I routinely ask aspiring screenwriters and filmmakers, “What films or TV shows did you watch over the past week?” The answer I’m often getting lately, which irks me to no end, is:

“Nothing.”

Let me be blunt: if this is you, there is no future for you in this craft.

I get it. In my student days, movies were scarce, and it was exciting to see something new or have the opportunity to rewatch a favorite. Now, the selection is so overwhelming that people experience choice paralysis.

Some people solve this by making a list of films to watch and steadily working through it; many use Letterboxd.

Consider doing the same for movies, screenplays, and books.

If you want to write, you need to read. If you want to make screen drama, you need to have a broad range of film and TV references.

So, what have you watched recently, and what did you learn from it?

Karel Segers: I’m here with Michael Sweeney. Michael is a union story analyst, and he’s read scripts for some of the most successful TV shows of recent years. Welcome, Michael. Could you introduce yourself and share a bit about your background?

Michael Sweeney: I’m from New Jersey, USA, and moved to Los Angeles to pursue screenwriting. Since graduating, I’ve worked with several production companies, including Netflix and 101 Studios, the team behind Yellowstone. Meanwhile, I’ve also launched my own website to help clients with their scripts, making them festival-ready, and I still do freelance work for other companies. So, busy, busy.

The Union Script Reader

Karel Segers: You call yourself a Union Analyst. What does that mean?

Michael Sweeney: The Screen Editors Guild created a category for story analysts, offering union protection similar to other groups. It’s odd that it’s not under the writing category, but since we’re technically editing and suggesting in the stories, we have our own classification. In other words, this ensures fair pay and work conditions for script readers, a niche part of the industry. It’s nice for them to know their jobs and work are protected by their own representatives.

Karel Segers: Tell us about your work as a script reader. How did you start out in this field?

Michael Sweeney: It’s all about who you know. After school, I stayed connected with a creative executive, kept pushing for work, and built relationships by constantly asking for meetings and opportunities. You just keep grilling, keep on asking people. You want to set up a meeting, go have lunch, have a chat. 

Remote Work in Hollywood

Karel Segers: Are you still working in physical offices, or has that changed since the pandemic?

Michael Sweeney: I mostly work remotely now. During my time with one company, they offered a main lobby space, but most people, including myself, chose to work from home. While remote work is convenient, it does make networking harder, requiring more effort to stay connected with industry contacts. One benefit of script reading is that it can be done remotely, so I stuck to working from home.

Karel Segers: Now, obviously, that is a different setup from previously. While it’s more convenient, wouldn’t you say it’s harder to make the connections that help you further in the industry?

Michael Sweeney: It is definitely a downside you have to work through. You have to be the driving force, constantly emailing, texting, and messaging on LinkedIn. You have to push almost double time under these conditions. Despite being shut in and feeling like a hermit, the need to connect and be collaborative compels you to reach out. 

Karel Segers: Yet, the work of the scrip reader remains the same: reading scripts and providing feedback. How does this process typically work, and how do scripts reach producers?

Michael Sweeney: It varies by company. Many have a no-solicitation policy, so scripts usually come from agents or managers. If a script stands out, I might look up the writer on LinkedIn to explore connections. It’s about who you know and using any connection to sell a script. If you know someone and have a script that fits the company’s niche, use that connection. Sometimes you find scripts from unrepresented writers that end up being great.

Karel Segers: How many scripts do you read, and how do you provide feedback?

Michael Sweeney: With Netflix, a script reader is paid by the hour, so you can take your time to be detailed. Other companies pay per script, so there’s an incentive to be quicker. I read 8–12 scripts a month, and feedback usually includes a synopsis and comments. Some companies prefer you to tailor your feedback, offering ways to improve the script rather than just passing or recommending it. So, the feedback format can vary by company, but it usually involves a dialogue with the assistant or person who submitted the script.

Karel Segers: Have you noticed changes in script quality over the years?

Michael Sweeney: There’s always a mix of good and bad scripts. However, I’ve found more scripts that resonate emotionally in recent years. One memorable script, Come Away, a dark story about grief, really moved me. Despite the constant flow of bad scripts, the emotionally impactful ones stand out more now. I’ll never forget the first script that really moved me. Over the last few years, I’ve read scripts that genuinely moved me, even made me shed a tear. It’s powerful when that happens, and I think there are more emotionally resonant scripts now.

Advice for Aspiring Screenwriters

Karel Segers: In terms of specific craft aspects, what are the things that jump out where you think, “If only writers would do this, it would be such an easy fix”?

Michael Sweeney: If only writers would pace themselves better. One of the biggest issues I see is poor pacing. Writers often over-embellish the action or clump all the character development into moments of calm, because they don’t know how to integrate character into action. A character’s choices should define them more than their words. Even in a high-speed car chase, a character’s decision can reveal much more than a lengthy monologue around a campfire.

Another thing is knowing your characters well. There’s that image of an iceberg, with more beneath the surface than above. As a writer, you need to know the entire iceberg, even though the audience only sees the tip. If you have a main character with three friends, ensure each friend has a distinct perspective. If their dialogue is interchangeable, consider cutting them. Every character should be essential and someone an actor would want to play, even in a small role.

When you write, ask yourself, “What would I lose without it?” If you can’t answer, then you need to develop it more or cut it. This applies to characters, locations, and any other elements. These are just some of the common issues I’ve seen in scripts this week alone.

