Excuse the typing, I am nursing an injury and so am one handed. Bloody hard!

Feedback is in and makes intriguing reading. I canvassed two directors, a writer, an actress and a producer (one director I am yet to hear from but he is currently pulling 16 hour days so I’ll let it slide). The first interesting thing is the way that their feedback plays to their area; the director has not just provided notes (mostly visually based) but has sent me an annotated script, the producer provided some marketing advice, the actress spoke to character and the writer had comprehensive opinions on where the story should go.

So where am I? Well, on the face of it, I’ve done all right, all offered suggestions but 3 out of 4 loved the script; they loved the idea, they thought it was funny, well told and with strong characters (mostly). And their criticisms were good too; Director pointed out that the initial meeting between lead boy and girl did not work. I was concerned about this, it’s never worked, I’ve re-written it five times and it still doesn’t. But director knew why! It’s pretty obvious now she’s pointed it out and, joy of joys, it’s an easy fix.  Actress pointed to an unecessary scene; it’s been there since the start and I had got used to it, but she’s right. Producer noted a character in need of developement, and again, it had been troubling me, she has confirmed the problem. This is just the sort of feedback you dream of; broadly optimistic (even eulogistic) but with useful advice on how to improve, t make a good script better.

The writer, I think it’s safe to say, didn’t like it. Not that he wa without useful insight, again he has confirmed worries I had so they need attention. There’s also some stuff I just flat out think he’s wrong about so that I’ll just ignore. But the basic story he feels is wrong. On the one hand this is worrying but on the other there’s nothing I’m going to do about it. As I have said in this blog m,ore times than I can count; you can only write your own story. Whatever else this script is, it is the story I want to tell and I will live and die by it. It may be that the writer is right; that my story will appeal less to an agent than his. But my writing of his take on the story will never work, because I don’t want to write it, it’s not my story, and you can’t write welll for a story you don’t want to tell. Time may prove that my story is of no interest to anyone (although 75% of feedback in it’s favour is not to be sniffed at).

Not that writer’s feedback is worthless. It’s important to consider every angle. As it happens I had already considered and rejected the take on the idea that my writer proposed, it didn’t speak to me the same way. You have to consider these things, you have to know and accept that even if you write the best story in the world, not everyone will like it; Irving Thalberg (greatest producer ever) rejected Goen with the Wind.

I will plough on with my vision and make the changes that I agree with in the feedback i recieved. Is it scary? Of course it is. I’m going against the opinion of someone I respect tremendously, and there’s no reason to suppose that agents won’t agree with him. On the other hand I going along with 3 other people who’s opinions I also respect and for all I know agents might agree with them. In William Goldman’s ecellent book ‘Adventures in the Screen trade’ he faces a similar situation with a short film which all the people he sent it to loved ecept director george roy hill. I can’t do better than to quote him ‘…when someone very smart gives you the benefit of his wisdom, you better listen. Hill was alone in much of what he felt. but that doesn’t make him wrong. And if the others had agreed in part or in whole with his insights, that wouyldn’t necessarily make me wrong. but it just may.’

Or to put it another way; who the hell knows? To my mind the only thing you can do is serve your own vision as best you can. This is the only time in the film-making process that one person is in charge; enjoy it. Also, to paraphrase Meatloaf; 3 out of 4 ain’t bad. And my other directopr could still make it 4 out of 5.

I’m now a week behind where I would want to be on The Infernal Comedy and it has to be said that this is not my fault. It’s not nice to berate people who take time to give you feedback on a script but damn it’s tempting! And frankly, if they make the offer, they should probably stick to it.

The fact is that I desperately want to get back to the script, I’ve recieved the bulk of the feedback and there are things to do, but I know that if I start work and make changes then the rest of the feedback (when I get it) will contradict what I’ve done and make some really good points as to why. Feedback is important, it’s not just something that’s done for show, it needs to be read, assessed and digested. So far that which I have got back has all included important points that need addressing. So I’ll wait. It’s just one more week and it’s not like I’m on a deadline.

