"If a coverage service likes my script, how can I capitalize on that?"

John emailed: 

I received feedback from a screenplay reader service that rated my script a "Consider" and gave me a great review along with some good notes. I emailed them, thanking them for the coverage and asked whether or not I could name drop them and their review in my query emails. My script is a coming-of-age drama that doesn't have high-concept hook and my thinking was any kind of positive review could only help. 

The response I got was as follows: "I wouldn't mention the Consider, nor would I mention a Recommend. Our opinion means nothing to agents and producers." 

My question: if my script gets positive feedback from a (reliable) script reader with the industry credits it claims to have, can I use it to solicit my script? Otherwise, what's the point?

What is the point indeed? You just hit on the reason why so many people advise against paying someone for coverage.  In most cases a positive review will mean very little as far as opening the doors.   At least with most coverage services, I'd never spend the money on the hope that a positive review will somehow get you read somewhere.  Most of the time, I'd suggest using those services only as a barometer of how good your work is relative to all the other amateurs out there.

Your reader is right in that their opinion probably won't open many doors.  There aren't many coverage services that have a strong enough reputation to make a real pro interested in something that service liked.  The Black List is one of the few that does.  If you get an 8 or higher on the Black List, I bet you'll get some read requests when you mention that fact in a query.

Since that was a quick one, let's get in one more question.  This one comes from Annette:


I hope you would be willing to answer a quick question about written dialog. I have a redneck character who speaks like this: "Yer gonna hafta read somethin' here" 

Do you have an opinion on writing like that or would it be better to write in the action, a character who talks like a redneck and let the actor mold his voice? 

Either alternative is acceptable.  I think the trick to writing dialect is not overdoing it.  Sometimes it helps the read to have the dialogue written that way.  However, you can't go too far overboard in writing out the speech phonetically.  I read one script with a Scottish brogue and the writer seemed determined to give every syllable a thick accent.  The result was I had to read each line of dialogue carefully, often sounding it out before I could make sense of what was said.

That's a case of the accent working against the script.  It forced too much effort on my part and kept breaking the flow of the story.  The result was not a very good read.  The plot was rather weak too, but it certainly wasn't helped by the presentation.

So go with whatever flows best.  As you point out, the actor can always add the accent later themselves.

Tuesday Talkback: Dialogue

Okay, I've tried answering this email a number of times and I honestly don't know where to begin.  So I'm pushing it off on you guys.

Despina writes:

i hate to ask this question as i'm sure i'm revealing my freshman status as a screenwriter, but i have to ask... i am having serious problems with dialogue and character development and i have no idea why. i realize that sounds elementary and more experienced writers will scoff, but please keep the eye-rolling to a minimum and bear with me. i have always been a "scene" person - i think and conceptualize based on a single scene my brain conjures up based on a real life scenario or incident or music... and whether that scene is something pivotal, an action scene, or something seemingly simple and understated, i have that scene and try to create a story or plot to make that scene a reality. most of my scenes come from a vibe or feeling a piece of music creates (rock, opera, jazz, whatever) and i think "wow that would be a killer/cute/poignant scene in a movie." i'm essentially basing a movie off of what my idea of a great soundtrack would be. sound looney toon yet? i promise i'm not shallow.

it's come to a point in my life where i finally want to write this stuff down and see if i can knock out some screenplays based on those little scenes. needless to say, all those little scenes are sitting, lonely, in their own files on my desktop in hopes i eventually circle back and love on them. these little scenes have no real character development or dialogue, so i've yet to practice this or give anything or anyone a voice within these little scenes.

now that i've given the craft more study and thought, i'm trying a different approach. i found a logline and a 'call' to write a screenplay based off that logline. at first i brushed it off, but i had to go back because some exciting ideas unexpectedly came from it. so now i've just had two days in a row where i literally just threw up a multi-page story and rough plotline, breaking it up (as an outline) into scenes and acts with little pertinent bits of dialogue along the way (nothing really substantial, however). i understand writing as a craft with archs and subtext and whatnot, and i've been able to break these ideas down, but now that i have to put a voice and words to these characters' mouths... i'm blank. i'm holding myself to such lyrical gangsta levels of those i admire (Coen Bros, Wes Anderson, Tarantino) that i doubt myself completely in doing this.

