Ten years of practice...Ten years of silence.

I just finished the book "Talent Is Overrated: What Really Separates World-Class Performers from Everybody Else" by Geoff Colvin. The book is a must-read for anyone interested in studying or emulating peak performers in any field, whether it be in the arts, business, athletics--and yes, screenwriting. Author Colvin pretty much proves that if there is such a thing as talent, its ultimate impact on one's success is negligible. Instead, the level of one's success is determined by how often and how well one engages in "deliberate practice," a very special type of practice which requires immense focus, discipline, concentration, and is unfortunately not often pleasant.

One of the most interesting aspects of the book is a discussion of a principle referred to as the "Ten Year Rule." Young aspirants and film students who think that their talent will be enough to carry them to instant success should think again. In fact, as Colvin shows, greatness in any endeavor is typically achieved only after the aspirant has engaged in about ten years of very intense practice and skill-honing.

On the other hand, if you've been working hard at your craft for eight or ten years, and have little to show for it, take heart. Success may be just around the corner:

The evidence is strikingly consistent. A study of seventy six composers from many historical periods looked at when they produced their first notable works or masterworks, designations that were based on the number of recordings available. The researcher, Professor John K. Hayes of Carnegie Mellon University identified more than five hundred works. As Professor Robert W. Weisberg of Temple University summarized the findings: "Of these works, only three were composed before year ten of the composer's career, and those three works were composed in years eight and nine." During those first ten or so years, these creators weren't creating much of anything that the outside world noticed. Professor Hayes termed the long and absolutely typical preparatory period "ten years of silence," which seemed to be required before anything worthwhile could be produced.

In a similar study of 131 painters, he found the same pattern. The preparation period was shorter—six years—but still substantial and seemingly impossible to defy, even for supposed prodigies like Picasso. A study of sixty-six poets found a few who produced notable works in less than ten years, but none who managed it in less than five; fifty five of the sixty six needed ten years or more.

These findings remind us strongly of the ten year rule that researchers have found when they study outstanding performers in any domain. Other researchers, who weren't necessarily looking for evidence of this rule, have found it anyway. Professor Howard Gardner of Harvard wrote a book length study [Creating Minds) of seven of the greatest innovators of the early twentieth century: Albert Einstein, T. S. Eliot, Sigmund Freud, Mahatma Gandhi, Martha Graham, Pablo Picasso, and Igor Stravinsky. A more diverse group of subjects would be hard to imagine, and Gardner did not set out to prove or disprove anything about the amount of work required tor their achievements. But in summing up, he wrote, "I have been struck throughout this study by the operation of the ten year rule. Should one begin at age four, like Picasso, one can be a master by the teenage years; composers like Stravinsky and dancers like Graham, who did not begin their creative endeavors until later adolescence, did not hit their stride until their late twenties."



Not even the Beatles could escape the requirements of deep and broad preparation before producing important innovations. Professor Weisberg of Temple has studied the group's career and found that they spent thousands of hours performing together—sessions that closely matched the description of deliberate practice—before the world ever heard of them. In the early days they performed very few of their own songs, and those songs were undistinguished; we would never have known about them if they hadn't been dug up long after the group became successful. The group's first number 1 hit was "Please Please Me" (1963), written by John Lennon and Paul McCartney after they had been working together for five and a half years. One could certainly debate what kind of creative achievement that song represented; successful as it was, it was by no means a significant innovation in popular music. That had to wait until the group's so-called middle period, when they produced their albums Rubber Soul, Revolver, and Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. Those albums, consisting entirely of original music, transformed the domain. By the time of Sgt. Pepper, Lennon and McCartney had been working together—extremely hard—for ten years.

As for what exactly is going on during those long periods of preparation, it looks a lot like the acquisition of domain knowledge that takes place during deliberate practice. It is certainly intensive and deep immersion in the domain, frequently under the direction of a teacher, but even when not, the innovator seems driven to learn as much as possible about the domain, to improve, to drive himself or herself beyond personal limits and eventually beyond the limits of the field. Gardner looked back on the stories of the seven great innovators he studied and saw so many common themes that he combined them into a story of a composite character, whom he dubbed Exemplary Creator, or E.C. At some point in adolescence or early adult life, "E.C. has already invested a decade of work in the mastery of the domain and is near the forefront; she has little in addition to learn from her family and from local experts, and she feels a quickened impulse to test herself against the other leading young people in the domain." As a result, "E.C. ventures toward the city that is seen as a center of vital activities for her domain."

The distinction between talent and skill-honing, as well as the time involved, also reminds me of something that Will Smith once said in an interview:

"Talent you have naturally. Skill is only developed by hours and hours and hours of beating on your craft."

For video of this interview, along with clips from many others containing Smith's insights, check out the following:

The Art of Scary

Recently I've been examining the most fundamental, root principles that make a movie scary. By "scary" I don't mean suspenseful or surprising in the Hitchcockian sense, but rather: eerie, creepy, dreadful, spine-chilling, terrifying.

It turns out that several famous authors--indeed, veritable gurus of terror--have written short treatises on the subject. Let's examine these, and see how they might apply to modern-day movie making.

Edgar Allen Poe

One of the early masters of the terror tale, this author needs no introduction. Poe set forth his philosophy of writing in an obscure review of Nathaniel Hawthorne's "Twice-Told Tales," published in 1842 in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine. Poe explains:

A skilful literary artist has constructed a tale. If wise, he has not fashioned his thoughts to accommodate his incidents; but having conceived, with deliberate care, a certain unique or single effect to be wrought out, he then invents such incidents–-he then combines such events as may best aid him in establishing this preconceived effect. If his very initial sentence tend not to the outbringing of this effect, then he has failed in his first step. In the whole composition there should be no word written, of which the tendency, direct or indirect, is not to the one pre-established design. And by such means, with such care and skill, a picture is at length painted which leaves in the mind of him who contemplates it with a kindred art, a sense of the fullest satisfaction. The idea of the tale has been presented unblemished, because undisturbed; and this is an end unattainable by the novel.

Poe believed that this "single effect" was ideally suited to the short story form and could not be sustained for the duration of a novel. In this he has been proven wrong. But his notion of the "single effect" is a powerful one. In a sense, it is an organizing principle, dictating a "grand design" for a script or novel, much in the same sense that the movements of a symphony should all work in accordance towards a unified feeling or spirit. With such unification comes greater impact and power. An example of a film that accomplishes this masterfully is William Friedkin's The Exorcist, in which every scene--even the most innocuous archeology bits in the beginning--are designed and calculated to elicit a feeling of dread.

