I had a lot of fun reading the ironic loglines in last week’s Three or Out post. So much so that, today, I’d like to expand on that. A good ironic premise stands out so much from other ideas, that the more you can practice these puppies, the better chance you’ll have at constructing a “must-read” script. Remember how down I was on dramas yesterday? Well, if you add irony do your dramatic premise, it instantly becomes a hundred times more readable.

Unfortunately, irony isn’t an easy concept to grasp. Alanis Morisette wrote an entire song about irony only to later find out that her definition of it was wrong. Famous literary theorist J.A. Cuddon says that irony “eludes definition.” There’s even a website dedicated specifically to whether things are ironic or not. You can submit an ironic observation and people vote on its irony quotient.

Indeed, when I looked up definitions online, I found dozens, if not hundreds, of varying takes on the elusive trope. However, when in doubt, go back to the good old English Oxford Dictionary. And while it’s not a perfect definition for our purposes, it’s pretty strong: “A condition of affairs or events of a character opposite to what was, or might naturally be, expected.”

A few examples:

1) A suicide prevention hotline worker eagerly prepares for his own suicide.
2) A lowly janitor is the only person at MIT to solve an impossible math equation.
3) The world’s first unsinkable ship sinks on its maiden voyage.
4) A lawyer who cannot lie for a day.
5) A priest becomes the city’s most ruthless criminal.

I think you sense what’s coming. That’s right. Whoever comes up with the best ironic logline gets an automatic entry into the Scriptshadow 250. It doesn’t have to be the premise you enter the contest with, but it certainly wouldn’t hurt. Although the final decision will be up to me, please up-vote your favorite premises to move the best ideas to the top. Good luck and have fun!

To learn more about The Scriptshadow 250 Contest, go here.

***AND THE WINNER IS: “NO ANIMALS WERE HARMED” FROM RIPLEYY!***
A trip to Eastern Europe goes horribly wrong for a group of PETA employees when they find themselves being hunted down by blood-thirsty animals

***SECOND PLACE: “BORDER PATROL” BY FRANCIS B!***
A tough and remorseless US Border Patrol Agent is kidnapped by a lower class Mexican family and forced to lead them safely on the other side of the Rio Grande.

Both writers get AUTOMATIC BIDS into the Scriptshadow 250. Good job, guys!

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So it happened again.

What’s that? You don’t know what I’m talking about?

Oh.

I had another meet-up with a writer.

Which resulted in another, “What the HELL are you thinking?????”

A sweet well-intentioned guy. Very nice.

But then it happened. He pitched me. Told me what he was working on.

I listened. I tried to be patient. But before I knew it, I was shaking my head. I asked him if he read my site. Because he said he was inspired by it. But if you’re inspired by my site, why are you doing the exact opposite of everything I talk about?

That may seem like a harsh reaction but I used to stay quiet in these situations. Nod my head and smile. But what good does that do anyone? Is it better for me to let this gentleman waste the next six months of his life or tell him right then and there that his ideas…well… suck.

What was the problem with this young gentleman’s ideas? None of them were movies! There wasn’t a single cinematic idea in the bunch. I’m not going to expose those ideas here for the world to laugh at. But let’s just say they were the equivalent of a man struggling through a job he didn’t like. Very basic, very “un movie like” premises.

Hearing him talk about these ideas, you could feel his passion. But passion without a good idea is about as useful as a slurpee without a cup. It’s going to spill all over your clothes, leave a stain, and result in a very angry Indian man yelling at you.

Okay, so it’s not exactly like a slurpee without a cup but the point is, this is amateur mistake numero uno. The thing that keeps 90% of aspiring screenwriters on the wrong side of the Hollywood wall. Their ideas are BORING! They don’t promise us anything exciting.

How does the saying go? A cat sitting on a blanket isn’t an idea. A cat sitting on a dog’s blanket is.

And there are a lot of things that go into it but basically you want to give the audience an idea that promises a lot of conflict. I mean look at the setup for Fury Road. A woman steals the most powerful man in the region’s five wives and tries to run away. We can see how that’s going to end up in a lot of conflict, a lot of problems, a lot of “shit going wrong.”