i've read many of your blog posts and interviews and roundtables (i only just discovered your blog last night and have been obsessed for the last 24 hours) and i've been able to fully connect with what they're describing in their own ways of screenplay development, but i can't, for the life of me, find anything to grab onto regarding dialogue. should character development be one of the first things you do before going into the story? am i just ignorantly lacking the intellect to create good characters? why don't i have the capacity to give my characters dialogue? honest to goodness meaningful dialogue? should i go ahead and jump off of the screenwriting ledge?

i swear i'm not a dull creature... this just vexes me so. if you have any archived posts i've yet to discover or know of any good resources i'd be much obliged for the direction.

apologies for the long-windedness of this.

Dialogue is hard, and for me it's been the most-strongly self-taught aspect of the craft.  I feel like you need to just write, then say it out loud, then keep rewriting.  You're probably going to write a lot of bad dialogue before you write good dialogue.  Really it's something that comes with trial and error.  I'm not bad at identifying bad dialogue, and sometimes I can even offer suggestions on how to improve a scene.

But straight-up telling you how to write good dialogue? It's a more elusive lesson.  It's not that I haven't touched on dialogue before, but the full context of your question reads like you're really looking for the theory of writing good dialogue, and I confess I don't know if I have the capacity to give that broad of an answer.

What I will say is that you can't let this paralyze you.  Don't feel like your first-draft dialogue has to be brilliant.  Just get it on the page and give yourself something to work with.

What do you guys think?

Slang in a spec script?

Twitter question from @A_Marra:

Curious. What's ur feelings when reading a script with real heavy ghetto slang? Does that make u stop reading a script?

You mean stuff like this?

"Aw, man. Tru 'dat. Nigga' be trippin! Tha' muthafucka is craza!"

Done here and there just to give an urban flavor is fine, but when something like this dominates every last line of dialogue?

It annoys the hell out of me. But let's not stop at ghetto slang. I once read a script set in Scotland where the writer felt the need to phonetically write the accent into every character's dialogue. The same goes for excessive Southern accents - especially when set in Civil War era stories.

Don't overdo it on the dialects, folks. If you write that the character has a heavy accent, it's not necessary to make sure every last syllable you write contains the accent. Remember that you're writing this to be read and you don't want to make that harder by cluttering up the page with what looks like guttural sounds unless you say them outloud.

Reader Question - Dialogue differentiation

Max has a question about dialogue:

I was wondering if you have any thoughts on differentiating dialogue between characters. As a new screenwriter, I don't mind trying to distinguish the "voice" of characters who have very different backgrounds, but I struggle on this issue when the characters are similar to each other. Obviously differentiation just for the sake of differentiation would be a bigger debacle, but in the good scripts you've read, how do they handle this?

I think giving them contrasting points of view helps. Ideally there'll be some conflict in the scene and that will be how you find a way to differentiate the two. The more developed your characters are as people, the more different their dialogue will naturally sound.

Take a look at Seinfeld. George and Jerry are close friends. They grew up together, they share a lot of the same interests and they're both vaguely Jewish. What makes their dialogue different? Attitude. Jerry is far more likely to toss off some dry insult or throwaway snide comment. Told of George's latest antics while working for the Yankees, Jerry says, "That's a helluva an organization they're running over there. I can't imagine why they haven't won a pennant in years." Can you see the same line of dialogue coming out of George's mouth?

How would George express frustration or contempt for that situation? He'd probably just say: "Can you believe this? No WONDER they can't win a pennant!"

Both Jerry and George often say exactly what they think. The difference is that Jerry masks his feelings with sarcasm, where as George will either lay it out there or lie outright in the furtherance of some larger scheme.

Another good example - The Vampire Diaries. Stefan and Damon are both vampires, they both hail from the same era, and to a large extant you could argue they both love Elena in their own way. However, despite the similar backgrounds, they are completely different people. Stefan is more internal and thoughtful. He chooses his words more carefully and rarely goes on the attack in a conversation, save for talking to his brother. Damon, on the other hand, is all about throwing verbal daggers. On top of that, he tries very hard to make it appear that he doesn't give a rat's ass about whatever's being discussed, even when it's clear he does.

Good dialogue comes from point of view, and THAT comes from character. Work that out and you should be fine.

"You can type this shit, but you can't say it."