Movies that attempt to bring out multiple effects often fail. Examples of this include Spielberg's 1941, which tried to combine action and comedy. The sequels to Lethal Weapon and The Terminator also attempted to weave comedy into the action, with the overall result being a weaker, more diminished film compared to the original. Tim Burton's Sleepy Hollow notably tried to combine terror with comedy. In this case, the "multiple effects" worked against each other, to the extent that the film produced little "effect" whatsoever. A character who acts goofy or nonchalant in the face of a terrifying event, and does not suffer the consequences of it, often divests the event of any fear (or even drama) that it might have inspired.

M. R. James

The famous English ghost story writer M. R. James summarized his "rules" for the eerie tale in his 1929 essay "Some Remarks on Ghost Stories." Some of his points can now be considered erroneous, such as number five: that the setting must be "Those of the Writer's (and Reader's) Own Day." This "rule" has been proven false by many successful movie examples, including those set in the past (The Others) and even some set in the future (Alien and Solaris). Some of James's rules, however, still apply (the following are summarized by Prof. Frank Coffman):

Rule 4: No "Explanation of the Machinery"
James writes, "the greatest successes have been scored by the authors who can make us envisage a definite time and place, and give us plenty of clear-cut and matter-of-fact detail, but who, when the climax is reached, allow us to be just a little in the dark as to the working of their machinery. We do not want to see the bones of [the] theory of the supernatural."

A very important point: mystery is crucial. A lack of knowledge and detail is often responsible for causing much of the fear...show too much, and it dissipates. The greatest fear is the fear of the unknown. The shark in Jaws was scariest when it was just a lone fin disappearing beneath the waves, or an obscured grayish-white mass moving beneath the surface of the water. The same goes for ghosts. When you show or explain too much about the apparition, it ceases to be scary. As soon as the Headless Horseman (in Burton's Sleepy Hollow) placed a skull on his head and transformed into a roaring Christopher Walken, all sense of fear went out the window.

Above: The shark from"Jaws"...scariest when you could barely glimpse it.

H. P. Lovecraft

Perhaps the best explication of the art of terror came from the eccentric writer Howard Phillips Lovecraft. In this regard he was lucky; he had the shoulders of giants to stand upon. In his lengthy essay "Supernatural Horror in Literature," written between November 1925 and May 1927, Lovecraft accomplishes the mighty task of surveying more or less every specimen of the "weird tale" and piece of horror fiction ever written.

Lovecraft pretty much echoes all of the above points--especially the "fear of the unknown"--which also touches upon the explanation of the machinery. Following is the most pertinent section of Lovecraft's essay, and I will leave it as the final word on the subject for today:

THE OLDEST and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown...

Because we remember pain and the menace of death more vividly than pleasure, and because our feelings toward the beneficent aspects of the unknown have from the first been captured and formalised by conventional religious rituals, it has fallen to the lot of the darker and more maleficent side of cosmic mystery to figure chiefly in our popular supernatural folklore. This tendency, too, is naturally enhanced by the fact that uncertainty and danger are always closely allied; thus making any kind of an unknown world a world of peril and evil possibilities. When to this sense of fear and evil the inevitable fascination of wonder and curiosity is superadded, there is born a composite body of keen emotion and imaginative provocation whose vitality must of necessity endure as long as the human race itself. Children will always be afraid of the dark, and men with minds sensitive to hereditary impulse will always tremble at the thought of the hidden and fathomless worlds of strange life which may pulsate in the gulfs beyond the stars, or press hideously upon our own globe in unholy dimensions which only the dead and the moonstruck can glimpse.

With this foundation, no one need wonder at the existence of a literature of cosmic fear. It has always existed, and always will exist; and no better evidence of its tenacious vigour can be cited than the impulse which now and then drives writers of totally opposite leanings to try their hands at it in isolated tales, as if to discharge from their minds certain phantasmal shapes which would otherwise haunt them...

This type of fear-literature must not be confounded with a type externally similar but psychologically widely different; the literature of mere physical fear and the mundanely gruesome. Such writing, to be sure, has its place, as has the conventional or even whimsical or humorous ghost story where formalism or the author's knowing wink removes the true sense of the morbidly unnatural; but these things are not the literature of cosmic fear in its purest sense. The true weird tale has something more than secret murder, bloody bones, or a sheeted form clanking chains according to rule. A certain atmosphere of breathless and unexplainable dread of outer, unknown forces must be present; and there must be a hint, expressed with a seriousness and portentousness becoming its subject, of that most terrible conception of the human brain -- a malign and particular suspension or defeat of those fixed laws of Nature which are our only safeguard against the assaults of chaos and the daemons of unplumbed space.

Naturally we cannot expect all weird tales to conform absolutely to any theoretical model. Creative minds are uneven, and the best of fabrics have their dull spots. Moreover, much of the choicest weird work is unconscious; appearing in memorable fragments scattered through material whose massed effect may be of a very different cast. Atmosphere is the all-important thing, for the final criterion of authenticity is not the dovetailing of a plot but the creation of a given sensation. We may say, as a general thing, that a weird story whose intent is to teach or produce a social effect, or one in which the horrors are finally explained away by natural means, is not a genuine tale of cosmic fear; but it remains a fact that such narratives often possess, in isolated sections, atmospheric touches which fulfill every condition of true supernatural horror-literature. Therefore we must judge a weird tale not by the author's intent, or by the mere mechanics of the plot; but by the emotional level which it attains at its least mundane point. If the proper sensations are excited, such a "high spot" must be admitted on its own merits as weird literature, no matter how prosaically it is later dragged down. The one test of the really weird is simply this -- whether of not there be excited in the reader a profound sense of dread, and of contact with unknown spheres and powers; a subtle attitude of awed listening, as if for the beating of black wings or the scratching of outside shapes and entities on the known universe's utmost rim. And of course, the more completely and unifiedly a story conveys this atmosphere the better it is as a work of art in the given medium.

Above: Ridley Scott's "Alien"...very Lovecraftian.

An Interview with Screenwriter Bryan Hill

I recently had the opportunity to interview a friend and former colleague of mine, Bryan Edward Hill. Bryan is a writer and filmmaker who has worked for Esquire, Playboy, and Warner Brothers. Currently, he is writing comics for Top Cow Productions.

Following is a transcript of our conversation, in which we discuss the art of story, the screenwriting process, and navigating the often labyrinthian path to success in the entertainment industry.

me: First, let's talk a little bit what you have been doing recently, and what you have on your plate at the moment.

Bryan: Currently, I'm finishing a mini-series for Top Cow Productions, BROKEN TRINITY: PANDORA'S BOX. I have another comic book, SEVEN DAYS FROM HELL due in October, both co-written with Rob Levin. I have a television project and a feature project in development, but I can't talk about those in detail.

me: Let's talk for a moment about your first produced screenwriting credit, "The Mechanik," starring Dolph Lundgren. How did that opportunity come about?