The reason I’m babbling on about this is because I’m tired of seeing writers waste their time on boring freaking ideas that will never go anywhere. I read them all the time in the Amateur Offerings’ submissions and I think, “What are you thinking??? How could you possibly think anyone would want to see this movie?”

For awhile I thought these were just hopeless writers who didn’t have the talent to come up with a good idea. But then I started thinking, maybe no one’s sat down and taught these people the difference between a good idea and a bad one.

So I came up with 7 questions to help these writers determine the value of their idea. If they can say yes to at least four of these questions, they probably have a story worth telling. Any less and they may want to go on to the next idea.

Now I’ve ranked these in order of importance. So the top questions are weighted higher than the bottom ones. In other words, it’s more important that you answer yes to the first few questions.

A couple of things to remember. The game changes if you’re going to direct your script yourself. That’s because when you direct, you give yourself another opportunity to differentiate your product. So if your script seems mundane on the page, but you plan on shooting it in a really unique or weird way, that still allows you to stand out. Like Gregory Go Boom. That script probably looked mundane on the page, but the director gave it a truly fresh feel on the screen.

Also, don’t try and defend your idea by putting it up against similar ideas that were a) book adaptations or b) director-driven projects. As a spec screenwriter, you will never get the benefit of the doubt a New York Times best seller does, nor will producers care when you plead with them, “I know not a lot happens but it’s going to be like a David Lynch film.” Since you’re the unknown spec writer, you have to be bigger and flashier to get noticed. So here are the seven questions you’ll hopefully answer “yes” to. Good luck!

1) Is your idea high concept?

I’d say that this is probably the most helpful thing you can do to get your script noticed. I read ARES, Michael Starbury’s script about a special division created to recover the extraordinary and supernatural. Truth be told, it wasn’t very good. But the idea was so big, so “you could totally see this as a movie,” that it sold for mid six figures. High concept is not synonymous with big budget either. A high concept could be a therapist who takes on a child patient who sees ghosts (The Sixth Sense). Or a couple who runs into their doppelgangers on their vacation (The One I Love).

2) Are you writing in one of the six marketable genres (horror, thriller, sci-fi, comedy, action, adventure)?

These are the genres that sell best on the spec market. Dramas don’t do well here. Westerns. Period pieces. Coming-of-age stories. If you’re not writing in one of these six, you should probably be worried about your spec’s chances.

3) Is your idea marketable?

This would appear to be the same question as number two, since the reason those genres are celebrated is because they’re marketable, but there are plenty of non-genre movies that can still be marketed. One of the ways you can figure this out is to find three movies (within the last decade) similar to yours that have done well at the box office (relative to their costs). The biopic is a good example of this right now. Studios have proven they can market these movies and people will show up.

4) Do you have a fascinating or extremely strong main character?

Actor bait can work as a sort of Hail Mary for smaller ideas. Think a meaty juicy role where an actor gets to do a lot of stuff. It could be anything from being a schizophrenic (A Beautiful Mind) to being bitter and having scars on your face (Cake, Vanilla Sky).

5) Does it have a unique angle?

We just talked about this the other day. Once you choose your idea, try to figure out what your unique angle is going to be. If you don’t have a unique angle, it’s likely your script is going to feel just like everything that came before it. Take one of the unexpected hits from a couple of years ago, “Now You See Me.” The writers decided to write a heist film. But everyone writes heist films. What was different about theirs? Well, they made the heisters magicians. That’s an angle we haven’t seen before.

6) Is your script thick with conflict?

A premise that promises a lot of head-butting between characters, a lot of tension, a lot of sides pulling at one another, a lot of uncomfortable interactions, is an idea that’ll likely make a good screenplay. A perfect example is Gone Girl. A woman disappears and we follow the husband, who everyone suspects killed her. Every situation this man steps into is going to result in some kind of conflict. Contrast that with, say, a movie about a man who’s grieving the loss of his life. I guess there’s some inner conflict in that idea, but it’s minimal, and we’ll grow tired of it quickly, meaning the idea is weak. A man who grieves the loss of his wife, only to find out she used to work for the CIA, and now people who were after her are now after him? Okay, you might have an idea there.

7) Does your idea contain irony?