That quote is from Harrison Ford, and it's something he said to George Lucas with regard to the clunkiness of his dialogue. It's a lesson that writers all too often forget.

One of the cooler aspects of the filmmaking process is getting to see casting sessions. Through my own short films, and the films which the companies I've worked for have made, I've gotten to see several casting sessions. (Obviously in the case of the professional films, I've only seen the auditions on tape, whereas I was actually in the room for my own.) It's interesting to see different actors make wildly different choices, and just as interesting when disparate takes on a character are equally valid.

As writers, sometimes we convince ourselves that there's only one way a line of dialogue could be said. Maybe we assume that there's only one way a line could be delivered, or convince ourselves that a potentially difficult line could make sense if spoken just precisely. But here's the thing, actors will surprise you. They might find subtext you didn't realize was there - or they'll pick up on subtext elsewhere and find a way to bring it out using a line you hadn't intended for that purpose.

On one short film, I'd written a character who was supposed to be rather narcissistic. In my head, she was seeing everything through the lens of how it affected her and what it meant for her. Her interactions with the lead backed that up, but as I saw it, her self-centeredness would be almost naive. No matter what you said to this girl, she'd bring it back to herself because that was how she thought.

Well, the actress who eventually won the role came in and played those lines with more ego than I had imagined. In her interpretation, the character knew she was hot shit and she played her dialogue far more self-aware than I had conceived it to be. It surprised me because I hadn't considered that take on the character, but the more I saw it, the more I liked it because it made for a more interesting conflict with the lead. Though that dynamic wasn't the central conflict in the script, it put the lead more on the defensive and that made for a more interesting short all around. Had I gotten an actress who had given me exactly what I wanted, I think I still would have gotten a good movie about it, but this new spin on that character certainly enhanced the film.

But sometimes actors will take dialogue the other way. You hear it outloud and you realize that it simply doesn't work. There's nothing more punishing than having to endure an actor deliver a terrible line reading as you realize that it's all your fault for writing that insanely terrible dialogue.

Characters should be living, breathing people. They're not like text-to-speech programs that can spit out anything that you type. Make sure your dialogue reinforces that.

"Get me a beer"

Stereotypical characters annoy the hell out of me, but stereotypical dialogues for stereotypical characters is worse. Let's try an experiment. I'll say a line, and you see if you can get an image in your head of the character and scene it's likely to appear in.

"Get me a beer."

Innocuous? Not if you read the scripts I do, for if you did you would know that a man asking a woman to get him an alcoholic beverage is perhaps one of the most unspeakably evil things he can ask her to do. If you see this line in a script, and it comes from a man to a woman who is not a bartender, then you can safely assume the writer wants you to know that this man is SCUM. Utter evil. He might as well have shot a dog, smothered a baby and killed someone for their ethnicity/sexual orientation.

"Get me a beer."

One of two things will happen. The woman will give in, which shows that she's a broken, submissive frail woman stuck in a loveless marriage she desperately needs to escape. OR she'll resist, at which point the man will backhand her and call her a misogynistic slur just so we get that he has no respect for her.

If the woman brings the man a beer, it's never because it's no big deal for her to do a favor for her husband, and if she turns him down, the man never takes it maturely. But let's face it, the mere fact that he asks is iron clad evidence he's a cad.

Note this - an abusive husband never asks for something non-alcoholic. The scene never plays out like this:

HUSBAND: Get me the apple cider.

WIFE: Sorry honey, I'm eating. Can't you get it yourself?

HUSBAND: CUNT!

Husband backhands Wife, then shoves her into a wall.

Yet if you replace "apple cider" with "beer" I've read that scene a hundred times.

I can feel some of you retreating because of my use of the "c word." (No, not "cider" you morons!) I assure you it was only for education purposes.

The worst was a script I read where an entire scene hinged on if the woman was going to give in and get the beer. It starts with some social worker waiting for the woman to get back to her trailer. As that woman gets home, her husband sticks his head out of the trailer and shouts at her, "Where the hell have you been? Get yer ass in here and get me a beer!"

The social worker tells the woman that she doesn't have to live like this, remaining stuck in an abusive relationship, that she can help her. The man shouts to his wife, "Well? You comin'?" The wife's shoulders slump and she looks back and forth between the husband and the social worker, eventually turning towards the trailer with a sad look at the social worker and then telling her husband, "I'll get you your beer." And then we're all supposed to feel sad for this poor abused woman.

