Could It Be a Movie

by Christina Hamlett

  Keep in mind, however, that giving your storyline away to someone else means that you are also relinquishing control of what they actually do with it. And, unless you’ve delineated specific terms in a contract, you can’t come back after the picture has been turned into a gazillion dollar success and claim that they stole it from you.

  TACKLING IT YOURSELF

  One of my recent e-mail inquiries was from a man who had acquired the rights to a human interest story that had made the headlines in his hometown. “I don’t know the first thing about how to write a movie,” he explained, “but a venture capitalist in Arizona said he’d help me raise five million dollars to start my own production company and film it. What do you think I should do?”

  My initial reaction, of course, is that the venture capitalist’s name is probably Guido and that he is more interested in the prospective company failing than he is in bettering the filmmaking community by giving this new kid a chance at playing producer. My recommendation was that the writer buy some screenwriting books, take some classes, and do the first draft himself.

  There is certainly no shortage of helpful advice that is out there for beginners, far more than was ever in place when I first began writing movie and play reviews in the early 70s and testing the magazine markets with a few fillers. Since the Internet hadn’t been invented yet, we were the generation who learned just about everything from trial and error — relying on reference books that were already obsolete by the time they got to the printers, spending copious amounts on postage, spending even more copious amounts of time at the mailbox waiting for our SASEs to find their way home.

  We were also of the generation who believed that you absolutely had to move to Los Angeles if you ever wanted to crack the system and be a part of it. While it certainly doesn’t hurt to have a Southern Cal address, technology has made it possible for people who live in the hinterlands of Maine to still get their work into the right hands… and get it produced.

  Bottom line: whatever excuse you might fashion on why you can’t try writing a screenplay on your own is probably not going to wash.

  “But what if I try to write it and it doesn’t sell?” the man wrote back. “I’d feel miserable for having failed.”

  Failure, I reminded him, is when you never take the chance at all.

  PARTNERS IN RHYME

  One of the great joys I derive from collaborating on theater musicals is that I never know what it will sound like until the composers send me tapes. Unlike Rodgers and Hammerstein, who probably spent more time in the same room with each other than they did with their families, our own brainstorming process is accomplished by phone, e-mail, and the U.S. Postal Service.

  Unusual? Not when you consider that our respective areas of expertise don’t require any interaction in person. I don’t know how to write an orchestral score. Likewise, they don’t know how to write a script. We also each believe the partners really have all the talent and we’re just lucky to get to work with them.

  Two of my three composers came about as the result of a nationwide search. Not only were their orchestrations sing-able, but their accompanying letters projected humor, warmth, and focus. The third, I literally walked in on by accident on a stage in Lyndon, Vermont. Arriving early to give a speech on screenwriting, I was drawn in by the sound of someone playing original compositions on the stage piano. I liked what I heard and a mutually beneficial partnership was born on the spot.

  That same level of bliss, however, cannot be said of the times I’ve paired with aspiring writers. It always sounds like a good idea at the start, given the solitary nature of the craft itself. Maybe you’ve even been considering it as a way to divide the workload and brainstorm how each scene should come together. Before you commit to a buddy system, however, the following scenarios reveal what you could be getting yourself into.

  I THOUGHT I WAS JUST HERE TO WATCH

  The e-mail came from out of the blue. Ten years prior, I had made the acquaintance of a women who said she had always wanted to break into writing romance novels. “Maybe we could write one together one day,” she chirpily proposed. “I have lots of ideas.”

  I diplomatically dissuaded her, suggested she should try writing them herself.

  Time passed.

  When she finally resurfaced, she still hadn’t written anything yet, but had been following my career. Her liberal praise — to the point of gushiness — put me on guard that she probably wanted something. She did. She wanted to write a book with me about her experience of being widowed twice in a lifetime.

  Against my better judgment, I said yes, deeming that the book could be cathartic for her and inspirational to other women in the same situation. I proceeded to outline a game plan whereby we’d interview clergy, doctors, and grief counselors, in addition to those who had suffered loss and wanted to share their experiences.

  Two months into the process, I asked her how her portion of the writing was going. “Oh, I’m just here to watch you and see how it’s done,” she replied. What she had accomplished, however, was going to Nordstrom and picking out the suit she was going to wear at our first book-signing. “Do you want me to pick out something matching for you?” she offered.

  WARNING: There’s nothing wrong with giving tips to new kids. Just make sure that if you take them under your wing, they don’t cause both of you to fall out of the tree. Delineate what portions each partner will be responsible for and schedule progress checks to ensure that the work is getting done.

