Dale Kutzera.com

I tried watching “It’s Complicated” for the third time the other night.  I had the screener DVD from last fall and found that, yet again, the film doesn’t hold my interest.  It’s pleasant enough and well produced, but there’s just something about the film that makes me want to shut it off and channel-graze basic cable instead.  It’s not a good sign when  you’re watching a film and wonder, “why am I watching this film?”

It could be the subject matter doesn’t grab me.  The film is about 50-somethings (Streep, Baldwin, Martin) having a rollicking post-divorce fling.  These 50-somethings happen to be stinking rich in that smug way of not even acknowledging  or appreciating their wealth.  Meryl’s character lives in a multi-million dollar home in Santa Barbara while her 20-something daughter lives merely a million-dollar house (you can’t buy a house in SB for any less).  Is there that much money in the pastry business Streep’s character operates?  Something about depicting such in-your-face wealth seems inconsiderate when most Americans are struggling.

The setting and subject matter could have been tolerable (these are talented folks, after all) if there had been a more engaging plot to the film.  Two things happen in any film:  1) what happens, and 2) how it happens.  In a plotty film, the entertainment is in the anticipation of compelling situations…the what.  In a character film, the entertainment comes from the merely being along for the ride with an interesting person…the how.   “Star Wars” is a plotty film in which the entertainment derives from the setting and situation…not so much Luke’s personality.  “High Fidelity” is a character film where John Cusack’s heart-broken music guru captivates us like a great raconteur…who cares about the plot.

Hollywood movies typically fall into these two categories.  Plotty films are sold on the amazing worlds they create, the spectacle, and the special effects.  They are very expensive.  Character films are sold by the personalities involved (by that I mean actors with known personas).  This requires big-ticket actors of the Streep, Baldwin, and Martin variety.  Not cheap, but not as expensive as “Transformers.”  Personalities are the critical element in many comedies.  You don’t watch to a Marx Brothers, Keaton, Jerry Lewis or Ben Stiller film for their plot.  You go for the particular shtick of those performers.

So the real turn-off for me with “It’s Complicated” involves the painful reality that Streep and Baldwin are not comedy personalities (Martin is, but isn’t wearing that hat in this film).  Not surprisingly, while Streep and Baldwin are wonderful in scenes with written dialogue, they appear lost and desperate in montage-sequences that rely on comedic improvisation.

As a recovering control-freak, I am no fan of improvisation.  I’ve done enough creative work to know that the first thought that pops into your head is typically not the best thought.  It’s usually a tired cliché.  That’s why writers re-write so much…to root out the tired material in our scripts.  Those skilled at improv have trained their brains to quickly discount these “first-thought” ideas and go for something more original.  These skills – to quickly devise the next moment in a given situation – are not necessarily the same as those of actors trained to bring written characters to life.

Improvisation is often embraced by actors and directors intent on making a scene “real.”  What could be more “real” than something totally unplanned?  Most of Cassavetes’ films were improvised.  Coppola was famous for improvising scenes in “Apocalypse” and “Cotton Club.”  While the process may result in some brilliant moments…the so-called “happy accidents” …more often than not they only serve to muddle the overall composition of the story.  And movies, after all, are not real.  Even if a completely spontaneous moment is captured on film, how spontaneous is it really if there are lights and cameras turned on?  Capturing “reality” may not necessarily be entertaining.  Both the Costner and Crowe versions of “Robin Hood” were no doubt historically accurate and “real,” but neither was as entertaining as the Errol Flynn classic.

A gloomy pall, much like our overcast skies, has settled upon Hollywood.  June Gloom is extending well into July as the industry tries to make sense of its feeble box office performance.  Like the oyster-men on the Gulf, movie distributors rely on these summer movies to offset lower box office the rest of the year.