So think about that the next time you ask your wife to bring you a frosty beverage simply because she's in closer proximity to the fridge.

Californication shows that emotional moments should be seen and not heard

Though most other premium cable viewers have spent the last few days gushing about the twist that closed out Dexter, I want to take a few minutes and discuss a trope used in the final minutes of Californication's season finale.

As viewers of that episode know, the closing scenes of that episode featured Hank Moody telling his soulmate/mother of his child Karen a MAJOR secret that had been building up over the last few seasons. It couldn't have come at a worse time, as the two had finally worked through their differences and were preparing to move back to New York with their daughter. To say Karen didn't take it well would be an understatement. She starts shouting at him, practically breaking down. Then it gets worse for Hank as he goes outside only to run afoul of the cops, who are looking for him thanks to a fight he got into earlier. Hank, in no mood for this, decks one of the cops and is hauled off in handcuffs as his daughter cries.

What I found interesting about this scene is the decision not to let the audience hear either Hank's confession or Karen's reaction. As he starts to talk, a remixed "Rocket Man" comes up on the soundtrack and plays under all remaining action in the episode. Though there are a few phrases that can clearly be read on Karen's lips, the intent is that the audience isn't privy to the full conversation.

It's a trick I've seen other places, and it's been used to good effect here. While some might see it as a cop-out that the writer's didn't fully pen Hank's confession, I think they made a smart choice. It's a device that's useful when the audience's imagination is far more powerful than any dialogue the writer could craft.

The first time I saw this technique used was in an episode of ER called "Love's Labor Lost," the famous episode when Dr. Greene spends the whole show trying to save a pregnant woman, only to lose her on the table. Earlier in the show, the baby had been delivered and the father went to the maternity ward to check on him. After the mother dies, we cut to the father rocking his son, smiling, still clearly unaware of the tragedy. The shot is framed through the glass of the door, from outside the room. Greene enters, and that's where the shot stays - behind the glass. Green has his back to us and is at some distance, and since "we" are outside the room, we can't hear what he says. We don't know exactly how he breaks the news to the father, we don't know how he attempt to console him. All we see is the father react, his head turned skyward in shock.

The scene had stronger tension for not being able to hear Greene. We already know the bad news, and the direction has forced us to watch from a distance, almost voyeuristically. It's more creative and probably more effective.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer also used this technique at least twice, both in scenes involving characters being told that other characters had been killed. (In case you're interested, the episodes are called "Passion" and "The Body.") Another reason this is probably a wise move is that it keeps the emotional moments from becoming to overwrought and unbearable. We're spared the anguished hysterical cries of grief. Our mind fills in the blanks without subjecting us to the uncomfortable sounds of a teenage girl breaking down as she hears her mother has died.

Never forget the power of silence. Sometimes you need to cut yourself off from the crutch of dialogue. To give a Yogi Berra-like bit of advice, if the scene is emotional, don't be afraid to let emotion carry the scene.

The worst query submission I ever had to read

Over the years, I've read thousands of scripts and I can tell you where most of them have ended up - in the circular file. However, every now and then I get a script so hilariously, unbelievably bad that I have to save it for posterity. There's one such script that I have held onto for well over five years at this point. To be honest, I'm not sure how it made its way into the company I was working for at the time. It has all the earmarks of a "slush pile" script, and yet, somehow it got to an assistant who didn't take this sort of thing.

My theory has always been that she requested the script so she could use it to torture me.

It's hard to know where to begin with this abomination, so I'll just describe it the way a professional reader would see it. The first thing you'd notice is that the script is significantly thicker than most other screenplays. A quick flip to the back page will confirm that it is just shy of 160 pages in length - about 40 pages and 33% longer than the accepted norm!

You would also notice that the first fifteen or so pages bound in the script are not actually part of the script. Beneath the cover page is a Table of Contents, that helpfully explains that there is an Introduction, an Overview, and a section on "marketing considerations." These marketing considerations include "observations" on the particular cultural subset depicted in the film, as well as the "Author's Commitment to Marketing."

I'll say this now - as the screenwriter, it's not your job to tell the producers and marketing department how to market their film. Yes, you need to give them something marketable, but then shut up and let them do their jobs.

