Writing the Comedy Blockbuster. Keith GiglioЧитать онлайн книгу.

      FOREPLAY

      OR HOW TINA FEY

      CAN KICK BRUCE WILLIS’ ASS

      Comedy is not just the funny bone of the film business. It can also be the backbone. For a writer looking to break into this crazy business, comedy is the shortest road to the land of Oz. Sure, it’s a road lined with banana peels — but it’s still the shortest road.

      Let’s imagine another sunny day in Los Angeles. Actors are working out. Actresses are jogging on the beach. Directors are taking meetings.

      And writers are waiting.

      And worrying.

      Because that’s what they do. Sometimes even more than writing. Because their scripts are out there, flying around the web, yelling, “Look at me! Look at me!”

      A producer — let’s call him Mr. Flip-Flops — is at his desk. He’s got his latte at the perfect temp. He’s just hit the gym. He opens his computer and sees some scripts that have been emailed to him from agents or managers or his development team.

      He clicks the PDF file. It’s a GREAT BIG ORIGINAL SCIENCE FICTION MOVIE. It’s epic. Amazing. Wow. I love this, he thinks, BUT the production is going to cost the studio $200 million, and it’s not based on any comic book or TV show or book. There is no preawareness. It’s not transmedia. There is no way the studio is going to buy this.

      So he snacks on some seaweed. (Yes, that’s what they’re eating these days. Seaweed).

      The producer reads the next script. Let’s call it AWESOME URBAN CRIME DRAMA. It’s juicy. Sexy. The producer thinks — it’s awesome! If we get Marty and Leo or Russell or Denzel it might work. But those guys are booked for the next year. (The producer needs a movie he can make now. The balloon payment on the mortgage is due. His kids are in private school). “I need money!” he thinks.

      Now, the latte is cold. The seaweed is making his stomach hurt. His ex-wife is texting him, reminding him of what an ass he can be. He is going to give up for the day. Heck, Mr. Flip-Flops has done a lot of reading today. His head is hurting.

      But the next script is shorter. 100 pages. There’s a lot of white on the page. It’s dialogue driven. The title makes him laugh. Let’s call that script: FUNNY IS MONEY. Mr. Flip-Flops cracks open the first page — and laughs. He didn’t want to laugh. He was not in a good mood when he started reading a third script in the same morning. But he laughed.

      He turns the page.

      And laughs again. The script is funny. And it takes place in a small town. One location. Now, he can’t stop laughing. And he thinks, if I laughed, someone else will laugh.

      The producer then puts on his producer hat and thinks, “I can make this cheap.”

      Mr. Flip-Flops realizes this comedy script is high concept/low budget. Instead of paying for huge stars, he can find the next big star. He can’t afford Steve Carell but he can afford the next Steve Carell. Television is like the minor leagues for comedy stars. Always has been, always will be.

      Suddenly that script is taking on a life of its own.

      He calls the agent. I loved it.

      The agent now calls the other producer who has the script. He tells them Mr. Flip-Flops is interested. Suddenly Miss Addicted to Diet Soda is reading the script and wants to take it to her studio. Mr. Pony-Tail calls in. The script is gaining buzz. Everyone wants to read FUNNY IS MONEY.

      The writer is at home. Pacing. Checking emails. Checking his phone.

      The phone rings. It’s his agent. “People like the script. We’re going to the studios.”

      The writer now can’t sleep. It’s a bidding war. Different studios are vying to option the script. They want to meet the writer, because…

      The writer sells the script.

      He calls his Mom and says, “Remember all those dick jokes I used to tell in school? Well, they just made me half a million dollars!”

      Ahh, I love this town!

      In today’s climate of Hollywood (and when I say “Hollywood,” I refer to anyone in any part of Los Angeles and neighboring counties who is looking to make a studio-based, mainstream movie) — where corporate-owned studios look for the tent-pole franchise, friendly preawareness, transmedia branded properties like Spiderman or Harry Potter — it’s difficult to sell original material, but it’s less difficult to sell an original comedy.

      Why is that?

      Well, one reason: they tend to be cheaper to make; anywhere from $30-$50 million, as opposed to $150 million and up. Date Night’s budget is estimated to be $55 million. Not a low-budget movie, but cheap compared to the $80 million spent on The Surrogates. The Surrogates made $38 million domestically. Date Night has made $98 million domestically.

      Tina Fey kicks Bruce Willis’ box office ass.

      Sweet!

      But aside from the budget issues and, as writers, you shouldn’t concern yourself too much with the budgetary issues — the simple fact is that if you write something funny on the page, people will laugh.

      Laughter is indeed the best medicine for your ailing career.

      Chances are you’ve picked up this book because you like a certain amount of “yucks” in your life; or, you’ve seen movies like The Hangover, There’s Something about Mary, and Date Night and thought — I could write one of those!

      Then let’s do just that. Because there is not enough laughter in the world.

      This book has come out of years of writing comedies for studios and television; of working and living the Hollywood dream — and of surviving the Hollywood nightmare. I have been hired and fired, spent time in the trenches and in the classroom. When teaching students, I notice certain questions crop up time and time again regarding comedy.

      “What makes a great comedy screenplay?”

      This book is my answer to that question. It’s from experience and time spent reading, writing, and watching.

      And also from a year of being soft.

      No, I am not talking about any personal erectile problems. I am talking about the worst thing a writer can be labeled out here in Hollywood.

      Soft.

      If you’re a comedy writer and you’re soft, it’s the kiss of death. When my wife and I were breaking in to the business, we did what all writers should do to break into this business. We slept around. No, not true. We’re not actors, we’re writers. So we wrote… and wrote.

      In truth, the first comedy we wrote together secured us an agent. The second comedy, we sold. The third one was passed over by everyone in town, and studio executives began to whisper to our agents — they’re soft.

      They don’t write edgy.

      They can’t write hard jokes.