Questions And Answers

Q: Is there a specific name for those little stories that are essentially stories within the story? For example, in Gremlins the girl tells that horrid tale about her father trying to surprise the family on Christmas Eve by dressing up like Santa Claus and coming down the chimney, but he got stuck and died. That story was the pay-off for the previous set-up that she didn't like Christmas.

A: I’ve never heard a specific name for this, but such a monologue is an effective way (almost always preferable to a flashback) to reveal a character’s wound – the painful situation or event from the past that the character has suppressed, but which she’s afraid of confronting. That fear has resulted in the character’s identity – the persona she’s created to protect herself from ever experiencing that pain again, and which is keeping her emotionally stuck at the beginning of the film.

Examples include: LA Confidential (where we hear of the deaths of White’s mother and Exley’s father); Hitch (Sarah’s story about her sister falling through the ice); and Million Dollar Baby (when Scrap tells Maggie about how he was injured in a fight – though in this case he’s actually revealing Frankie’s wound).

I talk extensively about wound, fear and identity in the CD and DVD sets of The Hero’s 2 Journeys.

In honor of our Art of Romantic Comedy seminars in Australia, Steve Kaplan has generously provided a terrific answer to the following question.

Q: One of my scripts – which I think fits the romantic comedy genre – has been criticized for not having enough ‘belly laughs’. Where does ‘comedy’ fit in ‘romantic comedy’? Should I be aiming to make it laugh-out-loud funny?

A: Well belly laughs are in the eye, or the belly, of the beholder. One man's The Hangover is another man’s . . . MacGruber. And while there are many belly laughs in 40 Year Old Virgin, how many belly laughs are there in 500 Days of Summer? What 500 Days does offer are the subtle joys, exhilarations and depth of emotion of a love affair gone awry. Not a bad deal, really, even without the requisite dick jokes found in many of the progeny of American Pie.

The thing to remember is that there’s no set rule for how many laughs there should be on the page of a romantic comedy. If you’re working from a good comic premise, the most important thing is that you draw the characters truthfully, and let the characters overcome their goals and pursue their desires simply, honestly and organically. It might not sound all that hysterical, but doesn’t that describe a good romantic comedy like 500 Days of Summer a lot more than some dreadfully unfunny ‘comedy’ like All About Steve or Fool’s Gold?

So, what is a good Comic Premise? Many people think of Comic Premise as “High Concept” and dismiss it as the crass approach to developing movie concepts. But I think that’s overlooking a premise’s true potential. To me, a Comic Premise is “The Lie That Tells The Truth.” It’s a situation so impossible, so improbable or extreme, that it’s unlikely to have occurred; yet if it does occur, it becomes rich with intriguing possibilities. To me, the true value of a great Comic Premise isn’t its usefulness in a pitch, it’s as a writing tool.

Take the premise of Groundhog Day: a guy keeps re-living the same day, over and over again. Could that ever happen? Of course not. But if it did happen, what would happen then? How would he deal with it? What would he do? Or Big--a boy wishes that he was bigger, and the next morning he wakes up and he’s a 30-year-old man. Again, could never happen. The joy is in seeing what the characters would do if it happened.

Is it possible to write a brilliant, hysterical comedy about a boy and a girl sitting on a park bench talking for two hours? Sure. It’s just really hard to pull off. At some point, you face the possibility of hitting that writer’s block I’ve heard so much about. (OK, confession: I’ve more than heard about it.) A great comic premise makes the story and all its possibilities create an explosion in your imagination—kind of like a creative Big Bang. As the story starts to expand in your mind, you can’t wait to start writing it down. When you tell a friend about it, they get excited too, because the story possibilities are so abundant. After telling the initial lie, you don’t have to sweat or strain to invent comic bits. If the characters are human enough to be what I call “Non-Heroes”—flawed and fumbling, like we all are, yet keep picking themselves up no mater how many times they get knocked down—the comedy will occur naturally. As Bill Prady of The Big Bang Theory puts it, “We follow the characters, and let them tell us what they’re going to do next.”

If you follow the characters honestly and organically, the results, while perhaps not side-splitting, will help you tell your own sweet, funny, silly, touching, moving, truthful romantic comedy.

-- Steve Kaplan

To learn more about Steve Kaplan’s Comedy Intensive, visit www.kaplancomedy.com.

Q: I heard Michael speak in Melbourne two years ago and remember him saying that we must give the hero a compelling desire, with a clear, visible goal to reach by the end of the movie. The protagonist in my screenplay is a lonely widower who believes that you only get to fall in love once in your lifetime, and he's had his turn. So instead of looking for love, he travels to places that help him "forget what he's lost". He’s clearly NOT looking for love at the beginning of the script. But then he does fall in love, with a woman from the other side of the world. Is it okay that his desire not be revealed until around the 25% point, and also, is it okay that the audience could probably see this coming from around the 10% point?

