Hello everyone. First of all, I want to thank everybody who congratulated me on the New York Times article. I’m hosting a friend this week and therefore haven’t really had the time to process it all. It’s funny because I don’t read the New York Times. And you know how even if something is huge, if it’s not a part of your personal day to day life, you don’t hold it in the same high regard as everyone else? So, as crazy as it sounds, I didn’t think much of it. But then when all my New York friends and older friends and family (my older brethren have read the Times forever) found out, they were all like, “This is a really huge deal!” I was like, “It is?” So it’s hitting me a little harder this morning than it did over the weekend and now that it’s settling in, I’m very thankful for it. And once again, it wouldn’t have been possible without all of your support. So thank you to everyone who reads Scriptshadow, even the haters! This would not be possible without you.
Now, this week is going to be a little different. Why? Because it’s SCRIPTSHADOW BOOK RELEASE WEEK!!! Some of you may have noticed that the book ad on the upper right-hand side has been changed from “Coming Soon” to “Buy now.” You can click that picture or click right here and you’ll be taken to Amazon where you can buy a copy of the e-book. Many of you have been asking me, “When can I get the book in physical form?” Unfortunately, paperback copies of the book won’t be available for another 1-2 months. We’ll get there. It’s just going to take some time.
So what’s the book about? Well, I basically took the most popular aspect of the site – the “What I learned” section – and applied that philosophy to an entire book. So I took movies like Raiders of The Lost Ark, The Social Network, and The 40 Year-Old Virgin (50 movies in all) and broke down 10 things I learned from each, which translates into 500 screenwriting lessons/tips/tools. I also wrote the book because that’s how I personally learn best, through example, so I always wished there had been a screenwriting book out there that taught solely through example. Well, now there is!
Now for those pounding your fists due to the fact that there will be no reviews this week, hold tight. This is Scriptshadow. I can’t go through an entire week without reviewing SOMETHING. So Wednesday is going to be realllly special. I’m reviewing 300 Years! This is a script I found from an unknown writer up in San Francisco named Peter Hirschmann, who’s not only super talented, but a really great guy. I loved the script so much, I asked to come on as producer, and we’re currently doing a rewrite before we go out to directors. In the spirit of Scriptshadow, I would LOVE to hear your feedback on it. There are a couple of places we feel it can be improved, so we’re open to ideas. If you want to read it, contact me at carsonreeves1@gmail.com with the subject line “300 YEARS.”
And now, it’s time. The following is a small excerpt from the first chapter of my book, “Scriptshadow Secrets,” available in E-book format from Amazon. This opening section prepares you for the movie-tip section by introducing the basics of writing a screenplay. Tomorrow, we’ll delve into some actual tips. Enjoy! (p.s. Because I’m performing hosting duties all week, I’m not going to be as quick with moderation. So, sorry if your comment gets stuck. I will do my best to get them up as soon as possible).
Excerpt from Scriptshadow Secrets…
(edit: People have been asking if they need an ipad or Kindle to read the book. The answer is no. You just need to download the Kindle Reader to your PC and you can read it right from your computer. Download the Kindle App here).
STRUCTURE
Whenever you write a screenplay, you’re telling a story. A lot of writers forget this, and it’s funny because we tell stories every day. When you have a few beers with your buddies and share how you asked the intern out? You’re telling a story! When you replay the amazing three-run homer your son hit at T-ball? You’re telling a story! When you’re giving your professor an excuse for why you didn’t finish your homework? You’re telling a story! A screenplay is just another venue to tell a story.
In order to tell an entertaining story, though, one that’s going to keep your audience on the edge of their seats, you need to understand structure. Structure places the key moments of your story in the spots where they’ll create the most dramatic impact. Ignore structure, and your story will have no rhythm, no balance. It might be front-loaded or back-loaded, choppy or unfocused. For example, in the story about your son’s three-run homer, if you jump straight to the home run, your story will be short and anti-climactic. With good structure, you set the stage for that home run over time, leading to an exciting climax.
The structure you’ll be using for almost all of your scripts is the 3-Act Structure. Don’t be intimidated by its fancy moniker. All it means is that there are three phases to your story: a “Beginning,” a “Middle,” and an “End.” Or, if you want to take the training wheels off, a “Setup,” some “Conflict,” and a “Resolution.” If you’re going to write screenplays, then you’ll be writing 90-120 pages of story contained within this basic 3-Act format.
ACT 1 (20-30 pages long)
Act 1 sets up your hero and then throws a problem at him. That problem will propel him into the heart of the story. Let’s say our story is about a guy desperate to ask out a beautiful intern who works at his office. To start your story, you might show your hero staring longingly at the intern from afar. He may even text his buddy: “No more messing around. I’m asking her to the Christmas party this weekend!” Soon after, you’ll write what most screenwriters refer to as the “inciting incident,” which is a fancy way of saying, the “problem.” A great example of an inciting incident happens in the movie Shrek, when the fairy tale creatures move into Shrek’s swamp. This is the “problem” to which Shrek needs to find a solution. In our story, it might be when our office dude learns that it’s the intern’s last day at work! In other words, this is his last chance to ask her out!
