Archive for September, 2009

There are several specific things that a Lackey (see previous article THE LACKEY, THE ASSISTANT, and THE BOSS) will do before they ever decide to actually pick up and read your script.  I call this THE SNIFF TEST, which I’ve described below as 5 basic filters or “sniffs” they perform either consciously or unconsciously.

SNIFF #1: She’ll look how thick the script is.  If it’s too thick, she’ll throw it away.  If it’s too thin, and the Lackey knows they’re not looking for shorts or sitcoms or pilots, she’ll throw it away.  (Take out the brads and recycle; whatever.)

SNIFF #2: If the thickness feels “just right,” The Lackey will then open up the last page to see how many pages long the script is.  In general, the longer the script, the higher the chance The Lackey will not read it.

SNIFF #3: If she’s made it this far, she’ll open up the first page and see how big the font is.  If it’s tiny, she’ll throw it away.  Why?  Too many words.  She didn’t apply to work at a talent and/or literary agency just so she could fuck up her eyesight on your sorry ass.   Conversely, if the words are too big, she’ll assume you’re a grandma, or a third-grader, or that you live in a cabin in the woods, and send explosives through the mail.  Proper-sized words and lots of white space between the lines boost your chances of getting read.  More about White Space later.

SNIFF #4: If your script has passed successful through all the previous filters, The Lackey will then settle in and actually read the first page, assuming she’s not getting buried by phone calls or more interested in updating her Facebook, or faxing sides to actors.  It’s at this point where your skill as a writer, or lack thereof, is finally able to communicate itself, for better or worse.

Congratulations, writerbuns!  You’ve made it past The Sniff Test.  But now the fun part’s just beginning!

Now you just have to make sure The Lackey gets past page 1 and turns the page to page 2.  And they have to do it willingly; eagerly; with zest and curiosity.

And then once you get them to page 2, you’ve got to get them onto page 3, again, of their own free will.

And then once you get them to turn eagerly to page 3, you only need to get them to turn the page to page 4.  And so on.  And so on.  And so on, until the end of your script at around 100-120 pages.

If at any point between page 1 and page 120 you fail to maintain this Lackey’s interest; this lowly secretary’s interest;  this bottom-of-the-barrel, minimum wage slave agent’s intern’s interest, they’ll put your script down.

And that means YOU FAIL.   Say it with me: “I AM A FAILURE.”

And that’s why The Lackeys hold the key to your script ever seeing the light of day.

Did you read that too fast?  Let me say it again:

The Lackeys hold the key to your script ever seeing the light of day.

If you’re a screenwriter, you already know the deck is stacked against you.  But my point is this:  I don’t think most writers understand how massively and profoundly stacked it really is.

Let’s imagine you’re lucky enough to get your script, somehow, onto the desk of the intern who’s job it is to open mail and sort it into piles.  And let’s imagine for one moment that we live in a world where interns or secretaries at agencies aren’t instructed to hurl into the recyling bin any unsolicited scripts that arrive via the mail, or which are dropped off in person.

Even I’m having difficulty picturing that kind of world, and I’m the one writing this.

But let’s just say your script arrives safely, doesn’t get thrown away, doesn’t get recycled, and actually makes it onto the desk of the intern or the agent’s secretary.

We’ll call this person, the intern or secretary, The Lackey. He’s the lowest on the totem pole.  He just started, either as a receptionist or an intern or a secretary.  He may even be called an assistant, but isn’t really.  He makes copies, answers the phone, opens the mail, and gets coffee.  At an agency, The Lackey’s job is to filter out calls that don’t need to get through to the Assistant.  At a production company, his job might include picking up The Boss’ dry cleaning, taking computers in for repair, buying office supplies, etc.  .  And if the term “Lackey” sounds derogatory, it’s meant to.  Everybody who’s ever worked as a Lackey knows exactly what I mean.  It’s not fun, it’s not glorious, and you are indeed someone’s Lackey.

Above him, is The Assistant. This is the person who’s the last filter before The Boss.  She’s worked as a Lackey, but has tolerated the bullshit long enough to earn the trust of The Boss.  The Assistant at an agency talks to, and pacifies, all of the clients whom the Agent (Boss) doesn’t have time for at that particular moment because The Boss is on the phone with 8 people trying to close a deal for one of and bring in money to keep the Agency or the production company profitable.

The Assistant shadows The Boss, fills in the gaps when The Lackey fails (and he fails a lot), and generally keeps the day-to-day, real-world operations running smoothly at an agency, production company, or studio.

And finally, above The Assistant,  is The Boss. The Boss is the prime mover and motivator.  She’s closing the deals, keeping her eyes on the prize, scouting or packaging talent, putting together deals, going to meetings, and bringing in the work and the paychecks for the company.  They’ve got a much more massive workload than any of us who aren’t Bosses can possibly comprehend.  In the film industry, these Bosses are the real players.  They’re the ones who make movies happen, if they’ve got a competent team of Assistants and Lackeys below them.

