But making the reader’s job easier doesn’t guarantee you or your script a ranking of “consider” or “recommend”; it’s only the first step. The second important factor is ensuring your script stands out from all the others while also representing something Hollywood is actively in need of… . We covered this in detail in Chapter Two. Writing a gold-mine genre type is a very rare decision for a newbie writer, and these genres are very much in demand at the indie production and development level (meaning readers will have been briefed by development execs in advance to keep an open eye for such genres).
So, now that you know what genres work, you just need a breakdown of how to make your script easy on your reader’s eye, right? Unfortunately no. There is one other unspoken factor about readers you need to be aware of—they are overly sensitive and extremely picky. After reading script after script for weeks on end, readers develop a very finely-tuned set of observations about spec scripts that they use as their “pass-or-consider” barometer. We can consider these pet peeves, but in reality, it’s a list of occurrences readers have grown to absolutely hate when reading a new script, regardless of its genre, style, or story.
As already stated, readers are first looking for a reason to “pass” on your script… . Having a detailed list of what readers hate most in spec scripts is a pretty good way to know how to get your work past their desk.
Ten Things Readers Hate About Spec Scripts
In preparing for this chapter, I went directly to the source and interviewed several actively working readers. Sure, I wanted to get a real sense of what it is they looked for when reading scripts, but more importantly I wanted to learn what it was that triggered them to close a script midway through and rank it with a “pass.”
I found if I asked what they wanted to see in each script they picked up, I’d get the same old answers: “Good characters,” “good story,” and so on. But to get the juice, I asked each of them point blank: “What do you hate most about the scripts you read?”
That question alone got each interview into a very productive zone, which is exactly where I wanted them to be. (Oddly enough, each reader described almost the exact same list.) If a reader was on the fence about a script, or its writer, the following observations were the factors that would push a reader into the “pass” zone, which is exactly where we don’t want your script to be… . So, let’s go over each of the top ten things readers hate about new spec scripts:
#10:Scripts that are too long or too short—Readers are judging your script before they’ve even opened it. If they pick one up that’s too thick or too thin, their judgments about your writing capabilities are already in motion. With the “1 script page = 1 minute on screen” rule of thumb, your script needs to be in the zone of an average film’s running time. However, movies are getting shorter, not longer. The old parameters surrounding the 120-page target (with your Act II commencing on page 30, and Act III on page 90) are gone. Now, a 90-minute movie is passable all by itself—sometimes a bit shorter is fine. In the sales and distribution contracts I negotiate, narrative feature films are usually defined as having a minimum running time of 86 minutes (with credits). So for safety, your script needs to be in the mid-90s to be acceptable to a reader. The ideal minimum number of pages is 95—this allows a reader to feel it’s a shorter (and faster-reading) script, while also giving them the confidence that it has enough content that, even with a few cuts, it will still meet minimum running times. On the length side, 120 pages today is way too long. If your script is going to break 100 pages, then keep it at a maximum of 109 pages tops. Once you break that 110 number, you have psychologically scared your reader before they’ve even opened your script. They’ll look extra hard for reasons early on to say no just so they don’t have to read that behemoth. Aim for a range of 95 to 109 pages—no more, no less.
#9: Scripts with confusing character names—There are generally three problems for readers when it comes to character names: Names that are overly “deep,” multiple names starting with the same letter (or that look the same), and names that are just too difficult to quickly read. It’s fun when there’s a bit of thought put behind the names you give your characters, but there’s no need to create some overly elaborate concept in the process. At the end of the day, simplicity always trumps complexity, so the names you give your characters should be no different. Think about the people you know in your daily life, the bulk of them have pretty common names. The differences are usually more subtle nuances (such as Character A comes from Texas while Character B comes from New York); it’s generally the backstory of a character that dictates their name rather than their role within the story. And when you consider many of the films you watch, we barely know the actual names of our characters (unless there’s a reason for us to know). If you really fall in love with your own creativity about a deep-meaning character name, and then force another character to speak that name, this falls into the realm of forced dialogue and reads awkwardly. This doesn’t mean the names you give your characters can’t have some subtle context or meaning to them, but don’t hammer us over the head. And regarding character names that begin with the same letter, this principle doesn’t mean you have to choose a different letter for each character you introduce—just make sure each name is easily differentiated when glanced a)… . Good example: Using JOE and JIM on the same page of dialogue can be confusing to the tired eyes of a reader, but JOE and JOHNATHAN are easily differentiated by length.
