Orange on a Toothpick

Below, in the rollicking comment free-for-all, Jutra writes:

I am attending my first casting session this week.. What does one look for at these?? Does anybody know what makes a good actor for TV?

That's easy.

A huge head.

I am hardly the first to notice this, but I will for the sake of the argument, defer to the great early Scottish casting genius, Stuart MacKenzie:

"Would ya look at the size of that kid's head! It's the size of a planetoid and it has its own weather system! ... I'm not kidding, that boy's head is like Sputnik; spherical but quite pointy at parts! Aye, now that was offsides, now wasn't it? He'll be crying himself to sleep tonight, on his huge pillow."

South Park doesn't have things far off. Neither do the makers of those bobblehead dolls. In my experience, the most amazing thing about your exemplary TV actors is they seem to be bred for it. Not just to be unnaturally good looking (though the "plain girl" in any TV movie is usually someone most of us would give our eyeteeth to date) but also to be below-average in height, in a proportion that ... and you'll have to give me slack here, I'm doing this from memory ... roughly corresponds to DaVinci's Golden Ratio: Uh...I think it's roughly 20% legs, 10% torso, 50% head.

The eagle eyed among you will notice that that does not add up to 100%.

That's because the rest is hair.

Seriously, TV actors are a huge-headed, expressive bunch. Exaggerated eyes or huge mouths also seem to dominate -- especially in the newscaster division.

Steven Colbert mourned the firing of CNN's Aaron Brown last week because he was the last regular anchor guy with glasses. I also can't help but remark that the man who helped us through 9/11 helped us by stirring example. The terrorists who brought the Towers down could do nothing to dent Aaron Brown's head. Damn you, Anderson Cooper, and your Vanderbilty regular-headedness.

Lest you think I'm being glib, I submit to you a partial list of actors whom I've seen up close, or interviewed in my previous journalist life, who fit the big-head stereotype:

Sarah Polley, Will Ferrell, Nicholas Campbell, Charlton Heston (huge), Kevin Smith, Jill Hennessey, Kevin Sorbo, Patrick Stewart, William Shatner, James Doohan, Jeri Ryan, Penn Jillette, Martin Sheen, Kevin Spacey, Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise, Jennifer Garner, Kirsten Dunst, Jennifer Tilly, Milla Jovovich, Mike Myers, Dave Thomas, Rick Moranis, Mark McKinney, Dave Foley, John Malkovich, John Cusack, Catherine Zeta-Jones, Michael Douglas, Geena Davis, Rachel McAdams

And the list goes on.

Is it that the camera likes the big head'uns? Maybe. Is this changing with the move to 16:9 from 4:3 tv sets? Still too early to tell. I think a bigger change is going to be the shift to HD. A friend of mine is an editor in Toronto, and a couple of years ago he edited a couture special for Fashion Television. I watched it since I was just about the only guy he knew with an HD set. Two things disturbed me. In HD it was really, really easy to tell which of the models were dangerously underweight and sickly, not sexy, looking...and Joan Collins.

Joan Collins in HD almost ended my life. For real. Brr.

So there are other factors, Jutra. Sure, a certain charisma, smarts and flexibility in the audition, the ability to take direction, even a certain ineffable sense that maybe the needy actor in front of you isn't totally crazy and might be a decent person needing a break...all of those intangibles are important.

But if the field's crowded and you're pressed for time and can only consider one factor:

Go with the great big head.

The Holmes Bros. Bring it on Home

One of the questions I inevitably ask writing friends of mine is this, "do you write naked, or do you use the crutch?"

That's not nearly as interesting as it sounds.

I have two computers. A beloved, G3 Imac lamp which is ensconsed in my office, and my G4 Powerbook Laptop which made the trek to South Africa with me. (Though it's bothering me now because it's got a venting problem that means I often have to run if off juice with the battery out.) I bounce back and forth between the two of them. If the day's not going well, and procrastination is winning, I'll grab the laptop and head out. If it's rainy or cold and I'm making good speed, I'll stay in the office and stare out at Lake Ontario as I brood over the next page.

But I always use the crutch.