Perhaps even more than those oil-spattered fishermen and resort owners, Hollywood has become entirely reliant on big films.  These spectacle noise-makers have become the only reliable product the studios can crank out.  Gone are those character driven dramas, the quirky indie experiments, and the pretentious historical epics.  In their place we have explosions, gunfire, and CGI effects, wrapped up in the shell of a familiar franchise.  These projects look good on paper, but have underperformed at the theaters.  From “Robin Hood” to “A Team” and “Knight and Day,” the noise machines are proving unreliable.  Why?  Brilliant minds are hard at work trying to understand why this summer has had such tepid box office.  The conclusions they draw will affect the scripts studios will buy.   Screenwriters take heed!

The films that are working this spring are those with a reliable, tried-and-tested audience. “Shrek,” “Twilight,” and “Toy Story 3” are all performing as hoped for.  Even “Iron Man 2” a noisy hodge-podge of a movie, has excelled where other action films have failed due to the goodwill of it’s predecessor.  If you take these franchises off the table, however, the movie scene looks bleak.

One obvious assumption is that film-goers are seeking reliable, familiar product.  In addition to making the above sequels, this trend bodes well for the upcoming “Predators” and perhaps “Cats & Dogs.”   It would indicate that original films such as “Despicable Me” and “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice” may have tougher sledding. (BTW it’s getting to the point where we need a word for a movie that ISN’T a sequel.)

The other trend I see is the need for a film to convey its story quickly.  Many films are simply leaving audiences scratching their heads over what the story is about.  Can anyone tell me what “Robin Hood” was about from the posters and trailers?  “The A-Team” also failed to convey a clear plot.  I like the visual of the guy riding a tank parachuted from a plane, but that’s a set-piece, not a plot.  I believe a major reason “Sex And the City II” failed is that no one knew what the hell it was about.  The first film was about her marriage.  Simple.  This one was apparently about a vacation to Dubai.  Yawn.  “Knight and Day” is suffering the same plot-less fate.

Say what you will about the flagrant nepotism of “The Karate Kid,” the film has a built-in plot.  We all know what the movie is about:  kid is beaten up by bullies, learns karate, and kicks butt.  That story worked 20 years ago and it still works, although I bet the film would have made twice the coin if they’d cast a teenager and included some romantic sizzle (maybe in the sequel).  “Predators” may be the best simple-plot of the summer: instead of the alien coming to Earth, a group of bad-ass killers are brought to their planet as game.  That is brilliant.  My imagination is running wild.

These are the kinds of compelling, easy-to-convey plots that studios will buy, and screenwriters should be writing.

What is it with the movie business these days?  We have a number of high-profile flame outs at the box office (“Robin Hood” anyone?), and now Deadline Hollywood is fanning the rumors that Studios are after original material once more.  I guess “The A-Team” has convinced them that 80’s TV shows are not a big draw for today’s movie-going crowd.  Even Tom Cruise is being soft-pedaled in the marketing of “Night and Day.”  The LA Times reported the studio sneak-previewed the film in a bid to counter low-polling numbers.  I hope it does well as it is a rare original script in a summer of sequels and adaptations.

If studios are after original material, then maybe my timing is right to take my script to market.  I’ve spent the last few weeks revising it.  I’m trying to pitch this one right over the plate, and having as many people read it as possible has been a huge help.

There are three levels of notes I typically receive:  1) The General Note:  this is where the reader gives a general thumbs up or down, but no specifics.  Such notes are not very helpful.  2) The Specific Notes:  here the reader is specific about what works and what doesn’t.  The best sort of notes are those made on a copy of the script as it’s being read, not after the fact.  This way you know where there mind is at each step of the way.  3) The Fix Notes:  these are the best kind of notes.  Not only is the reader telling you what works and what doesn’t, but they’re putting their writer hat on and suggesting plot turns or character reactions you may not have considered.

The best thing about notes isn’t about the notes, it’s about the magical way a writer suddenly sees the script through the eyes of the audience.  Any work of fiction casts a spell over the audience, hopefully one that captivates them to the very end.  Writers are more susceptible that most to that spell and we can convince ourselves that a scene works great, a joke is really funny, or a plot turn isn’t telegraphed from a mile away.  Handing the script over to someone has a way of bursting that bubble.