  LOVE ME, LOVE MY EGO

  As a result of one of my screenwriting columns, a self-published author approached me with the idea that her book would make a great film and did I know any screenwriters. I offered to read it first and render my opinion on its adaptation potential.

  “I think it would make a better play,” I remarked, owing largely to the fact that it was a series of humorous vignettes rather than a single, cohesive plot-line.

  “Do you know any playwrights?” she asked.

  By this time, we had become e-mail pen pals and I opted to develop her book into a three-act comedy for a 50/50 split of the profits.

  Big mistake.

  Every day, I would receive no less than two dozen e-mails telling me what I should be putting into the production. Furthermore, she was vexed with those incidents and characters I felt were expendable and, thus, omitted from the script. “Were you there?” she harangued. “How would you know whether or not they were important?”

  Small wonder it took me nearly seven months just to write the first act. It was 45 pages — very tight, very funny, very nostalgic.

  “I just have a few notes,” she remarked when I sent it off to her. These “few notes” encompassed 48 pages, longer than the first act of the play itself.

  “Oh and by the way,” she added, “do you really think that 50/50 is really fair? Considering that you wouldn’t have a story if I hadn’t lived it, I think I should get 90% and you should have 10.” In retrospect, I’m fairly certain that if our arrangement had continued and the play ever want on to win an award, I would have been summarily pushed off the stage and credited — if at all — as just the typist.

  WARNING: Always trust your intuition. If your potential screen partners are controlling and calling all the shots at the beginning, they will only get worse with the passage of time. It’s also wise to put all of the financial particulars in a formal contract, even if the party of the first part is as sweet as your grandmother.

  BUDS AND BREWSKIES

  “So what exactly are you looking for in a writing partner?” I inquired. It seemed strange that someone who had already written and produced some direct-to-video projects on his own needed to suddenly bring in a partner. If, for instance, he felt he was weak on dialogue or wanted to bring in an expert on a particular era or lifestyle, a liaison would make sense.

  “I’d just like a bud to kinda hang out with and shoot the bull,” he said.

  Wisely, I declined.

  WARNING: It’s one
thing if your writing partner (1) eventually becomes your best pal or (2) was your best pal before the partnership began. Seeking out or joining a partnership for the express purpose of keeping you company and splitting a beer tab could leave you worse off than if you’d remained alone. In an ideal partnership, each half should be able to supply a skill, knowledge, or connection that the other half was missing.

  OUTA MY WAY!

  My husband and I had yet to move from Northern California when I met a prospective writing partner who ended up teaching me the most valuable lesson about choosing collaborators.

  She already lived in L.A. and was looking to break into screenwriting by adapting romance novels. Since I had several of the latter and was beginning to recognize the need to either start commuting southward or find an associate I could trust, it seemed like a good idea for us to work together.

  Her zeal for schmoozing at industry parties and events soon thereafter yielded a potentially valuable contact for us. Unfortunately, the producer was only in the market for scripts featuring women over the age of 45. Rather than add an obviously contrived 20 years to our current heroine, we politely declined. Not a week later, one of my screenwriting students turned in a proposal for a film that would have been perfect. I suggested to my associate that, since she had personally met the producer, perhaps she could do a favor and play intermediary.

  Her response was curt, as well as myopic.

  “I’m a struggling writer myself,” she declared. “I’m not about to start helping the competition beat me out of the chance to get noticed.”

  Like the proverbial dog in the manger, she was adamant about denying someone else access to a forum which we ourselves were unable to join at the present time. The result? The producer lost a first-rate script, the writer lost a golden opportunity, and the associate lost my respect. Rather than agree to disagree on the concept of shared resources, she punctuated the end of the relationship with the declaration that she could reach her goal entirely on her own, notwithstanding that six months earlier she had vigorously campaigned to hitch her star to mine.

  On the one hand, I can relate to some of her trepidation. On the other, it’s a sad commentary that we’ve so lost sight of faith in our fellow man that we’d purposely withhold resources that could ultimately benefit the literary community at large.

  WARNING: It’s only a matter of time that a collaborator who views all other writers as the “enemy” will eventually label you in the same way. Life is too short not to hold the door open for our competitors… and I’m not referring to elevator shafts when I say that.

