I cannot overemphasize the importance of a critical reader. If you don't have one, it will damage you terribly in the long run. If you do have one or two, treat them with great kindness. They will save your ass as the years go by.
It is very hard to be a reader. Obviously, they are people you know and know well, and being critical of work at any point can be a problem; at the start, it more than likely will be.
I have been given, I guess, over the decades, thousands of scripts to read. And I always ask at the start, this:
Do you want the truth?
or
Do you want me to tell you how wonderful you are?
One hundred and five percent of them come back thusly:
The truth.
And then I say: A lot of people say that but not a lot of people mean it; their reply is always this:
I mean it.
So what happens is I read their script and I always find a sequence to start with that I can argue needs help. Say, it's the sequence where the dog dies.
I will carefully say something like this: "I have a question about when the dog dies." And more than you can imagine, this is what they say:
Oh, I love that sequence, that's, like, my favorite sequence in the whole movie, I only wrote the movie so I could write that sequence.
Here is what I give them then: praise. Praise unending. How moved I was by their work and what wonderful writers they are.
And I do them no good whatsoever.
Which is fine. The world will etch away on them soon enough.
Let's do a list of drafts now.
1. The For Our Eyes Only Draft. Which I will rewrite until I'm happy with it. Or as happy as I can be. Or just run out of steam and ideas and can't go any further on my own.
2. The First Draft. This is the one I give to the producer. This is probably the one specified by your contract that you have to get in by such and such a date. Here is what happens when they read it: they do not ever get back to you as quickly as you hope. And you go nuts. Either you are fired, which has happened to us all, or the asshole will eventually call and you will meet. And trust me--they will want changes. Not only that, they will want them for free. Which is more than likely against your contract. But which you will more than likely do anyway.
3. The First Draft (with Producer's Notes). Hopefully, this is the draft that will get submitted to the studio.
The above are what I call the "selling versions."
All future drafts are what I call "shooting versions."
Now, all this is true only if God has smiled on you. Usually He won't do that. Usually you'll have one more selling version to do, because the studio will want a draft with their notes included before they decide to try for what they call an element. Which means a director or a star.
4. The Studio Draft. You still keep it as readable as you can because now you're selling to an element.
Now, if you are amazingly lucky, they will decide that, yes, they want to try and make the movie. And you may be pissed at their slowness but they have a point. Please tattoo this behind your eyeballs:
You only have one shot at a star.
They get so inundated, so many people are trying to fuck them, to cater to them, to make them even richer and more spoiled that they simply will not bother to read a script a second time. Here is what they will say:
Isn't that the one where the dog dies?
(Final dismissal)
I read that.
I believe more screenwriters screw up the Studio Draft than they do anything else. Don't get scripts to people just because you can; get them seen when they are done. It's hard, I know, but please remember this:
When you go out there, BE AT YOUR BEST.
5. (And forever after) The Shooting Drafts.
These are all the drafts that come after a director is onboard, or if the producer is powerful enough to get a green light on his own.
There are an infinite number of these drafts. You think you'll go mad.
Then it gets harder--the star has arrived.
This is the most painful time in one respect, because the star is usually only interested in his or her part. The producer and the director might want the picture to have quality. The star is not against quality. Just so it doesn't interfere with his having the winning role.
But if it is the most painful, tough about that. You have a picture gearing up. You will have a credit. You will have had this start to a career.
Or, as a producer said to me after Paul Newman said he would do Harper, "You don't know what just happened, do you? This is what happened--you jumped past all the shit!"
May you all turn out to be glorious leapers.
* * *
Story Three: The Mastermind
* * *
As I said, ideas come from everywhere. This one comes not from the blue or a headline but rather, a book. I read it over a decade ago and thought immediately that not only could it be a movie, it could be just about the best caper film ever, alongside David Ward's Oscar winner, The Sting.
I wrote a caper film early on, The Hot Rock, based on the first of Donald Westlake's Dortmunder series. They tend to follow a pattern: the hero wants something valuable, can't get it legally, usually forms a gang to accomplish his end.
This story follows dead on that classic pattern.
Before specifics, I have to ask you this question: What, in your opinion, is the most valuable portable object in the world? The reason I throw in the word "portable" is because something gigantic tends to lose all connection to human scale. So I don't want any of the smart-asses among you answering thus: The Pyramids.
I am talking something you can hoist. Diamonds, furs, paintings, that kind of thing. The stuff caper films are made of. Just taking the above three, I am sure some fur somewhere that could be traced back to someone historically important or famous could be worth several million. And the Kohinoor diamond? A guess, but maybe tens of millions.
Chicken feed.
Some Asian billionaire bought a van Gogh, didn't he, for close to a hundred biggies?
Closing in.
You'll notice I haven't yet disclosed what the valued object is--because I'm trying to raise your interest, and also because at this moment I am not sure how deep into the picture I go before revealing it. But here's a scene that might come early on. The Mastermind of the title is a man of forty, from a family of great wealth and power, but because he is not the oldest son, he is penniless, and reduced to living by his wits, as they say. The most stylish charming guy you ever met. Read Sean Connery at the peak of his Bond phase for the Mastermind.