-- Phil McGrath

A: Phil’s question raises a number of elements regarding outer motivation that I’d like to clarify:

I define Outer Motivation as the specific, visible goal a character wants to achieve by the end of a story (regardless of whether the story is a screenplay, novel, or TV episode). Not only must the audience see the hero achieve this goal; as soon as the goal is stated, the reader or audience must get a clear mental picture of what achieving it will look like on screen. So (to use Phil’s example) if a hero wants to “travel to places” and “forget what he’s lost”, neither of those would qualify as an outer motivation. I can imagine what travelling to places looks like, but that goal has no endpoint. And the idea of a hero forgetting something creates no image whatsoever.

But when Phil says his hero’s goal is to win the love of a specific woman from the other side of the world, that is an outer motivation, because we’ve all seen and read lots of love stories, and we can easily picture these characters walking off into the sunset together (literally or figuratively). This gives the story a specific endpoint that the hero spends the entire movie trying to achieve, just as it would if his goal were to stop a serial killer, rescue his daughter or win the big game.

As for the desire not being revealed until the 25% mark, this is not only acceptable, if you’re writing a screenplay it’s essential. More accurately, your hero cannot begin pursuing his or her outer motivation until the beginning of Act 2 – one quarter of the way into your screenplay. You must spend Act 1 introducing your hero, putting him into some new situation (in Phil’s case this would be his trip to the Middle East), introducing him (and us) to his future love interest, and leading the hero up to the point where he decides to pursue her romantically.

In a love story, it is often the case that a hero won’t consciously pursue the love interest, even at the 25% mark. He will deny – even to himself – that he has feelings for her at all. Often the hero and romance character actively dislike each other when they meet, or at least don’t get along as we begin Act 2 (as in The Proposal, Just Like Heaven, Avatar, Zombieland, Seven Pounds, Knocked Up, Stranger Than Fiction, and countless other examples). The important thing is that the reader and audience know that these two characters are going to fall in love, and are rooting for that to happen. Something must throw the hero and romance together as the hero pursues some other desire, though they might not acknowledge any feelings at all for each other until the midpoint of the script.

Even in some movies that aren’t love stories, a hero’s goal may evolve through the course of the film, so that she begins pursuing one outer motivation at the ¼ mark, which then transforms into a bigger, or more narrowly defined, visible goal at the mid-point or at the end of Act 2. So in Avatar, Scully’s initial outer motivation (along with winning Neytiri’s love) is to infiltrate the Na’vi tribe, then it becomes to persuade them to leave Home Tree, and finally it evolves into leading the Na’vi in battle against the mercenaries. But it’s not as if Scully decides to give up helping them altogether and starts trying to win the Pandora World Series. The changes in his outer motivation are all linked to his overall goal of saving the Na’vi from being wiped out in a war with the humans.

One final point: a hero’s outer motivation may be announced well before the 25% mark. In My Best Friend’s Wedding, Jules declares her intention of breaking up the wedding at the 10% mark. She (or any other movie hero) just can’t begin executing her plan until that critical, end-of-Act-2 turning point.

Always, always, the question you want to ask about your screenplay is this: “What is the audience rooting for?” Then make sure that your hero (consciously or not) begins moving toward that visible finish line at the 25% point of your script.

MONTAGES

Q: When doing a montage (or a series of shots) with a voice over, how do you put two elements in the script separately, even though they happen simultaneously on screen (i.e. a series of shots and then voice over dialogue, or vice versa)? It seems like this ruins the intended affect. Would it work to insert the voice over in the middle of the series of shots, even though this somewhat breaks up the feel of the quick scene cuts?

For example:

MONTAGE

A) People doing business in a bank

B) Double glass doors being chained shut

C) Several quick gun shots ring out, causing panic in the lobby

DISPATCHER (V.O.)

All available units report to a10-90 at 206 Sixth Avenue downtown. Robbery in progress at the Midland Savings and Loan. Suspect is believed to be armed and has taken hostages.

D) Police cars speeding down city streets

E) Parking lot crowded with police cars and officers

F) S.W.A.T. officers exiting van and donning gear

G) S.W.A.T. team breeching front doors of bank

- Scott Strosahl

A: This one is easy, even though I honestly don’t know what the best formatting would be. Because the answer to Scott’s question is lose the montage!

Montages and flashbacks are the two most overused devices in screenwriting. Though montages are easy shortcuts for speeding up the action, revealing information, and/or conveying the passage of time, montages are almost never emotionally involving. Writing short but complete individual scenes is almost always more effective.

Let’s take Scott’s montage sequence as an example: bank patrons are terrorized when robbers open fire inside the bank, and (presumably) hold them hostage while they clean out the vault and attempt to get away. Meanwhile the police are rushing to get there before innocent people are killed and the thieves escape. This would have to be one of the peak emotional moments in the screenplay, with lots of action, suspense and conflict. But in montage form, all of this excitement is reduced to a few flat lines, with no detail, no emotional buildup, no sense of who any of the characters are, no conflict, no violence, no dialogue, and nothing original, clever or compelling.

