Bring the Funny

by Greg DePaul

  Get your mind out of the gutter. I’m trying to educate you.

  A two-hander is industry-speak for a movie with two leads: The Heat, Wedding Crashers, 21 Jump Street, Ride Along, Identity Thief, The Campaign, etc.

  And they’re multiplying. In 2012, four of the eight highest-grossing live-action comedy films were two-handers. A fifth, Ted, could be considered one. In 2013, at least two of the top-grossing films were two-handers. In 2015, they were back with a vengeance: five of the seven top-grossing live-action comedies were two-handers (22 Jump Street, Neighbors, Ride Along, Dumb & Dumber To, Let’s Be Cops).

  Why has Hollywood started leaning so heavily on two-handers? I suspect it’s because they make use of two stars—two box-office draws—doubling their chances of making a profit.

  But Why doesn’t matter to us as much as How … as in How to write them. So now I ask the question …

  What special tricks does a writer use when writing the two-hander comedy screenplay?

  Before even thinking about writing a two-hander, you, the comedy screenwriter, must set aside some serious time and research the hell out of this sub-genre. You have plenty of examples to choose from.

  First, let me make a distinction between three types of two-handers:

  1. Mano-a-mano stories in which the protagonists are pitted against each other: The Campaign, Bride Wars, Neighbors, etc.

  2. Buddy movies in which the protagonists work together: The Heat, Let’s Be Cops, 21 and 22 Jump Street, Wedding Crashers, etc.

  3. Romantic comedies with co-equal leads who fall in love, such as How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days, Just Go With It, 50 First Dates, Knocked Up, Fool’s Gold, The Ugly Truth, etc.

  You may have noticed I didn’t include Silver Linings Playbook. That’s because it’s not a two-hander. Pat, played by Bradley Cooper, is the unequaled protagonist of that film. It’s his story. We see Tiffany, played by Jennifer Lawrence, almost exclusively through his eyes. She is introduced in the twenty-fifth minute of the movie and has few scenes of her own. So, while the Academy rightly gave Lawrence a “Best Actress” Oscar for her performance, it is important to understand that, from a screenwriting perspective, Tiffany is not a protagonist. She’s a love interest.

  As for buddy comedies, there are two basic approaches. In Approach A, the buddies aren’t buddies—and may not even know each other—at the start of the story. This usually implies a more sweeping story structure, like a romance, with a “meet-cute” scene and initial tension between the buddies eventually growing into some form of partnership. In Approach B, they are already buddies when the story begins.

  In both approaches, at the end of Act 2, the buddies usually break up for a while before reuniting in Act 3 to resolve the conflict. Thus, the end of Act 2 is the lowest point for the friendship. In Act 3, they ride onward together to victory.

  In 21 Jump Street, that break-up scene occurs in the seventy-seventh minute of the movie when Jenko and Schmidt fight onstage during the school play, briefly throwing their friendship away. In the subsequent two scenes, they are expelled from the school where they were working. Then, a few scenes later, they make up and gather themselves for the third-act battle.

  So if you’re writing a buddy comedy, look to romance movies for templates; they work.

  There is also one huge advantage—or disadvantage, depending on the nature of your talent—to writing a two-hander. Two-handers tend to simplify story structure. In buddy comedies and romantic comedies with co-equal leads, the two protagonists usually go through the steps of the story together. Thus, each moment or choice in the story can be a source of entertaining conflict.

  21 Jump Street, Ride Along, Identity Thief, The Heat … in these movies the two leads are polar opposites. Thus, they can find something to argue about in just about any situation.

  That’s what makes buddy comedies so easy to plot and so much fun for the audience. If the two buddies are well-matched, simply opening a door or walking down the street could cause enough tension to create a whole set piece. Each story beat involves a decision about which they can disagree. And that disagreement may be the funniest part of the movie. When that happens, the story slows down to accommodate the funny leads. The plot requires fewer beats and becomes simpler to manage.

