The Calling Card Script

by Paul Ashton

  They too are an act of faith.

  THE ‘TOOLBOX’

  This book is a metaphorical box of tools to aid the inspired craftsman –

  whether you are a first-timer, or new to a specific medium, or experienced

  and look ing to refresh what you do. It assumes that you truly believe you

  have a talent and an instinct for scripting drama, and that you are a writer

  with something to say. It can’t and won’t teach you how to acquire that

  intrinsic, inherent, inimitable talent; but it will help you build on it in order

  to write a script that the right people will enjoy enough to want to talk to you.

  ‘Toolbox’ denotes a very specific image – a collection of tools, each of

  which serves a very particular purpose in the daily work of the craftsman.

  I won’t pretend that you can ever have a true scriptwriting toolbox from

  which you simply apply a tool to a problem and fix it. The tools of the script -

  writer’s trade are strangely shaped, they do not apply to inanimate objects

  but to people, ideas, journeys, conflicts, resolutions, experiences, actions,

  events, desire, love, hope, need, anger, despair, empathy, insight, instinct.

  This book explores these strangely shaped tools of the storytelling trade.

  If you think that simply kitting yourself out will solve every problem,

  think again; a craftsman’s tools in the hands of a DIY disaster do not fix the

  problem, they exacerbate it or leave it looking like shoddy workmanship.

  This book is not just about using the tools, it is about acquiring the skill to

  use them, learning the trade, thinking like a craftsman. Thinking like a

  writer.

  This book is not meant to be fully comprehensive – but essential. It is

  designed to be useful, usable, readable, with information broken down into

  INTRODUCTION

  3

  bite-sized chunks. But it’s not a crib or an easy way out. There are no easy

  ways out. It’s not ‘for dummies’ or ‘made easy’. Writing great scripts is

  always extremely hard. It is meant to be hard, otherwise it would not be a

  vocation so coveted or so worth pursuing. And while this book is designed

  to be user-friendly and not too dense, the material and ideas are complex,

  and it is intended to be rigorous because nothing to do with the

  scriptwriting process is easy. Everything that I expect you to ask of yourself

  is extremely demanding. No cribs. No easy ways out.

  Also, this book is about the script as a blueprint because writers write

  scripts in order for them to be made; they are ‘literature’ in so far as we

  read them in order to produce them. Scripts are a stage in a process. Every

  dramatic medium is collaborative to a greater or lesser degree. Unless, that

  is, you plan on directing, producing, editing, acting and writing the score

  too. But we can’t all be Vincent Gallo. And most professional writers write

  a script that other people will realise.

  THE FORM OF THIS BOOK

  The book is largely structured around the idea of beginnings, middles and

  endings – both in the story itself and the process of developing and writing

  it. But that shape is loose, not prescriptive. It’s a way of organising the

  material, but it’s not the only way of reading it and using it. If you have an

  idea and want to develop it into a script, the book will help you do that. If

  you want to dip into sections about, say, the medium of radio or writing

  scenes, you can do that too.

  I offer no specific, overarching, all-encompassing or deceptively com -

  forting theories. The problem with totalitarian theories is that if something

  doesn’t fit then it either must be decried or ignored otherwise it is in danger

  of corrupting the theory. In this book, there may well be parts that conflict

  with one another and that’s (hopefully) not because I’m incoherent and hypo -

  critical but because they just do conflict – because things disagree, because

  nobody knows everything, because minds can be changed and developed

  and work in different ways to tackle the different problems that arise at

  different times. Like I say, it’s an imperfect science. In fact, it isn’t science

  at all.

  4 THE CALLING CARD SCRIPT

  WHAT THIS BOOK DOES NOT DO

  This book is not about creative writing tips or exercises, nor about sitcoms,

  sketches, pitches, detailed treatments, the finer technicalities of script for -

  matting, how to sell your idea, who to contact, how to get an agent, what

  it’s like to work on a particular soap opera. There are plenty of other books

  and websites that can steer writers seeking out such information (see the

  Appendix); this one concentrates on writing the original script that tells a

  dramatic story and gets you noticed.

  AN INDUSTRY PERSPECTIVE

  This book is to a degree born out of my own experience as a (modestly) pro -

  duced writer for stage and screen. But primarily it is born out of much

  greater experience of reading scripts, working with writers, developing ideas

  and voices, lecturing, workshopping, tutoring, and being one of those people

  who writers seek to impress by virtue of being a ‘gatekeeper’ in the indus -

  try. I ask questions of the writer in this book in the same way that I ask

  questions of the thousands of scripts that I have read across theatre, radio,

  film and television. When I say thousands, I really do mean thousands.

