Day M84: How To Write A Blockbuster – Part II


The Premise

First up, work out the basic premise in your head. Don’t worry about making it all make sense just yet, just worry about the main features of the story. At the very least you should have a strong set-up, a strong dénouement and a good title. Unfortunately for you, the best movie titles of all time, Ice Cold In Alex, There Will Be Blood and Snakes on a Plane have already been taken, so you’ll just have to think of another one.

But in the States they called it 'Desert Attack!'. Groan.

At this point, if all you can think of is a single scene, you should really consider writing a short movie instead.

The Audience

This is important, possibly the most important thing about scriptwriting.

You need three things to tell a story: a story, a storyteller and an audience. Otherwise you’re just talking to the wall. It’s interesting that British people take so long to figure out you need an audience: Americans get onto this fact a lot quicker.

Before you write a single word, ask yourself “who will be the audience?”

If the answer is “art-house patrons” then congratulations! You’ve narrowed down your target market to less than 1% of the cinema-going public.

The British/Australian/Canadian/New Zealand film industries struggle enough, they don’t need even more crap clogging up the system and scaring off investors. Be realistic: it costs a MILLION DOLLARS to make a ‘cheap’ movie. For your idea to become a reality someone will have to feed, clothe and house dozens, maybe even hundreds of people for up to six months… AND THEN have to re-coup the all the money or you’ll never work in this town again etc.

As each person in the UK goes to the cinema (on average) once a year, your film about a woman who lives in a council estate in Salford, gets beaten by her husband and then kills herself is going to present something of a problem. Your magnum opus will be up against the likes of Spielberg, Clooney and Stratham.

If your idea is as niche as a novelty sex toy that only works if you’ve walked on the moon, you’d be MUCH better off writing for TV. You’ll not need to obsess over cutting a profit, you’ll reach a wider audience than you ever would via the cinema, you’ll reach the right demographic and hell, Stephen Poliakoff, Matthew Graham and Steven Moffat are three of my favourite writers. When it comes to capturing close, intimate, character-driven drama, TV is a far superior medium than the cinema.

Here’s a quick test you can run in your head: is this storyline something I’m likely to see in a soap opera? If the answer is yes, to paraphrase Layer Cake: you’re in the wrong f—ing business, son. If the answer is no, great! Welcome onboard, let’s write a blockbuster movie.

For your blockbuster to bust blocks you’re going to have to write to your audience. Regular cinema goers are heavily weighted towards 13 to 35 year old males. You’ll have much more luck selling your script and becoming an overnight millionaire if you target that key demographic. Failing that, if your audience is ‘children, but parents will be entertained as well’, this is also acceptable, especially if you’re writing for Pixar.

Just Start Writing

Okay, now, before you do anything else: START WRITING.

This is the hardest bit of the whole process. Just write, write anything, just fill the pages with words.

This is a bit like when you start to learn to drive and the instructor says ‘just drive’ and directs you onto the main road. Nerve-wracking I’m sure, but the kick-the-baby-out-the-nest-so-it-flies method is pretty much tried and tested around the animal kingdom, so of course it applies to driving lessons and creative writing as well.

Correct Formatting

An incorrectly formatted script will not be read by anyone but your mum.

In order get the formatting right, download a copy of Final Draft. If you fancy having a go on your own, the only font you’re allowed to use is Courier 12pt.

Your script should start with the words ‘FADE IN:’ tabbed over to the far right. Then you’ve got the scene heading, always written something like this:


You must put whether the scene is INT. (interior) or EXT. (exterior) or I/E. (both) and make it clear whether it is day or night (a throwback to the days when each of these set-ups would require different film stocks). You can also get away with using CONTINUOUS, MOMENTS LATER, MORNING or EVENING.

Then you’ve got the ‘blackstuff’: the action. If you want to conjure up a fantastically detailed world, write a book. The blackstuff should be kept to a minimum, as in Shakespeare. Apparently, the scripted directions for the 20 minute long flying fight scenes in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon consisted of two words: “They Fight”. Details are up to the director, not you.

