Save the Cat! Strikes Back: More Trouble For... Read online

  Trouble is good.

  If you breeze through your script or through your career with-out trouble, you are doing something wrong. If you are looking at trouble as a dead end instead of a learning opportunity, like some horrible curse you have to remove – instead of the gift that it is— you will never know the joys of real victory.

  Every script has to have a “dark night of the script.”

  Every career, too.

  And the fact is it's only when we hit bottom, in a script or in life, that we really prove who we are. When we decide to not give up but strike back, and do so smartly, there is a clear-headed resolve that gives us a new outlook and new determination that not only solves the problem, but also makes us the steely pros we need to be. And it gives us the experience that we can one day pass on to others who find themselves in a similar circumstance.

  This book is all about that challenge. The challenge we accept from the first time we raise our hand and say “I'm a writer” (which I did at age 10 at Camp Lorr and still can't really explain why), and all the challenges along the way that are the turning points in our careers and in our characters.

  It is my hope that at the end of reading this book, you, too, will look on trouble as anything but a bad thing. You will welcome “hitting the wall,” “taking it as far as you can,” “being all typed out,” “having no new ideas,” and all the other lame-ass excuses you've either heard writers give or given yourself.

  That's over.

  Trouble?

  I laugh at trouble!

  Ha, ha.

  See?

  And soon you'll laugh at trouble, too.

  No, it's not you. It's not your talent. It's not your inability to “get it” or your “not being cut out for this racket.”

  It's nothing more than writing problems that need to get fixed.

  If you're ready to stop your whining—boohoo! I know Aunt Fern, yeah, yeah — and get on with it, I'd like to quote my friend Bill Fishman's movie Tapeheads, starring John Cusack and Tim Robbins, and what may be the greatest line ever written:

  “Let's get into trouble, baby!”

  That is more than our motto. That is our battle cry.

  So get ready to face trouble like a pro.

  And get ready… to strike back!

  chapter 1

  WOW! WHAT

  A BAD IDEA!

  Blake's First Blog/December 9, 2005

  “By helping you win, I win too. We all do. And that is the only way to become not only a better writer, but to make the world a better place.”

  I thought I had a winner.

  My book, Save the Cat!, had just come out. I was doing a lot of radio and magazine interviews. And my words of wisdom for screenwriters were catching on. So when a very nice reporter from National Public Radio asked if I was working on a screenplay, I told her that I was, but when pressed to say something about it, I kept mum. I'd just gotten through telling her the key thing to do if a screenwriter has an idea is to pitch it, to get reaction.

  And yet here I was: a clam.

  To be honest, I felt my incredible idea was so incredible I feared someone listening to NPR might steal it. What was worse, I was just about to start writing this work of genius and I didn't want to disrupt my creative moojoo. I had broken another cardinal rule I tell writers about: I was going to forgo all that “working out the beats stuff.” I'd decided I was going to write “Fade In,” jump on my steed, and head for the high country. And why not? I was not only a veteran screenwriter with multiple sales under my belt, I was the author of a how-to book on the subject!

  A best-selling author, I might add.

  You're probably ahead of me: My script never got off the ground. After stalling my manager with promises I was working on “the one,” I agreed to share my idea before I started writing, and it's funny, because as soon as the words formed on my lips — the moment my thoughts took shape there in the ether above our heads — I knew I was in trouble.

  The logline for my can't-miss, perfect movie?

  TWINKLE – Bereft by the death of his wife, Santa Claus has 48 hours to go to New York City, find love, and save Xmas.

  Don't say it!

  Everyone else did.

  Did I know, asked my manager, that Tim Allen already did Santa Clause 2? The right way! Did I see any problem starting my nice family film with Mrs. Claus, one of the most beloved figures in all of literature, lying dead in a snowy graveyard up at the North Pole? And what, pray tell, were we going to do about the fact Santa Claus is a jolly, 600-year-old fat man? “Oh that's easy,” I said. “He can go through a magic machine that will turn him into Tom Hanks for 48 hours. That way he can fall in love with someone like Annette Bening. I have it all worked out!”

  “And when Tom turns back into Santa Claus at the end? Will Annette get turned into a jolly, 600-year-old fat woman?”

  My manager and I just kind of stared at each other.

  “Great title though,” I said to break the chill.

  What no one was saying was suddenly clear:

  Wow! What a bad idea!

  I bring this up not to tell on myself, or even to judge what's good or bad, but to identify the indicating psychological features attached to the creation, and nurturing, of a stinker. Something about the whole process was suspicious, but there were indicators I chose to ignore — it turns out, to my peril.

  The Seven Warning Signs I Might Have a Bad Idea:

  ► Fear of telling anyone about it

  ► Fear it might be stolen (by NPR listeners, no less)

  ► Fear that saying it out loud might spoil the “magic”

  ► Fear that if I don't write it fast, I'll lose it

  ► Lack of basic logic points — which I ignore!

  ► Lots of great “scenes,” but no story

  ► Not researching to see if someone already did this

  I had committed every one.

