by Paul Ashton
so hard that it becomes a phenomenon and sends out story ripples into
subsequent strands for a time to come. Or you will get the two-hander climax
episode that doesn’t necessarily have a huge aftershock but that has a total
focus on a couple of characters. In 2008, Tony Jordan even managed to work
towards a one-hander in EastEnders – a monologue of Dot Cotton’s message
for her sick husband.
Soaps are wholly storylined for a core cast with no ‘guest’ characters or
strands for the jobbing writer to sneak in. There are some general received
conventions. Episodes represent up to one day and night in time frame. They
are linear, with no flashbacks or forward cuts, leaps or mon tages within any
given scene or setting; scene time is real time. The feel is essen
tially
naturalistic, realistic, believable – possible and plausible (if not neces sarily
probable). The setting is contemporary – the same date as that on which it
first transmits on air.
At the structural heart of the soap format is the ongoing need to
create hooks, build suspense, play with expectations and climb from cliff-
hanger to cliffhanger. The multi-stranding between numerous storylines
THE MEDIUM 41
means each scene will need a hook at the beginning (why we need to see it)
and a hanger at the end (why we need to pick the strand up again later).
Episodes generally have varying degrees of hook at the start (whose story
the episode primarily is) and hanger at the end (how it feeds into the next
episode). If each episode in a weekly block is building towards a weekly
climax, then each needs a strong hook of a cliffhanger at the end to main -
tain momentum across the week. The hook should be character/ emotion
driven; the hanger might be suspense (how do they get out of that mess?)
or mystery (what the hell is going on?) What they must do is propel us from
scene to scene, strand to strand, beginning to end, episode to epi sode – and
ultimately block to block over the serial arcs. The format must be relentless.
PRECINCT
A precinct show takes a very specific place, setting, environment – a
workplace of some form – as its lynchpin. For example, a hospital precinct
might be an A&E unit ( Casualty), a hospital ward ( Holby) or a period set -
ting ( The Royal). Through the work-based setting, the core characters inter -
act with the ‘general public’ of ‘guest’ characters. The precincts that have
remained truly continuing – hospital, doctor’s surgery, police station – are
arenas with which the general public from just about any walk of life,
background and outlook might easily or conceivably connect. (Even a mem -
ber of the royal family might attend the opening ceremony of a new hospital
wing.) It is this fundamental quality that gives them their ever-renewable
subsidiary cast, a never-ending treasure trove of lives and stories, and the
potential to remain relentless.
You are likely to have one episode a week at a longer format (50–60
minutes). The difference between shows will be not only their specific pre -
cinct or variation on it, but also the balance between serial strands for the
core cast of continuing characters and the guest-episode story bringing a
new character into the precinct. This balance can also shift and change
within a show and over time.
What tends to characterise these precincts is that they are arenas in
which core and guest characters have the potential to be everyday heroes
(and villains). Many new writers have naively tried to pitch a new precinct
show – but they don’t usually work because the precinct they choose does
not have the same universal and heroic potential. Law courts, care system,
42 THE CALLING CARD SCRIPT
probation service, river police – we are much less likely to step into this
precinct in reality, and ‘saving a life’ is less likely to be portrayed as a single
heroic act. They could work as settings for non-continuing shows – the law
courts in particular have worked well. But they don’t have the same capa -
city to run on and on and on and appeal to a broad audience.
RETURNING SERIES
Returners come back in seasons of episodes, usually annual. Episodes will
generally tell a primary story, but there may be serial arcs across the
season. For Life on Mars and Ashes to Ashes there was a crucial high-
concept serial arc, though it still only comprised about 5–10 per cent of the
story in most episodes. In some shows, such as Hustle, there may be only
one major difference or development per season – a character leaves or a
new one joins the team – and the rest is all episode story.
The key thing about the returner is precinct and world – cop show,
crime show, school, sixth-form college, period rural village, housing estate,
building site, hotel. But it’s also about genre, sub-genre and variations on
genre. Take cop shows. There’s the intelligent, measured pace of Morse; the
shadow of Morse in Lewis; the high-concept nostalgia of Life on Mars; the aging cold-case ex-coppers in New Tricks; the dark world of Messiah; the fight against male northern prejudice in Prime Suspect. Trial and Retri bution.
