How Blake Snyder Saved the Adjective
My personal abrasion towards “formulas” and
“writing rules” has been a little bit of a mystery. In my adulthood, I realized
parts of it had to do with my parents’ tendency to be a little too free with
advice and constructive criticism, often their impulsive ideas putting me into
embarrassing situations. Anyone who has received advice—whether it be on
writing, dating, parenting, travel, or auto repair—has found that not all
opinions are helpful, some downright problematic.
In fact, I’ve started to realize that people
often advocate for their biggest flaws. I often tell the story about the
unpublished writer whose English came across as a second language due to his
overwriting and perfectly proper grammar, and how he “reminded” me to never put
a preposition at the end of a Facebook status so that I am practiced in perfect
grammar for my actual work. I politely reminded him that his way of writing
wasn’t for everyone, and not a style I was particularly interested in
emulating. Just recently, a friend of mine, who is struggling with a man loudly
rejecting any commitment to her, insisted that I should just start sleeping
with someone (anyone) and that’s how
you get feelings! Meanwhile, another friend’s mother-in-law was advising her
not to feed her baby whenever it wanted, but instead give him a pacifier dipped
in soda until the baby came around to her timeframe.
Blake Snyder was sort of the exception for me.
I think, in part, it had to with a way he was introduced. I was working with a
cowriter on a radio show we hope to produce next year and she pulled out
Snyder’s Beat Sheet to outline from. This was not my normal way of going about
things, but obviously, as there were two of us writing different episodes, we
needed to get in on the general story before we could get started. As we filled
in the beats, things became clearer to me, and all of the sudden, I realized it
was exactly what I was looking for.
In many of my scripts (both play and novel) the
characters are supposed to be funny with endearing connection to one another,
but it never seemed to happen. I didn’t take the time from the plot to just
have a fun moment. But where should a
scene like that go?
Well, according to Snyder, page 30!
Blake Snyder was a screenwriter with, according
to him, a good deal of script sells, some for millions of dollars. Only two of
his movies were actually made—typical for the industry—but he believed himself
to be great at knowing what Hollywood wants, and how to pitch it.
And I believe that.
For one thing, he immediately promotes to name
your screenplay first; come up with a catchy title and then find a logline that
goes with it. Script comes third to those things. Well, as I was reading Save the Cat, Snyder’s book on how to
write a screenplay, I had several people ask me what it was about, some even
saying, “Great title!” which was bizarre compared to most of the books I’ve
read.
Since learning about the Beat Sheet last
October, I’ve applied the lessons to most of my writing, in both editing and
outlining. And regardless of the actual results, one of the nicest things about
the “formula” is that I felt less overwhelmed. I understood how to keep the
plot moving and had areas that I tended to ignore pointed out to me. In life, I
avoid conflict as much as possible, being a pretty good smooth talker when it
comes to difficult situations. It’s hard for me to have characters not understand where the other is coming
from—or even just not care—and a lot of their logical discussions subtracted
from the stakes and conflicts that could be there.
The Beat Sheet is an excellent way of putting emotional range in your manuscript as well as recognizing easy places to add in more conflict and, well, plot.
So I bought the book. I didn’t have people
explain the Beat Sheet to me as well as I’d like, so I wanted to get it
straight from the cat’s mouth. Unfortunately, the cat is more of a salesperson
and less of a writer than I’d hope.
Snyder’s opening states that one reason he felt
this book needed to be written was because most screenwriting advice is too
formal and pretentious. He speaks like “real people” do, complete with a lot of
exclamation points and some typographical errors.
Most importantly though, Snyder’s biggest
“casual” way of talking is really the Trumpian-method and instilling credibility
through confidence. Ever single one of his scripts is described, point blank,
as “hilarious.” He constantly states how awesome his ideas are in a
matter-of-fact sort of way. This in itself wouldn’t bother me, except that
Snyder doesn’t seem to have a lot of taste.
The loglines he shows are of films that have
been actually made, praising their qualities as examples. Not a single one of
them stick with me. All of his own ideas tend to be pithy but unrelatable,
campy, common denominator comedies that are only interesting because of the humor, not the plot, and
not really the concept. But this is common. I read a lot about queries or
pitches that succeed and what gets one person hot and bothered is not what gets
another. And let’s face it, common denominator comedy sells. It’s most of what
you see on the marquee, so I can’t disagree with his premise that, regardless
of how I feel about them, this is what works in Hollywood.
The first time he lost me, however, was when he
tried to show how changing character’s traits or situations could drastically
lower the stakes in the movie.
“A just-hired employee goes on a company
weekend and soon discovers someone’s trying to kill him.”
“In the example of The Retreat, again the adjectives come into play to tell us the
writers most likely did it right… But let’s play around with the character to
see other ways they could have gone with this same premise. What if the person
going on the retreat is 65, has been at the company for 20 years, and is about
to retire? Okay, so now it’s about a company “downsizing” its employees for
real before they can collect their retirement benefits… No one will show up for
that movie.”
