“Unless there’s coverage,” said Rick. “Then you can just skim that.”
They all saw my disapproval. I was sick that they were willing to appear so callous in front of me. Maybe it was the beer or that they outnumbered me.
“I see you shaking your head,” said Mike, “but believe me. If you had my job? You’d find ways to thin the herd.”
“My biggest tell a script is crap before I read it?” continued Carey. “The binding.”
“Definitely the binding,” said Rick.
“Like what kind of binding?” I asked.
“Anything that’s not three brass brads in three-hole punch paper,” said Carey.
“So the spiral kind?” I asked.
“The worst!” said Carey.
“Total amateur move,” said Rick.
Whoa. Wait. Stop the bus.
Not too long ago, before scripts were emailed as .pdfs and downloaded (legally and otherwise) to executives’ iPads and Kindles, writers were responsible for making copies and distributing the result of all their hard efforts. Ergo, the script. Thus, the evolution of so many copy stores tucked into SoCal strip malls between the nearby 7-Eleven and Vietnamese nail salon. Each copy shop had a variety of services—including binding. The cheapest, of course, was three-brass brads poked through pre-punched holes in the margin. More deluxe options—not to mention pricier—were spiral or plastic coil bindings, tape bindings, and velo bindings. Each was neater and, in my opinion, looked very pro. But for a broke-ass scribbler like myself, the cheapest choice meant that I might be able to dine out on a Whopper that week.
“So what you’re saying,” I said, incredulous as hell, “Is that if I hadn’t been broke as a joke back when I was starting out, you wouldn’t have even read my stuff?”
“Probably not,” said Rick. “Truth hurts. But it’s real.”
I found myself crushed for all the poor word jockeys with dreams of a movie career who weren’t getting their scripts read because of this ridiculous profiling by agents and their ilk. It was my opinion that if a writer had slaved over a script for days, weeks, even years, it deserved to get read by somebody with a enough sway or good sense to give it a thumbs up or down.
Then I did the math. Tens of thousands of screenplays are logged into the WGA database every year. And those are just the ones that are registered. There are even more sprouting up like opium poppies in Afghanistan. And with the proliferation of the World Wide Web, easily accessible writing software, how-to-books, and stories of one-script wonders who squirt a hundred plus pages of yuks through their word processors, at
tach Jonah Hill and find themselves having penned a go movie, more and more and more writers and wannabes are flooding into a market that is short on quality readers and longer on odds.
To get through all those scripts—most of which they know will be God awful—an agent or buyer or producer must construct some sort of threshold for a screenplay to clear in order to warrant a pair of bleeding eyeballs. Arbitrary though these red flags may appear, they are not entirely without merit considering the numbers game in which they are engaged.
So all you showbiz wannabes, listen up and pay attention. Ask questions. Check out what sells and why in order to avoid amateur pitfalls. And do what you can to understand the gatekeepers and their potential prejudices against your work. I’m not suggesting you morph yourself into the artist they want to hire. I’m only suggesting you make sure to wrap yourself in a professional bow before catapulting over the wall.
With Extreme Caution
Can’t even tell you how many times I’ve been asked something like this:
“So how does it work? Somebody gives you the idea or do you get the movie idea yourself? Does it begin with the studio or the star or does like your agent give you like a book or something?”
“All of the above,” I usually answer.
But for this post, I’d like to focus on the work of others. The fully developed and copyrighted stories written by other word jockeys.
No. I’m not talking about rewrites here. That’s a whole ’nother bag of cats. I’m talking about books. From comics to nonfiction to novels. Part of the screenwriter’s box of tools is the art and craft of adaptation. We’ve all read that manuscript or hardcover or dog-eared paperback. You know the kind that screams to be a motion picture. The words practically spring off the page as if in search of the nearest movie screen. This happens all the time to me. And it’s often followed by a phone call or email to my agent or attorney. Who owns it? Are the rights still in play? And why is Steve Zaillian or Scott Frank already attached? Damn those guys and their unrepentant talent.
Then again, every so often, the movie rights remain unsold. The property is somehow available. I’ve had countless writers contact me in search of advice on how to handle approaching the author or their reps, how best to lock down the ip or intellectual property. What’s the best way to proceed?
One word. Cautiously. Cautiously as hell actually. Follow.
This tale begins with a general meeting with a young producer who, at the time, was working as the chief development executive for a brand name mega-mogul. He told me of a book that had just come on the market. A thriller. At first blush, I liked the concept. Was willing to give it a read when the exec gave me a bit of a warning.
“Let’s not rush in,” he said. “My boss hasn’t made an offer yet. Don’t want to waste your time if I can’t get him on board with the book.”
I understood. I appreciated the caveat and heard nothing more about the project until maybe a year later. That young producer had left his weekly paycheck for the risk and reward of life as an independent producer in search of a studio deal. He asked me to lunch and somewhere between the iced tea and chopped cobb salad he brought up the aforementioned novel. As it turned out, the property rights were still available. Was I still interested?
