Creative Screenwriting Magazine now carries the full set of Professor Richard Walter’s master screenwriting courses!
Creative Screenwriting Magazine now carries the full set of Professor Richard Walter’s master screenwriting courses!
I know it’s a cold call, designed to sell me some product or cause, even before the caller speaks.
Indeed, more often than not the caller doesn’t speak at all.
The equipment in telephone boiler rooms dials multiple phone numbers simultaneously. The software connects with the first one that answers, hanging up on the others. The strategy enables soliciters to complete more calls in less time, and thereby also to disrupt, disturb, irk, and annoy an ever larger number of telephone subscribers.
Getting on the don’t-call list seems to be impossible. My numerous requests have proven futile.
I read an article recently where people described various ways they respond to cold calls, the purpose being to keep the caller on the line as long as possible. They’re wasting my time? I’ll waste theirs. It’s the least they can do, prankster responders assert, to discourage an enterprise that grows worse daily. Rare’s the morning I do not receive a half dozen such solicitations. And that’s just the morning.
My own method for toying with these callers is to adopt a phony, generic Eastern European accent, not unlike the late Andy Kaufman’s character “foreign man,” which was the model for his legendary Latke on the TV series Taxi.
“Oh, yes, beddy good,” I’ll say to someone selling subscriptions to the Chicago Tribune. “I am need to having cleaned carpet. Is big stain from rash by Labrador Retriever. The credit card too much charges, do you for to have better percentage ratings?”
To my credit, however, I have no illusions about why I do this. It is not part of any noble campaign to stand against the army of time-wasting intruders.
I do it because I am a writer, and there’s no circumstance I won’t exploit to avoid facing the pages staring back at me from my screen.
Am I shamed to game the interrupters?
I am. As a screenwriter I’ve learned two things: 1) consider the status of the observer and 2) imbue all characters, even the bad guys, with redeeming, sympathetic characteristics.
Who makes these cold calls? Prosperous, fulfilled souls whose career goal was to sit in a cubicle at a call center and provide angry strangers the opportunity to curse them out and hang up on them? These wretched souls are all working on commission; there’s no guarantee they’ll earn a nickel.
What can such a caller be except a desperado, someone who has had terrible luck finding work?
Chuck her (or him) a break. Just hang up. It’s not rude. There’s nothing in it for them to squander not only your time but also their own where they’re making no sale.
Once, I had a so sincere a chat with a cold caller that he told me he was quitting the racket immediately upon completion of the call.
Mobile Movie Making (MMM) is an online magazine devoted to the art and technology of using smartphones and tablets to shoot videos in all genres. From MMM’s vantage point – everyone can be a movie mogul since pocket cameras are making possible a new era of moviemaking, in which the people will not only be audiences but also creators. And, at the end of the day a good movie of any length comes down to story. In a new book review, they highlight Richard Walter’s ESSENTIALS OF SCREENWRITING as a book that up and coming moviemakers should consult. Read the full review on their site:http://mobilemoviemaking.com/category/books.
Art, Picasso tells us, is the lie that tells the greater truth.
Screenwriters need to learn how to lie through their teeth.
As a screenwriting educator and script doctor I have seen more scripts brought down by a writer’s wrongheaded devotion to some idealized, romanticized, self-conscious, narcissistic, pie-in-the-sky notion of The Truth.
In script consultation sessions on and off the UCLA campus, I often find myself asking something like, “Why is this character hemming and hawing, starting and stopping, meandering, beating around the bush?”
The answer I commonly get is, “That’s the way people really talk.”
What’s wrong with the way people really talk? Two things. First, the way people really talk is available for free in the street. Nobody has to hire a babysitter, drive to a theater and poke around (and pay) for a parking place, not to mention buying a ticket.
Worse still, the way people really talk is boring. “Hi, how you doing?” “Pretty good. You?” “Not too bad.” “That’s nice.” “Is it hot enough for you today?” “I’ve got to get over to the market for a quart of milk.” “My mother went to New Jersey yesterday.”
Our only rule at UCLA’s screenwriting program: Don’t Be Boring.
Not only dialogue but other aspects of scripts are suffocated by this foolish devotion to some sort of factual, historical forthrightness. Remember, history is only high-story or his-story.
