Is Sarah Marshall Forgettable? (A3)

Not really. The Universal laffer pulled in $17.3 million in its opening weekend. The Apatow-produced comedy featured notable talent from the forgotten NBC series "Freaks and Geeks". Nicholas Stoller directed the film, and the screenplay was penned by lead actor Jason Segel. The story centers around Peter Bretter, a music composer for a hit television series starring his demanding girlfriend, Sarah Marshall (Kristen Bell). Tragedy strikes when Sarah informs him that their relationship is over and that there is another love interest.

Heartbroken, Peter decides to take his step-brother Brian's advice and take a solo trip to Hawaii in order to get away. Ironically, he checks into the same hotel as Sarah and new beau Alduous Snow (Russell Brand), a crotch-grabbing Brit rocker (whose absurdity can be compared to both brothers in Oasis.) Throughout the film, Peter deals with trying to get over his terminated relationship while enjoying paradise. He is befriended by hotel concierge Rachel Jansen (Mila Kunis), who later becomes a...drumroll please...love interest. Will Peter fall in love with Rachel or try to make amends with Sarah?

Overall, the film is funny because of how the jokes relate to the character. In this case, it's a depressed stuffed bear by the name of Peter. The film employed a formulaic structure typical of most sitcoms. The comedy wasn't as physical as the prior Apatow films, but the snappy dialogue and vulgar exchanges were definitely perpetuated.

Studio Readers: The Gatekeepers of Hollywood

About 98% of the time, producers and agents will NOT read screenplays unless they are covered by a reader. Who is this reader and what does he/she/it do? A reader, in essence, works as an assistant to an agent, executive, or producer. The job involves reading a submitted script and writing coverage, which is a fancy word for "Hollywood book report". Coverage provides the basic contact information, logine, synopsis, and analysis for the potential project. If the script is good, it moves along to the more important people. If it's bad, it gets thrown into the recycling bin (remember that Hollywood is going green.)

I've worked as a reader for several companies and have assisted development execs. Based on the thousands of scripts that have poured into the office, the ones that didn't make it had these similar characteristics:

- Story is so high-concept that it lacks believability and detracts from potentially interesting characters.
- Overall idea isn't marketable; Consider demographics.
- Dialogue is overwritten; Here's some advice for comedy writers: Dr. Phil and Oprah jokes are dead!
- Characters are one-dimensional.
- Camera direction is included.
- Improper formatting.

Good luck!

All Writers Go To 7th Heaven (A5)

Jimmy Stewart decides not to commit suicide, Robert DeNiro transforms himself into an unstoppable example of determination, and Donald Sutherland manages to keep a family together despite a son's traumatic past. It is a wonderful life, but one has to be a raging bull in order to stand out from ordinary people. Often times individuals get lost in the crowd without ever realizing the potential to "stand out". They're afraid of failure, and hesitant to engage an independent mind. Instead, they stay with the mundane and, as a result, never grow.

I used to consider myself that person. By the way, this isn't an essay about discovering Scientology. I always imagined that the only profession one could be required seven to ten years of a formal education. Being an artist was inconsistent. I remembered hearing stories about how my father was jobless during the writer's strike in 1987. My mother really wanted to divorce him, but she then considered waiting until he had a better fiscal year. There were other options, I thought. Live in Hawaii. Take up surfing and pineapple farming. But in all seriousness, if I attended art school, there would still be a systematic approach to creative princpals. These institutions use phrases like "breaking the mold" or "thinking outside of the box". The lure of a promising brochure inevitably leads to elitist dogma and a crippling of originality. Truth be told, education is a business. I don't think outside of the box because the box doesn't exist.

Any form of art begins with an idea. The process subsequently takes its own form depending on the individual's work ethic and other variable characteristics. I consider myself organized and somewhat mentally stable, so I have to develop an idea before moving on to writing a first draft. Initially, I create a premise line for which to base my story. Most screenwriting textbooks would suggest asking yourself "What If?" questions. Like, "What if my ex-girlfriend turned gay because I took her to go see a roller derby match?" or "What if my agent really works at Subway to pay for his daughter's birthday pony?" Keep in mind, neither of the above premise lines have been storylines in any television shows or movies. After coming up with several premise lines, I decide which is the strongest in terms of originality and entertainment. Two years ago, in what appeared to be the most miserable summer in Los Angeles, I helmed Threshold, which told the story of a teenager who had the ability to heal. The following is an account of twenty days in April. It encompasses all stages of a screenplay's life, from its organic conception to the inevitably artificial demise (see producers.)

