On Dismal we're one scene away from picture lock. And what a scene it is.
Or so I hear.
Turns out that all the foreign distributors who have contacted us have asked these questions:
1. Are there any stars?
2. How long is it?
3. Do you have a good poster?
4. Are there boobs?
Huh?
You heard me: are there any boobs. Seems that for an American thriller to sell well and easily in worldwide territories, there must be breasts. And nipples.
Now, I'm certainly not against breasts. In truth, I happen to love them. Wonderful elements of a wondrous sex.
But at first glance it seemed too weird to try to put breasts into a movie based primarily in a swamp.
It was actually one of our sound editors who had the idea. In the original story, as the hero is held captive at the bad guy’s shack, he has a flashback of him trying to pick a girl up in a bar –- reminding him that he’s been a shitty husband and father, and providing the impetus to try to escape and get back to his family to make things right.
Well, our man Cret says, “Why not play that scene in a go-go bar?”
Turns out we had No. Problem. At all. Getting the camera and crew together for a reshoot in a titty bar. To say nothing of extras.
Surprised? Me neither.
So we shot it -– but I had to leave before the clothes were shed, and I haven’t seen the scene cut together. Which explains the “so I hear” from the top of the post.
But we’re VERY CLOSE to being finished editing picture, and then it’s on to sound and music… and THEN… hellllllooooo nurse.
So, breasts notwithstanding, it's very good news. Soon, we're in the business of selling. We've gotten a lot of calls from studios and agents and distributors asking to see a screener -- and we've been politely declining, waiting until we have a good solid cut together. Which should be by March 1st. So, soon, we don't have to decline anymore...
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Step One
Last night, at a little before 11:00, about two inches down on page 93 of the Harlem script, I typed FADE OUT.
So there. The first full pass is finished.
Now the real work begins.
So there. The first full pass is finished.
Now the real work begins.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
The Corner(s)
Ah, I feel like I turned a corner last night on the Harlem script. I feel like I’m really close.
For a while I could see some brick walls looming ahead, and last night I figured out a way over at least some of them.
I guess I'm mixing my metaphors a little. So, for continuity, let's say I figured out how to turn a few corners and walk around some of the walls.
Of course, getting around these walls only leads me to the next set of walls that I'll need to traverse in order to wrap up the script. Still, I’m thinking over the next couple weeks I might have a complete first draft. I really need to because it’s time to start working on new stuff.
Dismal update:
We’ve submitted to SXSW and Tribeca, and Seattle’s due February 1st. Those are all the rough cut, which is a bummer. But I think the ones thereafter will be the better, cleaner cut.
Speaking of which, the editor thinks he’s gonna be finished with the latest round of changes Friday night. Hopefully he was able to address all of our concerns and we can lock picture soon. Then, probably three or four weeks after that, depending on people’s schedules, we should have our “final” cut.
Because, as I said, it’s time to start working on new stuff.
For a while I could see some brick walls looming ahead, and last night I figured out a way over at least some of them.
I guess I'm mixing my metaphors a little. So, for continuity, let's say I figured out how to turn a few corners and walk around some of the walls.
Of course, getting around these walls only leads me to the next set of walls that I'll need to traverse in order to wrap up the script. Still, I’m thinking over the next couple weeks I might have a complete first draft. I really need to because it’s time to start working on new stuff.
Dismal update:
We’ve submitted to SXSW and Tribeca, and Seattle’s due February 1st. Those are all the rough cut, which is a bummer. But I think the ones thereafter will be the better, cleaner cut.
Speaking of which, the editor thinks he’s gonna be finished with the latest round of changes Friday night. Hopefully he was able to address all of our concerns and we can lock picture soon. Then, probably three or four weeks after that, depending on people’s schedules, we should have our “final” cut.
Because, as I said, it’s time to start working on new stuff.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
How MacIver Writes
“Steal a march on the random images that invade you, by choosing and filling the mind with the pictures you will attend to; drive them together with strong connections into a story you can’t take your mind off. Teller of tales, do not wait to be possessed; start building a seamless construction, impregnable to daydreams. When you go to bed, of course, you’ll have to take whatever dreams are sent, and maybe some will be of use.”
I just finished Rules for Old Men Waiting, by Peter Pouncey. It’s about an old man, MacIver, who realizes that now that his beloved wife is gone, he will be too. And soon. So he decides that before he dies, he will write one, whole story.
That’s a good goal to have, I think, as you face your death. He had no one to say goodbye to. So he wrote.
It was a good story he wrote. And in a way it saved him.
And this advice to himself, excerpted above, well, that’s good advice for all of us. One more vote for the discipline of writing. Give your mind the structure. Create a rhythm for the creativity and entice it out of its coy little shell.
Thanks, Mr. Pouncey. Writing just might save us.
Or drive us mad.
I just finished Rules for Old Men Waiting, by Peter Pouncey. It’s about an old man, MacIver, who realizes that now that his beloved wife is gone, he will be too. And soon. So he decides that before he dies, he will write one, whole story.
That’s a good goal to have, I think, as you face your death. He had no one to say goodbye to. So he wrote.
It was a good story he wrote. And in a way it saved him.
And this advice to himself, excerpted above, well, that’s good advice for all of us. One more vote for the discipline of writing. Give your mind the structure. Create a rhythm for the creativity and entice it out of its coy little shell.
Thanks, Mr. Pouncey. Writing just might save us.
Or drive us mad.
Friday, January 12, 2007
An Open Letter To The Artists
Dear Subway® Sandwich Artist,
I work very hard to tell compelling stories in screenplays, and so far, I’ve made very little money at it. So I feel you. I understand your plight. Truly.
You have to stand there on your feet all day behind the sneeze-guard plexiglass, asking people what type of bread, what meat and cheese, which of the seemingly endless combinations of fixins they’d like on their footlong.
And I’ve seen your customer base. They’re base all right. Rude, condescending, downright smarmy if you look cute in that black visor. They bark orders at you, getting frustrated when you can’t read their noncommittal little minds. My God, they ask what kind of bread you have when it’s right there on the placard!
Let's not even talk about those middle-aged trophy wives and the ridiculous demands they have for their wraps.
Again, I get it. I am your witness.
Substitute executive producer for customer, and tension and humor for Genoa salami and jalapeños, and we are the same.
We’re brethren.
So it is with nothing but love that I point this out.
In his recent book The Devil’s Guide to Hollywood, Joe Eszterhas suggests, “Don’t ever refer to yourself as an artist.”
Sage advice indeed.
As I said, I understand how difficult your job can be. But -– and again, take this as a non-judgmental, open-hearted suggestion on how you might improve your important work –- to my way of thinking, a true artist could get it right -– or at least make an actual, discernable effort -– when I ask for “just a little mustard and just a little mayonnaise.” And yet, Sandwich Artist, no matter how slowly I speak, no matter the eye contact I hold, no matter the emphasis I put on my request (a request an informal poll of 23 eaters of sandwiches assures me is a reasonable one), you still positively swaddle my goddamn sandwich in mustard and mayo.
And I think it hurts so much because I know you’re an artist. Or at least claim to be.
So please, brother or sister, I ask this of you: either take care with the condiments of your craft, as an artist would, or call yourself a sandwich maker.
