10 things to think about when optioning your screenplay

What does it mean to have your screenplay optioned? What should you expect? What should you ask for?

Here’s one guy’s opinion.

Now that I’ve been through the option gauntlet a couple of times, I get asked about the experience and the process. It’s a little humbling, cuz I’m just a lucky guy with a couple of options, but I know how much I appreciate when I stumble across some good first-hand info, and figured it would be a good idea to share what I know. So I thought I’d gather my notes together here, in the hopes that it’ll prove useful to others. This is no substitute for having an attorney, mind you… more on that later. But I wish I’d had this list.

Of course, I’m no lawyer, but I did pay one (a really good one, too!) to represent me in my deals. I wanted to learn, so I was involved in the negotiation process, and reviewed each round of revisions on the offers and eventual contracts, asked lots of questions, and took lots of notes. I asked the attorney to mark up the contract with all the items of concern or negotiation he could think of… then I had him go over them with me, and explain things to me that I didn’t understand. I picked out the points I wanted to ask for, and removed items I felt were over-reaching or I just didn’t feel like I needed.

I don’t plan on being so involved in future deals. But now that I’ve got a handle on the basic vocabulary and have some sense of what it is I should be looking for, at least I won’t feel like an outsider in my own negotiations.

Part I is the basics… what is an option, how to respond, and what to expect. Part II is a list of negotiation points and terms that I’m very glad I know about now, and you might like to know about as well.

PART ONE:

1 – What is an option?

Producer Bob stumbled across your screenplay on your site, or at InkTip.com, or in a screenplay competition, and has approached you with an offer to “option” it. What’s that mean, exactly?

Granting a producer an option means granting them the exclusive right to develop the script… to try to raise the money to make it, get talent or a director attached, and otherwise exploit the property with the end goal of making your movie. Any time within the option period they can “exercise” the option, and buy your script for an agreed price.

Sounds great, right?

Depends.

2 – Should you take the option?

Getting optioned is exciting. But it doesn’t mean your film is going to get made… it means someone wants to make your film but doesn’t have the resources yet. If they did have the resources, they’d buy it and make it, right? So what you really want (short of actually selling the screenplay) is to have it optioned by someone who has a high likelihood of getting it made. Because while having a script optioned is great (and it is great, don’t get me wrong) having a script produced is even better. Not just for your ego, but for your career.

Remember too that your scripts are your product, and have value. They’re an investment for you, and like any investment, they should be working for you. I assume that you don’t just write them and stick them in a drawer… you show them to people, put them into contests, post them on screenplay sites (like InkTip.com), right? You want them out there representing you, if not to get sold, to at least be working as writing samples.

But during the time the script’s under option, you’re likely restricted from any further exploitation of your own. That’ll probably include submitting it to any more contests, and certainly means not showing it to any other producers. When your script is under option, it’s “off the market” and is no longer working for you. Now the option has to be working for you, by being more valuable, more likely to lead to production, than having the script “on the market”. So, you want it optioned by someone who’s really got the goods to make things happen.

3 – It’s okay to say no

If you’re approached by an unknown producer with no resources, no previous credits, no financing and no connections, and thus a limited likelihood of getting to production, it’s okay to say no. Your script (assuming it’s a good script, and of course it is, right?) may be more valuable to them than they are to you. Your script may no longer be working for you, either inside or out of the option. (But you don’t have to say no. There may be good reasons to take said chance with Mister unknown resourceless producer… more on that later.)

4 – Get a lawyer

If you’re considering taking the option, let me say this first:

Get a lawyer… not just any lawyer,  but an entertainment attorney. I promise you, they will handle things you never dreamed would need to be handled. They will ask for compensations and protections that you didn’t know existed. And you will be better off for it.

Second, partner with your lawyer. I’ve heard people complain long and hard about how their lawyers screwed up deals for them, lost them money or projects or investors. Your attorney works for you… they’re the pro, don’t get me wrong, and avail yourself of their wisdom, but be sure you’re involved enough to sign off on what they’re asking for. In the end, if you let your attorney ask for too much and screw the deal, it’s on you.