Karel Segers: Have you seen anything good on the screen lately that you wish you had written?

Michael Sweeney: I haven’t seen much lately. I’ve been busy, which is fortunate. I’m currently watching the Star Wars animated show, The Bad Batch. The simplicity of how they make those shows is engaging. It might not win awards for writing, but it’s emotionally driven. All the animated Star Wars shows have been some of the best content they have. Despite rough animation in The Clone Wars, the storytelling is strong. I’m also anticipating Cobra Kai and Doctor Who returning. I’ve shifted from watching films to TV shows. I used to go to the movies frequently, but now, being busy, I don’t have the time. The main movie-going demographic is 16 to 26-year-olds…

Karel Segers: Michael, what screenwriting software do you use?

Michael Sweeney: I’ve used Final Draft since film school. It’s been reliable.

Karel Segers: We’ll talk about something else soon that might change the script format dramatically. Do you mind scene numbers or not?

Michael Sweeney: As a reader, my main concern is how easy the script is to read. I feel strongly about fonts; a script not in Courier New can be a headache. Scene numbers help reference specific scenes and make the script look more professional. But if a script doesn’t have scene numbers, I just use page numbers.

Karel Segers: How do you manage the analytical versus creative brain? I know more than one script reader who often struggles with this.

Michael Sweeney: I don’t have trouble switching between them. When reading someone else’s script, being analytical is like a day job. When writing my own script, I abandon the rules. Once the script is written, I use my analytical skills to revise. With clients, I warn them of pitfalls but don’t say anything is set in stone. I suggest improvements while understanding the audience’s expectations. That’s how I bridge the gap between analytical and creative.

Taylor Sheridan Script Reader: A Unique Experience

Karel Segers: I’m jumping back now to your job as a reader. You have to keep your objectivity. I know you’ve worked for 101 Studios and got to read Taylor Sheridan’s work. You’ve said you’re not particularly the type of audience who would tune into his work because it’s tailored towards older people. How do you handle that? Do you remember what you said after reading those scripts? Which scripts did you read?

Michael Sweeney: I had the opportunity to read all 10 scripts of Mayor of Kingstown before it was released. I knew the whole story of season one before it came out. It was fun seeing the trailers and knowing the twists. Taylor Sheridan didn’t want intense comments because he knows what he’s doing. My notes were more like, “I lost this character here,” or “I am confused because of the back-and-forth cuts.” It was about giving the production team a sense of the story without heavy critique because Sheridan’s experience speaks for itself. Prolific writers can afford to have things that don’t make sense until later episodes. But if a new writer did the same, I might not be as generous.

Karel Segers: I realized after you told me about Mayor of Kingstown that the project was initially knocked back. It wasn’t until Sheridan made a name for himself that he could produce it. So, how does it feel to read material you know will go into production? That’s different, right?

Michael Sweeney: It definitely is. Knowing a project is green-lit changes your perspective. You think about the production’s validity, the sets needed, and you envision it coming to life. This privilege comes with being established. If I know certain actors are attached, I start reading with their voices and inflections in mind. This can shift the way I view the script. It can be unfair because a decent script might get discarded if it doesn’t hook the reader quickly. Reading for production companies can be demoralizing since many scripts get rejected, whereas working with clients can be more fulfilling.

Karel Segers: So, regarding Mayor of Kingstown, you didn’t know which actors were going to play the roles?

Michael Sweeney: Not initially. By the end, I heard Jeremy Renner was in talks to play the main role, and I thought it was perfect. Knowing the actors can enhance the reading experience, but for Mayor of Kingstown, it was about the writing and the twists.

Karel Segers: If this had been a rookie screenwriter, what would have been your script reader advice regarding the twist?

Michael Sweeney: The twist would need to pack an emotional punch, not just surprise. It has to move me in my gut. For instance, Hitchcock’s Psycho made viewers assume the story was about one character, only to shift unexpectedly. If done well, a twist like this can be compelling. For a rookie, the twist should hook the reader and make them want to see what happens next. Even if it’s a pilot, it needs to end in a way that compels the audience to return.

Karel Segers: What’s the best script you’ve ever read in terms of craft?

Michael Sweeney: That’s tough. I have two in mind. One is Michael Arndt’s Little Miss Sunshine. It’s a fantastic screenplay that translated well to film. Another is The Avengers script. I was surprised by how seamless and flowing the dialogue was, and how visually impactful the action lines were without being overly descriptive. Both scripts are completely different but stand out in terms of craft.

Karel Segers: What’s the biggest unproduced project you’ve ever read? Was that Mayor of Kingstown? Or was it something else?

Michael Sweeney: Well, unproduced or produced?

Karel Segers: When you read it, it was still unproduced. It may have been produced afterward.

Michael Sweeney: Right. Mayor of Kingstown is a big one. I also read a Sorkin script, The Trial of the Chicago 7, before it was produced. It was very long, even for Sorkin. I wondered if it could work as a film or maybe a TV series. Netflix picked it up, and when I watched it, I saw it was a self-contained story. This was early in my time at 101 Studios, and I was still learning. It was interesting to see how my perception changed and to realize, oh no, they were right all along. Aaron Sorkin knows what he’s doing.