  So if you’re bad at plot and good at dialogue, consider a two-hander. Play to your strengths.

  The Ensemble

  Sometimes three hands are better than two. Even four can be good. That’s why there are ensemble comedies. Charlie’s Angels (I & II), Wild Hogs, The Hangover (I, II & III), We’re the Millers, This Is the End, Hot Tub Time Machine …

  Again—the more protagonists you have, the less story you’re writing. Each major event has an effect on each character that must be charted and shown. Each character has a story arc that must be presented over the course of the larger story of the movie. If it takes forty scenes to track a solo protagonist, it takes ten beats each to track four protagonists. That might be two beats each for the four characters in Acts 1 and 3, and six beats each in Act 2.

  Of course the ensemble comedy presents one big problem for screenwriters—the problem of distinguishing the protagonists. There are plenty of things to remember from this book about writing a screenplay, but there is only one thing you must always remember about reading a screenplay:

  Nobody likes to read.

  Not even—actually, especially—other screenwriters.

  I don’t know about you, but if I am forced to read somebody else’s script, I look for any reason to put it down. And one reason other screenwriters give me on a regular basis occurs when I can’t keep track of who is who in the story.

  I will generally remember the first major character I read about, which is why you should always make that character your protagonist. And I’ll make a decent effort to remember the second major character as well. But by page twelve or so, if I’m still running into new, major characters, I start to yawn.

  Did the writer really need to have all these characters? I ask myself. There had better be a good reason for it, I threaten the writer silently while turning pages, my eyes finding it harder and harder to stay open. Soon I’m half asleep and the script has tumbled from my hands onto the floor. In my final waking moments, I wonder, if perhaps I leave it there, will the maid get it when she visits on Thursday? Chances are, I will leave it. And chances are she will not.

  How do you manage multiple lead characters in an ensemble comedy? Read the screenplays for any of The Hangover or Charlie’s Angels movies. Read any good ensemble comedy screenplay. Important characters are defined quickly and clearly so you don’t forget them as you read on—even if they don’t reappear for many pages.

  As I’ve written earlier in this book, the best way to define characters is through action. Introduce each character and define that character in the same moment. Hit the nail on the head so hard that even casual, distracted readers cannot forget who they are reading about. Better yet, make those casual, distracted readers want to be reunited with that character later in the story so they never stop reading. Make them lick their chops. Make them want more of what you’re cooking.

  And what you’re cooking had better have variety. An ensemble story with four characters cannot present four slightly different people. After all, if the four characters are not distinct enough from each other, the reader will wonder, Why four and not three? Or two?

  Which brings us to a general rule of writing: don’t be redundant. If the names of the characters are the only things distinguishing them from each other, you have more characters than you need.

  To be clear, redundant characters are not the same as Shadow Characters, which I discussed in chapter 4. A shadow character shares certain basic traits with the protagonist but remains unique. A redundant character lacks even that.

  Remember: the more lead characters you have, the more definition you need. Immediately establish them, distinguish them from each other, and get the action started. Your readers will
thank you.

  Pop Quiz!

  1. A screenplay with a great first act and a great third act is … A) Pretty much as useless as a one-legged dodo bird unless it’s got a great second act.

  B) Like a sandwich with no meat in the middle. (Sorry. If you’re vegan, imagine chutney.)

  C) On the bottom of a pile of recycling right now on my office floor.

  D) All of the above.

  2. A high-concept story is one in which: A) Bob Marley plays a role.

  B) Some wacky stuff happens in the story that is a tad out of the ordinary.

  C) The story is the kind of thing that could only happen in the movies.

  D) Please go back and take a look at C.

  3. When the story gives the protagonist what he or she so badly deserves, we call it: A) Phil.

  B) Burt.

  C) Wendell.

  D) Comic Justice.

  4. F.O.W. stands for: A) Foolish Orangutan Washboard.

  B) Fry Otto’s Women.