For me, the crutch is music. Always has been. It's forever on in the background no matter what I do. I've got it down to a science now that I can't analyze too deeply lest I rob the ritual of its power. Suffice it to say that there are certain scenes or themes that demand Ben Webster. While writing Charlie Jade in South Africa, I found myself haunting the jazz section of CD Wherehouse at the V&A Waterfront. I'd pick up the latest by Winston Mankunku Ngozi, Hugh Masakela or Andile Yenana, pay way more than I've ever paid for CD's in my life, then drive back to my rented flat in Seapoint in the production car they'd given me, (which I not-so-fondly christened "Old Paint." One day I'll tell you the true story of the day Old Paint died.) Once the SA Jazz fired up my Ipod, then I could write. (To my eternal shame, I also listened to a whole lot of Keane, proving the adage that when you're far from home and lonely, sometimes you need something even more twee than Coldplay.) In the throes of my last heartbreak, whatever I was working on at the time, I made only one vow to myself: thou shalt only listen to Dylan's Blood on the Tracks once in a twenty-four hour period. Lately, there's been nefarious action composed to The Killers or the new Depeche Mode.

Occasionally the crutch takes its toll, and I need to go back and re-jig. More than once, I've found a character taking on the slightly sonorous, dulcet and oh-so-English-Aus-L.A. tones of Nic Harcourt. (KCRW's Morning Becomes Eclectic is an afternoon staple in the Condo of Creativity and Reason.)

The reality is that I can't imagine writing without the crutch. It may be a carryover from the days with roommates, it may be the fact that (as several of my friends can attest) I come from a family where the concept of the Inside Voice is not as well developed as it perhaps should be -- but not listening to music when I write is simply a non-starter. To attempt to construct drama without it would leave me alone in the white noise of my head. And that way, reader, lies madness indeed.

The other value of being a music partisan is that you can find yourself in the tide of cross-inspiration. Such was the scene last night when I took in the legendary Holmes Brothers at Toronto's venerable, beat up and beautiful Horseshoe Tavern.

I've been in an okay place in the last few days with my various projects. Ideas are flowing, collaborations seem to be hitting their stride, and notes have generated ideas and directions that are reaping great rewards in the two pilots I'm writing. But to be able to shake and shimmy at the sight of three old men brewing a seamless weave of blues, funk and gospel: well, it just twists your own creative ideas around and shoots them off into another place entirely. I think it was halfway through He'll Have to Go last night when, BAM! Three thoughts entered my head. Two different shows; three nuggets, three ideas that reframe and recontextualize both projects. Where do ideas come from? I have no goddamn clue.

But last night, they came courtesy of the Holmes Brothers. (And I'm not even going to get started on Ornette Coleman, who I saw last week for the first time. The guy makes seventy-five look easy.)

Y'all can have your Ashlee Simpsons. I'll take the crutch.

*Interesting Aside Alert*


I was all set to try and link the "Ashlee Simpson" above with some interesting photos from a hilarious protest I witnessed outside her Muchmusic appearance Tuesday. Sadly, though they had great signs and everything -- protesting the "manufactured" nature of the pop tart, and the sheer fakery of the machine behind her, not a single Toronto media outlet seems to have mentioned the incident. Nope. Can't lose the opportunity to do the big-bend-over sell!

If she hadn't wigged out at a McDonald's later the same night, Ashlee's Much visit would have gone down as a pure P.R. triumph. (Actually, I'm ashamed to admit it, but the video's damn funny. Read about it here.)

It's Hockey Night In Canada

...and for the first time, the CBC is broadcasting the game in HD.

It's...


...beautiful.

Mug

Am I smug here? Satisfied? Drunk? All three?



This was a lovely, slightly rainy night in May in Manhattan at my cousin Beth's wedding. The next day I saw a matinee of The Pillowman and then I spent all day Monday in the NY Public library trying to crank out a draft for a deadline Tuesday.

Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans.

"Mom. Dad. Sit Down. I have to tell you something...I'm a Writer..."

I've mentioned a couple of times before that I teach a class at a local University here in Toronto. This year, the class isn't very onerous. It's got the vaguely pretentious course title of "Master Writers Workshop." In reality, the class pretty much boils down to "Professional TV writers come in and bare their souls about how and why the hell they do this."

I don't teach for the money. (Thank Dog, because it's like, beer money at best.) But it's extremely useful, because it gives me a weekly window into what a bunch of 20 year olds think - and it also forces me to think about and try to articulate what I do. I've learned quite a bit about writers I thought I knew already by leading them through questions for this class.

Striking the right balance is often the hardest part. Because you don't want to misrepresent the writing life. But when you talk about the reality, it's easy to seem negative. Especially in Canada.

When I'm procrastinating, occasionally I'll troll the sites of aspiring screenwriters and wonder, "why, exactly, do you want to do this?"

