Blog | Nancy Nigrosh
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Kathryn Bigelow directing 'Near Dark'

How Kathryn Bigelow & Eric Red Gamed the System to Launch Their Careers

Kathryn Bigelow and Eric Red not only delivered an exceptional screenplay to their agents, but along with it, equipped us with a real world plan of attack. This made “Near Dark” an exceptional setup. I was head of Gersh’s Literary department, itching to sherpa my clients up Everest. Kathryn and Eric’s tactical scenario offered the kind of dynamic activism agents live for.

We didn’t have a big meeting or even work out details over a fancy meal. Kathryn and Eric’s determination to overcome conventional industry-wide resistance to anyone outside the insider directing pool was palpable. When I signed Kathryn, I could see she was someone who was determined to not only even the odds against her achieving her goal – but not by kneejerk jumping at a single opportunity. Instead she was prepared to exercise discerning conduct aimed to promote a long and productive career. She was very smart to understand the difference, which led to sometime in 1986, when Kathryn and her writer/director friend Eric Red, whom Melinda Jason represented, made a pact.

Melinda had her own literary agency, but in many ways, she was my mentor. She’d gotten her start in the industry in the legal department at Fox features doing personal service contracts right after getting her law degree from USC. After a few years, she segued into becoming a literary agent. Over the course of working at a few mid-sized companies, she made a lot of friends who were agents. When she was able to start up her own company, she kept those friendships even though her friends were also her competitors. She knew there was a bigger, badder enemy out there we needed to protect each other from, by sharing information and sometimes, clients.

She reasoned that as independents there was safety in numbers to neutralize the predatory practices of corporation-sized companies – both agencies and studios. She also knew there was enough to go around for everyone. Perhaps it was because she’d grown up in a family with deep roots in the golden age of the entertainment business — her uncle directed “Rebel Without A Cause” and before that, her great uncle was president of the Directors Guild, having directed “Top Hat” and many other Astaire films — that fueled her positive expectations.

I, on the other hand, am an east coast transplant, and the product of film schools, with a BFA from NYU’s Tisch School Of the Arts and an MFA from UCLA’s Master Screenwriting program. I was trained at the Gersh Agency, and then rapidly promoted from lowly assistant to literary agent, to head of my department. Melinda called to congratulate me, and offered to help support my business. I was amazed at her generosity. Industry wide competition among literary agents for clients and writing assignments was fierce. Most agents were radically different from Melinda’s confident commitment to solidarity and engaged in a lot of petty behavior. Melinda was a visible exception because she wasn’t just vocal about fairness, she insisted on it.

It was obvious the studio system was still rife as ever with predicable favoritism, and not in favor of writers. Yet writers still expected their agents to buck the tide by lifting them over it. The problem was there was very little truly strategic action by the writers themselves. I don’t mean by their writing. They were pretty busy doing that. They exuded a culture of materializing all kinds of fantastic ideas that promised to complement the studio mandate to keep new material flowing. They acted as though they believed they had magical creative powers, and should be offered to direct as a possible entitlement. After all, they were used to being creators by simply putting hand to paper. Somehow, if they could be glued into the director’s chair, their scripts would have lift-off. As their agents, we made lots of deals, development deals — but most scripts ended up as baubles in the studio vault. It’s ironic to me looking back, with such a glut of script development money, and so many talented dealmakers on every side of the aisle, but no great leap forward. Directors were cast, just like actors, with a ton of politics in the rooms we got them into. So many potential innovators passed through, and didn’t make it. Eventually, they landed at Park City, but that’s another story.

Melinda signed Eric after he graduated from AFI as a directing fellow. Barely 22, he’d written a script called “The Hitcher,” inspired by an actual incident when Eric picked up a creepy hitchhiker while driving cross-country. Eric expected to direct “The Hitcher” but TriStar, where Melinda had sold the script, wasn’t ready to work with a first-timer, let alone a 22-year-old first-timer. TriStar was a brand new studio, in partnership with HBO with the mandate to boldly depart from the past and stay ahead of the curve, more in the tradition of the maverick filmmakers of the ‘70s. Lots of producers wanted to be in that game and developed great material, but ultimately clashed when it came to casting, budget, and location; then typically the studios wanted the script dialed back into more familiar territory. So, they churned out lots of forgettable films. “The Hitcher” was supposed to pave the way for a glut of hipness, but it turned out to be an exception.

