On graduating film school

Tonight I was part of a panel at Columbia University, discussing what life is like after finishing graduate film school. Topics included money, job opportunities, networking and the high drop-off rate. I spoke a little about my experience working in Mexico and my belief that film school is not (only) about what is taught in classes and workshops.

It was also fascinating to hear what some of my fellow graduates were up to and the kind of obstacles they've encountered. Some really good points:

• You are not above internships (especially if you're into the casting, production or postproduction aspects of film). You gotta do what you gotta do to get your foot in the door.
• Some internships are not worth it. Choose wisely.
• Patience is a virtue. most people who stick with it eventually make a name for themselves, be it in two years or twenty.
• Be aware of your shortcomings. If you can't write, there's no shame in hiring a writer.
• Network. Obvious, but easily overlooked by those who tend to prefer to let their work speak for itself (this particularly applies to screenwriters, who tend to be a tad more antisocial).
• Don't be afraid to knock on doors, cold call or approach people. It's intimidating, but vital.
• Be humble in the face of adversity. Some gigs or credits may not seem worth the trouble, but experience toughens you up for when you have to fight for the projects you really care about.
• Assholes tend to burn their own bridges. You'll have to work with them sooner or later, so weather the storm until you can move on.
• Do not squander your time in film school.
• Keep your eyes on the prize. Take a day job if you have to, but don't forget that it's just a stepping stone.

Afterwards, we discussed ways of enhancing the experience for current students. Many good solutions were suggested. I wish some of them had been even considered while I was a student.

It's amazing to realize that even though it's been a couple of years since I graduated, in many ways I'm in the same spot these future graduates are in trying to get ahead. I just have a little bit more experience to be able to look back. I love being able to provide some sort of assistance or guidance in any way I can, and I hope that what was said by my fellow panelists is helpful and/or inspiring to them.

Yay for Verbal Agreements

I recently was subcontracted by a head writer to adapt a series of scripts because, like he said quite specifically, "you understand the concept and this universe better than anyone."

Great!

But here's the thing: there was no contract. I asked for it several times, and there kept being nothing but promises. I heard a lot of "You can trust me, I'm one of your own!"

Immediately, this head writer and I butted heads, mostly because he felt he was improving upon the concept by changing everything the source material provided. I'm not talking about the natural evolution of an adaptation, but flat-out changing aspects that define a concept. Like making Snoopy a serial killer Dobermann, or requesting Wayans Brothers' jokes for a Shakespearean comedy.

As much as these things bothered me, I tried to stay zen. I would fight for what was right for the project, but often I gave up. I tried to elevate the material, but there were commercial considerations straight from the producer. I wanted to talk to the producer (after all, I "understood the concept", right?) but the head writer wouldn't let me. I was talk-blocked.

Lately the scripts stopped arriving. I asked the head writer, who said the producer was having some problems. "I'll keep you informed. They'll get to you soon."

This was last week.

Today I find out through a third party that the head writer actually finished all the scripts without ever telling me.

Here's the thing: he didn't steal any money from me. He took work away from me, but no money, and I can't demand I get paid for work I didn't do. However, I don't know if he told the producer that I was doing the writing and simply keeping that money from the original agreement he had made with the producer. No contract=no way to prove it, and I have no way of contacting the producer.

Mostly, I'm annoyed that he lied to me. We work in the same environment, with the same people, and have mutual friends. We clearly were having a difficult relationship, but he chickened out of having to deal with what is a natural part of the writing process, which is butting heads. All he accomplished is to lose my respect.

The lesson is that verbal agreements clearly mean nothing in this industry, and it's unfortunate, because oftentimes it's the only way to do business.

Michael McLaughlin

On August 9, 2009, Michael McLaughlin drowned while snorkeling near Tulum, Mexico. This is a huge bit of news in that Michael McLaughlin was one of my closest and dearest friends, and because we had just spoken the week before.

I'd been living in Mexico for over a year, writing and teaching, and was finally moving back to New York on August 25th. I had many reasons why I wanted to return, but Michael was a huge part of it.

I can't precisely recall at what point we became friends. I know we got along well from the get-go, when we both enrolled at Columbia University's Graduate School of the Arts in August 2002. Soon, Michael stood out as a completely unique individual whose films and writing had a flavor and personality that is hard to pin down.

Michael was quirky, but he was never eccentric. He was funny, yet always grounded. And it's amazing to think that maybe people wouldn't know he and I were such close friends— because he was so close to so many. How could I even possibly begin to claim him all to myself?

This is why his death also seems so surreal. I woke up at 5 this morning and, for no apparent reason, just began crying. I couldn't stop thinking about him. I've done a lot of crying since I heard the news (I only found out four days after it happened), but for some reason was unable to deal with it. Maybe it was that I hadn't seen him since January, or that we had spoken but everything seems faded at such a long distance; it made the news seem so unreal, so distant.

