“I’m not that nice. I can be as big an asshole as anyone. But I’m glad you think I have my moments.”
The check came. We promptly paid and pushed back our chairs. Yet as we headed for the exit, I was utterly surprised that the corner two-top once occupied by the writer mom was suddenly empty. Had I missed her as she’d excused herself to the ladies’ room?
“And there she goes,” said my director friend, gesturing toward the window.
That’s when I saw her, hauling ass across the parking lot, climbing into her Euro-built mom-mobile.
“Betcha didn’t see that coming,” said my friend.
Nope. I surely didn’t.
That Screenplay Thing I Do
“So whaddayou do, Doug?”
It’s the usual socially interactive question. Adults, stuck in the same mini-sphere, in this particular case it’s at a Little League team party hosted at my San Fernando Valley compound. Okay, it’s not really a compound. Nor is it a hacienda. It’s just your basic suburban domicile with a man-cave-slash-writing-lair in the back.
“I’m a writer.”
“What kind of writer?” is the general and polite follow-up question. “Films? tv?”
“Movies mostly,” I say. “I also write books.”
This is when the conversation usually splits down one of two divergent roadways: Fiction Boulevard or Movie Street. Considering my movies have so far proven way more popular than my still-growing thriller business, the exchange often steers thusly:
“So how does it work?” he asks.
“How does what work?”
“The writing movies thing?”
“Oh that,” I say, knowing fully what he really meant. I was just hoping to be wrong for once. Nor do I respond to his referring to my chosen profession—a line of work with which I pay the mortgage on my compound… er… humble abode—a thing.
“I mean, who comes up with the idea? Does somebody give you a book?” he asks.
“Sometimes they come up with the book. Sometimes I come up with the book.”
“Only books?”
“Hardly,” I say. “Ideas can come from anywhere.”
“Like anyplace at all?”
“Someone can bring me an idea,” I explain. “Or a half-formed story. Or an article from a magazine. Or an experience they had. Or it can come from my own experience.”
“Anywhere at all?”
“Pretty much.”
“Like… anything?”
“Exactly,” I say. “And you never know when the idea’s gonna hit you. I could be at a gas station. Or the market. Watching a baseball game. Who knows? I might suddenly get struck with the bright idea that there’s a good story in something like this: A team pool party where the host is hit up by one of the parents with a question like ‘what do you do?’”
Usually I have to wait for it. The questioner’s brain to catch up with the concept that the weak premise I just suggested was about him. Then the goof would normally bust out a big laugh before continuing the interrogation.
“So then what?” he asks.
“After the idea comes?”
“Yeah.”
“I write the movie.”
“And how does that work?”
“I actually sit down and I actually write it.”
“I figure that. But how long does it usually take, you know? To write the movie.”
“My first draft?”
“Sure. Your first draft.”
“Eight to ten weeks.”
This is when the whistle comes. Followed by:
“Wow. That long?”
“Sometimes a little quicker. Sometimes a bit longer.”
“How much longer?”
“Depends on the writer,” I say. “Some take six months to a year.”
“Holy crap. That’s long.”
“I suppose.”
“For just a movie, I mean.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“So it’s like what? A really long outline?”
“The screenplay for the movie?” I ask, though I know what he means. I don’t need him to clarify. This is about the time I attemp to devise an exit strategy to this particular conversation. That’s because I’ve been here before and know precisely where it’s going.
“Oh yeah. I’ve heard of that,” he says. “Screenplay.”
“That’s why it’s called ‘screenwriting.’”
“But this screenplay thing…”
There he goes again. To him, what I sometimes create from nothing is a “thing.” I should tell him that I have a “thing” in my office that has a trigger, takes lithium batteries and delivers one hundred and fifty thousand volts of Have-a-Nice-Day.
“What’s in it?” he continues. “You know. Your screenplay.”
“Description. Dialogue,” I answer.
“Dialogue?”
“Yes,” I say, preparing myself for the next and most obvious humdinger.
“So the dialogue you write is for…”
“The actors.”
“Actors, right,” he says. “And it’s like a description for what they’re supposed to say?”
“It’s pretty much exactly what they say,” I say.
“So what the actors say in the movie—“
“Is pretty much entirely written by a writer. Yes.”
“No kidding?”
“I kid you not. It’s written by a writer so when the actor opens his mouth something that propels the drama comes out of it.”
“Jeez. And I thought they just made it all up. Well, not all of it. But most of it. You know what I mean.”
“I do know what you mean,” I say. All too well, in fact. At this point I’m mentally writing a memo to the War Department. Please never volunteer us for one of these team party things again.
“So all the dialogue. Everything the actors say. Is written by you?” he asks.
“Or another writer. It’s a profession. There’s lots of us. We even breed.”
“So what else do you write?” he finally asks.
“Like I said. I’m also a novelist—”
“No,” he interrupts. “In the movie thing. You write the dialogue. But what else do you write or is that it?”
“No. There’s more,” I say with a dryness that might infer that a) I need another beer or b) I need something a lot stronger than a beer.