That expectation of hipness was considered the best way to compete with big network television. Though TV enjoyed monopoly status, it was stifled by standards and practices that hadn’t changed since the 1950s. The MTV generation craved something new. Studios saw an opportunity, and as agents we heeded the call and signed stylish music video and commercial directors who’d landed in LA like they were taking a beachhead.

There was also an influx of film school grads, hopefuls like Kathryn and Eric. The problem was, no matter how hip or talented they were, most struck out. It wasn’t enough to be a cool visual storyteller when inexperienced with the often years long pressures of script development, on set star-driven dramas, commanding legions of studio film crew craftsmen, studio staff politics that included strategic marketing concessions and aggressive promotion. Still, a studio might, for a number of reasons, be inclined to go with the fresh perspective of a first-timer, but less so with the writer of the script, since it opened the door to disagreement about how to interpret and revise the many creative variables in the production process that might run contrary to the writer’s intentions. Nevertheless, sometimes they could see the advantage of having the director be the one to revise any story detail as needed, as someone already built into the process. A lot of writers believed this scenario was generally possible when in fact it wasn’t.

“The Hitcher” was daring for its time, especially gruesome in a pre-“Saw” universe. Dutch actor Rutger Hauer gave a frightening performance, flanked by a wide-eyed teenaged C. Thomas Howell. Jennifer Jason Leigh lent some edge of her own and pulled the viewer into an in-your-face punk vibe. Though Eric was getting a lot of positive attention, he soon learned only top-tier filmmakers who’d created smash critical successes, the likes of Walter Hill, William Friedkin, Francis Coppola, Robert Altman, or Marty Scorsese, were able to overcome studio gridlock and experiment with new ideas.

I’d spent two years sending out Kathryn’s Columbia graduate school student film, “The Set-Up,” to a slew of studio producers, independent producers and studio executives. As I’d intended, they were stunned by the film’s staged, but genuinely intense street fight. Kathryn also had the advantage of impressive social skills and focused intensity on her goal to become an important film director. Though she understood to get the opportunity to direct she’d have to write the script first, she was brilliant at delivering the respectfully polished assertion that she’d mastered genres until now exclusively monopolized by male directors.

To me, this was an exciting campaign. To get her into the game, I made two studio deals. These projects were both conceived by producers as cutting edge, tailored to cast popular brat pack actors, but were in fact tepid, bordering on silly. Kathryn went into each situation in good faith, but we both knew she was on a fool’s errand. Though they insisted they wanted smart, hip genre films with an edge rarely seen from a studio-generated project, they didn’t really mean it. So I got Kathryn an episode to write for a network show, “The Equalizer,” which at least was consistent with her creative abilities. But Warner Bros./CBS wouldn’t consider Kathryn as a director.

After “The Hitcher,” Eric had street cred as an architect for stylized violence, but his youthfulness probably got him into some terra incognita in a conference room situation. Kathryn, on the other hand, was skilled at interpreting the dynamic in a conference room and addressing directly with aplomb. She was able to surprise people with her poise and confidence by tempering her basic intensity. She had this knack of projecting she knew something you didn’t, but she was too polite to unsettle you and instead graciously invited you into her private perspective.

This was a terrific way to disarm skeptical sexists. The only women directing for the majors were Penny Marshall and Amy Heckerling, and a few others who squeaked in through network TV sitcoms. The idea of a woman directing anything but comedy just wasn’t on anyone’s mind. That included minorities and in most cases, the minority A-list too. A few did fight the tide. Martha Coolidge directed a drama about date rape in the mid ‘70’s, but ended up directing comedies, like “Valley Girl” and “Joy Of Sex.” Even Susan Seidelman’s “Desperately Seeking Susan,” though a more risky story that introduced Madonna to mainstream audiences, was still comedy. Barbra Streisand’s “Yentl” wasn’t an actual comedy, but delivered a strong romantic main plot with a topical cross-dressing component that went for the nervous kind of laughs. Even rock documentarian Penelope Spheeris, of “The Decline Of Western Civilization” fame, transitioned into comedy with “Wayne’s World.” Only Randa Haines directed a true drama, “Children Of A Lesser God.” The advent of Sundance was starting to open up wider opportunities for filmmakers of all kinds.

