Bring the Funny Page 3

  Follow Your Heroes

  A great man once said, “If I have seen farther than other men, it is because I stood on the shoulders of great men.” That man was Sir Isaac Newton, and it is a fair bet he never expected to be quoted in a book about comedy screenwriting.

  If you want to be a writer/director/producer like Judd Apatow, study Judd Apatow. Know what he did to break into the business. Did he go to film school? (He didn’t, actually.) Did he start by moving to Los Angeles? (He moved there after producing live comedy shows in other places.) It took me five minutes to learn that. Use Google. God gave it to us for a reason.

  Research everybody and everything related to the industry you want to break into. Read Variety and The Hollywood Reporter and visit IMDB, Donedealpro, Box Office Mojo, and other websites that give you background information on people whose careers you seek to emulate. If someone has sold a script or made a movie, find out how he or she broke into the business. This will help you craft your comedy screenwriting career.

  Sure, you could break in using some new strategy that nobody’s ever thought of. But actually … no, you won’t.

  And, for the record, you probably won’t break in as a screenwriter via the internet—whether by making short videos and sticking them on the web or by putting your scripts online, as some aspiring screenwriters do. The reason: the web has no barrier to entry. When you tell people, “I have seventeen short videos on YouTube,” you have told them nothing. There are unborn children with videos on YouTube.

  Of course I realize that, after this book is published, there may be the occasional screenwriter who succeeds by doing what I said not to do—just as there will be the occasional writer who somehow gets discovered from, say, Saskatoon. (That’s a place in Canada.)

  But those events, if they ever occur, will be atypical. Anomalies. And, no matter your level of talent, if you are committing years of your life to this profession—which rewards so few and leaves so many brokenhearted—you are already betting on a long shot. Don’t make it even longer. Stick to the established paths of entry and save your creativity for the page, where it counts.

  I guarantee you that, if you study up on your comedy screenwriting heroes, you will discover the common strategies that vaulted them to the top. And then you should do as they do.

  Of course, there’s only so much you can learn from afar. Most of us can’t take a class from Judd Apatow. But we do need to be constantly learning, and that requires teachers, which is why you should …

  Mind Your Mentors

  The world isn’t hurting for teachers of screenwriting. It seems like everywhere you look, there are more and more people offering themselves as instructors in the craft. Some have degrees in screenwriting, for whatever that’s worth. A few have actually had success selling scripts, and only a small percentage of those have actually gotten movies made. An even smaller number have been there and done that, and are effective at explaining to others how to do the same.

  Who is qualified to teach the craft? After all, many of the best sports coaches were not stars when they played ball. Clearly, someone who is not gifted as a writer may nevertheless be gifted as a teacher of writing. That person may simply be able to recognize what others need to do to succeed and be good at helping them do it.

  I’ve had three movies made, and I won’t claim any of them are Oscar worthy (though Bride Wars did earn $115 million). So factor that into your judgment of what I teach.

  The point is that great teachers don’t have to be great writers.

  And there are great writers who shouldn’t teach—writers whose creative work is spun gold, but who can’t teach to save their lives. There is a reason for this phenomenon. Many of those great writers have internalized their writing habits and strategies to such a degree that they can’t articulate them; they can only do them. But if they can’t explain to a room full of writers what they actually do when they sit down to write, they’re useless as teachers.

  And then, of course, there’s the (previously) unstated theme of this book, which I’ll state here: you must teach yourself how to screenwrite. I would put that on the cover, but then you wouldn’t have bought the book. Thanks, by the way. My kids need to eat.

  Don’t get me wrong: as I said earlier, you need this book. But your main resource is yourself. To follow my method, you must diagram a great many scripts and learn from them. Then you must sit down to write for … I dunno … years. That’s my method—research and endless work. I only teach you how to fish—you’re the one who must bait the hook and sit there hot summer day after hot summer day.

  If you feel the need to seek out other teachers, I won’t be insulted. You must be selfish. Your only goal must be to improve your craft. Just be choosy. When you decide whose advice and teachings to follow, I strongly suggest you read their scripts.

  Just as I read the work of John Shaner before I took his class, I also read the work of Mark Stein, whose screenwriting class I took. Mark wrote the script for the movie The House Sitter, as well as many plays, some of which I read.

  Why? Because I needed to confirm that Mark knew something about writing. After all, you wouldn’t go to a college you hadn’t read up on, would you? You don’t see a play or a film before at least scrolling through the reviews, do you?

  But when you’re checking up on possible mentors, remember this: you can’t judge screenwriters by their movies.

  Notice that I didn’t say I had seen Mark’s movie, The House Sitter. Yes, I have actually seen the film, but that wouldn’t tell me if he’s a good writer. After all, great screenplays don’t always become great movies. Very often, the opposite occurs. There are talentless directors, bad actors, horrible editors … and a host of other reasons a good script can go bad.