The Future of Screenwriting: AI and Digital Platforms

Karel Segers: Absolutely. Now, the big questions. As a script reader, how do you see the future of screenwriting in the context of developments like AI and creativity?

Michael Sweeney: Thanks to the writers’ strike, there will always be pushback against AI. I experimented with feeding my ideas into AI and found the responses uninspired. AI can’t replicate the human voice. I’m wary of it but understand it will become a tool for writers. It’s essential to fight to ensure it stays a tool and not an employee. Beyond technology, there are many ways to break into screenwriting now, like podcasts, YouTube channels, and self-produced shorts. These platforms can bypass traditional Hollywood routes and later attract interest from big studios. For example, Critical Role, a Dungeons and Dragons YouTube channel, became a top-rated animated series on Amazon Prime. Thinking outside the box and leveraging digital platforms can strengthen you as a writer and lead to opportunities.

Karel Segers: Is the rise of streaming services changing the way we tell screen stories?

Michael Sweeney: Yes, for a few reasons. Technically, many pilots don’t have act breaks anymore because streaming doesn’t require them. This allows stories to flow without interruption. Streaming services also offer more inclusivity and variety. Each network used to have a specific style, like the glossy look of ABC shows or the sitcom style of CBS. Streaming provides so many options that it allows for more versatility and caters to various niches. This means different kinds of shows can coexist and thrive on the same platform, offering more content for viewers to enjoy.

Karel Segers: Almost at the end of this, Michael. What are you working on right now? Do you want to share that with us?

Michael Sweeney: I’d love to. I’m working on an hour-long adventure mystery pilot called OURS. The title stands for the Omnipresent Underground Repatriation Society, a secret group that stealthily returns artifacts to their rightful places. It’s inspired by the problematic elements in adventure films, like Indiana Jones, where cultural artifacts are taken and stored in museums. The story follows Annie Anderson, a security guard devoted to a billionaire named Ava Bowman, who personifies imperialism. Annie discovers the darker side of Ava and gets drawn into the society’s mission. Essentially, the show’s core theme is reclamation, both of cultural artifacts and personal identity.

Karel Segers: Who would you want to star in it, and where would it premiere?

Michael Sweeney: Dream casting for Ava would be Meryl Streep. For Annie, I’d prefer an unknown actress to give the character a fresh face. For Abigail Flynn, I’d love Tessa Thompson. As for the premiere, the Chinese Theatre would be amazing.

Karel Segers: Fingers crossed for you, Michael, and thanks so much for your time. 

Michael Sweeney: Absolutely. I appreciate it. If anyone’s interested in my script reader coverage services, the link is in the description. You can find me on Instagram @msweeney_scriptcoverage and the website is in the description as well.

Karel Segers: Thank you, Michael. I look forward to catching up again in the future.

Michael Sweeney: Thanks so much, Karel. All the best.

Karel Segers: Cheers.

But the same books invariably call for a thematic sentence, then move on as quickly as possible to a new topic. Why?

Because catchphrases have no relationship to structure. They are isolated from the rest of the writing process.

Consider SICARIO. A screenwriting book might quote Alejandro and declare its theme to be:

There is no war on drugs, only war.

This is meaningless. Not (just) because it’s detached from the point of view of any character, but because it has nothing to do with structure. Not yet…

Beyond the sentence

A story takes place from a character’s point of view. From that unique perspective, a story is a battle between two belief systems. Two ways of seeing the world. Two ways of living.

In 3-act structure, a character’s arc is a transformation from one belief system to another. In a tragedy, the hero fails to make the jump.

The argument for one value system is encoded in any thematic sentence. The opposing belief system needs its own representation. This is sometimes called anti-theme.

Anti-theme

Anti-theme is the character’s belief system when we meet them in the Ordinary World. It’s the way of being that has kept them alive until now. We, the audience, have to believe the anti-theme with our hero. We have to want it for them.

But, as Meg LeFauve points out in The Screenwriting Life, the belief system that keeps the hero alive in Act 1 will kill them in Act 3.

Craig Mazin sums it up in Scriptnotes 403:

The purpose of a story is to take a character from

[anti-theme] to the embodiment of the theme through action.

In SICARIO, the two opposing belief systems are:

A. Follow the rules

B. Fight fire with fire

System A is a kind of deontological approach to life. Do the right thing for its own sake. System B is for the consequentialists. The outcome is what matters. And there’s only one way to catch the true criminals.

This is the impossible choice confronting Kate Macy. This is the source of meaning. The story is an elaborate and balanced ‘trolley problem’.

From sentences to structure

This takes us from a single thematic sentence to a quantum pair of opposing beliefs from the character’s point of view.

How do we get from here to a 3-act structure? There’s one more crucial step. It’s the difference between a catchphrase and a belief system:

A value system is a way of living that has both benefits and costs.

For a story to be meaningful, the two opposing ways of seeing the world must be true. That means each one has a cost, and each one has a benefit.

Back to SICARIO.

Macy can follow the rules (A) or fight fire with fire (B). The diagonal elements in the table are opposites. The benefit of A is the cost of B. The cost of A is the benefit of B.

This how trade-offs work. If Macy follows the rules – does the ‘right thing’ for its own sake – she can maintain her humanity, but she’ll lose the fight.

If Macy stoops to the level of the criminals, she can catch the people responsible for killing her colleague, but she has to sacrifice her humanity.

