I call it the "Save the Gat" scene. They don't put it into movies anymore. And it's basic. It's the scene where we meet the hero and the hero does something — like saving a cat — that defines who he is and makes us, the audience, like him.
A pre-sold franchise is something that a goodly chunk of the audience is already "sold" on. It cuts way down on the "What is it?" factor because most people already kind of know.
And concentrate on writing one sentence. One line. Because if you can learn how to tell me "What is it?" better, faster, and with more creativity, you'll keep me interested. And incidentally, by doing so before you start writing your script, you'll make the story better, too. THE LOGLINE FROM HELL
In Hollywood parlance it's called a logline or a one-line. And the difference between a good one and a bad one is simple. When I pick up the trades and read the logline of a spec or a pitch that's sold and my first reaction is "Why didn't 7 think of that?!" Well... that's a good one. At random I'm going to select a few recent sales (from my Web source: www.hollywoodlitsaIes.com) that made me jealous. They're in my genre, family comedy, but what we can learn from them crosses comedy, drama, whatever. Each of these was a big, fat spec sale in the six-to-seven figure range: A newly married couple must spend Christmas Day at each of their four divorced parent's homes — 4 Christmases A just-hired employee goes on a company weekend and soon discovers someone's trying to kill him — The Retreat A risk-averse teacher plans on marrying his dream girl but must first accompany his overprotective future brother-in-law — a cop — on a ride along from hell! — Ride Along (Please note: Anything "from hell" is always a comedy plus.) Believe it or not, each of these loglines has the same things in common. Along with answering "What is it?" each contains four components that make it a sale. What are those four components?
The number one thing a good logline must have, the single most important element, is: irony. My good friend and former writing partner, the funny and fast-typing Colby Carr, pointed this out to me one time and he's IOO% correct. And that goes for whether it's a comedy or a drama. A cop comes to L.A. to visit his estranged wife and her office building is taken over by terrorists — Die Hard A businessman falls in love with a hooker he hires to be his date for the weekend — Pretty Woman I don't know about you, but I think both of these loglines, one from a drama, one from a romantic comedy, fairly reek of irony. And irony gets my attention. It's what we who struggle with log-lines like to call the hook, because that's what it does. It hooks your interest.
What could be more unexpected (another way to say "ironic") for a new employee, instead of being welcomed to a company, to be faced with a threat on his life during
What could be more unexpected (another way to say "ironic") for a new employee, instead of being welcomed to a company, to be faced with a threat on his life during The Retreat?
A logline is like the cover of a book; a good one makes you want to open it, right now, to find out what's inside. In identifying the ironic elements of your story and putting them into a logline, you may discover that you don't have that. Well, if you don't, then there may not only be something wrong with your logline — maybe your story's off, too. And maybe it's time to go back and rethink it. Insisting on irony in your logline is a good place to find out what's missing. Maybe you don't have a good movie yet.
The second most important element that a good logline has is that you must be able to see a whole movie in it. Like Proust's madeleine, a good logline, once said, blossoms in your brain. You see the movie, or at least the potential for it, and the mental images it creates offer the promise of more. One of my personal favorites is producer David Permut's pitch for Blind Date: "She's the perfect woman — until she has a drink." I don't know about you, but I see it. I see a beautiful girl and a date gone bad and a guy who wants to save it because... she's the one! There's a lot going on in that one-line, far more than in the actual movie, but that's a different subject altogether. The point is that a good logline, in addition to pulling you in, has to offer the promise of more.
In the above examples for new spec script sales, we even see where each film begins and ends, don't we? Although I haven't read more than the one-line for Ride Along, I think this movie will probably take place in one night, like After Hours. That actually goes for each of those examples. All three loglines clearly demarcate a time frame in which their story takes place: Christmas Day, the weekend of a corporate retreat, and in the case of Ride Along, a single night.
In addition, the Ride Along example offers an obvious comic conflict as opposites face off over a common goal. It will take a naive, scaredy-cat teacher and throw him into the crime-ridden world of his brother-in-law, the cop. This is why "fish-out-of-water" stories are so popular: You can see the potential fireworks of one type of person being thrust into a world outside his ken. In that one set-up line a whole story blooms with possibilities.
Title and logline are, in fact, the one-two punch, and a good combo never fails to knock me out. Like the irony in a good logline, a great title must have irony and tell the tale. One of the best titles of recent memory, and one I still marvel at, is Legally Blonde. When I think about all the bad titles it could have been — Barbie Goes To Harvard, Totally Law School, Airhead Apparent — to come up with one that nails the concept, without being so on the nose that it's stupid, is an art unto itself. I am jealous of that title. A good sign!