  IF YOU’RE GOING TO WORK TOGETHER

  In most of life’s big events, there are those who lead and those who follow. In collaboration projects, however, this rule doesn't always work. In fact, it can be injurious to the health of the friendship if there's any kind of grapple for power to be the boss. There needs to be respect for each other's area of expertise in order to keep the partners on equal footing in contributing to a project's development.

  In the case of collaborating on a book, for example, one partner may have a better handle on narrative while the other’s specialty is snappy dialogue. There are even some partnerships where one person does all of the historical research and the other does the actual writing, yet both share 50/50 credits on the finished product.

  With screenwriting, the division of labor might be based on physical location (i.e., the one who lives in Los Angeles or New York is responsible for pitching and “doing meetings”). Is your partner better at writing synopses and treatments? Do you have the better voice or charismatic personality on the phone for setting up appointments? Capitalize on your respective strengths. And don't get in each other's way!

  ARE WRITTEN CONTRACTS NECESSARY?

  The presence of a legal agreement doesn't guarantee a smooth-running partnership, any more than the hiring of an agent solidifies one's place in the literary world. In my own collaborations, I've always tried to answer the question, "Would I believe in this person as a friend even if we weren't working together?"

  Unfortunately, in our lawsuit-driven society, intuition isn't enough to hold up in court in the event that (1) you and your partner come to a parting of the ways, (2) you experience “creative differences” halfway through the project's completion, or (3) one of you dies and your mourners suddenly have an attack of greed.

  As starry-eyed as many people approach the benefits of collaborating (there's an obvious correlation to pre-nups and marriage vows), it's only prudent to consider what your legal options will be if you ever come to loggerheads. For the legally impaired, there's a comprehensive guidebook by Writer's Digest titled How to Write with a Collaborator (published in 1988). This book includes sample contract agreements in the appendix and also addresses issues such as compatibility, soliciting experts, ghostwriting, and defining respective duties. You can even find sample contracts online that allow you to fill in the blanks and print out copies for both of you. Another excellent resource is Claudia Johnson and Matt Stevens’ book, Script Partners: What Makes Film and TV Writing Teams Work (Michael Wiese Productions).

  By outlining who's in charge of what, what the percentages will be, and how the property will be marketed will save major headaches (and potential lawsuits) down the road. It's also wise to include a clause pertaining to the property's ownership should one of the partners get run over by a bus (It does happen, you know), or if one of you decides to adapt the sold/unsold script to a novel or Broadway musical and the other is lukewarm to the idea.

  WHAT ARE WE TRYING TO SAY HERE?

  If you’re going to create something wonderful with a writing partner, it really helps if both of you are in accord on what that something is supposed to be. Sounds obvious, of course, but I can recall one of my earlier theatrical collaboration disasters when a composer and I were not only on different planes, but probably different planets.

  While the musician had the creative skills and professionalism to turn out a first-rate score, we hit an immediate impasse at his interpretation of the script's intent. The musical, First Ladies, was based on the premise of four former presidential wives stepping out of their portraits to offer advice and counsel to an incoming First Lady. Such diversity was reflected through the "ghosts" of Martha Washington, Dolly Madison, Rachel Jackson, and Mary Lincoln.

  “The concept's passable,” the musician remarked with an unabashed yawn, “but I'd rather spin something with Eleanor, Mamie, Nancy and Roslyn”

  "I'll get back to you," I replied. I didn't.

  A similar incident occurred when two of my students decided to team up on a movie of the week which was set in the Pacific Northwest and involved park rangers. After two weeks of intense writing, it became apparent that one of them was writing a love story while the other one was penning a sensational murder mystery. They came running to me to mediate, each convinced that her own way of telling the story was better.

  “She wants to kill off Bradley in the first scene,” the romantic argued.

  "That's 'cause her 'Bradley' character is an idiot," her partner countered, not realizing that Bradley was supposed to be the heroine's heartthrob and, thus, meant to last for more than the first chapter.

  TRY TO KEEP UP WITH ME

  If you're going to work together, it's important that you and your partner(s) not only march to the same drummer, but also at the same pace. Several people who responded to my ad for a collaborator took nearly a year to send a sample of their work. The message conveyed to me was that either it had taken them that long to assemble their best material or that they were too lazy about finding a postage stamp.

  Promising as some of the pieces were (when they finally arrived), my decision to ultimately pass on them stemmed from the experience of getting frustrated with delays that aren't of my own making. If, for instance, it takes someone two weeks to write one scene and it takes the partner over three months to respond with the subsequent scene, it will either takes years for them to finish an
ything cohesive... or no time at all to end the friendship.