This is what makes the decision compelling. This is what makes the story meaningful.

And this table is the thematic system that maps onto a 3-act structure.

Thematic structure

Here’s the punchline. The key ingredient for a meaningful story is this:

At the low-point, the character must experience the cost of both value systems.

This is the only way for the hero to make an enlightened choice in favour of one belief system or the other in Act 3.

If the story is missing any of the four quadrants of the thematic table, it will be naïve at best – propaganda at worst.

The most impactful stories don’t just include the cost of the ‘theme’ and the benefit of the ‘anti-theme’. They drive straight at them like a heat-seeking missile. This uncovers the deepest truth that the story has to offer.

Back to the sentence

So what of the thematic sentence?

With thematic structure in place, a post hoc catchphrase can now be delivered in dialogue. It can be presented from the point of view of the hero, a mentor, an antagonist, society at large, or something more abstract.

The precise wording of any such catchphrase is an issue of tone, not structure. This is the writer’s framing of the winning value system.

In the circumstances of this particular world, in this particular story, one belief system is more courageous. More generous. More aspirational.

In SICARIO, Macy chooses her humanity, but loses the fight. In the script, Alejandro delivers the punchline in voiceover from 30,000 feet:

There is no war on drugs, only war.

Other examples

THEMATIC STRUCTURE IN WHIPLASH

Andrew Neiman wants to become one of the greatest jazz drummers of all time. Charlie Parker became Bird. Andrew wants to stand on his shoulders.

The two value systems that Andrew must choose between are sacrifice and balance. They’re opposites, in direct conflict with one another.

The particular labels are interchangeable. Sacrifice could be replaced with dedication or obsession. Balance could be replaced with moderation or perspective. The thematic dichotomy – the truth of the zero-sum trade-off – is what matters.

For any possibility of achieving transcendent greatness, you must give everything – and more. That’s clear. The cost is also obvious. It’s everything else.

The alternative mode of being is to live with balance. In moderation. But there’s a cost to that too. A jack of all trades is a master of none. When Andrew isn’t practising, someone else is.

After the second act break, Andrew asks his mentor Fletcher if System A can be taken too far. Can you discourage the next Charlie Parker from becoming Charlie Parker?

Fletcher’s response is no. Because the next Charlie Parker would never be discouraged.

WHIPLASH reveals the difference between thematic structure and tone. These are independent variables.

In traditional screenwriting terminology, one might describe Andrew’s want in terms of drumming success, and his need in terms of his relationship with his father and girlfriend.

In a technical sense, the story is a tragedy because Andrew doesn’t make the jump across to System B.

But there is still one more layer to be added – tone. At the climax, in this tragedy, Chazelle has us, the audience, rooting for Andrew to get back on stage and become Bird.

THEMATIC STRUCTURE IN FINDING NEMO

This is the canonical example of thematic structure.

Marlin loves Nemo. He lost his wife and all other children to a barracuda. Now he’s terrified of Nemo getting hurt in the dangerous ocean. He wants to protect him from all harm.

The two value systems in play are protection and letting go.

Why does the story work so well? Where does the impact (meaning) come from? The fact that the thematic contest is balanced and therefore true.

If Marlin loves Nemo, he should want to protect him from all harm. Nemo getting hurt is the worst thing that could possibly happen. Except, as Dory points out, you can’t never let anything happen to him. Then nothing would ever happen to him.

Despite everything that’s happened, the more courageous, more enlightened, more aspirational choice for Marlin is to let Nemo go.

Coda: want and need

Note finally that this story architecture supersedes the concept of want and need.

In a standard single-protagonist 3-act structure, the hero arcs from ‘want’ to ‘need’.

These terms are no longer required. They are replaced by something that is embedded in the structure: value systems. Want corresponds to one column of the thematic table. Need corresponds to the other column.

End of story.

Pacing is critical. Rush through the story, and viewers struggle to understand what is going on. Slow down too much, and they get bored. How do you manage the pacing and rhythm of a story? Can you fix it in post?

Let’s go back a few decades.

If you know me today, you’ll hardly believe that for a short time, I was the face of MTV’s pan-European movie show The Big Picture. It was the nineties. MTV was still a teen and hyper hip. I was neither, which may explain why I didn’t last.

The brand had marked its territory worldwide with a fast-paced editing style, a trademark that would affect all audio-visual media, from TV interstitials and commercials to music and corporate videos.

TV series and feature films fell for the new fashion, too, but the editing style didn’t fix malfunctioning or slow-paced stories. Many movies in the MTV spirit bombed terribly. Some that spring to mind are Tank Girl, and later Scott Pilgrim.

ONE FLEW TOO FAST

In one of the earliest articles on this blog, I shared what I learned about story pacing from Milos Forman. In his director’s commentary on One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest, he recounts how he struggled to maintain its duration.

“I cut it down television style, under two hours. And you know what was funny? It felt much longer.”

The reason fast cutting doesn’t necessarily speed up a longish film? Because what really matters is not the number of cuts per minute, but the amount of story beats per unit of time.

But even if the smaller segments work individually, it doesn’t guarantee that the overall story will.

What really matters is not the number of cuts per minute, but the amount of story beats per unit of time.