And who is he talking to? Why, only the Bill Gates of his day (I'm setting this in 1911): Mr. J. P. Morgan.
We are in the library of Morgan's New York City mansion, which is the size of most houses.
The year is 1911.
Morgan and Connery sit drinking brandy, smoking cigars. Both are elegantly dressed, and throughout, their tone is civilized. We are looking at two men at the very top of their respective games.
All around them on the walls--the most famous art works from across the centuries.
J. P. MORGAN
Shall we get to it, then?
SEAN CONNERY
Of course.
(beat)
Suppose I could deliver to you, and you alone, the most valuable object in the world.
J. P. MORGAN
For which, no doubt, I would pay a very great deal.
SEAN CONNERY
More than just a great deal, sir. A gasping amount is what I have in mind.
J. P. MORGAN
And when do I get to know just what it is I'm purchasing?
SEAN CONNERY
(enjoying this)
You don't.
J. P. MORGAN
Are you being silly with me, sir? Not a wise idea. Why on earth should I pay you anything at all for something about which I know so little.
SEAN CONNERY
Because I don't have i
t yet.
J. P. MORGAN
Have not purchased it, you meant?
SEAN CONNERY
(sharp)
Are you being silly with me, sir? I don't much like that either.
(beat)
When I possess it, you will know, simply by reading any headline from any paper in the world.
J. P. MORGAN
(a little interested now)
Dramatically put. But if you have nothing, why meet now?
SEAN CONNERY
Because when I do have it, there will be no time for bargaining. I will want your money, in cash, of course, immediately.
J. P. MORGAN
If you plan to sell me something acquired by less than legal means, what possible good does it do me? I cannot ever show it to anyone. I must keep it hidden from the world.
CUT TO
CONNERY. He gets up, strides around the fabulous room.
SEAN CONNERY
Some men...
(he stops, looks dead at Morgan now)
...there are some men who would kill to possess what no one else owns. Who would build a shrine to it, kept locked, with only the one key. There are some men, sir, who could thrill to walk into this secret place late at night, to unlock a single door, to stare at this greatest secret, the single most famous achievement of man.
This has been clearly directed at Morgan, who is uncomfortable with it, deflects it as best he can.
J. P. MORGAN
I have never been involved in anything so criminal.
SEAN CONNERY
Of course not--which is why I am keeping it a secret--the minute you know, you become an accomplice.
(beat)
The world respects you as the paragon you are. And of course you would never get involved with stolen property--
J. P. MORGAN
--so you are going to steal it?
SEAN CONNERY
There is always that possibility.
J. P. MORGAN
(rising abruptly)
Good night, sir.
(CONNERY smiles)
I just threw you out of my house, why on earth are you smiling?
SEAN CONNERY
Because Frick predicted you would behave this way.
(and on this he rises)
He will deny our chat just as you will deny this--but he told me you would behave, at first, like an outraged virgin.
(going to the door)
A pleasure, Mr. Morgan.
J. P. MORGAN
(moving right with him)
Henry Clay Frick is a detestable fraud--
SEAN CONNERY
--but he is almost as rich as you and has almost as great a collection. And soon it will be far greater.
J. P. MORGAN
(moving in on CONNERY)
Frick said he'd buy your merchandise?
CUT TO
CONNERY. CLOSE UP.
SEAN CONNERY
I have nothing to sell...yet.
CUT TO
MORGAN. Studying him.
J. P. MORGAN
When will you have it?
SEAN CONNERY
Very soon. You will know by the headlines. And I will come to the Plaza Hotel. And I will have it with me. And you will leave a message--a message with the amount you will pay. Frick has agreed to do the same.
(heading out now)
Winner wins all.
(a final smile, and he is gone)
Not the greatest scene ever, but it might play, if, say, we got Duvall to take a shot at Morgan. These two brilliant guys, discussing something in a strange way, all the secrets involved.
You might even open a movie with it. Connery leaving the Plaza, getting into a horse-drawn carriage, clip-clopping through the streets to the Morgan manse.
But if you did, pretty soon you'd have to reveal what the item under discussion was. Which I shall do now.
It's the Mona Lisa, da Vinci's masterpiece and arguably the most famous image on earth. And in case you wondered why I set that scene in such a weird year as 1911, here's why: that's when it happened.
The Mona Lisa really was stolen, from the Louvre Museum. And it was gone for two years. And maybe, just maybe, what was returned wasn't the real Mona Lisa. (All this is in Seymour Reit's book The Day They Stole the Mona Lisa. Try it, you'll like it.)
How much do you think that painting is worth? What if it came up for auction and the Sultan of Brunei wanted it a lot and Bill Gates wanted it a lot and so did half a dozen other computer-nerd billionaires? Well, if a good, but not that great, van Gogh went in the nineties, you start from there for this baby.