Oh, and the writer also included several pages of reviews from their last book. (Self-published, of course.)

The page and a half cover letter helpfully informs the executive that the film was inspired by a true story, and then leads into a long uninteresting anecdote about a conversation the writer had which inspired the film. The second paragraph details how this screenplay was first written as a novel and then adapted by the author. The author suggests that "This is a perfect vehicle for Halle Berry, and we already know what she looks like in tight, black latex... though there are others who work as well." In case you don't know this, NEVER offer casting suggestions in a cover letter. Let the casting people do their job.

The next paragraph says that though the script is a little long, that's mostly because of the long descriptions of the settings and actions, and the writer estimates that the film will be more than two hours and fifteen minutes. This is also the point where the writer casually mentions that several scenes are a direct riff on an existing and well-known novel - to the point that several characters assume the identities of the other author's characters.

Oh, and as we get to page two of the cover letter, the author says that all her friends have responded well to the script and again she mentions the research on marketing that they themselves gathered.

But the author still hasn't shut up - there's yet another page! An addendum to the cover letter. It starts with "I forgot to mention how much research went into this script," and then spends three paragraphs singling out specific scenes and essentially saying little more than, "Someone told me this stuff in an interview."

So finally, after I've stopped laughing so hard that my throat is sore, I peel back the real cover page. I'm not greeted with "FADE IN" as I should be. No, I still have to get past a one-page list suggesting possible cast members for the eight lead roles.

Seriously, days like that don't just make me hate my job. They make me hate writers.

Now I'm going to tell you the first two words in the first two paragraphs of the script:

1) "CAMERA PANS"
2) "CAMERA MOVES"

Never, ever, EVER, NEVER direct in the screenplay! At this point I pretty much know all I should need to know. It's utter amateur hour. Not only can I be assured that the writer has no clue what they're doing, I can already tell from the pitch that this is not something that my bosses would ever go for. Unfortunately, this was not one of those times when I had the luxury of simply going back to my bosses and telling them what I told you. It had been made clear to me that I had to read the whole thing.

This script was wretched. There was excessive voice-over narration throughout, insanely overly detailed description, including a healthy serving of "unfilmables." (For those not in the know, "unfilmables" are what we call information in the description that cannot possibly be shown visually. For instance, if the description tells us that Bobby has been emotionally crippled ever since his mom died in his arms when he was 8, that's bad writing. If we need to know that, it should come out through dialogue or action. Putting it in the description means that the only people who will know this are those reading the script.)

There were also a number of graphic sex scenes that, if filmed as described, would have earned the movie an NC-17 easily.

This thing is utter garbage. It's not the most offensive spec script I've ever read, but it's definitely in my Top 5 Worst, if not THE worst. I keep it as a reminder to never make the mistakes that writer did. Plus, every now and then it's good for a laugh.

Show, don't tell

The admonition to screenwriters to "show, don't tell" is about as old as the first time a meddling producer says, "I have notes." Admittedly, I give this note at least five times a week too, but what does it mean?

Usually, it means that the dialogue is spelling out something that is either self-evident, or could be shown visually. Ask yourself - which is more interesting to watch:

1) a character calmly walking into a room, taking a deep breath, then smashing his priceless Ming vase on a destructive impulse.

or...

2) a character walking into a room and snarling at his friend, "I'm madder than I've ever been before and I could smash my most prized possession and not even care."

Pencils down. That was an easy one.

If you want to see an incredible example of "Show, don't tell," check out Pixar's UP. There's a wonderful sequence that fills in all of the lead character's history with his wife in less than five minutes. There's virtually no dialogue in this sequence after we meet them as kids, see them marry, see their hopes and dreams for the future, even as their dream to explore gets put on hold. Then we see her take ill and go to the hospital, as well as her implied death - all of it done without dialogue and all of it done with some of the most simple of slices of life.

Another good example happens a few moments after that. We've already been tipped off that developers want the land our hero, Carl's, house is on, but he won't sell. When one construction worker accidentally damages the mailbox outside the house (the sentimental value of which having been set up in the aforementioned montage.) Carl attacks the worker with his cane, an act he immediately regrets.

In the following shots we see:
- the developer react with interest, looking like the cat who ate the canary.
- a crowd grow outside as Carl runs inside.
- From Carl's point of view, looking out, we see people telling the cops what happened.