“Like what else?” he asks.
“Okay,” I relent. He’s a guy between the age of twenty and forty-five. The odds are with me here. “Did you see Bad Boys?”
“I did. Yeah. I know that movie. You wrote that?”
“I did.”
“No kidding. Wow.”
“Okay,” I continue. “So you remember how it starts. With the Porsche roaring down the highway. Miami. Palm trees whizzing by. Fast.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
“Then we’re inside the car. Will’s behind the wheel. Martin’s in the passenger seat. Will starts complaining about Martin ‘havin’ a picnic’ in his brand new Porsche.”
“Yeah, right. I remember that scene. That was funny stuff.”
“It was all written first,” I say. “The Porsche and the palm trees and Miami and the car going fast and the characters in the car and the hamburger and the complaint about the picnic and the dialogue where Martin drops the French fry between the seat the console and Will tells him his has to go down and ‘git it.’”
“Uh huh.”
“Like that,” I say.
“So you wrote all that.”
“Pretty much everything from the beginning to the end,” I tell him. “Until the screen goes black and the credits roll.”
“You write the credits too?” laughs the guy. “Only jokin’ about that. I know you probably didn’t write that.”
Now, before you curse this harmless boob for being a moron, just know he’s merely ignorant of how the puppeteer works the strings. In fact, the fellah I might’ve been having the conversation could easily have been a hea
rt surgeon or a Verizon Wireless technician or an attorney or even a movie set construction chief. I’ve even had the conversation with a computer programmer for a defense contractor. And in all those years he’s been figuring how to build a new binary system to thread through an eye of a needle to make a smart bomb even smarter, he’s been more than happy to buy a ticket, a Coke, and a fat bucket of popcorn and gladly watch my movie unspool without any more expectation than for it to entertain his over-worked ass. The truth is, without this curious fellow or his ilk, I wouldn’t have a job, let alone a dreamy pseudo-compound-slash-hacienda in the San Fernando Valley. I’m serious, here. He may be annoyingly curious but the proverbial shoe could easily fit on either of my ugly foot
if I was the person machine-gunning him with questions about his day job,
“Hey,” he says. “I know somebody who works in your business.”
“You do?” I ask, feigning surprise.
“Neighbor of mine. Well, not really a neighbor. I woman who used to date a divorced neighbor.”
“Oh.”
“Maybe you know her.”
“Probably not.”
“She works for that studio.”
“Which one?”
“I forget the name. The one with the lady with the thing—”
“The thing being the torch.”
“That’s it.”
“Columbia.”
“Right.”
“What’s she do there?”
“Not a clue.”
“And I bet you don’t remember her name.”
“Can’t think of it. Nope.”
“Small world,” I say.
“Damn straight it is,” he says. “Very small world.”
“But I wouldn’t wanna paint it,” I say, cribbing one of Steven Wright’s best lines.
“Man, you should write comedy,” the man laughs.
“Maybe I should.”
“You don’t?”
“Not usually.”
“So how’s that work? You know. The writing comedy thing?”
Sigh.
Special?
I get this call about once a year. It could be from a family member or a friend or a former colleague. But it usually involves a friend of a friend with a son or daughter who is interested in a career in the movies. They ask if I’d be adverse to meeting this young person for coffee or spending a little time on the phone with them. I generally have no problem complying, usually limiting the favor to a telephone chat. It often goes something like this:
“What can I do for you?” I will ask after our initial hellos, where’re you from and how’s the weather?
“I just love movies and hope to one day work in them.”
“In what capacity?” I ask.
“Well, I’m a performer.”
“An actor?”
“I guess so. Yes. I’d like to be an actor.”
Okay, time out. For purpose of this sample dialogue, I’m going with the actor factor. But believe me when I say this conversation doesn’t apply to just wannabe thespians. This is about everybody with a dream.
“Have you worked at all?” I ask. “As an actor, I mean.”
“Not yet. That’s why I’m calling you.”
“Well,” I’d say. “Tell me something about yourself.”
“Like what?”
“Like what makes you special? What makes you stand out?”
“Okay. Well. Just last year, I was Miss Stanislaus County. And before that, I was the lead in all my high school plays. Oh. And if I go to college, I’m planning on studying acting.”
“And where are you going to college?”
“I haven’t decided yet. Plus I wanted to give Hollywood a try first.”
Now, I know what you’re thinking. This is a cliché. You already know this girl. Eyes cluttered with stars and fantasy. But you gotta start somewhere, right? Huge careers have been built on less.
Yet I need to ask her again:
“Like I asked you before. What makes you special? What makes you stand out from the crowd?”
“Did I say I was Miss Stanislaus County?”
“You did.”
“Oh.”
About this point in the conversation I usually say, “Let me help you out. Were you prom queen, homecoming queen? Anything like that?”
“I was. Yes. Two years running.”
“Right. And you were lead in all the shows. You took dance and voice lessons since you were a little girl.”