Bryan: Right. I had written a spec called "ROLAND'S BLUES" and a really great guy, Jay Tobin optioned it from me. Sometime after that it floated past Dolph Lundgren and he read it. Initially, he wanted to direct it, but after a conversation with me via phone (me in NYC him in Spain), he decided he wanted me to write a feature based on his original idea. So I quickly found myself on a Lufthansa flight to Spain and I was working with Dolph every day for about three weeks, writing the screenplay. I came back to NYC with a finished script and then a few months later, Dolph called me to say that he didn't want to use that script at all.

me: What happened with the film after that?

Bryan: Dolph wanted me to come to Bulgaria (where production was to begin) and work on another script. When I arrived there on Thursday, I found out that production needed a shooting draft on the following Monday. So I asked Dolph for a box of Red Bull, he and I worked out a basic story that day and I wrote the draft Friday to Sunday.


me: What was it like working with Dolph at that stage?

Bryan: He's really a brilliant man. Intensely disciplined. This was years ago so I'm sure I looked like a complete neophyte, but he was patient and we got a script done in three days, based on his story. I have to say, for a movie I wrote in 72 hours holed up in a hotel in Sofia, it's not nearly as bad as it should be. I learned something very important then, something about the difference between the "perfect" environment of writing on your own, and writing for a production. I'm sure you know what I'm talking about from EAGLE ONE.

me: Oh, yeah. Not to digress, but an anecdote--we were in Manila for two months before they even cast the leads. Literally twiddling our thumbs and living off of our stipends.

Bryan: Low budget action is all about managing discomfort.

me: Other than the grueling production conditions, did your experience on "The Mechanik" teach you anything enlightening about the business?

Bryan: I learned that when in doubt, trust classic archetypes. With a 72 hour deadline and a page one assignment, I had to leave nuance behind and think about Kurosawa and Leone. I had to remember basic story structure, clear archetypes, because there was a risk of having something unintelligible. Of course, what was shot was nothing close to that level of quality, but without a thorough understanding of basic mythological archetypes, I would have been lost.

me: Are you referring more to Joseph Campell archetypes, or classic film genre archetypes? Or both?

Bryan: Campell for the archetypes, classic films for the execution of those archetypes. Campell teaches you the archetypes and relationships, and all the cinema fused into my brain shows me how those archetypes were executed.

me: Got it. Let's move on to greener pastures now. How did you get the opportunity to write for Top Cow?

Bryan: My good friend and penciler Nelson Blake II started working for Top Cow and he introduced me to Rob Levin, who was editing at the time. He offered me a short story in an anthology book and when he wanted to write full time, we collaborated on our current work. For me, getting writing work has always been about talking to people, showing them my point of view and getting them interested in my work. It's just my opinion, but I think people engage the writer as much as his or her work. It can be a cult of personality, which is both a good and bad thing.

me: Could you elucidate...good and bad in what ways?

Bryan: Good in the sense that if you're a person who can market themselves in conversation, present your point of view, stay "on message" then you can likely move thought the white noise and get opportunities. Bad in the sense that people really don't like engaging work without context. Mailing things to people really gets you nowhere. Submissions without context generally never get engaged.
For instance...
Two young men, could each have brilliant screenplays, but if one of them has a blog with 40 pictures of beautiful women he's taken himself, then that little bit of chuztpah is likely to get him read first. The other writer, with nothing but a brilliant script might languish for years before someone engages the work.

me: Concerning what seems to be the developing relationship between Hollywood and the comic / graphic novel industry: in recent years, Hollywood seems to have developed an insatiable appetite for comic book and graphic novel properties. What is going on here, and is there a way for aspiring or up-and-coming screenwriters to make this relationship work for them?

Bryan: Hollywood prefers to not take the first step. Developing a film from a comic provides a studio the psychological assurance of knowing that someone else first accepted and published the intellectual property. I think it's an attempt to minimize risk. The lesson here for screenwriters is "Don't Let Your Project Look Like Just A Screenplay". Meaning, if you can get an artist to conceptualize your script, then do that. Anything you can do as a writer to turn your script into a fully fledged intellectual property is something you should do.

me: Okay, let's talk about process. Where do your ideas come from?

Bryan: I personally believe that if you don't have a philosophical idea in your story, then you're wasting people's time and money. So usually start with a theme, an idea that I want to explore through a story, something evocative that I think will stay with readers/viewers. To get stimulus, I consume EVERYTHING. Blogs. Newspapers. People watching. I try to live a life where I absorb as much as possible and from what I experience I try and form theses that will be the foundation of good storytelling.

me: What are the major things you consider when formulating the basic plot and structure of a script?

Bryan: The first is making sure that the story is the most important event in the life of the protagonist. Sometimes I'll start thinking through a story and then realize that the most important character arc is actually earlier or later in the life of that character, so I have to alter the story accordingly. Then I have what I call the "Pillars" of my structure. To me, the most important moments are the "Call to Adventure", the "Acceptance of the call" the "Midpoint", the "Darkest Moment" and finally the "Climax." Once those are in place, it's simply a matter of filling in the space between.

me: Do you find screenwriting gurus like Robert McKee and Blake Snyder helpful in that regard?

Bryan: I think any discourse on craft is helpful. Things get "trendy", and right now Blake Snyder is the common language of executives, but I think it's all helpful. The key isn't to cuddle up to one source, but to look for the common things between them. In most of these books you'll see the same narrative moments given different names. If you see something in 3-4 books, then you can have faith that it might be something to incorporate into your craft. Beware thinking any book or approach is a magic bullet, they're not.
Also, what you're doing on your blog is useful. Break down your favorite films and see how the various structural approaches apply to them. You'll never understand something as much as what you love, so use that love and take your favorite work, analyze the hell out of it and understand what makes it work for you. I've probably learned just as much from re-watching TRANSFORMERS: THE ANIMATED MOVIE as I have from reading Christopher Vogler, Campell or Snyder.

me: Me too! That is such a forgotten classic.

Bryan: It's GREAT. It's a textbook in character introduction. Look at how they introduce Megatron, Unicron and Optimus Prime.

me: Yep, it's masterful. Speaking of structure, by the way, George R. R. Martin has said that there are two kinds of writers...those who plan everything out before they begin writing, and those who "cast seeds" and let them grow, in other words, who begin writing and then allow the stories to take on a life of their own. Does your process fit into one or both of these paradigms, and which do you feel is more helpful?