But it was a slow, pre-Tarantino dance. Kathryn and Eric didn’t fit in to any standard trending categories. They saw the system for what it was, and took matters into their own hands. They were going to be strategic; they would write two scripts together. The first, “Undertow,” Eric would direct. The second, “Near Dark,” Kathryn would direct. Since they were co-writers, they co-owned the rights to the screenplays they wrote together, no one could undermine their directing attachments. Though Melinda and I hadn’t yet gotten either script, we knew what our clients were capable of. We knew we were going to get material that was going to be highly original, and probably prone to deliver out of the park, genre-bending payoffs. True to our expectations, “Undertow” caused a sensation when we took it out because the script was written in a unique, terse style, reminiscent of an Edgar Allen Poe poem, dark and macabre. Predictably, the offers came in for “Undertow” without a directing commitment to Eric, so the four of us – Melinda and I, Eric and Kathryn, held fast to the plan until we got the deal we all wanted. If someone wanted to buy “Undertow,” Eric would have to be irrevocably attached to direct it. In Hollywood, there’s no such thing as ‘irrevocable’ but we came as close to it as anyone could.

Getting that deal on the table was like staying on a bucking bronco. There was serious resistance to Eric, who was perceived as just another writer who wanted to direct. It took all our collective grit to build the most solid clauses we could to discourage the buyer from exercising their pay or play option, if a bigger name director became available or could deliver a certain star, which meant Eric could be replaced by simply paying off his directing fee. Finally, Melinda and I were able to get the deal done. Then Kathryn’s directing project, “Near Dark,” came in. Not only did the script have the same spare and effortless dialogue, but Kathryn had interlaced into its pages, copies of photographs from a recent show at the Museum of Modern Art. These weren’t the usual portraits of the fashionable or famous, but ordinary rural Americans with haunting and beautiful faces that bored straight to the heart. Normally I wouldn’t ever recommend including illustrations at all, but these images, when coupled with a vampire narrative set in the Midwestern heartland, offered a canny glimpse of how Kathryn envisioned the film.

Many producers made offers, but none with Kathryn directing. They offered more money for the buy and promised a bigger budget to lure an important director and expensive stars. Then Ed Feldman, who produced “The Hitcher,” stepped up to the plate and guaranteed Kathryn the same directing deal we’d gotten Eric for “Undertow.” Ed managed to get the film financed with Kathryn, not only as a first time director, but also to his credit, he was supportive of letting her cast it the way she wanted. Ed continued to work with Kathryn, on “K-19.” Because of Ed, Kathryn is probably the only woman ever to have directed a $100 million budget.

In an unfortunately more typical scenario, the production for “Undertow” stalled. Eric directed, a decade later, for Showtime. Kathryn and Eric did collaborate again once more on the heels of “Near Dark” with “Blue Steel,” with Kathryn as the director. In a worlds apart departure from the campy ‘70’s ads of women way in the background with guns in tight dresses looking like models, “Blue Steel”’s one-sheet featured a close-up of Jamie Lee Curtis in uniform, on the job, with hands wrapped around her weapon in a tactical pose. It was pretty clear, at last, who was finally calling the shots.

Memo to Women Screenwriters: Man Up!

Why do so few scripts written by women receive high ratings on The Black List? This is mainly a problem for feature scripts, but highlighted television pilots also project a dim ratio.

 

As a service, The Black List has consistently been ahead of the curve but presently, it’s right in sync with 2013’s bleaker-than-usual, dismal “celluloid ceiling” report. Is the shrinking percentage of women screenwriters now seen as just business as usual, a reflection of our societal malaise? Or are women screenwriters actually doing something to fuel the inequity?