This bank robbery should last at least five minutes on the screen – meaning it should comprise 4-5 pages of action in the script, not 4-5 lines. To give the sequence a rapid pace, describe the action in short, single sentence paragraphs (imagine one for each separate camera shot). The double spacing between will make the scene a fast read without sacrificing the detail that will make this scene jump off the page.

As for the voice over, lose that as well. Why do we need to hear it? If we simply hear an alarm bell in the bank, we’ll know the clock is ticking and the cops are on their way. The voice of the radio dispatcher adds nothing emotional to the sequence. If one of the cops hurrying to the scene is the hero of the screenplay, then show the rush to the bank from that character’s point of view, cutting back and forth between her and the bank robbers.

As with flashbacks, montages are devices that can occasionally be effective and improve your screenplay. But use them as a last resort, and only when you’re certain that no other way of telling the story would be as structurally sound or emotionally involving.

And Scott, as a thank you for bringing up this important topic (and so you won’t feel like I was too harsh with my answer), I’m giving you a free half hour of coaching. Just email me and we’ll set up a phone call to discuss whatever you’d like regarding your script or pitch.

MACGUFFIN

Q: What is a "MacGuffin?"

-George Kaplan

A: Though I don't believe he invented it, the term MacGuffin is most closely associated with Alfred Hitchcock. He defined it as the thing that the characters care a lot about, and the audience doesn't care anything about. His usual examples were the chemical process revealed by "Mr. Memory" in The 39 Steps, the microfilm hidden in the art figure in North By Northwest, or the uranium dust in the wine bottle in Notorious.

In other words, if your hero (or villain) desperately wants to find the secret formula, retrieve the microfilm or decipher the code, those are the MacGuffins in your screenplay. The audience doesn't really care what that formula is, or what exactly the code says; they only care about the jeopardy your hero faces as a result of its existence. More recent examples of MacGuffins are the glowing case in Pulp Fiction, the secret hair formula in Duplicity, and the unobtainium in Avatar. Characters in these movies will do anything to obtain these items or information. But we only really care about the conflict created by these desires.

This question points up a much more important principle: you can come up with the most clever situation or mystery imaginable, but if we don't care about your characters, or if your clever plot line doesn't generate suspense, fear, humor, passion and conflict, your readers won't give a damn. As I've said countless times, it's the emotion elicited by your screenplay that will determine its success. Hitchcock was the Master of Suspense, not the Master of MacGuffins.

FORMATTING TEXT TO BE READ

Q:How do I format a text message? Do I write it like regular dialogue, like this:

Bob's thumbs tap out a text message on his cell phone.

BOB

(sending text)

Mary, I'm outside the Club Raven

waiting to see what crawls out.

XOXO, Bob

or do I use all caps:

BOB

W@ 2C WHT CRWLZ OUT. XOXO, B.

Bob hits the send button. He starts his car.

-Brian King

A: I’ll get to the issue of formatting in a second. But first I must say that my best advice is not to show the message at all. Dialogue and action must move the story forward, heighten the emotion, and/or provide necessary information. The exact content of his message does none of those.

If we need to add credibility to Mary’s later knowledge of where Bob was, or to create anticipation of her arrival, then go ahead and show him texting a message. But isn’t it more interesting and involving if we don’t know who or what he’s texting, and to find out later when Mary shows up (or whatever happens next)?

There is not yet any standard format for texting scenes where the reader must know the exact message. But – on the advice of my very knowledgeable assistant Marissa- I’d display the message as an INSERT, not as dialogue:

EXT. PARKING LOT - NIGHT

Bob's thumbs tap out a text message on his cell phone.

INSERT: CELL PHONE DISPLAY

MARY, I'M OUTSIDE THE CLUB RAVEN. WAITING TO SEE WHAT
CRAWLS OUT.
XOXO, BOB

BACK TO SCENE:

Bob hits SEND and smiles.

The rule is this: before worrying about the finer points of formatting and style, first make sure the scene you’re writing is moving your story forward, and maximizing the emotional involvement of your reader and audience.

DAILY REVISIONS OR FORGE AHEAD?

Q: I am finding that when I sit down each day to continue my writing, I read the entire script again to get back into the flow of my story. When I do this I have the tendency to hate something I loved a few days ago, so I want to go back and change it - making the whole process very slow, and sometimes discouraging. The obvious answer is stop re-reading my previous work every day. But since I am new at this I wondered what the experts do to avoid it. Is it just me, or is this a common problem?

-- Lawrence Bell, Screenwriter

A: This is, indeed, a common problem for many writers in all disciplines. The solution is to keep trying different approaches until you find the process that works best for you. There's nothing wrong with rereading what you've done already each day - and even editing and rewriting the stuff you can improve - PROVIDED you're still making progress. Even if you add only one additional scene a day, in the long run your first draft will be more like a second draft, because you've already rewritten most of it by the time you get to the end of the story. However, it’s possible that you “hate” what you liked before because you’re subconsciously avoiding moving forward and finishing the draft. Those voices that keep telling you that your writing is shit are simply trying to block you from some deeper fear — of judgment, of change, of failure, of success, or of facing a new rewrite. If this is the case, you must take a different approach: reread what you’ve written if you want, just to get in the flow each day, but don’t rewrite anything until the draft is done. This means your draft will be finished more quickly; you’ll have overcome a big hurdle; and from now on whatever you do will be rewriting – no more facing the blank page.