Where do you find a lawyer? I can only tell you how I found mine. My first option deal was a no-lawyer friendly deal with a producer I knew from a previous film (I was an art director). I signed an option contract that looked fair to my unschooled eye (and it pretty much was), and it ran its course. When the producer wanted to renegotiate an extension, I took that as an opportunity to look for an entertainment attorney, because I figured it would be easier to find a good one when I could say “There’s an offer on the table… can you help me?”.

Then, I reached out to other screenwriters I know, asked for references, and was recommended to a great attorney in Beverly Hills. I was able to contact his offices, reference this other writer’s name, and say “So and so referred me to you. I’ve got an offer on the table. Can you help?”

The short answer, I guess, is network for recommendations.

5 – Why do you get paid?

So if they’re not making your movie (yet) why do you get paid?

Your script is Intellectual Property (IP), and he with the best IP wins. No script, no movie. (Well, that’s not entirely true… plenty of films go into production with no script, but they’ve usually got big stars or big producers behind them. Iron Man comes to mind as a recent example…) IP has inherent value, and potential value. The inherent value is that it’s legally defensible property that you own and control the rights to. The potential value is, of course, what its resulting film (and all that might go with that… merchandise, novelizations, sequels, serializations, TV series, etc.) will be worth.

When you option the script to a producer, you’re transferring your rights in the IP to that producer to use as her own. It’s no longer yours for the period of the option… it’s now an asset in the producer’s portfolio. Even if the film isn’t made, the rights to that asset – control over the potential – are of value to the producer. Why? A producer with a portfolio of ten good producible scripts she’s got exclusive rights to is in a stronger position with potential financiers, studios, production partners, than is a producer with no rights to any scripts. Make sense?

Because you’re giving up an asset with value and taking it off the market, you should be compensated.

6 – How much will you get paid?

Your option contract should include at least two numbers: the option price, and the purchase price.

The option price is what you get for giving the producer rights to your IP, and taking it off the market. The option price is traditionally 10% of the purchase price, and is yours to keep no matter what happens.

The purchase price is just what it sounds like: at some future point defined in the contract, should the producer raise the funds and resources to make the film, she will  “exercise the option” and buy the script from you. This should be prior to the start of principal photography, but could be another negotiated date.

The option price (what you’ve already received) may be applied toward the purchase price… say the purchase is 50K, and you’ve received 5K as the option price (10%). When they exercise, they’ll give you the other 45K. Should they never exercise, you keep the 5K as compensation for being “off the market”. But again, this is all negotiable.

So what is the purchase price?

That’s the trick, isn’t it? If you’re in the Writer’s Guild (WGA), I believe the union minimum right now for a feature script is in the neighborhood of 76K. Of course, the WGA does understand that small movies can’t take that hit, and they’ve got low-budget agreements for those kinds of productions. Ask the WGA for more info – they’re pretty accessible folks, even for non-members.

I’m not currently WGA, and I’m assuming you’re not either. So what do we ask for?

One rule of thumb says the script should account for about 3% of the budget… so if your script is a little indie film that’s being shot on weekends for 50K, figure $1500. A 2MM movie? Shoot for a $60,000 purchase price. Find a balance, and don’t cripple the production with an unreasonable percentage. Be a partner, and an asset, not a financial liability. Instead, negotiate those alternative compensations. Wouldn’t you like to have owned a little backend piece of Paranormal Activity?

7 – What about those “dollar options”?

Again, if you’re in the WGA there are restrictions on how little you can accept… but we’re not WGA. So we’ve got the freedom to strike any deal we want.

The producer may ask you to option your script to them for very little or no money, and while many writers may disagree with me, I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing. There are good reasons to take low dollar or free options, especially when you’re early in your career — so long as you’re confident that the producer has a reasonably good chance of reaching production, or you’re otherwise going to get some good value and experience from the option. There’s value in getting the opportunity to work with certain people, for instance, or in being allowed to participate and gain experience in a production role.

