Writing Movies For Fun And Profit! (8 page)

6. Clear your revision marks, and make a clean PDF of your script.

In Final Draft: go to EDIT and hit SELECT ALL. Then hit CLEAR REVISIONS in the TOOLBAR. Sometimes you have to do it twice. Check that all of the revisions are cleared. Then go to FILE. Scroll down to SAVE AS and SAVE AS a PDF.

Always turn in your scripts as PDFs. “Why?” you ask. Well, we’ve had a producer, a director, and even an actor “tweak” our scripts without telling us. It’s unprofessional, but it happens. A PDF, unlike a Final Draft file, is a locked document. Meaning: a Final Draft file can be tweaked,
changed, or … rewritten by the new writers who get hired AFTER you. If you turn in PDFs, at some point they will have to come to you for a Final Draft version of the script. Sometimes this is the only way you will know you’ve been replaced!

If you’re turning in a SECOND DRAFT or POLISH, turn in:

• One PDF version WITH revision marks, marked “MARKED REVISION” (title it something like YOURMOVIE: second draft 1/23/11/MARKEDREV).

•
And
one PDF clean version (YOURMOVIE: second draft 1/23/11/ CLEAN).

7. Clearly mark your OFFICIAL draft and save it someplace in your computer where YOU can find it. AND BACK IT UP.

Put all of your previous drafts (the ones that you AREN’T GOING TO TURN IN to the studio) into a folder. Do not DELETE them—SAVE THEM. You will need them later. (See
Chapter 30
, “Arbitration or Who Wrote This Crap?”) Then save your OFFICIAL draft, the one you’re giving to the studio, somewhere where it will be easy to find. You’re going to need it in six weeks, when the studio has notes.

"Then back it up—in multiple places
.

8. Register your script with the WGA.

Go to the Writers Guild of America’s script registry website; www.wgaw registry.org.

You can register your script online or by mail. It costs $10 if you’re a Guild member, $20 if you’re not. If you’re turning in a script to a studio— trust us, you’re in the Guild. But, whether you’re in the Guild or not—

ALWAYS REGISTER YOUR SCRIPTS.

ALWAYS. It will protect your script from being stolen by a studio (which doesn’t happen often, but does happen). More important, it will protect you from OTHER WRITERS. (See
Chapter 30
, “Arbitration or Who Wrote This Crap?”)

9. Double-check—have you been paid yet?

Check with your agent or manager: Have you gotten your commencement check yet? DON’T TURN YOUR SCRIPT IN UNTIL YOU HAVE GOTTEN PAID.

Sometimes, your agent calling the studio and telling them “The script is done” is the only thing that’ll get some executive to pick up the phone and get you
paid
.

10. Make sure you’re turning it in to the right person or people— AND TURN IT IN.

You’ll turn in your script by e-mailing the PDF. When your career is just starting, you’ll e-mail it to your reps, and they’ll turn it in to the studio for you. Then they’ll bill for delivery. Woo-hoo! More money!

Sometimes your reps will have a note or two. Listen; they’re part of your team. But in the end, remember: it’s YOUR script. (Until you turn it in, that is. Then it’s the studio’s script.)

As your relationships with the studios grow, you’ll eventually e-mail your scripts directly to your executive, your producers, your director, sometimes also to the movie stars attached (if they’re involved in the creative process). We e-mail stuff right to the studio, then CC our reps. Always CC your reps. So they have a copy,
and so that they can BILL. You ain’t doing this for your health
. The air in L.A. is terrible.
You’re doing it for the money
.

And whatever you do:
MAKE SURE YOU’RE GIVING THE SCRIPT TO
EVERYONE
WHO’S SUPPOSED TO GET A COPY and no one else. If you forget to CC someone who’s supposed to get a copy—
they will take it personally. They will be mad
. NEVER DO THAT.

Also, don’t accidentally e-mail it to someone who’s NOT supposed to get it. The studio will FREAK OUT. And they may sue you.

That’s it. Turn that bad boy in. Then sit back and wait for the accolades and Academy Awards to come pouring in!
*

So you finished the draft of your screenplay, and you turned it in to the studio! Congratulations, the script is in! Go celebrate at any restaurant in Los Angeles that’s not Pink’s Hot Dogs. Pink’s Hot Dogs is a disgusting cesspit, and we have no idea why Martha Stewart keeps glorifying it. That jailbird must be getting some graft.

Now you play a waiting game while the head honchos of the studio read your script.

But here’s the catch:

THE HEAD HONCHOS OF THE STUDIO DON’T READ YOUR SCRIPT.

Nope, not at all. Very unlikely, on the first draft anyway. Junior executives usually know that they’ll get only one “read” by their boss (studio talk for the boss will only read ONE draft—the best one—so it better be good). And the junior execs sure aren’t going to turn in your FIRST draft, which probably has Act III problems.
*

So before ANYBODY IN POWER reads your script, the Story Department will read it. And they will provide the higher-ups with what’s called “coverage.”

Huh? That sounds like the people at the top are just reading the CliffsNotes version of your script. Well, guess what—they are!

All that time you spent figuring out the perfect placement of the ellipses, every time you added the most sublime comma, and the hours you agonized over whether to use a dash or a colon to bring the wonderful gumbo of your masterpiece to its sizzling perfection …

Yes, nobody read that stuff—those little things that make up your so-called screenplay, the thing you wrote that they paid you (hopefully) a ton of money for. Not yet, anyway.

“Why don’t they read it?!”
you ask.
“I worked really hard on it,”
you whine.