Or perhaps it was that in such a crazy world, full of bad news and fast-paced living, the heavy realization that one of my best friends had died was muted by my own denial. I kept feeling, deep down, that as soon as I arrived in New York, I would pick up the phone and call him, and we would go get a beer or catch a movie and pick up exactly where we left off. Here we are, almost a month later, and I'm barely starting to really feel, to really deal with the grief of Michael being gone. If this is me, who had only known Michael for seven years, I can't even begin to imagine what his family feels like.

For that was the power of Michael— he made a difference. He marked me in so many ways that it's hard to narrow down his influence as a human being and as a friend. There are so many things that I've taken from him that listing them would take an impossibly long time. I've been having very sudden flashbacks for the past few weeks, unexpected memories of moments or details about him, and I immediately have to regale someone with them. From random things like his undying love of spider-monkeys (as a documentary on them unexpectedly begins on TV) to his love of children's lit (he could always help me remember the name of any movie I saw as a kid, especially if it was adapted from a book).

I always said he was ridiculously smart, and every time I said something horrendously stupid, he would call me out on it, but never in a condescending or higher-than-thou tone. On the contrary, he genuinely wanted me to be corrected for my benefit, not his.

And his love of puppets! I remember walking down the tiny streets of Venice four years ago and seeing the most magical and random of puppets on display, and even though they were priced way out of my range, I at least had to take a photo for Michael to see. Surely he had never seen puppets like this! (And of course he had, but he always appreciated the fact that I still wanted him to see them.) He was so in love with puppets he even took me to see a tiny little play called Die Hard: The Puppet Musical. He was all over puppet musicals even before they became cool again thanks to Forgetting Sarah Marshall.

We had a different appreciation for movies. In fact, I always joked that I shouldn't even bother recommending anything to him because he never liked anything I suggested, and while not altogether true, it did create an aura of mutual understanding of what each of us appreciated in cinema. Knowing full well that his was a more refined taste than mine, I tried to get him to watch the offbeat, the weird, the B-movies that I think he would benefit from, since his humor was just as offbeat. He seldom loved any of them, but he did find the nugget of my reasoning to be logical and to some degree expected.

That was also why, whenever he wrote a tragic or dramatic screenplay, I would find it funny. Michael would be dead serious about his subject matter, but his characters would have these wacky, funny personalities and hilarious, over-the-top names. Even he had to concede that he was innately funny.

I think it was when we were together in a screenwriting class that I noticed Michael's particular sensibilities. I have always wanted to remake this random obscure, surreal and not-quite-successful film, and I lent him the DVD. I told him he should write it and I would direct it. He was mildly insulted —after all, he thought the movie was awful— but after I explained what it was that made me want to remake it and why I felt his voice was perfect for it, he realized I was in fact complimenting him.

When I left for Mexico, Michael and I had just begun a web series. In all honesty, we had talked about it for over a year but didn't do anything because, as two struggling artists living in New York, we needed to make rent and pay student loans and kept putting it off. By then, both of us had moved out of student housing (me to Brooklyn, he to Queens), so the distance was another factor. We saw each other often, but it was hard to think about work when we met. All we wanted to do was hang out! So when the threat of my departure became real, we put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard, if you will) and we hammered out the details of the project. Then we held auditions and shot about a third of everything we had written, but we couldn't put anything online until we found the right actor for the co-lead role. Also, we had one scene that involved a tiny bit of special effects.

The day after we shot those first thirteen episodes, I left for Mexico. Michael was to continue the search for the missing actor, and he was to work on the FX. Again, paying rent and loans got in the way, and I would constantly bug him about getting back on the horse. I can almost hear his boisterous laugh at every message I sent him —and for a few weeks, I'd e-mail him daily— trying to get him to continue what we started. When I told him I was finally moving back to New York, he was so excited. With my return, he knew there was no excuse, and we'd both work on finishing the project we so often spoke about.

But I can't blame him for not working on the project in the meantime. I was gone. He couldn't do it all by himself. And now I don't know how I can possibly do it without him. Just thinking about it is emotionally draining.

We worked on so many projects together, on so many film shoots and read so many of each others' scripts. As I type this I realize that it's hard to describe how dear he was to me, and I could never really do him justice.

Michael preferred using environmentally-friendly companies, even if they couldn't provide the best service as the bigger corporations. He was willing to commute for an eternity to help a friend move, if only for an hour. He would warn you that after 2 or 3 am he couldn't really function anymore and yet would still stay up late to work on your film. He'd read your screenplay and genuinely worry about the fate of your characters. He once dragged me to a party that turned out to be a rave, and it was expensive and lame and everything I did not want to be doing that night, so by the end of it, he was willing to endure any torment to make it up to me. "Andy," he said, "you're my best friend at Columbia. I hate that you had a bad time. I'll go with you to any heavy metal concert you ask me to." I never held him up to that.