  Yes, some day, in some way, Santa may get lucky. But for now, Twinkle is in my drawer. And that's part of the moral of the story, too: Twinkle might have been saved. It could have gotten worked out. But by keeping it to myself, by not involving others in my “process” like I usually do, by demonstrating gobs of hubris about my skills as a storyteller, I wrecked it.

  And you do this, too. How do I know?

  Because you're a writer….

  “And I dig that about you!”

  Did I commit hari-kari when I learned my idea was a non-starter? Did I cry? Stamp my foot? Throw a hissy fit?

  Of course.

  But when it was over I did what I always do with ideas that are yet to… gel. I went to Staples to buy more yellow pads, and started from the top.

  That's also what we steely pros do.

  We put a nice raw steak on that black eye, and we try again.

  FADE IN: A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT

  Getting through the exquisite pain of whether or not we have a good idea for a movie begins by being able to state that idea. I may not have had a sale in Twinkle (Jeesh, what was I thinking?), but when it came time to confess, I at least knew how to tell the tale to my manager. After years of working as a screenwriter, and knowing what lights up the eyes of my agents and others, I had condensed my story into a form that anyone could understand.

  That can't be said of every writer.

  Pro, amateur, or in between, we scribes find amazing ways to mislead ourselves and slip the surly bonds of practicality.

  One of the inspirations for writing Save the Cat! was a visit to a friend of mine, a successful Disney writer with many sales and assignments to his credit. I had just stopped by to say “hi” and catch up, and then made the mistake of asking: “Watcha working on?”, whereupon he excitedly said those two horrible words no one in or out of the business ever wants to hear:

  “Sit down!”

  I sat.

  “Fade in,” he began. “A dark and stormy night…” (I'm not kidding.) And 20 minutes later, he was still pitching. Scene followed tortured scen
e, and yes the story was logical — to a point. But the reason he couldn't tell me what his story was about was the fact that he didn't have a story. He too had tricked himself into thinking he didn't need to take the first step and get permission from a listener who “got it.”

  He'd said: “It's different this time. This is special.”

  Whether it's an idea we cling to that doesn't work, or scene after scene that we spill out onto the page, we are forever falling in love with ourselves, and our inspiration. I call it The Smell of the Rain on the Road at Dawn, that flash of scent, sight, and sound that makes us think we're onto something — and we might well be! It's the very best reason to be a writer, to find meaning where others don't, to see things the rest of the world can't. It charges our lives with a sense of the divine. It tells us that, yes, in fact we are special — we are at least especially sensitive. But unless we can figure out a way to forge that gossamer into something that makes sense to others…

  We are the only ones who will ever know.

  All I know is when my pal put that stinker away in his drawer, after writing about 50 pages of it, he called me up to complain: “Why didn't you stop me?” I will give him this: At least he had a lot more pages than I had, which is nice.

  But together we were still 0 for 2.

  And 0 for 2 is the kind of trouble I want to avoid.

  THE PITCH VS. THE LOGLINE

  How do we get our ideas across? The answer is simple: pithily. From the initial inspiration in our brain, from that first moment we sit up in bed and say “I got it!” and scramble to find a pen and try to get down what “it” is, we are looking for a way to shape that flash of brilliance into a sentence or two.

  And we must!

  You will get many different opinions on this, but there are two ways to describe the movie idea in our imaginations. One is to come up with a pitch; the second is to formalize that pitch into a logline. What's the difference? Well, here's my take:

  The “pitch” to me is the most sales-y way to say it.

  It is the most concise, easiest-to-see, fastest-to-be-able-to-tell version that still captures the crux of what it is.

  Yes, pitches are hard, but essential.

  For want of a better term, the pitch is best seen as the elevator pitch, so called because when I get into an elevator with Jerry Bruck-heimer, producer of Pirates of the Caribbean and CSI, and Jerry says: “Hey Blake, watcha working on?” I don't want to have to pull the EMERGENCY STOP and say to poor Jerry:

  “Fade in! A dark and stormy night!”

  You have two, maybe three, floors to make an impression.

  There you are. And there's Jerry. So say something!

  And make it short and sweet.

  One of my best pitches is for a movie I sold in 2006 called Granny. It sold primarily because my co-writer, David Stephens, and I delivered on the premise, but the pitch can't be denied. And though it took time to hone it down to this, it never fails. So if I ever find myself in an elevator with Jerry Bruckheimer and he asks about my latest film, I won't hesitate, I'll say:

  “ Granny is a PG-13 horror movie. It's about a senior serial killer who kills teenagers who violate the rules of etiquette. And here's the poster line, Jerry: Granny. She's off her rocker.”

  DING!

  Jerry may not like that movie. I doubt it's one he would make, or even be interested in seeing. But he knows what it is.

  And he found out in two floors.

  In truth, there is no elevator, no mythic moment where it's just you and a higher-up who can change your life with 30 seconds worth of… “You're on!” But pitching is an important skill. Because at some point an audience must also be lured into seeing Granny, and has about the same time to figure out what it is. So the fact I can tell Jerry is good. It means Jerry can tell you…

  Eventually.