#8: Scripts that can’t keep their facts straight—This one is a bit more challenging and open-ended, yet it covers a wide variety of annoyances that readers mentioned. One example would be a writer’s misrepresentation of history—not just textbook historical information, but simple historical elements related to the story (using incorrect dates, lacking an understanding of chronology, or confusing how one story event leads to the next). You’d be shocked how many scripts present a character one way, then 180 everything last minute (there’s few real-world examples to pull from since they never make it to production). Take time to truly map out not only your story, but how each sequence of events shapes then next. If your story involves references to the past, make sure you have a clear list of dates when each of the events supposedly took place. A second example would be a lack of continuity within a story’s framework (which can range from time-lags, like when teenagers can clearly outrun the “walking” Jason Voorhees from the Friday the 13th movies, yet he’s always able to get ahead of them, or the full understanding of how one event truly dictates the direction of the story while eliminating other options or opportunities, for example by forcing a character to make a decision because it’s right for the plot, but doesn’t make sense for their character). Think of it like this: If a character injures his or her hand early in the script, that hand must stay injured (until enough time has passed for it to heal)! If a character picks up a gun and is carrying it, then that character must be carrying that gun until her or she puts it down (or uses it). And if a character makes a major decision, make sure it’s the right decision for the character, not just the plot. As one reader pointed out, “If you don’t care enough about your own script to keep the facts within it straight, how can you expect others to?”
#7: Scripts with mixed genres—Readers voiced very negative opinions about writers attempting to mix genres instead of just picking one and sticking to it. A large number of newbie writers try to stand out (or show off) by taking two unrelated genres and forcing them to work together. Writing a story that blends multiple genres is a very difficult skill to master, even for a veteran screenwriter. Without a great deal of expertise, most mixed-genre spec scripts read as choppy, sporadically shifting gears between genres from one scene to the next (or even worse, within the same scene). But even for those newbie writers who do choose only one genre for their script, they still commonly come up short because they don’t fully adhere to their genre’s expectations—they try to invigorate the genre by adding unexpected elements which they falsely
believe is showcasing a unique twist without realizing it makes their work appear weak. The gold-mine genre types are a great way to stay focused and keep your story filtered with one clear-cut genre—each outlined in Chapter Two, including character and theme. Don’t be tempted to bend the rules or step outside of the box on this front. Your genre keeps you grounded and establishes the rules you need to play by; there are plenty of other ways to make your story and characters stand out—mixing genres just adds too many variables toward disaster. “It’s okay if there’s a touch of this or that to spice it up,” said one of my readers, “just as long as there’s one clear genre we’re using as our foundation.” Pick a genre (ideally a gold-mine genre type), embrace it and marry yourself to it!
#6: Scripts that don’t get to the point!— Readers approached this irritant in a variety of ways, but their end message was the same: They couldn’t stand thumb-twiddling (or casual page filler) of any kind. Watch any TV program or film you respect (meaning one you believe is well-written) and you’ll notice that characters drop many of our real-world formalities: They rarely say “goodbye” when hanging up a phone, there’s rarely any “how’s the family?” chit-chat upon entering a room. They cut these “fills” and simply jump right into what’s important. Film editors call this “cutting on action” and you can do the same with your spec script. From page one, every word of your script must only serve the purpose of propelling your story forward, toward its natural resolution (not just toward its appropriate page count). But there’s more than just making sure your scenes are starting on action and resolving when the important plot points have been covered, you as a writer also need to ensure you’re getting to the point with your descriptions. Some books refer to this as keeping as much white space on the page as possible (especially since readers cringe when they see dense blocks of descriptive language). You’d be surprised how many 100-word paragraphs of text can be cut down to fewer than 15 words. Your job as a writer is not to dictate things like camera angles (cut out the “CUs” and “POVs”—you’re not the director, you’re the writer), nor actor directions (such as ‘sighs’ or ‘pauses,’ those decisions don’t belong to you). Stick to what’s important: Where the scene is taking place, which cast members are in the scene, and what props or elements are absolutely necessary to progress your story forward. Keep cutting and cutting (and cutting) until losing one more word would make the story fall apart. Not only will the large amount of white space make a reader appreciate your to-the-point writing style, it will also make your script read much faster (which will keep a reader reading your script). Too many words slows them down and makes your story drag, causing your reader to lose focus. Make sure you cut out, condense, and combine as many words as possible so that your script feels like a fast and effortless read. (This point is also your best way to gain more traction in the “consider” or “recommend” column on your writing talent, even if you script is passed upon.)