Like all questions about the writing process (as opposed to principles of structure and character), there is no one right answer. You’ve got to play around until you find the combination that is right for you. The only criteria for defining your own process are: 1) Is your novel or screenplay moving forward? And 2) Are you having fun writing? When the answer is yes to both, you’re doing fine.

REVEALING BACK STORY THROUGH DIALOGUE

Q:How do you "show" backstory when telling seems so necessary?

- Elva Martin, Director, Carolina Christian Writers' Workshop

A: In spite of the age-old admonition to "show, don't tell," I am actually a big believer in telling a character's backstory. In a screenplay, that means that instead of putting an event from the past on the screen in a prologue (as in Batman Begins or Seabiscuit) or a flashback (as in Seven Pounds or many episodes of Mad Men), you reveal a critical moment from the character's past through the use of a monologue. Here, the character actually tells a story about the key, painful experience from their past that is now (unconsciously) defining their personality. So the murders of Exley’s father and Bud White’s mother in L. A. Confidential, or the hero having awakened with no memory and only a movie ticket stub in Hancock, are emotionally powerful because we don’t actually see them. We are drawn into these stories in the same way we are whenever we hear the words, “Once Upon A Time.”

This doesn’t apply to novel writing, where there is no “screen” (unless it’s a graphic novel). But instead of opening your novel with your hero’s backstory, or having the narrator merely summarize the character’s history with generalities, reveal the information later, after we’re emotionally involved in the plot. Then present the key elements from the past in detailed story form as if it is happening in the present.

Telling the backstory also means offering necessary bits of information in shorter, sometimes “tossed off” or oblique dialogue. My favorite of this is in Richard Tuggle’s screenplay for Escape from Alcatraz. A fellow prisoner is remarking on the hero’s cold, tough personality, and asks, “What kind of childhood did you have?”

“Short,” is his only answer, and it’s all we are ever told – or need to know – about his backstory.

STATUS, FEAR and ROMANCE

Q: I am working on a script for a major film company in Sweden. The script is similar in many ways to the film NOTTING HILL. I have your DVD, Writing Romantic Comedies and Love Stories, where you describe the differences between Hollywood and British romantic comedies. My question is about that.

One of the differences, if I understand correctly, is that the British films are focused on social differences. My new script partner says this is what keeps the lovers together, not the hero's internal problems. He takes NOTTING HILL as an example. But for me, NOTTING HILL is also about William’s fear of daring to love again, which is not easy when she is the world's most famous film actress, and he is a normal guy from Portobello Road. So if William can’t get over his fear, he will never earn her love. He is too proud to go after her, but in the end he has to do just that. For me that’s a character arc.

The hero of our script is an ordinary guy from the country who is afraid that people will laugh at him. He is afraid to stand in the limelight because he doesn’t believe in himself. And the person he falls in love with is a princess – a woman whose life is 100 percent in the limelight. So it is both their social class and the hero’s inability to believe in himself that separates our characters.

So is it enough to only have the social class differences to create strong obstacles? Or should we always aim for a character arc in our story?

- Arvid Unsgaard, Screenwriter

A: You and your partner are both right, in a way. In NOTTING HILL, the social and status differences are what separate William and Anna externally – just as they are in Richard Curtis’ other scripts for BRIDGET JONES DIARY and FOUR WEDDINGS AND A FUNERAL. Such economic issues are also explored in different ways in THE FULL MONTY, in some of the episodes of LOVE, ACTUALLY, and in lots of other British romantic comedies.

But underneath these superficial differences are the real fears that prevent characters from finding the courage to love. This is true for all films, British and American. So Anna’s stardom increases William’s fear, and gives him an excuse to hold off, and later run away. And her fear of leaving the cocoon of her stardom, and of the public perception that will result from her being with him, keeps her from fully committing to him as well. And in the end, it is – as always – finding the courage to overcome these emotional fears that allows them to be together.

This works the same way in most Hollywood romantic comedies, where deception creates the lovers' major external obstacle. But that deception always grows out of the hero’s underlying emotional fear – and it’s ultimately that fear that separates the two lovers.

ANTECEDENTS

This month’s Question and Answer are taken from an interview I did with Leslie Sartor for 5 Scribes, the outstanding blog she created with four other writers. To read the full interview, go to the link at the end of this article.

Q: In Selling Your Story in 60 Seconds: The Guaranteed Way to Get Your Screenplay or Novel Read, as well as almost all of your lectures and DVDs, you emphasize the importance of identifying antecedents for your work. Why?

A: Antecedents are hugely helpful in several ways.

An antecedent isn’t a movie or a novel that has the same plot as yours; it’s a story in the same genre, which would be marketed in the same way to the same group of people. THE HANGOVER is a huge hit, but it isn’t a totally unique story. It’s genre, tone and targeted demographic are the same as 40-YEAR OLD VIRGIN and WEDDING CRASHERS. They all are R-rated comedies involving immature men who don’t want to grow up emotionally, and who get themselves into hilarious situations as a result.