In Solidarity,
David
(Or, as you might remember me: six-inch wheat, turkey and pepper jack, lettuce, tomatoes, pickles, cucumbers, green peppers, jalapeños, just a little mustard, just a little mayonnaise)
I work very hard to tell compelling stories in screenplays, and so far, I’ve made very little money at it. So I feel you. I understand your plight. Truly.
You have to stand there on your feet all day behind the sneeze-guard plexiglass, asking people what type of bread, what meat and cheese, which of the seemingly endless combinations of fixins they’d like on their footlong.
And I’ve seen your customer base. They’re base all right. Rude, condescending, downright smarmy if you look cute in that black visor. They bark orders at you, getting frustrated when you can’t read their noncommittal little minds. My God, they ask what kind of bread you have when it’s right there on the placard!
Let's not even talk about those middle-aged trophy wives and the ridiculous demands they have for their wraps.
Again, I get it. I am your witness.
Substitute executive producer for customer, and tension and humor for Genoa salami and jalapeños, and we are the same.
We’re brethren.
So it is with nothing but love that I point this out.
In his recent book The Devil’s Guide to Hollywood, Joe Eszterhas suggests, “Don’t ever refer to yourself as an artist.”
Sage advice indeed.
As I said, I understand how difficult your job can be. But -– and again, take this as a non-judgmental, open-hearted suggestion on how you might improve your important work –- to my way of thinking, a true artist could get it right -– or at least make an actual, discernable effort -– when I ask for “just a little mustard and just a little mayonnaise.” And yet, Sandwich Artist, no matter how slowly I speak, no matter the eye contact I hold, no matter the emphasis I put on my request (a request an informal poll of 23 eaters of sandwiches assures me is a reasonable one), you still positively swaddle my goddamn sandwich in mustard and mayo.
And I think it hurts so much because I know you’re an artist. Or at least claim to be.
So please, brother or sister, I ask this of you: either take care with the condiments of your craft, as an artist would, or call yourself a sandwich maker.
In Solidarity,
David
(Or, as you might remember me: six-inch wheat, turkey and pepper jack, lettuce, tomatoes, pickles, cucumbers, green peppers, jalapeños, just a little mustard, just a little mayonnaise)
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Say Hello To My Underpaid, Overworked Friend
In Steven Levitt’s Freakonomics –- which I heartily recommend to everyone by the way –- he includes a fascinating bit about drug gangs. Turns out that the average foot soldier in a major Chicago street gang that this economist studied made a little over $3 an hour. And they were the ones most likely to get shot by customers or other dealers, or to be asked to go kill someone for their superiors, or to be arrested by 5-0.
(“5-0.” See my street cred? It’s just dripping off me…)
So, less than minimum wage, with the threat of death or prison always present.
Why?
Apprenticeship.
They know that they have to put in the time at the bottom, and work hard, and impress everyone, and survive, if they’re ever gonna make it to the level of Tony Montana so they can shove their face into a mountain of cocaine and scream out, “The world is mine!”
Not unlike the TV and film industry, eh?
A coworker recently mentioned she was feeling a little frustrated with where she is in the business and asked how I moved up. My answer: I did some time in the television equivalent of slinging rock on a trash-strewn street corner without making enough money to buy new Nikes.
(Thankfully, my brother works for Nike so I get a wicked good discount…)
But that’s what you have to do.
The good thing is, nobody asks you to shoot anyone else, and nobody wants to shoot you. Stab you in the back, yes, but not actually kill you.
Now, I’m not saying I’m a tough guy martyr, poor me, look what I had to go through in my life. Believe me, I understand how much more difficult my life could have been –- I definitely lucked out when I was born a healthy white male in middle class America to parents who cared fully.
I’m just saying you have to suffer a little.
Well, not everyone has to. There are those who are so brilliantly gifted that they immediately rise to the top. But there’s not many of them.
Most of us have to suffer a little.
At 37, I’ve managed to make a pretty good life for my family and me –- with, of course, the support of my most excellent wife, who is quite successful in her own field. We’re happy, which is most important, but we also have the benefit of being fairly comfortable, financially, due in part to my work in the television industry. My mom says I’m a success. Not a whopper, but it’s been a good ride.
Moms are cool.
Now I find myself going back to the corner with crack in my hand –- or, as they say in Greg’s new favorite show, pandemic in my hand. But this time trying to make it in the gang called Film.
Let’s hope Paramount doesn’t send some roughnecks on a drive-by.
And by the way, don’t do cocaine, even if you make it to the top. Cocaine is bad for business.
Just ask Tony Montana.
(“5-0.” See my street cred? It’s just dripping off me…)
So, less than minimum wage, with the threat of death or prison always present.
Why?
Apprenticeship.
They know that they have to put in the time at the bottom, and work hard, and impress everyone, and survive, if they’re ever gonna make it to the level of Tony Montana so they can shove their face into a mountain of cocaine and scream out, “The world is mine!”
Not unlike the TV and film industry, eh?
A coworker recently mentioned she was feeling a little frustrated with where she is in the business and asked how I moved up. My answer: I did some time in the television equivalent of slinging rock on a trash-strewn street corner without making enough money to buy new Nikes.
(Thankfully, my brother works for Nike so I get a wicked good discount…)
But that’s what you have to do.
The good thing is, nobody asks you to shoot anyone else, and nobody wants to shoot you. Stab you in the back, yes, but not actually kill you.
Now, I’m not saying I’m a tough guy martyr, poor me, look what I had to go through in my life. Believe me, I understand how much more difficult my life could have been –- I definitely lucked out when I was born a healthy white male in middle class America to parents who cared fully.
I’m just saying you have to suffer a little.
Well, not everyone has to. There are those who are so brilliantly gifted that they immediately rise to the top. But there’s not many of them.
Most of us have to suffer a little.
At 37, I’ve managed to make a pretty good life for my family and me –- with, of course, the support of my most excellent wife, who is quite successful in her own field. We’re happy, which is most important, but we also have the benefit of being fairly comfortable, financially, due in part to my work in the television industry. My mom says I’m a success. Not a whopper, but it’s been a good ride.
Moms are cool.
Now I find myself going back to the corner with crack in my hand –- or, as they say in Greg’s new favorite show, pandemic in my hand. But this time trying to make it in the gang called Film.
Let’s hope Paramount doesn’t send some roughnecks on a drive-by.
And by the way, don’t do cocaine, even if you make it to the top. Cocaine is bad for business.
Just ask Tony Montana.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Sick Day
Home today with the sick laddie. He threw up Tuesday night and has had a low grade fever ever since.
It's terrible when your kids are sick. Especially when they're this young and can't understand what's happening to their little bodies. The lad's ALWAYS on, always running and climbing and throwing himself at the world.
Except when he's sick.
Today he's kinda listless, just wants to sit around. Which he never does. So we went for a long walk with the stroller and the dog. We watched a little Noggin (big stuff for a kid who never watches TV). And he's taken a couple naps.
It's so sad seeing him this way, because I know it's not him normally, so I know he must feel really, really shitty.
But I realize it's easier when he's sick. And better for my writing.
I admit it: I've been writing while he naps.
And enjoying it.
I feel so guilty.
It's terrible when your kids are sick. Especially when they're this young and can't understand what's happening to their little bodies. The lad's ALWAYS on, always running and climbing and throwing himself at the world.
Except when he's sick.
Today he's kinda listless, just wants to sit around. Which he never does. So we went for a long walk with the stroller and the dog. We watched a little Noggin (big stuff for a kid who never watches TV). And he's taken a couple naps.