  And I won’t even start about re-writers, whose sole goal is usually to gain screen credit. (One trick to making it seem like re-writers have made a major contribution to scripts is for them to change all the characters’ names. This takes about three minutes using “Find and Replace,” and … voila! … they re-wrote it!) OK, I did go on about re-writers, but now I’ll stop.

  So when you’re doing background checks on prospective screenwriting teachers, remember to get ahold of scripts that the writer actually wrote and that were not re-written by someone else. The writer’s work should impress you, not the movie’s production values. After all, you’re not trying to shoot movies; you’re trying to write them.

  Hold your mentors up to scrutiny and see what shakes out. Being able to say “I took a class with so-and-so” means nothing to a producer whom you want to buy your script. All the producer will want to know is this: Is the script great? Can I make money with this?

  And those questions can only be answered on the page.

  Live the Page

  In case you haven’t guessed from what you’ve read so far, comedy screenwriting isn’t a nine-to-five vocation. It’s not even nine-to-nine. It’s an every-moment-of-your-life kind of thing. To maximize your chances of success in a field where almost all aspirants fail, you must wring every possible drop of advancement from every possible minute of every day.

  In other chapters, I discuss how to mine your daily life for script ideas and how to overhear dialogue to improve your own. Here I will tell you how successful comedy screenwriters walk and talk and go about their daily lives … so that you may emulate them.

  First, a successful comedy writer is a social butterfly. I know what you’re thinking (especially if you’ve skipped ahead and read Chapter 3): “Greg, you write over and over that I should keep my ass in the chair for as long as possible. But now you say I need to be a social butterfly?”

  Yes.

  You must sit alone in a quiet room and write for as long as you can possibly stand it, and you must also—in your rare breaks from your lonely toil—go out and meet everybody who can help you. And when you’re an aspiring comedy screenwriter, that’s just about anybody in the industry.

  I’m not just talking about mer
e socializing. Yes, it’s important to attend parties and other events where writers, actors, and other creative types can be schmoozed. But it’s also critical that you roll up your sleeves with other screenwriters. And that means writing classes and writing groups.

  When I first showed up in Hollywood, I took a day job at a company that published entertainment-industry reference books. The office was situated within a complex of post-production facilities where stars, directors, and the like could be seen on a daily basis. My boss took the profits he made publishing books and ploughed them into movies, which he wrote, directed, and produced. I hated my job, but the location was hard to beat for a young screenwriter looking to meet the right people.

  Eventually my boss introduced me to members of his writing group, the Writers and Actors Lab. They met on Monday nights in a creaky, old theatre in Hollywood. For a while, the Writers and Actors Lab was the only extracurricular activity I had. Monday night felt like a holiday to me because I had waited all week for it.

  In the WAL, actors performed scenes from writers’ unfinished screenplays. Afterward, the audience critiqued the writing. This gave screenwriters a chance to try out their work among colleagues before exposing it to the industry. When the work was finished, we all went to a bar and schmoozed. That’s how I met the group of creative professionals I would depend on for years to come, including screenwriters with studio deals and produced credits. I was playing in the minor leagues, but there were major leaguers all around.

  And some of those major leaguers became my mentors. The notes they gave me were invaluable to my maturation as a screenwriter because I knew exactly where they were coming from. When you know the background of the person giving you notes, the notes resonate.

  It takes a village to raise a screenwriter—a village full of other writers, actors, and filmmaking professionals. Working writers who want to stay working populate their world with friends who can help them and whom they can help. (They also carry a little notebook to scribble down ideas and do some pretty crazy stuff to come up with stories.) But let’s save that for a later chapter so we can get to our …

  Pop Quiz!

  1. Before taking someone’s screenwriting class, you should always: A) Watch their movies. That’s how you know if they can write, right?

  B) Sleep with them. Hey, it’s Hollywood.

  C) Watch their movies while sleeping with them.

  D) Read their writing. Preferably in its original, unproduced state. Decide for yourself if they have something to teach you.

  2. Everything matters, including: A) The quality of your writing.

  B) The number of brads in your script.

  C) Your ability to make friends in Hollywood. And that includes everyone from presidents of production to bathroom attendants. Because that guy selling mints and handing out towels could be the next president of production.

  D) All of the above. And, yes, this quiz matters, too, so concentrate …

  3. As an aspiring comedy screenwriter, you shouldn’t compare yourself to some big-time comedy screenwriter who has totally made it because: A) It’ll only cause you to re-examine your strategy for success, which might actually increase your chances of breaking into Hollywood. So don’t do it. OK?

  B) You’re gonna be the first successful comedy screenwriter to make it from Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, so there’s no need to move to L.A. like almost every other screenwriter who’s ever broken in.

  C) Everybody does things their own way, so some other writer’s life story isn’t something you can learn from. Better to blaze a new trail and do everything your way. Sorta like Sinatra. Or Carrot Top.

  D) For Pete’s sake, compare yourself. It’s for the best.