It's a question that's so important. And I'm not sure it's one that's answered truthfully or honestly very often.

I've yet to meet someone who got into writing for the money who actually made a go of it. Yes, I know how much Shane Black made for selling Lethal Weapon. Yup, I know that spec sales throw dollar sign dreams into the eyes of any doe-eyed newcomer.

But the reality is that you may very well polish that screenplay for seven years. It may indeed be good. And it might sell. But how much work did it take? And if you really wanted to make money -- if that was the goal, then wouldn't some currency trader route be, I don't know -- easier?

I've got a cousin who's a Very Big Deal in the financial world. He's damn good at his job. I met him for a drink at the Royal York Hotel when he was in town not so long ago, and we had a great old time. He's decent, a good guy, a very good businessman...he works seventy hours a week and oh... he's a millionaire.

I wouldn't trade places with him for the world.

The truth is, most writers I know that achieve some degree of success are doubters. They constantly doubt their material. It's wrenching to send a script out there. You never feel confident about it. At least most writers I know who are good don't.

(By the way, this is the root of why I think writers -- especially TV scribes, need to really stay away from fansites. Cause that stuff can F you up proper, g.)

I know others. I know people who really think that what they do is just...great. Every finished script will change the world. Every script is the greatest thing they've ever done.

And without fail, it's the doubters who get further ahead. I tested this theory in a convo with my agent last night. He agreed immediately. "When I get a script, if the person talks about how they're not totally happy with it, it's inevitably better than the person who says, "this is the best thing I've ever done."

My agent is cool. He has long hair and everything.

So doubt works. So does finishing. The main thing that separates people I know who actually make a living writing from those who don't is that the ones who do are finishers. And the way they finish is by focusing on small, realistic signpost goals, and chipping away.

The analogy I can think of is that there are a lot of people out there who think of a writing career like it's winning the World Series of Poker. In reality, it's more like being a grinder...playing one game at a time, for hours on end, just chipping, chipping, trying to get by.

There's a price to be paid for all this. You do spend a lot of time alone. You sometimes find yourself feeling disconnected even when you're out. You have to step back and observe more often than you participate. You actually have to indulge a level of self-involvement that most people would try to avoid. (Not as much as actors, but still.)

There's a lot about this life that's actually quite negative, on balance.

So why do it?

Well, here's the rub:

Because I can't imagine doing anything else.

I'm serious. I may call one of my writer friends and have a full on bitch session laced with bitterness, with a side of bitterness. We can beat each other up til we're whacking away on some great big bitterness pinata. And then one or the other will say, "well, at least we're living the dream."

It may be a peculiar Canadian trait, to define yourself negatively like this, but the writers I know and respect all have a somewhat fatalistic view of what they do. They don't do it for lofty reasons. They don't do it for fame or even for fortune. There are a lot of petty humiliations, snubs, and indignities to suffer along the way, but in the end you do it because, if you don't, then what the hell else are you going to do?

In many ways, I think you don't decide to be a writer. I think you come out as a writer. It's not what you do, it's who you are. I know that sounds glib. But in times that are dark, I have often taken comfort from the fact that I know I would never be happy doing anything else.

So maybe the first thing you should ask yourself if you're thinking of trying to be a writer (not write on the side, not be a waiter who's working on a screenplay, not an actor who's working on a novel, but a real, honest-to-goodness-this-is-how-I-make-my living writer writer) is this:

"Could I be happy doing anything else?"

If the answer's yes, you should strongly consider doing that thing.

If not, well, welcome. Maybe you're a writer after all.

"We're here. We fear. Get used to it!"

J.D. Come Home. All is Forgiven!

You Yanquis down there in Bizarro-America (I'm sorry, I've finally snapped it: as a guy born proudly in the Bronx, a Florida voter since 1988, (absentee election law: look it up) I gotta say I've finally decided that the only logical explanation for what's going on now is that somehow, somewhere I went through a wormhole, and just like when Superman met his craggy-faced, intellectually-hamstrung doppelganger, I'm no longer looking at the United States at all. But that's the kind of aside one expects from an entirely different Dennis, so...) might know John Roberts as the good looking White House correspondent for CBS News.