It's so sad seeing him this way, because I know it's not him normally, so I know he must feel really, really shitty.
But I realize it's easier when he's sick. And better for my writing.
I admit it: I've been writing while he naps.
And enjoying it.
I feel so guilty.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
This Is The End, Magical Friend
Do you need to know how it ends?
If you stroll the screenwriting blogosphere, you know there are all sorts of answers to this, all very well and passionately argued and all very contradictory.
There are those who say you’re foolish not to outline the entire arc of each character from start to finish, so you know the whole big picture before you begin. All kinds of stuff about index cards and cork boards and timelines and beat sheets.
There are those who say you need to have a pretty good idea of where the story is going or what the characters are gonna do so there’s a framework in which the people can play around.
And then there are those who say you just have to send the characters off and let them find the story themselves. Hippies.
And of course a million variations of these three.
I think I’ve tried them all, sort of, and I’m not sure which works best for me. I think it works best for me if I have a pretty good idea of what I want to happen, but not outline too strictly in the beginning. This way, I have a sense of direction, but there’s enough wiggle room to allow for some magic to happen.
If Magic decides to show up of course.
Yet with this rewrite I’m working on, I find myself worried because I don’t really know what’s gonna happen with one of the main characters. Normally I don’t worry about this. So why now? No idea.
Sometimes I think this character just needs to grow a little in the ensuing pages and take over from me (I know this is sounding pretty flighty, but I’m guessing any writers who happen to be reading know what I mean) and figure it out himself. But sometimes I worry he's endingless because he doesn’t matter and isn’t authentic.
Anyway, I’ll let you know. I’m about 40 pages in, and I think it’s going okay. We’ll see.
Magic, my dear, your presence is requested.
If you stroll the screenwriting blogosphere, you know there are all sorts of answers to this, all very well and passionately argued and all very contradictory.
There are those who say you’re foolish not to outline the entire arc of each character from start to finish, so you know the whole big picture before you begin. All kinds of stuff about index cards and cork boards and timelines and beat sheets.
There are those who say you need to have a pretty good idea of where the story is going or what the characters are gonna do so there’s a framework in which the people can play around.
And then there are those who say you just have to send the characters off and let them find the story themselves. Hippies.
And of course a million variations of these three.
I think I’ve tried them all, sort of, and I’m not sure which works best for me. I think it works best for me if I have a pretty good idea of what I want to happen, but not outline too strictly in the beginning. This way, I have a sense of direction, but there’s enough wiggle room to allow for some magic to happen.
If Magic decides to show up of course.
Yet with this rewrite I’m working on, I find myself worried because I don’t really know what’s gonna happen with one of the main characters. Normally I don’t worry about this. So why now? No idea.
Sometimes I think this character just needs to grow a little in the ensuing pages and take over from me (I know this is sounding pretty flighty, but I’m guessing any writers who happen to be reading know what I mean) and figure it out himself. But sometimes I worry he's endingless because he doesn’t matter and isn’t authentic.
Anyway, I’ll let you know. I’m about 40 pages in, and I think it’s going okay. We’ll see.
Magic, my dear, your presence is requested.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
iDad
Normally, I don’t write about personal stuff in here –- trying to keep it a writing/producing blog. But maybe I’m being too uptight about that and I should just write about things when they seem like they should be included.
Like last night.
I had to charge my iPod –- as Greg says, one of the greatest gifts to man -– and my daughter’s laptop was in the office so I plugged in there. Which got me perusing her music collection. Which got me smiling.
There’s a lot of stuff I love on there -– some of which I think I might have led her to, some of which she found on her own, some I didn’t know at all.
She came home and there I was, stealing stuff from her iTunes. She sat with me and we started talking about music.
HER: Take that Jack Johnson. It’s good music for mornings.
ME: Hey, you have Pink Floyd. Haven’t listened to that in years.
HER: The Wall’s good college music.
ME: Sure was. Is.
HER: Remember this one, when you sang it at karaoke in Maine?
ME: Holy shit, I gotta take that one. I love this 50 Cent/Queen mash-up.
HER: Yeah, which Queen song is that?
ME: “Crazy Little Thing Called Love.” Kanye, cool. I should give you a copy of Late Registration. Didn’t I send you Pharrell’s new one?
HER: Yeah, it’s cool. Thanks.
ME: I love “Keep It Playa.”
HER: You realize how funny you sound when you say that, white man?
We both crack up. It is funny. She says she can’t believe she’s doing this with her dad. So weird. I agree.
But it says so much about us and our relationship that it makes me smile warmly even now.
I love that kid.
Way more than Kanye.
Like last night.
I had to charge my iPod –- as Greg says, one of the greatest gifts to man -– and my daughter’s laptop was in the office so I plugged in there. Which got me perusing her music collection. Which got me smiling.
There’s a lot of stuff I love on there -– some of which I think I might have led her to, some of which she found on her own, some I didn’t know at all.
She came home and there I was, stealing stuff from her iTunes. She sat with me and we started talking about music.
HER: Take that Jack Johnson. It’s good music for mornings.
ME: Hey, you have Pink Floyd. Haven’t listened to that in years.
HER: The Wall’s good college music.
ME: Sure was. Is.
HER: Remember this one, when you sang it at karaoke in Maine?
ME: Holy shit, I gotta take that one. I love this 50 Cent/Queen mash-up.
HER: Yeah, which Queen song is that?
ME: “Crazy Little Thing Called Love.” Kanye, cool. I should give you a copy of Late Registration. Didn’t I send you Pharrell’s new one?
HER: Yeah, it’s cool. Thanks.
ME: I love “Keep It Playa.”
HER: You realize how funny you sound when you say that, white man?
We both crack up. It is funny. She says she can’t believe she’s doing this with her dad. So weird. I agree.
But it says so much about us and our relationship that it makes me smile warmly even now.
I love that kid.
Way more than Kanye.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Viva Vacay
Man, am I looking forward to having next week off.
And not ‘cause I’m lazy and want to sleep late. Oh no, having a 16-month-old means sleeping late vanished as an option more than a year ago…
One, I get to spend some good time with my family, and working really puts a dent in that. Pays the mortgage, yes, but hinders the whole personal-interaction-with-family thing. With my daughter in college, time with her comes all too rarely – though she’s home now. And with my son, I usually get an hour before work, and an hour and a half after. Thankfully, my wife stays up a little later than him, so we get a little more time together. But, point is, it’ll be good to just be together.
And two, I’ve committed myself to writing a lot during the week. I feel I’m at a critical point in the Harlem rewrite – like I’m on the edge of either pushing through the problems and having them at least theoretically solved, or throwing in the towel and, sobbing, admitting it just can’t be done.
Please let it be the former.
Also, during my percolating time (including a good bike ride on Sunday and a leisurely shave this morning) I’ve had some new ideas for the suspense thriller, the horror flick and the police drama.
Oh, plus another production company asked me if I could write a 40- to 60-minute short for them and I just can’t help thinking about it and even started writing a little…
Anyway, once I don’t have to think about work-related writing for a week, I’m gonna bang some shit out. Probably not as prodigiously as Greg or Ryan, but hopefully I’ll give a good boost to my page-per-month average.