If you’re writing what many would consider to be an “independent” movie, I consider an ironic premise almost essential. It’s really your last ditch effort to make your tiny movie stand out. A king who can’t speak must give the most important speech in history (The King’s Speech). When an older man meets a minor online, it turns out to be the minor who’s the predator (Hard Candy).

Don’t worry if you don’t get an affirmative on every one of these questions. That’s unlikely. But as long as you get more yes’s than no’s, you should be in good shape. Also, there’s a final component to all of this, and that’s your own creativity, your own voice. You have to add those creative flourishes and ideas that only you can bring to the table. For example, I could write a movie about a group of teenagers stuck in a town full of zombies that would get yes’s to most of these questions. But if I’m not bringing some creativity to the story, it’ll still be a dud. Nobody wants to be a dud. Be a stud. And never ever roll in mud.

Scriptshadow 250 Contest Deadline – 78 days left!

Cameron Crowe’s latest? Not connected.

So the other day I was reading a script and while it wasn’t bad, it was missing something. It took me a good 60 pages to figure out what it was, but when I did, I realized how much better the script could be IF the writer became aware of the problem. So what was missing?

CONNECTIVE TISSUE

Connective tissue is the way the individual storylines and individual characters in your script link up. This is where you show your mettle as a writer. You want to connect and interweave as many story threads as you can so that everything works together. Connective tissue is the difference between having tortillas, lettuce, cheese, and beef, and having a taco.

To use a simple example, let’s say your story takes place at a barbershop. Like in most movies, you’ll probably have a love story. That gives us two story threads. The stuff that happens at the barbershop and the stuff that happens in the love story.

Well, wouldn’t it better (and easier) if you could connect these two threads together? Why not make the love interest work at the barbershop with our main character? Or make her the daughter of our hero’s boss? Or make her a businesswoman who’s trying to buy the barbershop?

Why would these connections make the script better? Well, when you connect story threads, then something you do in one thread will AFFECT the other thread, sending ripples through the entire story as opposed to just one part of it.

Let’s say, for example, that the love interest is accused of stealing from the register and gets fired from the barbershop. Furious for being accused of something she (supposedly) didn’t do, she expects our Hero to leave with her. But he doesn’t want to leave because it’s a good job and he likes working here. It’s a sticky situation without an easy solution.

Contrast that with an unconnected storyline, where the love interest works at, say, Macy’s. If she gets fired there, it doesn’t affect our hero in nearly as personal of a way. He consoles her and they move on. The connected situation clearly gives you more drama.

The amateur script I mentioned at the beginning was about a kid who plays for his college basketball team. Because he’s broke, he begrudgingly takes a job managing the books for his criminal father, who’s a local drug kingpin.

The script follows these storylines separately. Over in one lane we have Hero leading his team up the standings. And in the other, Hero struggles through an awkward relationship with his father, whose respect he’s never earned. The two storylines don’t cross over at all. There was NO CONNECTIVE TISSUE.

So I suggested to the writer, instead of the father being a drug kingpin, why can’t he be more of a mobster, with his main business being gambling? That way, he can start betting on his son’s games, eventually asking him to shave points to help him cover the spread. All of a sudden, these totally separate storylines become very connected, offering the writer a story with way more dramatic potential.

The most obvious example of connective tissue is probably Back to the Future. Now you have to take a step back (go back in time, one might say) to imagine this story before it was fully-formed.

On one side of the story, you have this kid who gets stuck in the past and must find a way back to the future. That’s a pretty fun idea, but by itself it’s B-movie material. On the other side of the story, you have Marty’s relationship with his quirky parents, who have sort of given up on life.

The smart writer says, “How can I connect these two storylines so they affect one another?” Well, since Marty’s parents met in this town, what if he’s sent back to the year they met? And what if Marty accidentally meets his mom before his dad does, and she falls in love with Marty instead of him? Now the time travel storyline is directly linked to the parents’ storyline. By utilizing connective tissue, this went from a decent movie idea to one of the best ideas in the history of cinema.

We actually see the reverse of this in Cameron Crowe’s upcoming film, Aloha. The consensus for everyone who’s seen the movie is that it’s incomprehensible (including from the studio head herself, as the Sony leaked e-mails revealed). I remember reading that script and thinking the same thing. And the reason was obvious. There was no connective tissue between any of the storylines.