  C) Fish Outta Wisconsin.

  D) Fish Outta Water.

  5. You should consider writing a two-hander if: A) You love writing plot more than anything, and that includes peach cobbler.

  B) All of the above. And, yes, I realize there’s only one answer above.

  C) You absolutely hate writing relentlessly clever dialogue that can only transpire between dual protagonists.

  D) None of the above. Look, if you like writing little, funny moments between two lead characters and you want to simplify your plot, you should give serious thought to writing a two-hander instead of a story with a solo protagonist. There, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Now let’s move on to …

  6

  The String of Pearls

  Screenwriting is hard. Seems like it shouldn’t be. After all, I’ve told you a screenplay is nothing more than a proposal for a movie. But that’s why it’s so hard.

  The average screenplay has sixty to eighty scenes; you must make each one memorable, original, and unique. And then—even more importantly—they must fit together in a way that is—yes—memorable, original, and unique.

  The whole string of pearls must shine from a distance. After all, it must be noticed among so many others. Unless you are an established, veteran screenwriter with a reputation and representation to set you apart from the crowd, your script had better be a beacon calling to buyers from across a wide, raging froth of competition.

  This is the chapter that deals with the forest, not the trees.

  So how do you make your string of pearls do everything I described?

  You work on it relentlessly, never allowing yourself the luxury of thinking it is complete. There can be no imperfections, because your readers are looking for any reason to drop your script.

  This brings us to a rule that needs little elaboration but must be constantly repeated:

  When in doubt, cut.

  So let’s say it out loud, altogether now …

  When in doubt, cut.

  If you’re re-reading any part of your script and you find yourself staring at a scene, a series of scenes, or even an entire act that leaves you unsure as to its usefulness to the story, cut it. If you think perhaps you can re-write it better than it’s currently written, cut it. If you love a certain scene, but you suspect it may be a waste of a damn good minute of screen time, cut it. If a little voice in the back of your head is whispering to you, “That character may be a tad unnecessary,” cut that character. If reading over a certain sequence of the story is a slog because you’ve grown bored with it, cut it.

  Snip, snip, snip.

  If it makes it any easier to rationalize the cutting, you can always save earlier drafts of your script. But if your heart is strong, you won’t. You’ll press forward without ever looking back. After all, there must have been a reason you cut it in the first place. Never chew your cud twice or re-make a decision.

  Of course, once you start cutting stuff, you’ll leave ghosts.

  A ghost is my term for any element of a story—could be a scene, a setting for many scenes, a character, a sub-plot, etc.—that once existed to serve a purpose that’s now long gone because you cut it.

  So when you set a series of scenes at a monster truck rally because your protagonist is a good ol’ boy from Alabama, but then you change him to a nerd from New Jersey, you need to throw out the truck rally.

  But, you say, pleading, tears in your eyes, What about all those great truck rally jokes I came up with?

  Those jokes are ghosts. They have meaning to you, the writer, because you still have a lingering sense of them somehow belonging in the story. But they no longer belong. To the reader who never knew the original reason for the ghosts, they carry no special significance and clutter the script. And if you’re a great joke writer, you’ll come up with great jokes for any new setting you dream up. Have faith in your funny.

  So cut all the ghosts. Cut them to save your string of pearls. No one wants to wear a bunch of ghosts around their neck.

  Now let’s talk about something that’s actually bigger than comedy screenwriting but that you must know before you can write a great comic screenplay.

  The Basic Drama Rules

  You’re thinking: “Drama? No, no, Greg. Drama doesn’t matter to me. I write comedy.”

  But you can’t write great comedy screenplays without observing the Basic Drama Rules (the BDRs). Because comedies are still dramas. They still need to compel the reader by creating and resolving tension within the confines of a story.

