to fix them. So writers are brought in by the dozens for their “take,” or potential story suggestions, on a new version of the story. This can be a difficult and protracted process for the writer, since some producers have little more in the way of discernment than “I know the right one when I hear it.” And when a producer does shout “Eureka!”
he or she still has to convince the studio that this is the right take. That’s no easy task, either. Abandoning your own writing of spec scripts in favor of assignments can negatively impact your career.

  “Our project is Seven meets American Pie with a Terms of Endearment twist. We already have the script, it just needs a polish. Interested?”

  Here I assume that money is either not an issue, or is the only issue for you. Maybe you’ve just sold your first spec. Maybe you’re coming off an assignment and need a new project. Maybe you’ve been approached by a would-be producer in a writer chat room. Or maybe you’re mainlining classic Syd Field three-act structure, while dreaming about any one of these scenarios. When you are working on an existing project that has a profile bigger than a dung beetle mound, inevitably you will be offered such commerce-driven assignments as the above at the production company or studio level, or at least asked to pitch them. Should you take the above-offered Seven Terms of Pi? Or should you pass on the e-z $$$ and finish that new spec? It depends. Can you do both? Some writers don’t work that way. More than any other factor, your decision should be based on your nature and work habits. Of course, the amount of money involved is a big determinant, but so is the amount of time required.

  Recently I was offered a “polish assignment,” or what is often referred to as script doctoring. The project was a novel-turned-script that was billed as a cross between The Fugitive, James Bond (pick any one), and Eraser. I took the existing script home after meeting with the producer. Actually, I didn’t even make it out of the parking lot. Right from page one, in my estimation, it was clear that the project was definitely not a polish (a final tweak of the dialogue and story elements that will make a screenplay ready for production). Besides a bland protagonist, there were abundant structural problems to go along with the threadbare, hackneyed story line. While a tongue-in-cheek tone would at least have made things more festive, instead, formulaic action scenes dragged on like the Siege of Leningrad. Conflict was manufactured in Spam-like blocks, and dialogue flowed like a groin pull. The compensation offered was mid- to high five figures ($50,000–$99,000), which is not bad— especially for what was billed as a four-to-six-week polish. It was nice money at this stage of my career.

  I passed for two reasons. First, there was little chance the producers and I would ever be on the same page, especially since we already didn’t agree on the project’s condition, and the source novelist who did the initial script drafts was also on board as an executive producer. Second, I wasn’t willing to take four to six months out of my life, the amount of time I figured it would require to make the project somewhat viable. Admittedly, the initial elation that came from having the guts to turn down a purported sure thing was soon replaced by my fear of the unknown. What if I was wrong and the script was better than I thought? What if I woke up tomorrow with a “U” sutured into the side of my head like that astronaut in Planet of the Apes, and no one ever hired me again? Why didn’t I just clean up one or two elements and leave the rest be? Is it ethical to do dermabrasion when a quadruple bypass is required? There were many questions. Luckily, life goes on. A week later I felt fine about my choice, and started work on a new spec I was very excited about. A few days after that, a production company optioned another of my scripts. So all was well in the end.

  Many writers will be quick to note that anytime you’re being paid to flex your pen is a happy occurrence. They’re right. However, the flip side to that argument is that a writer’s career is finite. We all come with invisible bar-code expiration dates on the backs of our heads. Most of us don’t spend our nights dreaming of a chance to write Count Chocula: The Movie. (Note to self: concept could be a gold mine. Must flesh out.) So finding the balance between commerce, craft, and artistic expression is crucial. There are chutes and ladders whether you choose to chase work or create on your own. Few writers would like to be mired in straight-to-video Purgatorio forever, no matter how financially lucrative it might be. Meanwhile, too many writers choose to hide behind craft and leave their voice off the page, while allowing their careers to oscillate between fear and complacence. A crucial question to ask yourself is: Could any excrement-hurling gibbon at the zoo complete this assignment? If your specific expertise isn’t required, and it’s not do or die in your wallet, move on. Don’t forget that the alluring power of spec writing is the blank page. That applies whether or not you’ve sold your previous projects.

  THE WEEKEND READ

  Friday through Sunday is the time that executives use to catch up on incoming scripts, aka “the weekend read.” The exec’s objective is to take a look at the week’s best half-dozen or so scripts in preparation for discussion during the creative team’s Monday-morning meeting. As a writer, if you’re turning in an assignment, your goal is to make the weekend read. Otherwise, a script turned in Monday morning will most likely sit on an exec’s desk until the following weekend, unless it is a high priority for the studio. If the production company or studio has development teams in Los Angeles and New York or Canada, as is the case with Miramax, the pressure to catch the weekend read increases exponentially because you also have to make the overnight pouch to other teams outside of L.A. In that case the deadline is pushed up to Thursday morning.

  Writers are constantly rushing to make these deadlines because, if you don’t, you find yourself in a situation where a cranky exec has to read your project midweek, in addition to his or her normal load of twelve- and fourteen-hour days involving other projects on the slate, which all require budgets, screenings, casting, shmoozing, etc. Worse, if your project has a lower priority than everything else on the slate, you will miss the window and will be pushed to the following weekend read. That means you will race to make a deadline, miss it, and then wait. Such a situation translates into your being on hold for a week, with that horrible feeling that you will have to make up the time later, in a frenetic flurry of writing during “Crunch Time,” which is the period when time is short because the script is needed for production.

  POST-WEEKEND-READ NOTES

  The Most Common Notes from Execs and Producers After the Weekend Read

  1. Protag (protagonist) feels opaque. Make him more compelling and less reactive. (Many writers create heroes who have either too much backstory or too little. A good protag operates in the moment with an eye for the future.)

  2. Ratchet up the stakes. (If a single family is in peril, the producer will want the jeopardy to be more amplified and universal.)

  3. Second act feels flat and confusing. (The middle part of a script is the toughest part to write because it entails character development and playing out subplots. Many second acts tend to meander and sag until jolted into action by the fast and furious finish of Act Three.)

  4. Beats are off. Compress story. (Most first drafts are flabby because you’re still trying to find your way in each scene.)

  Most writers will try to anticipate the sorts of notes they will receive from execs after the weekend read in order to avoid the worst aspects of Crunch Time. Notes can be extremely annoying. They are an inevitable part of turning your spec into an assignment.

  Notice that you can cede most Common Notes to the execs because they’re usually the first things you’d change if you just had a few days of quality sleep. Often, even before the notes come back, you’re off and running again. Difficult as this process can be, don’t look for outside help to bail you out. Buckle down.

  Although particularly odious to a writer’s creative process, it’s not unusual for a scriptor to be pressured into submitting work in sections. However, once you’ve proven yourself, you won’t get micro-managed quite as often. But in the meantime, don’t look for your agent or manager for help. As will be discussed in greater depth in Chapter 13, the main job of your representation is to keep things moving smoothly between you and the gatekeepers. Always remember that even though they represent you, the client, they still have to maintain their relationship with the studio, no matter what happens. Such gray
areas of conflict of interest are part of the entertainment business. Agents really represent the industry, and their attentions are heavily stacked in the industry’s favor, so they’ll patiently listen to your rants and offer to put in a call to the film executive, which will go something like this:

  AGENT

  How was Fiji?

  EXEC

  Bunjee surfing. You gotta try it, bro’.