If you choose to take the dollar option, just bear in mind that you should be reimbursed for that additional concession. In addition to your purchase price, consider negotiating for other compensations, like backend points, or a higher purchase price, or box office bonuses, a first right of refusal on all paid rewrites, the sequel, remakes, etc. Or consider retaining some or all of other rights in exchange for the dollar option, like the novelization, video game, or merchandising rights.

Or at the very least, if there’s little or no money up front, shorten the option period. Mitigate the “off the market” time you’re willing to endure for zero dollars.

8 – How long will the option be?

Options run 6-12 months (usually). At the end of the option period, the producer may have an “extension clause” they can exercise, to get another 3-6 months or more. But if they do, there should be another payment involved.

At the end of the extension, if they really want to hang on to the script, they can ask you to do another extension, or renegotiate the option, or whatever… but then it’s up to you.

All of these numbers are negotiable… how many months, how many extensions, how much additional payment. You’ll want to balance your desire to work with the producer, the time off the market, the likelihood of production, and make a deal you can live with… because once you sign, you’re obligated.

9 – Will they change my script?

In a word, “Yes”.

Every script, by every writer established or new, will go through changes. During my first option, among many other changes, all the characters had their genders reversed, and (I kid you not) a scene with a giant flying corncob was added. Yup. It all made sense to someone somewhere, and those changes, if they appease the right people, are probably bringing your project closer to production. I mean, come on, people don’t add flying corncobs for simply no reason, do they?

For crying out loud, don’t be married to your script. Filmmaking is a collaborative artform, and your option makes you a part of a team. If you’re so in love with your story and will suffer heartache (that money or a produced credit can’t solve when it gets changed), then put it in that drawer and don’t take it out till you can make it yourself, your way.

Negotiate yourself as the writer of any rewrites, polishes, and punch-ups that might be necessary. Maintain some creative control.  Especially if you’re doing one of those dollar-options.

But don’t underestimate the value of having more eyes on your work. There’s a lot to be learned by seeing what another writer does with your stuff, and maybe (just maybe) you’ll like the experience. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll end up sharing credit with a writer of note. And that’s not a bad thing.

If you can, negotiate to protect your credit. Look into the WGA guidelines for which credits mean what. Understand that if WGA writers are brought on to massage your work, they’ll be treated like WGA writers, possibly to your detriment. More on that in Part II.

And this is important – negotiate the rights to any changes or alternative versions created by the producer or on behalf of the producer during the option period. In other words, if the script reverts back to you, so should the rights to any changes made to the script while the producer had it. Otherwise, you’ve got your script back, but the producer potentially still has rights to their version… and now you’re in competition with another version of your script that you don’t control. That’s not a place you want to be.

10 – So why option?

If you were a producer, wouldn’t you rather spend a little money to guarantee your exclusive rights to a great script, and spend a year testing the waters with financiers, production partners and distributors, than buy a script outright for ten times the money only to discover you can’t gain any traction?

As great as you and the producer might think your script is, the production environment is fickle. Deals fall apart all the time. Movies go in and out of production like fashion and fads. The option lets you and the producer partner together with limited liability and obligations well defined, to try to bring your project to the screen. A carefully written and executed option contract makes for good and honest business partners… and that’s what you are, in the end.

So here’s my philosophy. Enjoy the option for what it is: a vote of confidence in your hard work, and an opportunity to learn and network.

Dream about the option turning into a sale and a produced script… and plan for it in your option negotiations. But from a practical standpoint, consider the option the endgame. The option is a great opportunity to learn more about the business, to meet new people, and make new connections. Take full advantage of it (as much as the producer will allow) and be a participant. Producers (many of them, anyway) want to work with writers who do more than just deliver a script and wait for a check… they want a creative partner. Negotiate your right to rewrite and polish, and attack it with everything you’ve got. Prove yourself a team player and a saleable writer.

This industry is all about relationships anyway. If the movie isn’t made, you’ve spent a year on someone’s radar, in this producer’s office, on the phone, meeting her contacts, and showing yourself to be a professional who delivers and is willing to work and play well with others. You’re in her rolodex, and maybe she’ll refer you to her pals.

That may just prove to be payment enough, when it leads to your next big deal.