The notes I received on my script can be boiled down to one: keep it simple.  I was trying to do a lot in the early drafts of what is really a very simple story.  With each set of notes and each pass at the script, I found myself thatching the complexity out.  Intricate back stories or motivations can be confusing to a reader.  Ask yourself why a character is behaving as they do.  If it isn’t obvious, then ask yourself what would be the obvious reaction.  Try that out and see if it works better.

The word I keep in mind when revising is “flow.”  As in, does the story flow along smoothly, or are there glitches and hiccups that interrupt the progress?  Over the last couple weeks I would read the script and note any glitches, then revise them, and the next day re-read and re-vise again.  As the front half of the script was clicking, I’d start reading on page 50 and just revise the last half.

At some point, every writer must let go of the work, send it to their agent or manager, and put it out into the world.  Having the script read often by skilled note-givers can soften that transition, kind of like sending your child to half-day pre-school to prepare them for first grade.

Just flew back from Chicago and boy are my arms tired.  But seriously folks, it’s the legs that are giving out.  I walked my dogs to the bone overdosing on the great architecture of this town.  Pictures to come!

But first, yet another observation about the state of our cinematic art.  United was kind enough to provide free headsets for their cross-country screening of  “Extraordinary Measures.”  The true-story film involves the father of two kids with a rare muscular deterioration disease and his super efforts to find a treatment.  It’s the kind of story you used to see on TV, and more currently on basic cable.  How this particular “disease of the week” story found it’s way to the big screen, with Harrison Ford as the cantankerous-but-genius scientist, would make for interesting reading.

The film itself, however, is a case study in modern dramatic screenwriting.  The scenes are short, the conflict in each immediate, and the results hold our attention if not our hearts and minds.  Someone should do a study on average length of a scene in a motion picture.  I bet it went from 5 minutes in the 1950’s to about 45 seconds today.  There is no chit-chat.  There is no talking around an issue as people often do before addressing the elephant in the room.  There is just the elephant.

The technique does hold our attention.  I would never have seen “Measures” unless I had been trapped in a packed flight at 35,000 feet.  The subject matter just doesn’t have much entertainment value to me.  But having watched the film, I think the writer Robert Nelson Jacobs did what writers must do when adapting a true-life book, and that is keep…things…moving.

Something is lost, however, in the rush to the next crisis.  It’s the emotional empathy that only comes from spending time with people.  By excising any little moments, the lead characters are less dimensional.  And heaven help the supporting players, who may only have a couple 30-second scenes.  They are hopelessly one-dimensional and only serve to T-up the next crisis.  I found my empathy not with any characters on screen, but with the actors who must struggle to find a way to flesh out a part armed with only a couple minutes of expository dialogue.  It’s a thankless task, but what’s a working actor to do?

This style of writing may reflect our less-attentive, quickly-distracted, impatient culture.  Just as we look back on films from the 1930’s as sluggish and theatrical, the younger generation of film-goers may look back on the character moments in films from the 1980’s as being extraneous and boring.  It’s hard to say where this trend will take us.  The end result may be an entertainment based on kinetic spectacle rather an character growth.  In other words, less of a film experience and more of a video-game experience.   I am hoping the pendulum swings back soon.

I wish screenwriters had a new term for what we do.  “Screenwriter” or just “writer” doesn’t cut it in my book.  It’s too easy to slide into  the oft-used slur “scribbler.”  While it is true that screenwriters do on occasion scribble, and the job has long been associated with leaky pens, carbon paper, typewriter ribbons, and now computer printers, we are no more scribblers that an architect is a doodler.  The scribbling is just a means to an end, that being the design for a filmed drama.

Playwrights have a great moniker.  It goes back to the Old English term “wright” meaning a “maker” or “builder.”  A wheelwright made wheels for carriages, a shipwright made ships, and a playwright made plays.  Important distinction:  they didn’t make scripts…they made plays.  Their title implied their involvement through the play-making process as an active member, if not the leader, of the team.