 

I doubt an old school research tool like listing all writers by their first initial would change the numbers much. It’s the genre-skirting “logline” that gives the women away, demonstrating what separates the girls from the boys. These self-congratulatory summaries border on dimorphism which, in the animal kingdom, distinguishes between male and female appearance.

 

An illuminated “premise,” on the other hand, has to work to gain advocacy with lasered, clear-cut genre as its engine. Agents prefer the term “premise.” A solid premise indicates something durable that actually has a shot at getting across the Hollywood player minefield, while a weak one won’t make it through the many hoops it takes to get all the way to the bank.

 

The Bechdel Test launched 1,000 righteous infographics illustrating the tried-and-true — and sometimes false — business model of male-centric “programmers,” clearly labeling blame on male decision-makers. What if those charts and graphs were interpreted another way? What if they were seen simply as stats for a losing team? If that were so, why wouldn’t that team re-think its overall strategy? Instead of a self-pitying document, why not make the annual Celluloid Ceiling report an occasion for a call to arms?

 

Instead, women marginalize and dig themselves further into girly ghettos like the well-intentioned Athena Film Festival. Read their selected “winning” script loglines and weep.

 

However, maybe all isn’t lost. Some women have accumulated serious cred and it’ll be fun to see what they do with it. But what they need in order to push ahead are scripts.

 

In 2014, Annapurna Pictures founder Megan Ellison became the first woman, and only the fourth person in history, to receive two Best Picture nominations in a single year, for “Her” and “American Hustle,” whose star Jennifer Lawrence has so far totally escaped the second sex box. “White House Down” writer Laeta Kalogridis enjoys a robust career flexing her ability to wield Ocham’s razor, as does Kathryn Bigelow. But this is not a long list of serious women players.

 

Women are finding easier footing in TV. “Orange Is the New Black” and “Weeds” creator Jenji Kohan loves a good crime while “Grey’s Anatomy” exec Shonda Rhimes kicks silk-sheet-covered ass. In Ann Biderman’s neo-noir, LA-set “Ray Donovan,” women are just as strong and complexly weak as the men. There are also those who’re impressively talented enough to invest in, and redefine, the traditionally safe real estate of “womantic” comedy, from Tina Fey and Mindy Kalling to the baddest “it girl” of them all, Lena Dunham.

 

Are women writers afraid of being “typed”? The fear of being typed based on looks is a reasonable concern that women are all too familiar with, but fuzzy genre identification or outright genre-switching is a recipe for failure, since professional identity isn’t a shape-shifting guessing game. This is well-known in television, where writers and producers are deliberately in sync, while studios are unanimously clear about the primacy, and necessity, of genre, which their infrastructures need in order to thrive. Audiences show up for male and/or female superstars who earn accordingly. Ironically, screenwriter Paul Schrader’s observation that “a screenplay isn’t a work of art. It’s an invitation to other artists to collaborate” fits the television model better than it does for feature films, which have long been his wheelhouse.

 

Even the women on studio greenlight committees exploit the gender parity for their own gain, so the ball is ultimately in the writers’ court. If there were more plentiful scripts written by women with clearly identified genre skills, the gender factor could disappear, as it does with novels, journalism, music, photography or any other creative discipline. The formula for what works is really about the writer’s ability to compete. As in any thriller, when the protagonist’s existence is threatened, the only chance to survive is to use killer instinct. Rip a page from the “Veronica Mars” playbook, hold the door open for yourself and don’t let the ceiling hit you on the way in.

How Screenwriter Terry Southern Prepared Me for a Career in Hollywood

Some people debate the value of film school. I’m not one of them.

 

Terry Southern’s NYU master screenwriting class was held on Tuesday nights at Remington’s Bar, a basement dive on Waverly Place. Trudging through the ice-hardened sidewalk, I noticed his beat up Ford Mustang with the broken canvas top barely covering up the snow from the storm night before. I always wondered how he’d made it back to Connecticut in that thing.

 

Terry was one of a kind, a truly badass screenwriter. Even in the revolutionary times of the 1960’s and ‘70’s, the author of the geared to shock novel, Candy, also wrote screenplays for Dr. Strangelove, Easy Rider, Barbarella, and many other films that scored bull’s-eyes at shaking up the status quo.