Coming up…

In part II, I’ll be sharing many of the terms, clauses and points of negotiation I’ve become familiar with, so that when you’re talking to your attorney (and your potential producer) you’ll have at least a little vocabulary to lean on.

on defining “high concept”

Every so often I see a conversation about “high concept” films or screenplays that goes something like this:

“That was a high concept film.”

“High concept? It was a bunch of explosions and giant robots! What’s so high concept about that?

“That’s poster-child high concept. By definition.”

“No, high concept means a concept with high aspirations… concepts with a higher calling.”

“High concept” does sound like it’d be more applicable to The Seventh Seal than to 2012. And those who lament Hollywood’s penchant for 90 minute action-figure commercials based on video games from the ’70’s might resent the apparent hijacking of the term to mean its exact opposite, somehow projecting value on the valueless by virtue of its semantic favoritism. But it is what it is… the term is firmly embedded in the lexicon of the industry, and now means precisely the opposite of what it sounds like it means.

So I dug up some old notes I’d written a few years ago, and thought I ‘d repost it here, to sort of bubble it back up to the top of the conversation. A few of the links are no longer any good, but you’ll get the point.




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A quick Google search turns up:

“A high concept is a one sentence description of a story idea. In Robert Kosberg’s “The Bottom Line of High Concept” chapter in his book, How To Sell Your Idea to Hollywood, he credits the idea of high concept to Barry Diller and Michael Eisner. They created the term when they were young executives at ABC in the late sixties working to promote TV Movies. Diller and Eisner had to devise a way to grab attention in a TV Guide listing with just one or two lines. That’s how the term high concept originated. To capture an audience, that one sentence had to convey just how exciting, sexy, provocative, and entertaining the movie was going to be for them to watch.” The Mega Hit Movies – excerpt from “The Bottom Line of High Concept“

“Most of you probably know what “High Concept” means, but for those of you who don’t: High Concept is STORY as star. The central idea of the script is exciting, fascinating, intriguing, and different. High Concept films can usually be summed up in a single sentence or a single image. In this case, “High” does not mean “High Brow” or “High Intelligence”, nor does it mean something that only sounds good when you’re stoned. “High” means big, exciting, larger than life. A small, personal idea may not attract the mass audience that a film requires. We need stories with exciting ideas…” Script Secrets

“Anyone who has ever wondered about the reasoning behind formulaic mainstream films will learn probably more than they wanted to know in this academic examination of high-concept films. Although popularly thought of as films that can be summarized in one sentence, Wyatt, a former market-research analyst for the film industry, defines high concept as “a product differentiated through the emphasis on style in production and through the integration of the film with its marketing.” The author contends that these economically motivated products (films like Flashdance, Top Gun, Batman and Grease) form the most significant strain in motion pictures of the last 20 years.” review of High Concept: Movies and Marketing in Hollywood (Texas Film Studies Series)

“High Concept?” That’s an idea born thirty years ago, when made-for-TV movies were in their infancy and the industry learned that the most significant difference between these and the traditional feature films was that there was no time for word-of-mouth to sell them. And so “High Concept” came to Hollywood. Plots had to be easy to describe, very compelling, and thus easy to sell. This meant easy-to-sell everywhere– by word-of-mouth with the audiences, by the sales and marketing executives, by the studio executives to the producers, and (very important, this) by the scriptwriters making their pitches to bored studio executives. Remember– easy to describe and very compelling, or, as my accomplished friend put it: “imaginative and wild and simple.” So, fundamentally, “High Concept” is a marketing term. A High Concept is one a knowledgeable Hollywood executive with a chequebook will find fantastically irresistible to his target audience.” Absolute Write

“I took the road less traveled — I fell in with the “high concept” crowd. Those are the people who don’t write scripts, instead creating commercially sellable log lines which can be sold over a phone call or pitch session… There shouldn’t be a lot of explaining to do on your part. A story about a man going through a tough divorce who ultimately reconciles with his wife and returns to his family is not “high concept.” It’s neither fresh nor is there any obvious potential. A story about a guy who wakes up one morning to discover that a tiny alien is living in his head is “high concept.” ” HollywoodLitSales – Steve Kaire has set up 7 deals at the major studios and is an expert on the high-concept pitch.