My first concern was why the book hadn’t sold to Hollywood. As a general rule, hopping aboard a project that had already made the rounds and been soundly rejected was not the best recipe for future success. On the other hand, great and successful films were sometimes built from humbler beginnings. And often the missing element required to push a bunch of nothing into a motion picture was little more than somebody who believed.
Somebody like me.
I read the novel and instantly saw why it hadn’t sold. It painted a large international canvas that was currently out of step with the current movie studio zeitgeist. I imagined a more manageable narrative that wouldn’t feel the need to globetrot. Fewer characters. And winding neatly around the core, a forbidden love story.
If the producer and I could somehow procure the rights, there’d be one of two ways to proceed. We could bring the book to prospective buyers then pitch out our vision for it. Or I could find a work window, adapt the story just as I envisioned it and put both the script and book on the market for auction.
My first choice was the latter. I’m usually more confident when my writing can do the talking.
Then came that sexy thing called kismet. As it happened, the book’s writer and I were both repped by the same three-letter agency; the author by a Hobbit-of-an-agent with whom I’d met a time or two before. In a matter of days, word came back that the author would gladly provide us with a free option that would allow us to bundle the script and the book, and then package it with a star and/or director. More kismet. Packaging was the agency’s specialty.
Skip forward a few months. The screenplay was complete and already getting positive sniffs from talent reps within the agency. And just when I was thinking how nice it was when a plan comes together, I get a phone call from my lawyer, Alan Wertheimer.
“We have a problem,” Werth said.
“What kind of problem?” I innocently asked.
“With the spec you just wrote.” Then he corrected himself. “Not so much the script but the rights to the novel.”
The following afternoon, I was seated in my agent’s modern office. My lawye
r and one of his younger, associate partners were present. As were two more attorneys representing the three-letter agency. Also present were the young producer and the Hobbit-like agent who represented the book’s author, both of whom (as happenstance would provide) were also lawyers.
“You know what?” I asked, leaning into my agent. “If somebody threw a grenade in here and shut the door…”
“Nobody would miss us,” finished my agent.
The problem at hand was laid out: the three-letter agency, which prided itself in the ability to package intellectual properties with screenwriters and stars, had previously assured the producer, my lawyer, and myself that the book rights had indeed cleared and a deal memo was in place.
Note: a deal memo is a communication between industry attorneys and an artist’s representative essentially agreeing to the principal elements in a contract such as compensation, deadlines, etc. Deal memos are necessary because by the time showbiz lawyers negotiate the details of a contract, not to mention write, revise, and get ink on actual tree-giving paper, the project is often already sprinting down the yellow brick road to success, failure, or development oblivion.
In the case at hand, despite the deal memo, the rights hadn’t ever been fully cleared with the book’s authors.
“Authors?” I asked, emphasis on the plural. “As in more than one?”
“Yes,” said the Hobbit-agent.
“But there’s only one name on the book,” I argued.
“The author had a partner that nobody knew about?” asked the producer.
“No,” said the Hobbit-agent. “I knew.”
“And the rights hadn’t been cleared by this silent author?” continued my lawyer.
“Exactly,” said the Hobbit-agent.
“Wait, wait,” I said, getting aggravated. “This whole thing was vetted. Everybody was onboard. Checked and double-checked before I got the green light to go to spec.”
My agent nodded. So did everybody else in the room but for the Hobbit-agent.
“Okay,” said my lawyer. “Everybody was supposed to do their job. My client gets the go-ahead by you to spend Lord knows how many weeks drafting a script. Only someone decided not to run that little factoid by both intellectual property owners.”
All eyes were on the Hobbit-agent. He shifted his little body inside his tailored Hugo Boss suit.
“That’s correct,” said the Hobbit-agent.
“Why?” asked my lawyer.
“How was I to know?” shrugged the Hobbit-agent. “How was I to know the script was gonna turn out to be so good?”
Yeah. Coulda heard a pin drop. The air was sucked out of the room. It was a vacuum in space. All the silent clichés rolled into one sour sucking moment. Werth was the first to put a pin to the gassy balloon.
“That may be the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard anybody say,” said Werth. It wasn’t hyperbole. He has a knack for cutting directly to the marrow of an issue whether one wanted to hear it or not.
“Okay!” shouted the Hobbit-agent in his first act of defense. “I fucked up.”
“Understatement of glacial proportions,” said the angry producer.
Now, the trick in a circumstance like the one I’ve just described is to move forward. There’s no point in trying to get the toothpaste back into the tube. Though that didn’t keep me from fantasizing about picking the little prick up and busting out the third-story Beverly Hills window with his pointy skull.
The dust settled and the situation was such that the authors, who suddenly claimed to be unaware that I
was freely adapting their work (which had already been slipped it to a few A-List movie stars), wanted legal guarantees of untold millions were the book to be sold and produced into a movie. A preposterous sum no studio would ever consider. In an effort to save the screenplay I’d slaved over for months, we tried to find some reasonable solution with the rights. The situation was made far worse when the angry authors summarily fired the Hobbit-agent.