 

I nodded to my classmates, who each nursed a coke or a beer at the counter. In turns, we sauntered over to Terry’s table, where he presided in kingly fashion, and gave insights into the magic of professional filmmaking. There were six of us, so we got roughly half an hour each. By ten o’clock, Terry was in a world of his own, yet still adept at letting us in on Stanley Kubrick insider stories and cool anecdotes about the scenes behind the scenes of Easy Rider.

 

His advice was punctuated by references to classical drama that he connected to anecdotes about the films he’d written. Referring to The Magic Christian, one of his own novels he’d adapted for the screen, he became incensed that Ringo Starr, Peter Sellers and “all these other limey pricks” didn’t see that “Hamlet and his problems” were an expression of emotional excess that couldn’t be exposed simply by indulging in excess on screen. It seemed what he was really teaching us was something else other than writing, something about the reality of being a writer. He actually adored these “pricks,” who were his comrades-in-arms. But only they could get away with behaving outrageously. As a writer, Terry found out there was a double standard when it came to being creative. He had to bear the architectural burden of responsibility without the advantage of being in control.

 

Each of us pitched a story to Terry. He seemed to be listening and weighing words on some invisible scale only he knew the value of, followed by oblique commentary until he finally dug out a golden nugget and tossed it with a knowing raised eyebrow reminiscent of Durand Durand from Barbarella.

 

I’d just seen Louis Malle’s Murmur of the Heart, so I pitched a forbidden love story between an immature actress in her twenties and a teenage boy actor, and framed it as a film-within-a-film. Fueled by pretentious schoolgirl logic I said, “I just worked on a feature and can see that filmmaking creates a heightened state where the rules just don’t apply…” He interrupted by exclaiming, ”I want to write this with you! I know all about what goes on on movie sets, so it’ll be authentic!” I was flattered and didn’t quite know how to respond. “You’ve never even been to California!” he concluded, shaking his head. It was odd that he was the one pitching me. I couldn’t quite believe it.

 

“How would it work?” I shrugged. He explained, “You write pages, send them to me in Connecticut and then I make comments and add to them, then mail them back, ‘Special Delivery’, wherever you are.” The plan was to collaborate through the post office, and of course, we’d write cutting edge, wild and subversive projections about how a girl in her 20’s – if left to her own dark devices, might behave. Little did I know this process would take nearly two years. Fat manila envelopes from Terry covered with red ink stamped “S.W.A.K.” and “Good Grief!” would ebb and flow. He also sent copies of his books, Red-Dirt Marijuana and Blue Movie, complete with scrawled notes I wasn’t sure were for me personally or well-thumbed copies he had lying around.

 

On our script’s pages, Terry vented all too real frustrations he’d had on the films he’d worked on with mind blowing insights into a screenwriter’s travails.

 

He created wonderfully bizarre characters, including the producer’s assistant cum girlfriend, Comancha, an Apache dominatrix who rids the set of the studio’s evil spirits with a down and dirty, pow-wowing striptease.

 

My contributions were more romantic and melodramatic, befitting my naïveté. Nevertheless, Terry gallantly told me how talented I was. He suggested I apply to UCLA’s MFA screenwriting program, move to L.A. and take my shot. He said he’d write a recommendation. He did. Within months I was on the road, traveling cross country.

 

Westwood seemed benign, even sleepy, but just as Terry hinted out loud, L.A.’s ‘70’s casual suburban façade was an intimidating mental construct even more self obsessed than the one he’d conjured in our script. His potent warnings about Hollywood made me fearful, and, at 22, I was still just a kid with a lot more living to do. It became clear I wasn’t destined to become a screenwriter after all.

 

Little did I realize at the time how well Terry had prepared me for the career I did end up having in Tinseltown years later as a literary agent. In spite of the supportive yet subversive film folks he’d worked for, Terry was well aware that he’d been lucky. With a killer smile he advised, “Court luck, keep your thumb out, and like D.H. Lawrence said, ‘when you’ve got something to say, say it hot.’ Somebody’s gonna want whatcha got.”