SPEED HUMPS

Early in the new millennium, Richard E. Grant wrote and directed a film based on his childhood, called Wah-Wah. It’s an epic, 3-hour journey full of nostalgia, domestic drama and breathtaking vistas. Except that it’s not really three hours long. The 85-minutes I watched only felt like that.

Wah-Wah is made up of a chain of vignettes, told in episodic fashion. And there you have the reason for its slow pacing. If a film has more than one story, you need to restart the telling after each ‘episode’, much like TV.

In TV, great episodes have cliffhangers, but Wah-Wah has none. And re-booting the story or starting a new one after each vignette requires significant intellectual effort. If this isn’t coupled with high emotional tension, audiences lose interest.

Episodic storytelling works fine on a higher level. TV series form episodic chains, and movie franchises may release an episode every year or so. But within one sitting, we usually prefer a strong sense of unity. A single, focused dramatic story. And I felt this was missing in Wah-Wah.

PACING BROKEN? CONSIDER THIS

A faster edit wouldn’t fix Richard E. Grant’s problem. A narrative technique that sometimes adds to pacing and tension is the ticking clock. “But Wah-Wah was a drama,” I hear you say, “and deadlines are for thrillers and action flicks”. You know what? Deadlines are everywhere.

1. Deadlines

One of my favourite indies is Courtney Hunt’s Sundance winner and Academy Award nominee Frozen River. The film stars Melissa Leo as a mother who needs to pay for a new trailer home before Christmas, or the family will be homeless. This ticking clock kicks in right in the first scene. Similarly, in Jennifer Lawrence’s feature debut Winter’s Bone, written and directed by Debra Granik, the character of Ree must find her father by a deadline, or else…

These are low-budget indies, and both rely on more than one ticking clock to assist the pacing.

Deadlines are everywhere.

More sophisticated methods require an insight in your story’s architecture. If you understand fractal structure, you will know that acts work on every level. Just like the big picture of your story, scenes and sequences often behave like acts, too.

But how to use this to your benefit?

2. One-Two, One-Two

Don’t give your audience a 3rd-act resolution for each scene or sequence.

Once the problem is resolved, they will relax, and it will create that episodic Wah-Wah feel. As a result, you’ll have to work extra hard to pump the momentum up again.

Instead, abort that mini-story. I call it the One-Two, One-Two approach. Give us a first and second act; then abort by cutting in with your inciting incident for the next scene or sequence.

In the video that goes with this article, I illustrate this method with the Toy Story 2 sequence where Woody rescues Wheezy. It’s an unfinished mini-story, as it is aborted before Woody succeeds.

MORE PACING FIXES

While we’re on the topic of fractal structure: your higher-level units (Sequences, Acts) won’t work if the constituent parts don’t work. So for your act to flow, your scenes and sequences need to have a good pace, too. You can diagnose and fix this by looking at the structure of those smaller units first.

3. Scene/Sequence Structure

Many consider Aaron Sorkin for a master dialogue writer. Really? It often takes an A-lister to pull it off believably. I think Sorkin is first and foremost a master of structure. His greatest scenes play for 3-5 mins while keeping their tension. Not because of his clever words, but rather his smart structure.

Proper dramatic structure is probably more a foundational skill than a quick fix for pacing. Fortunately, a few simpler methods exist that you can apply immediately. Most of them are based on common sense, like ‘in late, out early’.

Sorkin is first and foremost a master of structure.

4. In late, out early

While a fast edit won’t fix your fundamental story issues, a lean trim will still pay dividends. You’ll aim to retain only what is essential, i.e. whatever generates an emotional response.

One simple surgical procedure would be to remove all ‘meet and greets’. People stick to social protocols in the real world, but your story will die by them. Cut it out, unless you use them to dramatic purpose.

Cutting scene openers is part of the broader rule of ‘in late, out early’: keep scenes as short as you can. Apart from a few tentpole moments that may run two, three to five minutes, you will typically keep the average duration of your scenes under two minutes, and under a minute for television. This will assist with the overall pacing.

When you research your preferred genres, you’ll find that the averages differ for each.

After looking at the scenes as a whole, you will need to scrutinise the dialogue. In an early draft, characters may take as much time as real-world people to get their point across. But screen drama doesn’t work like that. You’ll need to compress and stylise.

5. Shortened segments

When teaching face-to-face classes, I used a trick to make the day go faster. The first session would run for a full 2 hours, and each subsequent session would shorten by 15 minutes, until a final 60-minute session.

The course was hugely successful, and I’m sure the trick contributed to the students’ experience.

Years later, I found that the pilot for the TV show Braindead did a similar same trick. Check this out!

The pilot teaser (normally around 1- 3 minutes) runs for a whopping 22 pages. Act 1 starts on page 23, and runs for 20 pages. Subsequent acts are 11, 7 and 6 pages respectively.

The pilot sold, and a first season was ordered (but sadly not renewed).

Do you know of any other techniques and tricks to manage the rhythm and pacing of a screen story? Let us know in the comments. Which movies and shows don’t work for you because of their pacing, and which ones rock?

-Karel Segers

Given that “Yellowstone” is technically in competition with the enduringly popular “Sunday Night Football” telecast, the fact that the show pulls in more than 7 million viewers in Nielsen’s time-adjusted Live + Same Day ratings — perhaps even appealing to many of the same viewers — is a tremendous feat.