This inevitably leads to our hero having to make a choice. Does he stick with his old life (never taking any chances) or man up and go for the goal (ask her out)? Well, we wouldn’t have a movie if the hero stayed put, so your character always goes after the goal. In Shrek, this moment occurs when Lord Farquand tells Shrek that if he rescues the princess, he can have his swamp back. In our office story, it might be as simple as Office Dude deciding he’s going to ask Gorgeous Intern out today. He knows she always makes copies at 11 o’clock. So he spiffs himself up and heads to the copier room.
ACT 2 (50-60 pages long)
A lot of people get confused by Act 2, so let me remind you of its nickname: “Conflict.” Act 2 is the act where all the resistance happens in your story. Your hero will encounter arguments, setbacks, physical battles, insecurities, broken relationships, obstacles, their past, the protective best friend, killers, guns, car chases, and 80-foot lizards – basically, anything that makes it harder for them to achieve their goal. The more things you throw at your character, the more conflict he’ll experience. And conflict is what makes your story fun to read!
In addition to this, every roadblock, every obstacle, every setback, should escalate in difficulty. Start small and keep building. In our office story, maybe our office character stops outside the copy room, takes a deep breath, checks his reflection in the window, practices the big question a couple of times, then opens the door. He finds Gorgeous Intern, but, lo and behold, she’s talking to Sammy the Office Stud, who has her doubled over with laughter. Oh snap! Obstacle encountered!
Pages 55-60 in your script are referred to as the “mid-point.” The mid-point is important because it’s where your story changes direction. Whatever the first half of your story was about, the mid-point will shift it in a slightly different direction. By doing this, you keep the story fresh. So in our office story, maybe the midpoint is the fire alarm going off, forcing everybody to evacuate the building. This will place the second half of your story in a new environment – outside. If you want to use a real movie example, the midpoint of The Godfather is when Michael kills the Captain and Sollozzo at the restaurant. There are a million different scenarios you can write for your mid-point, but something needs to happen to give the second-half of your screenplay a slightly different feel from the first-half. Otherwise, the reader will get borrrrrrr-ed.
The pages after the mid-point and before the third act, form what I call the “Screenwriting Bermuda Triangle.” It’s where most screenplays go to die. What often happens is that writers run out of ideas in the second act and start scribbling down a bunch of filler scenes until they can get to the climax. Filler scenes are script-killers and will destroy everything you’ve worked so hard for.
If you follow proper structure, however, you should be able to navigate the Bermuda Triangle. After the mid-point, keep upping the stakes of your story. Make the problems bigger and more difficult for your character. In our office story, maybe it’s freezing outside, so everyone is pissed-off when the fire alarm sounds. To make things worse, the gorgeous intern is now cuddling up with Sammy the Office Stud to stay warm. That’s when the boss hits us with a bombshell: if they can’t get back inside within the next 20 minutes, he’s calling it a day. Ahhhh! Our hero now has 20 minutes to ask Gorgeous Intern out or lose her forever!
As the pages tick away in this section, so too should the attainability of your character’s goal. The closer we get to the climax, the more dim your hero’s chances of achieving his goal should get. In our office story, perhaps a car splashes water over our hero’s suit, destroying his appearance. Or even worse, a rumor spreads that the company is downsizing next week and his job is on the chopping block. It looks like all hope is lost. This is often referred to as your hero’s lowest point and will signify the end of the second act. We might even see Sammy the Office Stud nudge Gorgeous Intern towards his car where they can “warm up,” as our hero watches on hopelessly .
ACT 3 (20-30 pages)
The final act of your screenplay is really about your hero’s inner transformation, which is complicated, so we’ll discuss it later in more detail. In short, after your hero reaches his “lowest point,” he’ll experience a rebirth, finally realizing the error of his ways. If he’s selfish, he’ll see the value of selflessness. If he’s fearful, he’ll find the strength to be brave. He won’t have completely transformed yet, but this realization will give him the confidence to go after the girl or take on the villain or look for the treasure one last time.
In our office story, our hero realizes that his whole life has been a series of missed opportunities because he’s been afraid to take chances. I call this the “epiphany moment” and it signifies that your hero is ready to take action. Our office hero straightens up, barges through the group, CHARGES after Gorgeous Intern, spins her around, and plants a big wet one on her. She, Sammy the Office Stud, and all the coworkers stare at our hero in shock. He can’t believe it either. He’s done it! He’s won over the girl of his dreams! That is, until – CRACK – a hand smacks him across the face. “Asshole!” the intern shouts, grabbing Sammy the Office Stud and stomping off. Our hero stands there, alone, and watches her leave. The End. Hey, I never said this story had a happy ending!
Now, it’s important to remember that this is the most basic way to tell a story: a beginning, a middle, and an end. But as you’ll see over the course of this book, movies have taken this basic template and mutated it into hundreds of different variations. For example, there are movies where the hero doesn’t have a goal. There are movies where the story’s told out of order. There are movies where there isn’t a traditional main character. These are all advanced techniques and before you attempt them, you need to know the basics. We’ve just reviewed the basics of structure. Now let’s take a look at the basics of storytelling.
Can a screenplay from a New Zealander prove this week’s Scriptshadow theme wrong? Or do I still stick by my guns and say: “Stay away from quirky character pieces when writing a spec?”