The project was very personal to me on a thematic level. Being raised Catholic, specific dogmatic principles were always instilled in me. No meat on Fridays during Lent. Unbaptized babies would end up in limbo. Nuns can fly if they mix holy water and Red Bull. I never fully accepted religion as being organized. Everyone had the same message, but a different interpretation. This being said, the material is subjective. just like the approach. There is no absolute. Spirituality, however, caused me to embrace a perspective that allowed me to accept myself for who I was, and live life to the fullest. For Threshold, I thought about the sanctity of the human condition and how we struggle everyday to maintain uniqueness. I created the character Trevor Cooper, a 17-year old teenager who struggled with this unique ability nobody knew about. When I build a character, I usually envision the dynamic range of emotions that everyone demonstrates. Although the basics are comforting, the extremes are more inviting. My characters aren't psychopaths who bury school busses under a soccer field. That was really an episode from Walker, Texas Ranger. Behavioral extremes are the most authentic when they're paired with instances of normalcy. Although I wrote Trevor as an introvert who fears most interactions, supplementing him with the ability to break free from his previous nuances added depth. For instance, he creepily obsesses about girls. He wants to take drugs and destroy himself, but his supernatural ability gives him purpose. I juxtaposed this against the backdrop of a recently divorced single mother and an uptight older brother, both of which are trying to find their purpose.

Once a strong story is developed with flourishing characters, I map out the beats, or significant moments of the adventure. For example, I figure out what event incites the journey, or the apparent call to action. Since a feature screenplay is divided into three acts, I immediately develop the first act so I know the direction of my story. The second and third acts are outlined as well, but concentrate more on the broad strokes of the overall journey. I never adhere strictly to the third act. It merely serves as a place holder for which to build the main adventure. Once I figure out what I want to write about, I begin the drafting process. Here, I write in a non-linear fashion because it is important to be constantly aware of your story at all moments. If I'm unclear on setting up certain foreshadowed events in the initial pages, how can I effectively pay off what I intend later? Sometimes, I'll have an idea for the character's low point, also known as the part when the audience believes that hope is unattainable. At the end of the second act,when I write a low point in addition to another pivotal moment, I bridge them with the end of the first act. Whatever lies between these points is devoted to strategically shaping the character's journey, acknowledging both the successes and failures of the emotional journey.

I don't believe in writer's block: it has no merit. Some days I don't feel like writing. I drink lethal amounts of caffeine and pace around my apartment, twitching like Gary Busey. Some story concepts race through my head, but I toss them aside. I read Variety or check my email and see who's boning whom on Perez Hilton. Eventually, I have to order myself to sit down. I yell at myself and get the message across while ultimately making my schizophrenic neighbor feel at home. I emphasize the emotional discourse because, in my opinion, it prevents an abrupt writing drought. Instead, it motivates the creation of new authentic scenes that aren't dictated by unecessary plot devices. In Threshold, Trevor's healing of a popular kid in school connects with his own character in conflicting ways. Trevor wants to be popular and realizes that miraculously saving him will promote his own recognition. On the other hand, Trevor must keep in mind his vulnerability and maintain a low profile, even if it means watching a life be lost.

The first draft is probably the most difficult because I'm never fully satisfied. The acts run long. The characters lack dimension. 7th Heaven has better dialogue. I don't realize this until "Fade Out" is written on the final page. I now have to face the next dilemma -- the rewriting stage. That's when the index cards come in handy. 4x6 versions of the National Guard that rescue my story and integrate it with a newfound depth. The cards visually display what scenes need to be added, rewritten, and deleted. It is a visual map without the "you are here" arrow. Finding your way is the real task. I usually devote six to eight weeks for revisions. I find enlightenment around week three, which is when I feel comfortable letting go of ideas that I once thought were redeemable.

A few years ago, I attended a writing workshop in Santa Monica called Writer's Bootcamp. The workshop was held over twenty-two months and mentored its members to produce an arsenal of scripts within the time period. The most cathartic experience, however, was their motto: the secret to writing is writing. Writing for a career takes on more responsibility than writing as a hobby. Discipline, awareness, and the occasional corporal punishment, benefit a screenwriter. I write for two hours per day, the work going back and forth from writing pages to developing story components. In the end, this will pay off. If something goes terribly wrong with my life by the time I'm forty, I can always move to Hawaii and grow pineapples.

Auditions: The New Job Interview?

