The deal with the audience

Many people put their faith in charismatic individuals who embody a value they wish they had themselves. The strong leader, the wise guru, the energetic motivator, the happy-go-lucky celebrity, etc.

The same can be said of the way believers find strength in religious images or personalities. It’s also true of the positive side of the therapeutic relationship.

All these situations have in common that an individual vicariously experiences the love, strength, determination, courage or whatever it is they feel they lack. Of course this vicarious experience is a bit of an oxymoron. You can’t really have an emotion without … well, having the emotion.

By attributing the feeling or trait to an external figure, an individual allows that repressed or underdeveloped aspect of themselves to express itself safely. It’s not them feeling brave or loving, it’s God, Saint Bono, their yoga instructor, etc.

Does this sound a little like what happens when you see a really great movie? No coincidence. It’s the same mechanism at work here too. Which is why a main character has to be designed in such a way that the audience can experience their emotions while keeping up the pretence that it’s the character on the screen who is being brave, loving, terrified, etc.

Whether the audience does anything with the emotions they permitted themselves to feel, is their business. But if the film makes them experience compassion, courage, self-confidence or whatever else, it proves the film was well-made and that they have that potential within them.

Which kind of sums up the unspoken deal between audience and filmmaker: The audience pays to be made to experience emotions they normally keep under wraps.

Next time you re-read one of your scenes, imagine yourself in the audience watching it. If you don’t feel anything, uplifting or otherwise, you’re not keeping your side of the bargain.

Is your beard stuck in the thicket?

There are many archetypal images I love from the world of fairy tales. One of my favourites is someone, usually an imp or a demon, with their beard stuck in a thorny bush.

For those of you with a Freudian bias, it might come as a surprise that a bush can stand for anything other than a bush.

However, according to the Jungian school of analytical psychology, especially the late great Marie-Louise von Franz, this image is a depiction of procrastination. It’s a symbolic version of the wrong kind of perfectionism: a person getting caught up in preparation rather than getting down to the task at hand. It’s the epitome of the difference between activity and action. Between the dabbler and the do-er.

One of the reasons I like this image so much is because it's the perfect representation of a screenwriter spending too much time thinking and planning instead of writing. Not that I think preparation is wrong. On the contrary, I use outlines and scene lists myself and for me they work.

The wisdom of this image is that too much focus on preparation is counter-productive. At some point you have to just dive in and start writing. At which point you give the characters the opportunity to come alive and show you, the writer, who they are. That’s when the real fun starts! Plus that’s when you really discover what works and what doesn’t.

In this respect I agree totally with Pixar’s Andrew Stanton, whose wonderful quote I’ve added to this page: “The first draft is nothing more than a starting point, so be wrong as fast as you can.”

Do you need to be nagged?

Here’s a link to a wonderful little website I came across the other day, called hassleme. The idea is simple: You enter the text of something you want to be nagged about on a regular basis. You specify the number of days between nags. Then you receive an email every time that number of days passes, or thereabouts, telling you to call your mum, go for a walk or whatever it is you wanted to be prodded into doing.

In itself a cute idea, but perhaps there’s something to learn here as well.

How about being ordered, unexpectedly, every twenty days or so, to drop everything and spend half an hour brainstorming a completely new story?

How often do you have an idea but tell yourself you’re too busy to waste time imagining some new endeavour because you’re up to your ears in your current work? Probably too often. And yet there’s nothing more reassuring (other than a very fat bank account, perhaps) than having a healthy stock of original ideas up your sleeve.

It's not just reassuring, it makes good professional sense too.

You never know when you might be able to pitch an idea or to whom. It’s always good to have a choice of projects to hawk rather than just that single script you’ve been rewriting for seven years.

Anyway, I’ve set up precisely the hassle I described above. No doubt I’ll have forgotten all about it when the first nag arrives in a few weeks’ time. I’ll let you know what happens…

How replaceable are you?

The money and respect a person receives for their labour is usually directly related to the degree to which they are replaceable.

Which is one reason government ministers aren’t the best paid executives in the world.

But seriously. What makes you interesting as a screenwriter is what makes you irreplaceable. What can you write that no one else can? Go ahead, make a list. What do you write best? When do you feel most comfortable and “in the flow” while writing?

Some screenwriters are absolutely the best at writing dialogue, others have a special talent for plot. Some screenwriters write fascinating original stories, while others are experts at adapting novels and short stories for the screen.

You may have inside knowledge of an ethnic or religious group, or perhaps you have experience in a specific trade or profession. Then again, maybe an aspect of the writing itself (dialogue, gags, structure, plot) is what you love doing most.

There are only so many stories to tell, but a unique and intriguing retelling of a familiar story is a highly sought after commodity in the film industry. So whatever raises your writing above the generic, is what makes you an interesting prospect to work with.