And not ‘cause I’m lazy and want to sleep late. Oh no, having a 16-month-old means sleeping late vanished as an option more than a year ago…
One, I get to spend some good time with my family, and working really puts a dent in that. Pays the mortgage, yes, but hinders the whole personal-interaction-with-family thing. With my daughter in college, time with her comes all too rarely – though she’s home now. And with my son, I usually get an hour before work, and an hour and a half after. Thankfully, my wife stays up a little later than him, so we get a little more time together. But, point is, it’ll be good to just be together.
And two, I’ve committed myself to writing a lot during the week. I feel I’m at a critical point in the Harlem rewrite – like I’m on the edge of either pushing through the problems and having them at least theoretically solved, or throwing in the towel and, sobbing, admitting it just can’t be done.
Please let it be the former.
Also, during my percolating time (including a good bike ride on Sunday and a leisurely shave this morning) I’ve had some new ideas for the suspense thriller, the horror flick and the police drama.
Oh, plus another production company asked me if I could write a 40- to 60-minute short for them and I just can’t help thinking about it and even started writing a little…
Anyway, once I don’t have to think about work-related writing for a week, I’m gonna bang some shit out. Probably not as prodigiously as Greg or Ryan, but hopefully I’ll give a good boost to my page-per-month average.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Can I Get A Witness?
So we pitch Show A to That Network and they take a pass, saying that it's not really on-brand. The Head Honcho says that what she wants is Show B.
So I get to work on Show B, thinking, well, actually, this isn't really on-brand, as described by them. But it is like another show we do for them that gets high ratings, and if that's what Honcho wants, so be it.
We then pitch Show B to them. Honcho isn't there, but her main people are. They tell us it's not really on-brand. But if we made it more like Show A, it might be more on-brand.
Huh?
Does anyone remember the last couple conversations? Were there any witnesses to those meetings?
Does anyone know what the freaking brand is? And do you talk to each other?
I choose to ignore the fact they're now asking for the show they declined and instead gently remind them that, as is, it is exactly what Honcho asked for. They say they'll look into it. But I don't think they'll greenlight it. I bet Honcho forgets she even asked for it.
Of course, if I do what I want to do and point out the mixed messages and ask them to please get their shit together so I know what they really want, they’ll think I’m telling them how to do their job and I might not get that next meeting.
The many layers of swirling ineptitude make me dizzy. And not in the good way.
What does this mean to us as writers?
Nothing.
Well, maybe another reality check to slap you upside the head and reiterate that it's a weird world out there, especially in tv and film.
But we can't do anything about it.
Sure, I'll reversion Show B so it's more like Show A and hope they remember this time that that's what they asked for. But there's no guaranteeing they will.
That's the nature of it kids. That's what we do.
So all we can do is create good stuff and try to get it in front of the right people... then hope they know what the fuck they're doing.
So I get to work on Show B, thinking, well, actually, this isn't really on-brand, as described by them. But it is like another show we do for them that gets high ratings, and if that's what Honcho wants, so be it.
We then pitch Show B to them. Honcho isn't there, but her main people are. They tell us it's not really on-brand. But if we made it more like Show A, it might be more on-brand.
Huh?
Does anyone remember the last couple conversations? Were there any witnesses to those meetings?
Does anyone know what the freaking brand is? And do you talk to each other?
I choose to ignore the fact they're now asking for the show they declined and instead gently remind them that, as is, it is exactly what Honcho asked for. They say they'll look into it. But I don't think they'll greenlight it. I bet Honcho forgets she even asked for it.
Of course, if I do what I want to do and point out the mixed messages and ask them to please get their shit together so I know what they really want, they’ll think I’m telling them how to do their job and I might not get that next meeting.
The many layers of swirling ineptitude make me dizzy. And not in the good way.
What does this mean to us as writers?
Nothing.
Well, maybe another reality check to slap you upside the head and reiterate that it's a weird world out there, especially in tv and film.
But we can't do anything about it.
Sure, I'll reversion Show B so it's more like Show A and hope they remember this time that that's what they asked for. But there's no guaranteeing they will.
That's the nature of it kids. That's what we do.
So all we can do is create good stuff and try to get it in front of the right people... then hope they know what the fuck they're doing.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Clock's Ticking
I’ve become a very efficient writer.
But it’s no fun.
With work taking up so much time, and with a family that I love hanging out with, it’s not easy finding time to write regularly.
So I’ve become efficient, using just about every free moment I can. I try to write for 20 or 30 minutes during lunch. I remind myself during the drive to and from work to actively think out whatever problem’s facing my character or story. If I have any creative energy left over, I write at night after the wife and baby have passed out.
It wasn’t always like this. It used to be more fun.
For a couple years I worked from home so I was really in control of my schedule. I could front-load a bunch of work to give myself a good window, then spend a whole day writing. Or a couple days.
Toward the end of writing Dismal, I gave myself a whole week. I’ve always wanted to be a bike mechanic. (In fact, if I ever, through some fluke, become wildly wealthy, I’m gonna open a bike shop and wrench a few days a week. Promise.) Anyway, knowing this, my generous and loving wife bought me a week’s stay at a B&B in West Virginia owned by a guy who also owns a bike shop. He said if I wanted to, I could come stay with him and he’d teach me everything I needed to know in that week.
I was so freaking excited. A week learning bike mechanic stuff, riding and writing. I packed my bike, laptop and some clothes, drove out to WV and told him I was ready for class to start as soon as he was.
He wasn’t ready that day.
Or the next.
In fact, he never got ready. Never taught me a goddamned thing. Asshole.
But, I did have a week in a beautiful place with no work, no obligations, nothing to do but write, ride my bike, drink coffee and wine, stroll about, and write.
Got a lot done that week.
But now, this new system doesn’t allow for substantial gains. It’s tough trying to hit your rhythm when you work in spurts like this.
How do people do it? I mean, the beginners, like me.
Maybe I could give up eating entirely, switch to an IV. That should free up some time.
But it’s no fun.
With work taking up so much time, and with a family that I love hanging out with, it’s not easy finding time to write regularly.
So I’ve become efficient, using just about every free moment I can. I try to write for 20 or 30 minutes during lunch. I remind myself during the drive to and from work to actively think out whatever problem’s facing my character or story. If I have any creative energy left over, I write at night after the wife and baby have passed out.
It wasn’t always like this. It used to be more fun.
For a couple years I worked from home so I was really in control of my schedule. I could front-load a bunch of work to give myself a good window, then spend a whole day writing. Or a couple days.
Toward the end of writing Dismal, I gave myself a whole week. I’ve always wanted to be a bike mechanic. (In fact, if I ever, through some fluke, become wildly wealthy, I’m gonna open a bike shop and wrench a few days a week. Promise.) Anyway, knowing this, my generous and loving wife bought me a week’s stay at a B&B in West Virginia owned by a guy who also owns a bike shop. He said if I wanted to, I could come stay with him and he’d teach me everything I needed to know in that week.
I was so freaking excited. A week learning bike mechanic stuff, riding and writing. I packed my bike, laptop and some clothes, drove out to WV and told him I was ready for class to start as soon as he was.
He wasn’t ready that day.
Or the next.
In fact, he never got ready. Never taught me a goddamned thing. Asshole.
But, I did have a week in a beautiful place with no work, no obligations, nothing to do but write, ride my bike, drink coffee and wine, stroll about, and write.
Got a lot done that week.
But now, this new system doesn’t allow for substantial gains. It’s tough trying to hit your rhythm when you work in spurts like this.