When a NEW CHARACTER is introduced his or her or its name is written in CAPITALS. Ditto for SOUND EFFECTS.

When people speak the correct format is:

This is the correct format.
Final Draft will do this for you automatically. It’s clever like that. It’ll also allow you to add (V.O) after the character name for Voice Over, (O.S) for a voice Off Scene, such as on the other end of a telephone line and (O.C) for Off Camera, for somebody in the scene whose face you maybe don’t want the audience to see.

You can also add a ‘wryly’, but I’d suggest you keep these to a bare minimum. A wryly is a scripted direction on how to say something.

We’re all going to die.

(sarcastically) <– this is a ‘wryly’
Well that’s just jolly spiffing isn’t it? Man.

Bit pointless? Yesh Mish Moneypenny, I wouldn’t bother unless absolutely necessary, give the actors and director some credit. Each page of your script will equate to about 1 minute of screen time, so you should aim for about 100 pages. You have to write “FADE OUT.” justified to the right of the page at the end. That’s it, really.

So that’s all your major formatting points done. Keep your first draft diabolically simple. Write the script in chronological order and keep the dialogue plain and functional. You’ll be mucking about with it later.

If you get stuck on how to bridge the gap from one scene to the next, just skip the gap for now. Just get down everything that’s in your head on paper.

Your First Draft

What you’ll end up with will be 100-odd pages of something so shockingly bad you wouldn’t want it to use it as a doorstop lest you offended the door. This is your first draft. DON’T WORRY, they’re always bloody dreadful. Nobody in their right mind would turn the first draft of a script into a film.

I said "in their right mind", didn't I?

Okay, now the real work begins. You’ve got your malformed, illogical, boring lump of clay. Now I want you to mould it into something beautiful.

Day M85: How To Write A Blockbuster – Part III


The Re-writes Begin…

There are certain rules you have to stick to in order to write a successful movie script. If you would prefer to ignore these rules, write a novel instead. The rules of movie making are pretty much set in stone and you’d have to be either very brave or very stupid to break them.

Reservoir Dogs follows the rules. Casablanca follows the rules. The Godfather follows the rules. The Shawshank Redemption, Being John Malkovich, The Big Lebowski, Little Miss Sunshine, The Matrix, Gran Turino, Platoon, Raging Bull, Inception, Annie Hall, The Wizard of Oz… no matter how clever you think your favourite movie is, chances are, if it turned a profit at the box office it follows the rules.


You don't. You really don't.

Okay. Every film ever made tells the same story, which is… (drum roll please…)

Somebody Wants Something,

But They’re Having Trouble Getting It.

Identify who the ‘Somebody’ is, what exactly is the ‘Something’ they want and what exactly the ‘Trouble’ is lurking in their way, and hell, your script might be actually getting somewhere.

The story of this ‘Somebody’ will have Three Acts. Preferably no more, and definitely no less. If you must, you can dick around with the chronology (Memento, Pulp Fiction) later. Preferably in the edit suite.

The Three Acts

Act One

Act One is your set up. You must introduce your Somebody: your protagonist. Spell out what he or she wants and give us some idea of how he or she intends to get it. We should meet (or at least be aware of) the antagonist within the first few pages. Act One should cover the first 30 pages of the script.

If the protagonist isn’t revealed to the audience before the end of Act One, then you’re in trouble. You can, if you’re VERY lucky, manage to switch protagonists (Marion Crane/Norman Bates in Psycho), but this rarely happens, because it rarely works.

But the important thing is you MUST have a protagonist or the story will not work. Star Wars Episode I lacks a protagonist, which is just one of the many reasons why it sucks so bad. Some ensemble films (Magnolia, Traffic, Crash) have more than one protagonist, but the rules are the same: identify what their problem is, and spell out how they intend to overcome it. Ensemble films are notoriously tricky to get right, so I wouldn’t bother: in any case, they rarely set the Box Office ablaze.