  In fact, you must do more than just observe the rules I am about to set forth. You must internalize them. You can’t write with confidence if you have to keep looking back at the rule book. To shine alongside the great luminaries of comedy screenwriting—Ephron, Reitman, Apatow, DePaul—you must use these maxims as a matter of habit.

  The ancient Greeks first came up with these rules back in the … I dunno … past. If you want a more accurate date, Google it. What’s important is that I blew dust off them, tweaked them, and updated them to apply to comedy screenwriting. So I hope you won’t mind if I refer to them as “Greg’s Rules.”

  Or you could call them the Basic Drama Rules. Up to you.

  Here they are:

  1. Conflict. Yup, gotta have it. In fact, you gotta have more of it in a comedy than a drama or a thriller. Why? Because audience members who are looking to laugh don’t care so much about the cinematic experience. Yes, they expect scenic sunsets, grand battles, spaceships, and more—when they are watching an epic. But when they choose to watch a comedy, they want to laugh. And that’s much more likely to happen when every scene of your script is filled with conflict that makes the characters do funny things to overcome obstacles and accomplish their goals.

  2. Tension (AKA Suspense). The result of conflict, of course. Precious few comedy screenplays have enough tension; oddly, some writers hesitate to throw heaping amounts of this ingredient into the stew pot of their story. But without tension, you might as well serve a cold potato. Make the readers or viewers pay attention to all your clever jokes by forcing them to wonder, What Happens Next? Which brings me to …

  3. Escalation. Yes, I realize these rules are somewhat overlapping and a tad redundant, but that’s how important they are. Comedy screenwriters must constantly look for ways to escalate and heighten the tension in the story by coming up with both foreseen and unforeseen events that raise the …

  4. Stakes. The ingredient that is often overlooked but always needed. After all, nobody wants to see a story that’s arbitrary, where the repercussions of the outcome matter little to the characters. And if the repercussions don’t matter to them, they sure as heck won’t matter to us. So raise the stakes. Then raise them again. And when you’re done raising them, well, you get the idea …

  Think back on The Heat, where the writers kept escalating the tension by raising the stakes. What was at stake throughout the story as our two heroines battled badasses
? For starters, their friendship. And their careers. Then, as if those two things weren’t enough, throw in Mullins’s brother, who just might get murdered by mobsters. And then throw in her whole family, whose lives are also put at risk. Those are quadruply high stakes. And for the record, quadruply is a real word and you don’t need to look it up.

  When you are coming up with the story for your huge comedy blockbuster—the one I know you’re gonna write—keep trying to top yourself. That’s the trick great comedy screenwriters like you and me use; we keep increasing the above-listed four elements. Imagine it’s a game and the prize goes to the writers who can most unashamedly keep topping themselves.

  Trust me. No producer ever gave this note: “Too much conflict.”

  Never. Not once.

  The Conceit

  Anything the writer presents to the reader to be accepted—and not justified or explained—is a conceit.

  A screenplay’s primary conceit is usually set forth early in the story. That’s because just about anything can be accepted by the audience if established early. Wait until the middle of the second act to present a conceit and you’ll likely make the audience feel disrespected.

  In a typical zombie movie, the conceit is that dead people are reborn as zombies who attack the living. Establish that early, and the audience will accept it. Introduce that idea—without any foreshadowing to prepare us for it—in the middle of the story, and you’ve screwed up.

  What’s a conceit in a comedy?

  Think about Old School. Do you really believe that a group of middle-aged men living near a college campus can become a fraternity? As discussed earlier, it’s pretty darn unlikely. That’s why the screenwriters of Old School establish that conceit early and run with it fast. In fact, the entire “explanation” for the conceit is contained within one scene in which the dean of the college, played by Jeremy Piven, discusses the issue with his underling. If you happen to be getting popcorn when that scene plays, you never catch a whiff of it. And that’s a good thing; after all, you came to this movie because you like the premise. And people who like the premise want it to make sense—so they easily accept it as a conceit. They don’t want to be held back by annoying doubts about whether the story could “really happen.”