How do people do it? I mean, the beginners, like me.
Maybe I could give up eating entirely, switch to an IV. That should free up some time.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
The Essay Portion Will Be Graded
With written proposals for four series and one MOW submitted to various networks as they requested, and while I await research on three more MOWs, I’ve been freed up at work after a long haul of writing to review a ton of spec pitches that have come in over the last few months.
As you can probably tell from my last post.
And then yesterday at lunch I listened to an interview with Michael Arndt, writer of Little Miss Sunshine. (Not that money’s the only thing, but interestingly, it was made for about $8 million, sold to Fox Searchlight at Sundance for $10.5 million and has taken in over $76 million. Plus, I really liked it.)
Anyway, Arndt said that Hollywood is “overflowing with B- scripts.” He said he didn’t think there were that many bad scripts floating around in Hollywood, just a lot of unfinished ones. Good point.
(Although… I know there are a lot of bad scripts out there. I’ve read some of them. [I just hope mine aren’t among them –- though secretly I fear they are…] As for the TV show pitches I get sent, a few are good, some are unfinished, but man, a lot of them are just plain bad. Like, smelly bad. Like, please leave it outside or it’ll stink up the kitchen bad.)
If a script makes it to an agent, studio, manager, someone out in Hollywood with enough clout to spread it around, even if it’s stuck in turnaround for years, there has to be some merit to it. But merit alone gets you a B-. To go further you need at least a B+. Of course, even if you have a solid A, it can float for years because of weird business decisions that have noting to do with the quality of your script.
It just keeps getting more and more unfair, huh?
Writing is hard. Everyone who writes says this. But I’m not sure everyone who writes does this. Which is to say, actually work hard. It’s really freaking difficult to take an objective look at your script, weed out the notes from your trusted readers that have merit, and then go in and fix the problems. Most writers, I think, don’t get to that last part.
I’ve written dozens of hours of primetime cable television, some that have won awards. I have one movie under my belt, done the hard way. What this has taught me is that it takes a lot of hard work. Really. Like, seriously. HARD WORK. Long hours trying and failing and trying again. Then failing again and trying once more. Thrice more. Then convincing yourself you’re a hack, and then talking yourself into trying again.
It’s not enough to say you’re struggling over a script, but in truth all you’re doing is reading it over and over, and in the end, you change 1% of it because you can’t figure out what else to do.
I’ve been handed scripts by writers who say they’ve been toiling over it forEVER, and then I read it and it's still full of typos and inconsistent slug lines. Let alone wildly obvious logic flaws. Or a totally uninspired story.
Of course, it’s still very hard for me to do this revision thing. There’s something about a written document that you’ve spent months creating that feels concrete and unchangeable. But dammit man, you have to keep plugging away. And admit that you’re flawed. And be willing to kill your babies. (See earlier post re: this terrible infanticide…)
Which is why the Harlem rewrite, though it’s been frustrating and intimidating, has been good for me. I’m forcing myself to keep a fresh mind, throw away things that won’t work no matter how much I love them or how badly I want them to work.
Because even though I have all those writing credits, I’m still very much a beginner and I have a lot to learn.
Maybe not as much as the lady who keeps calling me at work because she had the idea for almost every hit show out there before they came out… but I have a lot to learn. The good thing is, I’m willing to muscle my way past the B- mark.
Or try anyway.
As you can probably tell from my last post.
And then yesterday at lunch I listened to an interview with Michael Arndt, writer of Little Miss Sunshine. (Not that money’s the only thing, but interestingly, it was made for about $8 million, sold to Fox Searchlight at Sundance for $10.5 million and has taken in over $76 million. Plus, I really liked it.)
Anyway, Arndt said that Hollywood is “overflowing with B- scripts.” He said he didn’t think there were that many bad scripts floating around in Hollywood, just a lot of unfinished ones. Good point.
(Although… I know there are a lot of bad scripts out there. I’ve read some of them. [I just hope mine aren’t among them –- though secretly I fear they are…] As for the TV show pitches I get sent, a few are good, some are unfinished, but man, a lot of them are just plain bad. Like, smelly bad. Like, please leave it outside or it’ll stink up the kitchen bad.)
If a script makes it to an agent, studio, manager, someone out in Hollywood with enough clout to spread it around, even if it’s stuck in turnaround for years, there has to be some merit to it. But merit alone gets you a B-. To go further you need at least a B+. Of course, even if you have a solid A, it can float for years because of weird business decisions that have noting to do with the quality of your script.
It just keeps getting more and more unfair, huh?
Writing is hard. Everyone who writes says this. But I’m not sure everyone who writes does this. Which is to say, actually work hard. It’s really freaking difficult to take an objective look at your script, weed out the notes from your trusted readers that have merit, and then go in and fix the problems. Most writers, I think, don’t get to that last part.
I’ve written dozens of hours of primetime cable television, some that have won awards. I have one movie under my belt, done the hard way. What this has taught me is that it takes a lot of hard work. Really. Like, seriously. HARD WORK. Long hours trying and failing and trying again. Then failing again and trying once more. Thrice more. Then convincing yourself you’re a hack, and then talking yourself into trying again.
It’s not enough to say you’re struggling over a script, but in truth all you’re doing is reading it over and over, and in the end, you change 1% of it because you can’t figure out what else to do.
I’ve been handed scripts by writers who say they’ve been toiling over it forEVER, and then I read it and it's still full of typos and inconsistent slug lines. Let alone wildly obvious logic flaws. Or a totally uninspired story.
Of course, it’s still very hard for me to do this revision thing. There’s something about a written document that you’ve spent months creating that feels concrete and unchangeable. But dammit man, you have to keep plugging away. And admit that you’re flawed. And be willing to kill your babies. (See earlier post re: this terrible infanticide…)
Which is why the Harlem rewrite, though it’s been frustrating and intimidating, has been good for me. I’m forcing myself to keep a fresh mind, throw away things that won’t work no matter how much I love them or how badly I want them to work.
Because even though I have all those writing credits, I’m still very much a beginner and I have a lot to learn.
Maybe not as much as the lady who keeps calling me at work because she had the idea for almost every hit show out there before they came out… but I have a lot to learn. The good thing is, I’m willing to muscle my way past the B- mark.
Or try anyway.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Dude, I Got A Great Idea
There’s no shortage of ideas.
Ideas are easy.
Give me a few hours, Arvo Part’s Alina album and a couple cups of good coffee, and I’ll come back to you with concepts for 10 TV shows, four movies and a fetching little commercial for erectile dysfunction pills.
Ideas are easy.
At work, every week I get a dozen calls, emails and written submissions about shows that are gonna be the next Survivor, or the next Borat-meets-The Ring-for-the-small-screen.
Some of them are actually good ideas.
But ideas are easy.
Developing them into something sellable, selling them, and then producing them -– now that’s hard.
And since you’re looking at our development department, only so many can go forward at one time. So choosing is important.
Many thanks to all the people who have pitched ideas -– and thanks to me for creating my own –- but apologies to all, including myself, that we can’t do them all at once.
So keep a paper trail, I tell myself and those who come pitching to me. Keep reviewing the old ideas. Be patient and persistent –- and know when to be one or the other.
Even though ideas are easy, they’re important. So keep them brewing. And make them better. Richer. Tighter. More distinct. Those are the ones that rise to the top of the pile because they’re easier to envision as productions, which is what this is all about.