I specifically remember there was a story about needing to sacrifice something into a volcano as well as a story about launching a satellite. You couldn’t get two more unrelated threads. And when things don’t connect, the audience loses interest, which I’m positive is the reason this film is getting hammered.

So how do you find these connections? Well, first of all, you have to be looking for them. Literally, every story thread in your script, you need to say, “How can I connect that thread with that one?” Sometimes they won’t connect. And that’s fine. But often, you’ll find that just by asking the question, new story opportunities will present themselves.

Most of the time, you’ll find your connections in rewrites. In fact, this should be one of your MAIN GOALS DURING YOUR FIRST FEW REWRITES. That first draft is always the thinnest. Only a few things connect. Reading through a finished draft will help you see things from a bird’s eye view, allowing you to better spot puzzle pieces to connect.

I should note that there is such a thing as OVER-CONNECTING. This is when Joe’s girlfriend is also his father’s step-daughter who happens to own the bike shop that Joe’s best friend works at and the bank Joe is planning to rob is being taken over by his father, etc., etc.

The thing is, I rarely see this. And I don’t think you should worry about it. You can always dial the connections back if people complain. I see way more missed connections than I do over-connections.

You actually know when you’ve got a really inter-connected script when making one change affects MANY OTHER THINGS. If you can just pop a character or a scene or a plot thread out of your script and not have to change anything, then you didn’t do a good job connecting your threads.

And that’s pretty much the gist of it. It’s a simple concept to wrap your head around and it’s one of the more powerful tools in screenwriting. A script where all the story threads are linked together is probably a damn good script.

Scriptshadow 250 Contest Deadline – 84 days left!

If only we could all be Cormac McCarthy

One of the least talked about components of screenwriting is READABILITY – or “How easy is your screenplay to read?” That’s because when compared to character, dialogue, structure, and theme, readability doesn’t seem that important. And that’s true to a certain extent. But think of it this way. While eggs and flour and sugar are all essential to make a great cake, you can’t serve the cake unless you have a plate to carry it on. “Readability” is a screenplay’s plate.

This is one that’s always vexed me. I’ll be sludging through a screenplay where every sentence feels like I’m on the 405 freeway during rush hour. Start-stop-start-stop-start-stop. Then, when I read a good screenplay, the sentences run together like melted butter. Everything seems so natural. So easy. I never think about the writing once.

But it’s not always clear why some scripts read uglier than others. I’ll go back through the bad-reads to figure out what went wrong and find that “technically” the writing was “correct.” What clouds the analysis is story quality. When you’re in the middle of a good story, the sentences always read quicker. When you’re reading a bad story, each sentence seems to go on forever.

Is readability just relative? Are sentences only as bad or good as the story they’re a part of?

I don’t think so. There’s clearly a way to combine sentences together in a pleasing easy-to-read manner. Unfortunately, there don’t seem to be any books or online tutorials about how to achieve this. You’re taught all the rules of writing in school and from then on it’s up to you to “write good.”

That’s why I’m writing today’s article. If nobody else is going to do it, I might as well give it a shot. To do so, I’ll be comparing four sentences/paragraphs from professional and amateur screenplays. My hope is, by utilizing this direct comparison technique, we’ll find some answers. Let’s give it a shot.

Example Number 1

From – “Joy” by Annie Mumolo
“They both glance over to a table where Joy’s father RUDY sits like a KING with his arm around a ROBUST woman in an ill- fitting MARILYN MONROE DRESS.”

From – Amateur Screenplay
“Danny patters to the front doors. Angelina awaits him there. The two join hands, partaking in a private moment.”

At first glance, the amateur submission isn’t that bad. But I don’t think it’s as good as the professional one. I found Joy to be EXTREMELY readable. While I wouldn’t nominate it for “most technically proficient screenplay of the year,” I don’t remember a single moment where I had to reread a sentence to understand what was going on.

That’s one of my biggest takeaways from this experiment. Professionals know they’re not trying to win over English professors with their scripts. They’re trying to tell a story. And the easier they can get that story across to the reader – whether it’s technically correct or not – the better.