  4. To meet as many people in the industry who can help you as possible, you should: A) Join a writers group.

  B) Join an improv group.

  C) Move into a hospice.

  D) All of the above, assuming at least one patient in the hospice is related to a successful agent or producer that the patient can get your script to.

  3

  Get On Your Horse

  Talent. That’s what you are.

  I don’t mean talent in the sense that you’re good at something (though I hope you’re darn good at writing if you intend to become a screenwriter). I mean it in the Hollywood sense. “Talent” is the Hollywood term for all the creative folks who work in the entertainment industry: writers, actors, directors …

  And talent is like a horse—that needs to be ridden.

  That’s why there are agents and managers. Because their clients need to focus on doing what they do best. Which does not include sending out headshots, scheduling meetings, or negotiating contracts.

  Talent focuses on being creative and lets everybody around talent do the rest.

  But while you, the comedy screenwriter, can have all those extra people working for you, you still need to manage yourself. You must be the rider of your own horse. And as a rider, you need to know your mount. Then you need to control it and ride it to victory.

  In this chapter, we will focus on ways that you, the comedy screenwriter, must manage and apply your talent.

  But first we need to clarify something …

  What Is a Screenplay?

  A screenplay is a proposal for a movie.

  That’s all.

  When you, the screenwriter, embrace this definition, you will be happier. You will focus on doing the only thing a screenwriter must do—help make a movie.

  Some claim screenwriting is an art form. But unlike other forms of creative writing, a screenplay does not stand on its own. It is not literature. You cannot read a screenplay to yourself and have a true artistic experience. You may be able to imagine the movie that would be made from that script, but that’s a different experience altogether because you’re imagining the end product. Screenplays are about potential.

  Once a movie is made, the script becomes useless. Right into the shredder. Unlike a play, no one will ever produce another version of that script.

  I’m not saying a screenplay should be as dull as, say, a contractor’s proposal to renovate a basement. Totally the opposite. When you screenwrite, you must not only tell a compelling story; you must communicate in a nuanced manner to a variety of sophisticated professionals. You must show the producer why the concept will succeed, give the director a game plan for making the film, and tell the actors what to do and say onscreen.

  But remember—they know their jobs.

  Don’t tell the director how to shoot. Avoid directorial narration. That’s right. Unless you have a damn good reason (i.e., it is story relevant), do not bother the reader with camera angles, music cues, florid descriptions of sets, etc. Let the director read your script and imagine all of that.

  The same goes with the producer. Don’t tell the producer that the lead character’s hair is red (again, unless it’s story relevant). The producer knows how to cast the film. Let the producer do so.

  And while you’re at it, cut everything designed to specifically direct the actors, such as the dreaded “wrylies.” A wryly is an adverbial parenthetical that tells the actor how to say the lines, as in:

      DRACULA

    (wryly)

  Care for a bite?

  Trust me, the actors know how to say their lines. Don’t tell them when to roll their eyes or be sarcastic. It’s their job to read the script and decide exactly when, if ever, to do those things. Don’t give them acting advice unless you want writing advice in return.

  So what DO you write?

  Everything necessary to tell the story and help make the movie. Nothing more.

  We screenwriters love to bitch about our status in the industry: how we’re not treated as filmmakers, how we get re-written by directors, and how actors often jettison our dialogue and improvise new lines on set.

  It’s all true.

  But keep in mind that screenwriters—unlike poets and playwrights—
sell their work. And by sell, I mean we sell everything, including our copyright, and waive all “moral rights of authors.” We even sign a document called a Certificate of Authorship, in which we attest that we are no longer the author of the script we are handing the producer, who becomes the new author.

  Naturally, there is a psychological downside to this. Once a script is purchased, you, the writer, are usually elbowed aside. The people who make your movie are under no obligation to be kind to your “baby.” And in many cases, they will hack your baby up into bloody, indistinguishable pieces.

  Welcome to the biz. If you think of your script as a proposal—a first step toward something great—you won’t be so distraught when you watch it morph it into something totally different.

  What if you don’t want to sign away your rights, can’t refrain from telling others how to do their jobs, and can’t stand the thought of watching someone destroy your baby?

  There’s only one alternative: make your own movie. Become your own producer, director, lead actor. Oh, and finance the flick as well.

  In that case, you can do whatever you wish. And write all the “wrylies” you want.

  A.I.C.

  So now you know what a screenplay actually is and you still want to write one, huh?

  Excellent. Glad you’re up for the challenge. Remember—you’re not in this alone. I’m here to help. So keep this book close by your writing table and turn to it whenever you’re stuck, out of ideas for funny scenes, or just plain scared to go on writing. I’ve got your back.

  So now what do you do?

  You write. A lot.

  To become a successful comedy screenwriter, it helps to have talent. But you must also work like a dog. And I mean a dirty dog that never gives up, never stops growling, and never stops acting like a dog.