It may come as a shock to you, but your success as a film scriptwriter probably depends less on your skill with words than it does on your ability to deal with people.
How so? Because scriptwriting is no ivory tower occupation. Too much money is involved in filmmaking for that—so much it makes people in power nervous. Result: They’re forever looking over your shoulder: picking holes in your work, shooting angles.
This is true in both fact and feature fields. The scene of the battle ordinarily is a small meeting known as a story conference, in which your script project is dissected and discussed in an effort to produce the best (or at least the most profitable) product possible. To that end, you sit down with a group of script-wise experts—executive producer, producer, story editor, director, other writers, their aides and assigns, or the like—and analyze what you’ve done, are doing, and propose to do, with special emphasis on what the Powers That Be consider weaknesses or problems.
Since the people involved are certainly experienced, and quite possibly brilliant, where scripts and films are concerned, the result can be fantastically helpful on occasion. But it can also be frustrating, not to mention destructive of your enthusiasm—and more so, since you’ll be expected to work within the framework of the conference’s decisions. Nevertheless, it’s an accepted way of doing business in all phases of filmmaking, so you might as well get used to it.
Ideally, the man in charge of a story conference should be an individual who (a) thoroughly understands the process and problems of filmmaking; (b) knows what he wants, even though he’s not inflexible about it; (c) expresses his views freely, clearly, specifically, and persuasively; and (d) makes all necessary decisions without delay and then stands firmly behind them.
Such men do exist. It’s been my pleasure to work with a number of them.
Unfortunately, however, they tend to be rather rare birds. More common are those unhappy specimens who don’t know film, who demand the impossible or undesirable, who can’t make up their minds, who won’t commit themselves, and who refuse to take responsibility. The results, for the scriptwriter, can prove very sad.
Sooner or later, you too will encounter one or more such types.
Next question: How can you best cope with each?
The man in the first category, the one who doesn’t know film, isn’t a variety you encounter often among feature picture executives these days. Among fact film clients, on the other hand, he’s as prevalent as ants at a picnic.
For you as a not-yet-seasoned film writer, this type constitutes a special problem, in that it may take you a while to recognize him for what he is.
Thus, when Mr. Jones suggests that your feature’s hero turn out to be a transvestite, or that dancing girls costumed as the components of your client’s gear train perform a ballet at your fact film’s climax, you may be taken somewhat aback. Yet the solution is reasonably simple.
First, unless you’re being questioned directly, keep quiet—someone else among those present may burst out laughing, thus both getting you off the spot and letting you know how Herr Jones’ thinking rates.
Second, make it a point to stay properly respectful, no matter how stupid or senseless an idea/suggestion/question seems to be.
Third, explain your own position and reasoning as clearly and convincingly as you can. Because before you’re through, count on it, enough will have been said to clue you in as to just where your man stands.
Quite possibly, you’ll even find he’s also Man No. Two, the one who makes impossible demands.
If this should prove the case, honesty is your best refuge. Tell him the truth about Busby Berkeley chorus lines in $30,000 industrials, or the chances of Charlton Heston in drag hitting the box office jackpot. (And yes, I do remember Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis in Some Like It Hot.) Then, if he still insists, go ahead. As to whether you also ask him whether he brushes off the advice of his doctor and lawyer too—well, how much of a gambler are you?
What about the man who can’t make up his mind, or won’t commit himself? One way out is to misstate his position purposely—not sarcastically, but soberly; straight-faced: “You mean, you want to play this so Sitting Bull is really Custer’s lost half-brother?” “Are you crazy?” “Well, if you don’t mean that, what do you mean?”
Quite possibly, all this will infuriate your man, but it does force him to take a stand. Indeed, if your twist is sufficiently far out, Man’s sense of humor may get the better of him, whereupon the conference tension eases and things start falling into place.
The man who refuses to take responsibility can give you special nightmares. Ordinarily, the game he plays is “pass the buck,” with you as the receiver. To that end, scared rabbit that he is, he delegates duties to committees which you are supposed to coordinate, sends you “F.Y.I.” critiques from people who have nothing to do with the project, and otherwise lays the ground for hanging any failure around your neck and well wide of his.
