It’s been bothering me for a week, so I thought I’d write about it.
“The Masters” is the Kentucky Derby of golf. It’s the Big One. The tournament even people disinterested in golf pay attention to.
I’ve played golf maybe twice, on the Michiana golf course near our cabin in Indiana. It’s not a real serious golf course. They let dogs on it.
“The Masters” course is spectacular. You can’t help but be impressed by its breathtaking layout, landscaping and design. Not to mention its history, only some of which is racist.
Two big stories emerged during this year’s “Masters.” Phil Mickelson, the eventual winner, had both a wife and a mother battling cancer, and Tiger Woods was discovered to have had sex with every woman in the United States. The problems, though serious, were, in this context, peripheral. The real question was would their personal difficulties affect their play.
Of all sports – this is my view; bowlers may reasonably disagree – golf is by far the most psychologically demanding. Golf offers no available outlet for channeling nervous energy, like hitting people in hockey and football, being constantly on the move in basketball, or scratching yourself in baseball.
In golf, you hit the ball, you walk, and ten minutes later, you hit the ball again. Your success depends unquestionably on your making your shots; but it, arguably, depends equally on your keeping your emotions under control during those ten-minute intervals.
Seeing Mickelson coolly sink that ten-foot putt on the last hole, with millions of people watching and the tournament not entirely in the bag – that’s a champion, displaying mental toughness under maximum duress. It was beautiful to behold.
What inspired me to write this post, however, was not the play; it was the television commentary surrounding the event. I was truly shocked by it. Over the years, I’ve watched thousands of sporting events. This year’s “Masters” had the most negative coverage I have ever experienced.
Coverage of sporting events can be outrageously rosy. “That goal makes it 10-1. They’re on their way back!” This “Anything can happen” mentality is the standard approach for retaining viewers during a blowout. This “Masters” coverage was the opposite. No, not the opposite, it was the same, but in the other direction.
The coverage was: “Anything bad can happen.”
It was incredible. No matter what was going on, the announcers found ways to describe virtually every moment from the bleakest possible perspective.
“It looks hopeless from here.”
“Using a ‘three-wood’ instead of his “driver.’ An enormous blunder.”
“He had a putt from the same spot last year and he botched it horribly. The question is, will he learn from that debacle, or will he duplicate that same costly mistake?”
Maybe it’s because the announcers were English, and they’re used to waking up to gray skies. True, American commentators can be relentlessly upbeat, but these guys went entirely the other way. The weather was perfect; the announcers were raining on the parade.
And it never let up.
“He must be kicking himself after butchering such a relatively easy shot.”
“He can’t possibly make ‘par’ from there.”
“Years ago, another golfer who fell apart in a similar ghastly fashion. He hanged himself later that week.”
Once, after a golfer stroked a longish putt, the announcer went, “No”, after which the ball went directly into the hole. The announcer’s reaction? “Oh.”
The situation was becoming ludicrous. It was as if someone had discovered all the negative thoughts, self-doubts, worries and concerns golfers need to banish from their minds in some “Things You Can’t Think” receptacle, vacuumed them up, delivered them to the announcers, who spewed them out over the airwaves.
“If he misses this one, he’s finished.”
“I can only imagine his inner torment, playing so poorly in front of family and friends.”
“Where does he go from here? I think it’s time to rethink his entire game.”
“Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!”
It never stopped, even when the guy won:
“Well, now, it’s off to the clubhouse, where he’ll be helped on with the traditional “Green Jacket.” Let’s hope he doesn’t split it down the seams. That would be hugely embarrassing.”
They didn’t actually say that. But it would have fit right in.
I’m hardly what you’d call a positive person, but this was “over the top” negative. It made me so angry, I was hoping at some point, the announcer would report:
“The shot is hooking horribly to the left, flying hideously awry, and, oh, it’s actually headed this way and appears to be flying directly towards my head. I can’t imagine surviving such a devastating blow.”
Sadly, I was disappointed.
Oh, well. That’s golf.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Monday, April 19, 2010
"Private Conversations"
I’m thinking of getting one of those “Blue Tooth” earpieces, so when I’m talking to myself, people will think I’m on the phone.
It doesn’t have to work. I don’t need a phone. As I’ve written elsewhere, I have a phone, meaning a cell phone. Most of the time, it sits in the kitchen, “charging” itself. On rare occasions, a squeak will come out of it, indicating that I’ve “missed a call.” It takes me about twenty minutes to determine where the squeak is coming from. Once I do, I have no idea how to retrieve the missed call. I just unplug the thing, hoping the squeak will go away.
The earpiece idea is not about having a phone; it’s about camouflaging my habit of constantly talking to myself. It’s not because I care what people think about me. I just don’t want to upset them when they see my lips moving.
“Look at that. We go for a nice, peaceful walk. And there’s a crazy, possibly dangerous person, yakking away to nobody. I think I’m going to be sick.”
But if I had an earpiece…
“No, look. He’s on the phone.”
“Oh. Well, that’s okay then.”
You see the difference?
I talk to myself. It’s how it is. It could be outside on a bench, it could be in a store, sitting in the “Man Chair” – the special seat provided to men, while they wait for their female whatevers to finish shopping – it could be in my car, it could be on a walk. I’m alone two minutes, and my lips start moving.
And not just when I’m alone. I realize how insulting this is to family and friends, but the thing is, nobody’s more interesting to me than I am. Two explanations come to mind: One, I am endlessly entertaining to myself; I know exactly how to get to me. And two, even when I say the most outrageous things to myself, I never disagree.
I’m the ideal conversation partner. I just love what I have to say.
Besides keeping myself glorious company, talking to myself provides other positive benefits. There’s a line I once heard in a play that said: “How do I know what I think, till I hear what I say?”
I take that quote literally.
Imagine having a head full of thoughts and not knowing what any of them are. You may as well have no thoughts in there at all. It is only by saying them out loud that I know that those thoughts exist, and, more importantly, I know exactly what they are.
“Saying them out loud.” This part of the process seems to disturb people the most. Why do I have to say things out loud? Why can’t I just think those things? Or, worst case scenario, move my lips without making a sound.
Okay. “Just thinking things” is not the same as saying things out loud. Thinking comes in flashes – bim, bam, boom! Your brain is like a pinball machine. Ideas keep bouncing off each other, interrupting the flow. As a result, thinking rarely involves fully formed thoughts. For that, you need a more complete articulation, the thoughts congealing into complete, coherent sentences. That comes from saying things out loud.
As for the second point, “Why not simply move your lips?” Sometimes, I do that – when I’m around my loved ones, and I don’t want to unnecessary piss them off. It turns out they resent me anyway. Because they think I’d rather talk to myself than talk to them. I say, “Incorrect.” I only talk to myself when it’s quiet. The minute they start talking, I stop talking to myself, and immediately talk to them. It’s not like I say, “Shhh. I’m talking to myself.” That would be rude.
In situations when I’m alone, well, once you’re moving you lips, you’re already making people uncomfortable. You may as well go all the way. Besides, if I don’t make some sounds when I’m talking, I can’t hear what I’m saying. My ears aren’t that far from my mouth, so I don’t need to speak that loud. But I do need to speak loudly enough for my ears to pick up the words. Otherwise what am I doing? I’m moving my lips for no reason. Now, that’s crazy.
Talking to myself is demonstrably productive. Many of my most satisfying blog posts originated from my talking to myself. This one, for example. I imagine – though I have no hard evidence to back it up – that doing this blog has propelled talking to myself into overdrive. It’s understandable. I have a furnace to feed. I can’t waste precious time thinking nothing.