A lot of times, amateurs overthink their prose and make it more complicated than it needs to be. If you look at the sentence from “Joy,” it’s not trying to be more than it is. There isn’t a single word in the sentence that you don’t understand. But reading the amateur sentence, we get the word “patters” immediately. That’s not a common word in this context and causes a pause, if however slight. Whenever a reader stops, if even for a split-second, that means you’ve failed as a writer. Reading is supposed to be seamless. When it isn’t, the reader is taken out of the story.

There are two other issues with the amateur example. The word “partaking” is another odd unpleasant word in this context, which causes another pause. Also, notice how the paragraph is broken up into very abrupt sentences, making for a robotic presentation. I wouldn’t say that this is unpleasant. We’ll see in a moment that it’s possible to do this well. But in conjunction with the other mistakes, it hurts the read.

That’s another thing I’ve learned through this experiment. Bad writing is a lot like bad piloting. If you make one mistake as a pilot, it usually goes unnoticed. But when the mistakes pile up, that’s when the plane crashes. Let’s move on to the next example.

Example Number 2

From – “February” by Osgood Perkins
“Kat comes out from behind the closet door, wearing her oversized hooded Bramford sweatshirt and a pair of printed pajama pants.”

From – Amateur Screenplay
“Cinnamon unbuttons shirt cuffs, rolls up sleeves, pulls on thin black leather gloves from a rear hip pocket. He draws the backside .22 and holds it aloft by the silencer.”

Here we have a lot of detail. But in one case, the sentence is easy to read through, and in the other, it made my head hurt. Notice how in “February,” we have three words in a row that end with the letter “d” and then nearly four words in a row that start with “p.” This alliteration helps the sentence move along quicker in the mind.

With the amateur entry, it feels like information overload. I remember reading this script and there were a lot of sentences, like this one, where I had to read them 2-3 times to take in everything that was going on. While technically fine, it seems like the paragraph could’ve been simplified. Also note that while in “February,” we have a full sentence, in the amateur submission, words are missing in favor of the staccato style. I’ve added where those words would be:

“Cinnamon unbuttons [her] shirt cuffs, rolls up [her] sleeves, [then] pulls on [some] thin black leather gloves from…”

I’m not going to say to never use staccato style. This is something a lot of writers have used successfully. But when you use in it conjunction with too much information or overwritten sentences, it can easily start to feel like work to read through. Case in point, here’s a paragraph from who many feel to be the king of this kind of writing, Shane Black, in his first screenplay, “Lethal Weapon.”

“Sergeant Martin Riggs is driving. He looks like he hasn’t slept. He certainly hasn’t shaved. The DISPATCH RADIO SQUAWKS. He turns down the MUSIC from the car radio and hears:”

We have short quick sentences here, like the amateur example. But they’re all grammatically correct, making them easier to read. Let’s move on to the next example, staying with our friend, Shane.

Example Number 3

From – “Lethal Weapon” by Shane Black
“A section of the parking lot is cordoned off by yellow streamers which read: POLICE LINE – DO NOT CROSS, and as we watch, a black and white patrol car pulls up, admitting two beat COPS and a young hooker. Her name is DIXIE, and she is not happy.”

From – Amateur Screenplay
“Hadley settles in. The Maitre d’ snaps at a server, pointing to the table and holding up one finger addressing Hadley who has just joined the group.”

At first glance, Shane Black’s sentence seems odd. While he probably should’ve ended his first sentence after “DO NOT CROSS,” he chooses to make it one continuous sentence. Some may say this is “wrong,” yet it all feels so relaxed and natural, I’m tempted to say it’s fine. I don’t have to put in any effort to figure out what he means or reread anything, which tells me the sentence is a success.

Now let’s look at the amateur example. Everything seems to be going well until we reach the Maitre d’ holding up one finger. When we get to “and” in this example, “holding up one finger” seems to be more of an afterthought, as opposed to a natural extension of the sentence. This is fine in everyday conversation when we remember things at the last second all the time, but when you’re describing something in a screenplay, it has to feel planned, or else it reads like you’re making your story up as you go along.

This assumption is solidified when the last part of the sentence arrives: “…addressing Hadley who has just joined the group.” This tacked on piece of information is lazy. Notice how everything in Shane’s example is in the ACTIVE VOICE. What’s happening is happening RIGHT NOW. In contrast, “…who has just joined the group” is PASSIVE. It already happened, making it feel tacked on. The lesson here is clear. Keep everything in the active voice if possible. And don’t tack things onto the ends of sentences. It shouldn’t be, “Carson writes an article after he opens a coke.” It’s, “Carson pops open a coke and writes his article.”