And that’s important to remember. I initially wanted to finish the script last September, but the planning of the third act took longer than I thought, job-hunting made it difficult and job getting made it impossible. So you adjust your timetable. You absolutely don’t rush things so you can finish by a deadline that was purely arbitrary in the first place. There are very few advantages to being a writer with no agent, production company, backer or audience, with no one waiting to see your work, but the one advantage there is, is time. If your career is successful then this may be the only point of it at which you get to work on something without someone breathing down the back of your neck and asking why it’s taking so long. And that’s good, because never at any point in your career will a script be judged as harshly, or as cursorily. You’ll get one read (probably of the first ten or so pages) if it doesn’t grab then that’s it; you had your chance. This is the time to produce crafted work, take your time and get it right. You can’t fix it during shooting or tailor it for a specific actor cos if you don’t get right now it won’t get to that stage.

Of course I’m not the one taking his time, someone else is and I’m stuck waiting for them. But when they finally pull their finger out and get on with it (and as you may be able to guess my patience is rapidly diminishing) then I will not hurry to finish the next draft by the end of March as planned. I’ll take a breath, and do it right.

In theory at least.

I am planning to embark on the final draft of my film script, The Infernal Comedy, on the 1st of March, having absorbed and considered all the feedback I have recieved. There are two problems with this plan.

Firstly, and perhaps predictably, even though I checked to make sure that my critics were happy to help and had the time to read and pass comment on the script, I am still waiting on some of them. Maybe I should have sent it to more people in expectation of this, but I think there is such a thing as too much feedback. Everyone has an opinion so theoretically you could send a script to anyone to get their take on it. The script is, afterall, being thrown into a mass marketplace, the more mass appeal it has the better, and surely the only way to gauage that appeal is to solicit the opinions of those masses? Well, possibly, but I still wouldn’t do it. Above my computer is blue tacked a quote from Aaron Sorkin that advises against re-writing to try and please everyone, because it won’t work, you can’t please everyone and in the attempt you’ll lose the people who would have liked your initial vision. To quote Mr. Sorkin ‘I write what I like, I write what I think my friends would like, and I keep my fingers crossed that enough other people will like it that I can earn a living’.

Of course, that’s easy for a very successful writer to say, but he’s right. In the end you can only write well if what you work on something you believe in, something you would watch, something you love. Which is why I chose a small but select group of critics, people who have similar tastes and sensibilities to my own, people whom I respect. Or at least people who’s opinions I respect (their time keeping and work ethic less so). Bottom line; if I have to wait an extra week for their opinions then I will, I’m sure they will be worth reading.

The other problem is that I’m actually a little busy in the coming week; I’m working quite long hours, my parents are visiting, I’m going to see the Kodo drummers and I’m rehearsing for a show in Newmarket. So starting on that nerve-wracking final draft might be better left for the following week. Although… now I glance through my diary, that’s a pretty busy week too. I’ll just play it by ear.

It’s not easy to write a blog on writing a film when you are currently not working on it because you are waiting for people to get back to you with much needed criticism. I still have lots to say on the subject of the film but I don’t want to predjudice any of the critics, some of whom read this blog (they have the time for that but apparently not to read the film itself; fascinating).

So, what else am I up to? Well the pocket novel, which I last spoke of in November when I was again taking a break from The Infernal Comedy, is approaching the end of it’s third and final draft. It’s taken a while and there really is only one place I can sell it because of it’s uncommercial length, so expect a rant about all the time I wasted in a few months time.

Anyone remember the children’s show I was having so much trouble with? Well I’m still ignoring it, instead I’m working on a pantomime, I already have three published and I am now trying to write one a year simply because I can.

Then there’s the musical; after a lot of e-discussion myself and the composer have agreed on two possible subjects (neither of which bears the slightest resemblance to my original idea) and we’re leaving it to the production company to decide which they prefer. I’m happy to work on either and I’m really excited about the prospect now that it’s close to actually happening. It is great to work on something that you know is going to get performed, it’s a rare experience, almost as rare as working on something that you know is going to make you money (which this is most likely not). It’s also nice to work on something without any commercial concerns whatsoever; to just write the story you want without any fear of it being sent back because it isn’t ‘edgy’ or ‘now’ enough.