But even if I didn’t write a blog, for me, talking to myself is a natural activity. “Natural” in its generic sense. When my inner thoughts reach my moving lips, they’re delivered in their natural state. Precisely worded, and impeccably timed.
I “kill” when I’m talking to myself. And that’s why I do it. Talking to myself is the only arena where I attain perfection.
It is also the arena where I can say whatever I want. I can be dangerous. I can be disrespectful. I can be tasteless. I can be silly. I can be crude. Sometimes, I’m even slightly racist. (As in the Avenue Q song, “Everyone’s A Little Bit Racist…Sometimes.”) During private moments, I’ve been known to adopt the persona of a philosophical, old Negro man.
“When it comes down to certain behaviors, well…some does, and some doesn’t.”
So I’m racist but respectful.
Before I go, I want to make one thing clear, in case there’s a disease-label attached for my behavior – “auto-hablation”, or something. Although I’ve been accused of doing so, to say that I talk to myself "all the time" would be a gross and inaccurate exaggeration. I do not talk to myself all the time.
Sometimes, I sing to myself.
It doesn’t have to work. I don’t need a phone. As I’ve written elsewhere, I have a phone, meaning a cell phone. Most of the time, it sits in the kitchen, “charging” itself. On rare occasions, a squeak will come out of it, indicating that I’ve “missed a call.” It takes me about twenty minutes to determine where the squeak is coming from. Once I do, I have no idea how to retrieve the missed call. I just unplug the thing, hoping the squeak will go away.
The earpiece idea is not about having a phone; it’s about camouflaging my habit of constantly talking to myself. It’s not because I care what people think about me. I just don’t want to upset them when they see my lips moving.
“Look at that. We go for a nice, peaceful walk. And there’s a crazy, possibly dangerous person, yakking away to nobody. I think I’m going to be sick.”
But if I had an earpiece…
“No, look. He’s on the phone.”
“Oh. Well, that’s okay then.”
You see the difference?
I talk to myself. It’s how it is. It could be outside on a bench, it could be in a store, sitting in the “Man Chair” – the special seat provided to men, while they wait for their female whatevers to finish shopping – it could be in my car, it could be on a walk. I’m alone two minutes, and my lips start moving.
And not just when I’m alone. I realize how insulting this is to family and friends, but the thing is, nobody’s more interesting to me than I am. Two explanations come to mind: One, I am endlessly entertaining to myself; I know exactly how to get to me. And two, even when I say the most outrageous things to myself, I never disagree.
I’m the ideal conversation partner. I just love what I have to say.
Besides keeping myself glorious company, talking to myself provides other positive benefits. There’s a line I once heard in a play that said: “How do I know what I think, till I hear what I say?”
I take that quote literally.
Imagine having a head full of thoughts and not knowing what any of them are. You may as well have no thoughts in there at all. It is only by saying them out loud that I know that those thoughts exist, and, more importantly, I know exactly what they are.
“Saying them out loud.” This part of the process seems to disturb people the most. Why do I have to say things out loud? Why can’t I just think those things? Or, worst case scenario, move my lips without making a sound.
Okay. “Just thinking things” is not the same as saying things out loud. Thinking comes in flashes – bim, bam, boom! Your brain is like a pinball machine. Ideas keep bouncing off each other, interrupting the flow. As a result, thinking rarely involves fully formed thoughts. For that, you need a more complete articulation, the thoughts congealing into complete, coherent sentences. That comes from saying things out loud.
As for the second point, “Why not simply move your lips?” Sometimes, I do that – when I’m around my loved ones, and I don’t want to unnecessary piss them off. It turns out they resent me anyway. Because they think I’d rather talk to myself than talk to them. I say, “Incorrect.” I only talk to myself when it’s quiet. The minute they start talking, I stop talking to myself, and immediately talk to them. It’s not like I say, “Shhh. I’m talking to myself.” That would be rude.
In situations when I’m alone, well, once you’re moving you lips, you’re already making people uncomfortable. You may as well go all the way. Besides, if I don’t make some sounds when I’m talking, I can’t hear what I’m saying. My ears aren’t that far from my mouth, so I don’t need to speak that loud. But I do need to speak loudly enough for my ears to pick up the words. Otherwise what am I doing? I’m moving my lips for no reason. Now, that’s crazy.
Talking to myself is demonstrably productive. Many of my most satisfying blog posts originated from my talking to myself. This one, for example. I imagine – though I have no hard evidence to back it up – that doing this blog has propelled talking to myself into overdrive. It’s understandable. I have a furnace to feed. I can’t waste precious time thinking nothing.
But even if I didn’t write a blog, for me, talking to myself is a natural activity. “Natural” in its generic sense. When my inner thoughts reach my moving lips, they’re delivered in their natural state. Precisely worded, and impeccably timed.
I “kill” when I’m talking to myself. And that’s why I do it. Talking to myself is the only arena where I attain perfection.
It is also the arena where I can say whatever I want. I can be dangerous. I can be disrespectful. I can be tasteless. I can be silly. I can be crude. Sometimes, I’m even slightly racist. (As in the Avenue Q song, “Everyone’s A Little Bit Racist…Sometimes.”) During private moments, I’ve been known to adopt the persona of a philosophical, old Negro man.
“When it comes down to certain behaviors, well…some does, and some doesn’t.”
So I’m racist but respectful.
Before I go, I want to make one thing clear, in case there’s a disease-label attached for my behavior – “auto-hablation”, or something. Although I’ve been accused of doing so, to say that I talk to myself "all the time" would be a gross and inaccurate exaggeration. I do not talk to myself all the time.
Sometimes, I sing to myself.
Friday, April 16, 2010
"Lost Love"
“Today I passed you on the street
And my heart fell at your feet
I can’t help it if I’m still in love with you…”
Hank Williams
In Yiddish, it’s called a stoch – a sharp stab in the gut. (The “s” is pronounced “sh” and the “ch” is pronounced like you’re clearing your throat.) You may recognize this feeling, whether you can pronounce the Yiddish version or not. It doesn’t feel good.
I haven’t worked in show business for six years, but the desire to still want to is undeniable. That’s what gives me the stoch.
I feel the stoch when I drive past an outdoor “film shoot”, with their milling crews desperately fighting the clock, the Kleenex-in-their-collars actors sitting in Director’s chairs awaiting makeup, the massive cameras stationed idly to the side, ready for placement. There it all is. The running everywhere, the barking of orders, the delirious excitement of putting on a show. And I’m not part of it.
I feel the stoch every Wednesday, when I religiously pore over the television ratings in the morning paper, counting how many comedies rank in the “Top Twenty.” Generally, two. Maybe if they’d…nah.
I feel the stoch when my piano teacher regales me with stories of going “on the road”, backing some old but still active entertainer, an exiled outsider to the jokes and the camaraderie.
The stoch haunts my unconscious, causing accidental slips that reveal it all. Last week, I got an e-mail announcing that a UCLA extension class I’d signed up for would not be held due to insufficient enrollment. When I reported this to Dr. M, instead of saying, “My class has been cancelled” I said, “My show has been cancelled.” There it was. As plain as day.
Others in my position had successfully moved on. One former television-writing friend was now affiliated with the Dodgers as an award-winning co-host of their post-game “Call-In” show. Another acquaintance had proceeded from a celebrated career as writer, comedian and best selling author to become a United States Senator.
Maybe it’s just the people who didn’t matriculate to exciting “Second Acts” that experience the stoch, I’m not sure. I wonder if those who made satisfying transitions also miss it, or if the new stuff relegated their show biz memories to a cardboard box in the garage.
