Scriptwriter
What the hell.
This should be interesting.
I can’t just refer to what is taking over my life as a short film for ever.
It’s got a name: To’ona’i, a short film about a couple of siblings who try to deal with the loss of their older brother.
A month from now, I’ll laugh and maybe even tear up about this time. For the moment, all I can feel is the pain.
With a week to go before the short film starts shooting, pre-production proper commences tomorrow, and I’m already quite freaked out by the pre-pre-production I’ve been fumbling through these past couple of weeks. And it’s official: my choking dreams started last night, and I expect them to continue until the beast that is production is faced down and danced with.
In the meantime, I’m ducking out of my a New Zealand scriptwriter sharing duties this week with a piece I tried to tease some magazine writing gigs with. Enjoy. Or avoid.
Car Shopping with Vern
My friend Vern1 spent a year dreading – if not downright avoiding – having to drive his 1991 Bluebird import. Each six-monthly warrant of fitness seemed to dredge up more and more expensive repairs, not to mention the coolant leak that always disappeared before a visit to the mechanic. He braced himself for some car shopping, and I2 offered to provide (limited) technical advice and moral support.
Criteria was drawn up. Vern is one of Auckland’s handful of hardy and faithful public transport users, so his new car would be driven mostly in the city and surrounds, with maybe the odd spot of highway cruising. He’s a big guy so a hatchback was out of the question – it had to be a sedan, though a coupe might be considered, with an engine size of between 1.6- and 2.0-litres.
Despite having driven an automatic for the past decade, he was keen to return to a manual transmission. He’d learnt to drive in a manual once upon a time – “‘S like riding a bike, innit?” he asked me. I nodded, about to qualify my answer when some bright shiny thing caught his attention and our conversation moved on.
The hunt began on the internet. Websites were bookmarked. Favourite searches were saved. Picture-laden webpages were printed.
Vern had two-and-a-half weeks of holiday. He wanted to have a new car within the first week so he could spend the rest of his break cruisin’. And so, armed with print-outs of candidates and the ability to pay cash, we hit the car yards.
At the first yard, he was cornered and double-teamed by the salesman and his ‘manager’. “Vern – look at me,” the pompadoured John Rowles-lookalike drawled. “What would it take to get you behind the wheel of that magnificent ’96 Peugeot 206?”
Vern pinched his nose. “It’s a bit out of my price range -.”
“How much have you got to spend, Vern?”
Vern blabbed before I could stop him.
The ‘manager’ – whom I’d spotted washing cars out front – pursed his lips and furrowed his brow majestically. “For you, Vern, I can cut my commission to the bone.” He scribbled on a piece of paper and handed it to Vern. “The Pug’ll be all yours for this much.” When Vern started nodding in serious consideration of the offer, I snatched it out of his hand and saw the figure.
I faked a prior appointment and dragged him away. I’d have preferred to have flicked a fire alarm (too far away) or physically attacked the salesmen (the Goddess would’ve made me feel Very Bad), but it was the best I could think up at the time.
Vern’s a sensitive soul. I always try to keep that in mind. Once we were out of earshot of the yard, I turned to him: “Are you out of your freaking mind?”
“I was only thinking it over.”
“You were nodding.”
“I was?”
Oh yes, he was. I also told him not to give the salespeople any ammunition – like how much money he had to spend, and launched into how, like in “Sin City”, used car salesmen are like hitmen – you could do anything you like to them and not feel guilty. He nodded, chastened, and we moved on.
After a couple of other yards, he test drove a 2001 Mazda Familia that had the engine sounding like it was in the backseat, and a 1999 Citroen coupe that impressed him (“This drives like a dream!” Vern enthused as his compressed bulk gingerly worked the controls).
A 2003 New Zealand-new Nissan Pulsar greeted us at another yard and we set about going for a test-drive. Vern got behind the wheel and froze at the sight of the manual gear knob.
“Could you drive?” he asked sheepishly. “It’s been a while and,” he glanced at the sales office, “I don’t want to bunny-hop out of here.” I stifled a groan as I got out of the car and stomped towards the office.
Much as Vern would’ve liked to have bought a car – sometimes it felt like ‘any car’, as well – on that first day, I had to counsel caution.
It took three days and almost a dozen test-drives – three of them manuals I had to drive myself – before Vern decided on a 2001 Hyundai Elantra manual. Despite coaching on being coy about how much he thought his Bluebird would be worth as a trade-in, he virtually gifted it as a favour to the salesman.
“So you like the Hyundai, eh Vern?” beamed the salesman.
“Excuse us just a minute,” I smiled through gritted teeth.
Vern started babbling about how it was his car and his money but I cut him off: “It’s a manual.”
“I know.”
Besides a brief toe-curling episode in an empty car park, he had not driven it. “Just because I said it drove well, doesn’t mean that I’m the arbiter of test-drives.”