This week, I was reaccustomed to the intricacies of the audition process. I'm surprised that USC students were treating their potential talent poorly. Every level of expertise, whether amateur or industry veteran, should handle an audition professionally. I enjoyed the workshop because it felt necessary to revisit the process and evaluate what I could improve (much like this class). In this case, I could improve on the interview portion. It is important to review where and when the actor was trained. Was it formal? Is he or she still involved? These inspections led me to ask questions. I would still be brief, but such inqueries would give me a better perspective of the actor. If I notice that the actor was in a recent feature film, I would like to know what position he or she played on the project. A supporting role is quite different than an extra. On the other hand, maybe a commercial that is listed on the resume could be very popular without me knowing. So, it's good to ask.

Another important aspect of the audition is giving the actor an adjustment, or other possibility to navigate through the scene. Give simple instructions. Speak the actor's language. Uta Hagen's terms help identify the scene's construction and the relationship. Ask about the objective or the obstacles getting in the way. Maybe change the circumstances. For instance, the husband discovers his wife is cheating before he leaves for work instead of at the end of the day. This subtle change of circumstance will alter the actor's interpretation. I get annoyed when directors fail to give actors freedom with their characters. Adjustments are slight changes, or advice on which direction to pursue. Telling an actor how to read a line verbatim isn't directing. I found the trust factor between director and actor to be pivotal.

Bullet in the Head

About halfway throughout the film, I came face to face with the title's implication. A gun is placed to the head of a Vietnamese man and the trigger is pulled. In slow-motion, the side of his head explodes with a gooey mixture of blood and fragmented brain. This is John Woo's Bullet in the Head, a Hong Kong infused action drama that prioritizes on heavy stunt sequences and touches little on various humanitarian themes.

In all honesty, I didn't understand the film's narrative. I knew it involved friends making poor decisions with their lives. But it seemed ultimately repetitive. They got into compromising situations and, minutes later, escaped. I felt there wasn't enough conflict to keep me interested with the stakes at hand. The characters, although trying to share intimate moments, were merely one-dimensional cut-outs with no clear motivations. When I watched this film, I felt like an apathetic studio executive. I only cared for the big explosions and martial arts. Hong Kong films are known to be packed with action and demonstrative of the culture, whether it be the seedy (somewhat fictionalized) underworld of crime syndicates or the bustling corporate work force the city has to offer. Woo touches upon the resistance against British rule in the late 1960s while showing Vietnam deal with American forces. A battle between East and West? If that were the case, it wasn't evident. Maybe Woo is telling his audience that any intervention, whether good or bad, will be met with a response.

A Day In The Life of the Hollywood Producer

It's most likely that a majority of those enrolled in film school want to be a directors or cinematographers. Where are the producers? The job involves more than just heavy amounts of caffeine, cell phones with Bluetooth capabilities, and pompous assistants. It involves ambition and persistence. Hence, the typical day of a (working) producer.

The alarm wakes you up promptly at five. It's a frigid morning in Santa Monica, but you recently bought an E-class Mercedes (you're actually leasing it) and the vehicle has those heat-sensing amenities that make you feel warm and cheery inside. Literally. After revelling in your own ego for 2.5 seconds, you race off to the nearby Starbucks and get your latté fix, only to find your agent's assistant working behind the counter. Something went terribly wrong. You then drive eighty down various side streets only to come to a standstill at the studio gate. There was an anonymous bomb threat made, and security is tight. You swear it's Gary Busey who called it in, but you count to ten and go with the motions. Upon arriving on the lot, your first place to stop is at a meeting with the studio regarding the budget. It costs too much to produce your show, or at least that's what they say. Some hotshot suit then pipes in a comment that relates your series to "Nash Bridges on steroids". You smirk and kindly explain that you'll cut out the car crash scene and make it happen in "post". You later pay a visit to your staff writers and threaten them to discontinue writing action scenes for the rest of the season. It's not German TV. It's definitely not HBO. It's beyond your control. Keep in mind that your show is on its third episode. It also competes in the same time slot as CSI: Whatever. After those words of wisdom, you hijack a golf cart and drive yourself over to the stage. Production is stalled and it's only eight. The call time was six. The news only gets worse. You still have to shoot seven pages. You've only shot one scene. The director is now shooting inserts of prop weapons and some of the grips munching on stale peanuts like rabid squirrels. The reason behind this is the actor you hired. He's locked in his trailer and, no, it's not because he wants a bowl of green M&Ms. He wants to do his own stunts. You convince him to do what he knows best. Act. You compliment him on his new suit, then tell him that he can do only the stunts that involve running through busy streets (a controlled backlot) and screaming loudly. He agrees. Production is up and running. You, however, are not through. By this time, it's close to eleven. You make a call to your agent and ask him why he fired the assistant. He pauses and answers, "I'm getting divorced." You hang up and rush over to the post-production facility. The prior scenes look fantastic, but they'll need heavy amounts of ADR. The guest star of the episode, otherwise known as the other producer's wife, sounds like a hobbit with a voice box. After lunch, you forget the rest of the day. You're in and out of meeting after meeting. From marketing heads to underappreciated sound mixers, you solve problems, answer questions, and keep the peace. And you're last name isn't even Chopra. It's Goldstein. Finally, it's six. The sun is setting, and you can relax while thinking of the next day's adventures. Then the phone rings. You have to speak at USC. So you get in your E-class, adjust the radio to a local rock station, and pull out of the driveway. Somewhere between Century City and Hollywood, a familiar Guns N' Roses song starts to play. The lyrics speak for themselves: Welcome to the jungle. It's not fun and games. You take a deep breath and mutter to yourself, "Bring it on."