I also wonder if people in other lines of work experience the stoch? Redundant assembly line workers, auto execs, people who sold them sandwiches from a truck, when they drive past the plant they walked in every day, do they feel the stab I feel driving past Paramount, Studio City and Universal Studios? I bet they do.
Maybe you’re thinking, “If you miss it so much, why not try and get back in?” A reasonable question. For people who don’t understand. Today – though it was always the case to some degree – every writer being considered for a television job needs to be approved by the network before they can be hired. Even someone they want for one day a week requires network approval. That’s the kind of lock the networks have on things. At this point, I couldn’t get approval to watch a show.
What exactly is it I miss, and still want to be part of? A complete examination would take an entire separate post. And some Sodium Pentathol. Maybe it’s not even real. Maybe I don’t still want to do it, I’m simply engaging wishful wallowing. I don’t know. I just know how it feels.
Every repertoire needs a “hurtin’ song”, to demonstrate the performer has depth.
Consider this mine.
And my heart fell at your feet
I can’t help it if I’m still in love with you…”
Hank Williams
In Yiddish, it’s called a stoch – a sharp stab in the gut. (The “s” is pronounced “sh” and the “ch” is pronounced like you’re clearing your throat.) You may recognize this feeling, whether you can pronounce the Yiddish version or not. It doesn’t feel good.
I haven’t worked in show business for six years, but the desire to still want to is undeniable. That’s what gives me the stoch.
I feel the stoch when I drive past an outdoor “film shoot”, with their milling crews desperately fighting the clock, the Kleenex-in-their-collars actors sitting in Director’s chairs awaiting makeup, the massive cameras stationed idly to the side, ready for placement. There it all is. The running everywhere, the barking of orders, the delirious excitement of putting on a show. And I’m not part of it.
I feel the stoch every Wednesday, when I religiously pore over the television ratings in the morning paper, counting how many comedies rank in the “Top Twenty.” Generally, two. Maybe if they’d…nah.
I feel the stoch when my piano teacher regales me with stories of going “on the road”, backing some old but still active entertainer, an exiled outsider to the jokes and the camaraderie.
The stoch haunts my unconscious, causing accidental slips that reveal it all. Last week, I got an e-mail announcing that a UCLA extension class I’d signed up for would not be held due to insufficient enrollment. When I reported this to Dr. M, instead of saying, “My class has been cancelled” I said, “My show has been cancelled.” There it was. As plain as day.
Others in my position had successfully moved on. One former television-writing friend was now affiliated with the Dodgers as an award-winning co-host of their post-game “Call-In” show. Another acquaintance had proceeded from a celebrated career as writer, comedian and best selling author to become a United States Senator.
Maybe it’s just the people who didn’t matriculate to exciting “Second Acts” that experience the stoch, I’m not sure. I wonder if those who made satisfying transitions also miss it, or if the new stuff relegated their show biz memories to a cardboard box in the garage.
I also wonder if people in other lines of work experience the stoch? Redundant assembly line workers, auto execs, people who sold them sandwiches from a truck, when they drive past the plant they walked in every day, do they feel the stab I feel driving past Paramount, Studio City and Universal Studios? I bet they do.
Maybe you’re thinking, “If you miss it so much, why not try and get back in?” A reasonable question. For people who don’t understand. Today – though it was always the case to some degree – every writer being considered for a television job needs to be approved by the network before they can be hired. Even someone they want for one day a week requires network approval. That’s the kind of lock the networks have on things. At this point, I couldn’t get approval to watch a show.
What exactly is it I miss, and still want to be part of? A complete examination would take an entire separate post. And some Sodium Pentathol. Maybe it’s not even real. Maybe I don’t still want to do it, I’m simply engaging wishful wallowing. I don’t know. I just know how it feels.
Every repertoire needs a “hurtin’ song”, to demonstrate the performer has depth.
Consider this mine.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
"Self-Inflicted (Writing) Wounds"
I’ve been in this situation before. The person-in-charge asks for a writing sample. In the situation before, it involved NPR’s All Things Considered. They were considering me for a slot as a regular commentator.
What did I submit to impress the heck out of them? A commentary about how NPR’s commentary delivery process was deceiving, because the audience was actually being read to, rather than being spoken to directly, as they were trying to make it appear.
That was my big gripe. People were reading their commentaries, and the listeners, at least consciously, were unaware they were doing it.
This, in part, is what I wrote:
“I’m not talking to you right now; I’m reading to you. When I said, “I’m not talking to you right now; I’m reading to you”? I was reading that. When I said, “I was reading that”? I was reading that too. “I was reading that too”? I was also reading that. I’m reading this entire thing!”
They didn’t care for it. Too smart-ass, they explained. I was undermining the commentary-reading tradition. In time, I came to realize that that submission was a mistake. Inexplicably, considering my objective, I was making fun of the thing I wanted them to hire me to do. I was also calling them deceivers. Not a good idea.
I’m worried I’m about to make the same mistake again. There’s a website called PoliticsDaily.com. It’s a news and commentary website, similar to the Huffingtonpost. After corresponding with PoliticsDaily’s Editor-In-Chief, Melinda Henneberger, I was invited to submit a writing sample for possible publication. What I’m dying to send her is this:
“The Choice”
I understand the impulse.
I worked in network television, both in Canada and in the U.S., for thirty-five years. I know what it’s like to drive through studio gate to my specially allotted parking space. I’ve felt the exhilaration of seeing my name printed in giant letters across a television screen. I’ve experienced the satisfaction of receiving an award in front of the cameras, smiling at the possibility that my snooty high school contemporaries were watching, scratching their heads incredulously, as their lips form the single word,
“Him?”
I understand the hunger for the spotlight. My craving for it persists even in retirement, writing a daily blog, and seeking greater attention through ancillary outlets. The seductive siren song of celebrity, I would call it, if I were into alliterations, which I’m not.
That’s me. That’s how it is. And being relatively normal, I imagine it’s not that different for others.
I will now change the subject. But I will bring it all home. I promise.
When it began, the television news business was a dull and stodgy operation. Men in tweed jackets read from sheets of paper they held in their hands. We didn’t expect much from the news back then. “Just tell us what happened, who won the game, and if it’s going to rain tomorrow.” As they said on “Dragnet”, “Just the facts.”
The people who gathered those facts were hard working, invisible and, from what I’ve read about journalism, seriously underpaid. They appeared to be dedicated. Why else would you work hard invisibly for an undersized paycheck?
Television news back then was seen, even by its providers, as a service to the community, a quid pro quo for an unpaid-for slot on the public airwaves. Then, with the arrival of one show, everything changed. The TV news business was about to receive a transformational makeover.
“60 Minutes”, with its exposes, celebrity profiles, “Common Man” commentaries, and its “tick, tick, tick…” debuted and quickly became hugely popular. And “hugely popular” in television, and everywhere else now that I think about it, means hugely profitable.
Emerging from that “shop”, “60 Minutes” demonstrated that the once “loss leader” news divisions were capable of making substantial amounts of money for their networks. And from that point on, they were required to.
Incrementally, the “tipping point” was reached, it inevitably tipped, and broadcast news became “Welcome to the circus.”
Cable news was simply the next generation. Call it “Makeover 2.0.”
Cable news must be profitable; the shows’ hosts are paid millions. Also, in mine ‘umble opinion, the programming appears to be mislabeled. Cable news networks don’t actually deliver much news; they primarily offer commentary. From an accuracy standpoint, MSNBC, for example, should really be called the “Cable Commentary Network.” But it’s not. And it’s a little confusing.
