"I HAVE a few notes..."
Ooooh. Ooohh. I think I actually heard
groaning coming through the innertubes.
I've been talking (commiserating?) a lot lately with fellow TV scribes who are (it's the summer, remember) all presently
drowning in notes. What are they saying? It might surprise you. Because sure, there's a
little bit of carping of the
"they just don't understand" variety. But most professional writers I know express their frustration a bit more plaintively. Vis:
When I am going to get some script notes that help me write a better next draft instead of leaving me on the floor in a pool of confusion and despair?
Contrary to popular belief, most of the pro writers I know understand that an outline is an outline, and a first draft
sucks. Always. It's
never where you need it to be. And what you
need is an astute reader to help you out and get you to where it needs to be. If you're doing a poky spec script, that's one thing. But if you're in production, or prep, all of this has to happen in an incredibly compressed timeframe. But everyone needs that step. Even the
Writer Gods who (barely) walk among us.A good friend of the blog tipped me to
Brian Lowry's
article in Variety about notes.
Chuck Lorre was speaking with admiration when he told the New York Times regarding "The Sopranos" finale, "This is what you get when you let a writer do whatever he wants." But the "Two and a Half Men" co-creator's observation exposes a larger point.Network notes have gotten a bad rap, but as several recent programs attest -- including David Milch's bizarre "John From Cincinnati," Aaron Sorkin's self-indulgent "Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip" and, yes, David Chase's much-debated blackout -- left to their own devices, even the finest writers can produce material that leave audiences cold and occasionally slack jawed.
Executives once joked that every A-list producer has a dud inside them just waiting for its owner to achieve success affording them the freedom to release the beast -- a dynamic that begs the age-old question of how to guide creativity without shackling it.
You can quibble over Lowry's choices (I loved
Sopranos, still am not sure about
John, and agree wholeheartedly about
Studio 60,) but Lowry's whole column is well worth a read. But the best part, I think, is this:
Notes aren't inherently bad; bad notes are, and even pedigreed talent can benefit from a little direction.
Let's take that as a bedrock given. I mean, I believe I've
written before about the effect good notes can have on a writer. So let's proceed to the next step:
How do you give good notes, rather than bad notes?This is an entry that could, I hope, benefit Canadian network execs - because as I've said before, rigor, passion, and smarts at that level is what we creatives in Canada desperately need. But it also could benefit people acting as
Story Editors, of which there are many in this country, mainly because
Telefilm will sometimes pay for them.
Step One: Get the Relationship Right by Managing EgoAs Lowry says in his article, the person giving the notes is not
exactly a collaborator. They are, if anything, meant to
inspire. But how does that inspiration work? Well, if you remember anything from your philosophy classes, or science classes, the way the progression of intellectual thought generally works is this:
thesis + antithesis = synthesis.So an idea meets another idea, or a counter idea, and the fight between them results in a new (and hopefully
better!) idea. Figuring out story goes the same way.
If you're in a position to give notes, there are two ways you can approach it --
you can try to get the writer to do what you want them to do, or you can try to
challenge their assumptions, see what their intent was, and talk them through to a place where the result is better.There are type-A's out there who will snort and snigger at this, and think that it's
"touchy feely." There are producers who'll want to say,
"hey, what I say goes," and there are network-editor types who'll say,
"Hey, we're the ones paying the bill." And both those things are true. And both those things will result in you winding up with a crappy script and a writer who's just trying to get to the end of the project -- and
away from you.Down the line, what it also means is that you'll find fewer and fewer good writers want to work with you. There are producers out there -- even in Canada -- to whom this has already happened. They have trouble attracting talent to work with them because
"the word is out." The community is small; people talk. There are also networks that have slid to the bottom rung on who to approach simply because their development process is known to be unpleasant and confrontational.
This sounds like
"coddle the writer," a bit, doesn't it? It isn't. Because on the
other side of it, the writers, if they're good and serious -- are undergoing the same process. They're trying to decode your notes and really understand what you
meant. They're trying to let go of their immediate ego reactions and move on to getting and dealing with your points.
Understand that doesn't
always mean
taking and executing your note. Sometimes, the thing that's bothering you isn't really the thing that's bothering you. A good writer always takes note of the bump -- and if they don't agree with your diagnosis of how to fix it, they're still going to look for a way to deal with your concern. You don't see the way we're trying to manage our ego, in good faith, but trust us..
.we're doing it.Then we drink a lot of beer. Unless we're one of those writers who have stopped drinking beer. Then we go to the gym and punch a bag. Same difference.
If you're a note giver, getting the relationship right, and managing ego means taking a couple of things on faith:
- Your writer understands the story better than you do, because they've lived with it longer.
- Your writer doesn't think it's perfect, and they don't understand the ins and outs perfectly either -- so there's plenty of room for your input and shaping.
From there, like in writing, note giving comes all in the execution. Rather than approach your notes as,
"In scene 5 we don't think this should happen," or
"I don't like this," how about trying more open-ended questions that require the writer to clarify --
really clarify -- what they're trying to
do.