This confirms the key points in Part 1 of this article. I noted that Sheridan is immensely prolific, his work is increasingly popular, and his scripts maintain a high professional standard.

Let’s now look at his power, politics and – potential – progress. With an ever-expanding universe of serial drama, Sheridan has established himself as one of the most powerful screenwriters in the States. Should he put this to good use, he may be in a unique position to help change the politics of a troubled people, and contribute to some badly needed progress.

POWER – Yellowstone going all Lord Of The Rings

In the late nineties, Peter Jackson signed his $180m LOTR deal with New Line. He leveraged part of it to build a massive film infrastructure hub in his hometown of Wellington. In this way, he didn’t just achieve economy of scale; he also escaped the prying eyes of Hollywood.

Now, Taylor Sheridan is taking a leaf out of Jackson’s book. Only, where Jackson bought buildings and SFX machines, Sheridan now owns almost every horse on the screen.

WARNING: spoilers for 1883 and Yellowstone.

Soon after moving back to his native Texas, Sheridan clinched a $150m+ deal with Paramount. Next, with a group of investors, he bought the legendary “6666” ranch. Why would a filmmaker buy a horse and cattle ranch covering an area twice the size of Chicago, at a cost of around $350m? Perhaps because he’s obsessed with horses, and now his toys are tax-deductible…

Or perhaps, 6666 will become Sheridan’s studio lot. Right now, it already serves up western-style EXT-DAY shots, but I could see soundstages added to the mix as Jackson did with Stone Street Studios. And who says 6666 can’t also become a creative hotspot modelled after Jackson’s Park Road Post (or even Lucas’ Skywalker Ranch)? Texas has enough local talent to benefit from such facilities.

In this scenario, Sheridan would become a big player, and consolidate his influence not only as a creative but also as a business mogul. The next question is what he wants to do with all that power.

POLITICS – Making America United Again.

The heroism in 1883 may conjure the image of a red hot banner reading Make America Great Again. But Sheridan was no fan of #45. Instead, he shows us the positive human values at stake then. His perspective is nobler than the unbridled capitalism, opportunism and antagonism that is the brand of modern Republicans.

If it sounds romantic, it is not naive. Character actions in the Yellowstone universe are earned. You make a mistake and you do penance, before carrying on more wisely. In season 4, Beth and Rip reject Carter before ultimately taking him in; Lloyd attacks Walker, but not without reconciling. The Texans in 1883 first antagonise the immigrants, but then make the compassionate choice to help them out.

And while John Dutton in an early Yellowstone episode says “This is America, we don’t share land here”, I suspect that his mindset won’t survive the show. Second chances, compassion for the underdog, compromise and reconciliation are big themes here.

Sheridan doesn’t want to tell you how to think, but his stories are crystal clear about where he stands. He shows us people, a world, and a way of living that many can relate to, regardless of who you vote for. In this universe, the central characters (Kayce in Yellowstone, Mike in Mayor Of Kingstown, Brennan and The Duttons in 1883) model dignified and moral actions, offering an alternative to the cynicism and hatred in many of the critically acclaimed shows full of rich a-holes.

Just don’t harm the family – or you’re off to the train station.

In the words of fellow Texan Mathew McConaughey, Sheridan is an aggressive centrist. His concern for the flyover states was just as clear in his first film Hell Or High Water, as it is today in 1883, Yellowstone or Mayor Of Kingstown. He’ll make sure his stories are palatable for the audience they’re about, and not just to the intellectual elite. This differentiates his work from the likes of e.g. David Simon.

Similar to his central characters, Sheridan tries to build bridges instead of burning them.

PROGRESS – Making a difference

And you know what? It’s about time we try this route. Audiences are sick and tired of being lectured to. I love watching Clooney’s work, but what has it achieved? Same for Sorkin: watched by the privileged, worshipped by intellectuals. When has Sorkin ever portrayed ordinary people? Never. Because he doesn’t understand them. And while I enjoyed Don’t Look Up as a piece of entertainment, we all know the amount of change it will bring: exactly nothing.

All these Hollywood hotshots preach to the choir, and along the way blame ordinary folk for their voting choices. It’s interesting that the critics are happy to criticise Don’t Look Up, while at the same time ignoring the alternative right before their eyes.

Sheridan believes he’s being overlooked by the awards and critics because he breaks storytelling rules. I doubt this explains it (although he does break rules – successfully). The real reason: his writing is not fashionable. It lacks the sophistication, the clever and the cool of the Successions of this world. Sheridan has opted for melodrama and heart. Try finding that in the world of Logan Roy.

Of course, another explanation for the snubs may be Sheridan’s decision to physically distance himself from the screen production hubs. Perhaps people rather vote for faces they see in the corridors and the street, and for those hanging at the same parties. Of course, it doesn’t matter anyway, because these little statuettes are all about perception. Audiences don’t care for awards or critics. They’ll decide for themselves what’s on the screen next season.

And rather than holding him back, his Texas outpost may well become Sheridan’s superpower.

2022 And On – The Next Decade

With names such as Clark Johnson (The Wire, now also Mayor of Kingstown), Terence Winter (Boardwalk Empire, now Kansas City) and Tom Hanks leaking into the Sheridan universe, my guess is that the detractor pundits will soon capitulate.

With more shows added to his line-up, and A-listers to his pantheon, Taylor Sheridan’s name will only become more ubiquitous. And once the Paramount deal runs out, expect to see his work and name everywhere.