That means if you’re pitching your own Judd Apatow-type comedy, and you can say your movie is in the same arena as KNOCKED UP or THE HANGOVER, the people you’re pitching to immediately know what kind of story it is. And since your antecedents were commercially successful, it means they’ll immediately start thinking that your script might be as well.

The same holds true if you have a smaller movie – let’s say a comedy that has rich characters or an ensemble feel – and you can say your script is in the same arena as JUNO or LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE. Again, the plot may have nothing to do with teen pregnancy or a child beauty pageant, but the marketing, the tone, the style, the kind of movie it is, is similar.

This principle applies to the book world as well. Naming other successful romance novels or mysteries or thrillers or sci-fi epics as antecedents greatly increases the chances of getting your own manuscript read. It’s the very reason that publishers of romance fiction have so many series books and separate genres and subgenres. Readers know if they buy a book in the Harlequin Historical series, for example, it’s going to have similar elements, and provide a similar emotional experience, to the other books in the series, even though each has a unique story.

Antecedents are also helpful to me as a consultant. When I coach writers on their novels or scripts, I always ask the same question – “What are the antecedents?” If I know which books or movies my clients see as similar to their own, I can use them as models to address the specific story principals that apply, and to point out weaknesses in their scripts or manuscripts.

When I lecture, I’ll often ask participants to name a couple movies or novels they could point to and say, “Because that story made money, mine will make money.” When they can’t think of a single successful model for the novel or screenplay they’re writing, then how successful are they likely to be at selling it?

Writers often balk at the question, saying, “I don’t want me story to be like any others…I want it to be original!” But Hollywood doesn’t produce movies that are completely unique and original. They make movies that fill a slot and a mentality that’s been successful in the past. So if you’re pitching a genre film – a romantic comedy, a broad comedy, a suspense thriller, a big action movie, a family film or a horror film, they will be more receptive to your idea than they will to a unique drama that defies categorization. And believe me, the publishing houses are looking at recent best sellers to choose their fall lists in the same way that the studios look at box office returns to pick their summer releases.

On the other hand, if your story is so familiar that it’s one more cookie cutter version of a police procedural or a horror film or a what-have-you, it’s not going to work either. You have to take the form that’s familiar for the genre and then you’ve got to bring something new to the party. There has to be something about your story that makes the reader or the person you’re pitching to say, “Wow, I’ve never heard anything quite like this before.” This is where your unique creativity comes to life.

The novel (and soon to be movie) The Lovely Bones takes a very familiar story type – a family coming to terms with tragedy – which we’ve seen or read in such widely different stories as Ordinary People, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and Sleepless in Seattle. But The Lovely Bones adds this twist: the story is narrated by the young daughter who was murdered, who is now looking down on her family from Heaven. The result is a brilliant, moving and heart wrenching story that is wonderfully unique.

That original element is what gets producers and publishers excited… once they know you’re working in a familiar arena that has commercial potential. And it’s the antecedents to your story that will convince them of that.

To read the full interview on 5 Scribes, plus lots of comments about it, please click here.

OVERCOMING PAST REJECTIONS

Q: My screenplay had some movement years ago when it was merely a pitch, but now that the script is complete, the players have changed. Back in 2001, I had interest from a manager, who has since left the company. I then got a call from the assistant to the head of a studio, saying they liked the scope of the project and wanted to see the completed script. I even had the interest of two major stars, and as a result, I was able to get representation by a top agent. But by the time the screenplay was finished, the studio head had retired, and the two agents had suddenly left the agency. After all of this, I'm starting over again because all of the players have changed. What do I tell them about all these failures when they ask about the history of the project?

-- G.O. Landa, Screenwriter

COMMERCIALITY

Q: Overall, I thought your comments about Anne Jordan’s opening scene were very helpful. (To read Anne’s scene and my comments click here). Thanks for letting us read them. If you'll allow it, I did take issue with a couple of your comments:

First, I've often read that most of the actor directions in spec scripts are not really for the actor, but the reader/producer or any other individual to whom you want to tell your story to in order to garner interest. So few of us get our stuff read by actors first that the directions are usually not for them. Everyone knows the actors will change things up but we spec
writers also frequently hear that the directions should be kept to a minimum but left in where they are necessary so a reader/producer gets the gist of the moment.

2nd, I think you overdid it in your critique of Anne's pages and underdid the positive stuff she wrote. She has a very interesting premise and one that could easily be leveraged into an amazing story. I think you should have said so. Instead, you end your comments with telling her that her concept is "nearly impossible to sell" and that it’s a steep uphill battle for anyone to get this material produced or even read. I would disagree. There are a myriad of examples of movies that many people thought would do poorly but ended up being cult favorites, box office smashes, and classic films. Writers write. And telling them that their stuff isn't going anywhere probably didn't bother Anne in the least. The smart writers know that regardless of what they write, or in what period their writing occurs, if its well written, well structured, and compelling, there is always a chance it will get made or be a script that will get a writer work.