Example Number 4

“500 Days of Summer” by Scott Neustadter & Michael H. Weber
“And that question hangs in the air. Tom, panicked, decides to cut the silence. All the pent up uncertainty and confusion, coupled with the challenge to his manhood in front of the woman he loves, all manifests in one single, solid, almost automatic RIGHT CROSS TO THE GOOD LOOKING DOUCHEBAG’S FACE.”

From – Amateur Screenplay
“Joseph drives too fast through woody shrubs on a steep, gravelly hillside. He slams on the brakes before heading off a bluff. Gets out and looks across the vast desert sands.”

Our 500 Days friends go big here with a really long sentence. They even make a mistake. “All” is used twice when it should’ve been used once. And yet it works. The long sentence is fine because it’s a pivotal moment in the film. It’s okay to write bigger when the moment is bigger. The sentence also takes place completely in the active voice, making it easy to read. And everything flows. Every word/fragment/idea is a logical progression from the word/fragment/idea before it.

Now let’s look at the second example. Everything here is fine until we get to “before.” “Before heading” takes us out of the active voice into a semi-passive voice. But it’s the next sentence that derails the paragraph. Driving the car and getting out to look at the desert are two different actions and should’ve been split up into different paragraphs. Together, they feel jarring, causing the reader to hesitate as he realizes we’ve moved out of the car into a different area. There’s also an inconsistency to focusing on such specific moments within the paragraph (“woody shrubs, a steep gravelly hillside, slams on the breaks”) to then end on one so general (looking across a desert).

CONCLUSIONS

This exercise has taught me a few things about the elusive quality of readability. First off, “technically correct” doesn’t always mean “readable.” Just as “technically incorrect” doesn’t always mean “unreadable.” You can go against what they taught you in school and still write a very easy-to-read sentence. Look at our first example from Annie Mumolo. Some people might call that a run-on-sentence. But it’s fast and smooth and easy-to-read so it works.

Another big breakthrough for me – the closest I got to an “ah-ha” moment – was Osgood Perkins’ use of alliteration, which added a pleasing repetition to the words on the page. It’s this “pleasing” quality that I’m after. But I don’t think it’s possible to ALWAYS use alliteration. It’d just be too hard (and might even get annoying after awhile). I almost wonder if there’s a less structured/defined way to achieve the same effect using a middle-ground technique (not quite normal sentence and not all-the-way alliteration). Has anyone heard of such a technique?

One of the most frustrating things about all this is the reality that there’s nobody out there who actually teaches you how to WRITE. Sure, there are teachers who teach you nouns and verbs – all the technical stuff. But once you have that down, where is the instructor who teaches you how to place words together in a pleasing way? I haven’t found him yet. And I want to. How bout you guys? Do you know of any books or tips that help one achieve this? I’ve been looking for material on this forever.

In the meantime, here are some tips to avoid the mistakes today’s amateurs made.

1) Keep your writing simple.

2) Keep your writing in the active voice if possible.

3) Never write to impress. This is what most beginners do and they end up writing a bunch of unnecessary prose in the process.

4) Don’t use vocabulary to show off. If you’re using a thesaurus to include a word you’ve never personally used before, you probably shouldn’t use that word.

5) Staccato-style writing (“Jump down.” instead of “They jump down.”) can be draining to read over a long period of time. There are some writers who do this well. But usually, it requires the brain to think differently in order to process the words, which is taxing. Proceed with caution.

6) In screenwriting, “fewer words” is usually better than “more words.” While this would seem to contradict what I just wrote, what I mean is, even with traditional sentences, there’s always a way to say something with fewer words. “John grabs his grimy baseball hat as well as his gun while wiping the ever-thickening sweat off his brow,” can easily be turned into, “John grabs his cap and gun and flicks the sweat off his brow.”

7) Complex sentences are dangerous. Indeed, it’s after a conjunction where a few of our amateurs fell apart. A single conjunction (and, but, or) is standard. But when you start using more than one in your sentence, it may be time to start a new sentence.