But up here in Toronto, we have fonder memories. Once upon a time, John was J.D. And J.D. Roberts, among other things, was the host of a groundbreaking Canadian music show produced by Citytv called The New Music. How groundbreaking? The New Music showed videos and treated Rock and Roll seriously years before MTV was even a dream. It was one of the first places to feature The Police, The Clash, Elvis Costello and countless others - in freewheeling, serious, depth-ridden interviews. J.D. interviewed rock stars with a serious bent, and had the feathered hair and denim to prove it.

Sadly, it's been years since Citytv did anything that innovative, but that's a subject for another time.

One of my fondest memories (long before I got into TV) was being an irascible teenager, snapped up on the Peach Schnapps at some concert at Ontario Place, following J.D. around the arena. Every time he tried to do his standup, we'd let him get ten seconds in before shouting "We love you, J.D," and wrecking the take. One of my friends flashed her 16 year old breasts at him. It was all in good fun.

Well, you can take the Boy out of the Rock and Roll, but it's so much harder to take the Rock and Roll out of the boy.

Read this.

J.D., we salute you. You frickin magnificent bastard. Don't worry about the mealy-mouthed apology. We know the score in Bizarro-America. The point is, after years of leaving us wondering, we now know the truth:

You're still not afraid to give'r!

I KNEW they were a bunch of pinkos

Scooter, Cheney, Dubya, Rove, the whole lot of 'em.

Courtesy of Salon.

Those wacky local TV types!

Before turning to writing full time, I worked in a couple of TV stations for the better part of a decade. Occasionally, you wonder if trading in security and the opportunity for camaraderie was worth it.

Then someone reminds you of the reality.

The Onion gets it right here.

I laughed so hard at that one that coffee came out my nose.

And it hurt.

Then, whilst EgoGoogling this afternoon (yeah. I'm weak. Like you don't do it.) I came across this.

Remember, kids, on the Internet, nothing ever goes away, and nobody knows you're a dog.

The Virtual Poster, or When Characters Suck

Alex over at Complications Ensue thinks that Meredith Grey is a drip.

He's got a point. Good old Ellen Pompeo was far more engaging in the lovely and underrated film Moonlight Mile. When it comes to characters on Grey's Anatomy, ex-lingerie model Izzie and Ottawa's own Sandra Oh's Christina Yang blow her off the map. Even the Prince of Darkness Alex has, of late, been more interesting. (But it's still weird to see that My Fat Obnoxious Fiance Dude behind the bar - but I digress.)

The truth is that you're taking a hell of a chance whenever you name a show after your main character. I've always thought the main reason why Ally McBeal flamed out so quickly was because, well, people kind of didn't like Ally McBeal. Where would The West Wing be right now if it was called "President Bartlet," or, God Forbid, if E.R. had been "That Cute and Soulful Dr. Ross."

The main thing driving Meredith Grey at the outset of Grey's Anatomy was the fact that she slept with a dude in a one night stand. Interesting. She later found out, by the rules of co-inky-dink that he was her boss. Very Interesting. Then at the end of the pilot, we found out that her Mom, a famous surgeon, was squirrelled away in a nursing home with early onset Alzheimers. Muy Bueno Interestingo!

But now -- Dr. McDreamy and Meredith's illicit affair is out, and over...and everyone knows about Mom. The things that made Meredith interesting were unsustainable. Now you're stuck with a main character -- a narrator, for godsakes, who is nowhere near as interesting as the other characters.

The amazing thing, of course, is that this is not an unusual problem in TV. TV is constantly putting up shows that are meant to be focused around one character, that fall quickly to the wacky or more interesting friend syndrome. I've always been of the opinion that the least interesting characters on Will & Grace were Will & Grace. As for this season's offerings, you see sitcoms like How I Met Your Mother and Out of Practice, where the bland leads make you almost want to dive for the remote.

You've got a special burden where you have a titular character. On Charlie Jade, we were constantly having to remind ourselves that the main character's name was in the title -- and no matter how you liked the bad guy or how cool that scene would be -- look at the title and bite it back.

There are examples from the current crop of TV where you can see them doing it right. No one, I think, would argue that My Name Is Earl's most compelling character is Mr. Hickey himself. Even Fox's Bones, a flawed show at the best of times, has a main character, name in title, who is the main reason to watch.

All of this means something when you're thinking about creating shows. The not-interesting main character is not as uncommon a problem as you think. I'm involved in two projects right now where that problem is being attacked in different ways.

In the first, the network exec's note came back that the main character wasn't interesting enough. To young or particularly frustrated writers, this is like getting a note that says, "raise the stakes" or "what does so and so want" -- it's enough to make you see that little spot of blood behind your eye. Yes, Virginia, that is an aneurism. Brace yourself...here comes Mr. Floor...