Amateur Friday Submission Process: To submit your script for an Amateur Review, send in a PDF of your script, a PDF of the first ten pages of your script, your title, genre, logline, and finally, why I should read your script. Use my submission address please: Carsonreeves3@gmail.com. Your script and “first ten” will be posted. If you’re nervous about the effect of a bad review, feel free to use an alias name and/or title. It’s a good idea to resubmit every couple of weeks so your submission stays near the top.
Genre: Drama/Comedy
Premise: When a simplistic man meets a simplistic woman on the internet, wedding bells start ringing. But when he finds out his crazy ex-girlfriend not only still has, but has since lost his engagement ring, he must team up with her to find it.
About: This script was written by a New Zealander! And I think he’s going to be making the movie himself. He was curious to see how the script would play to an American audience.
Writer: Michael Dunigan
Details: 104 pages
Anne Hathaway for Roxy?
It’s funny this script showed up when it did, because it fits in nicely with the week’s theme – writing a character-driven indie spec. Actually, there’s a little more of a hook going on here, and you could argue this is also, if not solely, a romantic comedy. But it seems to have its roots firmly in the indie world, and it has a ton of quirkiness, something I’ve taken to task in this week’s article.
I actually got an e-mail from the writer saying he was scared of my review now because of my recent quirky-bashing. So I just wanted to clarify something. I have no problem with quirkiness IF it serves the story. It’s only when it’s used to serve its own purpose that I have an issue. For example, if a character wears a kilt just because the writer wants him to, I’m rolling my eyes. But if he just moved to the U.S. from rural Ireland and hasn’t purchased any American clothes yet, then it makes sense. So was the quirkiness in “The Very Last Girl” justified? Or was it just for its own sake? Time to find out.
Owen Marley is one straight-laced dude. This is not the kind of guy who’s going to dance on tables at a party. He’s the guy next door who gets irritated by all the noise coming from the party. So it makes sense that he’s searching for his next girlfriend online. And lo and behold, he finds her. Her name is Laura and while she’s pretty, she’s kind of morbid and depressing, obsessed with the meaningless of existence. Perfect for Owen! The first date is a smashing success, even though it looks to us like the two are having the most boring time in the world. They apparently enjoy this kind of (non) activity.
A few days later, Owen pops the question, and the two prepare to head into wedding bliss. But it turns out that Owen’s ex-girlfriend still has his engagement ring, which has been in his family for generations. Asking any ex-girlfriend for a ring back is going to be awkward, but asking this girl is going to be particularly difficult. That’s because Roxy, Owen’s ex, is psychotic. Don’t let her day job (a school teacher) fool you. She’s like a six year old on crack. Oh, and she no longer has the engagement ring.
BUT she thinks she knows where it is and tells Owen that if he wants it, he’ll have to join her to get it. So the two go riding around town, descending down manholes and hunting down local metal hunting enthusiasts in search of the ring, at one point running into a dangerous biker gang, who end up kidnapping Owen’s fiance. Along the way, Owen starts to realize that maybe Roxy isn’t as bad as he thought she was. And with fiance Laura starting to suffer from Stockholm Syndrome from her female biker captor, Owen probably doesn’t have any choice but to like Roxy anyway. But when Roxy throws a horrifying last second revelation at Owen, will the former love-birds be able to recover? Or will Owen find himself back at the starting gate, alone once again?
So what did I think of The Very Last Girl? Here’s how I determine my level of like (or dislike) for a script. Would I recommend it to anyone? Would I pass it on to a friend and tell them to read it? And if the answer is “no,” why is it “no?” I wouldn’t recommend this one and here’s why. There’s something too predictable about it. Too familiar. Even with all its quirkiness, I felt like I’ve seen this movie before, and nothing new was brought to the table. Typically, I hate being 20-30 pages ahead of a script, and that turned out to be the case here. Now I was 20-30 pages ahead of St. Vincent De Van Nuys as well, but the difference was that those characters were all unique and deep and compelling. These characters never really went below surface level.
Take Vincent from “St. Vincent,” for example. He had this whole backstory with being a war hero and having a wife who’s since been lost to Alzheimer’s. Maybe that was my issue with “Last Girl.” The characters didn’t have any backstories. They were defined by their present traits only. Roxy was weird. Laura was morbid. Owen was boring. I’m not even sure what the backstory between Owen and Roxy was. If it was stated, I missed it, but I was constantly trying to figure out why the two had been together. They were such different people. I know opposites attract but I would’ve liked to know specifically why they attracted.
Then again, I started to get a little skimmy after the midpoint, so I may have missed some details. That’s what writers sometimes forget. If a script isn’t catching a reader’s interest, their mind starts to drift. They can’t help it. If you’re not interesting them, they’re going to stop paying attention. And I’m not saying it was super bad in “Last Girl’s” case, but there were a few times where a couple of pages went by and I was like, “Whoa, I don’t remember what I just read.” If I’m giving notes, I’ll go back and read those pages. But if I’m just reading a script? Those pages get lost forever.