"Why do you have Jenny discover the boyfriend's infidelity here? Why not later?" Or
"What does killing the Mexican get us in this scene, and is that really worth the risk of making our protagonist unlikable?"Coming in
imperiously:
cut this, move that, make this funnier -- hate this line, but don't have an alternative...well... that's not helpful. It's just not. I mean, really, ordering writers around can't be
that fun. It's not like we're actors or something...we're not....
bendy.
If you ask open-ended questions, and get a dialogue going -- you might have a longer notes call, but I guarantee you you're going to have a more interesting discussion. By forcing your writer to clarify and to articulate their intent, you can focus like a laser on those parts that really aren't integral to the story. And what comes out of the subsequent discussion will make the end product better.
By the way - this is also how writers work with each other.
I recently finished a story editing gig for a young writer who's trying to get his series off the ground. I was clear always, when I made a suggestion, to frame it with, "I feel..." statements, and "What was the intent of..." and "How are you going to..." statements. I didn't impose my ideas on this writer, because I didn't have to. By asking the right questions, and reacting positively to his ideas, we got to a much better place organically. And of course, some of my ideas got in there, too. But they got in in such a way that the writer bought into it. They didn't feel imposed -- it wasn't
me vs. him. It was
us. Us is
always better.
When something wasn't working for me, the other thing I did was frame in terms of "what is the audience experiencing right now?" Which brings us to step two:
Step Two: Who are the Audience, and What Should they Be Feeling Right Now?The fight over the audience is where you could have some legitimate sparks between network and writer.
In theory, knowing the audience is the network's job. In the United States, they will have very sophisticated testing to show you just what the audience is thinking and feeling, and exactly how they react in razor thin increments. They'll show you the testing data, and what it means, and what they want, and how it all results in success.
Which is why, of course, every fall all of the networks' shows become
massive giant hits.
Do the
Dr. Evil pinky with me now...
Rigggght.
Leonard Stern, the producer of
Get Smart, wrote a book a long time ago called
"A Martian Wouldn't Say That!" which collected some of the most inane notes given by network executives. In the Lowry Variety article, he quotes Stern as talking about the downside of testing by executives.
Stern agreed that writers have cause for skepticism in dealings with executives, especially when the suits cite research and testing -- betraying their willingness to "surrender instincts, or a refusal to acquire them."
In most cases, the writer's objection is having someone try to quantify or "prove" something unprovable, when the steady application of common sense would probably work better.
Part of that common sense is arriving at a baseline agreement about who the audience is, and what they're likely to know.
The most famous story I can think of on this point is something I heard from the mouth of
Peter Casey, one of the
Executive Producers of
Frasier. He came to visit us when I was a resident at the
Canadian Film Centre several years ago. He told the story of the early days of
Frasier, when they prepared scripts, they had
Frasier and
Niles make jokes about opera and art and wine. They got a lot of pressure from the networks to take those jokes out because it was felt that they would alienate the audience. Casey and his partners argued that Frasier and Niles were who they were, men of erudition -- and that they would make jokes like that. To not have them make those jokes would be to betray something about the character. And they felt that if even
10% of the audience got those jokes, they were worth it. There would be plenty of other stuff to keep the people who didn't get the
"ten-percenters."Well, lo and behold, a few weeks into
Frasier airing, when it was already a big hit, they got the data back and they found out that fully 40% of the audience was getting the "ten percenters."
At this point in the story, Casey paused and looked at all of us.
"Makes you wonder. Those shows that won't go for the 10% percenters. What level are they aimed at?"That story has particular resonance for the Canadian TV industry. Because traditionally, we never go for the ten percenters.
Ever.
There's a few ways you can get lost on the way to your audience.
- Assuming that the audience is dumber than you.
Audiences have (a la
Stephen Johnson's
Everything Bad is Good for You) gotten used to watching
Lost, and
Heroes -- shows with rich narratives and lots of stuff going on. They watch
CSI and they watch
Ugly Betty and they have no trouble keeping all the characters straight. They watch
E.R. and since the very first episode, they do not worry about jargon and medical stuff -- so long as the drama (or the comedy) is there, they are carried through all right.
But if you get 'noted' to over-explain everything; if you can never use jargon or shorthand, and if you always have to make sure that
everything. is. explained. always. Well...then two things are going to inevitably follow: your pace will be deadly slow, and your audience will be
bored. Remember the lesson of the ten-percenters.
- Assuming that the audience is you.
Some writers do this, especially new, starting out writers writing autobiographically, but it's far more common with network execs and producers: they extrapolate their single experience and make it universal. "Women don't think this way," "A man would never let himself be..." etc, etc. It's a deadly trap and it can derail a character or a story faster than just about any other pitfall. Insisting on a behavior, or an action without taking it through the questioning process in Step One above serves neither audience nor script.
- Making the audience surrogate character the blandest person in the piece.