But the thing is, the note was right on the money. You can't just say that your main character is going to be the bedrock of the series. You have to earn that. You have to create a nuanced, probably flawed character who still has audience appeal.

When you figure out the magic bullet for that, please let me know.

The other project I'm doing, I originally conceived as starring a Young Female Protagonist. I worked through a series Bible and a Pilot with that in mind.

But the more that I worked through it, the more the notes came back not about my main character, but about the other characters, two of them in particular. I realized that I'd spent most of my time figuring out how this Main Character related to two other characters in the firm where she worked. (And I'm not telling you what kind of firm because it's just too frickin good.)

What happened was, the Virtual Poster was lying to me.

The Virtual Poster is how you imagine your series characters come promo time. You imagine a cast photo or a movie-like onesheet, or a DVD Box cover. How does it look? Is it a bunch of people all standing in a line? Ensemble show. Is it one person way out in front, with other people standing in the background? You have a lead.

What gradually evolved for me was the idea that in my virtual poster, there were three people out front. The woman whom I thought was my lead was in the centre, but the two people beside her were just as prominent. I had created a triangle. And once that conceptual divide was crossed, everything came easier.

I think the reason why the original Star Trek is still the most beloved (and the one that can be rerun forever without the ratings dropping below a certain level) is because the troika they put up there was interesting. Those three you wanted to watch. Not so much with the other ensembles.

By the way, the more studious among you may have noticed what I just did there. I punted on the issue of the main character.

Aint I a stinker?

David E Kelley hates five acts, too.

I realize that out here on the hustings, in faraway Canada, we hear things a little late sometimes. But it seems like the move to five act hour dramas doesn't have lotsa fans in the creative community, either.

Exhibit A: David E. Kelley, speaking at the ABC panel on the Summer Press Tour back on June 27th:

"I don't like the five-act structure at all," Kelley said. "I think it is terrible. If there's anything that makes me envious of cable television and wanting to run to that world, it's the intrusion of commercial breaks. When we're down to eight minute acts before a Dodge Ram commercial comes pounding in, it's out a burden on us to try to compete with these commercials. We've got to now bang in after those commercials to try and get the viewer's attention back."

Kelley said the more commercial breaks there are in a one-hour drama, the more difficult it becomes to tell a story, "especially when you're trying to tell quiet stories, emotional storylines. It's easy to come in after a commercial break and have someone stab someone with a knife, and get back the viewer's attention. But when you're trying to come in with a softer scene, a scene that's maybe based more on character, it's just getting harder and harder."

Kelley called on the networks to come up with a solution to both the number of breaks and the number of commercial minutes, which have cut down on the storytelling time in each show. "When I was doing L.A. Law (in the '80s), I think we had 48 minutes [of storytelling time] per hour. Now we're down to 41 minutes to the hour, and it's a terrible trend."

Source is Mediaweek. Link's here.

How I missed this, I'll never know. Must be the Guinness.

Video.Google.Com

Procrastination just entered the 21st century.

"I got a fever ... and the only cure is MORE COW BELL."

Go check it out. I'll wait.

What Writers can Learn from George W. Bush...Part Deux

So Georgie Boy withdrew Harriet Miers as Supreme Court Justice. He says it's because of a dispute about "White House Documents." She's the lawyer, see? She'd rather withdraw then put Presidential Privilege in jeopardy.

Do your best Dr. Evil with me now:

Riiiiggggght.

A few days ago, Charles Krauthammer suggested this as a way out.

Then on Monday, this happened.

When George W. Bush was asked this morning about a report that the White House is thinking through contingency plans for the withdrawal of Harriet Miers' nomination, he responded with what we thought was a non sequitur: Rather than confirming or denying the report, the president said that he will refuse to release documents reflecting the advice Miers has given him as a member of his White House staff.

That Georgie sure is silver-tongued. It's like someone asked him not to think about elephants, and the first thing he says is "Elephant!"

While the Beltway waits for indictments, and the whole administration seems in tatters, it's interesting that the lies continue, so battered, anemic, and laughable that only the fiercest dittohead right wingers could stomach them.