At the most recent Oscar presentations (at the time of this writing about three months ago) there was some controversy regarding the fudging of historical facts in Tony Kushner’s and (UCLA screenwriting MFA graduate) Eric Roth’s screenplay for Lincoln. The film fudged on the votes regarding the Emancipation Proclamation among the Connecticut congressional delegation. Likewise, the script for Best Picture winner Argo took broad liberties with the actual events surrounding the rescue of the American hostages during the Iranian revolution of 1979. The movie depicts a last-minute chase down the runway as the escape plane takes off.
Am I bothered when screenwriters play fast and loose with the so-called facts?
I am not.
When I’m hungry and crave a tuna fish sandwich, I don’t go to the hardware store. Likewise, when I seek historical facts, I don’t go to the movie theater. I’ll get rotten history and a lame movie.
To believe that objective Truth even merely exists represents the height of arrogance.
Beginners asks the reader to imagine an empty box car on a train with a table at dead center on which sits a lamp with twin lenses, one aimed at the rear of the car, the other at the front.
The front and back doors are controlled by photolytic switches; that is, when a light shines upon them, they open.
Outside the train, from the perspective of an embankment alongside the track, an observer sees something quite different from another observer riding inside the car. For the observer in the car, when the lamp is lit, the front and rear doors open simultaneously. For the observer on the embankment, however, the doors open not simultaneously but sequentially. With the front door running away from the beam of light, and the rear door racing toward it, the back door opens just a little sooner than front door.
That difference main seem trivial. The front door starts to open just slightly after the rear door. In fact, however, the difference is huge. Simultaneity is, after all, not merely different from but the opposite of sequentiality. Things happening one after the other are the opposite of things happening at the same time. Aren’t opposites the greatest kinds of differences?
Most significantly, this is not a metaphor, not an optical illusion or some sort of trick. It could be verified with ultra-high speed cameras, which actually exist; they are used by the military to analyze ballistics.
The question arises: What’s happening here? Are the doors opening simultaneously or are they opening sequentially?
The answer is: Yes. The doors open simultaneously or they are open sequentially depending upon who’s looking and from where.
Reactionary talk show radio hosts will cite me as one more pointy-headed college professor claiming that everybody has his own truth and that there are no timeless principles, no eternal verities we can believe.
Is there nothing we can agree upon? There is, for example, substantial disagreement regarding the assassination of President Kennedy. The official government version holds that a lone gunman was the culprit. Others argue there was a conspiracy ordered by Fidel Castro and carried out by Cuban secret agents. Still others say it was an American security entity such as the C.I.A. Could it be that Israel did it? Isn’t there always some lunatic body of opinion that holds Israel responsible for everything, from the Kennedy assassination to the Dodgers’ wretched season last year?
Can we not at the very least agree, however, that JFK was murdered on September 22, 1963?
An article in The New Yorker examined this notion. Sept, as in September, means seven. Think septuagenarian or septet. Oct, as in October, means eight. Think octopus or octogenarian. November derives from nine. December (think decimal, decade) is ten. Yet these are not the seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth months but the ninth, tenth, eleventh, and twelfth. How did that come to be?
The answer is that some suck-up to Caesar two thousand years ago convinced him that there should be two months honoring him. That is where July (Julio, or Julius) comes from and August is for august, that is: Caesar Augustus.
And what about 1963? Jews and Maya and Chinese and other cultures have different numbers for that year.
Even the mere citation of a date engages controversies, therefore, that are political, cultural, religious, intellectual, and ideological.
Movies are fake. In many ways they are the most false enterprise in all of creation. What is more manipulated, arranged, rearranged, shuffled, reshuffled, juggled and re-juggled than a movie? What plays faster and looser with time and space and than a motion picture? Movies don’t even move. Everyone knows that a movie is really a hundred thousand still images projected in rapid succession.
But there is something that is entirely true about movies, and that is the emotion, the feelings experienced by the audience. If one is frightened in a scary movie, one is truly frightened. If one grieves at a tear jerker, the tears are real, as is the grief.
The circumstances are fake but the emotion is one hundred percent authentic.
That is the kind of authenticity, and the manner of truth, screenwriters should seek.
Here is a rare opportunity for UCLA and non-UCLA students to enroll in an on-campus screenwriting seminar with Professor Richard Walter at UCLA.