One of the key ingredients in a good title, however, is that it must be the headline of the story. Again I cite 4 Christmases as an example. While it's not a world-beater, it's not bad. But it does the one thing that a good title must do, and I'll highlight it because it's vital that you get this: It says what it is! They could have called 4 Christmases something more vague, how about Yuletide? That says "Christmas," right? But it doesn't pinpoint what this particular Christmas movie is about. It doesn't say what it is, which is a movie about one couple spending four different Christmases with four different sets of families on the same Christmas day. If it doesn't pass the Say What It Is Test, you don't have your title. And you don't have the one-two punch that makes a great logline.
I admit that often I have come up with the title first and made the story match. That's how I thought up a script I went on to co-write and sell called Nuclear Family. At first all I had was the title, then I came up with the ironic twist. Instead of nuclear as in "father, mother, and children" the way the term is meant, why not nuclear as in "radioactive." The logline became: "A dysfunctional family goes camping on a nuclear dumpsite and wakes up the next morning with super powers." With the help of my writing partner, the quick-witted and jet-setting Jim Haggin, we fleshed out that story and sold the script in a bidding war to Steven Spielberg for $1 million. Our title and logline met all the criteria cited above: irony, promise of more, audience and cost (four-quadrant, with special effects, not stars), and one that definitely said what it is.
The other great part about road-testing your logline is that you have the experience of all-weather pitching. I pitch to anyone who will stand still. I do it in line at Starbucks. I do it with friends and strangers. I always spill my guts when it comes to discussing what I'm working on, because: a. I have no fear that anyone will steal my idea (and anyone who has that fear is an amateur) and... b. You find out more about your movie by talking to people one-on-one than having them read it. This is what I mean by "test marketing."
When I am about to go pitch a studio, when I am working on a new idea for a movie, or when I can't decide which of four or five ideas is best, I talk to "civilians." I talk to them and I look in their eyes as I'm talking. When they start to drift, when they look away, I've lost them. And I know my pitch has problems. So I make sure that when I pitch to my next victim, I've corrected whatever slow spot or confusing element I overlooked the first time out. And most of all, it's really fun to do. A typical scenario goes like this: INT. COFFEE BEAN AND TEA LEAF - SUNSET PLAZA - DAY A melange of starlets, weekend Hell's Angels, and Eurotrash snobs sip double mocha frappes. Blake Snyder eyes the crowd. He approaches the person who seems least likely to hit him. BLAKE SNYDER Hi, could you help me? STRANGER (dubious) What is it? I have a Pilates class in ten minutes. BLAKE SNYDER Perfect, this will only take a second. I'm working on a movie idea and I wanted to know what you think. STRANGER (smiling, looks at watch) Okay... This, to me, is the perfect set-up and one that I repeat with all age groups, in all kinds of situations, all over Southern California — but especially with the target audience of whatever I'm working on. This kind of test marketing is not only a great way to meet people, it's the only way to know what you've got. And a "pitchee" who is thinking about being somewhere else is the perfect subject. If you can get his attention, if you can keep his attention, and if he wants to know more about the story you're telling, you've really got a good movie idea.
The job of the screenwriter, especially one writing on spec, must include consideration for everyone all along the way, from agent to producer to the studio exec who decides what gets made. And that job starts with that question: "What is it?" Along with a good "What is it?" a movie must have a clear sense of what it's about and who it's for. Its tone, potential, the dilemma of its characters, and the type of characters they are, should be easy to understand and compelling.
In order to better create a good "What is it?" the spec screenwriter must be able to tell a good one-line or logline — a one- or two-sentence grabber that tells us everything. It must satisfy four basic elements to be effective: 1. Irony. It must be in some way ironic and emotionally involving — a dramatic situation that is like an itch you have to scratch. 2. A compelling mental picture. It must bloom in your mind when you hear it. A whole movie must be implied, often including a time frame. 3. Audience and cost. It must demarcate the tone, the target audience, and the sense of cost, so buyers will know if it can make a profit. 4. A killer title. The one-two punch of a good logline must include a great title, one that "says what it is" and does so in a clever way. This is all part of what is called "high concept," a term that came about to describe movies that are easy to see. In fact, high concept is more important than ever before, especially since movies must be sold internationally, too. Domestic box office used to account for 6o% of a movie's overall profit, but that figure is down to 40%. That means movies must travel and be understood everywhere — over half of your market is now outside the U.S. So while high concept is a term that's not fashionable, it's a type of movie all Hollywood is actively looking for. You just have to figure out a quicker, slicker way to provide high concept ideas. Finally, this is all about intriguing the audience, so a good way to road test an idea is to get out from behind your computer and pitch it. Pitch your movie to anyone who will listen and adjust accordingly. You never know what valuable information you can learn from a stranger with a blank expression.