A friend recently told me that he heard the job of a producer is to make a list and then do it.
Exactly.
Ideas are easy. Now do them.
Ideas are easy.
Give me a few hours, Arvo Part’s Alina album and a couple cups of good coffee, and I’ll come back to you with concepts for 10 TV shows, four movies and a fetching little commercial for erectile dysfunction pills.
Ideas are easy.
At work, every week I get a dozen calls, emails and written submissions about shows that are gonna be the next Survivor, or the next Borat-meets-The Ring-for-the-small-screen.
Some of them are actually good ideas.
But ideas are easy.
Developing them into something sellable, selling them, and then producing them -– now that’s hard.
And since you’re looking at our development department, only so many can go forward at one time. So choosing is important.
Many thanks to all the people who have pitched ideas -– and thanks to me for creating my own –- but apologies to all, including myself, that we can’t do them all at once.
So keep a paper trail, I tell myself and those who come pitching to me. Keep reviewing the old ideas. Be patient and persistent –- and know when to be one or the other.
Even though ideas are easy, they’re important. So keep them brewing. And make them better. Richer. Tighter. More distinct. Those are the ones that rise to the top of the pile because they’re easier to envision as productions, which is what this is all about.
A friend recently told me that he heard the job of a producer is to make a list and then do it.
Exactly.
Ideas are easy. Now do them.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
The Man In 1997
Name that big haired man.
(How do you adjust the size of the photo window? Hmm...)
So last weekend we did some pickup shots on Dismal. Now, principal was in July, when the forest and swamp are at their height of lushness. Now it's November and things are brown. Problem one.
Problem two: a wicked storm blew in on the day we had the camera. By the time we got to Ray's place it was like some supertornado special on The Weather Channel.
I refused to pack it in. Might as well try. Shoot something.
Good thing Ray has a barn.
We dressed a horse stall to be two types of backround ground: one greenish (to match a forest trail) and one brownish (to match the dirt by the bad guy's shack). Don't ask what constituted the brown in the brownish one. Let's just say it was a fragrant shoot.
Anyway, we shot tight and kept the background out of focus and damn if it didn't work.
But then last night the editor found another shot that would come before one of the pickup shots, and it does work better, but now our stand-in actor has to move slightly differently in the greenish shot.
So we're trying to put together another little pickup day this weekend. It's really just a slight expansion of an already planned pickup day. We were gonna get the camera to do a little more helicopter stuff anyway, so now we're just adding a bit more to the day.
Thankfully, everyone on the team is pretty patient.
Because patience is what we need.
Like someone needs a haircut.
Friday, November 10, 2006
Good Work, Y'all
Yesterday I was talking to a friend about the value of your work and then Greg wrote about grace at the Web of Lies, so I got to thinking all spiritual and shit.
As a Buddhist I try to follow the old dude’s Nobel Eightfold Path because I think it’s a good way to live. One of the eight principles is Right Livelihood, which suggests we should “lead a balanced life, neither extravagant nor miserly,” and make sure our “income stands in excess of expenses.” Pretty sage advice, I’d say. But also, Right Livelihood suggests our work should respect and even assist other people and the world.
When I was a teacher, I felt pretty solid with my Right Livelihood. Okay, my expenses often stood in excess of my income, but that wasn’t because of extravagant living, it was because in this country we just don’t pay the people who serve very well. Teachers, police officers, social workers, nurses? Let’s pay these self-absorbed lowlifes shit. But the guy who can hit three-pointers most of the time or the lady who knows how to get away with underpaying workers so she and her Board can make more money? Pay them zillions.
Anyway, I did feel overall that I was helping the world back then. I was trying, at least, to help some kids learn how to learn, how to be good people, how to ask questions about the world.
But now I make television programs. I made one movie and hope to make more.
And so I started questioning if I’m still making my work something that’s important. Not as easy to see. TV and movies? Hmm.
You could make the argument that art (if TV and film are art -– or more specifically, if the kind I make are…) does matter and helps the world. I might buy that.
But I think that what Buddha was also talking about was to be mindful of how you go about your work. I try to be honest, compassionate, humble and all that good stuff while doing my job. I don’t always succeed of course, but listen, the Pope wears Prada shoes and just put out a calendar of photos of him at his country estate, so come on. We’re all human.
Buddha helped define Right Livelihood by talking about what Wrong Livelihood is. He said five professions should be avoided outright: trade in weapons, human beings, meat, intoxicants and poison – so I’m glad my days as a gun-running, slave-trading, butcher/drug dealer with a knack for fatal concoctions are over.
But he said we also should not be scheming and belittling or look out only for our own gain in our work. Hey, that I can do. That I do do, when dealing with people who work with or for me, or for whom I work. I don’t want to come off as a hippie (those days are over too, thankfully, but I admit I spent my time at Dead shows) but I am always sure to conduct myself ethically. I don’t ever want to succeed by screwing other people. That would suck, really.
So, fellow writers, don’t get down on yourselves. You’re okay in what you do -– as long as you do it right.
That is, unless you still have that night job whipping up poisons for The Man. Knock that shit off.
As a Buddhist I try to follow the old dude’s Nobel Eightfold Path because I think it’s a good way to live. One of the eight principles is Right Livelihood, which suggests we should “lead a balanced life, neither extravagant nor miserly,” and make sure our “income stands in excess of expenses.” Pretty sage advice, I’d say. But also, Right Livelihood suggests our work should respect and even assist other people and the world.
When I was a teacher, I felt pretty solid with my Right Livelihood. Okay, my expenses often stood in excess of my income, but that wasn’t because of extravagant living, it was because in this country we just don’t pay the people who serve very well. Teachers, police officers, social workers, nurses? Let’s pay these self-absorbed lowlifes shit. But the guy who can hit three-pointers most of the time or the lady who knows how to get away with underpaying workers so she and her Board can make more money? Pay them zillions.
Anyway, I did feel overall that I was helping the world back then. I was trying, at least, to help some kids learn how to learn, how to be good people, how to ask questions about the world.
But now I make television programs. I made one movie and hope to make more.
And so I started questioning if I’m still making my work something that’s important. Not as easy to see. TV and movies? Hmm.
You could make the argument that art (if TV and film are art -– or more specifically, if the kind I make are…) does matter and helps the world. I might buy that.
But I think that what Buddha was also talking about was to be mindful of how you go about your work. I try to be honest, compassionate, humble and all that good stuff while doing my job. I don’t always succeed of course, but listen, the Pope wears Prada shoes and just put out a calendar of photos of him at his country estate, so come on. We’re all human.
Buddha helped define Right Livelihood by talking about what Wrong Livelihood is. He said five professions should be avoided outright: trade in weapons, human beings, meat, intoxicants and poison – so I’m glad my days as a gun-running, slave-trading, butcher/drug dealer with a knack for fatal concoctions are over.
But he said we also should not be scheming and belittling or look out only for our own gain in our work. Hey, that I can do. That I do do, when dealing with people who work with or for me, or for whom I work. I don’t want to come off as a hippie (those days are over too, thankfully, but I admit I spent my time at Dead shows) but I am always sure to conduct myself ethically. I don’t ever want to succeed by screwing other people. That would suck, really.
So, fellow writers, don’t get down on yourselves. You’re okay in what you do -– as long as you do it right.
That is, unless you still have that night job whipping up poisons for The Man. Knock that shit off.