No animals or small children were harmed during this excursion. However, egos were bruised, relationships became tarnished, and an occasional verbal dispute escalated into a fist fight. But isn't that what producing entails? In some sense, yes. The complexities of such a day bring out the best and worst of a producer's multi-faceted abilities. Overall, the producer must manage crises as they pertain to the situation. Some compare the producer's role on a film to the Central Intelligence Agency. With all due respect, the producer is a key speaker amid the United Nations. Complaints, reassurances, and resolutions all bombard this leader at alarming rates. A true producer takes into consideration all of the suggestions and presides with the one (or many) that will benefit the production in the long-run. Leadership, in this case, is a top priority.

Chris Hansen's Worst Nightmare (A2)

It's satirical, outlandish, and revoltingly entertaining. This is Fatal Farm, a Los Angeles-based production company/troupe of pure genius. It's comprised of Jeffrey Max and Zachary Johnson, two guys who consider their work just "screwing around on the internet." In actuality, however, Fatal Farm incorporates pop culture with a cynicism unlike others in the YouTube realm. They parody everything from the Disney animated series "Ducktales" to "Doogie Howser, M.D."

You're probably wondering what this has to do with an art-related website. Well, it has relevance (sort of like seeing Jesus Christ on a piece of toast). Think of Andy Warhol's work and how he poked fun at the superficiality within the art world. After all, what constitutes art? Can an artist stack a few soup cans and be "innovative"? The problem with Warhol is that he eventually believed the hype and started making installments for elitist Manhattanites.

Fatal Farm knows from the beginning that they're just having fun. Their work transcends to everyone with a twisted sense of humor...because being normal is overrated. In terms of popularity, they might not have celebrity presence like the "I'm fucking Matt Damon/Ben Affleck" videos, but Fatal Farm should guarantee raised eyebrows and uncontrollable laughs. If anyone deserves a break directing an independently-funded movie, it's these guys.

Camp Was Never This Good (A1)

I'm talking about "Wet Hot America Summer" (2001), a brilliant film that demonstrates slapstick humor and vulgar farce. By the way, that's a good thing. There aren't enough comedies that also employ a stellar ensemble cast. Janeane Garofalo, David Hyde Pierce, Paul Rudd, and Michael Showalter are some of the talented comedians showcased in this film. The story revolves around summer camp counselors and their last day at Camp Firewood in 1981. From the blunt announcement over the PA system to the characters' discrete sexual tensions (or lack thereof), finding true love (or a one-night stand) is the story's overall adventure.

What works in "Wet Hot American Summer" is the mixture of subtle and overt comedy. The script, which was penned by Michael Showalter and David Wain, reinforces this idea while also reverting to their improvisational sketch writing days when they worked on the Comedy Central series, "Stella." Imagine a humid environment entangled in debauchery, sarcasm, and hormonal impulses.
It proves to be a more effective comedy because the story is based in realism and the characters assure us of this. Unlike the mass-produced Will Ferrell movies churned out by the current box office, "Summer" remains an accurate reminiscence of youth and the hesistancy to grow up.

Here's a clip from the movie where the camp counselors sneak away from the camp and venture into town. This is probably my favorite part in the film because it is ridiculous in all respects, from the 80s power rock to the mayhem that ensues.