In every aspect of creation — from the idea, to the way characters speak, to the scenes themselves — putting a fresh spin on it (whatever "it" is) is what we do every day. But to know how to avoid the cliche, to know what tradition you are pushing forward, begins with knowing what that tradition is. A full-fledged knowledge of hundreds of movies, and especially those which your movie is like, is required.
Movies are intricately made emotion machines.
You can't tell me any idea that isn't like one, or dozens, found in the movie canon. Trust me, your movie falls into a category. And that category has rules that you need to know. Because to explode the cliches, to give us the same thing... only different, you have to know what genre your movie is part of, and how to invent the twists that avoid pat elements.
The reason categorizing your movie is a good idea is that it's important for you, the screenwriter, to know what type of movie you're writing. Of the many ways to get lost while in the middle of writing a screenplay, this is the most common. When I am writing a movie, when Steven Spielberg is writing a movie, referencing other movies, looking for clues of plotting and character within the genre, is commonplace. And thus, when you are stuck in your story or when you're preparing to write, you will "screen" a dozen movies that are like the one you're working on to get clues about why certain plot elements are important, why they work or don't, and where you can change the cliche into something fresh.
The badder the bad guy, the greater the heroics. So make the bad guy as bad as possible — always! — for the bigger the problem, the greater the odds for our dude to overcome.
HOLLYWOOD'S DIRTY LITTLE SECRET I'm sure having reviewed this list of genres you're not only seeing why so many movies are structurally identical to others, but have had many "Eureka!" moments when you're convinced that outright "stealing" has been perpetrated. And guess what? You're not so wrong to think that. Look at Point Break starring Patrick Swayze, then look at Fast and Furious. Yes, it's the same movie almost beat for beat. But one is about surfing, the other is about hot cars. Is that stealing? Is that cheating? Now look at The Matrix and compare and contrast it with the Disney/Pixar hit Monsters, Inc. Yup. Same movie. And there's a million more examples: Who Framed Roger Rabbit? is Chinatown. Blank Check is very similar to Home Alone. In some instances, the stealing is conscious. In others, it's just coincidence. But very often the reason it happens is that story templates work and they work for a reason that must be repeated. Each of these movies is an example of successful storytelling. Several are huge hits.
If you're looking for the exceptions to the rules, you're missing the point of this chapter, which is to use categorizing as a storytelling tool. You must know movies. But you can't know them all. So this is a way to start. Take the script you're working on and try to find what category it's most like. Maybe you have moments in your script that borrow from all the categories? Maybe you start off your screenplay telling one type of story and end up telling another. That's fine, too. (I mean, at the end of the day, I doubt you'll sell that script, but we all have to learn the hard way. We're screenwriters! Pain is the game!) The point is to be well-versed in the language, rhythm, and goals of the genre you're trying to move forward. If you know what genre you're in, learn its rules and find what's essential; you'll write a better and more satisfying movie.
"Give me the same thing... only different" then is what storytelling has always been about. But it's the way we put new twists on old tales, bring them up to date, and give them a spin that's meaningful for our contemporaries. It's a skill we must master and apply to all aspects of the craft.
Jaws is just a retelling of the ancient Greek myth of the Minatour or even the dragon-slayer tales of the Middle Ages. Superman is just a modern Hercules. Road Trip is just an update of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales — isn't it? To not know the roots of the story you're trying to create, either from the last IOO years of movie storytelling or the last thousand, is to not honor the traditions and fundamental goals of your job.
And after the concept, whenever I hear a screenwriter wind up to pitch his movie idea, somewhere in there I better hear some version of: "It's about a guy who...