Monday, November 06, 2006
A Whole Lotta Something
It’s been a blast of content creation for me recently.
Pressure’s been heavy at work. A group of international networks contacted us and asked for proposals for two series that they think will do well overseas -– and that they think we can do well. They have a very tight schedule on the development process, but the tightness goes both ways: we didn’t have a lot of time to write up the proposals, but they promise to give us feedback within days and decide who gets the gig by the end of the month.
So, it’s been a flurry of writing for me. We’re talking full series proposals -– but I got them handed in on time Friday and we have a conference call scheduled with the execs for Wednesday. I like this quick turnaround stuff when it’s reciprocal.
The pitches are good. One a little better than the other, but both could be solid and interesting shows. We’ll see.
In addition to that, I have an act breakdown for an MOW due this Friday for another client (this time a domestic network), so the flurry continues. This one’s a great story -– one I’ve hoped to be able do for a long time, actually, so I’m really excited about it. It’s a compelling story but it’s also an important one.
I just hope that in a week I can do it justice. Tough to do a detailed outline of a two-hour story in five days, showing not only the developing drama, but also what the movie will look and feel like.
But if my work over the last decade has done anything, it’s taught me how to produce good stuff fast.
I mean, last year for one series, we did almost a year’s worth of work in 6 months. Okay, okay, I wore myself down to the nub of a man -- and had to hire Greg toward the end to help with the final push -- but we did it.
Man, that was fun, wasn’t it, Greg?
Or, fun maybe isn’t the right word.
Man, that was something, wasn’t it, Greg?
As for my own writing, I have what I think is an interesting start to the Harlem movie. It’s been a lot of deconstruction and reconstruction, and I still can’t see the whole thing yet, but the pieces are falling into place a little. Good to be diving back in.
It’s a lot of… something.
Pressure’s been heavy at work. A group of international networks contacted us and asked for proposals for two series that they think will do well overseas -– and that they think we can do well. They have a very tight schedule on the development process, but the tightness goes both ways: we didn’t have a lot of time to write up the proposals, but they promise to give us feedback within days and decide who gets the gig by the end of the month.
So, it’s been a flurry of writing for me. We’re talking full series proposals -– but I got them handed in on time Friday and we have a conference call scheduled with the execs for Wednesday. I like this quick turnaround stuff when it’s reciprocal.
The pitches are good. One a little better than the other, but both could be solid and interesting shows. We’ll see.
In addition to that, I have an act breakdown for an MOW due this Friday for another client (this time a domestic network), so the flurry continues. This one’s a great story -– one I’ve hoped to be able do for a long time, actually, so I’m really excited about it. It’s a compelling story but it’s also an important one.
I just hope that in a week I can do it justice. Tough to do a detailed outline of a two-hour story in five days, showing not only the developing drama, but also what the movie will look and feel like.
But if my work over the last decade has done anything, it’s taught me how to produce good stuff fast.
I mean, last year for one series, we did almost a year’s worth of work in 6 months. Okay, okay, I wore myself down to the nub of a man -- and had to hire Greg toward the end to help with the final push -- but we did it.
Man, that was fun, wasn’t it, Greg?
Or, fun maybe isn’t the right word.
Man, that was something, wasn’t it, Greg?
As for my own writing, I have what I think is an interesting start to the Harlem movie. It’s been a lot of deconstruction and reconstruction, and I still can’t see the whole thing yet, but the pieces are falling into place a little. Good to be diving back in.
It’s a lot of… something.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Do I Want More Cake? I Don't Know, Do I?
As of yesterday, I’m another year older.
And?
I always think it’s odd when people freak out about getting older. I mean, sure, sometimes I pine for the days when I was 17 and physically fearless. But I like getting older. In fact, I prefer it. I’d be a really weird 17-year-old now if I were still 17 after all these years…
Plus, you should read some of the shite I wrote back then.
Let’s just say the world didn’t need another Jim Morrison writing poetry.
Anyway, a strange thing happened last week. I started writing again.
As I mentioned before, I’d been doing a lot of jotting down of ideas and such, and mostly they were about the crime thriller, but late last week I actually started writing. And on the day I fired up the laptop, I dove into the Harlem rewrite and not the crime thriller. Didn’t expect that. But then, that’s usually how it works, isn’t it?
I got in deep, fast. Thinking out plot points in the shower. Letting characters percolate while driving to work. Writing frantically during every lunch break to get it down in the limited time I had.
It’s been good.
Even though it’s been frustrating -– as writing usually is. Like last night I was trying to defend why I needed to place the movie in Harlem, and why it has to happen during the sixties. Should I move it? Make it contemporary?
Not sure. One thing’s for sure: this weekend I came to terms with the fact that I’m just trying to cram too much into it. Which was a healthful realization to have. Time to strip out even more and make a leaner, cleaner story.
Not too clean, though. I like it when a movie is as messy as life. But I do have to be more judicious with themes.
When deciding what should stay and what should go, I find myself having conversations with myself. Like out loud. In a room, alone. Like a crazy person.
But when I put myself on trial like that -– or when I put my writing on trial –- I tend to be more decisive. Maybe I can lie to myself in my head, just thinking. But I can’t lie to myself out loud.
I just hope for Greg’s sake (over at the Web of L&D) he doesn’t require this same method, or the plane ride to China is gonna be an awkward one.
“Um, sir. Could you please stop screaming? The other passengers are getting scared.”
And?
I always think it’s odd when people freak out about getting older. I mean, sure, sometimes I pine for the days when I was 17 and physically fearless. But I like getting older. In fact, I prefer it. I’d be a really weird 17-year-old now if I were still 17 after all these years…
Plus, you should read some of the shite I wrote back then.
Let’s just say the world didn’t need another Jim Morrison writing poetry.
Anyway, a strange thing happened last week. I started writing again.
As I mentioned before, I’d been doing a lot of jotting down of ideas and such, and mostly they were about the crime thriller, but late last week I actually started writing. And on the day I fired up the laptop, I dove into the Harlem rewrite and not the crime thriller. Didn’t expect that. But then, that’s usually how it works, isn’t it?
I got in deep, fast. Thinking out plot points in the shower. Letting characters percolate while driving to work. Writing frantically during every lunch break to get it down in the limited time I had.
It’s been good.
Even though it’s been frustrating -– as writing usually is. Like last night I was trying to defend why I needed to place the movie in Harlem, and why it has to happen during the sixties. Should I move it? Make it contemporary?
Not sure. One thing’s for sure: this weekend I came to terms with the fact that I’m just trying to cram too much into it. Which was a healthful realization to have. Time to strip out even more and make a leaner, cleaner story.
Not too clean, though. I like it when a movie is as messy as life. But I do have to be more judicious with themes.
When deciding what should stay and what should go, I find myself having conversations with myself. Like out loud. In a room, alone. Like a crazy person.
But when I put myself on trial like that -– or when I put my writing on trial –- I tend to be more decisive. Maybe I can lie to myself in my head, just thinking. But I can’t lie to myself out loud.
I just hope for Greg’s sake (over at the Web of L&D) he doesn’t require this same method, or the plane ride to China is gonna be an awkward one.
“Um, sir. Could you please stop screaming? The other passengers are getting scared.”
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
David Has EIGHT Friends
So there.
Have you seen the video podcast Sam Has 7 Friends? Check it out -– it’s on iTunes in the TV/Film section. Also can be found at www.samhas7friends.com.