His audience is the nation. Your audience is your reader, and eventually, if what you're doing gets made -- whoever sees it. You do have a responsibility to them. In its most simple state, it's this: they agree to give you an hour, or two, of their time: you agree to give them an engaging story. You agree not to cheat to get to the end of it. You agree that your plot will logically progress, that your characters will not change without explanation, that your resolution will be earned and not come out of nowhere. In short, you agree not to lie.

Because if you lie often enough, even the most dedicated audience falls away.

Frankly, I'm shocked, shocked! he didn't raise the terror alert. Surely someone must be planning something? After all, they attacked us on 9/11...

Four Acts, Five Acts, Six Acts, More!

There was a discussion of this over at WriterAction. A couple of showrunners reported that, yes, there is a deliberate choice at some networks to change the act structure. The idea is to get rid of the ads at the end of a show, so that people don't change channels before the next show starts.

Of course, those ads have to go somewhere. And where they go is into a newly created act break.

Best,
Jacob Sager Weinstein

All righty, then.

This is not happy news in Sticksville. I've been going through an old sitcom/old TV drama phase lately, watching a lot of older shows. It's interesting, because the old drama model, with slower moving stories, is hard to watch. But with the comedies, it's amazing to see the amount of space one had to tell a story, and be funny. These days, a half hour is barely 21 minutes. An hour is 44 or 45 if you're lucky. It's hard to craft any kind of meaningful story in that amount of time.

Of course, in this context, we're talking about ACTS as simply the amount of time before a commercial break comes in. Maybe this move toward five and six act dramas, and three act comedies explains the growing number of 'soft' outs I've been seeing lately.

Time was, you only went out on two things: jeopardy or new information. But if the days of even 12 minutes of story before a commercial are over...if you have to come up with six turning points in your stories, I start to wonder at one point the weight of the structure starts to turn in on itself. Six turning points in forty-odd minutes? How you do that?

Maybe MOW writers will be the new series writers. I don't know.

Anyway, food for thought.

As for me, I've just had the crappiest salad in creation. Now it's back to the room.

Forms & Format

So, almost off to Day Three in the room, after two hours of tweaking a script this morning. Tonight, it's teaching.

A long day.

Anyhow, a question to ruminate over (and feel free to chime in on your comments):

Traditionally comedy on TV followed a two-act structure, plus teaser and tag.

Has it now moved completely to three acts, so they can fit in an extra commercial break?

I seem to be noticing the same thing among hour dramas -- LOST, for instance, unless I miss my guess, has five acts. ALIAS too, I think.

What are other people finding?

Not enough hours

It's good when you get back into a work hum...but less good when that reminds you of the great pile of things left undone.

I'm cranking out finessed pages on a long-delayed half-hour comedy right now. I need to deliver the script midweek, which is a tighter deadline than I'd like, but for all sorts of legit reasons, it has to be that way. Sometimes you take the lumps. Especially when you're the guy who created them.

Add to that, the truly exciting news, that tomorrow I get to go into a room for three days for the first time since Charlie Jade last year. And luckily, I only have to go about ten K from my house to do it, not 8000...

...it's a development comedy, solid idea by a good friend of mine, and our task is to break story for the pilot and one other episode. This is also the first work I'll be doing for a Canadian channel that I've wanted to work with for a while.

All's that apologia to say that I may be light for the next few days. Talk amongst yourselves.

The DaVinci Code (not the #@%*#! unreadable book)

So there's an interesting thing going on in Canadian TV right now.
Not so much with the talk of the sucking.

Or at least that should be the story -- in Canada, it seems, it never is. The problem with a lot of Canadian TV criticism is that it ping pongs back and forth between undeserved boosterism and lukewarm or lazy sins of omission.

But one thing gets Canadians interested real fast. Always. Predictably...
the second the United States takes notice.

That's why Canadian TV is interesting right now.

First, the Trailer Park Boys went to BBC America, and made the leap to a Ivan Reitman -produced big screen incarnation, debuting sometime next year. If you haven't seen TPB, well, let's just say it's an acquired taste. But if you acquire that taste, the taste is not unlike the crack. (Not that I know anything about the crack. I'm taking poetic license here.)

Next, Slings & Arrows got rapturous reviews -- and eyeballs --on the Sundance Channel.

Corner Gas may not show in the US, but thanks to internet buzz, there's curiousity about it, and anyway, even without US interest, it continues to pull about 1.5 million viewers a week -- which is an astounding number for a country of only 30 million people.

Let's not forget that Cold Case, that CBS hit show, actually got to its beat second, after years of a grittier show on CTV called Cold Squad -- which had the exact same premise (more or less.)