“Yes. I took dance. Jazz, ballet, hip-hop—”
“Outstanding. Good stuff,” I’d continue. “And ever since you can remember, people have been telling you that you’re a star. Should be in movies, tv. Stuff like that?”
“Uh uh. My local newspaper always mentioned that kinda stuff in their reviews.”
“And that’s outstanding. Really it is. But follow me.”
Here’s where I would produce some pretty basic numbers. Such as 35,000. That’s roughly the number of high schools in the U.S. That means every year there are 35,000 prom-slash-homecoming queens, many who are also theatrically inclined and garnered rave local notices from editors whose day job in selling flood insurance. Add to that the over 3,000 Miss Name-That-Counties that are annually crowned, so many of whom are already plotting
their escape from Smallville before the rhinestone tiaras are gently plugged into their hair-sprayed dos.
Now imagine a mere one-quarter of one percent of those special young women arriving on the Sidewalks of Showbiz. And that’s every year! One thousand spanking new dreamers making landfall with suitcases packed full of hopes, rave reviews, and a host of Most Likely to Succeed in Hollywood votes tabulated by the fine folks on the yearbook committee.
And these annual arrivals don’t even include the countless others who arrive in Lalaland with their sights set on stardom. Community theater actors, BFAs with college degrees in theater, and everyone else who tried but didn’t get selected for a spot on The Glee Project.
“It’s an overcrowded, competitive business,” I’d say to her. “So when I ask what makes you special? What makes you stand out? I absolutely mean it in the best way.”
“I need to stand out.”
“You need to be exceptional,” I’d say. “When you figure out what that is… or where to look for it… you’re starting from the right place.”
Was I being too harsh? Maybe. I’m nothing close to perfect. So neither is my advice. But I do have a point here. One that applies to everybody who’s battling to make his or her way in a business more competitive than Cold War super powers.
I’m now a screenwriting veteran. My credits are decent enough but I’ve won no awards and good or bad, my movies are paganly commercial. In other words, as I’m dispensing said advice to showbiz hopefuls over the phone, I’m really just kicking my own lazy self in ass.
I have a singular writing credo. Be it blog, or novel, or script. Is it compelling? What’s going to make my reader want to turn the page?
Well, that’s no different than asking myself this: What makes me special? What makes me stand out?
Even now, as I tap this out, I’m questioning the relevance of it. Is it interesting?
Tomorrow morning—when I return to the pages of my next novel or screenplay—I’ll begin by briefly rereading some of what I’ve already written. And then ask myself if the words are worthy of the mass attention required for success in this fiercely competitive world.
F-Bombs on Mom
Here’s the scene. It was night on a cold and windswept mountaintop movie set. Writer and movie star had found shelter near the playback monitors. I was passing on to Bruce Willis the conversation I’d had with the producers earlier in the afternoon.
“They want you to dial back on the f-bombs, partner,” I said.
“Like they don’t know this movie’s gonna get an ‘R’ rating?” said Bruce.
“Matter of tone,” I countered. “That and the F-word is like a money bunny.”
“Money bunny?” smirked the star.
Yes. Money bunnies. I described them like this: Adding F-words beyond what I’d already carefully written in the script was like a rabbit mating ritual. Once one actor starts tossing out extra-curricular curse words then it catches on like a virus and soon everybody but the extras feel it’s open season for improvised expletives. The money part comes from the increase in looping costs to complete a broadcast version of the film.
“Think of it this way, Bruce. Every extra F-word you put between my commas is another ten minutes of hearing ‘beep beep beep’ in the adr booth.”
“Ha. I’m a fuckin’ adr commando,” said Bruce.
“Help me out, dude,” I said. “My mom’s gonna see this movie.”
Bruce busted out a sympathetic laugh.
“Your mom and my aunt,” laughed Bruce. “But since we got forever until the next setup. You first.”
So I started with this one. I was just out of high school and I’d written a little twenty-minute short. I had
a script, a cast from the local community college theater department, and a high school that had agreed to let me use the campus as a location on a forthcoming weekend. All that was left was the cash to pay for the film and processing. So I sought out my dearest financier. My mom.
Now I won’t say my mom was cheap. But she was frugal to a fault. Still, she liked my pitch and ponied up a couple of hundred dollars. Thanks mom.
Then a slight stumbling block. The principal of the school I was planning to shoot at wanted to see the script before giving final permission to film on his campus. What the hell? I thought. I’d written what I felt was an accurate depiction of high school drama. After all, I’d graduated only a couple months earlier. I dropped off the script with the principal and shuffled off to my job hauling bags of mail in the back of my pick-up.
Late that night, after I’d returned home, my mom was waiting for me at the kitchen table, her trademark lit cigarette, cup of black coffee, and a half-penciled crossword puzzle angled between her elbows.
“I got a disturbing phone call this afternoon,” said my mom with her patented direct and unwavering eye contact. “Do you know the principal over at Oakmont High?”
I gulped.
“He said you showed him your script for that little film I financed and was totally offended by all the foul language.”
The Smoking Gun Page 21