Journalists, many of them highly respected, regularly appear on cable news programs. I don’t know how long it takes them to travel to the studio, get made up, and wait in the “Green Room” to go on, but it must consume a substantial amount of their time.
I understand why they want to do it. See: above. I’m sympathetic to the impulse. I’m also sympathetic to the idea of maximizing your financial opportunities. Still, I can’t help feeling that when you make the decision to become a journalist, understanding the sacrifices that choice will entail – what can I tell you? – you gotta be a journalist.
There are stories that need to be covered. Not little stories, like whether the president bowed too deeply while greeting the head of state of another country, important stories.
Forgive me for exhuming ancient history, but it still bothers me. I’d really like to have known whether Iraq really had WMD’s, and whether they were responsible for attacking the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. I know people were on that story at the time, but we never got the facts till it was, unfortunately, too late.
John Edwards could arguably have become the Democratic Party’s nominee for president. In retrospect, I’m thinking – hopefully, without bursting a blood vessel – we really should have known more about this guy. Because if his secret had come out after he was nominated, it would have elected the other guy, and if it had come out after he was elected, it would have brought down the government. The “Inquirer” had the “scoop”, but nobody listens to them, because they’re the “Inquirer.” So we didn’t know.
Two stories with monumental implications, and the public is totally in the dark. And I’m wondering, “Where were the journalists?”
Am I unfairly blaming the journalists? It’s very possible. I can imagine there are often powerful obstacles keeping them from doing their jobs. But since that’s another story I’m not being told, I can only guess at what they might be.
It comes down to this. I’m a regular person. I need the journalists out there doing full-time journalism. Otherwise, who’s going to be my champion, gaining access to places I can’t get into, uncovering information I would otherwise never find out? Who will rescue me from my ignorance, and let me know what’s actually going on?
It’s fun to be famous. I understand that, I really do. But Woodward and Bernstein also got famous. They did it the old-fashioned way.
They informed the public.
That’s what I’m thinking of submitting – a story to a journalists about how journalists fell down on the job. As the “Cowardly Lion” said in The Wizard of Oz,
Talk me out of it.
What did I submit to impress the heck out of them? A commentary about how NPR’s commentary delivery process was deceiving, because the audience was actually being read to, rather than being spoken to directly, as they were trying to make it appear.
That was my big gripe. People were reading their commentaries, and the listeners, at least consciously, were unaware they were doing it.
This, in part, is what I wrote:
“I’m not talking to you right now; I’m reading to you. When I said, “I’m not talking to you right now; I’m reading to you”? I was reading that. When I said, “I was reading that”? I was reading that too. “I was reading that too”? I was also reading that. I’m reading this entire thing!”
They didn’t care for it. Too smart-ass, they explained. I was undermining the commentary-reading tradition. In time, I came to realize that that submission was a mistake. Inexplicably, considering my objective, I was making fun of the thing I wanted them to hire me to do. I was also calling them deceivers. Not a good idea.
I’m worried I’m about to make the same mistake again. There’s a website called PoliticsDaily.com. It’s a news and commentary website, similar to the Huffingtonpost. After corresponding with PoliticsDaily’s Editor-In-Chief, Melinda Henneberger, I was invited to submit a writing sample for possible publication. What I’m dying to send her is this:
“The Choice”
I understand the impulse.
I worked in network television, both in Canada and in the U.S., for thirty-five years. I know what it’s like to drive through studio gate to my specially allotted parking space. I’ve felt the exhilaration of seeing my name printed in giant letters across a television screen. I’ve experienced the satisfaction of receiving an award in front of the cameras, smiling at the possibility that my snooty high school contemporaries were watching, scratching their heads incredulously, as their lips form the single word,
“Him?”
I understand the hunger for the spotlight. My craving for it persists even in retirement, writing a daily blog, and seeking greater attention through ancillary outlets. The seductive siren song of celebrity, I would call it, if I were into alliterations, which I’m not.
That’s me. That’s how it is. And being relatively normal, I imagine it’s not that different for others.
I will now change the subject. But I will bring it all home. I promise.
When it began, the television news business was a dull and stodgy operation. Men in tweed jackets read from sheets of paper they held in their hands. We didn’t expect much from the news back then. “Just tell us what happened, who won the game, and if it’s going to rain tomorrow.” As they said on “Dragnet”, “Just the facts.”
The people who gathered those facts were hard working, invisible and, from what I’ve read about journalism, seriously underpaid. They appeared to be dedicated. Why else would you work hard invisibly for an undersized paycheck?
Television news back then was seen, even by its providers, as a service to the community, a quid pro quo for an unpaid-for slot on the public airwaves. Then, with the arrival of one show, everything changed. The TV news business was about to receive a transformational makeover.
“60 Minutes”, with its exposes, celebrity profiles, “Common Man” commentaries, and its “tick, tick, tick…” debuted and quickly became hugely popular. And “hugely popular” in television, and everywhere else now that I think about it, means hugely profitable.
Emerging from that “shop”, “60 Minutes” demonstrated that the once “loss leader” news divisions were capable of making substantial amounts of money for their networks. And from that point on, they were required to.
Incrementally, the “tipping point” was reached, it inevitably tipped, and broadcast news became “Welcome to the circus.”
Cable news was simply the next generation. Call it “Makeover 2.0.”
Cable news must be profitable; the shows’ hosts are paid millions. Also, in mine ‘umble opinion, the programming appears to be mislabeled. Cable news networks don’t actually deliver much news; they primarily offer commentary. From an accuracy standpoint, MSNBC, for example, should really be called the “Cable Commentary Network.” But it’s not. And it’s a little confusing.
Journalists, many of them highly respected, regularly appear on cable news programs. I don’t know how long it takes them to travel to the studio, get made up, and wait in the “Green Room” to go on, but it must consume a substantial amount of their time.
I understand why they want to do it. See: above. I’m sympathetic to the impulse. I’m also sympathetic to the idea of maximizing your financial opportunities. Still, I can’t help feeling that when you make the decision to become a journalist, understanding the sacrifices that choice will entail – what can I tell you? – you gotta be a journalist.
There are stories that need to be covered. Not little stories, like whether the president bowed too deeply while greeting the head of state of another country, important stories.
Forgive me for exhuming ancient history, but it still bothers me. I’d really like to have known whether Iraq really had WMD’s, and whether they were responsible for attacking the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. I know people were on that story at the time, but we never got the facts till it was, unfortunately, too late.
John Edwards could arguably have become the Democratic Party’s nominee for president. In retrospect, I’m thinking – hopefully, without bursting a blood vessel – we really should have known more about this guy. Because if his secret had come out after he was nominated, it would have elected the other guy, and if it had come out after he was elected, it would have brought down the government. The “Inquirer” had the “scoop”, but nobody listens to them, because they’re the “Inquirer.” So we didn’t know.
Two stories with monumental implications, and the public is totally in the dark. And I’m wondering, “Where were the journalists?”
Am I unfairly blaming the journalists? It’s very possible. I can imagine there are often powerful obstacles keeping them from doing their jobs. But since that’s another story I’m not being told, I can only guess at what they might be.
It comes down to this. I’m a regular person. I need the journalists out there doing full-time journalism. Otherwise, who’s going to be my champion, gaining access to places I can’t get into, uncovering information I would otherwise never find out? Who will rescue me from my ignorance, and let me know what’s actually going on?
It’s fun to be famous. I understand that, I really do. But Woodward and Bernstein also got famous. They did it the old-fashioned way.
They informed the public.