Writers in Hollywood, however, are not seen as “moviewrights” but as “scriptwrights.”  We are alone in the industry as the makers of a thing, a physical object.  Everyone else  (directors, cinematographers, editors, production designers)  does something.  Writers make something – a script.  As such we are typically paid for the thing, whereas our filmmaking brethren are paid for their labor, typically on a weekly basis.

There is a benefit to this.  When an actor or director is rejected from a job, it’s a more personal slam on their abilities.  When a script it rejected, it doesn’t necessarily mean the writer is bad, just that the story isn’t what the producer wants at that time.  The same writer may hit it out of the ballpark next month.  Writers are one step removed from the criticism.

But there is also a downside to being a maker of a thing: we are often kicked to the curb once the thing is sold.   We are often not viewed as on-going contributors to the creation of a film.  This is changing, but only because the industry is going through a period in which adaptations are more prevalent than original screenplays.

“Iron Man 2” is a case in point.  Here writer Justin Theroux was present on the set to help shape and track the largely improvised scenes, based on a premise devised by the producers and director John Favreau.   In the recent “Valentine’s Day,” director Gary Marshall kept a joke-writer on set throughout the shoot to contribute gags on the spot.  Clearly, the ability to work collaboratively and write on the set is valued in today’s filmmaking environment.

The Holy Grail of writers devising their own projects and shepherding them through production does happen in television.  Such lucky folks are called “showrunners” and are given a “created by” credit, though their official title is Executive Producer.   Apparently, the television business is fine with empowering writers as long as they aren’t called writers, but producers.

Playwrights are also known as dramatists, a term that reflects the specialized form of writing they do.  They are designing dramatic situations to be performed.  This is very different from a novelist or poet or journalist.  Screenwriters are also dramatists, but are doubly challenged to create drama with the unique language of cinema.   Perhaps “screenwriter” does reflect some of this, not in the sense that we write for the screen, but that we write the screen itself.

I’m re-breaking the climax of my script.  It’s a lot of action and in some ways action is the hardest thing to write.  This little scene is, in a way, as hard to break as the whole second act.  On the one hand I want plausible action – exciting stuff that tops all the stuff we’ve seen up to this moment – but on the other hand it should also resolve some character issues.  People who were timid before, now show backbone.  People who were brave before, now show sensitivity.

It’s a bitch, no question, and if badly handled can come across as really contrived and jerry-mandered.  I don’t have any easy solutions.  The problem is that so many films have been made that  follow the tried and true formula, there is no way to conceive of something that is both effective (i.e. tried and true) and original.  It all comes out very clunky and forced, and I don’t want to burden actors and directors with clunky crap and leave them to make something good out of it.  That’s my job.

Action without the internal dynamic issues, however, is just action.  I was watching a bit of “Blade Trinity” on the tube a few days ago and it had a big action sequence at the end.  What else would you expect from Blade?  And as in a lot of such films it’s a multi-headed sequence in which three characters are having separate fights in separate parts of a building.  I’m not a big fan of the bifurcated climax.  Lucas did it badly in “SW 1” with all that fighting on the planet, AND a space battle high above, AND a big fight in the palace.

Splitting things up is a lazy way of holding our attention a bit longer.  When the action gets tiresome in one setting, just cut to an other.  In the Blade film, Snipes shows off his fighting skills which are considerable, but after a while it’s just punches being thrown.  How much of that is really needed?  Ten seconds?  Thirty seconds?

In my own little indie, “Military Intelligence,” I had my pick of thrilling WWII battle scenes stolen from old training films.  These were nicely shot sequences with tanks and troops and lots of hand-to-hand combat.  Our first cut was long.  I wanted to stuff all this cool footage I found into the piece.  What I found, however, was once the internal issues were resolved, the action was just slowing everything down.  Imagine that…action becoming boring.  That is exactly what happens, however, for at this point in a film the audience really just wants to get it on over with.

So the trick is parsing out the internal issues and resolutions along with the action beats.  It is perhaps the most specific, nit-picky work a writer does.  I can’t think of any other situation in which a writer gets into almost shot-by-shot detail.  And I am hating every minute of it.