Another issue I had was that our main character, Owen, was boring (sorry, I can’t think of a nicer way to put it). This was somewhat offset by Roxy being so crazy, but having a boring main character is tough, even if you’re going the “protagonist as straight man” route. Not to keep bringing up “St. Vincent De Van Nuys,” but look at the main character in that script. He’s a drunk asshole who always says what’s on his mind and refuses to open up to anyone. Plus he had all that backstory. That guy was interesting! Even if you want to argue that the little kid was the main character, HE was interesting. He was adopted. He was super smart. He was weird – different from all the other kids. Owen existed almost invisibly throughout this script.
On the plus side, the story had a clear objective and therefore the characters were always moving towards something. That kept them active. There was also clear conflict between the two leads, Owen and Roxy, which kept their conversations exciting, even if that conflict was a little forced.
I’m not sure if there was a ticking time bomb (was the wedding tomorrow? I can’t remember). But even if there was, there were no true stakes attached to Owen achieving his goal. Laura was going to marry this guy no matter what (before the Stockholm Syndrome) so you got the feeling that even if he didn’t find the ring, they were going to be just fine. I remember with The Hangover, you knew that if these guys didn’t find the groom, they were going to be in some deeeeeeep shit. I never got that feeling here. And that’s important. If we don’t feel the stakes of the objective, how can we be invested in the story?
So this one didn’t quite do it for me. Moving forward, I’d make Owen more interesting and I’d also build more backstory into the characters. That’s what’s missing the most, in my opinion. The characters just aren’t deep enough. They have these surface level quirks, but I don’t feel their history, what’s going on inside of them, enough. You fix that and you’ll fix a lot of this script’s problems. I wish the best of luck to Michael!
Script link: The Very Last Girl
[ ] Wait for the rewrite
[x] wasn’t for me
[ ] worth the read
[ ] impressive
[ ] genius
What I learned: If I can’t remember one distinct trait about a character, then that character hasn’t been developed enough. I can’t think of one distinct trait about Owen. And this is the character taking us through this story! Make sure that your key characters all have at least one distinct memorable interesting trait about them.
So there I was, reading this week’s screenplays, minding my own business, and it occurs to me that there’s an interesting question emerging. On Monday, I had this quirky character driven dramedy about a family of grown-up siblings who realize they’re all adopted, and on Wednesday I had a script about an unlikely friendship between an old drunk and a 12 year old geek.
There were some similarities here. Both were small independent films that put the focus on the characters. But more significantly, there was very little plot to either one of them. I’d almost say they were “plotless.” That got me thinking just how hard it is to break into the business with one of these types of scripts. I mean let’s be honest. These are the kinds of scripts that can end a logline’s career. Which REALLY depresses loglines because they live to impress people! This is likely why so few people have actually read these scripts. Even if they’re recommended, whoever got them probably said, “Errr…Why the hell would I read that??”
I remember, at one point, writing in Relativity’s review, to NEVER write a script like this if you wanted to get reads. Then two days later, I’m propping up St. Vincent like it’s the second coming. So which is it? Write’em or don’t write’em? Well, I do stand by my original statement. You shouldn’t write a script like this if you’re trying to break in. When it comes down to it, Hollywood is a numbers game. The more people you can get to read your script, the better chance you have of finding someone to buy it. And when you throw a low-concept character-driven idea out there, the amount of read requests you’re going to get is going down by 80% – AT LEAST. Not only do producers and agents avoid these things like the plague because they never make money, but as a reader, I can tell you, a bad character-driven drama is the worst kind of script to get stuck in. These things can get soooo boring soooo fast if they’re not written well. And most of the time they’re not written well.
But, I’m guessing you’re reading this, pointing your fingers at the screen and saying, “Yeah, but I’m DIFFERENT.” You Angus T. Joneses of the world want everyone to know that you’re an amazing writer and therefore don’t need to be held to these lame Hollywood standards. Your character piece is going to be that powerball winner, because it’s THAT good. Okay, okay. I know we writers didn’t come to Hollywood because we’re the smartest lot. We chose one of the riskiest professions in the world cause we’re kinda nuts. And if we’re already risking embarrassment and ridicule from our much more successful family and friends, why stop taking chances now? So if the dramatic character-piece route is the one you’re going to take, it is my duty to prepare you for it. Here are five essential elements to include to give your indie character piece the best shot at success.
A BIG INTERESTING MAIN CHARACTER A BIG ACTOR WOULD WANT TO PLAY
This is one rule that doesn’t change no matter what kind of script you’re writing, whether it be The Disciple Program or St. Vincent de Van Nuys, you still gotta nab a big actor, because the film’s gotta get financed, and you’re not going to find financing without a star, and a star isn’t going to attach himself to your script for some “sorta okay” role. So you gotta write someone intriguing, different, someone who’s going through some major internal shit, someone who does weird things or is unique or retarded or deranged or strange. Look at De Van Nuys. Vin is an asshole, says what’s on his mind, gets wasted all the time, gets to act post-stroke, is full of repressed emotions about his wife. This is a character someone’s going to want to play, something an actor would see as a challenge. With Relativity, there was craziness, but there was zero depth to the characters. It was skin deep. What actor wants to play a skin deep “wacky” character? You gotta give them more.