That’s what I’m thinking of submitting – a story to a journalists about how journalists fell down on the job. As the “Cowardly Lion” said in The Wizard of Oz,
Talk me out of it.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
"A Belated Missile Proposal"
The other day, I heard a report on TV about the president’s wanting to alter our missile policy. I don’t remember the details. It wasn’t important, beyond the fact that it could keep us from being blown up. Anyway, the policy adjustment is not the point – mushroom cloud, no mushroom cloud – whatever, Dude. For me, the report’s simply my “make it current” pretext for telling you this story. There, you got it out of me.
I’ve always taken this position, and nobody’s dissuaded me of it, mostly because I don’t talk about it out loud. Until now. During the Cold War, when American children were drilled to drop under their desks when a siren went off – though not Canadian children, who, apparently, nobody cared about, or Canadians are too sensible for such mishugus (insanity) – there was a lot of talk about the “Missile Gap.”
The “Missile Gap” referred to the mathematical differential between the number of nuclear missiles we had versus the number of missiles the Russians had. It was a counting thing. Apparently, there were satellites in the sky that could take pictures, from which could be determined precisely how many missiles each country had in their respective arsenals.
Whether the “counting thing” was true or not, I have no idea, but people high up acted like it was true, so it doesn’t really matter. You can get just easily blown to pieces by misinformation that’s believed to be true as by information that’s actually true. Ask the people in Iraq.
I’m also shaky about this part, “this part” meaning the precise number of missiles required to blow up the world. I guess it depends on how powerful they are. Maybe it only takes one missile, if it’s a really big one. Maybe two. They hit us; we hit them. (Notice I said, “they hit us” first. Even Canadians have prejudices.)
But let’s be conservative here. Not “Let’s bomb them before they bomb us” conservative, mathematically conservative. Say it takes ten nuclear missiles to blow up the world – five of ours, five of theirs*. (* I’ve made up an arbitrary number, because of my ignorance.)
What I recall is that, at the time they were counting them, the actual number of missiles were, like, fifteen hundred missiles each. Maybe we had a few more than them, maybe they had a few more than us. Whatever. That’s three thousand nuclear missiles*. (* Also an arbitrary number, but my overall point, I believe, still holds.)
If, as I ignorantly hypothesized, it only takes ten nuclear missiles to blow up the world, three thousand nuclear missiles could blow up the world – give me a minute – um… three hundred times. That’s right, isn’t it? I know it’s a lot of times.
(I’m aware that the concept of blowing the world up more than once falls more into the category of poetry. After you blow up the world once, that’s pretty much the ball game. You blow up the world three hundred times, and the last two hundred and ninety-nine times don’t really count. I mean, who’s going to do the counting?)
Okay, so the “Missile Gap’s” about numbers – we’re falling behind, they’re pulling ahead – it’s all about how many. And people took those numbers seriously. Big people, like people running for president. I believe the term “Missile Gap” was coined by the Kennedy side when JFK ran against Nixon in 1960. (Which immediately gave birth to another distinction – the “Exaggeration Gap.”)
It was all about numbers. Not just about numbers, of course. The missiles had to work. And when they didn’t, they took them back to the shop and refined them until they did.
This was no fairy tale. There was some big-time Boom-Boom roaming the earth. At least in two countries. The other countries lined up – the Soviet Bloc; the Us Bloc – and they hid behind them. (The Soviets actually conquered the countries first. Not China, but the other ones. Not North Korea, or Viet Nam or Cuba. But they had influence in those places. We had influence in other countries.)
Stick to the numbers, Earlo. The stuff you don’t know about is embarrassing.
Sorry. Here’s my point.
If it was simply a question of numbers – of, for example, their counting how many nuclear missiles we had – why didn’t we just build a few real nuclear missiles – say twenty times more than you need to blow up the world, so, like, a hundred – and make the rest of the missiles out of cardboard?
How would you do this? Well, there are some “Prop People” out there, trained to construct authentic-looking “mock-ups” of things in movies, making them look so authentic, it’s virtually impossible to tell the facsimile from the real thing. The only difference would be that the studio-built “mock-ups” of the missiles wouldn’t work. But why would that matter, when you’re only counting them from the sky?
I imagine this type of subterfuge has been pulled of in movies many times. I’m pretty sure that the military doesn’t lend out its nuclear missiles for film shoots.
“What if we don’t get them back?”
Would be just one of the problems.
So the “renting the missile” option is out. When they require nuclear missiles in movies, the filmmakers use documentary “stock footage” of actual missiles doing things, like taking off, or blowing up on the launching pad, or
They make missiles out of cardboard. Or some other material that, on camera, looks like an actual nuclear missile.
(There is a third option – the studios could build nuclear missiles of their own – I imagine there’s a “How To Build A Nuclear Missile” website on the Internet. But that would be way too expensive. Besides, what do you do with it when you’re finished? )
Speaking of expense – as I was in the brackets – that’s another issue solved by my little proposal. Cardboard nuclear missiles are cheaper to build than actual nuclear missiles, I imagine – though I’m not a nuclear missile builder myself – a lot cheaper.
Since the enemy is only counting them, it wouldn’t matter if the missiles actually worked. I mean, the majority of them. You could still have those hundred you need to blow up the world twenty times. The rest of them could be just as valuable a deterrent if they merely looked like they worked.
It seems like a great plan to me. And the beauty part is, no one’ll ever find out they were tricked. Why? Because it’s unlikely any of these missiles will ever be used. They haven’t been so far, because, I imagine, of what they call the “mutually assured destruction” problem, meaning, if the missiles were used, everybody would be blown up. Even the most passionate “hawks” are not enthusiastic about that eventuality. That’s Goodbye, Columbus.
There seem to be only two options. If the missiles, as it appears, are unlikely to be used, it doesn’t matter if the majority of them are made out of cardboard, or whether or not they work. On the other hand if the missiles that work are used, everyone’s dead, so there’s no one to discover that the majority of them were made out of cardboard.
To me, making the vast majority of the missiles non-functional is a “win-win” proposition. We terrify our enemies, for a considerably lower price.
I don’t know why they didn’t do that in the first place.
Or did they?
I’ve always taken this position, and nobody’s dissuaded me of it, mostly because I don’t talk about it out loud. Until now. During the Cold War, when American children were drilled to drop under their desks when a siren went off – though not Canadian children, who, apparently, nobody cared about, or Canadians are too sensible for such mishugus (insanity) – there was a lot of talk about the “Missile Gap.”
The “Missile Gap” referred to the mathematical differential between the number of nuclear missiles we had versus the number of missiles the Russians had. It was a counting thing. Apparently, there were satellites in the sky that could take pictures, from which could be determined precisely how many missiles each country had in their respective arsenals.
Whether the “counting thing” was true or not, I have no idea, but people high up acted like it was true, so it doesn’t really matter. You can get just easily blown to pieces by misinformation that’s believed to be true as by information that’s actually true. Ask the people in Iraq.
I’m also shaky about this part, “this part” meaning the precise number of missiles required to blow up the world. I guess it depends on how powerful they are. Maybe it only takes one missile, if it’s a really big one. Maybe two. They hit us; we hit them. (Notice I said, “they hit us” first. Even Canadians have prejudices.)
But let’s be conservative here. Not “Let’s bomb them before they bomb us” conservative, mathematically conservative. Say it takes ten nuclear missiles to blow up the world – five of ours, five of theirs*. (* I’ve made up an arbitrary number, because of my ignorance.)