“I know.”
This was too easy. “You are not – I repeat not – gonna put this on me if you change your mind about this car.”
“I won’t.”
I made him say it back to me. I wished I had a tape recorder.
Vern arranged for an independent on-yard vehicle test while we lunched at a local greasy spoon. The report came back positive. And Vern bought himself a new car.
As I drove the Elantra off the lot, Vern said, “I don’t know how I’m gonna be with a manual.”
“What d’you mean? You said it’d be like riding a bike.”
“Well, yeah. It’s just that… I haven’t driven a manual in over twenty years.”
“Twenty years?” The Hyundai’s acoustic absorbence left a lot to be desired.
“And I’d only driven for a couple of months before I wrote my car off.” He looked at me. “You wouldn’t mind helping me re-learn how to drive a manual, would you?”
2 – A royal ‘I’: my love and apologies to The Goddess who was actively involved in the process but was written out in this dramatisation.
Earlier in the week I attended Playmarket‘s 2008 Pasifika Playwrights Development Forum. Fellow BREAK survivor and newly appointed Playmarket development coordinator, Jenni Heka, was responsible for my attendance: she’s scary.
In my experience, Pasifika* gatherings have been the last place to have a good time. I’ve felt out of place at them, like I’ve gatecrashed someone’s birthday party. Most have been a combination of boring gabfest, bitch sessions, and/or a mob hysteria where one had to choose sides or get the hell out.
Not so this week. It wasn’t once boring. Instead of “woe is me” rants, we had fire and passion – where outsiders might’ve seen some rabble-rousing radicalism, I saw empowerment by example and vision. And everyone – everyone – was so freaking nice. There was an atmosphere of collegiality, of a common goal of telling Pasifika stories. A feeling of community.
I hadn’t expected to be so inspired: seeing my competition fellow Pasifika creatives making things happen; swapping numbers and email addresses; making contact. Future posts will explore the culture scene thingie (obviously, I’m still sorting it out in my head) but for now I’ll just name drop:
So many names that I recognised, whose work I’d seen and adored. And I got to meet them! For real! It was so cool!
I must get out more.
* Note for international readers: in New Zealand, Pasifika means of Pacific Island origin, ie., not Maori. Here in New Zild, the Maori and Pacific Island population are already such a part of the Kiwi culture that to call them ethnic minorities, though statistically correct, would be like describing African Americans as an ethnic minority. We all be Kiwis here.
In much earlier days, I queried Real Writers for help and advice. Most did not deign to reply. Of the very few who did, the initial response would be polite but curt. I thought it was something I’d said in my initial query, no matter how many hours I’d slaved over its every word. I took pains to acknowledge the time they took to write me.
I think I know now why those initial responses were curt. From the email-boxes at dfmamea.com:
Day One
Hello
I am Keen-As Filmmaker and I am looking for someone to help finish off my short film script. The script has been writtin but has reached its final stages in the Pre-Production Development.
I would like an experienced writer to help me finish it off and get it into Concept Development and eventually into the Storyboard Process. I would like you to help me make this script as professional as possible.
To end this e-mail. I hope that you can see the raw passion I have for film and this creative medium we all love so much. Please see my Showreel and I look forward to your reply.
Day Two
hi Keen-As
thanks for your email. it sounds like i can be of help.
please can you forward your script and then we can talk. what sort of payment do you have in mind?
look forward to hearing from you.
Day Three
Hello
I am very greatful for your reply.
I have attatched the script to the e-mail. Would you like payment for helping me finish the script? Its 6 pages. I look forward to discussing this with you.
Day Four
hi Keen-As
thanks for the script. i have some questions.
– in one sentence, what is Kick-Ass Shortie about?
– what is the overriding theme of Kick-Ass Shortie?
– (a bit of a silly one this, but have to ask) is the script you sent me the complete script, or a partial script? if it’s incomplete, please provide a synopsis of what happens next.
lots more questions down the track but obviously you’ll need to decide who you want to be your writer.
and yes, i would like payment if you’d like me to help out. how much were you thinking? what sort of contract do you have to offer?
if you want to talk, please feel free to call me.
Haven’t heard a winkle since from Keen-As.
It’s not the rejection that gets me – it happens all the time. (Okay, most of the time.) It’s the lack of courtesy. Yes: please and thank-you are magic words.
As are, Thanks for your interest but we’ve gone with someone else.
After a week of jitters, it is done.
In the end, I pitched to six out of eleven producers and commissioners. Of the five that I didn’t sit down with, two were no-shows to begin with, two left before I started working my way around them (there were two rounds, as it were, and I was in the second round), and one left thinking she’d finished (or survived – understandable considering she’d just sat through twenty-plus two-minute* pitches without a break).