Act Two

Act Two is the journey. The protagonist MUST make a conscious decision to embark on this journey themselves (they then take the audience with them: if they’re tricked or simply following somebody else journey, they’re not the protagonist!). We have to see the protagonist develop and face challenges issued by the antagonist in getting what he or she wants. By midway through the movie, the protagonist should be flying high. Then it all goes horribly wrong.

By the end of Act Two, all should be lost. Your protagonist must seem as far from his or her goal as they could possibly possibly be. This is the turning point of the film, not just in terms of plot, but also in terms of character development. It’s now that the protagonist realises, like the Rolling Stones, they may not always get what they want, but if they try sometimes, they might get what they need. Act Two should cover around 60 pages.

Act Three

By Act Three the protagonist has changed as a result of the journey. This gives them the tools, confidence, wisdom, whatever, to overcome the antagonist. It can consist of between 10 and 30 pages, but don’t overdo it, it’ll get boring very fast.

By the way, a tragedy (such as Being John Malkovich, Amadeus or Macbeth) runs along the same route except the protagonist gets what he or she wants too early on… when this happens, they become the antagonist. They’ll learn their lesson too late to do anything about it and lose everything by the end of the story. For a masterclass in this kind of character arc, see Walter Whyte in Breaking Bad.

For an example of exactly how not to do it, see Star Wars Episode III.


In a two-hour movie, especially if it’s the kind of action-orientated flick that might actually stand a chance of making millions, your protagonist will invariably be an archetype. Pretty much every great character in cinema history from Rick Blaine to Charles Foster Kane to Vito Corleone to Andy Dufresne has been a archetype. There’s nothing wrong with this: it’s still perfectly possible to get your subtle nuances across.

Save The Cat

The next thing you need to do is “save the cat”. Unless you’re writing the script for a film in which we all already know the protagonist (James Bond or Indiana Jones), we don’t know this guy, why the hell should we care what he wants? We have to like him. This is pretty easy to do, you just need a scene in Act One in which they (perhaps unexpectedly) do something heroic: ie, save a cat rather than eat one for lunch. It’s not like cinema audiences don’t want to manipulated.

Main Character vs. Central Character

Every film (with the exception of ensemble pics) has a main character and a central character. They can be the same person (Neo in The Matrix, Popeye Doyle in The French Connection, Forrest Gump in, er, Forrest Gump). But if you want to be clever you can make them separate people (or entities).

Consider: Mozart is the central character in Amadeus, the frikkin’ movie is named after him. However, we watch events unfold through the eyes of somebody else: in this case the jealous, vengeful Salieri. The same thing happens in King Kong, Ferris Bueller, Immortal Beloved and Atonement.

Generally speaking, the central character is what drives the plot forwards, but we see the story through the eyes of the main character. The major difference (and why this technique is used so often in historical movies) is that the main character can (and does) change during the course of the film, the central character can’t. Kong will be Kong until the day he is shot off the top of the Empire State Building, but without Kong nothing in that movie could possibly happen. Ferris Bueller isn’t the main character of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, it’s Cameron that changes: he’s the one who trashes his dad’s car and says he’s happy to face up to the consequences. The film is actually about Cameron.

Even a film where it looks cut and dry, like The Shawshank Redemption, pulls this trick on you. At first glance, Andy is the main character, but think about it: he never changes. Red changes (think of the final parole hearing scene), which makes him the main character — we also see the events through his eyes, not Andy’s. This is one of the reasons Morgan Freeman was nominated for Best Actor, not Best Supporting Actor.

Sticking with Stephen King’s Different Seasons for the moment, in the story The Body (which became the film Stand By Me) Chris Chambers (River Phoenix in the film) was the main character, which worked fine in the book, but when translated onto the big screen it just didn’t work. Director Rob Reiner decided to pull a switcheroo and made Gordie the main character instead, and went on to create one of the most-loved movies of all time. Again, we see the film through Gordie’s eyes and Gordie is the character who changes at the end, not Chris.

As in Stand By Me, you’ll often have a group going on a journey together, but notice there’s still only one main character: Luke Skywalker, Frodo Baggins, Mikey in The Goonies etc.