Finally, last month, came the last linchpin: DaVinci's Inquest, a truly superior crime drama, debuted in syndication in nine U.S. top markets, and lo and behold...it's killing.

DaVinci is just about the only thing on the Canadian Broadcasting Corproration drama slate that they should be desperately proud of. It's that good. It's also the show that has a strong writer-showrunner behind it (Chris Haddock.)

It amazes me that the CBC doesn't realize the value of the writer-showrunner system. They have slate shows that go to auteurs: George Walker on This Is Wonderland, Ken Finkleman's increasingly vanity-driven projects, but there it is, the one show they've had for years that's undeniably good, and they don't think "hey, why is it good and how do we do more shows like that?"

It's tough when you live in a country where it seems like they're always trying to re-invent the wheel. In any case, if you're an American that's just discovered DaVinci's Inquest, you may find it interesting to know where it's going...

Read about it here.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Non-U.S.-based Television Industry

Let's go blog-surfing today, shall we?

Anyone who's reading this from Canada will doubtless find the blog Chained to the Keyboard interesting. He's a guy writing children's shows in Australia. It sounds like Aus has much of the same cultural malaise and structural problems in its TV industry as Canada. To which I would only add: try living next door to the greatest exporter of culture the world has ever known, buddy.

What bridges could be built here? We Canadians don't mind Australian accents. In fact, I'd dare say that every one of our women has slept with one of your men at least once, usually while backpacking through Italy.

Let's bring on those co-productions!

Read Chained here

Questions from Newbies

It takes a while to learn how to throw your feces really effectively, and become a real, gush-durned word monkey. So as a public service, I will be periodically answering questions from you, my readers. This is the first in an occasional series.

Dear Dead Things On Sticks Dude,
Is it acceptable to accept other forms of payment besides cold hard cash?

Good question. In the beginning, before you have credits, you might find yourself doing all sorts of work, non union style. It's good to become a pro writer and join the union and all, and if you find yourself competative for union jobs, you should join the union. But once you do that, you can never go back. In both Canada and the US, once you're union, you can't take non union gigs. Timing when to join is very important.

Until you join, you may find all manner of payment awaiting you. I know someone who got paid in clothing. Someone else had to defer their salary, but got four or five pairs of hockey tickets right away. That's pretty sweet, if you ask me.

I once offered to do spec field producing work for a show I was on for the price of six pints of Guinness. And they turned me down. The fools.

But here's one thing to always keep in mind. It's very important. Never, ever agree to be paid in conflict diamonds. That shit will come back and fuck you up proper. Make no mistake. Karma IS a bitch.

Dear Dead Things On Sticks Dude,
What is with Robert McKee's eyebrows?

They are fearsome and awe-inspiring. The way they pick up the chemicals from the more or less constant chain-smoking he engages in on breaks, sometimes makes them shimmer in the gloaming like those wondrous images of oil wells burning, burning in the Iraqi desert. They hold shaman's power. Do not look directly at them, lest ye shall be lost utterly.

Dear Dead Things On Sticks Dude,
What's your favorite screenplay, and why?

Dramatic screenplays, it's a tie. Chinatown, and Network. For comedies, I'd probably say Broadcast News. And if you have to ask why, you haven't seen those movies. And if you haven't seen those movies, you should be ashamed of yourself. No banana for you.

Dear Dead Things On Sticks Dude,
Do writers masturbate as much as Charlie Kaufman seemed to indicate in Adaptation? Because that's nasty.

Fine sociological query. The answer is no. Most writers actually would rather keep their masturbation keystroke related, like, say, answering fake letters from readers.

Dear Dead Things On Sticks Dude,
Seriously, what's with the Geena Davis thing?

Oh for crying out loud, it's a thing, okay? Same with Mary Louise Parker. It also extends to Rachel McAdams, okay? I'm a man. I'm a straight man. I'm a straight man who lives by myself. Who died and made you Judgey Judgerson?

Dear Dead Things On Sticks Dude,
I'm writing a spec for Two and a Half Men--

I'm sorry.

...Uh, I wasn't done.

Yes you are.

Waiting for the other shoe...

Okay. So here's the scene:

It's 1974. The summer. I have a vague memory. My father, who it freaks me out to say was then younger than I am now, is shaving, the mirror steamed up, the hot water running, the smell of Barbasol permeating the entire bathroom. I used to love to watch him shave. Though now that I think about it, I'm not sure he was very good at it. He managed to cut himself every morning. I remember, too, looking at the stiptic pencils he used -- is that the word? I don't remember now -- whatever happened to those things? Does anyone use them anymore?

