Does your spec script stand out?

In a recent post entitled Story Vault: Spec Notes, Danny Stack sums up some story characteristics which can turn an otherwise generic “genre” script into a purple cow*.

Danny’s summary is helpful if you have a story but you feel it’s missing something which will set it apart. Changing one key element in an otherwise inconspicuous story can often be sufficient to seriously jazz it up. Change the location, the era, the gender of a main character, etc.

Of course, studying the list and letting your thoughts wander is also an excellent way of generating story ideas from scratch. Be sure to have a notepad handy though.

Here are Danny’s main suggestions:

Biopics. Recount the life, or significant period, of a famous figure (that preferably hasn’t been done before) or tell the story of a historic character that shows what impact and significance his/her life had for his time, or for us in the present.

Political Backdrop stories. Look at an interesting period in any nation’s history, and create a story within that context, using the backdrop to provide subtext, drama and theme.

Period Drama. See biopics/political backdrop stories, or simply create a new romance/comedy/whatever set around a defining or visual period.

Modern Adaptations. A modern and clever take on well known stories, such as Shakespeare etc, can be effective, and you don’t need to pay for the privilege too because many of the stories are out of copyright.

Unfamiliar Locations. A lot of specs are set in anonymous modern cities. Setting can play a large part in a story, especially with regard to the above areas, so think about a story set in Ontario, or Cape Town, or Cairns, or Wellington, or Berlin, or Moscow, or whatever, and bring it to life on screen.

Specific Area of Research. Get to know an unfamiliar topic or subject better than anyone else on this Earth. And then write a script about it. Not it per se, but a story around that world.

Quirky Premise/Offbeat Story. A quirky premise will always be fun, but the offbeat story that follows should be carefully crafted in terms of character and story. Don’t try to be funny for the sake of it; tell a story that’s funny. A lot of comedy specs in America are sold because of their offbeat and quirky charms, and consequently attract interest from actors and directors.

I would add that a combination of more than one of these topics significantly raises the chances of your spec script being read. A biopic which is a period drama. A modern adaptation set in an unfamiliar location. You get the idea.

Of course, nothing will help you if you don’t manage to make the first five to ten pages of your script riveting reading. But more on that some other time.

*For the uninitiated: “Purple cow” is a phrase coined by Seth Godin some years ago to describe a product which is presented in a way that makes it stand out from all other similar products. A purple cow in a mass of black and white cows.

Do you outline?

Probably the cheesiest chat-up line a screenwriter could throw out over a post-workshop drink. But also a central aspect of the professional screenwriter’s methodology.

Whether the outline is a detailed list of sluglines or a bulleted list of key scenes to work around, or even just a mental picture of what the film is going to look like, the general consensus seems to be that outlining is a useful way of keeping track of the story while you write the first draft.

The only serious objection I’ve ever heard to outlining is that it can stifle the creative process. When you’ve neatly worked out the plot, diligently hitting all the required beats and conflicts, you might not feel very inclined to consider new ideas, even if they’re actually improvements, because of the hassle of going “back” and rewriting the outline.

The logic being that you’re likely to settle for second best rather than go through the whole outlining process again.

Extremely unlikely, I’d say. Because as any dedicated, professional screenwriter will tell you, it’s all about how good the script is, not about how many times you had to rewrite the outline.

There’s also a popular misconception that talented writers don’t need to outline, and that those who do are less gifted. I think the distinction is determined by something else altogether.

In my experience the people who least like to outline are those who work most intuitively, or holistically. To them something “looks” or “feels” right. On the other hand, people who like to outline most are more analytical, more conscious of their writing decisions. For them it’s the logic clicking into place that creates the buzz.

Of course most screenwriters operate somewhere in between these two poles. Here’s an interesting example:

I recently heard Diablo Cody talking about the way she wrote her award-winning screenplay Juno. (Check it out while it’s still available for free download at Fox Searchlight.) Here’s someone who very deliberately projects a public image of being the intuitive, artistic type. But when pressed, she revealed that about halfway through her first draft, she decided to compile a bulleted list of scenes in order to avoid getting lost. She found this extremely helpful.

The same old adage applies time and time again: Whatever works for you.

And according to my colour-coded, expandable beat sheet, this is the end of the post.

CRASH the TV series

Here’s a fascinating news item for anyone (like me) writing a multi-protagonist script: The characters from Crash the movie are to feature in a new TV series. This makes total sense because of the sheer number of characters involved and their interconnectedness in terms of plot.

But it also jolts the sensibilities. Wasn’t Crash so impressive precisely because it was so compact and cinematic?

For me personally, the news highlights one of those semi-conscious doubts I keep having whenever I work on my multi-protagonist script: Is it really OK to write a screenplay that feels like a TV episode?

So how does a multi-protagonist film differ from a blown-up version of a TV episode? Here are some of the differences:

• Visual storytelling - TV generally relies far more heavily on dialogue (the screen’s just that much smaller …). In a multi-protagonist film, precisely because of the number of different storylines, the audience needs to see very quickly what’s going on (even if the connections with other storylines may only become clear in retrospect).
• Character arcs - In a TV series you have much more screen time to show a character changing. In a film everything has to be squashed into a very limited number of scenes. Dilemma’s and choices need to be that much starker.
• Climax/resolution - A film is a one-off, stand-alone story. It immediately creates (unconscious) expectations of some kind of resolution. You can’t cheat the audience, there has to be some kind of “conclusion.” A TV episode often works towards a cliff-hanger (to be continued …); the resolution can be postponed far longer.