On Landing My First Job in the Business on Martin Scorsese’s ‘Mean Streets’

10 pm. NYU Film School, The East Building 8th floor, Editing Room.

“Who wants to work on a movie?” a voice pitched, over the din of old time moviolas. We worked on the same ultra durable film sewing machine used by all the studios in their heyday. (It now occurs to me that maybe these are what inspired “Star Wars Episode V’”s AT Walkers.) We used a form of scotch tape to make temp edits, and carefully scraped the tape with razor blades to carve the film sprocket holes, a frustrating and messy business. Hours melted away. Time stood still.

 

Every wannabe filmmaker in the editing bay just wanted to finish and be done. “I need two camera assistants… a gaffer and…a script girl,” announced the voice I now recognized as Mitchell, our TA. Groans were heard. “OK, there’s coffee in it, on me,” definitely sounding like Mitchell. Heads poked out. Five guys plus me, the only girl around, threw on our coats and shuffled past the purple walls trimmed with bright yellow paint, yawning and stretching. We piled into a station wagon parked in a red zone.

I asked, “Is this your car?”

“No,” Mitchell answered, “It belongs to the bank, it’s a lease car.”

“What’s a lease car?,” I wondered.

 

Around eleven, we pulled in front of the Gramercy Park Hotel, a seedy place in those days. The lobby couldn’t have been creepier. But the elevator, an old fashioned cage, was. It occurred to me as we were being yanked up a few flights, that maybe I‘d made a mistake. The cage opened onto a fairly well lit hallway. But that wasn’t a good thing. A door opened and light spilled out like the sun just came up. Guys were pacing around as far as the phone chords would take them. Things settled down, however, when the eye of the storm, a dynamo with shoulder length black hair and a dark but smiling countenance, became the center of attention.

“Mitchell! So, are these the kids?”

“Yeah, Marty,” said Mitchell, who then pointed out two camera assistants, two gaffers and me, whom he called, “the script girl.” Marty stared at me and said, “This girl? She’s… tall. I mean look at her. Look at me…. Look at her.” Just as directed, the entire room fell silent, looking at me. Marty threw up his hands, shaking his head. With that, he left the room. I felt my feet move to follow him to another part of the suite, where someone was on the phone with “the coast.” Then it hit me that all these people were here from California, a place I’d never been. All around were sketches of scenes from the film they were making. Marty sat down at a nearby desk. Instinctively I sat down and said, “I don’t have to be tall.”

 

He grinned and said, “that’s good.” He showed me some of his sketches. They were very specific. He explained how he wanted the continuity notes to be, since he’d be referring to them in the editing room in California.

“So, you think you can do this?” he asked.

“Yes, I can,” I nodded.

Then we both stood up. The disparity in our heights threw him again. “Okay,” he said, sounding as if inspiration had just struck. He threw his shoulders forward as if to model a dance move or do a James Cagney imitation. Instinctively I followed his lead. I gently hunched in his direction. He beamed, “Yeah, that’s good.”

 

We spent the next ten days strategically focused like our lives depended on it. Rest was something the rest of the world did. We filmed in Little Italy, one step ahead of the teamsters, since we were a non-union shoot. The local cops watched out for us. One night, Marty’s mom, Catherine, acted in a scene. A restaurant in Marty’s old neighborhood opened its doors at 3am and treated us to the meal of our lives.

 

Marty was patient and kind. Only once did I truly fuck up. In one scene Robert De Niro was holding a gun. In the middle of shooting he switched hands. I shouted in a panic, “The gun needs to be in your other hand!” Needless to say, I made the man angry. De Niro stepped out of the scene. He walked up to me. “Please don’t do that,” he said in that soft voice that made you feel you had his complete attention and you wondered if maybe that wasn’t a good thing. Then he walked back into the scene, as though nothing had happened.