Bryan: I think that through practice, you move from one to the other. If for no other reason than maximizing time, I suggest new writers work from outlines so they don't get lost. The thing is for every scene you write, you discard ten. Those scenes, those moments, they don't vanish. They're still in your head, waiting to take shape in something else. So I think the more stories you tell, the more outlining becomes reflex. It's still happening, but you're not as aware of it so the process feels more organic.

me: Let's talk for a moment about the business. In your experience, what are producers and development executives most looking for in a spec script or series? Are they looking for different qualities than they were, say, five ago?

Bryan: There's no way to ever be certain what an executive is looking for because every studio, every company has different mandates. Obviously, you want your script spell-checked, formatted properly. Bound with the standard brass and all of that. I tend to think that every year there are more screenwriters, so there's just more product out there now than there was five years ago. Software makes it easier to format scripts, more books are trying to make the form accessible so more people are writing scripts.
The fact is no one likes to read work from a new writer. I'll say that again....
...no one likes to read work from a new writer.
But there's a silver lining to that cloud.

me: Which is?

Bryan: There are so many free tools that you can use to market yourself. You can start a blog, start a twitter feed, you can engage people into your point of view. You can write a book of short stories and self-publish it through I-Tunes and draw attention to that. In today's global-digital market, if you're obscure, you're just not interested in being known.
It's almost like the 1940's.
In my opinion, we're in a redux of the age of Mailer and Hemingway and Capote, the age where a writer was a personality and the work. There are so many networking tools available for you to build a "brand", but I think most writers don't consider themselves a brand. They're still thinking in terms of "this is my script, please buy it and give me a career". That's antiquated thinking and it takes all of the power you have as a creative entity and hands it to agents, managers and executives. Why would you do that?

me: Exactly.

Bryan: The difficult thing is that writers have to study other disciplines too, disciplines that are tied into traditional business. If you're a writer, think of yourself as a company and a brand. Think about your "message". Ask yourself "why would someone want to work with me? What do I bring to the table in specifics". Everyone is a universe of experience and perspective, but most people hide that because they think they need validation to think of themselves differently. At some point, STAR WARS was just some scribbles on a notepad. NIKE was just the dream of a sprinter who wanted better shoes. If you wait for outside validation to believe in your specific talents, then you'll likely never get it. If executives and agents could generate scripts on their own, they would. Clearly they can't, so they still need you. Your job is to remind them of why they need you.

me: That reminds me of James Cameron's experience with THE TERMINATOR...initially almost everyone thought it was a bad idea, including his own agent. He had to go forward tenaciously with complete confidence until someone was finally willing to take a gamble. Which in the end, of course, paid large dividends.
Nevertheless, I think that in this business, we've both come across the occasional gatekeeper who is uneducated in terms of storytelling, and it's often difficult to get them to realize what is and is not a good idea, or what is and is not a good story, etc.. How do you overcome this obstacle?
In other words, to quote what you just said, how do you "remind them of why they need you?"

Bryan: First, I think you need to create an online identity and market the s#$t out of it. I have a blog @ www.bryanedwardhill.com, I have my @bryanedwardhill twitter feed, and I have a short fiction site @ www.veryshortfiction.com I try to give people plenty of ways to engage my perspective, and I love getting into conversations with readers, other bloggers etc. Second, it's very important to know what you DON'T want to do. Don't be a "one size fits all writer". I'm kinda funny in person, but I don't write comedy. Nothing about my communications says I'll do that. Because I won't. I do sexy, character driven action pieces. If you like those, then you'll like me, if you don't then you won't and I'm fine with that. Third, I don't think you get representation by sending people scripts. Not in this climate. I think you get representation by making waves, in whatever way you can. Find a filmmaker and collaborate on a cool short film. Upload it. There are so many low cost ways you can get exposure. Have a favorite blog? Contact them about writing for them for free. Do a ton of non-fiction posts for them and make contact through them. Agents and managers will find you because they're always looking for the next thing that can make them money.

me: In reading interviews with the great achievers and "peak performers" of the entertainment industry, they nearly always mention the quality of perseverance as critical to success. Will Smith in particular has mentioned the "delusional quality" and supreme faith that all successful people seem to have. What's your feeling about this?

Bryan: At the beginning of any non-traditional endeavor, people are going to doubt you. That's just a fact. No one is going to believe in you more than you believe in yourself, but it's also more than that. By saying, out loud to the world "I want to have an extraordinary life" you're challenging people's basic paradigm. You're saying "I can" when they believe they can't. No one wants to be a thirty-something feeling the glass ceiling in a middle-management job. When we're young we all want to do something irrational. Then adversity comes and most people quit. They justify quitting by calling it "pragmatism", but it's really fear. They quit because they're scared they won't succeed. You've seen that. I've seen it.
The cruelty in the whole thing is that people who quit are never happy. The initial grace and security that comes from doing something standard, something "pragmatic" quickly turns into feelings of deep regret.
This has not been an easy journey for me. I've lost a lot of things, but what I've gained has far outweighed that. I get to walk into the same comic shop where I spent my allowance growing up and see books with my name on the shelf. Here's my best story...
A few years ago I took a meeting on the 20th CENTURY FOX lot. Just a standard "Hey, I'm a screenwriter and I'm new to the business". While walking through the lot, I got passed on the right by a tour bus. I guess they were just tourists visiting a studio lot, scanning for celebrities. That's when I realized that despite the adversity, the first time I walked onto a studio lot, I did it as a professional, not a tourist. I realized that I'd never have to be on that tour bus. For a working class black kid from Saint Louis, that was a victory. At that moment I became intensely grateful for the opportunities I had, and I promised I would never quit. That's the one decision I'm sure I'll never regret.

me: Thanks for that. Are there any other personal or professional qualities that you feel must be cultivated in order to achieve success in the film industry?

Bryan: Humility and gratitude are your rod and your shield. It's really easy to get windswept into a life where you're constantly protecting your ego, but that's self-destructive. Be humble to the craft and remember that experience is your greatest ally. You and I went to NYU with kids that were the children of celebrities, if not that, then they were the princes and princesses of business titans and had limitless resources to assist them. A few of those people have succeeded, but a lot of them have just faded back into their lives. I would tell people not to worry about what other people have and focus on your originality, your point of view, your experience and how that informs your work...and just work harder than everyone else. If one year ago, to this day, someone wrote one page a day...that person could have a novel finished. Or three screenplays. Just from one page a day until now, no more than an hour of their time every day could have created something that could change their life. So the one quality I would tell people to keep in mind is the understanding that your career begins right now. Do something today. Do a little more tomorrow. Eventually you'll get to where you want to go.

me: That reminds me of something Eckhart Tolle said in his book A NEW EARTH: "What the world doesn't tell you--because it doesn't know--is that you cannot become successful. You can only be successful." James Cameron said something similar when asked to give advice to those wanting to be directors. He responded: "Be a director. Pick up a camera. Shoot something. No matter how small, no matter how cheesy, no matter whether your friends and your sister star in it. Put your name on it as director. Now you're a director. Everything after that you're just negotiating your budget and your fee. So it's a state of mind is really the point, once you commit yourself to do it."
But to do that, of course, takes an enormous leap of faith, which most people aren't willing to make.
Last question: In the realm of story, either in terms of content or technique, do you feel that there are any frontiers still yet to be explored, i.e., that the industry has yet to make use of?