All of these elements (and more) are part of what makes Crash stand out as a film.

On the other hand, the fact that it appears to make economic sense to use this film as the basis for a TV series, shows that the boundaries between TV and cinema are fading.

More and more people watch movies at home, and TV screens are growing bigger and better all the time. Plus nowadays a lot of visual and narrative innovation happens first on TV.

Perhaps we’re witnessing an interesting new form of crossover?

My personal lesson from this intriguing little news item: Stay focused on the characters. In the end they are the ones who determine what’s the most appropriate arena and narrative structure for their story.

Aim high

I recently received the worst and at once most positively reinforcing piece of writing advice ever. It came from someone influential within a public organization which funds film projects. The advice was in response to the latest synopsis of a multi-protagonist script I’m working on with my writing partner.

The advice was basically: Don’t aim too high. Or, in subtextualese: Don’t take the risk of tackling such a complex concept, try something simpler and more familiar in order to improve your chances of getting funding.

Now, if there’s one thing I believe in, it’s aiming high, sticking to whatever it is you feel passionate about. The more you stretch yourself, the more you learn, the better you become. That is, unless you’re deluded and jump off a high-rise wearing only home-made wings.

By trying to encourage us to write something less demanding, to play it safe, this person was in fact giving us precisely the confirmation we needed: Our concept is ambitious and daring. It stands out.

To me that’s already good news.

In recent years the multi-protagonist or multi-plot structure has gradually moved into the mainstream, but it’s still a fairly rare bird. And there’s a reason for that. It’s very hard to write well. Take a look at the award-winning screenplay for Crash by Paul Haggis at Script-o-rama if you don’t believe me. Quite a screenwriting feat.

I wouldn’t compare myself to Mr. Haggis in any way. But I do acknowledge that he’s at the top of his game, someone to emulate. So I study his writing and try to understand how he works his magic.

That, to me, constitutes a very healthy form of aiming high. Much preferable to the notion of avoiding risks by choosing to write something more generic.

All advice is useful, as long as you know how to take it.

Writing as a writing exercise

A recent discussion on Shooting People’s screenwriting bulletin centred around someone’s confession that they’d been adapting a literary work for which they don’t own the rights. Purely as a way to practise their craft.

Responses were roughly spilt into two camps:

A) What a waste of time. If you’re going to do the work anyway, make sure it’s something you’ll be able to sell one day if the opportunity arises.

B) What a good exercise. This is an excellent way of honing your craft without the pressure of a real-world deadline or boss.

Is the exercise analogy valid? Is being a writer like being a sportsman or a musician in that training and practice increase your stamina and technical ability?

I think it’s a truism that the more you write the better you write. But it’s also true that one script meeting with an experienced producer or director can sometimes teach you more about what professional screenwriting is all about than six months’ solitary scribbling.

The temptation to shut yourself away and “practise” writing for the rest of your life is very real. So you have to be honest with yourself about why you’re writing something “merely” for practice.

It’s one thing to write something as an exercise because you love the process, you’re inspired by the idea, you see it as a positive step on the way to something even better, or even just something to add to your CV.

It’s quite another thing to practise writing because it’s the least intimidating option at your disposal. Other options being things like: writing a script for a competition, approaching people in the industry to pitch ideas, finding an agent, etc.

Here’s one positive way of looking at it: If you don’t have a proven track record, i.e., one or more produced films you can refer potential partners to, then sometimes the next best thing is a script you’ve written. It demonstrates your writing ability and dedication, even if the script was just an “exercise” and you don’t own the rights.

But at some point you have to get washed and show your face out there, in order for all that practice to translate into real, professional opportunities.

What is your character’s purpose in life?

I stumbled across an intriguingly entitled motivational exercise called How to discover your life purpose in about 20 minutes, by someone called Steve Pavlina. A tad ambitious perhaps and a little too Californian for a European like me, but a revealing and worthwhile exercise nonetheless.

Especially for exploring your character’s motivation.

Here’s how it works: You sit down and start answering the question: What is my purpose in life? Just write short, single-sentence answers, one after another, without thinking too much about what you’re writing.

Bear in mind, the term “purpose” here is not intended in a philosophical or theological sense, but rather in a concrete, motivational sense. What is it that drives you? What are your most important values? That kind of purpose.

As the list grows longer and longer (50 - 100 "answers" is quite normal), you find yourself honing in more and more on what really drives you, as opposed to what you think should be driving you. The more emotion you feel for an answer, so goes Steve Pavlina’s reasoning, the closer the answer is to your true purpose in life.

Unless, like me, you’re a completely integrated, fulfilled and grounded individual, the exercise will confront you with incongruity, ambivalence, conflicting desires and unresolved emotional obstacles … in short, all the things that make a fictional character interesting.

So the screenwriter’s version of this exercise is to don your character’s cap and then start answering the question: What is my purpose in life? Keep on writing down whatever answers come to mind until the answers begin resonating emotionally with your image of the character.

That’s when you know you’ve identified one of the character’s core values, something the character will strive to adhere to, whatever happens. And it needn’t be something the character is even consciously aware of. In some genres it’s actually more appropriate that the character is the last to discover what is really driving them.

Once you have this clear sense of what is most important for your character, consciously or otherwise, then comes the fun part: Inventing sadistic ways of frustrating your character. More about that some other time.

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.