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Saturday, April 18, 2009
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
consider, with revisions
I want to set one thing straight in my very first paragraph here. When I said I've got something pretty good -- I didn't really mean it. What I meant was, it has potential. Real potential. But potential and two Benjamins will buy you a gram of China white on the corner of Sunset and Hollywood.
What I mean to say is, it's not there yet. I know exactly what it is, in fact. It's a "consider, with revisions".
Last week I sent "667" the Screenplay to a professional script coverage service. What they basically do is, they read your entire script, then provide you with a logline (a short, one-sentence plot summary), a 2-page synopsis of your script's story, and then the main attraction: 2-3 pages of commentary and critiquery on your work and suggestions on how they think you can improve things. Finally, they condense all the jibber-jabber and gibble-gobble into a simple rating system: RECOMMEND, CONSIDER or PASS.
RECOMMEND basically means that your script is Adaptation or Pulp Fiction. If you get a CONSIDER, you're the typical struggling Hollywood writer's pet project -- just on the cusp of a workable product, but not quite there. A PASS is given to the majority of submitted scripts. Readers for production companies are the curs responsible for foisting these labels on screenplays -- because these labels allow lazy (sorry... busy) executives to skip past the guff, and go straight to the good stuff. Logically, these execs only consider those scripts which have been deemed at least "CONSIDER"-worthy by their underlings.
Long story short... I got a "CONSIDER, WITH REVISIONS". The reader who did the coverage was fairly professional, but not very insightful -- most of his comments were superficial, about things like typos and minor plot holes. I got what I paid for, though. (I used the cheapest Internet service by far.) Long story shorter -- I quickly went back and made the revisions.
So allegedly, this means I'm now at "Consider" level. Which is really all that any sane screenwriter can hope to achieve... particularly a random-ass Iggy out of shitsville nowhere. And by the way -- yes, I know "critiquery" isn't a word. I made it up. Nice try vocab nazis.
Incidentally, the website I went to promised a 24-72 hour turnaround time. I submitted it Sunday morning -- got it back Friday afternoon. I won't do the math, but that ain't 24-72 hours, gentle readers. The whole goddam week I felt like Calvin waiting for his propeller beanie from the Chocolate Frosted Sugar Bombs cereal company. Checking my Gmail inbox became a terrible addiction. I was hanging out of a jet plane suspended by a rope tied around one ankle. I was chasing the dragon -- or maybe the dragon was chasing me. I couldn't escape it. It hung over my head all week like a terrible scythe of judgment and I really, really just wanted it to fall.
But fall it eventually did, and now I can legitimately say that my script is $59 better than it used to be.
Don't get me wrong, the verdict wasn't all bad. The writer actually seemed to enjoy most of the story -- he (she) was just confused on a few plot points that I've done my best to clear up. Plus, getting a Consider (with revisions) is a damn sight better than getting a Pass. This from a professional script reader who doesn't even know how cute I am in person, or the million reasons why I obviously deserve success more than the other poor starving artists that litter the burned-out landscape of this town, who park Audis in underground garages and pocket five-dollar tips to support their Vicodin habits, who stay up late in their tiny studio apartments and feverishly bang out heartfelt, free-spirited masterpieces on their coffee-stained MacBooks, wondering where the next eighth is going to come from, wondering why that agent's assistant hasn't called back in three weeks, wondering why they still keep doubling down on eleven if life won't ever deal them one single paint card.
Sometimes I wonder if I've suffered enough to really be an artist. Then I realize I've got my whole life ahead of me to suffer. That's when I feel better about things.
What I mean to say is, it's not there yet. I know exactly what it is, in fact. It's a "consider, with revisions".
Last week I sent "667" the Screenplay to a professional script coverage service. What they basically do is, they read your entire script, then provide you with a logline (a short, one-sentence plot summary), a 2-page synopsis of your script's story, and then the main attraction: 2-3 pages of commentary and critiquery on your work and suggestions on how they think you can improve things. Finally, they condense all the jibber-jabber and gibble-gobble into a simple rating system: RECOMMEND, CONSIDER or PASS.
RECOMMEND basically means that your script is Adaptation or Pulp Fiction. If you get a CONSIDER, you're the typical struggling Hollywood writer's pet project -- just on the cusp of a workable product, but not quite there. A PASS is given to the majority of submitted scripts. Readers for production companies are the curs responsible for foisting these labels on screenplays -- because these labels allow lazy (sorry... busy) executives to skip past the guff, and go straight to the good stuff. Logically, these execs only consider those scripts which have been deemed at least "CONSIDER"-worthy by their underlings.
Long story short... I got a "CONSIDER, WITH REVISIONS". The reader who did the coverage was fairly professional, but not very insightful -- most of his comments were superficial, about things like typos and minor plot holes. I got what I paid for, though. (I used the cheapest Internet service by far.) Long story shorter -- I quickly went back and made the revisions.
So allegedly, this means I'm now at "Consider" level. Which is really all that any sane screenwriter can hope to achieve... particularly a random-ass Iggy out of shitsville nowhere. And by the way -- yes, I know "critiquery" isn't a word. I made it up. Nice try vocab nazis.
Incidentally, the website I went to promised a 24-72 hour turnaround time. I submitted it Sunday morning -- got it back Friday afternoon. I won't do the math, but that ain't 24-72 hours, gentle readers. The whole goddam week I felt like Calvin waiting for his propeller beanie from the Chocolate Frosted Sugar Bombs cereal company. Checking my Gmail inbox became a terrible addiction. I was hanging out of a jet plane suspended by a rope tied around one ankle. I was chasing the dragon -- or maybe the dragon was chasing me. I couldn't escape it. It hung over my head all week like a terrible scythe of judgment and I really, really just wanted it to fall.
But fall it eventually did, and now I can legitimately say that my script is $59 better than it used to be.
Don't get me wrong, the verdict wasn't all bad. The writer actually seemed to enjoy most of the story -- he (she) was just confused on a few plot points that I've done my best to clear up. Plus, getting a Consider (with revisions) is a damn sight better than getting a Pass. This from a professional script reader who doesn't even know how cute I am in person, or the million reasons why I obviously deserve success more than the other poor starving artists that litter the burned-out landscape of this town, who park Audis in underground garages and pocket five-dollar tips to support their Vicodin habits, who stay up late in their tiny studio apartments and feverishly bang out heartfelt, free-spirited masterpieces on their coffee-stained MacBooks, wondering where the next eighth is going to come from, wondering why that agent's assistant hasn't called back in three weeks, wondering why they still keep doubling down on eleven if life won't ever deal them one single paint card.
Sometimes I wonder if I've suffered enough to really be an artist. Then I realize I've got my whole life ahead of me to suffer. That's when I feel better about things.
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