As screenwriters with a great idea for a movie, the job of creating heroes that will lure an audience into our world is unique. We have to create audience stand-ins that resonate for our target market AND serve the needs and goals of our story. And it starts from the very beginning with that great logline that hooks us with someone to identify with as much as something. This is why in any logline, any good logline, there will always be a couple of adjectives involved: A risk-averse teacher who... an agoraphobic stenographer who... a milquetoast banker who____This also goes for the antagonist who now must be described as an overprotective cop, a megalomaniac terrorist, or a homicidal baker. So let's add a few things to our list of what the "perfect" logline must include to be truly compelling: > An adjective to describe the hero > An adjective to describe the bad guy, and... > A compelling goal we identify with as human beings
And yes, this is all about your hero. Give him stakes. Real stakes. Primal stakes. Stakes that are basic, that we understand. Make the hero want something real and simple: survival, hunger, sex, protection of loved ones, fear of death.
And yes, this is all about your hero. Give him stakes. Real stakes. Primal stakes. Stakes that are basic, that we understand. Make the hero want something real and simple: survival, hunger, sex, protection of loved ones, fear of death. And when it comes to who to cast in your screenplay, we respond best to stories of husbands and wives, fathers and daughters, mothers and sons, ex-boyfriends and girlfriends. Why? Because we all have these people in our lives! You say "father" and I see my father. You say "girlfriend" and I see my girlfriend. We all have em — and it gets our attention because of that. It's an immediate attention-getter because we have a primal reaction to those people, to those words even! So when in doubt, ground your characters in the most deep-seated imagery you can. Make it relevant to us. Make it something that every caveman (and his brother) will get. Make it, say it with me now... primal!
The writers of A Beautiful Mind faced this same problem with mathematician John Nash and chose to simply fudge some of the facts of his life story to make him more palatable. They dropped certain un-heroic facets of his love life and merged two real wives into one for the sake of movie continuity. This kind of thing, with the guidance of a good errors and omissions attorney, is done a lot. I myself grappled with a similar dilemma when I was handed the biographical challenge of John DeLorean, the famous automaker and creator of the DeLorean sports car. Imagine my surprise when my research proved him not to be a "Tucker-esque" maverick brought down by the Big Three automakers for his radical ideas but, by some accounts, a con man. All well and good, but who's the hero in that story? My solution was to make the hero the author of one of the books I'd read, a guy who had been inside the DeLorean empire from the start and grew disillusioned by both the man and his "vision." By tracing the rise and fall of DeLorean from this insider's point of view, and showing how he could be fooled, it gave the audience the "way in" to that story. I even gave my script the ironic title, Dream Car. Your way in to a biography has to pay attention to the same rules of any story: It has to be, first and foremost, about a guy who... we can root for. Or at least understand.
The rule of thumb in all these cases is to stick to the basics no matter what. Tell me a story about a guy who... > I can identify with. > I can learn from. > I have compelling reason to follow. > I believe deserves to win and... > Has stakes that are primal and ring true for me. Follow that simple prescription for finding the hero of your movie and you can't go wrong. No matter what assignment, material, or sweeping canvas has been handed to you, you find the hero by finding the heart of the story.
SLAVE TO THE LOGLINE When you have found the perfect hero for your story and nailed down just what his primal goal is, it's time to go back to your log-line and add in what you've learned to make it perfect. And if it sounds like I am insisting that you become a "slave to the logline" — well, you're right. The logline is your story's code, its DNA, the one constant that has to be true. If it's good, if it has all the earmarks of a winning idea, then it should give you everything you need to guide you in writing the screenplay. It is, in short, the touchstone, both for you the writer and the audience you're selling your movie to. If you are true to your logline, you will deliver the best possible story. And if you find yourself straying from it in the middle of the writing process, you better have a good reason.
The logline tells the hero's story: Who he is, who he's up against, and what's at stake. The nice, neat form of a one- or two-sentence pitch tells you everything.
The perfect hero is the one who offers the most conflict in the situation, has the longest emotional journey, and has a primal goal we can all root for. Survival, hunger, sex, protection of loved ones, and fear of death grab us. It is usually someone we can identify with primally, too, and that's why mothers and daughters, fathers and sons, brothers and sisters, husbands and wives make better characters than mere strangers facing the same situations and storylines.
Finding the hero of your story is the second most important part of coming up with a winning movie concept — winning meaning "one that will sell." Cast and concept is, in fact, the starting point of getting any movie made. "What's it about?" and "Who's in it?" are the first two questions any moviegoer asks, and that goes for everyone else as well, from agent and producer to studio executive. It's how the "who" and the "what is it?" come together in an intriguing combination that makes us want to see this story unfold.