By next week, touch wood, I will have some criticism back on which to comment. I’m really quite nervous.

The film is on hiatus right now as I wait for people to get back to me with feedback (You know who you are!) and what I usually do at this point is talk about other projects I have in hand. But after last week’s trenchant and well considered rant, I thought I’d chat about something else that’s been pissing me off.

Long time readers will know that if The Infernal Comedy owes a debt to any one director then it is Frank Capra. I am looking to hit that blend of comedy and drama, that lightness of touch yet depth of meaning that came so naturally to Capra (at least during the thirties and early forties). But Capra is a maligned man. And not for the reasons he should be. The term ‘Capra-corn’ was coined to describe and to mock the homespun, aww shucks, little man taking on the big and winning, schmaltz of his films. And I can only assume it was coined by someone who had not seen them. Certainly not all of them. A disporportionate number of Capra’s heroes contemplate suicide, some actually go through with it. In Long Pants, Harry Langdon day dreams about mudering his wife. ‘Mr. Smith goes to Washington’ is these remembered as a rosy tinted celebration of the American political system while at the time it was attacked for the exact opposite since it showed every senator but Jimmy Stewart’s Mr. Smith as out for themselves and pictured the entire media as practically sub-human.

Perhaps Capra has a taste for a happy ending. Perhaps he too often shows everyone pitchig together to help a soul in trouble. But he also shows the darkness in life. While George Bailey is saved because he has been a good man, an act of mercy condemns General Yen to death by poison (yes I’ve spoilt if for you but be honest, you had no plans to watch The Bitter Tea of General Yen any time soon). In many ways Capra’s films can be called ‘black comedies’ simply because death is never far away. How many so called ‘edgy’ comedies of modern times deal with death in so head on a fashion? They hedge, they obfuscate, they make it a joke. Capra stood eye to eye with his demons and managed to be funny without ever diluting the horror of death.

Do I manage any of that? I doubt it. But there’s little sense in doing this if you don’t aim high. In the meantime, if you want to watch a Capra film that’s most likely slipped you by, I reccomend American Madness. Thank you.

When I was starting out as a writer I used to think that a good writer was someone who could do great dialogue, be that witty, realistic, emotionally charged or whatever. And of course dialogue is a big part of it, but not nearly the be all and end all that I had thought. Perhaps it was because I was more accustomed to theatre or because I was trying to write sitcom (both areas where dialogue is arguably the largest component) but it’s taken time for me to recognise the more various skills that make up a truly great writer.

In screenwriting at least, Visual Storytelling is hugely important. People who know me will be unsurprised that I start here but this is not just an excuse to trumpet silent cinema, film is a visual medium and whether by the juxtaposition of images in a montage or directing the audience with a well chosen close up, it is always better to show the audience than to tell them. Communicating this can be tricky; stage directions must play on paper for the sake of the reader (and indeed the cast if it gets that far) but they must not overwhelm. There must be detail enough to capture an atmosphere but massive blocks of prose are off-putting. Personally I have recently been taking my cue from silent scenarist Carl Mayer, whose use of broken sentences and isolated images enables him to practically direct a scene without ever using words like ‘Pan’ or ‘Cut’. It also allows an atmosphere to be captured with the minimum of words. But if it’s done badly it can be confusing and clunky. The best thing to do is find your own style and hone it, say what you need to say, no more, but make it readable. And read scripts. My style has developed a lot since I read Mayer’s but I still use things I learnt from other writers so that, hopefully i’m moving towards a style that is uniquely my own.

Structure is a skill completely distinct from dialogue or visual storytelling. It’s not just a case of balancing the three acts or building pace and tension, structure can determine the whole trend of a story. One of the most famous examples is George Lucas’s decision to tell Star Wars initially from the point of view of the 2 droids (a decision influenced by Kurosawa’s  ‘The Hidden Castle’). It would be the exact same story if we opened with Luke, which would certainly be the conventional approach, but it would be a completely different film. There are so many way in which to tell a story, no one is ‘right’, but one may be right for you; the story you want to tell told in the way you want to tell it.