“What does the term “high concept” mean in the film business? It’s simply a term used to describe a script or a film that a person can easily understand after hearing just a few words. Robin U. Russin and William Missouri Downs define “high concept” in their book Screenplay: Writing the Picture as “a movie’s premise or storyline that is easily reduced to a simple and appealing one liner. Jennifer Lerch in her book, 500 Ways To Beat The Hollywood Script Reader tells us that we want to shoot for high concept scripts because they sell. She says, “A high-concept screenplay can be sold without lengthy explanation by the Hollywood Reader or the Executive Reader.” In addition, Ms. Lerch, a Hollywood Reader herself, says that readers refer to those stories that have a catchy idea and broad appeal as high concept. One thing is certain, a high concept script will sell before a low concept script. For example, Liar, Liar, a script in which a lawyer has to tell the truth for 24 hours was said to be an easy sell. Most blockbuster films (those big action movies that generally come out in the summer) are high concept. Think Terminator, Con Air, Air Force One, Die Hard, etc. But not all high concept movies are big blockbuster-type movies. Movies like The Sixth Sense, American Beauty, The Usual Suspects, and Goodfellas are high concept, but not blockbuster.” ScreenTalk Mag (link now dead)

“Wyatt argues that ‘high concept’ accounts for a specific form of market driven filmmaking which peaked between 1983 and 1986 but includes films as diverse as Flashdance (1983), The Natural (1984), Robin Hood: prince of thieves (1991) and Wayne’s World (1992). The book addresses film style, large-scale changes in market structure, specific marketing tactics and finally proposes striking affinities between this mode of filmmaking and contemporary market research models. Wyatt’s stated goal seems worthy: ‘the project addresses the initially curious supposition that Grease, along with Jaws (1975), Star Wars (1977) and Saturday Night Fever (1977), is of much greater significance to American film history than the critically and institutionally recognized films of the period … (p. 22).” from a review of High Concept: Movies and Marketing in Hollywood (link now dead)

“The Film Council has awarded cash to four young scriptwriters who pitched their thriller, horror or comedy movie ideas in 25 words or less. Many successful Hollywood films, including Steven Spielberg’s jaws and the Oscar-winning historical epic Gladiator, were pitched in this manner. Studios call the device ‘high concept’.” BBC 2003

Yup, “The Industry” sees “High Concept” as a term that means formulaic, easy to pitch, easy to sell… “Aliens invade Earth on the Fourth of July”. “Robots that look like cars bring their war to Earth”. “An adventurer brings a pissed off mummy back to life”.

But “High Concept” doesn’t have to mean “devoid of value”. As writers we can choose to write really really good High Concept stories, or really really lousy High Concept stories. Take it as a challenge… take your thoughtful, complex characters and put them in a High Concept situation and see what happens. What if you got the assignment to write the screen adaptation of Ms. Pacman? What would you do to bring humanity and pathos (or whatever high falutin’ things it is you want to write) to the little yellow round lady?

Sometimes it’s just those kinds of challenges that really test our mettle.

Grampa Was A Superhero script has been optioned

[Become a fan of Grampa Was A Superhero on FACEBOOK]

Writing duo’s family friendly spec script lands option deal with Epiphany Productions.

Santa Cruz, CA – January 31, 2010

Chip Street and Sean Meehan have had unlikely good fortune in their short spec-screenplay writing careers. In an industry where newcomers are told that it’ll take 10 years of writing 20 lousy screenplays to finally get it right and earn any recognition, they’ve beaten the odds three for three.

Their most recent success? The family friendly screenplay Grampa Was A Superhero has been optioned by Mitchell Galin at Epiphany Productions. The story centers on 12-year-old Jesse and his Grampa, who thinks he’s a TV super hero. The elder drags his grandson on a cross-country road trip to confront his imaginary arch enemy… accidentally thwarting crimes along the way and fast becoming a folk hero.