STAY AWAY FROM ‘QUIRK FOR QUIRK’S SAKE’
Call it the Garden State or Little Miss Sunshine effect, but after those films, lots of writers started writing things like guys dressed up in 17th century jousting armor pouring cereal in the kitchen because it was a neat quirky image! Look, I have no problem with 17th century jousting armor characters pouring milk into your script AS LONG AS IT FITS THE CHARACTER AND THE STORY. If the ONLY reason you’re putting it in there is because you think it will be cool or neato, prepare to meet some reader backlash. Readers want things to make sense. They want every choice to be organic to the story. They don’t want a bunch of random wildness that has nothing to do with anything. If your main character keeps a white tiger in his living room, he better be a failed circus trainer who got booted out of his Vegas show recently and not an average 20-something slacker who just happens to live with a tiger. “HEY! WHAT IF OUR HERO HAD A WHITE TIGER??!” “Why?” “CAUSE THAT WOULD LOOK SO COOL ONSCREEN!” “But why would he have a white tiger?” “Who cares about why! It’s quirky. It’s crazy. People will love it!”
ARC YOUR MAIN CHARACTER
If you’re writing a character piece and your main character doesn’t have a flaw that’s holding him back in life, then don’t bother writing your indie character piece because this is what writing indie character pieces is all about – exploring the flaw inside your main character and watching his journey challenge that flaw. So in De Van Nuys, Vincent has cut himself off emotionally from the world. He refuses to connect with others. That’s his flaw. But in the end he finally learns to move past his wife’s death and allow others in again. Or in American Beauty, Lester’s flaw was his need to live life without responsibility. When he rejects the opportunity to sleep with Angela in the end, he overcomes that flaw. So yeah, do some character arcing dude. Or else write something a lot bigger that has a lot better chance of getting you noticed!
ALL YOUR CHARACTERS SHOULD HAVE SOMETHING GOING ON
Don’t let the term, “character piece” fool you. A better term would be “characters piece,” cause if you’re only trying to make one of your characters interesting and different and flawed, then your script is going to feel thin. The thing with character pieces is they have to have depth – there’s gotta be more going on there. That’s why we read them, because those other “big idea” specs don’t have enough going on under the surface. For this reason, ALL of your characters should be going through something, trying to get past some roadblock in life. Vincent has his whole “refuse to connect” thing. Maggie, the neighbor, is trying to move past her broken marriage and deal with the lack of time she has to spend with her son. Even Charlisse, the hooker, has to learn when it’s time to clock out and be a friend as opposed to only being there when she’s getting paid.
YOU GOTTA TAKE SOME RISKS WITH THESE SCRIPTS
There’s that word again: RISK. Here’s the thing. You’re writing something that has very little shot at being read. So don’t disappoint the reader who DOES pick up your script by giving them a boring predictable indie character piece. Take some chances. Go to some unexpected places. Alan Ball wrote a four minute scene into American Beauty with a bag blowing in the wind. The writer of De Van Nuys has his main character slap a homeless legless beggar’s coin cup out of his hands. If we’re going to take the time to read a script that we’re betting is boring, you have to make some risky choices to prove that your story ISN’T boring. Or else you’re better off writing commercial fare, where it’s easier to get away with safe choices.
In summary, I still say you stay the hell away from an indie character piece as your break-in script. I mean even De Van Nuys had some extenuating circumstances. The writer was a commercial director for the past decade. He’d been in the business for awhile. He was directing this script AS WELL as writing it, which meant he didn’t have to go through the traditional channels of getting the script read, of having to come up with a logline that excites someone enough to take a chance on you, the unknown amateur screenwriter. But I get it. You still believe in your script. And you know what? YOU SHOULD! If you don’t believe in yourself, who will? But I’ll make one last plea. If you do write one of these, try to give the script ANY kind of hook, any kind of angle that makes it stand out from the boring character piece pack. Give us a janitor who’s smarter than everyone at MIT (Good Will Hunting) or a couple who don’t know they used to be a couple because their memories were erased (Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind). And then follow the guidelines I’ve laid out above. They’re going to give your indie script an actual shot at getting some attention! Good luck!
Today’s screenplay has been gaining a lot of heat lately since the attachment of Bill Murray. But is the main character too unlikable to save the sweet character piece?
Genre: Dramedy
Premise: When a struggling single mother and her oddball son move next door to an aging angry neighbor, the son and the neighbor form an unlikely friendship.
About: This script finished low on last year’s Black List, and has pretty much disappeared until recently when Bill Murray signed on to play the lead. The script will be directed by its writer, Theodore Melfi. Melfi has been around for awhile (with credits dating back to 1998), apparently doing most of his work on the indie scene and with short films, although nothing you’ve probably heard of.
Writer: Theodore Melfi
Details: 105 pages
Okay so, remember how Monday I said beware when writing these movies because nobody pays attention to them unless they’re amaaaaazing. Well, I think we have something that approaches that elite category here. Not quite sure it gets there, but it comes close. However, in order to bolster my original claim, I should point out that I have been avoiding this script like the plague. I’ve gone through last year’s Black List maybe a hundred times when looking for stuff to read. And whenever I came across this title and this logline, I thought, “Borrrriiiiing” and move on.
I want you to think about that for a second. This script was on the Black List. This script had already been vetted by the industry and considered good. But with the boring logline and religious-sounding title, I still wasn’t interested. And I’m betting that’s why a lot of other people hadn’t read it either. It wasn’t until Bill Murray became attached that anyone cared. So make sure when you’re coming up with your movie idea, that it’s one that makes people want to pick up your script and read it. And if it isn’t? If it’s a character piece? You have to be fine with the fact that you’re probably getting one-tenth the reads that you’d be getting with a snazzier logline. If you’re okay with that, then take a shot brother!