I wanted to explore if Sheridan is the most important and influential screenwriter today. Admittedly, he may not be there quite yet, but in terms of output and popularity, he has no match. And as his first decade as a writer is coming to an end, his productivity is only just getting to cruise speed. And the Thoroughbred Sheridan seems to be, there is a lot of mileage left.

Today, Taylor Sheridan is the most important screenwriter alive. What other writer is in equal measure popular, prolific, powerful, professional and political? I know none. Particularly that last element usually kills all the other qualities. Let’s look at the detail.

1. POPULARITY – Taylor Sheridan is crazy popular.

   Taylor Sheridan has connected with an ever-widening audience. Sicario’s box office nearly tripled its $30m budget, Hell Or High Water did even better, and Wind River quadrupled it. Then, Yellowstone hit it really big, with nearly fifteen million Americans tuning in for its Season 4 premiere. It beat NFL and any other season premiere of the past 4 years. 1883, the latest offering at the time of writing, last week broke all records for cable premieres since 2015.

   Sheridan’s stories appeal to broad demographics, from the farmer to the white-collar worker, from the high school student to the single mother. In the US, he’s found a big audience in the flyover states – which are finally seen on screen – and with city dwellers dreaming of a Yellowstone lifestyle.

   The stories are simple, and the emotions are big. The writing is lean and full of melodrama. Yellowstone is not just another dysfunctional family soap; it is rich in theme, brimming with metaphors, and delivered in a sweeping visual style. Easy viewing.

2. PROLIFICNESS – Yes, that’s a word. I looked it up.

   Taylor Sheridan is insanely prolific. Last Sunday, fans in the US saw no less than 4 fresh TV hours drop from his hand. He has 3 shows running concurrently: Yellowstone, The Mayor of Kingstown and 1883. Every single episode of these has Sheridan credited as the sole writer. This is unheard of.

   To achieve this, Sheridan says he didn’t sleep for 7 months in the lead-up to the premiere screening of 1883. No wonder.

   Over the past 4 years, Sheridan has single-handedly written more than 50 hours of serial material. Before that, he garnered sole credit on four produced features, while his shared credits – Without Remorse and Those Who Wish Me Dead – enjoyed somewhat less critical acclaim. Let him ride alone…

1. PROFESSIONALISM – Taylor Sheridan’s scripts show a high standard.

Sheridan’s scripts shine in clarity and concision, as apparent from his superb 2012 Blacklist topper Hell Or High Water. Today, he no longer needs to impress, and nobody will mind if he breaks a rule or two. Yet, unlike some other established writers, his scripts still offer solid models for anyone trying to break in. Even if they’re only first drafts, as Sheridan has claimed.

Taylor Sheridan was never formally trained, and so he tries to avoid the mistakes in all the bad scripts he read as an actor. He starts his stories with absurdly simple plots, and he is allergic to exposition. Both are pretty good principles if you want to write for a broad audience.

Under Paramount’s phenomenal time pressure, the quality of the writing may have suffered. Still, the material is pretty strong, given that Sheridan is not relying on a 5-10-strong writers room like about every top-rated show. So, instead of comparing Yellowstone to Breaking Bad (although both pilots have more than a few similarities in their opening shots), perhaps compare it to El Camino.

His material is close to his heart, his stories are simple, raw and direct, and his direction shows minimal cinematic frills. And so is his writing: economical and straightforward. While the material has a masculine bias – he is a cowboy after all – he has created admirable female characters over the years.

About his ability to create compelling scenes, ScriptShadow wrote: “Scripts live or die on their scenes. So if you can come up with an operating procedure that ensures all your scenes are entertaining, you’re set. And Sheridan seems to have figured that mystery out.“

And before anyone points it out, I know. He doesn’t outline.

Next week on Taylor Sheridan: 4) POWER and 5) POLITICS

Some will say that rules are essential, because without them there is only anarchy. But are there really any hard rules in screenwriting? And if there are, who sets them?

And what is wrong about anarchy?

Anarchy Ruled

Screenwriting format grew out of the need for a standardised notation when film production became a repeatable process. It was never codified by law, so you won’t go to prison for writing in Comic Sans – even if we all agree you deserve to.

We’re all free to write what we want, and how we want. Thank god! But conventions started to emerge as people voluntarily copied what worked. All those conventions together, you may call a screenwriting standard, and this standard – or code – is observed in order to achieve the best results.

The standard is never prescriptive, but descriptive. It is a set of observations rather than a rule book. Even The Screenwriter’s Bible is only a record of David Trottier’s observations from studying successful scripts; it’s not Trottier’s Law.

Penalties apply

Even if there are strictly no rules, breaking the code will lead to penalties. Those who read scripts are seeking a particular experience. If your writing format or style stands in the way of this experience, you will suffer a penalty.

At film school, if you don’t abide by the rules, you will lose marks – even if your story is Oscar material.

Picasso said: “Learn the rules like a pro, so you can break them like an artist.”

Robert McKee differentiates between rules and principles: rules say “Do this!”, and principles tell you “This works.” If it doesn’t work, your script will be rejected, or you won’t be hired. For most writers this threat suffices to stick to the principles.

Says who?