Like a cross between Home Alone and Wild Hogs, the family adventure is silly enough for the kids, yet still maintains real heart and a touching subplot that will resonate with parents and grandparents alike. Street feels that the timing is especially right, given Hollywood’s history with — and pending slate of — superheroic stories about regular guys.

Mitchell Galin of Epiphany Productions

Mr. Galin is best known for a number of projects he produced in partnership with Stephen King, including Pet Sematary and The Stand, as well as his work in the adaptation of works by John Cheever, Dominick Dunne, Frank Herbert and others. His work has garnered six Emmy’s and the prestigious Christopher Award. Oscar-winning actors and actresses Galin has worked with include Katharine Hepburn, James Cagney, Peter O’Toole, Jodie Foster, James Earl Jones, William Hurt, Kathy Bates, George Scott, Maggie Smith, George Kennedy and William Hickey.

Galin says he finds the story “delightful”, and is looking forward to working with the writing team during development.

“We’re thrilled to be working with Mitchell,” says Street. “He’s a long-time pro, and a genuinely nice guy. We couldn’t ask for a better opportunity.”

Between them, Street and Meehan have three complete feature screenplays under their belts, and all three have been well received from the outset.

Street’s first screenplay, Rocket Summer, was a solo effort. The property was promptly optioned for development by etc… group entertainment. It centers on four small town teens who secretly build a rocket-powered car, but family troubles and a lack of mechanical know-how make staying secret, and staying safe, nearly impossible. The project got very close to production, more than half the funding was raised, and the option was extended for further development. Eventually the project fell victim to a faltering economy, but Street has regained control of the script, attached Julie Brown, and is certain the story will find a new home.

Their second effort as a writing team is the horror screenplay Faeries, in which ravenous pack-hunting creatures pursue a group of city-slickers on a juggernaut through the rugged mountain wilderness. Says Meehan, “This story combines classic creature feature elements, ‘cabin-in-the-woods’ simplicity, and the more sophisticated structure and character development of The Descent.” The script was a finalist in its first contest submission, the 2009 Shriekfest Horror Festival screenplay competition, and has gone on to be requested by as many as six production companies.

“We appreciate the positive feedback we’ve gotten,” says Street. “This is a tough industry, and the overwhelming response our work has gotten is amazing. We love movies, and we love telling stories. We feel very lucky to be able to do what we’re doing, and look forward to a watershed year.”

They’ve got a list of concepts an arm’s length long, and are already “breaking the story” on their next script, something Meehan calls “a classic Eastwood western with supernatural overtones”.

But for now, they’re focused on working hard with Galin to bring Grampa, and his sidekick grandson Jesse, to a screen near you.

my new job and why it made me disappear

Well, it’s been a while since I’ve posted. A few folks have been asking where I’d disappeared to, so I figured I’d catch everyone up.

In September of 2009 I took the first full-time job I’ve had since 2002. Well, that’s not entirely true… it’s the first full-time job working for someone else. See, back in 2002 I was working in the dot-com web development space, doing project and account management. Then everything went to hell (remember when web developers wore black turtlenecks and had cappuccino machines at their desks? Remember that? Yeah… good times… ) and I was unemployed. Prior to that I’d spent 17 years in the office products industry… ever seen “The Office”? I was Jim. I couldn’t bring myself to go back to that, so I sat on my couch for 7 months ruining a perfectly good credit score. Then, since no one would hire me, I decided to start my own web-development company – groupofpeople.com – with two other unemployed guys from my old job.

That worked out pretty well… we did a bunch of really good work for about 2 years, employed 12-16 contractors at any given time, and had a cool little office (no cappuccino machine though). I did all the business management, plus project management, usability audits and information architecture. Then my partners realized they didn’t want to be owners, they wanted to be employees – regular paychecks and no headaches, who could blame them - so they took off. I closed up the office and ran the company out of my house for a couple years, then closed it up completely to pay attention to my real passions… writing and art.