Inspector Frost. Dalziel and Pascoe. Inspector Lynley. The Sweeney. The Professionals. Cops. City Central. The list goes on and on – all cop shows in one way or another. Then there are the ‘detective’ shows: Cracker, Kingdom,
Rosemary and Thyme, Jonathan Creek, right back to Sherlock Homes, Poirot and Miss Marple. And the forensic crime shows: Silent Witness, Waking the Dead. (And this is just British shows, never mind American ones.)
The variation within a genre is potentially endless. Shows can change
over time – from the single heroine to the team in Silent Witness. But the
central format – using forensic evidence to solve a crime – remains the
same. The episode story-driven format of genre-driven returners must have
the ability to live on – even when core characters leave or die. The format
would tire were it to continue every week rather than return for a season
every year.
Returners centred around a precinct /world rather than a genre –
school ( Waterloo Road), village ( Lark Rise to Candleford), family home/
THE MEDIUM 43
neighbourhood ( Shameless) – invariably have a greater emphasis on serial
arcs over the series. But successful shows will still tell a very strong episode
story that could conceivably stand up without the absolute necessity of see -
ing the previous and next episodes.
A word about high-concept and Saturday-evening family shows –
Doctor Who, Merlin, Robin Hood, Primeval. The same principles apply.
These programmes, perhaps more than any other returner, show the power
in, and clamour around, the ‘season’ – the limited run that we await with
eager anticipation until it comes and then miss with a real sense of loss
when it ends. They are designed to give you a more intense ‘hit’ and per -
haps a bolder or higher-concept experience than the continuing and other
returning shows. They are meant to be much larger than real life.
Finally, there are the ‘anthology’ series – a weird kind of development
&n
bsp; of older formats such as The Twilight Zone. In these a core precinct /world –
an ‘ordinary’ street in The Street, the factory in Clocking Off – act as the place from which stand-alone stories with their own heroes and villains will
be told. The show won’t have core characters in each episode – rather, it will
have an ensemble of characters. An anthology is an umbrella: a way of
bringing various stories together under one canopy. Done well, they will feel
like powerful singles embedded within a returning series format.
RELENTLESS MEETS FORMAT
The specific nature of format defines the level, scope and tone of relent -
lessness in TV storytelling. You need different kinds of formats and ingredi -
ents to keep different audiences hooked in different kinds of ways – to make
them watch and then come again for more. What the format does is define
the nature of the relationship between, and experience of, story and
audence. This is at the heart of the medium of TV.
‘It’s a very addictive medium. I always thought I was going to be a
movie writer but once you’ve had those immediate, big audiences,
once you’ve heard people discussing your work on the bus the following
morning . . . it’s hard to go back into that movie ghetto of dreams
and maybes.’
Ashley Pharaoh
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2
The Beginning
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WHAT ARE PRODUCERS LOOKING FOR?
This has to be the single most repeated question out of the mouths of
aspiring writers (and /or desperate ones). And it is impos sible to answer in
a way that would satisfy them – because if it were that simple, half of us in
the ‘development’ industry (and a fair few writers) would be out of work –
commissioners would simply go to the people they like and order a script like
a made-to-measure suit. This is just not how things work most of the time.
Commissioners like to be surprised. They like to be seen to take risks.
They like to be responsible for breaking new talent as well as getting the
very best out of established talent. They like being able to identify a new
idea as one worth commissioning, developing, selling, green-lighting, invest -
ing production money in – and being able to nip uninspiring ones in the
bud. They like stamping their personality over their slate. But they know
ultimately that it is not their job to come up with ideas – it is their job to
know when to pounce on them and the people who generate them.
One thing I can generally say of the big players across theatre, film,
TV and radio is that they are looking not only for ideas they have never
seen before, but also ideas with which as large an audience as possible can
fall in love. This is not crude populism or ‘commercialism’. It is the meaning
of storytelling – to reach, touch, move, entertain, enthuse, inspire, anger,
haunt and surprise as many people as possible. If you don’t have this ambi -
tion and urge, then you shouldn’t be writing drama for an audience. The
logic is very simple and compelling. Audiences justify drama, not the other
way around. Whether it’s studio theatre or prime-time TV – everyone wants
a full house.
THE MEAT MARKET
Feeding an audience should not mean serving up fodder. Ever. Audiences
are always more discerning, intelligent, hungry, critical, demanding, know -
ing than you suspect they are – and than we ever give them credit for. And
48 THE CALLING CARD SCRIPT
although what we hear and see can turn out to not be as good as everyone
involved hoped and believed it would be, nobody really starts with the
express intention of grinding out bog-standard work. A poor commissioner
serves up the same old stuff all the time. A good commissioner will take
wild risks some of the time and both succeed and fail; and a good com -
missioner will also take calculated risks the rest of the time and both
succeed and fail. Nobody can ever get it right all the time – not least
because one person’s right is another person’s very, very wrong indeed.