Really? No one? Because that was the first time
in 52 pages he’d talked about a movie that I actually was sort of interested
in.
I like Miss Congeniality and Legally Blonde,
but for the most part, the vast majority of the films mentioned in the book
sounded really dumb. Trying too hard, personality-less, and no hint of
inspiration. Movies I would only go see because we wanted to do something and we showed up at the
theatre to randomly pick what’s best for a large group. But, let’s be fair,
that’s exactly what happened with Miss Congeniality and Legally Blonde. It
wasn’t their premises I was going after.
The book, which is mostly bossy and
closed-minded, still had some good ideas. Selling a script and writing a good
one are two totally different skillsets, and while I wish Snyder had been more
honest about his ability to sell a script rather than write one (Both of his
produced scripts, Stop! or My Mom Will
Shoot! and Blank Check, as
awesome as they sound, have lower than 14% ratings on Rotten Tomatoes), I think
that using Save the Cat! as a guide
to make your script more attractive is a good idea. These tips can contradict your inspiration and
innovation, and what makes for a catchy title isn’t always going to be one that
you, well, like, (Stop! or My Mom Will
Shoot? Really?), but they don’t
have to. They’re good ideas to apply in moderation.
He was right in what he said about loglines
needing to contain irony. Give us a trait that makes your character likeable
(with an adjective), and then tell us something unexpected about it. Hollywood
unexpected and real-life unexpected not being the same thing. And also, yes,
title matters. It just does.
Truth is, I think he knew what he was talking
about, but he was so bent around the axel when it came to “fake it ‘til you
make it,” he made himself come off as a little oblivious:
“The amazing Sheldon Bull and I wrote a
hilarious comedy in 2004. What if the President’s [sic] helicopter goes down
behind enemy lines? And what if he is forced to capture Osama Bin Laden—all by
himself? … We even had a great title: Chickenhawk
Down. And here’s why we did not sell that script: Because there are about
two people who can play the part of the President. It’s the lead. And there
really isn’t anyone out there who can “open” that movie. Tim Allen was our
first choice. And… who else? What we
had done was paint ourselves into a corner on casting. Yes, it’s funny. Yes,
it’s a great story.”
I mean, I’m no Hollywood producer, but
something tells me that Tim Allen wasn’t the reason you couldn’t get that
script sold.
When I pointed this out to my brother, he said,
“It sounds like they came up with the title first and just wrote a script on
that.”
Well, yes. As Snyder advocates.
My problem with the book, and most books of its
kind, is that instead of really thoroughly discussing the pros and cons of
their suggestions, the outcomes and whys, mentioning the goals they are
targeting, he just states everything like facts and rules and hopes you won’t
recognize his Impostor Syndrome coming through.
But when I mentioned that, people couldn’t
understand why he would want to point
out the flaws in his thinking. He’s trying to sell a book! How would it benefit
him to do so?
First off, my point isn’t really about him.
It’s that writing books need to be clear to people who tend to latch onto
formulas and get scared about being whimsical or, even, themselves. These
writers can be incredibly emotional when the time comes to “break the rules,”
ironically, more so than those who fight writing techniques like DEFCON 1. I’ve
been able to articulately explain my reasons for them breaking out of their
mold far more efficiently to people who hate
writing rules than to those who love them. The latter are more likely to
end up in tears or literally screaming, “THAT’S
NOT MY JOB!” to a modest suggestion. The biggest breakdowns I’ve had to
deal with as a critique partner is always with people who like the rules and
don’t want to hear that doing what they were supposed to didn’t work.
Mostly
though, you get cynical people like me and just by being clear the context in
which the suggestion will work, I’m more likely to agree with you. Just telling
me you’re hilarious and amazing isn’t going to do the trick. When you say,
“[Double Mumbo Jumbo is] a rule you and I can’t break!” and use an example of
how Gods and aliens don’t go together, or something else I don’t believe,
you’re sort of persuading me to throw the kitty out with the bathwater. I’m old
enough now to recognize the consequences of being like that, but many people,
especially teenagers, are more likely to say, “That doesn’t really make sense,”
and toss the entire idea. If you
however, point out, “Here’s what happens when you do this,” rather than just
telling me not to do it, I’m more likely to hear you out.
Some people need permission to do something
unexpected. Others need to feel respected in order to listen. Bossing them around
just makes them stop listening.
Mainly, there’s more than one way to save a
cat, and I think that most writing advice needs to promote understanding of
cause and effect rather than just telling you what to do. A lot of advice is
bad, and I would hate to live in a world in which only Blake Snyder’s films got
made.
The book tells you how to sell specific types of
movies. Parts are applicable to other mediums and genres, but really, he’s
telling you how to make your comedic film alluring to producers. As a book on
writing, if you can ignore his businessman talk, his narrow-view of the world,
and know to take it in moderation, I think that playing around with these ideas
can help clarify for you how to make your work better. The ideas certainly have
made me feel clearer headed. I’m just glad I heard about the concept before I
actually read it. And I think, in the end, that’s what Blake Snyder was all
about.
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