Bottom-line, a short comment about how period pieces do not draw the same amount of attention as more mainstream works would have been sufficient. I think it came off a bit heavy-handed. My two cents worth. Thanks for letting me
comment.

- Christopher Weismantel, Screenwriter: Natural Sunlight

A:Christopher -

Thanks for your comments, and for showing so much interest in the Newsletter – it’s very gratifying. I have a couple responses:

With regard to parenthetical directions, you’re right; sometimes they do help clarify the speaker’s tone and intention. But most readers in Hollywood regard them as amateurish – believing that if the emotions of the speaker have to be explained, the dialogue must be weak, and the writer isn’t doing his job. And I’ve seen so many scripts that go so far overboard with parentheticals that it’s easier for me to just make a rule that writers shouldn’t do it at all.

I’ve never heard of a script getting rejected, or even criticized, for not having parenthetical directions. So like many formatting issues, it’s ultimately a matter of choice, and I lean toward removing any unnecessary elements that slow down the reading process or which can be distracting. In my book Writing Screenplays That Sell, I believe I say to include no more than 5 in an entire script. So use that as a guide, and you should be fine.

As for the commercial potential of Anne’s story, if you look again at my comments, I never said – nor would I ever say to any writer – that her script “wasn’t going anywhere.” But I’ll stand by my comments that its commercial potential should be of concern. Sure, there are examples of movies that got made – and on rare occasion were successful - in spite of not fitting into one of Hollywood’s commercial categories. But she should realize that the odds of that happening are heavily stacked against her, so she doesn’t commit years of her life to a story about which she may not be that passionate.

I repeatedly encounter screenplays where the writers have given almost no consideration to their stories’ commercial potential. They just assume that because they think it’s great, so will a studio or an agent. In the case of Anne’s opening scene, because of both the AIDS story line and the period setting, I think readers will have a very hard time getting their bosses to even look at her script. It’s better for Anne to face that possibility now, rather than to struggle through three more rewrites under the illusion that her story is commercial.

By the way, I heard from Anne after I sent out my critique, and she seemed very appreciative of the comments. She may still decide to move forward with the script, but if so, she’ll do so with both eyes wide open.

By the way, you seem to reject using #3 above, saying your idea about the woman marrying someone else in the church is “too boring.” But I certainly wouldn’t regard it as “classic” – I can’t recall any movie that does this – and it’s only boring if you write it that way. It might be overly contrived and incredible to have a bride marry someone else at the church on the spot, but if you can pull it off, it could actually be original and entertaining because it’s so extraordinary.

Just a thought. Pick whichever of these methods works best for your script. And please let us know what you decide.

A:Convenience and accuracy. Formatting can certainly be done in the way you describe, by setting your word processing program with the right margins, creating templates, and remembering to capitalize, indent and skip lines in all the right places. But programs like FINAL DRAFT (which I highly recommend, and which is the most widely used in Hollywood) save you all that work, make the process easier as you write, and make certain that the formatting is absolutely consistent with current industry standards.

You get a number of other bells and whistles as well: FINAL DRAFT also makes it easy to transfer files to others who have the same program (or even the free FINAL DRAFT READER); it enables you to lay out scenes by their headings and the first few lines; it can instantly number (or un-number) your scenes, or switch from submission to shooting script format; and there's probably other stuff I haven't used.

However, all this convenience does cost you about two hundred bucks (unless you - shameless plug - sign up for my weekend seminar or my master coaching program, in which case FINAL DRAFT is available for $99). So as with your finance program, your high-speed Internet access, your cell phone or even your computer itself, you have to decide if the greater efficiency is worth it to you. You pays your money and you takes your choice…

GETTING A RESPONSE TO YOUR QUERY LETTER

Q: I am having a ridiculous amount of trouble even getting an agent to review my script. I have sent about 125 query letters with no luck. Any suggestions on agents/agencies that might be looking for some new talent with a good romantic comedy?

A:If your query letters, faxes or emails aren’t persuading people to read your screenplay, it's because they're not written in a way to compel the recipient to say yes. In other words:

1. Your writing style isn’t clear, powerful, succinct and professional. You’re claiming to be a professional writer, but this is the only evidence they have of that. If you can’t compose a single, compelling page (their subconscious is telling them), how good could your entire script be?

2. Your description of the screenplay doesn't make it seem commercial. It can’t just sound interesting; it must be a story they think a studio or financier will want to buy, or at least that a major star will want to commit to.

3. You're writing the wrong person in the first place. You must target the specific producers and agents who are most appropriate to approach by researching those who have sold or produced romantic comedies recently.

4. You're not personalizing the letter by telling the recipient why you're contacting them in particular. Nobody wants to get a form letter, and they can tell immediately if you’re simply mass mailing your request to everyone in the Hollywood Creative Directory. Refer to the specific credit, referral or information (see #3 above) that led you directly to them.