Bryan: I think youth market content is largely dim to the real experience of being in your teens, or even your early twenties. There's a real lack of understanding there. I also think that studios aren't realizing that we're in "I-Pod" culture, meaning that culturally people are all over the place, taking slices of things and blending traditionally disparate elements into their daily lives. It's time for a new John Hughes, a new Michael Mann, new filmmakers and writers can create things at the speed of culture.

me: Well, hopefully we'll get them. Thanks for your time, Bryan. It's been educational and inspiring.

Structuring with Character Arcs

Rather than structuring stories with the traditional Setup-Conflict-Resolution method, or the Robert McKee Act-as-obstacle system, I've found it more helpful to base the architecture of my screenplays on character arcs.

This system works as follows:

1. There are at least one or more characters in your movie.

2. Each major character has an arc; typically an inner or outer dilemma that must be overcome (the best dilemmas are BOTH inner and outer).

3. The script is then structured in such a way that major plot points in the script become focal points wherein the various characters' arcs are developed, advanced, and sometimes resolved.

One of the reasons that this structuring method is so powerful, is that as the characters begin to take on a life of their own, they literally drive the plot themselves. Thus, instead of trying to figure out how to mechanically get from Point A to Point B to overcome Obstacle X or achieve Objective Y, the process becomes "What feels right for this character? What should they do at this moment? Based on their previous conduct, does it make more sense for them to succeed or to fail at what it is they're trying to do at this moment in the story?" What I find is that, as long as the characters have been compellingly drawn, the answer usually presents itself (for more on this theme, see the last few paragraphs of my earlier post, "Why Most Action Movies Fail.")

This method works especially well if you are cognizant of the fact that it is chiefly the actions and decisions of the characters that drive the story, as opposed to, say, random occurrences, bad/good luck, or external forces.

The funny thing is, once you become aware of this method, you'll find that most great films are structured this way. In fact, that's how I discovered this system...by breaking down my favorite movies to see how they were structured, and how the various character arcs in those films drove that structure.

For instance, let's take a look at Star Wars, in which I have been able to discern at least six character arcs (or sub-plots) in addition to the main or "master" plot:

1. Master Plot: Rebellion versus Empire
2. Luke. Goal: to gain self-worth
3. Obi-Wan. Goal: to ensure the survival of the Rebellion, and pass on the Jedi tradition
4. Leia. Goal: to save the Rebellion and destroy the Empire
5. Han Solo. Goal: to get rich quick.
6. Tarkin. Goal: to destroy the Rebellion
7. Vader. Goal: firstly, to destroy Obi-Wan Kenobi. Secondly, to destroy the Rebellion.

Below is a detailed chart which denotes the progress of these arcs throughout the film. You will notice that the arcs are resolved in very different ways; some goals are achieved, others fail, and some remain unresolved. But they all evolve and change in dramatic ways throughout the film, especially during dramatic and climactic moments:

	GOAL	START of ARC	PART 1 of ARC	PART 2 of ARC	RESOLUTION
MASTER PLOT: Rebellion Versus Empire	Empire seeks to crush Rebellion using DEATH STAR. Rebellion seeks to overthrow Empire using STOLEN BATTLE PLANS.	Droids escape with stolen battle plans, which contain the Empire’s Achilles Heel, and could give Rebels the power to destroy the Empire. At the same time, Empire is building the Death Star which can wipe out the Rebellion.	Heroes attempt to return the stolen battle plans to Princess Leia, but are captured.	Heroes save Princess Leia and escape with stolen battle plans.	Using the stolen battle plans, the heroes are able to annihilate Death Star, at the same time saving the Rebellion and nearly destroying the Empire.
LUKE: Pure-hearted Hero.	To gain self-worth. Luke thinks he can accomplish this by joining the heroic Rebellion against the Empire	Dissatisfied with his boring rural life, Luke finally finds the means to attain his goal when he obtains the stolen Battle Plans thru R2D2, and is invited to join forces with Obi-Wan Kenobi and learn the ways of the force.	Luke trains in the (almost forgotten) ways of the Force under Obi-Wan Kenobi, and takes his first step to become a Jedi Knight.	Luke manages to convince Han and others to help him save Princess Leia, leader of the Rebellion. “I’m Luke Skywalker— I’m here to rescue you.” They escape.	Using the ancient powers of the Force, Luke destroys the dreaded Death Star, becoming the hero of the Rebellion, and fulfilling his role as the next and newest generation of Jedi Knights and finally attaining self-worth.
OBI-WAN: Wise Mentor.	As one of the last Jedi Knights, Obi-Wan wishes to overthrow the Empire and pass on the Force to a new generation.	Having lived in exile as a hermit, Obi-Wan finally gets the opportunity (thru Luke Skywalker) to return to the World and aid the Rebellion by returning the stolen Battle Plans.	Along the journey, Obi-Wan begins passing on the ancient tradition of the Force to the new generation (Luke).	Obi-Wan fulfills his mission to save the princess by sacrificing himself in mortal combat with Darth Vader.	The spirit of Obi-Wan fulfills his original goal by aiding Luke Skywalker in his attack on the Death Star, and by convincing him to embrace THE FORCE.
LEIA: Noble-minded Heroine.	To save the Rebellion and destroy the Empire	Leia manages to obtain the Stolen Battle plans, which have the power to destroy the Death Star. Leia hides the plans with the two droids who escape.	Leia is captured, but successfully resists all attempts by the Empire to obtain from her the location of the Rebel Base.	Leia manages to escape the clutches of the villains with the aid of the Heroes.	Leia returns the Stolen Battle Plans, allowing Luke to destroy the Empire, and fulfilling her goal to save the Rebellion.
HAN: Anti-hero; a morally ambiguous helper	To get rich quick	Han gets his chance to gain money when Obi-Wan offers him a generous amount of money to transport he and Luke to Alderaan.	Heroes are captured. Han is reluctant to help save the Princess (wanting only to save himself), but gets an even greater shot at wealth when Luke suggests he will get a handsome reward for saving the Leia. He decides to briefly align himself with the heroes.	Having successfully saved Leia, Han gets his reward, but spurns the chance to further aid the Rebellion against the Empire.	Han has a change of heart, and arrives in the nick of time to aid Luke against Darth Vader. They destroy the Death Star. Han’s original goal has changed…he has chosen the path of heroism over money and self-gain.
TARKIN: Main Villain.	To destroy the Rebellion	Tarkin’s goal is thwarted when the Battle Plans are stolen. He sends his minions to search for the plans on Tatooine.	Tarkin attempts to discover the location of the Rebellion from Princess Leia, so that he can destroy it using the DEATH STAR.	Having been thwarted in all his plans, Tarkin allows heroes to escape— so that he can track them to the hidden Rebel Base.	Having discovered the hidden Rebel Base, Tarkin attempts to destroy them with the Death Star. However, at the last minute, the Death Star is destroyed before this can be accomplished.
VADER: Servant of the Main Villain, and the mentor’s nemesis.	Firstly, to destroy Obi-Wan Kenobi. As an afterthought, he also wishes to destroy the Rebellion.	Vader attempts to destroy the Rebellion by recovering the stolen Battle Plans and interrogating Leia, so that he can discover the location of the hidden Rebel Base.	Vader is diverted from his attempt to crush the Rebellion when he senses the presence of Obi-Wan, his old Nemesis.	Vader searches out Obi-Wan and slays him in a duel, thinking he has accomplished his goal. However, Vader is stunned to observe Obi-Wan’s body vanishing like a spirit into thin air.	Vader engages Luke in an aerial duel, but is thwarted by Han Solo’s return and by Luke’s use of THE FORCE. In the end, his goal remains unfulfilled. Obi-Wan’s spirit has survived to aid the Rebellion, destroy the Death Star, and pass the Force onto Luke.