Character is the fourth area and there is, inevitably crossover here with dialogue and Visual Storytelling; a line or a gesture can define a character to an audiecnce in a more satisfying fashion than learning their whole history. At the start of Yojimbo, Toshiro Mifune’s wandering samurai comes to a crossroads, he throws a stick in the air, lets it land and follows the path down which the stick points; everything we need to know about him is captured in this one simple piece of business. Character dialogue, for me at least, is trickier, and most especially in comedy. I write characters who share a sense of humour with me, of course i do, to make someone funny in a way that I am not is hard. When I started all my characters spoke exactly as I do, I don’t think they do anymore but I still struggle to make them individuals through dialogue alone. It’s something that actor/writers seem to excel at. Or perhaps people who are more social than I am. That’s worth saying; listen to the speech patterns of those around you, that’s the best way to learn character distinction. Creating a character is a distinct talent from realising them, and for that you need imagination.

I’ve left Imagination for last because I don’t think there’s any way to improve or train it. I suppose Charlie Kauffman is our most imaginative screenwriter of the present day, and I don’t think I could have come up with ‘Being John Malkovich’ even if I had tried.  Everyone has an imagination, but one that comes up with stories and characters? I think you have it or you don’t.

Those are the areas I’ve come up with, you could probably add more. The ideal writer is brilliant in all these but any writer must have some skill at each. Usually we excel in one and manage in the other four. I mentionned Charlie Kauffman for imagination, I would say that for dialogue either Robert Riskin or Aaron Sorkin are tough to match. Mayer is my touchstone of visual storytelling and for structure you cannot better P G Wodehouse, though I’ll mention William Goldman as well since Wodehouse was a novelist. For character I’d cite Clement and Le Frenais, better know for their TV work but there is no one more able to crystalise a character.

I’ve avoided writer/director’s for the most part for one reason; this month Empire magazine stopped listing screenwriters in it’s reviews. We all know that film is a director’s medium, he takes the credit and the blame regardless. We all also know that there are others who deserve mention too; the DOP, editor and composer all leave distinct fingerprints on a film. But a film starts with a script. Kurosawa said that with a Great script a bad director can make a good film, but with a bad script a great director cannot even make a mediocre one (or something like that, he was talking in japansese). It’s a disturbing trend when the writer’s contribution is overlooked, and personally I don’t think it’s surprising that this happens when Avatar is ruling the box office. I’m not suggesting everyone write complaint letters (though I might) but next time you go to the cinema, look at who wrote the film, maybe watch films based on who wrote them rather than who’s in them. Maybe we can’t reclaim cinema for the screenwriter, but it’s got to be worth a try.

On schedule, the 2nd draft of The Infernal Comedy is done and will be going out to various people in the coming week so they can give me the objective feedback I need. I’m just way too close to it now to have anyuseful insights at all, hopefully other people will fill in this gap. It would be nice to imagine that they will all say that it is brilliant and simply is beyond improvement but I’m not going to hold my breath on that.

Critical feedback can go a couple of ways and I’ve experienced two very different types in the last week. A script of mine currently being developed by an independant company has just had a script report done by screen south; not massively positive I have to say. Some of their feedback of course is down to simple personal taste, some of it (in my view) is because they haven’t read it very carefully, and some of it may well be valid (I haven’t spotted anything valid yet but that’s because I’ve only read it once and my first reaction to critisism is always defensive). How seriously do you take feedback that you don’t agree with? Good question. For the Infernal Comedy i plan to ignore any criticism that only comes from one person. I’ve made a list of things I’m worried about and if people mention those areas then my fears probably have some basis. For things not on my list I require at least two of my critics to comment before I accept that there is a problem. This seems a reasonable system to me. Doesn’t help me deal with the script report but that’s a nother problem.

On the complete other side of feedback I went to see a show of mine (which has been published for some years) being performed by a local amateur group. I’ve seen sketches of mine performed before but this was the first time I’ve seen anything of this length which I wrote performed in which I had absolutely no say. I loved it, and at the end one of the actors called for me to stand up and I got a round of applause from the audience. Now, once I was standing it would have been a fairly churlish audience which didn’t clap, but it felt genuine, and it felt good.