Now it’s got to get from that Lackey all the way across the room to The Assistant’s desk.  The assistant’s desk may be on another floor OR it may be 3 feet away.   Either way, The Lackey isn’t going to piss off The Assistant by slapping another script onto The Assistant’s desk.  The Assistant already has a pile of work to do.  She’s returning phone calls for the agent, accepting phone calls for the agent, talking to a client while the agent’s on the line with someone more important, scanning the morning breakdowns for roles they can submit their talent to, or shows or pilots to submit their writers to.

That Lackey figured out how to operate the phones two weeks ago.  (Because nobody with a modicum of intellect and ambition stays a Lackey for long.  And if they do, their job responsibilites end up looking more like those of Assistants anyhow.)

That Lackey, well he’s  been asking stupid question after stupid question of the Assistant ever since he was hired 3 weeks ago.

Questions like:  “Where are the bathrooms?”  “What time can I go to lunch?”  “Which folder do I put shared files in?”  “What’s the password to the server?”  “How come this copier won’t copy on both sides?”  “Why are you guys still using Filemaker Pro?” et cetera.

So here’s the Lackey’s mindset:  His main priority is to shed the “newbie” persona prove to people in that office that they’ve got what it takes. That means they’re going to bug the Assistant as infrequently as possible.  And that means they’re not going bug her just to put an unsolicited, unread, potentially terrible script on her desk.

But, for your sake, aspiring screenwriter of note, let’s imagine for a moment that that Lackey who’s received the script somehow, actually has a mandate to read what he or she likes.  They’ve been given the “authority” by the Boss or the Assistant to read whatever script they like, and to let the Boss or the Assistant know if they find anything great.

This is actually what a lot of savvy Bosses and Assistants do.  They don’t want to miss out on some miraculous new script that would be perfect for their company, or for one of their top actors or directors, so as a matter of policy, they encourage the Lackies to read whatever they like and let someone know if they find anything good.

Fair enough, writerboy or writergal.  So you’ve spent the last five years working on your spec screenplay.  After work, during class, on the job, on the bus, fending off screaming children at home, or pissing off your wife on vacation.  You’ve made it an obsession.  You’ve charted out the entire thing on index cards, pinned them to the wall, rearranged them, threw some away, added some new ones, threw those away, racked your brain for the right line of dialogue, spun in your chair until the perfect finish to your scene popped into your head, stared out the window at birds fucking each other as your writer’s block left you drooling and useless in front of Final Draft and your $400 e-Machine from Best Buy.

Kudos to you!  You’re special!  Because there’s probably only a trillion more like you across the country, around the world -  screenwriters who’ve finished a script.

Of course, I’m being sarcastic.  Because you’re not special, just because you’ve finished your script.   Having a stack of paper isn’t the hallmark of a great screenwriter.  Having a stack of paper is simply the hallmark of a person who can type.  Or a professional paperstacker.  Or a copy machine.

Anyone  can type a script.  And I mean anyone.   And that includes invalids, grandmas, cheerleaders, grocery clerks, stockbrokers… and you.  I see the proof every day, with every new script that comes across my desk.

“Not true!”  you say. ” It takes years to learn the craft of screenwriting! “  “It takes sweat, blood, and tears to write a script!” you say.   To which I say “Nay!”   The following is a scientific statistic, as immutable as Newton’s third law; as constant as the laws of physics, time, space, and thermodynamics, so brace yourself:

99.9% of all scripts are total, complete, insufferable, irredeemable garbage.  And my point is, as it only stands to reason, that since anyone can make garbage, then anyone must also be able to write screenplays.

But let’s say, for argument’s sake, you’re different.   You’ve actually written a good script.  And it’s honestly and objectively, by all measures possible, a good, solid script.  Categorically.  Great characters, great dialogue, great story, a fun read, etc.

All that doesn’t matter.  Whenever you send your script out to an agent, producer, or otherwise, that script sets out on a long, complicated and perilous journey, fraught with human emotions such as jealousy, insecurity, and apathy.  It may get read.  It may get liked.  It may get liked by people with famous names.

But it will never.  Never.  Never.

Never.

NEVER see the light of day, or get made into a film, or get you paid…

… unless it has a mindblowing hook.  What’s a mindblowing hook?  Tune in later and I’ll tell you.

OR what the speakers in the movie theater can’t convey.  That is, stay out of your characters’ heads.  Don’t write anything in the script that can’t be conveyed using an image on the screen and a sound from the speakers. And especially avoid describing what a character is specifically thinking.  If the script can’t convey what the character is thinking through the actions he makes or the words he says, don’t bother writing it.

For example, instead of this:

Tim climbs out of the burning apartment onto the fire escape.  He is thinking he needs to get to the roof as soon as possible.  He climbs up the ladder as fast as he can.

Write this:

Tim climbs out of the burning apartment onto the fire escape.  He grabs a ladder and starts climbing as fast as he can.