In the future, we'll examine other popular, classic films to see how they utilize this system.

The Amazing Ending

Although I've never found Robert McKee's story structuring method to be particularly helpful, lately I have been reading some of his interviews, and the man does seem to have some brilliant insights.

Check out his thoughts from this interview on creating a memorable movie ending:

"The most satisfying, and therefore talked about, Story Climaxes tend to be those in which the writer has saved one last rush of insight that sends the audience's mind back through the entire story. In a sudden flash of insight the audience realizes a profound truth that was buried under the surface of character, world and event. The whole reality of the story is instantly reconfigured. This insight not only brings a flood of new understanding, but with that, a deeply satisfying emotion. As a recent example: the superb Climax of Gran Torino."

A few more examples of films that do this exceptionally well:

Unforgiven: The protagonist with whom we most identify, turns out (when provoked) to have the ruthless, merciless heart of a monster.

Schindler's List: The protagonist, though he is an amoral, philandering profiteer, turns out to have a brave and profoundly compassionate side which aids in the saving of thousands.

The Godfather: The protagonist, by losing his humanity, ends up becoming the exact thing he swore he would never be--a ruthless murderer and power-monger; the very image of his father.

The Empire Strikes Back: The hero attempts to take revenge on the main villain for the murder of his father, but discovers instead that the villain is his father.

It's a Wonderful Life: George Bailey, depressed and suicidal over an apparently unfulfilled life, is shocked to discover that he really is, in a sense, "the wealthiest man in town."

The Wizard of Oz: Dorothy, whose quest throughout the entire story is to find a way home, realizes that she has had the power to go home all along.

The Neverending Story: The child Bastian discovers that he is the very creator of the world he has read about, dreamed about, and longed for.

The Terminator: The time-traveling hero not only saves the mother of the future savior of humanity, but is revealed to be his father as well.

The Matrix: Neo becomes enlightened, is revealed to be the new messiah, and finally sees the world of the Matrix as it really is.

Blade Runner: The ruthless, inhuman villain is revealed to possess a compassionate heart after all--more compassionate, in fact, than the hero, whom he saves in a profound, surprising, and dramatic moment.

Stay tuned during the next few days for some posts on story structuring.

Screenwriting Tip: Action Is Exposition's Best Friend

Sometimes exposition is simply unavoidable. And, depending on the particular film and dramatic structure, it is sometimes necessary to deliver that exposition in a single scene or sequence. Unfortunately, if done artlessly, this can be a sure way to bore the audience to tears.

In The Terminator, writer-director James Cameron solves this problem brilliantly. After the Terminator's first attack on Sarah Connor, and her subsequent rescue by Kyle Reese, the latter is saddled with the burden of explaining to Sarah the highly elaborate back story of the film. Instead of reserving this dialog for a quiet, intimate scene, Cameron intersperses it with constant action. The entire exposition is effectively delivered over a riveting car chase sequence, giving the audience no time to get bored.

Watch the clip, and read the corresponding excerpt from Cameron's script:



116 INT. GREY SEDAN - NIGHT 116

Sarah is slumped way down in the seat, turned away from the
window, trying not to see the landscape reeling outside.

SARAH
(hoarse whisper)
This is a mistake. I haven't
done anything.

REESE
No. But you will. It's
very important that you
live.

Sarah closes her eyes, as if to shut it all out.

SARAH
I can't believe this is happen-
ing. How could than man get up
after you...

Reese's tone is equal parts hatred and respect as he replies.

REESE
Not a man. A Terminator.
Cyber Dynamics Model 101.

CUT TO:

117 INT. SQUAD CAR - NIGHT 117

Terminator drives expressionlessly, monitoring the babble
from Central Dispatch. He hears his number.

DISPATCHER (V.O.)
(filtered)
...Suspect vehicle sighted on
Motor at Pico, southbound.
Units Two-Zero-Six and Five-
Seven, attempt intercept.
Unit One-Four-Three, come in.

Terminator picks up the mike. He speaks in a
simulation of the young cop's southern twang.

TERMINATOR
This is One-Four-Three. West-
bound on Olympic, approaching
Overland.

CUT TO:

118 EXT. SANTA MONICA FREEWAY - NIGHT 118

The grey sedan moves through traffic like a hell-bent
wraith. Reese has the hammer down. He handles the
car with nerves of steel.

CUT TO:

119 EXT. POLICE HELICOPTER - NIGHT 119

Below, Reese's sedan snakes along at 110 plus. The
chopper, F.G., drops toward it.

PILOT (V.O.)
(filtered)
Air-unit Two. We're on him.
Westbound Santa Monica at 405.

CUT TO:

120 INT. GREY SEDAN - NIGHT 120

SARAH
A machine? You mean, like
a robot?

REESE
Not a robot. Cyborg.
Cybernetic Organism.

They have to yell over the roar of air through the broken
windshield.

SARAH
But...he was bleeding.

At that moment a blinding light sears down on them from
above. Reese looks over his left shoulder and sees a
CHP cruiser coming alongside.