Speaking of brothers. Or fathers. Or whatever it is they call the people in churches who lead those boring sermons – I’m happy to report that this script is not religious. It covers saints, but there’s going to be no preachy-preachy going on here. St. Vincent is about a man in his late 60s, Vincent, who’s given up on life. He lives in his house that looks like it could be a candidate for a Hoarders season premiere, and spends most of his time bitching about how the world sucks to his only friend, a pregnant African American hooker named Charisse.
Now Vincent would stay in his Hoarder house all the time if he could, but he’s running out of money, so he’s forced to go out and beg banks for more time or try to win money at the dog races. Oh, and he’s not against getting totally shitfaced at the local watering hole and zig-zagging home in his car either.
This wondrous lifestyle is interrupted when Maggie and her adopted nerdy 12 year old son, Oliver, move next door. Vincent makes it known that he is not a fan of his new neighbors, but when Oliver gets locked out after school one day, Vincent allows him to stay at his house until his mom gets home. While Vincent would never admit to caring or liking anybody, there’s something interesting about this kid, and because he has bills up to the ceiling and is desperate for cash, he tells Maggie he’ll babysit Oliver every day after school. Maggie doesn’t love the idea, but since she’s struggling to make ends meet herself, she doesn’t have any other options.
Vincent introduces Oliver to his lifestyle, including the hookers, the gambling, and the drinking. Oliver doesn’t do any of this stuff, of course (except for gamble), but he’s there when Vincent does it. And it shows him a whole new world he never knew existed.
Back at school, where Oliver is predictably having a hard time fitting in, his first big classroom assignment is coming up with a presentation about a modern-day saint. I think you know where this is going. It’s pretty obvious. And yet the story twists and turns in these little unexpected ways to keep the journey interesting. St. Vincent is a story about friendship, about opening up, and about never being too old to give life a second shot. It’s pretty darn good!
First thing I noticed about this St. Vincent? It takes that big screenwriting risk of making its main character EXTREMELY unlikable. I mean Vincent is downright nasty. At one point, he swats a can of money out of a legless homeless man’s hands! Jesus Christ. That’s almost as bad as your hero shooting a dog in the first scene.
This decision always fascinates me because a big reason for disliking a lot of the scripts I read is that I don’t like the main character. He’s a jerk, an asshole, or just plain unlikable. Yet here Vincent is extremely unlikable, and yet I still want to follow him. I still want to see what happens next.
I think this has something to do with our desire to see bad people change into good people. We want to see them transform. But as far as why I hate some scripts because of unlikable protagonists and didn’t have that reaction this time around, I’m still not sure how that’s achieved. There were some “Save The Cat” moments later on (which I’ll talk about in the “What I Learned” section), but I’d formed my opinion before that. Even though Vincent was an asshole, I still wanted to go on this journey with him.
It also never ceases to amaze me how dependable the “running out of money” trope is in writing. I mean we see it in virtually EVERY movie as a motivation. Someone’s running out of money (in this case Vincent) and that’s what motivates the central plot element (babysitting Oliver). You’d think that something this cliché would turn people off, but maybe it’s so relatable that people just go with it. I don’t know but it certainly worked well as a motivation here.
Another interesting thing about St. Vincent is that there IS NO GOAL. For someone (me) who preaches the importance of character goals to drive your story, I’m always intrigued by screenplays that don’t adhere to this and still work. So why does the script work? Well, when you don’t have a goal driving your protagonists, you still want to have a high-stakes impending situation the characters are moving towards. This way, we’re still interested in reading on, because we want to see how that situation plays out.
In this case there are two. The first is that Oliver has to come up with a saint for his class presentation. This isn’t that big of a driving force because we all know who he’s going to pick. The other works better – Maggie’s custody hearing with her ex-husband. There’s a chance that her husband may take Oliver away. And that’s something we DEFINITELY feel the stakes for because we like Maggie and don’t want to see her lose her kid, and we come to like Vincent, and don’t want his and Oliver’s friendship to be broken up. So you can see while even though none of the characters are aggressively going after something here, there’s still an end point to their storylines looming, and that’s what keeps us reading.
Outside of the structure stuff, this script just had a lot of nice moments to it. It wore its heart on its sleeve but did so with just the right amount of pull. I loved the friendship that emerged between Oliver and the school bully. I loved when we found out why Vincent was so hardened and beaten down by life. I liked these little touching scenes like when Vincent and Oliver win the trifecta at the dog races together. I even warmed to the hooker character, who was the only character I wasn’t onboard with initially.
This is a textbook example of how to write a good character piece. Give characters interesting backstories that affect their present-day stories. Place characters who wouldn’t otherwise be together together and see what happens. Give each character their own flaw that’s holding them back, which they must overcome by the end of the script. And make sure to give us a satisfying ending that pays off all the effort we put into these characters. I see too many character-driven screenplays that end with a whimper. While it was a little stage-y, I liked Oliver giving his big “Saint” speech in front of the school. To quote Jesse Pinkman from Breakng Bad, “It was pretty moving, yo.”