It’s the comforting lie that Hollywood has been (very successfully) peddling for over a century: the fallacy that people can change.

But if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

Day M86: How To Write A Blockbuster – Part IV



This is the easy bit. Your antagonist could be a rival news anchor, a monster from the black lagoon or the protagonist’s own fear of commitment (although if your script is based around fear of commitment, I hate you). It’s just some thing that keeps throwing obstacles in the way of our hero.

Wants vs. Needs

Before you embark on the journey you must spell out very clearly is what your main characters heart’s desire is. It might be to go into space, get with the girl or win the world tiddlywinks championship. But that alone does not a good film make. What you can play with, and what you can be more subtle about, is what the character really NEEDS. Self confidence, trust, education, friends, the monster to stop eating his friends etc.

The most blatant example of the wants vs. needs fandango is The Wizard of Oz, in which nobody gets what they want off the wizard: they just needed somebody to tell them that they had whatever it is they wanted all along.

Often you’ll see a film in which a character doesn’t want to change until they are shown a world beyond what they’re aware of (‘the sleeper awakes’), but others are quite happy to spell out straight away that the protagonist is not happy with his or her lot and wishes for change. It’s not until later in the story that the real need of the protagonist is revealed: think of Charles Foster Kane’s last word.

An Exception…

Horror films are an exception to the rule, generally the only ‘change’ the main character needs is for things to go back to normal. This is why it’s so hard to keep a protagonist alive for more than one horror film – once they achieve the confidence or nouce they need to defeat the zombie hoards at the end of the first movie, their character arc has nowhere left to go.


Now you’ve got to kick your story into some semblance of order based on the structure I’ve just described. It sounds pretty restrictive, but usually you’ll find the bits of your script that work follow the rules, the bits that don’t work remind you of Star Wars Episode I.

Now have a look at the pacing of the film. It doesn’t have to be exact, but you want your protagonist to begin the journey around page 30. Take the blue pill, Neo. By page 60, they should be flying high, doing really well for themselves on their quest. They’ve probably met a girl they quite like and a comedy sidekick who makes sarcastic comments.

Pages 60-90 are when everything goes wrong (the end of Act Two is often known as ‘the mentor’s graveyard’ as it’s a good place to dispense with the mentor character as he or she will be useless in Act Three anyway).

Page 90 should be the lowest point (for the main character). If you’re writing a standard story, this should be the ‘all is lost’ moment. However, if you’re writing a tragedy, it’ll be the highest point for the main character. But tragedies don’t make money, so DON’T WRITE ONE.

For the record, films like Gladiator, 300 or Pan’s Labyrinth in which the protagonist dies at the end are NOT tragedies: they achieved their goal. They don’t need to survive to win. A tragedy is only when our protagonist loses, and loses big.

Pages 90-120 are when you really need to be wrapping things up. This is nothing to do with short attention spans and more to do with pacing. You gear the audience up for the dénouement and then keep them hanging on for another hour, they’ll hate you like I hate George Lucas for making Star Wars Episode I.

Also, if the links between your scenes seem inexplicable and arbitrary, “now let’s go to the pyramids!”, you’ll lose your audience. An audience confused is not an audience entertained, and suspension of disbelief only works if you rigidly adhere to the rules that your own universe creates.


Right, finally, the least important thing: dialogue. By the time your film gets made, every line will be changed, switched or rewritten by the powers that be anyway so it’s no big sweat.

That being said, silent protagonists are a tough sell, and while actions speak louder than words in real life, it’s a lot easier in the world of movies to make your characters sympathetic by having them express their desires through words rather than the medium of dance.

You should also ensure that when you read an individual line, you can (usually) work out which of your characters said it. Base each of your character’s reactions, speech patterns and slang on people you know, it’ll make it easier for you to differentiate. In general keep exposition to a bare minimum: nobody likes a lecture. If you’ve got something complicated to explain, try hiding it in a car-chase. Or use The West Wing’s “walk with me” shtick.