For me, the best thing was experiencing firsthand most of what I’d read or heard. It’s one thing to know in a theoretical sense, Don’t take it personally if they’re sitting there poker-faced, but it’s another to sit opposite someone and fight the urge to babble about your project just because they’re not leaping out of their seat, kissing you on both cheeks, and declaring the beginning of a beautiful relationship.
The most useful sit-downs were where a conversation took place. Once the logline, plot description and themes were out of the way – what else did they want to know? The remaining ninety seconds were filled up by a Q & A where I showed off the depth of my knowledge**. Whether they could do anything with the project or not was almost beside the point. It was pretty cool to talk about a project as if it had real possibilities, rather than as just An idea I’ve got for a show….
Did I like it? Yes – I rather enjoyed it actually. Even if you get an ignorant and short-sighted producer, it’s good to realise in the rush of blood to the head, I disagree with your noises of disrespect – my mistake for pitching a drama to a reality-programme maker.
Would I do it again? Yes. I have survived the gauntlet that is DateNight. Bring it on.
* Short two producers, Mr Gannaway tried to ease the load by cutting the pitching time down from three to two minutes.
** Except for when I was asked what target audience I had in mind. No matter how often you’re told and read that you need only write for yourself and don’t worry about the market – that’s what the producer worries about, you will be asked what target audience you have in mind for your project.
D minus 7 days
It’s about a jive-talking skateboard and a laidback surfboard.
D minus 5 days
It’s about a jive-talking skateboard and a laidback surfboard.
What if... a skateboard and a surfboard became friends?
D minus 4 days
It’s about a jive-talking skateboard and a laidback surfboard.
What if… a skateboard and a surfboard became friends?
Meet Sammy J and Johnny T – ‘boards for hire.
D minus 2 days
D minus 1 day
Picture this: Sammy J and Johnny T are cruising the streets....
A pitch is where you, a writer, a person used to working long hours all by yourself, a person usually socially awkward with bizarre idiosyncrasies, a person who chose writing for a living because you can’t express yourself in words, a person who is the furthest and farthest thing from any type of salesperson, must now sell your idea.
– Murderati
Never have a meeting. Always have a conversation.
Tim Clague (emphasis added)
Less than a week to go until DateNight 1.1, and the familiar tendrils of fear and self-loathing plait my intestines.
I’ve searched my archives for articles and posts on pitching. Recommended reading: from the US, Kay Reindl and Murderati; from the UK, Danny Stack and Tim Clague.
I’ve drafted leave-behinds. Single-page distillations of the project*, not only do they succinctly describe the project (‘It’s a situational comedy about a jive-talking skateboard’), they’ll be a crutch for whatever I end up blathering (‘Did he just say it’d contain coarse lang- whoa!‘), and will quite handily include my contact details.
I’m practicing smiling. I’ve been told that I come across as rather serious and unsmiling. I’m looking to strike a balance between confidence and humility (‘Yeh, shucks – I so rock’) that won’t unnerve people.
Which leaves the spiel. An interesting observation: instead of writing to be read, I have to write to be heard. And as with dialogue writing, it’s not just content I have to worry about (the leave-behind is a big help there), I need to ensure that I provide sufficient motivation:
PRODUCER
... A jive-talking skateboard.
ME
Called Samuel L Jackson.
PRODUCER
Called -.
Producer can only blink rapidly, momentarily struck dumb.
ME
And his sidekick, a laid-back surfboard. Called John Travolta.
The Producer leans forward:
PRODUCER
(leans forward)
Tell me more.
* Despite my complaints about synopsising, those hateful little documents have been quite helpful.
Prrretty busy this week.
Yay, we’ve been back home a week, back in our own beds, eating the kinda food we usually eat. And even though I’m long overdue to explain how/why The Boy and I hobbled Amit in a friendly game of front lawn-cricket (he did it to himself) (he did) (and then we made him dinner), instead I offer some scriptwriting-related distractions:
The Writers Guild, along with the directors’ guild and the producers association, are putting on Date Night 1.1 Auckland (1830, Thursday, 21 February at the Classic): ‘a speed-dating-format networking opportunity for writers and directors to pitch to producers’.
I missed out on DateNight 1.0 last year but I was okay with that (a large portion of that being relief from avoiding the stress and pressure). So when I got the email last week, I made a snap-decision and quickly replied with a count me in before I gave it too much thought and chickened out.
But now that my registration has been confirmed, I’m burning with questions like what have I done? and ua a la ‘ia?*
Self-pity aside, a rather pressing question is so, what do I have to do?. A synopsis is bad enough. But pitching?
Some research, I believe, is in order.
I may be some time.
* Ua a la ‘ia? – Samoan, loosely translated as ‘what did you expect?’; peculiar to Samoans, it is a character-building parental response to a child in tears, whether it was their fault or not.