You'd be surprised how often this happens. If so and so is supposed to be me, and they're as boring as a dog's ass because they're so chaste/perfect/virtuous/saintly/straight/buff/teetotalling/flawless ... well, then what are you saying about me?
- Surrendering to your agenda.
See: Canadian Drama.
Your theme is not your story. It is one arrow in your quiver. If you desperately want to
"say something," then may I suggest drafting a
manifesto? This one can come from either side, but it's always deadly.
We know racism is bad, people. You don't have to tell us. And tell us. And tell us.
...you could show us, maybe. How bout that?
- Adding a scene in to show us "more about the person's character."
Not if it doesn't move the story along, buddy. You're on the deadly pace express.
It's amazing how much you can deflect a trip down a bad road -- whether you're the network or the writer, by asking the simple question: "what is the audience feeling right now? why are they rapt? what are you showing them that makes them not care about reaching for that remote?"
This is where the proper definition of
"fridge logic" comes into play. Some writers use "fridge logic" to be a bit of a band-aid to coverup bad plot holes. (But, if you're discussing the story like in Step One, likely those holes won't stand up to challenge, right?)
What fridge logic is, is those little bits of coincidence or plotting that won't interrupt the flow of the story for the audience. They're so named because they're the kinds of things you will only care about a half hour later when you're looking for something to eat in the fridge. Yup, there's probably some goof over on
TWOP that will stand up and say, "they forgot about X and it ruined it for me!" but those people are not a large part of your audience.
In the end, one of the best definitions of fridge logic, and they way you can learn to tell the difference between fridge logic and a legitimate story concern is in the application of a fix. If the fix for the "problem" seems convoluted, long, or drags more than the problem itself...that's fridge logic. Solving plot problems -- real ones -- makes the story seem cleaner, not more convoluted.
This is a skill that any good note-giver can learn. But again -- it comes from centering yourself thinking, "what is the audience experiencing right now?" And it requires developing those critical skills. Research aint gonna help you.
Step Three: Stop Reading the Script and Start Seeing the MovieThis one, writers can be guilty of. Or story editors. Or network suits. Or anyone. And it comes from the willful forgetting of one very important fact:
The audience will never read the script.Repeat that to yourself. What you are poring over, what you are slaving over -- is a
transitional document. It is a physical representation of something that your audience is going to experience in an entirely different medium.
When you're reading to give notes, there will inevitably be some things that seem confusing on the page, that won't be confusing when they're filmed. Unfortunately, one of the only ways you can start to tell which is which is to go through it a few times. But in my experience, I've found that we often spend far too much time obsessing over details of presentation that just aren't going to read for an audience.
Reading a script is
hard. There's a lot of detail to keep straight and you don't have all the visual and auditory cues: voice, look, manner, inflection -- that communicate character. We've all seen deleted scenes on DVD where a whole speech was cut to a line and a reaction shot, and yet nothing was lost. That is the magic of the medium.
There is nothing in the world more dehabilitating for a writer than to have to cut something because the person reading it wasn't reading it closely enough. Nothing will take the fight out of a writer faster than going through that experience a few times. You start to feel, "what's the point?" You make your peace. And the next thing you know, greatness has escaped out the door once again.
Seeing the movie takes time. It takes more than a cursory read. And it might have to involve you going back to step one a couple times too: maybe you do need the scene explained to you. That's no matter. That doesn't mean you're not good at your job. And it doesn't necessarily mean the scene isn't working. You'll know if it does by what happens when the writer tries to defend it. If they're unclear, then you're right: the scene isn't working. Maybe you can come up with something better, together.
Step Four: Review Your Notes and Don't Allow ContradictionThere are some people who read all the way through and then give overview and specific notes, and there are some people who give notes as they go along. Ie: if they don't get something, they note it right away. I tend to like to do the latter -- even if that means that I do a "take back" note. ie: Page 8 - OK, that explains my confusion, page 5...never mind...but is it too long a gap?"
By reading and giving notes that way, I feel I'm doing my best to approximate the audience experience -- feeling my way through the story in real time, imagining I'm watching it.
Your notes should be written, as succinctly as possible. Don't lecture or hector. Know your writer: some need more praise than others. Sometimes, a
checkmark or a
good goes a long way.
What's desperately needed at the end of this, though, is a final clean and wash. If you've expressed thougths or questions about the character acting in a certain way in Act One, you can't give the opposing note in Act Three. Your writer is working very hard to try and have internal consistency in the story as it progresses. Doing the same thing with your notes is the very least you can do.
In Canada, we do a lot of international co-productions. And inevitably, different sets of notes come from different countries and the notes all contradict each other. I'm not sure if you can always make those notes agree...but if you've got different people in the same organization reviewing the material, you should take the step to harmonize those notes and present a unified front.
Otherwise, writers heads tend to explode. And it's the middle of the summer.
No one likes to be covered in viscera.There are good notes out there, and there are people who give good notes. And though it may not always be a
Kumbaya festival, it is always rewarding, and it always makes the script better. And there's not a writer I know who wouldn't want to work with someone who approaches notes like I've outlined here, again and again and again.