The only way to succeed is to acknowledge and nurture what is personal and unique about your writing. That is what makes your writing attractive, not contrived plot devices or derivative rehashes of the latest Hollywood genre crossover.

This also means recognizing what you’re not good at, which is perhaps even more arduous but equally worthwhile. But more about that some other time. I need to get back to work.

Now then, where’s that hugely original outline I was writing about a genetically mutated child prodigy born to an Eskimo mother and an Italian newspaper magnate, who travels back in time in an attempt to prevent the dinosaurs from going extinct …

Wikicinematics

We read and hear a lot about Wikinomics these days. Is it conceivable that this kind of open, collaborative business model will replace the traditionally hierarchical, protectionist organization of the film industry?

According to Peter Day a recent episode of the BBC radio programme In Business entitled Eureka Democracy, when Proctor & Gamble need a particular molecule for a new product nowadays, they put up an online announcement. Instead of having to make do with the hundreds of scientists they employ, they can now appeal to thousands of people all over the world. The risk is that they reveal the nature of the new product they’re working on, but the rewards make this risk entirely worth taking: They get their molecule far more rapidly than in the old system, and they create new and exciting working relationships in the process.

Imagine Steven Spielberg posting the following online:

“I want to make a film about a great white shark that terrorizes a small town on the west coast of the US. The local sheriff acknowledges the danger, but is told by the mayor to keep quiet in order not to scare off potential investors in new real estate. In terms of theme: The shark symbolizes our fear of the unknown. In terms of plot: the central conflict is the power struggle between the sheriff and the mayor, a metaphor for the struggle between greed and integrity. Please send scripts to …”

The risk Spielberg takes is that he’s publicizing his idea for a movie, which other producers might “steal.” But doesn’t it also make a lot of sense? Or at least more sense than all this secretive, paranoid behaviour? I mean how likely is it, that if Spielberg puts up a posting like this, someone with a “shark” script lying around is going to look for a different producer?

Production companies would get what they’re looking for quickly and efficiently and writers would get to send their scripts to people they know are interested in their subject matter.

Any takers?

No comedy without drama

This was the gist of an almost throwaway comment made by a fellow screenwriter during a recent meeting to discuss further development of our clay-motion animated feature. And as with all substantive screenwriting maxims, it’s simple and true at the same time.

I saw a great illustration of this yesterday on Lead Balloon. To my mind the comedy in last night’s episode worked wonderfully because of the underlying drama.

Rick Spleen, desperate to break into mainstream TV, bumps into a high-ranking TV producer in the neighbourhood and hastily invites him and his wife to dinner. He tells him he’s got a (non-existing) project he wants to discuss with him. We then follow him desperately trying to think up a project and nervously preparing to host the important evening. He buys champagne and cigars and splashes out on all sorts of other unaffordable items meant to impress his visitor. He’s obviously not used to entertaining important guests and is desperate to make it look as if he is. He even rehearses the nonchalant lines he’s going to use. So when the guests finally arrive, we the audience are fully keyed up to the impending drama: Is he going to make an impression and land himself that all-important TV project?

What really happens, though, is that his wife recognizes their guest. He's not a TV mogul at all, he's the building contractor who repaired their roof four years ago. Rick is gutted and has to wrestle his way through the rest of the evening attempting to be polite while feeling like shit.

I found the comedy in Rick’s pain, embarrassment and self-loathing excruciatingly funny. It would certainly have been a far less intense experience if the build-up to the reversal hadn’t been as dramatic (and cleverly misleading!). The lengthy set-up, during which I unwittingly identified with Rick’s mixture of ambition and lack of self-confidence, made his deflation that much more entertaining.

The moral of the story? You have to show what’s at stake in the story in order to be able to make fun of the characters in an emotionally engaging way. If the audience identifies with the comedic character’s desires, then they will experience whatever happens to them far more intensively.

Screenwriting is like sex

The harder you try, the worse it gets. To write great scenes and dialogue, you need to be relaxed. Even if a deadline is looming. Especially if a deadline is looming. You need to write as if nothing whatsoever depends on what you’re writing. You’re writing because it’s your favourite thing to do. That’s when the ideas really start flowing.

While I write, I like to distract the critical, anxious and agitated parts of my mind with the blandest new-age type meditation music. If you actually sit and listen to this kind of music, it’s utterly boring. But as an accompaniment to a creative (or indeed erotic) activity, it’s the best. I’m no neurologist, but my guess is it’s something to do with alpha waves, left/right brains and stuff like that.

Whatever works for you. As long as you can relax, be 100% with what you’re writing and let what you’re visualizing flow naturally into the text. That seems to be the most important thing. Just as your lovemaking can be ruined by concerns about “performance” or other distractions, so too your writing.

As long as you are completely present in what you’re doing, you have the best chance of enjoying the experience, and possibly being invited to do it again.