What I recall is that, at the time they were counting them, the actual number of missiles were, like, fifteen hundred missiles each. Maybe we had a few more than them, maybe they had a few more than us. Whatever. That’s three thousand nuclear missiles*. (* Also an arbitrary number, but my overall point, I believe, still holds.)
If, as I ignorantly hypothesized, it only takes ten nuclear missiles to blow up the world, three thousand nuclear missiles could blow up the world – give me a minute – um… three hundred times. That’s right, isn’t it? I know it’s a lot of times.
(I’m aware that the concept of blowing the world up more than once falls more into the category of poetry. After you blow up the world once, that’s pretty much the ball game. You blow up the world three hundred times, and the last two hundred and ninety-nine times don’t really count. I mean, who’s going to do the counting?)
Okay, so the “Missile Gap’s” about numbers – we’re falling behind, they’re pulling ahead – it’s all about how many. And people took those numbers seriously. Big people, like people running for president. I believe the term “Missile Gap” was coined by the Kennedy side when JFK ran against Nixon in 1960. (Which immediately gave birth to another distinction – the “Exaggeration Gap.”)
It was all about numbers. Not just about numbers, of course. The missiles had to work. And when they didn’t, they took them back to the shop and refined them until they did.
This was no fairy tale. There was some big-time Boom-Boom roaming the earth. At least in two countries. The other countries lined up – the Soviet Bloc; the Us Bloc – and they hid behind them. (The Soviets actually conquered the countries first. Not China, but the other ones. Not North Korea, or Viet Nam or Cuba. But they had influence in those places. We had influence in other countries.)
Stick to the numbers, Earlo. The stuff you don’t know about is embarrassing.
Sorry. Here’s my point.
If it was simply a question of numbers – of, for example, their counting how many nuclear missiles we had – why didn’t we just build a few real nuclear missiles – say twenty times more than you need to blow up the world, so, like, a hundred – and make the rest of the missiles out of cardboard?
How would you do this? Well, there are some “Prop People” out there, trained to construct authentic-looking “mock-ups” of things in movies, making them look so authentic, it’s virtually impossible to tell the facsimile from the real thing. The only difference would be that the studio-built “mock-ups” of the missiles wouldn’t work. But why would that matter, when you’re only counting them from the sky?
I imagine this type of subterfuge has been pulled of in movies many times. I’m pretty sure that the military doesn’t lend out its nuclear missiles for film shoots.
“What if we don’t get them back?”
Would be just one of the problems.
So the “renting the missile” option is out. When they require nuclear missiles in movies, the filmmakers use documentary “stock footage” of actual missiles doing things, like taking off, or blowing up on the launching pad, or
They make missiles out of cardboard. Or some other material that, on camera, looks like an actual nuclear missile.
(There is a third option – the studios could build nuclear missiles of their own – I imagine there’s a “How To Build A Nuclear Missile” website on the Internet. But that would be way too expensive. Besides, what do you do with it when you’re finished? )
Speaking of expense – as I was in the brackets – that’s another issue solved by my little proposal. Cardboard nuclear missiles are cheaper to build than actual nuclear missiles, I imagine – though I’m not a nuclear missile builder myself – a lot cheaper.
Since the enemy is only counting them, it wouldn’t matter if the missiles actually worked. I mean, the majority of them. You could still have those hundred you need to blow up the world twenty times. The rest of them could be just as valuable a deterrent if they merely looked like they worked.
It seems like a great plan to me. And the beauty part is, no one’ll ever find out they were tricked. Why? Because it’s unlikely any of these missiles will ever be used. They haven’t been so far, because, I imagine, of what they call the “mutually assured destruction” problem, meaning, if the missiles were used, everybody would be blown up. Even the most passionate “hawks” are not enthusiastic about that eventuality. That’s Goodbye, Columbus.
There seem to be only two options. If the missiles, as it appears, are unlikely to be used, it doesn’t matter if the majority of them are made out of cardboard, or whether or not they work. On the other hand if the missiles that work are used, everyone’s dead, so there’s no one to discover that the majority of them were made out of cardboard.
To me, making the vast majority of the missiles non-functional is a “win-win” proposition. We terrify our enemies, for a considerably lower price.
I don’t know why they didn’t do that in the first place.
Or did they?
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
"Unforgivable"
I was once partnered up with a guy to work on a show. The guy had written on a successful one-hour drama, whose scripts included scattered moments of comic banter. This, he believed, gave him adequate credentials to cross over into half-hour comedy. The studio thought the project needed some authentic comedy muscle, so they put us together to develop the show. (I love it when I’m associated with anything involving muscle.)
The guy and I wrote the pilot script together, and after it sold, we co-wrote subsequent episodes and co-ran the show. We got along well, though early in the process, we had one contentious moment. Though he had no legitimate comedy resume, the guy demanded a screen credit on the show equal to my own.
I told him I had no problem with that. I did have a small problem with that, but not one worth going to war over. My only demand – and this was worth go to war over – was this: I wanted the last word on whatever went into the script, which meant, most importantly, that I’d have the power to decide which comedic suggestions, pitched by the writing staff, and by my partner, were actually comedic. The guy said okay. Phew. Because I was prepared to go to war over that. And now I didn’t have to. Phew, again.
The guy and I collaborated for one season. It was very difficult. Not because of the guy; his presence there was actually a plus. Working on a series full time is always stressful and exhausting, at least for me, because I’m not built to work full time on a show. I’m built to write scripts and consult on other people’s shows. I committed to it, because that’s what the situation required.
In my entire, semi-lengthy career in television, this was the only time I worked for an entire season full time. People told me I aged.
My partner proved adept at handling the business aspects of the show – including the executives – and was also helpful in his co-writing capacity, by offering valuable plot suggestions, but, most importantly, by providing believable set-up dialogue to for the jokes, supplied almost exclusively by me. The problem arose when he tried his hand at the comedy. Invariably, I had to say no. Which, as you recall, was our agreement.
I will now jump to the end. About a year after we stopped working together, and having had no contact with him whatsoever, I get a letter from the guy. He explains that he’s enrolled in a program, wherein, as part of his rehabilitation, he is required to make amends to all the people he had wronged in the past.
Apparently, I had been one of those people, so he apologized for wronging me. He then wondered if we could have lunch so we could talk about the whole thing.
Okay.
I’m thinking about this. And my mind goes here:
“Hi, Earl. I’m writing to tell you that I secretly did harmful things to you for a year, and I wondered if we could get together, so I could lay out in detail you how incredibly clueless you were about the whole thing. What do you say?”
“Hey, Earlsky. You know how you worry about people taking advantage of your innocence, inexperience, gullibility and trust? News Flash: It’s entirely justified. Let’s have lunch.”
“So, Earl. Here I was, doing things to damage your career and undermine your authority, and you were insanely oblivious to the whole thing and I’d like to fill you in on all the juicy details at lunch. Y’interested?”
I did not take the guy up on his offer.
Had the revelation bothered me? Of course, it bothered me. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t, I would, suddenly turning Cockney. For a full year, I’d been seriously bamboozled (after “Gustav Bamboozle”, who could fool anyone about anything, including himself, into believing “Bamboozle” is an actual name.)
Reading that letter, I felt violated, embarrassed, humiliated and reddened in the face. I mean, fool me once – shame on you. Fool me every day for a year – I go home, I lock the doors and I never come out. Not because I’m ashamed. Because when I come out, they’re gonna fool me again.
Was I mad at the guy? I don’t know, he obviously had problems. And to be honest, it’s not hard to forgive someone for doing something behind your back, because “behind your back”, by definition, means you didn’t know they were doing it. I mean, how angry can you feel about their doing something you had no idea was happening?