It’s easier to win admission to the Harvard Medical School than to the graduate screenwriting program that Professor Walter has chaired and co-chaired for more than thirty years.
He takes you all the way from idea, to draft, to studio deal. UCLA-trained screenwriters have won three Oscars and five Oscar nominations in the past five years. They have written eleven movies for Steven Spielberg.
The class, FTV 135A, is offered in UCLA Summer Session ‘A’.
This advanced screenwriting workshop is especially designed for the summer session and is appropriate for new writers and also for experienced writers. It is a round-table roll-up-your-sleeves-and-write seminar. There are in-class writing challenges and also analysis of in-progress script pages written by students in the class.
The class meets on UCLA’S Westwood campus for six Monday afternoons from June 23 through July 28, 2014, 2:00 to 4:50 PM. The class, listed in the online catalog of courses as “FILM TV 135A ADV SCRNWRTNG WKSHP” (more info here) is open to UCLA students and also to students who are not enrolled at UCLA. All students receive 8 UC credits that are transferable to other institutions.
All pre-requisites are waived for this special summer offering.
Writers with questions regarding enrollment can contact the UCLA Registrar’s office directly at (310) 825-4101, or Kathy A. Cabrera (Professor Walter’s media manager) at (678) 644-4122 or kathyAcabrera@yahoo.com.
Professor Richard Walter will present on the “Essentials of Screenwriting” at the Alameda Writers Group Meeting on Saturday, May 3, 2014 at 10:45AM. The meeting is open to the public and will take place at the Glendale Public Library on 222 East Harvard Street in Glendale, California. For more information, visit http://alamedawritersgroup.com/.
The LA Times recently rounded up the annual Oscar nominees with their predictions. On deserving films for this year’s Academy Awards, here’s my view:
I loathed American Hustle. O’Russell is hugely, vastly over-appreciated in my never-humble view. Like his similarly over-praised Silver Linings Playbook, American Hustle is a lot of yelling and screaming and repetition. At least forty minutes too long. He tips his hand at the very opening of the picture when we spend too, too much time with Christian Bale fussing with his hairpiece. A few minutes later, the Bradley Cooper character yanks the toupee off Bale’s head. Do we really need to reminded that he wears a rug? Wouldn’t it have been smarter to skip the opening with the toupee and have the whole conceit revealed in the latter scene with Cooper? It’s not that big a deal all by itself, but nothing’s all by itself in a movie.
Every little thing is part of the whole picture. If he’s so inefficient and uneconomical here, by squandering lots of time and delivering precious little story and character freight here, it bodes ill for the rest of the movie. If this section is twice as long as it ought to be, so also will be (and is) the movie.
In more than forty years of WGA membership, it seems there’s a strike threat with the expiration of every contract as talks between the studios and the WGA went into a two week recess in mid-February. Nobody ought to be surprised that I blame the studios.
An ancient movie executive characterized writers as “schmucks with Underwoods.” (For the younger among you, Underwood is a brand of typewriter. Visit Wikipedia for ‘typewriter.’)
Irving Thalberg, the head of production at MGM during Hollywood’s Golden Age, said that the most important people in the business were the writers, and that every step must be taken to prevent them from knowing that.
Surely the biggest mistake writers ever made was to assign copyright of our material to the studios. This is not true for playwrights or authors of books. That’s why no editor can simply throw me off a book I’m writing and bring in a team of punch-up artists to add some spice. This is why Neil Simon can’t be kicked off his play so that the producer’s pal from the gym can rewrite him.
Einstein told us there are two—and only two—constants in the universe: 1) the speed of light and 2) The Rolling Stones.
They showed up in downtown Los Angeles last spring celebrating their fiftieth anniversary.
The first time I saw them was October of 1965, in Syracuse, New York, when I was enrolled in a jackpot, give-away, draft-dodge of a Masters program in television and radio at the Newhouse School of Public Communications on the Syracuse University campus. I had heard a handful of their earliest hits on top-forty radio and had not been particularly impressed. From afar they sounded like rich London white kids trying too hard to sound like oppressed, impoverished American black kids.
The graduate screenwriting program at UCLA enjoys an embarrassment of riches. We receive fifteen times as many qualified applications as we have available slots for new writers.
The ‘take rate’ for students admitted is virtually one hundred percent.
That is, among applicants admitted, almost everyone enrolls.