In the end, there was little I could do but cry and drain a bottle of scotch. Though I wanted to fire the agency, I was talked out of it, settling instead for the promise that the Hobbit-agent would never, ever have his greasy fingers in my business.
As you might expect, since then I’ve been more than a little circumspect about working on projects with underlying ip’s. And it’s amazing what a little detective work can uncover. I’ve discovered unmentioned, invisible producers with ironclad legal claws still attached, wga-protected screenwriters who’ve already legally adapted the work, and even double-secret underlying rights to the underlying rights.
You’d think agents would want to do their homework. Unfortunately, they’re often going on little more information than they pass along to their clients. And because their liability has (so far) been limited, it’s incumbent on the writer to get the facts.
Is their a moral to this story? Yeah. Lock up the rights or the rights may lock up you.
There’s No Business Like No Business
I’ve told this story before. And I remind myself of it from time to time when I start getting precious about rules and unions and ceremony that get me absolutely nowhere. Still, the tale never ceases to cause a bit of acrimony and disagreement. So buckle up.
On one of my movies, there was a scene that wasn’t quite landing for the Big Kahuna star. The picture was still in prep, just two weeks before jumping off the fated cliff that was our start date. Film was going to roll and time would instantly turn from precious to priceless.
The scene was a two-hander. The star was set to perform it with a semi-experienced character actor budgeted and cast for two days’ work. I suggested that maybe the star and the character actor get together for a couple hours of relaxed discussion and rehearsal. Nothing like a little off-camera scene work to unplug whatever might be stuck in the dramatic pipes.
“Great idea,” said the Big Kahuna. “Make it happen, will ya?”
I called the production’s Unit Production Manager for the actor’s telephone number.
“Whoa,” said the upm. “sag says we gotta pay for rehearsal days. And there ain’t no money for this.”
I went on to explain the situation. The scene. The star. The nature of needing to release some creative play on my two troubled pages of script. It was a problem that required a creative resolution.
“Listen,” said the upm. “If you, the star, and this day player wanna get together on your own time to work on the scene, then good on you all. But it didn’t happen outta this office. I don’t need sag up my ass.”
Understood. So I got the day player’s digits from the casting director and promptly dialed. I recall he practically picked up on the first ring. I introduced myself as the current writer of the film. After a brief explanation of my need to freely rehearse the scene in order to ferret out whatever speed bumps were still vexing the star, the actor seemed quite amenable. Still, he wanted to consult his manager first.
“I understand,” I said. “But your manager is going to call the production office and he’s going to find out that the picture can’t and won’t pay for this little journey. We’re a little out of bounds here.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “I gotcha. Still gotta call my man, you know?”
“You got my number,” I said. “So call me back.”
Twenty minutes later my phone rang. Yes, it was my new day player friend.
“Talked to my manager and no can do, man,” said the actor. “I’m a professional. And I gotta be paid for my time.”
“Just a coupla hours,” I said. “That’s it. And we’ll make it work for you. You, me, and the movie star up at the Mulholland house. Beers and laughs. C’mon.”
“My manager says no.”
“Of course he says no. How’s he gonna slice his fifteen percent outta nothing? But this isn’t going to happen unless you and me and the Big Kahuna do it on our own. No money for rehearsal. They’re seriously looking for more stuff to cut every day.”
More discussion followed. I tried not to play salesman as much as fairly state my case that the scene needed his help. Eventually, the ice began to melt.
“Okay,” said the day player. “I get you. And I’m with you.”
“Great,” I said. “And thanks.”
“But lemme call my manager back. ’Splain it to him. Then I’m good.”
“Okay,” I said, sucking air between my teeth. But since the day player was again going to call his manager, I wasn’t holding my breath for a quick call back. And sometimes I hate being right.
Fast-forward to two hours later. My phone finally rang.
“Look man,” said the actor, “Acting is my living. It’s my job. You understand that, right?”
“I do,”
“And as much as I wanna help, I gotta get paid.”
“How many days you booked for?” I asked.
“Two,” said the actor.
“That’s two days you’re going to get paid for.”
“Manager says I gotta get paid to rehearse.”
“Understood. But here’s a question. I explained to you that the Big Kahuna is having issues with the scene, right?”
“Yeah, you did.”
“Well, here’s the danger. If he continues having issues with the scene—and considering the cuts they’ve been making to the budget—your two days could get cut to one.”
“Ah, man,” said the day player. “Don’t do that to me.”
“Not doing anything to you, pal. That’s the world we live in. I have a scene that for some reason my movie star doesn’t feel comfortable with. I want the scene in the movie. I need the scene in the movie. It’s a scene that, if it works, will be good for the movie and will also be good for you. It’s just you and the big-assed movie star. Two pages.”
“Big Kahuna gettin’ paid?”
“For the movie. Rehearsal or not.”
“You gettin’ paid?”
“Actually, no. But that’s another story I don’t feel like discussing.”
The Smoking Gun Page 7
