Adventures in Script Meetings

Corporate shill.

I was recently hired by an ad agency to write a 22-minute television show –– an animated family story that takes place in Pre-Colonial Hawaii and involves a young prince and his pet chicken. (Imagine 'Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer' with a corporate agenda.)

Because my kids love stories (and because we were waiting for the pizza we ordered to be ready), I took them through the entire script. 

Walter the Chicken. The one the
character in the story is based on.

They sat, rapt, for the whole 22-minutes. I know this because when I was done, I quizzed them on what happened. I asked them to let me know if anything about the story didn’t make sense. Nope, they replied. Although it could have been clearer that the bad spirits turned into nice spirits at the end. 

Note taken.

Then I asked if they liked it.

“Loved it,” they both said.

But then there was a little hesitation from Dashiell, my seven-year-old.

“You know what, Dad?”

“What?”

“Maybe instead of a raft, it could be a rocket that goes into a black hole and that’s how he gets to the Dark Island.”

And just like that, I’m back in Hollywood, having a story meeting with a studio exec.

Brian Belefant is a director who also works as a writer, but is mostly looking for directing gigs these days and if you happen to need a director you could do a lot worse than hiring him. Try calling (503) 715 2852 or emailing belefant (at) me (dot) com.

How to write better than I do.

I just finished the first leg of my epic flight to Portugal and even though I got off to an inauspicious start, what with my flight being delayed for ten hours, so far things have actually been quite good. Mostly because I used the little extra time I had to find a good book and discovered a writer who creates the kind of imagery I wish I could.

The book is 'Pipsqueak' by Brian M. Wiprud. 

Here's a sentence from page 82, describing a room: "There was enough headroom to bone up on your model rocketry, though they'd opted to use the extra space to keep the velvet industry solvent via curtains billowing down from the apex to the floor."

Do you see what he did there? Not simile. Not metaphor. Description. Description with personality and a sense of humor. 

For that sentence alone, Brian M. Wiprud gets to hang out with Michael Chabon –– whose books are full of stuff like that –– preferably in my back yard, with me pouring wine and listening and I mean that as an open invitation to the both of them. 

Any time, guys. I'll be back from Portugal on the 2nd. 

Where do themes come from, anyway?

Remember my really smart friend Bill? He's the one going off on postmodernism and how striking a non-judgmental pose is what accounts for the dearth of good films.

I've been corresponding with him about themes and we've come to a bit of a disagreement.

First, a little background. Both Bill and I started our lives as writers. For what it's worth, I happen to think he's quite talented. And the feeling is reciprocated.

Bill's contention is that a theme is crafted from the very beginning. Or to quote a quote he quoted to me, "People want to read your point of view. Otherwise reading your (piece) has been a waste of time."

I'm not so sure. I mean, yeah, when you're writing an essay, you need to know what point you're making. But when it comes to fiction, you're telling a story first and foremost, teaching a lesson is way –– and I mean way –– secondary.

When I first write, I actually make an effort not to think about a theme. Something compels me to tell a story and I just go with it.

Once the first draft is complete, I read it over and several themes generally present themselves. The most poignant example of that was a screenplay I wrote about six years ago about a kid who's so good at hide and seek that nobody finds him for 20 years. It didn't occur to me while I was writing it, but the story came to me as a response to my circumstances. I had just discovered in a very sudden and spectacular way that I was an idiot for trusting my financial affairs to someone else, and the theme that emerged as dominant in the story was that sooner or later, we all have to act like grownups and take responsibility for our own lives.

When I rewrite, that's when I'm aware that I'm working with a particular theme or themes. A lot of times I find that my subconscious has presented imagery, story lines, and characters that support the theme, but once I'm aware that the theme is there, I can often sharpen its message.

As a director, there's no rewriting. If you don't shoot an image, you can't exactly rework your piece to include it. The story themes have to be present in the writing, but visual themes are often a matter of some Zen kind of hyper-awareness that makes you go, "I don't know why, but I think it would be a good idea to grab a shot of that."

I used to go in with a thematic intention, but as with my writing I've come to discover that doing so is actually counterproductive. If I'm looking for a particular image, I make myself blind to the opportunities that present themselves. It's a weird kind of trust that you have to have, but if I'm prepared in every other way, the universe provides.

Does that help?