Then, we're shown Carl waiting outside a courtroom, holding a court summons. He walks into the courtroom. We don't see the hearing. Instead the film dissolves to a clearly defeated Carl being dropped off outside his house by a cop. His shoulders are slumped in defeat, and it's clear what must have happened.

Then comes a line that I would bet was added late in the process by an exec concerned that the audience wouldn't make the correct inference: "I don't think you're a public menace. The car will come by to pick you up tomorrow," says the cop as she hands him a brochure for a senior living center. My feeling is that Carl's defeat is pretty clearly communicated by the visuals (kudos to the animators who worked on his body language.)

In any event, a good exercise is to go through your script and see how many lines you can eliminate by replacing them with some bit of physical acting or visual action.

ER Week - Day 3

Continuing our tour of the ER pilot, now let’s take a look at some of the smaller moments in the script, starting with Nurse Hathaway’s arrival in the hospital after her suicide attempt. I’ve always found this development in the script interesting because there’s virtually no foreshadowing at all. Early in the second half of the pilot, Hathaway is brought in after an overdose, and the staff is as blindsided as we are. There are no hints in the first half of the script – no warning signs, no cries for help. The only thing that might qualify is the mention of a breakup with Dr. Ross, but that’s clearly in the past because she’s already engaged to another man.

I can see some readers/viewers complaining because there is no setup for this development, but it works mostly because Hathaway has been a background character in the rest of the episode. We’re aware of her, but we’re not focusing on her. She doesn’t draw any undue attention, which is as it should be. A scene showing her slip away with some barbiturates, or a small moment showing her leaving work and meaningfully looking at everyone as if it was the last time she’d ever be there would totally tip the script’s hand. Hathaway’s suicide attempt is important largely because of how it affects the other characters – not what it reveals about her character. In that context it’s best that it’s a total surprise.

There are some well-written bits of dialogue that could have just been throwaways, but Crichton makes them meaningful. One nurse asks Hathaway’s roommate why she did it, and Greene cuts her off, saying that they don’t as that question about any other OD that comes into the ER and they’re not going to ask it about Hathaway. Our first indication that it’s grim for Hathaway comes in this exchange:

LEWIS: Her serum-barb is 45.
GREENE (alarmed): Is that a mistake?
LEWIS: I repeated twice.

Context is everything. The average viewer probably won’t know what a serum-barb is, or what a level of 45 means, but Greene’s reaction tells us. Whatever it is, it isn’t good, and it must be REALLY bad because Lewis ran the test three times before reporting it as official. And for the slow kids in the audience, Greene has a conversation with the ER Chief, who asks, “Should we be trying any of this?” As soon as Greene gives him the facts, the Chief starts speaking of Hathaway in the past tense. The message to the audience is clear – it’s hopeless.

Now, here’s a case where the writer’s intent ends up being altered by external factors. Hathaway was supposed to die and I’ve seen several articles and interviews where medical professionals have confirmed that people don’t come back from a diagnosis as presented here. However, Juliana Margulies’s portrayal of Hathaway proved to be popular with focus groups, and so when the show went to series, Hathaway miraculously recovered. The pilot ends with her fate up in the air, but in Crichton’s original vision, the audience was intended to infer she would die.

Also, another nice touch is the use of weather to remind the audience how much time is passing. Characters continuously remark with surprise, “When did it start snowing?” Eventually this turns to noting that the snow has turned into rain, and then later, a mention that the rain has stopped. It’s a small runner, but a notable one.

And a few final bits of trivia several actors in the pilot go on to play other parts later in the series and a few actors became much more famous later. Shiri Appleby has two short scenes as a teenager diagnosed with an ectopic pregnancy. She would later star in the WB’s Roswell and return to the show as a med student this past season. Terminator: The Sarah Conner Chronicles star Thomas Dekkar has a small scene as a boy who has eaten his mothers house keys. Troy Evans – who would later play desk clerk Frank is Carter’s first IV patient – a cop who is admitted after a domestic dispute with his wife.

Finally, two of Dr. Greene’s patients – the over-dramatic Mrs. Raskin (Julianna McCarthy) and Al Raskin (Paul Benjamin) – will return during Dr. Greene’s last day on the job in season 8’s “Orion in the Sky.”