That of course is not useful feedback, but the shot of confidence that an event like that gives you is damn near priceless.

Some of you may be wondering where I was Last Week. I was visiting family, everyone’s entitled to a week off.

In the other sense of the phrase Last Week, I am entering what i hope will be the Last Week on the 2nd draft of The Infernal Comedy. I’m having a last read through and fine tune before sending the completed draft out to a few carefully selected critics to get the all important, and thoroughly soul-destroying, feedback. It still feels good but I’m looking forward to putting it aside for a month, there are some bits that I am starting to doubt purely because I’ve lived with them for such a long while. Some distance is needed and, as always I have other things to get on with.

It’s also nice to note that, having jumped from 87 pages to 91 during an earlier re-write ,the script is now, and hopefully will remain, 90 pages long. If I’m honest i’d prefer the first half of Act II to be about a page and half shorter and the second half of Act II about a page and a half longer, but I’m not going to quibble over 90 seconds for the sake of 90 pages.

For anyone writing a screenplay, the montage is damn near essential. It’s a great tool, getting masses of plot across in the minimum amount of time and allowing the writer to play director for a bit by specifying practically every image on the screen.

But how do you know if you’ve got it right? Dialogue you can read back and get a pretty good sense of whether or not it’s what you were after. A visual scene is easy enough to see in your head as you read it, anyone who’s read a book should be comfortable with that. But the montage is tough, it’s a procession of images, one after another at a fairly quick pace and reading them gives no sense of the pace, nor of the juxtaposition of one image against the next that is what montage is all about. Most importantly, there is (I would argue) no way to gauge the effect that the overall sequence will have on someone watching it.

For example; in his silent propaganda film Strike!, Sergei Eisenstein showed a cow being slaughtered in the middle of a montage of workers revolting. At the time, realisitic depiction of human death was tough to show believably but seeing it really happen to a cow should provoke the same visceral response. On paper this must have seemed daft, but it works incredibly well. These days when we see someone getting murdered we know it’s  a special effect, and no matter how good that effect is the knowledge tempers our response.  Actually seeing a cow killed is a whole other matter. I used to think that special effects men and CSI investigators were exagerating ‘arterial spray’; they aren’t. And when this image is set against worker’s getting clubbed in rapid cutting succession, we inevitably associate the two.

The point is that Eisenstein presumably hoped this would work when he wrote the scene, but he could not know if it would illicit the required response until watching the flow of images. For that reason montage is more the preserve of editors than writers. But the writer has to include these sequences. So is there a good technique?

Probably. But I guess a more experienced writer than me would be the person to ask. Personally I familiarise myself with the writing so that I don’t need to read every word, I stick on the music that I envisage in the background (another thing likely to be changed before the film comes out), then I try to envisage the sequence, using the words for reference without actually reading them per se. Is it effective? To be honest, that’s just as difficult gauge.

It goes without saying that Christmas and the New Year are the wrong time to work in any branch of retail so writing has been on the down-low recently, as I have been spending my days finding ill advised Christmas presents for idiots and herding hordes chavs around a boxing day sale that may as well have featured huge ‘CHEAP CRAP’ signs hanging all around the store.

To make matters worse, when I have been allowed five minutes to write i’ve had to work on my short sitcom as the Sitcom Mission deadline was New Years Eve.

But all that is now over and done with and I am getting back to normal; writing lots but with no idea how long my finances will last. The first few days of 2010 have been surprisingly productive and the major problems which have plagued The Infernal Comedy’s 1st draft are dropping away one by one as I progress with the 2nd. Today I took on a problem which I have been trying to gloss over ever since I came up with an inadequate solution to an earlier problem. For months I kidded myself that it worked and I was worrying over nothing. But readin the script back through made it clear that this was optimistic bollocks; it was not believable and required the male lead’s personality to change substantially for a couple of scenes. In the event it took less than an hour to fix and has resulted in some nice ‘bastard dialogue’ for the aforementionned lead.

Today’s lesson; face up to the scary problems, they won’t go away and solving them might lead to better things along the way.