5. You're not following up with a phone call. Many consultants and agents disagree with me on this, but I believe in being tenacious – phone the people you’ve targeted after you’ve approached them with the letter. If you can’t get through to the agents or producers you wrote to, turn their assistants into contacts. Ask if they’ll read your screenplay. If they do, and they like it, believe me, their bosses will hear about it.

Finally, if you're getting your script read, but no one is responding, it may be time to pull back and do a rewrite based on the comments you're getting. And always get feedback from as many of your personal contacts as you can before you began sending it to the people in power. You never want to submit a screenplay until it’s absolutely professional and ready to show.

DESCRIPTION

Q: How much detail should I give to clothing worn by the characters? I realize that clothes may tell us something about the character. However, my screenplay takes place in the 1700's. Is it my responsibility to describe the style of cloths worn during that period? -Bruce Purcell

Example:
KEN CROW, 52, medium build, handsome, dressed in a ruffled white silk shirt, brown jacket and dark pants, walks down the dock.

A:Like every question involving description, this is a matter of opinion and specific situation. Always remember that your primary objective is to elicit emotion in the reader. Too little (or no description) won't create a clear image of what we're seeing on the screen. Too much will bore the reader, who's eager for something to happen.

Physical description should convey the essence of a character - reveal deeper qualities that make this person distinct from all the other characters in the film. Good description can also contribute to identification with your hero, and even create anticipation of conflict.

So let's take your example. Since it's a period piece (and I'll resist asking why you think a movie set in the 18th century will have commercial appeal), you'll need some description at least to clarify the setting. But why is his medium build important? Is the fact that he's handsome (as every hero this side of the Elephant Man seems to be) important? What do the colors matter?

I'd be more interested in knowing if he's dressed elegantly or poorly. Are his clothes frayed because he's fallen on hard times, or does his attire convey a sense of snobbery, royalty or mystery? And is "walk" the best word you can come up with to convey how he moves?

Don't get carried away here, but if Ken Crow is your hero, you can do a lot more with this one little paragraph to get us to connect with him:

Example:
KEN CROW, his powerful frame draped in a frayed ruffled shirt and dirty brown pants, ignores the stares of PASSERSBY as he gazes mournfully towards the harbor.

Not exactly high art yet, but at least it's more vivid, and is beginning to go deeper into the character.

PLOT VS. CHARACTER

Q: When you’re helping a writer develop a story, do you focus more on character or plot?

A:I focus on everything that will give the story commercial potential while retaining the writer’s passion and vision for the story. Since both plot and character are essential, one can’t be made more important than the other, and neither can be neglected.

Q: Writers are often told that plot comes secondary to character development. Is that statement true or false and why?

A:False. Audiences go to movies to see what happens, not just to observe characters for two hours. The action must grow out of the characters’ motivations and conflicts, but without some goal to pursue, and some conflict standing in the way, you don’t have a movie.

Q: Actors want to play challenging roles, so screenwriters often focus a great deal on developing great characters, but neglect plot. How would you help a writer avoid this problem?

A:I’d focus on the characters’ DESIRES. Plot, and plot structure, are built on the hero’s desperate pursuit of some compelling desire(s). Character depth is revealed as the hero must find the courage to face the obstacles that stand in the way of achieving those goals – that’s how plot and character unite. (Click here to read my article on DESIRE and learn a lot more about this topic.)

Q: Plot points and paradigms and index cards and outlines often confuse writers and can also make stories flat, predictable and boring. What do you think of the rigid three-act structure and how closely do writers need to plan their story?

A:I disagree with the whole premise of this question. When movies as varied as Titanic, The School of Rock, American Beauty, Finding Nemo, Being John Malkovich, Gladiator, There’s Something About Mary, The Ring, and even a biography like A Beautiful Mind all not only adhere to the 3-act structure, but also contain the essential turning points within each act – all occurring at precisely the same points in the film – it’s pretty hard to argue that paradigms make movies boring and predictable. It’s not the three-act structure than makes stories flat, predictable and boring, it’s that the writer hasn’t added anything original or clever to that structure.

Q: When writers describe a story in a query letter it isn't about the character but the plot, yet agents and producers say they want to read stories with engaging characters. How can writers give agents and producers the best of both?

A: The purpose of a query letter is to get an agent to read the script - not to tell the story or describe the characters in depth. The letter should pinpoint the most compelling, and commercial, elements of the project and describe those in a succinct, powerful way. The character's wounds, fears, identity and inner conflict will be revealed when the agent or producer reads the script.

EVERYTHING I KNOW IN 100 WORDS OR LESS

Q: Can you describe some of the things writers need to think about in writing a salable story?

A:Since my entire career has been built on answering this question for writers and filmmakers, it's pretty hard to reduce it to a single answer. But the best advice that comes to mind to cover all situations is to suggest that writers ask themselves three questions about every screenplay they write:
1. What is each character desperate to achieve?
2. What makes that goal seem impossible?
3. What terrifies each character?
Writers willing to dig deep enough to answer these questions are well on their way to a commercial screenplay. For much, much more, refer to my book Writing Screenplays That Sell or my CD's Screenwriting for Hollywood or The Hero's 2 Journeys.