REESE
Just a second. Keep your
head down.

CUT TO:

121 EXT. FREEWAY - NIGHT 121

The helicopter is right above the, its spotlight burning
on Reese. The cruiser flanks them, closing. Reese peels
off to the right, inches in front of a tractor-trailer rig,
brakes hard and slides into a four-wheel drift through a
curving off-ramp.

The helicopter banks, following.

The cruiser swaps ends trying to maneuver and slams broad-
side into the guardrail. Out of action.

CUT TO:

122 EXT. OFF RAMP/INTERSECTION - NIGHT 122

The sedan roars across the street without slowing
and vanishes down a tree-lined side street.

CUT TO:

123 EXT. POLICE HELICOPTER - NIGHT 123

DOWN ANGLE - AERIAL past the chopper, F.G., as its searchlight
sweeps over the close-knit treetops.

CUT TO:

124 EXT. SIDE STREET/INTERSECTION - NIGHT 124

The sedan skids around a corner, F.G., as the searchlight
filters in shafts through the trees further down the street,
sweeping futility back and forth.

CUT TO:

125 EXT. POLICE HELICOPTER - NIGHT 125

It hovers indecisively, then banks off.

PILOT (V.O.)
(filtered)
Lost him.

CUT TO:

126 INT. GREY SEDAN - NIGHT 126

Reese is ultra-alert, craning to look up, back, forward.

REESE
Good cover.
(pause)
Alright. Listen.
The Terminator's an infil-
tration unit. Part man, part
machine. Underneath, it's a
hyperalloy combat chassis,
mircoprocessor-controlled,
fully armored. Very tough...

He pauses as they slide around another corner.

CUT TO:

127 EXT. STREET - NIGHT 127

Reese's sedan glides out onto a main drag, very subdued.
He turns the lights on and blends with traffic.
The helicopter crosses laterally in the distance.

CUT TO:

128 INT. GREY SEDAN - NIGHT 128

REESE
(continuing)
But outside, it's living
human tissue. Flesh, skin,
hair...blood. Grown for the
cyborgs.

SARAH
Look, Reese, I know you want
to help, but...

REESE
(cutting her off)
Pay attention. The 600
series had rubber skin.
We spotted them easy. But
these are new. They look
human. Sweat, bad breath,
everything. Very hard to
spot. I had to wait 'til
he moved on you before I
could zero him.

SARAH
Hey, I'm not stupid, y'know.
They can't build anything like
that yet.

REESE
No. Not yet. Not for about
forty years.

Reese is driving sedately for a low profile, but his eyes
rove constantly, searching for a place to ditch the car.
Sarah's eyes are alert as well, and her tone becomes a bit
too cool.

SARAH
So, it's from the future, is
that right?

REESE
One possible future. From your
point of view. I don't know the
tech stuff.

SARAH
And you're from the future too?

REESE
Right.

They come to a red light and Reese stops.

SARAH
(patronizingly)
Right...

Like a shot she unlatches the seatbelt, pulls the door lock
and has the door half open before Reese can react. He catches
her arm and hauls her struggling back into the car.

Screenwriting Secret: The Logic is Secondary

From James Cameron, on the writing of Aliens:

"Being a visual person, I work backwards from the imagery that I like. The logic of a scene, I believe, is secondary to the enjoyment of it. You have to assume that Ripley was dumb enough not to check the sub-ceiling, or you have to assume that she was so thorough that she though she had accounted for everything, and there was something that she had missed or didn't know, or wasn't in the blueprint.

Yes, as a writer, you wrestle with all these things. It's not as much a question of whether it's illogical, it's a question of whether you need to put in so much expository material to explain the point. If you overexplain, you look like you're talking to the audience, which is not good. You're telegraphing. You're no longer have the surprise.

For example, when the Queen holds on to the landing gear, and stows away inside the ship for the final sequence, do we show that? Do we show how she did it? No, because then you'd lose the surprise factor."

Every Scene Is a Chase Scene

Right now I'm reading the excellent Notes On Directing by veteran British director Frank Hauser. Chapter Six has an interesting suggestion for structuring a scene:

"Every scene is a chase scene.

Character A wants something from Character B who doesn't want to give it. If he did, the scene would be over. Why does A want it? In order to...what? Why does B refuse?

Usually, when someone chases someone else they move toward their object, and the object, feeling the pressure, moves away. Blocking, that obscure mystery, is simply that. Lenin said 'Who? Whom?' That is, who is doing what to whom, and with what further aim? When the Ghost is hectoring Hamlet it is easy to see who is chasing whom, but look at the opening of The Cherry Orchard or King Lear and the answer is more problematic. Nevertheless, the chase underpins all dramatic structure. When you have learnt to see it, blocking becomes much more obvious and (still more important) a false move more glaringly apparent." (Hauser, Notes on Directing, p. 33)

While I disagree with Hauser's blanket assertion that the chase underpins "all dramatic structure", looking at a scene in this way can be immensely helpful in giving a jolt of life to otherwise tepid drama.

Why Most Action Movies Fail

One of the main problems with action movies made today (and over the last thirty years) is that there is really nothing special at all about the main character, save for his or her extraordinary fighting ability.

A great protagonist must have additional qualities or flaws that make him appropriate for his role as the hero. He must have an arc or evolution of character that directly affects the climax and resolution of the movie, so that the final battle of the film is not simply a contest of martial prowess. Some examples of genre movies that do this well:

1. Star Wars: During the climactic battle, Luke finally believes in himself, trusts in a higher spiritual power, and uses the Force to destroy the Death Star.
2. The Road Warrior: The loner Max, as a result of his failure and desperation, lends himself to a higher cause by deciding to put his life at risk and drive the tanker.
3. Lethal Weapon: After a long bonding process, Riggs and Murtaugh finally become a team to take down Shadow Company (even to the point of shooting the main villain, Joshua, in unison).


In none of the above-mentioned films are the climactic battles simply about skill. There is always another, more important dimension touching upon the character of the protagonist. These arcs are appropriate outcomes which occur as a result of the consequences of individual action, as opposed to sudden "changes of heart", or the simple heeding of advice (for instance, the hero learning a "secret move" which allows him to take down the antagonist).

The Road Warrior is a good illustration of this principle. Just before the climax, when Max decides to drive the tanker, he is not experiencing a random change of heart. His decision makes sense because of what he has been through. He previously chose to abandon the noble struggle of the people, fled, and attempted to make it on his own as a loner. The consequences of this decision were devastating...he lost his car, his dog, and nearly his life. In light of this, his decision to join in the climactic fight by driving the tanker makes perfect sense. At stake is not only his life and livelihood, but his redemption.