Well, stop whining. Studio executives can’t be expected to just “read” every script they’ve purchased. Do you read every script you purchase? … Bad example. But it’s true. The studio executive probably has A LOT of scripts in development. And movies that are prepping, or shooting, take precedence. And there’s only so many hours in the day, and at some point, they have to go relieve their nanny, who has a life too.

The person who is REALLY going to read your script is a person whose job is ONLY THAT. A reader. Usually a young person whom you will never meet or even know where in the building he or she is working. Most of the “readers” in the studios are good “readers” who’ve proven to the higher-ups that they’re good at providing summaries of scripts, which is an art, just like writing screenplays. In fact, sometimes executives will handpick WHO among the readers will do coverage on which scripts, because they know better than anyone: positive coverage on a script can speed up the process of actually getting the thing made, by making it more likely that their boss will actually read the screenplay (that thing that you wrote).

Good coverage can be a real boost to your script. Think about it; if you’re going to read something and someone has already told you, “It’s great!” you’re more likely to think it’s great too. If somebody’s said it has Act III problems, has no marketing angle, and the lead role is uncastable—you’re screwed.

This is another reason that the responsibility falls on you to make your script a DELIGHT TO READ. Work on the readability of your script. Make it breezy.
And for chrissake—trim some stuff.
Nobody wants to read a 130-page script. Not even on an iPad in Cabo.

So before you turn your script in, your job is to think: What would you say about your script if you hadn’t written it?

These are the things your script’s “reader” will “grade” you on:

What’s the rating of the movie?

G or PG is best, for a HUGE box office. R can succeed big, but you’ve eliminated about HALF of the moviegoing audience with this rating. If you make an R-rated movie, just about every single person in America who goes to see R-rated movies has to go see yours. Like in the case of
The Hangover,
which is a great example of how a relatable premise can translate into bags of American currency.

What’s the target audience for the movie?

It had better be A LOT of people. And a lot of people who actually go to the movies. Writing a movie that appeals to the Amish is pointless. Or to people over fifty. Sorry, old-timers.

How expensive is the movie?

If the audience for it is big enough, it’s okay to be expensive, but don’t go nuts.

How can the movie be cast?

If there’s a juicy role for some movie star who can open a movie—great. In fact, this is not optional. There HAS to be a juicy role for some movie star who can open a movie.

Can the movie be MARKETED?

The marketing department will tell you in two seconds if it can or can’t. Movies that can be marketed:
Toy Story! Transformers! The Hangover!
For movies that CAN’T be marketed: check out
Storytelling
by Todd Solondz. Or pretty much any movie by Todd Solondz. Jeez, cheer up, Todd.

And last, the vaguest question but still fairly important:

Is it any good?

That’s a tough one, and you may not be able to answer it, because you wrote it. Don’t worry, the kids doing the coverage will tell you if it’s good or not. But do a mental checklist of the categories they’re looking at, and you’ll be ahead of the game. Correct answers to those questions mean that your movie is more likely to MAKE MONEY. And that’s what studios want to make—MONEY. They may say they make movies—but if there were a way for them to make MONEY
without
making movies, they would!

The easy way to tell what the studio’s opinion of you is …

Where do they let you park?

The studios tell you EXACTLY how important you are to them by the parking pass they give you when you pull onto the lot. A complete breakdown, follows, divided into categories of importance and unimportance.

DISNEY

Important = Alameda Gate. Outdoor executive spots opposite Team Disney. Way to go! Don’t bump the car next to you, it’s expensive. Not important = Buena Vista gate, or, GOD FORBID, the underground structure off Alameda. Which is literally worse than parking in any of Dante’s Nine Circles of Hell. Well, after circle two, the one for lust. So, worse than the bottom seven circles of Dante’s Hell.

Fox

Important = Pico Gate. “Gold Door” spots right outside the front door. Likely you are parked next to James Cameron. These parking spaces are the jewel in the crown of all studio parking. If you get one of these spots, take a picture of your car there. It may never happen again.

Not Important 35= Galaxy Gate Parking Structure. Like riding out a typhoon
in downtown Calcutta. Every man for himself. You could get murdered down here, and nobody would find you for weeks; hell, nobody would even bother to look. Just another screenwriter. Leave ’em as a treat for the rats. Yes, it’s that bad, and worse. Probably some sort of monster lives in the bottom level, and the THOUSANDS OF CARS JAMMED IN THERE are the only thing keeping it in. There are a few parking attendants down there, handpicked from insane asylums—weeping, flailing, and shrugging their shoulders, as if they’re in no way affiliated with the parking aspect of the parking structure.

WARNER BROS.

Important = Gate 4, VALET. Yes, there’s a valet at the Warner’s offices. And a couple of VIP executive visitor spots. They are clearly labeled “VIP,” and they sum it up: you are a very important person. For now, at least.

Not Important = Either of the two structures that are NOT EVEN ON THE LOT. There’s one across the street on Olive and another down on Forest Lawn. Technically a “walk-on” not a “drive-on.” If you’re parking in either one of these … yikes. What did you do? They must have HATED the draft you turned in, and now you have a LONG WALK to think about how you disappointed them and everybody else. But mostly yourself.
Proud of yourself now? Basset Hound Switcheroo
could have been a FRANCHISE, dammit. And you FUMBLED ON THE ONE-YARD LINE. Next summer was all about
Basset Hound Switcheroo
! MARKETING ALREADY HAD SOME MOCK-UP POSTERS MADE, WITH A FUNNY BASSET HOUND SAYING
“UNLEASHED!”
Well, way to go, jerk.