So since then, four years or so now, I’ve been freelancing as an illustrator, done some film work as an art director, story board artist, props guy, and a little directing and producing (shorts and industrials) while working on writing screenplays. Paydays are sporadic, but it’s fun and diverse. In particular, the screenwriting has been getting more attention, I fell in with a great group of fellow writers through Marvin Acuna’s BOSI, and I’ve spent the past year or so really focused on social networking to build my support community… Twitter, facebook, LinkedIn, and this blog. The more of it I did, the more I realized that social media marketing is interesting, and critical to having a career in the film industry. Especially when you’re doing it from outside Hollywood, as I am.

Why the long preamble? Why, to set up the ironies, of course.

Four months ago I stumbled across a job opening just down the street from my house. Good regular paycheck, literally a 90 second commute. Better still, what the company — Market Motive – does is train people in Internet marketing… no, not “get-rich-quick” Internet schemes. They train people and companies to optimize their online marketing, through classes in Search Engine Optimization, Conversion, Web Analytics, PPC Advertising, Online PR, and Social Media. All the classes are delivered online, and they needed someone to be their writer… web content, class descriptions, press releases, anything with words. Plus, I’m responsible for capturing and editing the video classes.

So I get paid to write, edit video, and learn Social Media and Online PR… Twitter, facebook, and LinkedIn. It’s a great opportunity, and the people are really nice. Perfect, right?

What’s the irony?

My first major project was managing the complete redesign and rearchitecture of their website (that’s the new one, linked right up above)… so I was right back in the web development space again. Okay, that’s not irony. Unless you count Alanis Morisette’s brand of irony. But it is something.

More legitimately ironic, though, is that now that I’m fully engrossed 10 hours a day with a company that specializes in – and is training me in — social media marketing, I’ve had no time for Twitter or facebook or LinkedIn or blogging. I have disappeared from the social media universe, because I’m too busy learning how important social media is and how to do it right.

What? You got me a comb? I just cut off all my hair!

Okay, maybe it’s really just poor time management. But I had a huge learning curve in the first few months, and my brain hurt too much to blog.

Anyway, when I took the job, they asked me what my dream job was, and I said “screenwriting”. But, I assured them, that’s not likely to happen in the near term. I had some interest, but nothing solid.

Now that I’ve been there four months, we just signed an option contract on one of my screenplays, Grampa Was A Superhero. Again, not ironic, but it’s a thing, right?

So the end of ‘09 was a roller coaster of big changes, and 2010 is shaping up to be a year of big changes and big opportunities. And you missed out on all of it. Because my brain was full.

I’ll be sharing more about the job, the similarities between writing marketing copy and screenwriting, and the social media universe as time goes on. I’m especially interested in social media for filmmakers, and alternative fundraising services… I’ll be talking a lot more about that in the coming months, too.

Cuz now that the painful transition from general layabout to full-time employee is over, I’m getting back on the social media horse.

In the meantime, I’ve got a great watch fob if anyone out there has a naked pocket watch.

where the wild things are – review

Where The Wild Things Are – a disappointing imbalance of dramatic and thematic intent.

I knew going in. I’d heard the reports, seen the reviews, and I knew.

“It’s awfully dark,” they’d say. “It’s not a kid’s movie.”

“But it’s a kid’s book,” I’d say. “It’s about a boy who imagines a land with friendly monsters. How can that not be for kids?”

But in my mind I thought maybe at least it would be an interesting adult take on a kid’s story. And it was a tossup between WTWTA and Jim Carrey’s new 3D Scrooge extravaganza from the people who brought you the robotic and unengaging Polar Express. So I opted for WTWTA.

Ah, but they were right. And I was wrong. And here’s why.

What Works

Man, this film looks great. It’s a strange, gritty, naturalistic combination of fantastic costuming and puppetry from Henson’s Muppet Shop, sweetened with CGI to bring character and expression to the creatures that in-camera animatronics just couldn’t do (Interestingly, this wasn’t originally the plan… the CGI was a “save” for an otherwise poorly performing first draft).

The result is a cast of big, fantastic, surreal monsters that at once look every bit like the Sendak illustrations writ real, with moist mouths and shiny eyes and sad, subtle expressions that let you completely forget that they’re giant costumes brought to life by a couple dozen operators each. There is actually subtext in the faces of Carol, Judith, Alexandra, Douglas and The Bull. And that allows you to completely suspend your disbelief and immerse yourself in the world on the screen.