A case in point: Walking into an alleged story conference at a major governmental agency, I discovered 20-odd “advisors” assembled. All I was supposed to do was incorporate their off-the-cuff notions into my script, and take the rap in case anyone later disagreed with same.
Instead, I walked out. Which may, in its way, be as good a method of resolving such dilemmas as any.
Not that it will often prove necessary. Most often, impasses break as soon as you explain how eager you are to do the job; it’s just that you don’t want to infringe or take advantage by making decisions outside your jurisdiction.
But this recital is beginning to sound choleric. Let’s move on to something more positive—specifically, an experience-gleaned list of ten ways of approaching problems that may help you through your own first story conferences:
1. Go in loaded.
I still recall a meeting I once had with an agent I wanted to impress. Eagerly, I plunged into a description of the opening of my script. It was a good opening, too, believe me.
Finally I paused for breath.
Agent gestured impatiently. “All right. What happens next?”
I gaped. Because while I certainly did know what happened next, I—well, I didn’t know it on quite the same level as I did the opening. Matter of fact, when I thought back on it, I’d somehow assumed that everyone would be so stunned with my magnificent beginning the rest would just sort of develop naturally.
I really did know the rest of the story, though, after a fashion, so I managed to grope my way through it.
To say the agent was unimpressed with my presentation is to put it mildly. Our association began and ended in that one meeting. Which was sad, but it taught me a lesson, cheap at the price.
That lesson was: Go in loaded! Know everything there is to know about your story, be it fact or fiction. Be prepared for every objection, every question. Even if you do, indeed, your colleagues still will find enough loopholes in your logic!
2. Play to your audience.
In story conferences, a scriptwriter needs to a degree to be an actor, adapting himself to the tone of the group.
Thus, you may be the lone, youthful outsider in a group of aging corporate executives. Or the college graduate confronting self-made men up from the foundry. Or the civilian among military, the layman among doctors, the high school dropout among professors, the kid with three one-acts to his credit up against a hundred years of major studio experience.
Your best beginning stance, in each case, is one of pleasant, relaxed friendliness.
Beyond that, play to your audience, the other men and women present. If they’re all deadly serious, don’t crack jokes. If they talk football, come in on the chorus with a few reminiscences of your own favorite games. Are hangovers the issue? Be sympathetic. Does someone try to bully, or play big dog, or put you down? Stay courteous anyhow.
Which is not to say that you should fawn or grovel, you understand. Self-respect is never out of style. But this is the other man’s turf, not yours, so within limits you’ll do best to fit yourself to his pattern.
3. Be prepared to take the lead.
Some years ago I signed on to script a series of six films for a national organization. The pay was good, the subject interesting, and the steering committee with which I was to work congenial. Yet the first couple of sessions made it apparent nothing constructive was ever going to happen.
Why? Because, most often, unless a strong man is in charge, a committee tends to go in circles. Or, to put it another way, somebody has to take the lead in any creative effort.
In this particular instance, I was the one who took it, laying out a complete—if unauthorized—plan of attack on the project even unto brief synopses for each of the six pictures.
The committee, delighted, promptly approved the whole package, and we got down to work. But the fact remains that if I hadn’t taken the first step, Lord knows when or if we’d have gotten started.
Bear this thought in mind with regard to your own projects. Ever so often, walking in cold, you’ll discover that no one knows quite where to begin. When that happens, be sure you have some thoughts of your own in mind—some sort of concept or approach to serve as springboard. For even if your associates reject it, it at least will serve to jar them off dead center.
On the other hand, don’t be too quick to jump. The human ego is easily bruised, and your “presumption” can give you headaches that go on well-nigh forever.
4. Be prepared to TELL your story.
So there you are, in the story conference. A neatly duplicated copy of your epic lies on the table in front of each participant. Eagerly, you wait for their reactions.
Only then the man at the head of the table pushes the sheets aside. “Let’s dispense with this stuff, Joe,” he says. “What we want’s the story. Just tell us about it.”