  If you were to ask me what were the common or recurring problems

  with the majority of these scripts, my answer would be something along

  these lines:

  The writer isn’t in control of the medium, often making fundamental

  mistakes and forcing basic errors regarding the form of their story.

  The writer isn’t thinking clearly enough about who might want to

  produce their work and who the audience might be.

  Or: they are thinking far too hard about a potential commission and

  trying desperately (and pointlessly) to second guess what people want.

  The writer’s individual voice doesn’t shine through – the story isn’t

  passionately told from a unique perspective.

  The writer isn’t thinking hard enough about genre, tone and the

  kind of story they are telling.

  Or: they are thinking far too obviously about genre and slavishly

  applying a generic shape and form to an idea.

  INTRODUCTION

  5

  The writer hasn’t really clarified their idea and premise, what is

  distinct about them, what it is they fundamentally have to say about

  them.

  The writer hasn’t got the story straight – they don’t know where

  they are going and so begin and end in the wrong place and the

  wrong way.

  The characters are not strong, engaging, distinct, active, complex or

  vulnerable enough and I don’t connect with them emotionally.

  The script does not hit the ground running and hook my attention.

  The story does not have a necessary shape and structure – a beginning,

  middle and end that really cohere and satisfy.

  The writer has begun writing the actual script too soon – before they

  have really thought about and gestated most of the above.

  The story gets lost in the middle – the dir
ection confused, the

  momentum lost, the progress mired in quicksand.

  The characters do not grow and develop as the script develops.

  The story is not surprising as it progresses.

  The writer has a story and narrative but struggles to bring scenes

  to dramatic life.

  The writer does not voice the characters convincingly and authentic -

  ally – the dialogue is awkward, on the nose, overly expository.

  The story does not reach a necessary, satisfying ending.

  The writer has not forced themselves to go back, look again and

  rewrite – they have not given themselves the space to get their

  script as right as they can before sending it out.

  Or: the writer has over-developed their script to death and rewritten

  all the personality out of it.

  And finally, the thing that I find is increasingly common and perhaps the

  most demoralising of the lot:

  The writer has churned out a script (particularly for film) that looks

  like the real thing, that is polished and slick, that has probably

  benefited from workshops, courses and every structure book going –

  but that has no personality, no voice, no charm, no edge, no surprises,

  nothing original or distinct or unusual about it.

  6 THE CALLING CARD SCRIPT

  What you see here is an attempt to explore all these questions. This book is

  not about writing the kind of slick, polished article that looks like the kind

  of thing that could get made. Nobody really expects your signature script to

  be perfect, but they do want to be picked up at the beginning and swept on

  to the end. I have wasted far, far too much of my professional life reading

  meticulously formatted and utterly soulless scripts – there are too many of

  them swimming around. This book is about telling a great story in script

  form, not about somehow hoodwinking the script reader. There is no point

  mastering scriptwriting software or script formats until you’ve really

  started to think hard about what the story is and what you have to say for

  yourself.

  POINTS OF REFERENCE

  My primary field of reference is British stage, radio, film and television

  scripts – because it’s where I work, it’s what I know best, it’s an industry

  that offers the possibility to work in all four mediums. It’s also because

  contrary to the belief of a vocal few, British drama always has been just

  as brilliant and ambitious and original as anything else from anywhere

  else; the pedigree of the best of contemporary British theatre is rarely in

  doubt but, for example, television drama is often unfairly maligned for not

  being The Wire as if that is the only benchmark of quality (brilliant though

  it is).

  But this field is also not narrow; it is eclectic and I would happily take

  in a Greek epic and a contemporary returning series drama for TV in the

  same breath because in the end they are both stories. The exception is that

  I refer somewhat less to produced radio dramas for the sole and simple

  reason that they are not easy to get hold of, either as published scripts or

  transmitted dramas, and therefore are not easy for the writer to refer back

  to. There is a reading list in the Appendix of the works I refer to most, and

  in the greatest detail.

  THE ‘CALLING CARD’ SCRIPT

  I focus on writing the original ‘calling card’ script that expresses your voice

  and gets you noticed; even if it is never produced, it can be the crucial thing

  that starts your conversation with people who make drama. The book is

  INTRODUCTION

  7

  also designed to be useful on any script at any time because it seeks to raise

  the fundamental questions rather than prescribe narrowly defined

  templates or practice.