  As indicated, the rule on the pitch is: It's the fastest way to say it. As far as I'm concerned, anything is fair game. The best pitches include a title that tells us everything we need to know — talk about the fewest number of words! But check out:

  The 40-Year-Old Virgin

  Snakes on a Plane

  Legally Blonde

  Jaws

  Each of these titles pretty much says it.

  And saying it fast, grabbing us in a primal way, being a good communicator, is what you want to accomplish — for doing this work up front helps everything else that follows.

  I still think it's even fair game to say: “It's reverse Big,” the pitch that I heard from writer Robert Henny for a movie he called Pee-Wee, which he went on to option. I also think “It's Fargo in the Southwest” helps explain the 2007 Best Picture No Country for Old Men, because the title really doesn't.

  If this feels too “sales-y” to you, too Hollywood, too artificial for your sensibilities, I hear ya, brother! But I look at it more like a service, and that takes the sting out. Part of communication is the simple idea of putting yourself in the place of the person who isn't in your head, who doesn't get The Smell of the Rain on the Road at Dawn. That's just good manners.

  And you know how I feel about good manners.

  The “logline” is the next step up, and it's a different mindset completely. This is the formal one-or-two sentence sketch that tells us, in brief, what the story is. You may be lured by the pitch for Granny when you hear it, but does it say enough?

  Well, that's why we need the logline.

  Granny is really about Amber, a 16-year-old high school girl whose mother has just died. Her widowed father has his own troubles, her asthmatic brother his, and the girls at her school are putting pressure on Amber to go over to the dark side of sex and drugs. So when a woman claiming to be her mom's estranged mother appears at her door… Amber lets the crazy lady in.

  What's the logline that says all that?

  GRANNY – Saddened by her mother's death, a lonely teen must confront a woman claiming to be her grandmother, whose strict rules lead to a psychotic murder spree.

  From this simple sentence an entire plot springs forth. A hero we are rooting for, an implied “transformation” she will undergo in the course of this adventure, irony galore, and a life-or-death conflict are inherent in this mini-story.

  And I said it all in one line.

  I flirt with you with my pitch for Granny, and eventually I must deliver the goods, both in the logline and in the script. But it is from this little acorn, which takes time to work out, that a glorious oak of a movie blooms. Often the pitch is easier — and easily misleading — and that's why we must nail the logline, too — a process that leads to its own trouble…

  TOO PLAIN, TOO COMPLICATED, AND HIDING THE BALL

  We've all had that flash of joy, that OMG! when a great concept falls into our laps from the sky. It's like finding money in the street. But eventually we have to take a moment.

  And calmly, patiently, claim it.

  I put my email address into both my books and on my website www.blakesnyder.com for that very purpose. And I get a lot of loglines. It's the I-Found-Money-in-the-Street-Can-I-Keep-It? Hotline. It's like the Antiques Roadshow series on TV where people bring things they discovered in their attics to an expert and he tells them if what they have is a cute little chotchke best left dusty, or a treasure that belongs in the Smithsonian.

  I get chills when a story grabs me. Even the ones that don't can be inspiring. Oddly, these tend to fall into three categories. They are either: Too Plain, Too Complicated, or my favorite… Hiding the Ball.

  As proof, these three slightly reconstituted (but not much) loglines I received via email show what I mean:

  QUICKIE – An up-and-coming banker, engaged to his boss's daughter, goes on a stag weekend in Las Vegas, and in a drunken haze marries a penniless waitress.

  PARTLY CLOUDY – A bored TV weatherman signs up for reverse 911 emergency notification service — and trouble — when it begins to micromanage all aspects of his life.

  DARK STREETS – A veteran detective is on the tr
ail of a serial killer whose identity challenges the detective's belief in the law — and the supernatural.

  Let's start with the fact that I'm proud of all three of these writers. They have done the job, and I applaud them. There are stories here and they've “said it” succinctly. Each gave us:

  ► a type of protagonist

  ► a type of antagonist

  ► a conflict and…

  ► an open-ended question (what will happen?)

  Not only are the form, information, and rhythm of these sentences right on, they're each kinda close to grabbing me. They even hit on the other key needs of a good logline:

  ► irony

  ► a mental picture that blooms in our minds

  ► a sense of audience and cost, and…

  ► a title that “says what it is”

  Yet each of these, in different ways, falls short. You probably get that sense, too, but remember The Smell of the Rain on the Road at Dawn? These writers are right in the thick of it, road dust filling their nostrils, the sun just breaking on the horizon. So let's see if we can help them see it from our POV.

  The first logline is a great example of what I mean when an idea is “too plain.” Quickie is comedic and we get what's going on. But that's about all we get. Yes, there is a situation. Yes, it has possibilities. But there is an overwhelming urge on my part when I hear it to say: “So what?” What about this logline is unique? What about it is compelling me to run, not walk, to my local Octoplex?

  And if you say, well, it will be different when you read the script… no. Scarily enough, whenever I read scripts that come from these loglines, it's more often than not the same experience. Since it all starts with the idea, if your logline is too plain, odds are your script will be, too. Yes, there's a story here, and yes, it has the prerequisites of drama, but it's kind of dull. This is especially apparent with Quickie in light of The Hangover, in which marrying the wrong girl is just one of six problems faced by the best men who have lost the groom in Vegas.