[ ] what the hell did I just read?
[ ] wasn’t for me
[ ] worth the read
[x] impressive
[ ] genius
What I learned: The “Late-arriving save-the-cat moment for an unlikable protagonist.” Here’s the thing, when you have a character who’s an asshole – when that’s his flaw – you need to establish that in the first 15 pages. You need to show him being an asshole so the audience knows that’s who he is. You can’t work in an artificial “save the cat” moment because screenwriting books tell you you have to. It’ll just confuse the audience. “Well he’s an asshole. But no wait he’s nice!” Which is it?? What I learned here is that after you’ve established a “bad” protagonist’s flaw, you can recoup the reader’s dislike for him afterwards by adding a “Late-arriving save-the-cat moment.” Melfi establishes this when Vin beats back the bullies attacking Oliver and with the arrival of Vincent’s wife, who we find is stuck at a home with Alzheimer’s. The way he cares about his wife, loves her, even pays the nurse to rotate her pillows in the freezer every hour because she loves cool pillows – this is what makes us fall in love with Vincent. This is what makes us root for him.
One of the more notorious unproduced screenplays out there, with promises of DiCaprio galavanting through the sets of The Wizard Of Oz in order to solve murders.
Unfortunately, I’m off today, trying to make some last second changes so that a certain book by a certain person (hint: it’s me) can be ready to buy by next week. For that reason, I’m bringing in one of our awesome new consultants, Steven, to tackle today’s screenplay. And he doesn’t disappoint. Sorry I couldn’t contribute on “Mann/Logan” guys, as I know it’s one of the more interesting projects stuck in development hell. I’d still like to know what you think though, so I’ll be following the comments section closely.
Genre: Mystery/Noir
Premise: In 1938 Hollywood, MGM’s problem-solver falls in love with a famous actress while cleaning up her husband’s murder.
About: This script from writer John Logan (“Hugo”, “The Aviator”) came close to being made in 2007, with Michael Mann set to direct Leonardo DiCaprio, but New Line’s bid of $100 million came short of the projected $120 million budget. The project is now, presumably, defunct.
Writer: John Logan
Details: 122 pages – undated draft
Screenwriter John Logan
It’s pretty astonishing, when you consider the sheer amount of the creative power behind it, that “Mann/Logan” never got off the ground. Certainly all of the pieces were in place: a big-shot writer (Logan), a bigger-shot director (Mann), and the biggest-shot leading man (DiCaprio), working with a script so well-regarded that even the decidedly non-screenplay-centric website Slate did a two-page piece on it. Yet, despite that, not a single studio pulled the trigger on the project. Now all we have is the script itself, and some vague daydreams of what might have been.
It’s 1938 in Hollywood, and while the rest of the world prepares to burn, the major film studios are still enjoying their Golden Age. The money is pouring in for everyone, but MGM stands above them all. Indeed, for MGM, the future looks brighter than gold. It’s in the process of shooting a couple of films you may have heard of: Gone with the Wind, and The Wizard of Oz. Still, all that money can’t change the one simple truth about people: we’re none of us above doing something profoundly stupid, short-sighted, and ugly. Luckily for the rich and powerful (and for MGM), they have Harry Slidell on retainer.
Slidell, see, is what you’d call a fixer. Need to get out of a speeding ticket? Get a ride down to Mexico for a discreet abortion? Cover up a pill addiction? Call Slidell, an ex-cop in a fancy car who can make all of your troubles disappear. The script opens up with Slidell cleaning up a murder. Specifically, the murder of an Academy Award-winning producer employed by MGM. A producer who just happens to be the husband of one of MGM’s contract stars, the beautiful Ruth Ettis.
Slidell’s no slouch. He knows this isn’t a robbery gone bad (for one, the producer’s Oscar is still on the mantelpiece). All signs point to a domestic dispute, and that means all signs point to Ruth. Trouble is, his job is to keep her out of jail. That’s what MGM pays him for, after all. So he puts a c-note in the maid’s palm, makes the whole deal look like a suicide, and slips the cops some money to make sure they’re all in agreement. Easy peasy, right?
Nope! When Slidell goes into LB Mayer’s office at MGM for a quick debrief, Mayer refuses to believe Ruth did it. Why? Well, he claims a certain affinity for the actress—“Someone is trying to hurt my Ruth. I don’t like to see women hurt.” So he encourages Slidell to investigate further. Harry is skeptical, but the money is right. So off he goes.
Allow me a quick aside. There is literally no reason for Mayer to send Slidell on his forthcoming odyssey, other than for the pretty lame excuse that the plot needed something to put Slidell into motion. The question of who killed the producer is meaningless—even If Ruth did do it, Slidell already solved that problem for her and for MGM. And it’s not as though Mayer’s stated reason (that he cares about Ruth, and about women) is a sound one. Mayer and Ruth never interact in the entire script; in fact, Mayer doesn’t interact with any women at all. Because we’re dealing with film noir, you’d think that Mayer might be engaged in some sort of underhanded machinations, but you’d be wrong, alas. He’s just a plot device, masquerading as a character.