Anyway. I'm six. Or wait. Not yet. I'm five. Each morning, as he does to this day, my Dad would get up and make the coffee in the perculator. Sometimes, if I was up -- oh let's be serious, I was always up -- sometimes he'd let me watch the pot perk for him and I had to come get him when it was ready. Until then, I'd wait in the kitchen. Just after he put the coffee on but before he went up to shave, shower, and put on his suit, he'd switch on the radio.

We lived in New City, New York. About thirty miles outside of Manhattan. We'd been living there for about two years, since just before my little sister arrived. Now there was a new baby, but the radio station was still the same from when we lived in the Bronx: 1010 WINS. "You give us 22 minutes and we'll give you the world."

On this particular day, after the coffee pot started making the perking noise, and I turned the dial on the stove all the way down (which he let me do, because he'd shown me how, and had told me how I was to never to do anything else, and I wasn't an eejit and it was the 70's and things weren't quite so uptight,) I really listened to what they were saying on 1010 WINS. I didn't understand much of it...but I knew that I'd been hearing stuff kind of like it for weeks. So I went up to the bathroom and I sat down on the toilet beside the sink, with the seat down so I wouldn't fall in, and I looked at my Dad shaving and I just asked him:

"Is the President a bad man?"

I have infinite sympathy for my father at that moment, looking back on it now. Poor bastard probably thought he'd be spared the political questions til number one son was, oh, I don't know, at least seven.

He sighed, not missing the down stroke on the razor, and explained to me how the President wasn't necessarily bad, but he had done a bad thing, and he'd tried to protect his friends, and most of the time that was a good thing, but not when you lied about it. Lying about it was the thing that made it bad.

"And that's why he's going to resign today?"

My Dad reached for a towel and wiped off the rest of the shaving cream. And he didn't say anything. He just nodded and went down to grab his coffee.

I wonder now about how it felt in those days before. Did everyone know? Was there a sense of dread or excitement? Was everyone just so tired? Did it feel this bad to feel vindicated?

I ask because I don't remember it too clearly. And because it's all happening again and it seems like we didn't learn very much.

We're a long, long way from the stain on the blue dress, here, kids. A long way.

Time's a Wastin

The trifecta that kills most effective writing days:

1) Lack of restful sleep
2) The need to work on several projects at once
3) Personal baggage

On those days when you have all three, (hell-oooooo, Denis...) it helps to remember some of the very basic writer tools that get us through the day:

"My dialogue is crappy and I'm feeling like maybe I'm writing a bunch of cliches..."

Solution:

Google your line in quotes. See the number of hits. If there are any, or ...thousands... you could be channeling old Mary Tyler Moore episodes. Back to the drawing board.

"I can't keep my head off the keyboard..."

Solution:

Get out and go for a walk. Of course, if you live in L.A., you're pretty much screwed. I suggest sitting on the 405 as an alternative.

"I've been stuck on a name for an hour."

Solution:

Biff for boys, Sally for girls. Go back to it later, dumbass.

"I'm a no-talent, unmitigated hack who's incapable of satisfying a woman."

Solution:

Uh oh. You're in the working writer K-hole. You need something to convince you that your talent isn't as elusive or non-existent as you think. I suggest Soap Operas...but only ten minutes' worth. Do NOT, under ANY circumstances, watch something good like The Sopranos, or any of those early Mary Tyler Moore episodes. Also, if you come across Jerry Springer, turn it off. I can not stress this enough. Otherwise, you'll be looking for neckties that will support your swinging body weight as you kick off the chair.

Oh, and for the other thing? Levitra.

"It's not working. I'm still a no-talent, unmitigated hack."

Solution:

Okay...time to pull out the big guns. Reach for your well-thumbed copy of Stephen Pressfield's The War of Art.

"Okay, that's better, but it's still going so slowly. I've been working for four hours and I only have two pages."

Tough toenails. Welcome to the NFL. Sit your ass down in that chair and make the magic happen, binky.

"I've had one coffee too many and everything's shaking."

You're so totally on your own. But you may be screwed.

If you make it to six hours, I suggest the following:

Dream about being asked in effusive terms to work on Aaron Sorkin's new series.

Imagine he loves your work and doesn't rewrite your every word. Ahhhhh.

See...happy place.