Okay, it’s a little soap opera-y. In fact, it’s sort of a MySpace soap opera LA noir. But it’s cool. I’m hooked.
Every day, another 1 ½ minute episode is released. They began in late August and it’ll run through mid-December. It’s about this girl Sam, an aspiring actor in LA who, you guessed it, has seven friends. The filmmakers promise that on December 15th -– dun dun DUN! –- one of them will kill her.
It’s very crafty, this thing. A good concept, a good hook, good use of the emerging webisode platform. It’s shot beautifully for the most part. Also mostly very good actors. Except the guy playing Sam’s agent. He must be someone’s brother or one of the financial backers. Because he’s weak.
I bet this crew is having a blast making this. Probably costs almost nothing and it's a fresh thing. Nice. Bravo to you, whoever you are.
Anyway, check it out. At the very least you get to look at beautiful people living in LA, and you only have to invest a minute and a half every day.
End of plug. Resume wasting time at work, all of you.
Or both of you.
Or... you.
Have you seen the video podcast Sam Has 7 Friends? Check it out -– it’s on iTunes in the TV/Film section. Also can be found at www.samhas7friends.com.
Okay, it’s a little soap opera-y. In fact, it’s sort of a MySpace soap opera LA noir. But it’s cool. I’m hooked.
Every day, another 1 ½ minute episode is released. They began in late August and it’ll run through mid-December. It’s about this girl Sam, an aspiring actor in LA who, you guessed it, has seven friends. The filmmakers promise that on December 15th -– dun dun DUN! –- one of them will kill her.
It’s very crafty, this thing. A good concept, a good hook, good use of the emerging webisode platform. It’s shot beautifully for the most part. Also mostly very good actors. Except the guy playing Sam’s agent. He must be someone’s brother or one of the financial backers. Because he’s weak.
I bet this crew is having a blast making this. Probably costs almost nothing and it's a fresh thing. Nice. Bravo to you, whoever you are.
Anyway, check it out. At the very least you get to look at beautiful people living in LA, and you only have to invest a minute and a half every day.
End of plug. Resume wasting time at work, all of you.
Or both of you.
Or... you.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Questions' Authority
Saw The Departed on Saturday. Loved The Departed on Saturday. Still love it.
Got me thinking about questions. Because, when a movie’s over, you want the viewer to be left with questions. The good questions.
Bad questions suck.
(Wait. Have I blogged about this before? How do regular bloggers like Greg remember?)
After The Departed, I was left with both types. Though even the bad questions weren’t so bad. This is a great film after all.
Good question:
In one bar scene, the camera’s on a crane (or high sticks?) over the bar and tilts down to reveal that Jack Nicholson has just downed a shot and has a beer lined up, ready to roll. Now, this question I have is predicated on my experience in Massachusetts (where the film takes place), in the mid-‘90s -– so things might have changed since then.
But back then, I learned that you can’t order a-shot-and-a-beer and get both at the same time. Believe me, I tried. State law against one person having two drinks in front of them simultaneously. When I ordered, they’d hand me the shot, I’d do it, then they’d slap down the beer.
So on Saturday I leave the theater wondering, did William Monahan and Martin Scorsese put this in there, knowing the law, as an inside joke to cement their knowledge of all things Boston (their knowledge, by the way, is delightfully deep) by adding a little touch to further show Nicholson’s character is a king? Like, Whoa, this dude can even get a shot and a beer!
Or is this an error -– albeit a slight one -– that just shows one small detail got past them. Not that it matters, really, a detail like this, so the mistake doesn’t take away from my enjoyment of the movie.
Either way, good question. The kind of question I got to talk to my wife about over sushi after the movie. This is what movies are supposed to do. Like Alabama says to Clarence in True Romance: When I see a really good movie I really like to go out and get some pie, and talk about it. Only on Saturday it was sushi. No pie. Anyway, you know what I mean: you delve in afterwards, talk about its intentions, think about its impact. Nothing too film-school-intellectual, please, but a good movie leaves you with good questions. If everything’s tied up with a neat bow, shit, I’ll pass.
But I also left with the kind of question that was not so good, because I didn’t know if it was a mistake that would take away my enjoyment.
I’m wondering: what about the envelope Leonardo DiCaprio gives Vera Farmiga? When they release the DVD are we gonna see a deleted scene where she opens it, then calls Mark Wahlberg? Because the otherwise tight storytelling fell apart there a little bit with that.
Again, not a really bad question -– like, say, the type I was left with after watching The Hulk (for example, “Why did I just watch that movie? Can I ever get those 90 minutes of my life back?”) -– so I’m not complaining too much. But a potential chink in the armor.
Why am I going on and on about this? Because we’re about to dive into the recut of Dismal -– and I want to leave the good questions in there and take care of the bad questions.
And sometimes it’s tough to tell the difference.
Got me thinking about questions. Because, when a movie’s over, you want the viewer to be left with questions. The good questions.
Bad questions suck.
(Wait. Have I blogged about this before? How do regular bloggers like Greg remember?)
After The Departed, I was left with both types. Though even the bad questions weren’t so bad. This is a great film after all.
Good question:
In one bar scene, the camera’s on a crane (or high sticks?) over the bar and tilts down to reveal that Jack Nicholson has just downed a shot and has a beer lined up, ready to roll. Now, this question I have is predicated on my experience in Massachusetts (where the film takes place), in the mid-‘90s -– so things might have changed since then.
But back then, I learned that you can’t order a-shot-and-a-beer and get both at the same time. Believe me, I tried. State law against one person having two drinks in front of them simultaneously. When I ordered, they’d hand me the shot, I’d do it, then they’d slap down the beer.
So on Saturday I leave the theater wondering, did William Monahan and Martin Scorsese put this in there, knowing the law, as an inside joke to cement their knowledge of all things Boston (their knowledge, by the way, is delightfully deep) by adding a little touch to further show Nicholson’s character is a king? Like, Whoa, this dude can even get a shot and a beer!
Or is this an error -– albeit a slight one -– that just shows one small detail got past them. Not that it matters, really, a detail like this, so the mistake doesn’t take away from my enjoyment of the movie.
Either way, good question. The kind of question I got to talk to my wife about over sushi after the movie. This is what movies are supposed to do. Like Alabama says to Clarence in True Romance: When I see a really good movie I really like to go out and get some pie, and talk about it. Only on Saturday it was sushi. No pie. Anyway, you know what I mean: you delve in afterwards, talk about its intentions, think about its impact. Nothing too film-school-intellectual, please, but a good movie leaves you with good questions. If everything’s tied up with a neat bow, shit, I’ll pass.
But I also left with the kind of question that was not so good, because I didn’t know if it was a mistake that would take away my enjoyment.
I’m wondering: what about the envelope Leonardo DiCaprio gives Vera Farmiga? When they release the DVD are we gonna see a deleted scene where she opens it, then calls Mark Wahlberg? Because the otherwise tight storytelling fell apart there a little bit with that.
Again, not a really bad question -– like, say, the type I was left with after watching The Hulk (for example, “Why did I just watch that movie? Can I ever get those 90 minutes of my life back?”) -– so I’m not complaining too much. But a potential chink in the armor.
Why am I going on and on about this? Because we’re about to dive into the recut of Dismal -– and I want to leave the good questions in there and take care of the bad questions.
And sometimes it’s tough to tell the difference.
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