Add to that the amazing production design by K.K. Barrett, and the gritty, hand held documentary realism of the camera work, and you’ve got an interesting, quirky, engaging and immersing visual treat that’s quite unexpected and unique, particularly for a kid’s fantasy movie.

And all the performances, even Max Records, the newcomer who plays the young boy with the big imagination, gives a fine turn even if the character he’s saddled with is less than likable.

What Doesn’t Work

Theme, theme, theme.

Max is a brat, who disrespects his Mom and his sister and acts like a spoiled, self-absorbed child. When he arrives on the island of the Wild Things, he discovers that they are essentially a tribe of argumentative, spoiled, jealous, giant child creatures. He finds himself reflected in them, and as their new King ends up learning how hard it is to have so much responsibility for the happiness of those around you, and yet to be so unappreciated. (Get it? He’s like his Mom, see?)

Story, story, story.

Okay, we get it. Every time the whiney wild things argue, and pout, and complain, Max has to step in and learn a little.

Okay, we get it. It happened again.

And again.

There’s no complexity to the story, once the thematic conceit is set up. That’s as complicated as it gets. Which is about as complicated as the book got, in all of its ten or so lines of text. And about halfway through I started getting bored, feeling like I’d spent the last 45 minutes reading the little book over and over and over, waiting for something more to happen.

As a screenwriter, maybe I’m overly fixated on story, but I’m constantly appalled by the utter lack of story in so much kid’s fodder (watched the D2DVD Space Buddies recently – no attempt at a story there at all). There are events, that happen in some kind of order, that ape the milestones of stories without really becoming stories themselves. And that’s kind of what happens here.

Tone, tone, tone.

Max discovers a pile of human-like bones, and fears that they are the remains of previous Kings (the Wild Things deny this, but in a way that you know is a lie — and later they admit he’s the first King they didn’t eat). Later, in a fit of violent rage, one Wild Thing tears the arm off another (something that looks like sawdust pours out — is he truly a stuffed animal?) and his arm is replaced with a snowman’s twig of an arm. Supposed to be funny, I guess, but it sent my 8 year old into a sobbing fit.

Likewise a dirt clod fight devolves into a raging clobber fest that leaves one Wild Thing with a bloody gash in his head (are they stuffed animals? I don’t know any more…) and another creature knocks beautiful owls out of the sky with rocks (“They like it when I do that” she says).

And finally, Max has to crawl inside one Wild Thing (she’s slimy and fleshy inside – not a stuffed animal after all) to hide from another, angry Wild Thing who is chasing him crashing through the underbrush in a hell-bent effort to eat him alive.

It’s an oddly simplistic and childlike theme for such a dark and adult series of events that never evolves into a story.

WTWTA seems to not quite know what kind of movie it is, or who it’s for (such a common ailment). Someone seemed to think that it was best to aim for the adults who grew up with the book, and assumed that they’d want a grown-up take on the story to suit their new grown-up sensibilities. Someone else seemed to want to make a film for kids around 9 or 10. Records was about that age during shooting, and looks just a little silly in the wolf outfit (I always envisioned Max as about 5-6). Nobody seemed interested in making a movie that was aimed at the target audience of the book itself, small children under 6 with fantasies about giant talking stuffed animals… who would likely be the kids or grandkids of those of us who grew up with the book in our childhood, and would be paying for the movie.

Now of course I didn’t see the early versions of the film, and can’t speak to what complexities the story might originally have had. But the version in theaters ended up with not enough story to satisfy adults (not this one, at least), while unfortunately retaining the adult tone that makes it inappropriate for its younger audience.

It’s a storyteller’s responsibility to balance theme, tone and story. I’ve written in the past about the Dramatic Imperative of a story, and its relationship to its Thematic Imperative. I’ll have to dig up that old essay, and re-investigate it here sometime soon.

But WTWTA is a great example of what happens when those elements are sadly out of balance, whatever the cause or intent.

See it for the production design. But leave the sound off and play “Dark Side Of The Moon” instead.

Or go see Jim Carrey get hit in the crotch with an icicle.