Even after you know, it’s not that hard to forgive them, because the misbehavior is long over, and as far as I could tell, there were no damaging repercussions. That’s what made it not hard to forgive the guy. Either that, or I’m a really nice person.
Nah, I’m not. Two pieces of supporting evidence: One: I did not agree to the lunch, which might have delivered the guy some healing closure but I didn’t give a hoot.
Two: Though I could readily overlook the guy’s serial misbehaviors, what I couldn’t overlook was his believing he had certifiable comedic credentials. He didn’t. Thinking he did dishonors the wonderful uniqueness of the accredited and acknowledged comedically gifted. That, my friends, is unforgivable.
I mean, who does the guy think he is?
The guy and I wrote the pilot script together, and after it sold, we co-wrote subsequent episodes and co-ran the show. We got along well, though early in the process, we had one contentious moment. Though he had no legitimate comedy resume, the guy demanded a screen credit on the show equal to my own.
I told him I had no problem with that. I did have a small problem with that, but not one worth going to war over. My only demand – and this was worth go to war over – was this: I wanted the last word on whatever went into the script, which meant, most importantly, that I’d have the power to decide which comedic suggestions, pitched by the writing staff, and by my partner, were actually comedic. The guy said okay. Phew. Because I was prepared to go to war over that. And now I didn’t have to. Phew, again.
The guy and I collaborated for one season. It was very difficult. Not because of the guy; his presence there was actually a plus. Working on a series full time is always stressful and exhausting, at least for me, because I’m not built to work full time on a show. I’m built to write scripts and consult on other people’s shows. I committed to it, because that’s what the situation required.
In my entire, semi-lengthy career in television, this was the only time I worked for an entire season full time. People told me I aged.
My partner proved adept at handling the business aspects of the show – including the executives – and was also helpful in his co-writing capacity, by offering valuable plot suggestions, but, most importantly, by providing believable set-up dialogue to for the jokes, supplied almost exclusively by me. The problem arose when he tried his hand at the comedy. Invariably, I had to say no. Which, as you recall, was our agreement.
I will now jump to the end. About a year after we stopped working together, and having had no contact with him whatsoever, I get a letter from the guy. He explains that he’s enrolled in a program, wherein, as part of his rehabilitation, he is required to make amends to all the people he had wronged in the past.
Apparently, I had been one of those people, so he apologized for wronging me. He then wondered if we could have lunch so we could talk about the whole thing.
Okay.
I’m thinking about this. And my mind goes here:
“Hi, Earl. I’m writing to tell you that I secretly did harmful things to you for a year, and I wondered if we could get together, so I could lay out in detail you how incredibly clueless you were about the whole thing. What do you say?”
“Hey, Earlsky. You know how you worry about people taking advantage of your innocence, inexperience, gullibility and trust? News Flash: It’s entirely justified. Let’s have lunch.”
“So, Earl. Here I was, doing things to damage your career and undermine your authority, and you were insanely oblivious to the whole thing and I’d like to fill you in on all the juicy details at lunch. Y’interested?”
I did not take the guy up on his offer.
Had the revelation bothered me? Of course, it bothered me. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t, I would, suddenly turning Cockney. For a full year, I’d been seriously bamboozled (after “Gustav Bamboozle”, who could fool anyone about anything, including himself, into believing “Bamboozle” is an actual name.)
Reading that letter, I felt violated, embarrassed, humiliated and reddened in the face. I mean, fool me once – shame on you. Fool me every day for a year – I go home, I lock the doors and I never come out. Not because I’m ashamed. Because when I come out, they’re gonna fool me again.
Was I mad at the guy? I don’t know, he obviously had problems. And to be honest, it’s not hard to forgive someone for doing something behind your back, because “behind your back”, by definition, means you didn’t know they were doing it. I mean, how angry can you feel about their doing something you had no idea was happening?
Even after you know, it’s not that hard to forgive them, because the misbehavior is long over, and as far as I could tell, there were no damaging repercussions. That’s what made it not hard to forgive the guy. Either that, or I’m a really nice person.
Nah, I’m not. Two pieces of supporting evidence: One: I did not agree to the lunch, which might have delivered the guy some healing closure but I didn’t give a hoot.
Two: Though I could readily overlook the guy’s serial misbehaviors, what I couldn’t overlook was his believing he had certifiable comedic credentials. He didn’t. Thinking he did dishonors the wonderful uniqueness of the accredited and acknowledged comedically gifted. That, my friends, is unforgivable.
I mean, who does the guy think he is?
Monday, April 12, 2010
"Screenwriting Class"
After about ten years of writing for television, I decided I wanted to learn how to write movies, so I enrolled in a screenwriting class. It’s strange. I never took a television-writing class. I just did it. But, somehow, movie writing, although the arena was hardly alien to me – I had seen a lot of movies – felt like something I needed to be taught.
Why? Maybe it’s the scale of movies – bigger stars, bigger budgets, bigger screen. Maybe it’s because movies are more prestigious than television, and I felt humbled in their presence. Maybe – though I probably couldn’t have articulated this at the time – it’s because television and movie writing are two substantially different animals, springing from the same family – like cats and panthers – but inherently not the same.
It’s badminton versus tennis. At their highest levels, neither format is easier than the other; they simply draw on different muscles. (When I talk about television writing, I’m referring to the more “grounded in theater” comedies I worked on that were filmed in front of a live studio audience. Single-camera comedies, like 30 Rock and The Office, are exactly like movies, only shorter, and you don’t have to pay to get in.
When I decided to take the screenwriting class, what I was looking for – I don’t know what I was looking for. I was afraid of trying something new. I thought some training might make the transition easier. It didn’t. Of course, I didn’t know that at the time. Nah, I probably did. But I took the class anyway.
The class was taught by a highly regarded movie-writing teacher and “script doctor.” A “script doctor” either rewrites a movie that needs fixing, or more likely in this guy’s case, suggests strategies for the writer to improve the script themselves.
(Once, while standing outside the building where the class was being held, I saw a car screech to a halt, my teacher raced to the curb, a script was forced into his hands through the window, and the car sped away. I had no idea what was going on. But the arrangement felt creepy and clandestine. A law firm it is best to avoid.)
Our class took place on Saturday mornings, in a structure where the Writers Guild Film Society used to screen movies. If memory serves, it was an eight-week course, but it could have been four or six weeks, and each class was two or three hours long. Memory is great, if you don’t want to recall things precisely. I know I went to that class. That part’s a certainty.
During whatever number of sessions it was – I’m starting to believe it was four – our teacher focused on one movie script – the script of Casablanca, which, incidentally, happens to be one of my favorite movies of all time, that doesn’t involve horses.
Our teacher deconstructed the Casablanca script scene-by-scene, demonstrating how masterfully it was put together, every scene evolving organically from the scene before, the characters distinctly delineated, every plot point carefully established, all of it building to that climactic moment at the foggy airport. There the resolution will take place.
The situation is tense. Will “Ilsa” fly away with the heroic freedom fighter, “Victor Laszlo”? Or will she stay with “Rick”, the emotionally damaged man she truly loves?
If you’ve never seen Casablanca, you should skip this paragraph, because I’ll be giving away the ending. It’s not such a great paragraph anyway; I’ve read it; you’re not missing that much. Those familiar with Casablanca know that Rick makes Ilsa go with Victor, to inspire him in his resistance efforts against the Nazis. The ending is supposed to be surprising, but when you think about it, the options were severely limited. Casablanca was made in 1942, at the height of the war. What other choice did they have? “The war’s not important; you’re staying with me”? They’d have pelted the screen with popcorn.