FRIENDSHIP vs. ROMANCE

Q: Can the romance character be someone who the hero loves, but not necessarily in a romantic way? Can the reward be the friendship of that character? - Lisa Cahill

A ROMANCE character (by my definition) is the object of the hero’s sexual or romantic desire only. This is the character the hero wants to win the love of, or get into bed with, by the end of the movie. This desire forms at least part of the hero’s Outer Motivation, and is what the audience is rooting for the hero to achieve.

Winning friendship just doesn’t have the same power. While friendship plays an important role in countless films, and forms the basis of the relationship with the REFLECTION character, I’m at a loss to think of any successful movie where the hero’s primary goal was to win someone’s friendship

As I discuss in great detail in my weekend seminars, sexual and romantic desire are among the primary methods of eliciting emotion in the mass audience. Falling in love vicariously, or simply getting turned on, are two of the main reasons people go the movies.

Love stories also provide one of the most powerful methods you have for developing inner conflict and character growth. As heroes are forced to reveal themselves and risk the vulnerability that comes with greater intimacy, they must find the courage to leave their protective identities.

Thanks to formatting expert David Trottier, author of The Screenwriter's Bible and Dr. Format Answers Your Questions, for providing the answers to the next two questions.

FORMATTING MENTAL IMAGES

Q: I guess I have another structure question. Say you're writing a scene where somebody is seeing something mentally (presumably the people with him or her wouldn't see whatever the image was).
You want the audience to see what the character is seeing as well, how would you write that?

For example: there was a recent TV movie that aired called, "Living With The Dead" with Ted Danson. In several scenes, (more so around the end) the main character sees visions in his head, but we the audience gets to see flashes of what he's seeing as well, like we're seeing his mental picture. How would that be written? Would you need a whole new scene heading for each mental image, even though we really haven't left the first scene? -Steve Garrison

A:Steve, let's assume the character's name is Jim. Just write what the audience sees, and label it clearly. You would format it just as you would a flashback or a dream, but instead of JIM'S DREAM or FLASHBACK as a heading (slug line), your heading would be JIM'S IMAGINATION or JIM'S VISION, or something similar to that. If he sees the woods at night, you might write:

And then describe what the audience sees. The main thing is to clearly communicate to the reader what is happening on the movie screen.

TELEPHONE CONVERSATIONS

Q: These Q&As are very helpful - Michael's answer about descriptions (see below) helped me realize I need to redo all of mine - what a missed opportunity they are at the moment!

I use a few telephone conversations with both sides shown and want them to flow just like a conversation. Can I avoid separate scene headings as I intercut between two speakers?

A:Absolutely. That's what the INTERCUT is for. Setup the location of both characters, and then write

PERIOD LANGUAGE

Q: My screenplay takes place in the past, how much do I have to educate the reader regarding technical elements, such as nautical terms? And do I use modern language, or dialogue as it was spoken during that time? -Bruce Purcell

A: It's hard to imagine anything worse than formal, obscure, two hundred and fifty year old dialogue and technical jargon. Write in present day language, but avoid slang that is obviously contemporary. Throw in a few terms for realism, even if the audience won't understand them, but worry more about emotion than accuracy. And study successful examples: Amadeus; Sense and Sensibility; Dangerous Liaisons - all are set centuries in the past, but the language soars.

FOREIGN LANGUAGES

Q: In my screenplay, there are scenes involving individuals who only speak in Spanish. Do I worry about the translation, or is this something I should avoid? -Bruce Purcell

A: Avoid it. When characters speak in a foreign language that will be subtitled, write it in English with (subtitled) written under the character's name but before his dialogue. If the dialogue isn't translated - in other words, the main characters won't understand what's being said - just say in the action that they hear the other characters speaking Spanish (or whatever). Don't write the untranslated Spanish as dialogue at all.

SCENE HEADINGS

Q: There's something I've never really been sure of. Say you're doing a scene in a house, and your characters come into the living room, so you write it:

Then they go into a family room and continue the action. Do you need to write:

or, since the INT was already there in the beginning of the scene, can you just say they entered the family room in the description? -Steve Garrison

A:I should probably begin by admitting I hate format questions, because not only isn't formatting creative or artistic, the rules aren't written in stone, and different writers use different techniques. So I'm never sure if I'm right, I run the risk of seeming ignorant or out of date, and I didn't create this web site just so I could look stupid.

If the camera follows the characters from room to room (or place to place if it's outdoors) in continuous time, with no breaks or jumps in the action and no edits in the film, just put a single scene heading defining the entire location:

If there's a cut from one room to the next, with a jump in time or a new camera shot, then it requires a new heading:

But again, underlying all rules of style and format is your cardinal rule: elicit emotion. If proper format dissipates the emotion because it's cumbersome, slows the reader down, or pulls the reader out of the world and story you've created, the you may occasionally bend the rules.

For examples of how to do this, look, as always, to screenplays for successful recent films in the genre you're writing.