8) Write to your level – If you’re only capable of doing a double-axel, you’re going to be exposed every time you try a triple-axel. Sure, we’d all like to be Cormac McCarthy, but one of the biggest mistakes I see writers make is writing above their level. And it’s VERRRRRY painful to read. Screenwriting is one of the more forgiving forms of writing when it comes to prose. You don’t have to knock our socks off. Take advantage of that.

And with that, I’m going to leave you with two final UNLABELED examples, one pro and one amateur. Tell me which you think is pro, which is amateur, and why in the comments. I’ll reveal which is which (in the comments) after sundown.

MYSTERY EXAMPLE #1

“Casper, wearing only tighty-whiteys, sits on the floor of his bedroom amid t-ball trophies, race car bed sheets and a pin-up of Farrah Fawcett; the conflicting decorations of a boy who went through a quick growth spurt.

He thumbs through last year’s yearbook looking for the mystery girl. He gives up, lays down and lights a joint.”

MYSTERY EXAMPLE #2

“Surrounded, Black begins a coughing fit. His hands come up to cover the cough – the paperclip he stole from Moreau slips into his hand.

Stumbles into the Elevator panel – hitting the EMERGENCY button. The Elevator STOPS – sending everyone flailing.

Black uses the paperclip to release the cuffs. Nickels sees what’s going down – but isn’t quick enough to stop –

– Black unloads a barrage of strikes, taking down each Agent. Quickly undoes his shackles.”

Looking through the Scriptshadow 250 Contest (3 months left to sign up!) entries, I’ve noticed a surprising number of “blockbuster-type” scripts, the kind of screenplays writers hope will become the next big studio franchise. With the summer blockbuster season on our doorstep (Avengers tomorrow! Yay!), this got me thinking – what is it on the writing side that makes a good blockbuster? Because a lot of people don’t think there’s a difference when it comes to these films. When I complain about the believability or the attention to detail of these movies, I’m told, “Stop being so critical! It’s a popcorn flick! Just enjoy it!”

I can’t tell you how much I HATE IT when people say that. Just because it’s a popcorn flick does not give it permission to suck. There are good popcorn movies and bad ones and it’s important, as writers, to know the difference, lest you write the next Lone Ranger. Which is how I came up with today’s article. I want to figure out how to differentiate between the two.

Now in order to achieve this, we’ll have to make some concessions. Namely, super high-profile IP doesn’t count. Batman and Avengers movies are always going to have the most money for effects, production, and marketing. These movies couldn’t make less than a billion bucks if they tried. So, for the “good” blockbusters, I’ll be highlighting films that were surprise hits. That tells me the studio didn’t buy the box office, but rather it was generated organically.

For the “bad” blockbuster movies, I’ll do the opposite. I want to highlight movies that DESPITE the studios spending tons of money on them, they failed. That tells me that the films had to be unappealing in some way or just plain bad.

Now you’ll notice that some films look like they did okay (Battleship made 300 million dollars), but you have to remember that a film’s financial success/failure is relevant to its cost. Seeing as 300 million dollars covered Battleship’s production and marketing costs, the film actually lost a ton of money. Plus it was just a terrible film, which, for the sake of screenwriting, is what we’re focused on here.

Speaking of money, blockbusters these days can make up to 75% of their grosses internationally. For that reason, I’ll be covering WORLDWIDE grosses instead of domestic. That’s really how you judge a blockbuster’s success these days anyway. Finally, I’m going to try and keep this list recent, since trends 20 years ago aren’t as relevant today. So with that understood, here are the lists:

SURPRISE BLOCKBUSTER HITS (worldwide gross)

Guardians of the Galaxy – 775 million
The Kingsman – 401 million
Sherlock Holmes – 524 million
The Fast and Furious Franchise – 1 quatrillion dollars
The Hunger Games – 690 million
Pirates of the Caribbean – 654 million
Inception – 825 million
World War Z – 540 million
Life of Pi – 609 million
Snow White and the Huntsman – 400 million

SURPRISE (TO THE STUDIOS) BOX OFFICE FAILURES (worldwide gross)

The Lone Ranger – 260 million
Battleship – 303 million
White House Down – 205 million
Jupiter Ascending – 181 million
Jack Ryan: Shadow Recruit – 135 million
John Carter – 284 million
After Earth – 243 million
Green Lantern – 219 million
Cowboys and Aliens – 174 million
47 Ronin – 150 million

Since many people see movies based on marketing (posters, trailers, etc.), how is screenwriting even relevant here? Well, let’s remember: writing isn’t just about what you put in between the margins. Writing is concept. Writing is character. And writing is an attractive storyline. These are all things audiences will pick up on in a poster, a two minute trailer, or a conversation with friends. If a concept is flawed to begin with, it’s a safe bet the writing’s bad.