I think if these rich guys really got into a dick-swinging contest, the price could reach a billion.
And it was already incredibly famous back when it was taken.
What follows is not precisely as it happened. But we're not making a documentary.
Three main guys: the Mastermind himself. Anxious to retire and live well forever. In order to pull off his plan, he has to spend some money in advance. And he does.
Second main guy: the thief. No elegance here. He is an Italian carpenter working in France. He dislikes the French, lives alone in a crummy room. He is perfect for the Mastermind because (1) he has worked some in the Louvre, and (2) more importantly, when the Mona Lisa was recently enclosed in a glass-fronted box, the thief was one of the guys who built the box.
Last main guy: the forger. Cadaverous, brilliant, incredibly gifted as a painter, yet with shockingly little ego. He dies of old age, with the money from this job, happily. Never a whisper of trouble. Because of all the great forgers, he's the one who never let his ego loose, never wanted to be known for his own art.
The Mastermind took the forger to the Mona Lisa, said, "Can you copy this?" The forger thought about it, realized the difficulties, finally, challenged, said, "Yes, I can make you a copy."
To which the Mastermind replied: "No good. I need six."
So the forger got to work. Great stuff in the book about just how he had to do it--the Mona Lisa is not painted on canvas but wood, so he had to find wood from the time of the painting, centuries before.
(Aside to screenwriters--George Roy Hill once told me this: "Audiences love 'how-to.' " When I asked what he meant, he explained that if you were going to, say, crack a safe, audiences would be interested in the problems involved in really doing it. I believe Hill was right. End of aside.)
Now, while this is being done, the Mastermind comes to America and meets with six rich, greedy Americans. He makes his pitch, without ever telling what he's selling. They'll find out in the papers.
So when the theft happened, and became worldwide news, his six believed.
The theft itself was almost comic. The Louvre was closed on Mondays, so if you could hide inside Sunday night, you could be alone in the place the next day with only other workers and guards. And workers in those days were constantly removing paintings from the walls, under orders to take them to be photographed, cleaned, etc.
The thief knew a place to hide. A tiny closet where art students were allowed to leave their paints over the quiet Monday so they wouldn't have to lug their stuff around.
The thief spends the night, early Monday he takes a tunic that Louvre workers wear, goes out into the museum. As he gets to the gallery where the painting is, things empty out, so he takes it down, throws a cloth over it, and goes walking along, passing all kinds of other workers in similar tunics also carrying paintings with cloths over them.
He gets to a dark staircase, removes the painting itself from the box that enclosed it--which, remember, he helped make--tucks it under his tunic. So now it's a quick to-the-door-and-out kind of deal.
Problem, the key he has made for the door won't work. In desperation, he takes off the doorknob, sticks it in his pocket--
Which is when another guy who works there comes along.
The thief snarls to this guy. "Some idiot stole the doorknob. How am I expected to get out of here?" To which t
he other worker says in essence, hey no problem, I'll let you out.
Almost free now.
Oops. The heavy outside door is open--but a uniformed guard is there.
Fug!
Another incredible event--the porter has not shown up for work that day so the guard is cleaning the entranceway--
And it is at that exact moment he decides he needs some clean water, goes off in search of some. That's when the thief leaves the Louvre with the painting.
Now the thief hides the masterpiece in a crummy trunk in a crummy apartment and has nothing more to do than this: wait for the Mastermind to come and pay him.
Which doesn't happen--because the Mastermind doesn't need the Louvre Mona Lisa. He could care less about the Louvre's Mona Lisa--he's got six of his own.
He sails to America, sells his paintings to six greedy Americans and is safe--because the minute they talk, they become accomplices.
Rich and contented, having pulled off the greatest scam in history, the Mastermind retires and lives a glorious life.
Not as rich but very well off, the forger also retires, except for occasional special jobs.
And the thief? Read for yourself in Reit's book.
Did I hook you? Did you put this book down in the middle of reading that story? I wouldn't have been able to.
Why didn't I write the Mona Lisa story?
The truth is, I don't remember. It sure seemed a natural as I told you the story. Maybe whoever owned it was somebody I wasn't sure of. Maybe I came across it myself and it was during my leper period, when I was writing only books.
I think the reason is that storytellers change. The kind of narrative that moves us shifts and alters. I don't know that I would do Maverick today. I'm six years older, six additional years of movie experience--would I now want to spend half a year on a western caper that comes from an ancient TV series? Maybe. Maybe if Dick Donner were involved, as he was, or if Mel Gibson were involved. But my guess is not. I would certainly do Misery, though. Never could resist the lopping scene.
Story Four: The Dolphin
* * *
Every so often I come across a piece of material that just rocks me. The story I am calling The Dolphin was one of those. I was having coffee by myself three years ago, I'd finished the sports section of The New York Times--I do that out of some awful sense of masochism; any sports fan from New York will understand--and I turned to the front page, saw this in the corner. In a few minutes, I was flooded with tears.