Look, I’m aware that this is a minor plot hole. Probably most of you think that I’m giving mindless pedantry a bad name. But this is the entire story’s inciting incident—all of the subsequent action flows from this one event. And if you can’t bother to tighten up your plot enough to make that inciting incident airtight, what hope does the rest of your script have?
In any event, before Slidell goes to see Ruth, he swings by the set of the Wizard of Oz to see Judy Garland. It’s obvious that Slidell has helped Judy out of a few jams in the past. Judy is deferential and melancholy but profoundly thankful for the unnamed services Slidell has performed for the troubled girl. Thankfully, there are no romantic undertones to the exchange. He’s more of a big brother figure, and he’s sweetly protective of her.
Finally, Slidell goes to visit Ruth on set, to see what she has to say. They have a meet-cute. Slidell still thinks she’s guilty, but he’s becoming less sure in his convictions as he spends more time with her. Romance bubbles up. He can see she’s an ex-dope fiend, and his protective nature begins to override his more rational suspicion that Ruth is a murderer. Then Ruth reveals that she’s being blackmailed by an anonymous someone who has incriminating photos from her days as the decidedly less-glamorous prostitute, Brenda Gomey. Ruth insists further that the blackmailer killed her husband after a scheduled meeting to pay off the blackmailer went awry.
So Slidell careens through sleazy Los Angeles to track down the blackmailer, who just might be the killer, too. He interrogates a series of suspects, each shadier than the last. He runs down the husband’s drug dealer at the horse races in Hollywood Park. He meets the obese queen of the Los Angeles underworld. He hangs out with famed gangster Bugsy Siegel for some reason. He goes down to Mexico to question Ruth’s former madam. Between each of these engagements, he falls deeper in love with Ruth.
If you’ve ever seen an episode of Law and Order, you’ll know immediately the identity of the mastermind. That’s fine, as far as it goes, because we go to the movies not for a great plot twist, but for great characters. After all, rosebud is in the vernacular not because the twist in “Citizen Kane” was so exciting, but because Orson Welles played Charles Foster Kane so memorably.
Which is why it’s so disappointing when an otherwise wonderful script has as its center an enormous black hole. In the case of “Mann/Logan”, that black hole is named Harry Slidell. Slidell isn’t given an inner-life, or much of a history, either. He has no hobbies, as far as we can tell. He seems to rely existentially on his work, but not in any sort of passionate way. He isn’t charming or funny, really, and he’s not exactly a forensic expert on the level of Sherlock Holmes. Almost all of his leads are the products of him greasing palms or bashing heads. He’s a blunt-force instrument, not a scalpel, and the former are inherently less interesting than the latter.
As a writer, you must always have a strong grasp of your protagonist. Without that, your script becomes unmoored. There’s a telling description late in Act 2, when Logan tells us that “Harry –always cool, always in control — blows.” Except that Slidell, from all available evidence, is never in control. He’s the consummate non-professional. He freaks out when a man tears his sport coat, and blubbers about how expensive it was. He kicks that same man in ribs after he has already been badly beaten and subdued by Slidell’s partners. He violently attacks a doctor for giving Judy Garland drugs. Etc. The result is that Slidell is a distracting, schizophrenic dichotomy, acting inconsistently throughout the script.
And that’s a real shame, because so much of the rest of “Mann/Logan” is top-notch. Bugsy Siegel is superfluous to the narrative, but his rise to the top is a blast to read. LB Mayer is similarly fun—imagine Al Swearengen in charge of MGM. The urban hellscape of Los Angeles, so convincing in its danger, might as well be its own character.
But by far the most interesting and effective aspect of Mann/Logan is its extraordinary portrayal of women. The only time the script sings is when it’s focusing on them. Judy Garland is heartbreaking, and her exchange with Slidell at the beginning of the script (“Judy, you eating?” “Not a lot. They don’t like it when I eat … I sneak malts.”) is poignant enough to give pause to any parents thinking of bringing their kids to Hollywood. Ruth Ettis is the polar opposite of the manic pixie dream girl. She’s one of those rare female leads that exists for reasons beyond bringing pleasure to the male lead, particularly in the way she grapples with how her movie star persona has allowed her to set aside her former life. Even one-offs like Rosalind Quinn, Ruth’s former madam, and Bess, the queen of the Los Angeles underworld, are tragic figures in their own right.
The Mann/Logan script wants to convince you that Hollywood is an indifferent beast, full of idle malice. Mayer, surveying his domain, explains to Slidell that “the river of money goes on forever. It is incapable of weeping for those left behind.” This is true up to a point. In a noir, everyone gets hurt in one way or another. In Mann/Logan, only the women do.
[ ] what the hell did I just read?
[ ] wasn’t for me
[x] worth the read
[ ] impressive
[ ] genius
What I learned: It’s important to steer into the curve. More crucially, it’s important to recognize that there’s a curve to be steered into. We’re all heard stories of writers setting out to create what they thought were serious dramas, but ended up as farces or slapsticks. This can happen on a more micro level, like when you structure your plot to be consistent with what a cool-as-a-cucumber private eye would do and say, except the private eye you’ve committed to page might be a lunatic with a short fuse. On a bigger level, you might think you’ve written a pulpy noir, when your real story is an eloquent takedown of the way Hollywood chews up its women. Find the most interesting parts of your script, and explore them further, even if—especially if!—it takes you away from your original vision.