 

On our last day, we were shooting at night in an old cemetery, a stone’s throw from an apartment building where a party scene was being staged above us. This was an exterior pick up shot of the action inside through the window. I got to stretch out and rest. Earlier in the evening the crew had given me flowers because it was my birthday. I plopped onto the cold ground, leaned up against one of the thin granite tombstones with the flowers, my shooting script now fat with notes to Marty, my stop watch around my neck, looked up at the moon and thought, “So this is the film business. Wonder if anyone will ever see his little movie.” The rest, as they say, is history.

Memo to Screenwriters #3: Being Solely Identified by Your Scripts Leads to Permanent Identity Crisis

Like so many others, Elmore Leonard, god bless him, praised writers for their “perseverance to just sit there alone and grind it out.” Of course writers might think he was only referring to writing, especially when coupled with his memetic 10th rule: “if it looks like writing, re-write it.” Taking this credo too literally is certain to drive writers even further into the ivory tower of the introvert. Justified, indeed.

 

Elmore Leonard’s fans don’t have to have read his work extensively or at all, to uh, “know” him. He presents himself as a look-us-in-the-eye type, not some remote artist alone in a tower being celebrated from afar. In other words, Leonard exists to us as a man, not solely as a writer. His appeal extends beyond what’s on the page — the other half of the career equation. Even an opposite icon like J.D. Salinger’s controlled seclusion and rejection of immortal author conventions are just as famous as the characters he created. We know what these writers look like. We can even imagine what their opinions on various topics might be. Even though they are no longer alive and writing, they still speak through the media in identities separate and apart from their work.

 

I was recently asked about the difference between a screenwriter’s identity and a screenwriter’s voice. Simply put, in a screenplay it’s the “voice” collected into pages that’s put up for sale. If the writer’s persona has been left behind embedded in the pages, versus used portably as a sustainable tool the writer can re-use, then the writer has to start from scratch with every screenplay to gain back any kind of self referral as an artist. Imagine if the DIY self-published authors of today followed the technique traditionally used by screenwriters to simply type their name under the title as reference to authorship with no personal outreach to their readers.

 

Instead it’s typical for DIYs to directly engage with their readers, communicating whistle-stop style to gain converts. Tweets become campaign waves; blog tours, virtual handshaking — which serve before or after any work is read to exponentially expand the writer’s off-page identity. DIY scribes understand that any discriminating buyer for their work will, without question, consult a website algorithm then mentally measure the writer’s metadata before making a purchase. In a contemporary Hollywood universe, any kind of screenplay buyer does the same.

 

Consider the more familiar difference in how a film director develops identity in a traditional film business scenario. There’s discoverable emphasis on the director’s background and training with critical analysis of themes associated with that director’s work. There’s an easy dialogue flow about where and how that director grew up; which filmmakers influenced them; who their mentors were. There‘s no expectation that a page they wrote or even piece of film they directed could solely speak for them by proxy. Directors aren’t conflicted about their human persona being a key component to their professional role. When they aren’t directing they’re visibly participating in far ranging community outreach to exercise their essential uniqueness and creative values.

 

If screenwriters demand exclusive evaluative focus on the pages they “just sit there and grind out” without including interactive public behavior to identify themselves as unique storytelling masters the way Elmore Leonard and some other writers do, the screenwriter’s identity becomes dependent on how that material fares in a finite Hollywood marketplace. In this traditional film business scenario the emphasis on material necessarily becomes about cost: the cost for the rights, cost of re-writing and cost of producing it. The page is what has value, not the man or woman who wrote it, who are bound to become less important. The ensuing professional relationship composition is calculated to take power away from the screenwriter.

 

Some folks might be waiting for the WGA to conduct a blind study to see if kick-ass public identity development works. It might be simpler and faster to take a look at Diablo Cody’s career or Tony Kushner’s.

 

Ms. Cody created a public persona different from the one she grew up with that she believed was more authentic. Working at an office, she started stripping while also blogging about it. Note that she didn’t blog in any way about a screenwriting career. She showed up online as herself and attracted the attention of an alert film producer, who encouraged her as a writer. Activist Tony Kushner also shows up consistently as himself. His opinion is often sought about topics of concern, not just Hollywood-centric ones. We know about these artists’ human personas, which not only influences their writing, but attracts the notice of their worlds at large, thus creating anticipation of their work.