So, first thoughts. I noticed that three of the breakout successes followed a popular creed I preach on Scriptshadow. If you want to write a blockbuster, find a fresh angle on an established genre or movie trope. Kingsman is a light-hearted cheekier version of James Bond and Jason Bourne. Sherlock Holmes is a “Rock n Roll” version of the usually buttoned up character. World War Z took the zombie trope and turned it into an action movie.

Second, don’t write blockbuster Westerns. Three films on the “bombs” list were Western-inspired (Cowboys and Aliens, John Carter, and The Lone Ranger). I remember a fourth as well, the Will Smith flick, Wild Wild West. For whatever reason, audiences don’t respond to this genre in blockbuster form. That’s the most obvious thing I see from this list.

I also noticed most of the good films are easy to grasp in concept form (and therefore easier to sell). Street racing. Zombies have taken over the world. Rock n Roll James Bond. Rock n Roll Sherlock Holmes. Rock n Roll Snow White. A kid gets stuck in a lifeboat in the middle of the ocean. A girl must fight against other teenagers in a battle to the death. The only two true exceptions to the rule are Guardians and Inception.

I notice a lot of writers grumbling about the fact that a film’s concept must be condensed into something that can be sold quickly, yet those same writers make judgments that way all the time. When’s the last time you saw a poster and said, “That looks stupid,” or “That looks good?” This is how people make decisions in an information-overload world so don’t knock it. Embrace it! It’ll help you become a better writer.

Case in point. Look at the bad films. What’s Battleship about? What’s 47 Ronin about? What’s Jupiter Ascending about? What’s John Carter about? What’s Green Lantern about? After Earth? In every case, the answer is quite murky and takes some explaining. A guy puts on a ring and all of a sudden he grows a green suit and travels the galaxy talking to aliens? Even a film which seems to have its conflict explained right there in the title (Cowboys and Aliens) is confusing once you start trying to explain it. It’s almost like you have to imagine yourself telling your friends about the idea. If you’re stumbling through your explanation, there may be something wrong with your concept (unless you’re Christopher Nolan, of course).

There’s also an element of “missing your window” to these entries. There are two times to hit. BEFORE anybody is doing something and WHILE they’re doing something. There’s one time to miss, and that’s when the bus has already left. So a movie like Guardians feels fresh. When’s the last time we saw a space opera with that kind of scope? A movie like Jack Ryan, however, seems like it’s coming too late on the heels of Bourne and a revived Bond. John Carter came after Avatar. Battleship after Transformers. White House Down after Olympus has Fallen.

This gives us the best peek into the differentiating factor yet. THINK DIFFERENT. You’re either trying to find a fresh angle on an old trope or you’re trying to come up with an idea Hollywood hasn’t embraced yet. This is further bolstered when you look at Inception and Life of Pi, two “out there” ideas that made huge splashes at the box office.

Of course, this can go both ways. Jupiter Ascending and Cowboys and Aliens were both “out there” ideas as well, and both bombed. We could delve into more specific reasons for why but the reality is, risk is risk. When you try something different, there’s just as much of a chance you’ll fail as a chance you’ll succeed. With that said, it seems to be the only clear-cut variable to success for these films. And I’d say this is QUADRUPLY so for spec screenwriters. Since you can’t show readers what the movie looks like on the page, giving them something different is really the only way to stand out.

I have a feeling that some of you will take the William Goldman approach to this data. “Oh, it’s all random. Nobody knows anything.” I would warn you against that. Since all screenwriters are essentially producers (investing in an idea they hope people will pay money to see), your skill-set must include market-theory. You have to have a strong feel for what works and what doesn’t. And the only data you have to help you form that opinion is past box office. So use it to your advantage.

Keen to hear your thoughts on this. Please share in the comments!