#5: Scripts with no hook —There’s no magic or hidden meaning to the classic Hollywood phrase: “Give me the same thing, only different.” Agents, producers, and development execs will always claim they want something new and original, but in reality, they’re looking for these six gold-mine genre types, only redelivered with a twist. The common word is “fresh” (e.g., “Make it fresh,” or “Bring something fresh to the table”). But a better way to explain what readers and their employers are really looking for is what we call a “hook.” Although readers are trained to seek out gold-mine genre types (and are therefore more forgiving of their clichés), there are still limitations to boredom and predictability—especially if yours happens to be the last script of the day. A “hook,” by contrast, is that special “it” factor… . That element that leaps from the page as that perfect add-on or twist. It makes a boring carbon-copy spec script submission suddenly exciting or interesting (and it makes a reader accept minor clichés and continue reading). Good example: Snakes on a Plane (2006)… . Rumor has it Samuel L. Jackson agreed to star in Snakes based on the title alone. Snakes on a Plane is by no means a good film… . But it has a very simple hook. It’s a creature feature (about snakes) in an isolated environment (on a plane). That’s it… . Gold-mine genre type #4 with a hook. It’s the same old creature feature, but delivered in a fresh and compelling way. Going back to Alien, it too is a creature feature (about an alien) in an isolated environment (on a distant space ship). Alien is “Jaws in Space” and for its time, it too was the same thing, only different. You don’t have to reinvent the wheel here (and you certainly shouldn’t try!), but do understand that if your script is going toe-to-toe with nine other family Christmas dog adventures, they’re all going to blur together in the mind of a tired reader… . What little twist can you add that makes yours stand out? It can be as simple as placing your setting somewhere unexpected (Christmas in Miami Beach). Or performing a role reversal, as was done in a secret favorite film of mine, Bring It On (2000)… . It’s gold-mine genre type #3, the family-safe tween romance, only our confused and uncertain heroine already is the most popular girl in school (which, as it turns out, doesn’t actually make her high school experience any better). The mistake most newbie writers make when trying to add a hook or an edge to their spec script is to first attempt to poorly blend genres (which is why the seventh most common thing readers hate in spec scripts is forced-together genres). Take the extra time when plotting out your story, consider the common trends and patterns you find in the competition, then find one aspect that you can pluck out and add your own personal spin to… . Even just a small amount of effort goes a long way with those tired, bored readers.
#4: Scripts that lack a consistent point of view—All of my readers mentioned that the majority of spec scripts they read had a main character—who was clearly the focus—but that the story wasn’t experienced through them. (This I found very interesting and unexpected). The audience must experience your story through one consistent lens… . This is usually from the perspective of the main character, but that doesn’t mean your protagonist needs to be present in every scene. I’ll pull a fun example from a studio-level movie we’ve all seen just to illustrate: Ferris Bueller’s Day Off (1986)—even though many scenes and sequences of the film take place without the character of Ferris Bueller (Matthew Broderick) present, the events are still filtered through our experience of his day off… . Picture all the scenes with the two garage flunkies taking the Ferrari for a joyride (even though Ferris is unaware of this action, it will be a problem he must later deal with), or the ruthless determination of Principal Rooney (Jeffery Jones) to catch Ferris (again, all build up to Ferris’s overall story and experience). “I need to know whose point of view I’m supposed to experience this journey through,” said one of my readers. “I don’t have to necessarily identify with them, but I need to understand their perspective to grasp the overall context.” Regardless of which gold-mine genre you choose or however you shape its main character, the world your reader needs to experience must be the world according to the perspective of your main character. Again, scenes (and sequences) can take place without the presence of your protagonist, but you must ensure we’re only experiencing such moments because of how they will affect your hero later on.
#3:Scripts with poor structure—To my surprise, most readers admitted that a script’s structure was slightly more important than its story—keyword: slightly! The story is critically important, no question about that; but the story’s structure of events—and the decisions your characters make as a result (commonly referred to as “beats”) that make one event logically flow to the next—is really the glue that keeps it all together. For my readers, a strong story delivered through a poorly structured script was just too distracting for most of them to overlook. Remember, readers are conditioned to use superficial mistakes as a way of judging a writer’s experience… . An artistic decision from your perspective might not read that way on the other side. From the reader’s perspective, writers that followed the strict guideline
s of their genre’s structure came off as writers in control of their craft—leading readers to evaluate them in the coverage as more professional and more talented. A development executive also weighed in on this point, explaining that by the time a script is delivered to a production company, it’s simply seen by everyone in an “as is” kind of way. Therefore, any changes or edits suggested by the team tend to be ones based on what’s already written on the pages before them (meaning suggestions are mostly about dialogue, description, or other surface-level changes). A strongly structured script with clichéd dialogue is just a polish job, easy to fix in one or two rounds. But taking apart a poorly structured script and reassembling it from scratch is much more labor intensive, and there’s no guarantee the time investment is even worth the effort. So, even for upper-echelon members of the production team, a solid structure was much more telling of a writer’s talents and abilities than just story alone. This plays heavily into the way Hollywood hedges itself against risk; people like to boast how they want to be a part of something groundbreaking and unique, but at the end of the day, they’re completely dependent upon proven structures for guidance… . If you show them your mastery over structure, they’re much more likely to consider your work. The three best books I’ve found that offer strong (and applicable) insight into how to structure your script are: Blake Snyder’s Save the Cat: The Last Screenwriting Book You’ll Ever Need (2005), Syd Field’s groundbreaking Screenplay: The Foundations of Screenwriting (1979), and Raymond G. Frensham’s Teach Yourself Screenwriting (1997).
Writing for the Green Light Page 10