  But what is a ‘calling card’? When it is written well, it is a script that

  simply speaks your voice: it is interesting and engaging and intriguing and

  in some way unusual; it shows what you can do; it is an opportunity to be

  truly original; it shows the choices you make when you are not writing to a

  strict brief or commission; it demonstrates your skill and hints at your

  potential; it opens doors and starts a dialogue; it is the start of a writer’s

  journey, not the final goal or end point of it; it is a means to any number of

  ends yet must not feel like it’s been written solely to be expedient.

  I actually wrote a number of scripts I thought were ‘calling cards’ –

  ones that I thought had depth and intrigue and were what people

  wanted to read. Turned out all were quite shit.

  Jack Thorne

  I just went for it, I didn’t care how authored or mannered it

  sounded, if people liked it then they’d go for it. It made me confident.

  Find that place to be yourself.

  Peter Moffat

  A calling card script is not necessarily the first script you write. You must

  apply the same rigour to every script until you complete one that you feel

  speaks your voice. (And then you must apply the same rigour to everything

  you write thereafter too.) If you really want to write, then the calling card

  script must not be the only script you write. If all you have is one story –

  your story, or a ‘passion piece’ – then you are not really a writer, you are

  someone with one story.

  You can write whatever kind of script you wish to write, but in prac -

  tice some things will work better for you than others:

  For theatre, I think you can write with fewer restrictions – but much

  less than an hour and much more than two hours smacks of either

  lack of substance or lack of focus respectively.

  For radio, aim for a 45-minute single drama but don’t fret if it ends

  up nearer 60; the Radio 4 ‘Afternoon Play’ is by far the biggest

  window of opportunity, for which you can write all kinds of stories,

  though there are other slots.

  8 THE CALLING CARD SCRIPT

  For film, much less than 80-minutes and much more than 120 again

  smacks of either not enough story or not enough control over the

  story – as well as a lack of understanding about the length of films

  that tend to be made and distributed.

  For TV, the hour-long episode is the ideal format; the ubiquitous

  soaps are in half-hours but writing the pilot episode of your own

  original soap is pretty suicidal in a calling card script and you’re

  better off thinking about a returning series. The commercial

  broadcasters’ hour-long slot is nearer to 45/50-minutes when the ad-

  breaks are factored in but don’t write in ad-breaks, just write an

  hour’s worth of TV story.

  The script that got me noticed was a movie about a dragon egg

  hatching in Victorian London. It was outrageously big and

  expensive but it had a movie sensibility and it wasn’t Letter to

  Brezhnev , so at that time it was different.

  Matthew Graham

  A BASIC DEFINITION

  Before we go any further, I want to state a fundamental, essential, inescap -

  able definition that should never be forgotten. The word ‘drama’ derives

  from the ancient Greek term ‘δρᾶν’, which means ‘to do’ or ‘to act’. Drama

  quite lite
rally is ‘action’. The ramifications of this should become evident as

  we go. But understanding it at the start will set you off on the front foot.

  THE WRITER’S EGO VERSUS THE WRITER’S JOURNEY

  This book is for not for people who just want to ‘be a writer’; it is for people

  who want to write better. It will not massage your creative ego; it will make

  you use your brain and flex your writing muscle. It is not a smooth path but

  a rocky road. It is not for those who simply want to know the fastest, easiest

  possible route to get them a commission, money, admiration and award

  nominations. It is for those who are ready and willing to go on a difficult

  journey every time they sit down to write. This thing is meant to be diffi -

  cult. And as Matthew Graham so succinctly put it to me:

  ‘You’re always a hair’s-breadth away from being shit.’

  1

  The Medium

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  THE WRITER AS MEDIUM

  Many scriptwriters will in their career write for more than one dramatic

  medium. Therefore many will need to try to master various mediums – and

  not simply to be able to write competently for them but to write brilliantly

  for them, because the competition in each given medium is so utterly intense

  and dauntingly relentless.

  ‘MEDIUM’

  What is ‘medium’? It is the place, person or means through which infor -

  mation is related – through which story is expressed.

  What is ‘a medium’? In one guise, it is the receptacle – a person –

  through which a spiritual world communicates with a corporal world.

  So is a writer a medium? The means through which imagination (idea)

  is communicated in tangible form (text)? Maybe. Maybe not. It’s not a clear

  and coherent metaphor, because ‘medium’ implies a passive receptacle and

  we expect writers to create and invent in proactive ways. But it does raise