Fights, Contests, and Duels

Why is this principle so important? Without an arc, there is no change in the hero's character that allows him to win. In the absence of any arc/evolution, he could have beaten the villain just as easily during the first ten minutes of the film. Because of this, the drama--even that which takes place during the action--is not as compelling as it could be.

Each personal combat, or duel, in an action movie should be about more than just a matter of who has the best spin-heel kick. This can be accomplished by integrating issues of character. Years ago there appeared a Japanese animated series called Rurouni Kenshin: Wandering Samurai that accomplishes this feat remarkably well. We can also look at the “gold standard” of dueling scenes in famous genre movies: Empire Strikes Back, Return of the Jedi, The Matrix, etc. In each climactic showdown, there is somehow an issue of character that must be resolved in order for the protagonist to conquer his opponent.

And in the case that the protagonist does not resolve his character problems (such as in The Empire Strikes Back), it may be appropriate for him to lose the fight.

The Germ of an Idea

People sometimes ask me where I get my ideas.

The simple answer is: from many places. The core idea for a movie or novel is an elusive thing. It can come from anywhere, and often it so happens that the most powerful and arresting stories come from the most humble beginnings.

Let's look at a few examples from "the masters":

The Lord of the Rings trilogy has, at the date of this writing, grossed a total of more than $2.9 billion dollars. The films were, of course, based on the best selling books by J. R. R. Tolkien, whose children's novel "The Hobbit" started it all, creating the characters of Gandalf, Bilbo and Gollum, and the world that The Lord of the Rings would take place in. We have an account of the genesis for the entire saga in Tolkien's own words, in a letter written June 7th, 1955:

"All I remember about the start of The Hobbit is sitting correcting School Certificate papers in the everlasting weariness of that annual task forced on impecunious academics with children. On a blank leaf I scrawled, "In a hole in the ground there live a hobbit." I did not and do not know why. I did nothing about it for a long time, and for some years I got no further than the production of Thror's Map. It became The Hobbit in the early 1930s , and was eventually published on 21st September, 1937." (Rateliff, The History of The Hobbit, Part I, p. xii)

Above: $2.9 billion dollars later: "In a hole in the ground there lived a Hobbit"

Now let's look at one of the most successful filmmakers of all time, James Cameron. In March 1982, he was "twenty-seven, broke, and depressed" in Rome, desperately trying to fix the final cut of Piranha II. Cameron had no money for food, so he subsisted on dinner rolls stolen off of trays in the hotel where he was staying. Malnutrition caused him to fall ill and develop a fever of 102 degrees. His biography recounts:

"That's when Cameron had his nightmare epiphany. He dreamed of a chrome torso emerging, phoenixlike, from an explosion and dragging itself across the floor with kitchen knives. Cameron awoke and immediately started sketching the deathly figure on hotel stationary as ideas for a story line surrounding the image flooded his mind." (Keegan, The Futurist, p. 34)

Above: The fever dream that started it all...

Cameron's dream, of course, was the genesis of the Terminator franchise, which has collectively grossed more than $1.4 billion in revenue, and spawned a large number of novelizations, comics, TV series, toys, and rides.

Some of the great classics had their genesis in waking dreams, or "mental pictures" that suddenly flashed into the head of the writer. C.S. Lewis, author of the Narnia series, explained:

“In the author's mind there bubbles up every now and then the material for a story. For me it invariably begins with mental pictures. You then have to marry this with a suitable ‘form', verse or prose, short story, novel, play or whatever. When these two things click you have the author's impulse complete…[With Narnia] everything began with images; a faun carrying an umbrella, a queen on a sledge, a magnificent lion.”

More recently, George R. R. Martin, author of the ongoing blockbuster book series (and soon to be released HBO series) A Song of Ice and Fire relates,

"I started back in 1991 during a lull while I was still working in Hollywood and I was working on another book, a science fiction book I had always wanted to write. So I was working on that book when suddenly the first chapter of A Games of Thrones, not the prologue but the first chapter, came to me. The scene of the dire wolves in the summer snow. I didn't know where it came from or where it needed to go, but from there the book seemed to write itself. From there I knew what the second step was and the third and so one. Eventually, I stopped to draw some maps and work out some background material."

Great things come from small beginnings. Asked where he got the idea for his classic novel, The Name of the Rose, author Umberto Eco simply replied, "I felt like poisoning a monk." The same thing goes for movies. An associate of Alfred Hitchcock once noted that the central vision for North by Northwest was two men fighting on Lincoln's nose atop Mount Rushmore.

The point is, it doesn't matter how small or innocuous-seeming an idea is. If it inspires you, and gets your creative energies flowing, then go with it, no matter what anyone tells you. It's the passion, energy, work, and application that will make it great. As Thomas Edison said, "Genius is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration."

These small bursts of inspiration may indeed seem ridiculous to someone who doesn't share your vision. James Cameron's agent thought The Terminator was a terrible idea that was bound to fail. Unperturbed, Cameron fired the agent and forged ahead with his idea.

It should also be noted that you don't have to wait for a fever dream or a lightning bolt of inspiration to hit. George Lucas is an example of someone who takes ideas from various pre-existing sources, and brilliantly weaves and combines them to form a new story. Star Wars, probably the most successful franchise of all time, drew from sources as disparate as:

Flash Gordon serials
E. E. Doc Smith's Lensman books
Tolkien's Lord of the Rings trilogy
Frank Baum's The Wizard of Oz
John Ford's The Searchers
Akira Kurosawa's Hidden Fortress
Fritz Lang's Metropolis
Joseph Campbell's Hero With a Thousand Faces

Above: Hidden Fortress, an inspiration for Star Wars

And many, many more. Lucas even drew ideas from personal experience. The concept for the character of Chewbacca arose one day when Lucas was glancing at his girlfriend's dog, which liked to sit in the front seat of their station wagon. Suddenly Lucas was struck with the image of a furry alien sitting in the cockpit of a beat-up spacecraft.

So the answer is simple. If an idea strikes you as new, interesting, exciting, arresting, or original, and it inspires your creative energies, then go with it. And if the sparks aren't coming from within, then look to those things without that inspire you--history, literature, plays, films, etc. Weave and combine elements from your favorite books or movies. The whole notion of "high concept" is based on this.

Just remember, it doesn't have to seem amazing to everyone else in the beginning. Often times it won't. As David Lynch explains:

"It would be great if the entire film came all at once. But it comes, for me, in fragments. That first fragment is like the Rosetta Stone. It's the piece of the puzzle that indicates the rest. It's a hopeful puzzle piece...You fall in love with the first idea, that tiny little piece. And once you've got it, the rest will come in time." (Lynch, Catching the Big Fish, p. 23)