Now go back over the script and take out the first and last lines of each scene. Repeat until you cannot remove any more dialogue and have each scene still make sense.

Don’t waste words, you haven’t got the luxury. Everything said should move the plot forward or tell us something about your characters. In each scene, the action should arrive late and get out early.


Print out hard copies (a waste of paper I know, but it’s MUCH easier to get people to read, even if they do own a frikkin’ iPad) and distribute to your friends, family, mortal enemies, people in the street etc. Give them a questionnaire to fill out asking them mainly about three things: places they got bored, places they got confused and character actions they didn’t understand (or didn’t believe). Don’t just ask them if they think it’s any good… everyone invariably say yes as they won’t want to offend your precious sensibilities.

With all this feedback buzzing around your cranium, go to bed. Put a pad and a pen with a light on it on the side. Lie down, close your eyes and run through the script in your head like you’re watching the film. You’ll think of new connections, you’ll think of different ways of doing stuff, you’ll find characters that you can dump, scenes you can do without and ways of simply doing it better.

Then rewrite, rewrite and rewrite.

When you’ve absolutely, totally, utterly and completely finished rewriting, rewrite it again.

Now set it in space, add some more robots/zombies/dinosaurs and you’re done.

Good luck.

Day M87: Suva Ascending


The good ship Southern Pearl arrived in Suva on last night. However, since we had been to Wallis and there’s a particular breed of snail that exists on Wallis that the Fijians definitely do not want on their island, we weren’t allowed to enter the port until morning, lest one of them naughty snails was hiding on the bottom of an improperly cleaned container and was eluding the snail-hunter-in-chief by hiding in the dark like some crafty badger.

So we drifted out in the ocean for the night. You’ve got to be careful when drifting: you can move massive distances, even with the engine off. Hit a reef and it’s game over for your career at sea – you’ll be lucky to escape jail. Do you know how long it takes for a cargo container such as the Pearl (top speed 15 nautical miles per hour) to come to a stop after you turns its engines off? Two miles. Seriously.

The next day, it was goodbye from me and goodbye from him as I disembarked the Pearl for the last time. My three week odyssey which took me to three of my remaining countries — some of the most remote countries in the world — was over. I can’t thank Rowan Moss, Captain Jim Hebden, Pacific Forum Line, Neptune Shipping, Captain Don and the crew of the Southern Pearl enough.

With a song in my heart and a spring in my step I hit the streets of Suva. I met up with Sandy Fong, my CouchSurf host from when I was here last, for a spot of lunch. Suva town was hopping with people cramming for Christmas. Sandy was having friends over tonight, so we arranged for me to stay at the South Seas backpackers and meet with her tomorrow for a Christmas Eve barbecue at her brother’s place.

South Seas was pretty quiet. I threw my bags down in the empty dorm and waddled over to the window to do a piece to camera. As I was nattering away to my own fist, my roommate entered the dorm. I’m used to people staring at me as I walk down the street talking to my camera, but even so, it was a pretty dickish first impression.

I decided to make amends by introducing myself to Renato and guessing that he came from Peru. I knew he came from Peru, reception had told me. We headed down to the TV lounge and I showed him a couple of my videos that I shot in Peru a few years ago, including this one of the Inca Trail, which is as funny as it is informative(!):

Outside, as always in Suva, it was pissing down with rain. I was keen to start drinking, but Renato and I decided to wait until the rain held off for a minute. We arrived at Bad Dog at 5pm, just in time for happy hour (beers F$2.50 a glass: NICE!) and the night of the Eve of Christmas Eve began.

After Renato and I (mostly I) put the world to rights, the night descended into a series of random meetings with some of the goodies and baddies that I had made friends with last time I was here. At 11pm we were shunted next door to O’Reilly’s Irish Bar: the drunken heart of Suva on a Friday night.

The World Through The Eyes Of A Drunk

More comings and goings of infrequent hilarity ensued, the memories (as so often occurs when I have nowhere to really be in the morning) get a little fuzzy after midnight, but the next morning I woke up in the correct bed in the correct dorm in the correct hotel, happy that my autopilot mode is still functioning above and beyond the call of duty.