Yes, it does happen, and more often than you might imagine. Why? Well, for one thing, it gets pretty dull in a few minutes if everyone sits around the table reading. But more important—and believe me, I’m not kidding when I say this—reading is a problem for a lot of people, and that includes even intelligent, educated, allegedly highly literate types. They simply can’t cut it comfortably where a script page is concerned.
Result: “Just tell us about it.”
So, just tell them, as clearly and effectively as you know how.
It goes without saying you’ll tell them more clearly and more effectively if you’ve thought through the possibility of verbal presentation beforehand. A bit of rehearsal might not even hurt.
5. Talk scenes, not story.
“Telling” a script can be a tricky business. Often, before you’re through, you find yourself tangled in such a maze of plot details that your audience hangs on the ropes.
Two small stratagems will help you:
First of all, simplify your presentation. The closer you can come to stripping it to bare bones, the better. (It’s alleged that the line which sold Joe Levine on Panic in Needle Park was “Romeo and Juliet on junk.”) Work for the “Who wants to do what and why can’t he?” approach, the Objective-Obstacle-Outcome synopsis. Not too difficult a task, either, if you’ve built your script solidly, up step by step from a foundation of premise or core assertion. The mushy, unstructured jobs are the ones that kill you.
Second, insofar as practical, talk scenes.
That is to say, talk confrontations, color incidents, conflict units: the big, exciting moments that you can build the way you’d build your account of a bank robbery or marital battle that you witnessed. Tell them vividly, dramatically, so that they come alive in your listeners’ minds and capture their imaginations, joining each episode to the next with a minimum of transition.
Is this a legitimate technique? It is indeed. As director Henry Hathaway has pointed out, “People never remember what they hear in a movie. They only recall what they see. The big hits have unforgettable scenes in them, usually action. Pictures that are filled with dialogue do not do as well.” You’re just capitalizing on that angle. Others will bring up any discrepancies of logic later.
6. Be animated.
If you tell a story as if it were dull, that’s the way it’s going to seem to your listeners. If, on the other hand, you come on strong, with maximum enthusiasm, your audience will respond in kind.
Obviously, you have to adjust this approach to your own style, your personality. And it doesn’t mean pouring on the superlatives or adjectives. But if you can, in your own way, show that this is a story that excites you, you’ll have won the biggest part of your battle.
7. Listen.
The reason other people are attending your story conference is to help improve your script. Most of them will be clever, creative, experienced. Often, they can and will give you new twists, improved ideas, sharper concepts.
They can do this, however, only if you do your part—that is, listen.
8. Hang loose.
Close corollary to point 7 is that your mood as well as your ears must be receptive. Obviously, you’re not going to agree with every idea that’s tossed at you, but you should give each and every one honest consideration. A chip on your shoulder will only turn people off, and that you can’t afford. Remember, damn it: They’re here to help you!
9. Don’t be afraid to keep it light.
Years ago I knew a used car salesman who always was good for a laugh. It got to where I looked forward to seeing him each morning as I walked past his lot to my office, just for the way he brightened my day with his latest gag.
Later, I learned his secret: His company provided its crew with a fresh, new one-liner daily.
You can do worse than to acquire a store of such yourself. Even the serious business of scriptwriting can stand a smile or two when there’s a conference in the offing. No need to be a clown, you understand; but no need to wear a long face either. A cheerful group works better.
10. Stop.
Few things in a meeting are more painful than the man who won’t let go. Whether he’s ridden by insecurity, lacks judgment, or has nothing to go home to, the fact remains that he makes everyone dread sessions with him.
It’s worth your while, therefore, to cultivate a sense of timing; a feel for the moment when all that’s pertinent has been said.
When that moment arrives, don’t hesitate to beam, straighten up your papers, and say, “Well, that shapes things up, right? At least, so far as I’m concerned….” Then, if anyone else sees fit to halt the exodus, that’s up to him. At least, you won’t have been the one to play albatross.
Which makes this a good stopping-place for this chapter, too. For it’s high time we were getting on to that most vital chapter of all in this epic work: How to sell your scripts.