To be honest, I’ve retained very little of the content of that screenwriting class. What did stay with me, however, was the one lesson our teacher said was the most important lesson of all. And that lesson was this:
If you want your movie script to work, you have to, first, imagine the ending of the story you’re trying to tell, and, keeping that ending in mind, structure things meticulously, from Page One, so that the movie’s payoff will feel satisfying, and, when you look back on it, inevitable.
This was the teacher’s message. This, more than anything, was he wanted us to take away.
Our teacher had put the Casablanca script under a microscope, dissecting it to its minutest components, then reconstituting it to its final perfection. His presentation was remarkable. I realize he wasn’t making it up as he went along; his lectures were painstakingly prepared. But he really made it all sing.
Speaking of singing…
Like a cherry topping an ice cream sundae, at the end of our last class, after explaining how Casablanca’s celebrated accompanying song, As Time Goes By, a song written a decade earlier, was chosen – because it so exquisitely echoed the story being told – our teacher, unaccompanied, began singing that iconic tune, in a not unpleasant voice:
You must remember this
A kiss is just a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh
The fundamental things apply
As time goes by…
It was a nice touch. The “button” to an enjoyable class. But then, unexpectedly, he went on.
And when two lovers woo
They still say “I love you”
On that you can rely
No matter what the future brings
Time goes by.
Okay. That was great. Thank y…
Moonlight and love songs
Never out of date
It was here where I started biting my lip.
Hearts full of passion
Jealousy and hate
I’m blinking tears away from my eyes.
Woman needs man
And Man must have his mate
That no one can deny
I’m struggling not to laugh. If only he’d stop.
It’s still the same old story
A fight for love and glory
A case of do or die
I am now pinching myself really hard.
The world will always welcome lovers
As time goes by.
Thank God. It’s over.
Oh, yes, the world will always welcome lovers
I can’t take anymore.
As Time…
I really can’t.
Goes…
I’m going to explode!
Byyyyyyyyy.
It was absolutely excruciating. But there was one thing about the class that, in retrospect, was worse. It occurred to me later that it’s commonly known that, when they started shooting Casablanca, the script didn’t have an ending. They came up with one sometime during production.
That being the case, why did the teacher explain how essential having an ending is by taking as an example a movie that notoriously began filming without an ending?
That was the second mystery of the screenwriting class. The first?
Why did he sing
the entire
song?
Why? Maybe it’s the scale of movies – bigger stars, bigger budgets, bigger screen. Maybe it’s because movies are more prestigious than television, and I felt humbled in their presence. Maybe – though I probably couldn’t have articulated this at the time – it’s because television and movie writing are two substantially different animals, springing from the same family – like cats and panthers – but inherently not the same.
It’s badminton versus tennis. At their highest levels, neither format is easier than the other; they simply draw on different muscles. (When I talk about television writing, I’m referring to the more “grounded in theater” comedies I worked on that were filmed in front of a live studio audience. Single-camera comedies, like 30 Rock and The Office, are exactly like movies, only shorter, and you don’t have to pay to get in.
When I decided to take the screenwriting class, what I was looking for – I don’t know what I was looking for. I was afraid of trying something new. I thought some training might make the transition easier. It didn’t. Of course, I didn’t know that at the time. Nah, I probably did. But I took the class anyway.
The class was taught by a highly regarded movie-writing teacher and “script doctor.” A “script doctor” either rewrites a movie that needs fixing, or more likely in this guy’s case, suggests strategies for the writer to improve the script themselves.
(Once, while standing outside the building where the class was being held, I saw a car screech to a halt, my teacher raced to the curb, a script was forced into his hands through the window, and the car sped away. I had no idea what was going on. But the arrangement felt creepy and clandestine. A law firm it is best to avoid.)
Our class took place on Saturday mornings, in a structure where the Writers Guild Film Society used to screen movies. If memory serves, it was an eight-week course, but it could have been four or six weeks, and each class was two or three hours long. Memory is great, if you don’t want to recall things precisely. I know I went to that class. That part’s a certainty.
During whatever number of sessions it was – I’m starting to believe it was four – our teacher focused on one movie script – the script of Casablanca, which, incidentally, happens to be one of my favorite movies of all time, that doesn’t involve horses.
Our teacher deconstructed the Casablanca script scene-by-scene, demonstrating how masterfully it was put together, every scene evolving organically from the scene before, the characters distinctly delineated, every plot point carefully established, all of it building to that climactic moment at the foggy airport. There the resolution will take place.
The situation is tense. Will “Ilsa” fly away with the heroic freedom fighter, “Victor Laszlo”? Or will she stay with “Rick”, the emotionally damaged man she truly loves?
If you’ve never seen Casablanca, you should skip this paragraph, because I’ll be giving away the ending. It’s not such a great paragraph anyway; I’ve read it; you’re not missing that much. Those familiar with Casablanca know that Rick makes Ilsa go with Victor, to inspire him in his resistance efforts against the Nazis. The ending is supposed to be surprising, but when you think about it, the options were severely limited. Casablanca was made in 1942, at the height of the war. What other choice did they have? “The war’s not important; you’re staying with me”? They’d have pelted the screen with popcorn.
To be honest, I’ve retained very little of the content of that screenwriting class. What did stay with me, however, was the one lesson our teacher said was the most important lesson of all. And that lesson was this:
If you want your movie script to work, you have to, first, imagine the ending of the story you’re trying to tell, and, keeping that ending in mind, structure things meticulously, from Page One, so that the movie’s payoff will feel satisfying, and, when you look back on it, inevitable.
This was the teacher’s message. This, more than anything, was he wanted us to take away.
Our teacher had put the Casablanca script under a microscope, dissecting it to its minutest components, then reconstituting it to its final perfection. His presentation was remarkable. I realize he wasn’t making it up as he went along; his lectures were painstakingly prepared. But he really made it all sing.
Speaking of singing…
Like a cherry topping an ice cream sundae, at the end of our last class, after explaining how Casablanca’s celebrated accompanying song, As Time Goes By, a song written a decade earlier, was chosen – because it so exquisitely echoed the story being told – our teacher, unaccompanied, began singing that iconic tune, in a not unpleasant voice:
You must remember this
A kiss is just a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh
The fundamental things apply
As time goes by…
It was a nice touch. The “button” to an enjoyable class. But then, unexpectedly, he went on.
And when two lovers woo
They still say “I love you”
On that you can rely
No matter what the future brings
Time goes by.
Okay. That was great. Thank y…
Moonlight and love songs
Never out of date
It was here where I started biting my lip.
Hearts full of passion
Jealousy and hate
I’m blinking tears away from my eyes.
Woman needs man
And Man must have his mate
That no one can deny
I’m struggling not to laugh. If only he’d stop.
It’s still the same old story
A fight for love and glory
A case of do or die
I am now pinching myself really hard.
The world will always welcome lovers
As time goes by.
Thank God. It’s over.
Oh, yes, the world will always welcome lovers
I can’t take anymore.
As Time…
I really can’t.
Goes…
I’m going to explode!
Byyyyyyyyy.
It was absolutely excruciating. But there was one thing about the class that, in retrospect, was worse. It occurred to me later that it’s commonly known that, when they started shooting Casablanca, the script didn’t have an ending. They came up with one sometime during production.
That being the case, why did the teacher explain how essential having an ending is by taking as an example a movie that notoriously began filming without an ending?
That was the second mystery of the screenwriting class. The first?
Why did he sing
the entire
song?
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