Days M88–M89: A Very Fiji Christmas


Wiping the hangover from my forehead, I exited my bed in a manner reminiscent of a slinky going down the stairs. It was 11.15am. Check out was 10am. Oops. A quick shower and some heartfelt apologies later, and I fell asleep in the TV lounge waiting for the rain to stop.

The afternoon of Christmas Eve I darted into Suva Town for a little bit of (traditional) last minute shopping. I needed to get a little gift for today’s Secret Santa. I then headed over to Sandy’s brother’s place and met up with Sandy, Peter and Ann, as well as a bunch of Sandy’s mates a good old fashioned Christmas barbeque. As with barbeques in the UK, it was raining, but since when has that stopped anyone?

Peter has just got back from Durban where he was one of the Fijian delegates. Just want to say a big THANK YOU to all our American, Canadian and Australian cousins for blocking the EU’s attempt to get a meaningful emissions scheme set up before the year 3000.

By ‘a big THANK YOU’, of course what I really mean is ‘DAMN YOU, you stupid, cowardly, greedy bastards; damn you all to hell’, much in the manner of Charlton Heston pounding the sand with his fists. Hey, don’t shoot the messenger, I’m just telling you what the civilised world is thinking.

The BBQ was followed by a round of karaoke, and I’m proud to say I’m as bad as ever. It really does boggle the mind that people who can’t sing still try their luck on X-Factor. Have they never recorded themselves and played it back? Eek. Make the bad man go away…

I stayed the night and on Christmas morning Sandy and I headed over to her mum’s place for some fantastic Fijian festive fun. With at least 20 mouths to feed (and this was a ‘quiet’ Christmas for the Fong household!) work on Christmas lunch began in the wee small hours of the morning by setting light to the Lovo.

The Lovo is a type of earth oven that has been used by Fijian people for centuries (and boy is it looking old). Imagine Ray Mears had 20 hungry mouths to feed and you’ll have some idea of what we’re doing here. First up, you make a nice big bonfire and once it’s going you chuck in some big stones. The type of stones you use must be of a particular type: ones that don’t crack when they get hot. They usually come from the river.

While the stones heat up you start work on scraping the hard white stuff out of a heap of coconuts. Once you get a pile of white coconut mulch you squeeze out the juice into a large metal bowl. This milky juice is then sieved into a bucket. Glug down that bucket and you would suffer the worst dose of the squits since you last had anaemic dysentery. To counter the explosive diuretic effects of coconut milk, you have to add salt and use it sparingly. The milk is added to fresh onions and then the coconut/onion mixture is wrapped up in several taro leaves, ready to go in the Lovo.


Next up you need to prepare the meat. After leaving in a tasty marinade over night (or filling with stuffing, whatever takes your fancy), the meat is then expertly weaved into a palm leaf, creating what looks like a funky green basket of meat.

While your meat weaver is expertly doing his stuff, the others will be fending off the heat of the bonfire and picking out the burning wood.

Eventually (after a singed eyebrow or two), the wood has been removed and all that is left of the fire are a bunch of white-hot stones. Onto those stones are laid a grid of reeds (that somehow don’t burn) and then the food you want to cooked is stacked aboard, starting with your taro, then your meat and then your taro-leaf coconut milk stuff.

Then the entire shebang is covered in these big-assed leaves (I think they were banana leaves) which, after they get hot, create a steam-proof seal around your food – the final product looks a lot like an improbably large Brussels sprout.


The bottom edges are covered in soil to stop any steam escaping from underneath and hey presto: an earth oven!

Leave your din dins in there for a couple of hours and when it comes out it’ll be tastier than a missionary kebab.

After din-dins, we spent the afternoon in the most traditional way possible: we played Monopoly and watched Spy Kids 4 with Sandy’s many nephews and nieces. I like the idea that there’s a good possibly that at least one household in each of the 191 countries I’ve visited so far on The Odyssey Expedition which spent their Christmas afternoon doing exactly the same thing.