He was charismatic and smart and kind and talented beyond words, and it kills me that I'll never see him again. And yet...

And yet I know he's okay. When I woke up this morning, the reason why I felt like I needed to write this, was because I knew deep down that wherever he is, Michael is doing just fine. I can't stop crying yet I'm somehow chuckling as well, because I can picture him with his feet propped up and laughing uproariously, ever the raconteur. I was lucky to have met Michael, and whoever has him now, they're blessed to have him.

I wish I could honor Michael in a way that he deserves. I wish I could grab one of his (inevitably) funny scripts and make it into a movie. I know I'm a ways away from the kind of clout that allows me to direct any old project I choose, but when I do, it would be an honor to bring his words to life. I will also try to rekindle our last project together. In the meantime, the best I can do is remember Michael for the wonderful human being he was, and try to honor his memory by being the best person I can be.

Rest in peace, my dear friend.

RIP Blake Snyder

If you're into movies —screenwriting particularly— then it should come as no surprise to hear people people talk about Save The Cat!

But if you haven't...

It's a screenwriting book, but more so, it's a tool, and one of the better ones I've encountered. Oh, there are plenty of good ones, but this one stands out because it helped me look at screenplays by taking a step back and studying its structure. Sure, there are plenty of helpful tips in there, depending on who reads it and what they read into it. But for me, it was a structural thing, mostly. And it kinda made me look at movies differently, for better or for worse.

I bring this up because I think that, regardless of your opinion on the book (or it's sequel, Save The Cat! Goes to the Movies), it's a good idea to read them. Plenty of Hollywood executives are, so at least one can have an idea what the hell they're thinking.

The author of these books, Blake Snyder, passed away Tuesday morning at 52. I never met him or exchanged e-mails with him. I can't say I loved the movies he wrote but I understand the appeal for the studio. And I think his wink-wink style as an author can alienate some readers.

But there is no denying the fact that his book was pretty damn on the money, at least for the types of movies he dissects and discusses. I think a couple are pretty far out, but I will not deny the influence his structure has had in finding my own path as a writer.

So the least I can do is suggest to whoever is interested in a career writing screenplays (or reading a bunch of them to decide which one to make) is to check out his books. I think it might be of a bit of help, but at worst, it can't hurt.

Joshua is one disturbing movie.

I've been using Twitter to post about what's what lately, so this blog has taken a back seat. It's just longer to write a full entry, I guess, and time has been short. Ridiculously so.

The past couple of months, I've been putting some time into two TV shows (one an original, the other an adaptation). If all goes well they'll both be on the air early next year.

Also, several movie projects, the last of which is so close to being done I can't wait until I have a free day to just bang it out. It needs to happen this week.

In other news, Joshua is one disturbing movie. That is all.

Real vs. Believable

I'm in LA, and met with a friend of mine who is working on a pitch. He told me the premise, which is quite promising, but lacks narrative drive. Everything about his research is spot on, consulting with specialists in the field he's writing about, so it's all real. When I suggest a change, he tells me he needs to make sure that alteration is something that could realistically happen. I counter that it needs not be real, just believable.

People don't go to the movies to see stuff that's real, even if they claim they do. What they want is to see something they can believe. Even "real" gritty dramas rely on a certain degree of fabrication, starting with the fact that they're fiction. And the most realistic and truthful of documentaries are basically edited and pre-packaged interpretations of reality, what with they're limited timeframes and composition framing requirements.

(We could get into a whole philosophical argument about reality being subjective given the limited information our sense give each of us at every given moment, or even that reality is a construct our mind fabricates from this limited information, but that's for another day. And another blog.)

The point is, there is no such thing as "real" in cinema. As long as people are willing to suspend their disbelief, a filmmaker's job is to make that suspension as accessible as possible. Hell, people fall in love with actors based on their characters, with no inkling of what the "real" person is like. People want to be lied to when they go to the movies, and they want to believe those lies.

That's the beauty of storytelling: it's the lies people love.

Edit yourself, man

My posts tend to be long. I get all worked up, or verbose, or just plain lose track of whatever the hell I'm saying and ramble like a drunk on Mardi Gras. And being a screenwriter, I can seemingly talk for hours about ridiculously inane stuff. Who knew? I always thought I was the quiet type.

So maybe I should write shorter entries. That would help.

The good news is that yesterday I caught up on a lot of writing that I hadn't done in almost a month (full disclosure: it was the holidays. Two weeks of playing tour guide and tourist).

Lots of potential gigs have come up, so I'm running around. May seems to be jam-packed already. Sweet.