When committing these discoveries to your logline, you must have an adjective to describe the hero, an adjective to describe the bad guy, and a definite and primal goal or setting.
After coming up with the idea, and identifying the "who" in your movie — and who it's for — the structure is the single most important element in writing and selling a screenplay.
The craftsmanship it takes, the patient work, the magic of storytelling on film, all come together in how yon execute and realize structure. It is a skill you must know.
when I finally read and digested Field's opus Screenplay, I knew I had found something truly career-saving.
A script in terms of page count should be about as long as a good jockey weighs: 110. Though some dramas run longer, the proportions are the same.
OPENING IMAGE (1) The very first impression of what a movie is — its tone, its mood, the type and scope of the film — are all found in the opening image. I can think of many great ones: the reckless motorcycle ride through the English countryside leading to the death of Lawrence of Arabia; the gated, looming castle behind which lurks the mysterious Citizen Kane; and even silly ones like the opening image of Animal House — who could forget the motto of Faber College: "Knowledge is good" beneath the statue of the Faber College founder? Don't we know what we're in for with all three of these examples? Don't each of these opening images set the tone, type, style, and stakes of the movie as a whole?
The opening image is also an opportunity to give us the starting point of the hero. It gives us a moment to see a "before" snapshot of the guy or gal or group of people we are about to follow on this adventure we're all going to take. Presumably, if the screenwriter has done his job, there will also be an "after" snapshot to show how things have changed. Like many of the beats on the BS2, the opening image has a matching beat: the final image. These are bookends. And because a good screenplay is about change, these two scenes are a way to make clear how that change takes place in your movie. The opening and final images should be opposites,
Somewhere in the first five minutes of a well-structured screenplay , someone (usually not the main character) will pose a question or make a statement (usually to the main character) that is the theme of the movie. "Be careful what you wish for," this person will say or "Pride goeth before a fall" or "Family is more important than money." It won't be this obvious, it will be conversational, an offhand remark that the main character doesn't quite get at the moment — but which will have far-reaching and meaningful impact later. This statement is the movie's thematic premise.
Who is greater in the overall scheme of things — the individual or the group? And the rest of the screenplay is the argument laid out, either proving or disproving this statement, and looking at it, pro and con, from every angle.
SET UP (1-10) The first 10 pages of the script, or first dozen pages at most, is called the "set-up." If you're like me, and like most readers in Hollywood, this is the make-or-break section where you have to grab me or risk losing my interest. Think of all the good set-ups you've seen in the first reel — the first ten minutes — which "sets up" the hero, the stakes, and goal of the story... and does so with vigor! The set-up is also the place where, if you're me the writer, I make sure I've introduced or hinted at introducing every character in the A story. Watch any good movie and see. Within the first IO minutes you meet or reference them all. Make sure by your page IO you have done the same. The first IO pages is also where we start to plant every character tic, exhibit every behavior that needs to be addressed later on, and show how and why the hero will need to change in order to win. She's an isolated writer who lives in a make-believe world (Romancing the Stone); he's a hip, slick, and savvy foreign-car importer who's as glib as he is cold (Rain Man); she's a ditzy airhead who doesn't appear to have much substance (Legally Blonde).
I like to think of movies as divided into three separate worlds. Most people call these three acts, I call em thesis, antithesis, and synthesis. The first IO pages and the rest of Act One is the movie's thesis; it's where we see the world as it is before the adventure starts. It is a full-fledged documentation of the hero's world labeled "before." There is a calm before the storm in this world, and especially in the set-up.
I like to think of movies as divided into three separate worlds. Most people call these three acts, I call em thesis, antithesis, and synthesis. The first IO pages and the rest of Act One is the movie's thesis; it's where we see the world as it is before the adventure starts. It is a full-fledged documentation of the hero's world labeled "before." There is a calm before the storm in this world, and especially in the set-up. If events that follow did not occur, it would pretty much stay this way. But there is a sense in the set-up that a storm's about to hit, because for things to stay as they are... is death. Things must change.
CATALYST (12) The package that arrives in Romancing the Stone which will send Joan Wilder (Kathleen Turner) to South America; the telephone call that informs Tom Cruise his father has died in Rain Man; the dinner at which Reese Witherspoon's fiance announces he's dumping her in Legally Blonde — these are the catalyst moments: telegrams, getting fired, catching the wife in bed with another man, news that you have three days to live, the knock at the door, the messenger. In the set-up you, the screenwriter, have told us what the world is like and now in the catalyst moment you knock it all down. Boom!