Getting it right more often than not is pretty good going.
The best thing you as a writer can offer in a meat market is a prime
fillet steak. Don’t try to second-guess what you think the commissioner
wants, nor what you think the commissioner thinks the audi ence wants,
nor what you think the commissioner thinks the audiences thinks it wants.
It won’t help you – you will end up serving competent fodder at best.
THE MARKET
So do you ignore the ‘market’? Well, no. Ditching the word ‘market’ might
overcome a mental block for some. But you always need to know what has
and hasn’t worked for audiences – and why – in order to know what has
already been done and won’t be done again in the same way. I have too often
read scripts that I know (and the writer apparently doesn’t) have already
been pretty much seen and done before. Don’t do what has already been
done. Learn from what you see and hear. Dissect it. Analyse it. Criticise it.
Digest it. Accept it. Even if you don’t like it. And move on to what’s distinct
about your idea. If you want to write a Radio 4 ‘Afternoon Play’, you need
to know what that slot in the schedule is and does. It’s better if you already
love a slot. It’s good if you can learn to love the potential in it. But if you
feel nothing for it whatsoever, then you’re just being expedient and little
good will come of it. So it’s not just about knowing what the market looks
like – it’s about loving your stall and knowing who might want to shop at
yours rather than somebody else’s.
SO WHAT ARE PEOPLE LOOKING FOR?
As I’ve said, it’s the most asked question. The truthful answer? UK com -
missioners and producers, whether they are after original ideas or writers
THE BEGINNING 49
for soaps, don’t really have a long list of uncommissioned ideas and subjects
against which they can tick off Writer X or Writer Y. What they are really
looking for is a writer with a distinct voice who can create and deliver an
original story that will stay with us – a story that an audience will love.
A brilliant original calling card script is your first step on the steep
and rocky road towards your writing actually being produced. The calling
card may never be made – but if it’s good, then it will get you noticed. And
only then do you really start to get into all-important conversations about
what people are looking for – and whether they think you might just be
able to deliver it.
WHERE TO BEGIN?
‘The end is in the beginning. And yet you go on.’
Samuel Beckett, Endgame
THE BLANK PAGE
Dramas about writer’s block aren’t intrinsically dramatic and only rarely
do they work. But anyone who has seen Barton Fink by the Coen brothers
can see in all its glorious tedium the futility of sitting in front of a blank
page, waiting in vain for the words to come. Choose this road and before
long you too will most likely be worrying about the endlessly peeling wall -
paper in the corner or what might be happening next door.
Nowadays most people will sit before a computer screen rather than a
page in a notebook or typewriter. But computer screens are even more dan -
gerous; email, the internet and Facebook are only a click away. The blank
page screen might work for a valiant few – but it will almost certainly fail
for the inglorious many. So don’t face a blank page until you are armed and
ready to actually fill it with something.
Whatever you do – DO NOT START WRITING YOUR SCRIPT STRAIGHT
AWAY. Start writing, for sure. But the actual script is what you do when you
know what you want to write – not what you do when you can’t work out
what to do next.
50 THE CALLING CARD SCRIPT
KNOWLEDGE IS POWER
Are there things you know or know about that other people do not know so
well? Are there things you know by proxy that give you an insight into the
workings of a particular world? Material doesn’t come from nowhere. This
doesn’t mean that the thing you happen to be an expert in will necessarily
be interesting to other people – only, perhaps, if you make a great story out
of it or use it as texture within a great story. It may be that the jobs you
wish to forget, the time in your life you wish to leave behind, the itches you
perhaps could never scratch, give you the material you need – unfortun -
ately, it may not be an expertise you are proud or desirous of, or even will -
ing to acknowledge. But don’t ignore the things you know in minute detail.
And be prepared to research the things you know you need to know – but
just happen not to know yet. You always need to be master of your universe.
NEWS OF THE WORLD
Ideas often come from snippets of real stories and news that seed them -
selves in your brain and then just take on a life of their own (with the aid
of a gentle nudge – or perhaps a crowbar). If you’re really stuck, mine true
stories. They are normally both stranger and stronger than fiction. But still
they must really take hold of you as much as you take hold of them.