Because Robert McKee is an authority – whether deserved or not – some gatekeepers expect you heed his advice. In other words: ignore his principles at your peril.

Even a descriptive work like The Screenwriter’s Bible may achieve prescriptive status when readers use it as a reason to reject scripts. What was merely a principle has become a hard rule.

Before you truly understand what works and what doesn’t, I believe you need to get your work made, and see it on a screen. Therefore, I have previously said: “prove that you master the rules, then bend them.”

Hard v Soft Rules

To achieve the strongest identification, you must tell your story from a single first-person POV. Despite the must, this is a soft principle. It works, but it can be broken easily, and successfully. If you know what you’re doing, you’ll often ignore soft rules – deliberately.

Scripts are written in Courier 12. This is a much harder rule. You break this one at the peril of being considered an amateur, and some may not even read your script. You will get away with this one only if your surname is Gilroy or Coen.

Loglines count 25 words or less. A production company asks you to submit a 25-word logline. You believe your story needs more to do it justice, and you ignore the 25-word rule. Great! Now the production company has a really easy way of eliminating your work. [The reality is that they may not count words, but if the length of your line visually stands out, it may be enough to trigger a rejection]

Different rules [for different fools]

When you break rules, you’re being punished, while others get away with it. That hardly seems fair! Unfortunately, there is no fair in film. It’s a business.

When you’re writing on spec, your style will be scrutinised more than that of an established studio writer. Conversely, when reading scripts you need to understand what type of script you are reading, before drawing any conclusions.

Those you believe ‘get away’ observe more restrictions than you are even aware of. With experience comes a better understanding of what works and what doesn’t. As a result, the pro writer will set themselves more stringent rules.

BYO Rules

When asked how he learned screenwriting, Taylor Sheridan explained that he simply avoids the mistakes he saw in scripts when he was an actor. In other words, he turned those observations into his own set of rules.

Yet, Sicario brutally annihilates the POV principle: In the third act, we leave the main character to experience the movie’s finale through the POV of Alejandro. Why it works? Sheridan is meticulous in making sure everything else fits perfectly: tension and stakes are sky-high, and the storytelling is clean and linear.

Also, Sheridan had to break rules. This particular story simply cannot be told any other way.

What You Need To Break Rules? One Word.

Rules are not what matters. What is critical is the governing principles.

Any rule can – and must – be broken, under the right circumstances. One word will help you understand whether a rule applies to your situation, and your script: “WHY?”

If you don’t understand why certain things are allowed and others aren’t, these ‘rules’ mean nothing.

Why do certain things work and others don’t?

Conclusion

Breaking rules without good reason may not be smart, but blindly following them is even dumber.

The best books and courses don’t impose rules; they illuminate the inner workings of drama. They show you the underlying emotional logic, so you can deduct your own rules.

Don’t worry about rules. Study everything that has lead people to observe them.

Then write in freedom and with confidence.

A few years ago I had a student who kept repeating a word I had never heard before, until I realised he was concatenating two familiar words into something quite bizarre. I am aware that I do something similar, when I bunch together the phrases “you know” and “I mean” into “ya-meen”. I don’t know anyone else who does this, so I’m proud of my idiolect.

In movie dialogue, we distinguish characters among other things by their native language, dialect, and idiolect. And even though you rarely need to specify all this in the screenplay, it is good to have an understanding.

So, let’s look at a few ways of dealing with accents and foreign language, without hampering the read.

Leave it to the story

In Martin McDonagh’s In Bruges – one of the scripts we studied in Immersion – the characters each speak with their respective accents, but it’s never mentioned in the script. We assume that Ray and Ken are British from a line in the opening monologue “Get the fuck out of London.”

The lead characters ended up being played by Irish actors, but McDonagh has said that this was a happy coincidence more than anything else. When Ralph Fiennes’ character of Harry enters the film with his thick Cockney accent, you’ll find that this is not mentioned in the script, either.

Character introduction

By far the easiest way to set up how a character speaks, is in their first introduction.

If PAUL (28) is a pudgy Liverpudlian, we may assume this comes with the appropriate accent. You can specify whether the accent is slight or thick.

This technique avoids any possible annoyance with the reader, as nobody likes reading accent quirks throughout an entire script.

Scene Notes

Sometime characters change language in the course of a story. In this case, a SCENE NOTE right after the slug may indicate that “The entire scene is in Russian, subtitled in English”, or “During the flashbacks, everyone except our hero will speak Klingon.”

This avoids having to write a whole bunch of parentheticals. Speaking of which —

Choice Of Words

The characters in the world of the Coen brothers often speak in quirky ways. This never hampers the ease of reading their dialogue, as the accent is usually only apparent in the choice of words. A good example is Marge from Fargo.

MARGE [on the phone]: Oh my. Where? Yeah? Aw geez. Okay, there in a jif. Real good, then.

Parenthetical

When a single line, or a few lines are spoken in a different language, you have two options: either you want the audience to understand it, or you don’t.

If you do, the foreign language lines will be subtitled in the film; and if you don’t, they won’t.

Write the lines in English with a parenthetical, e.g. (in Italian) to show they need subtitles. In this way, the reader has the same experience as the audience: it’s a foreign language but they understand what is being said.

If you’re using a simple word or short phrase (ciao, nyet, or ‘dio mio’) and you trust your audience will understand it, just print it verbatim.

Original Dialogue

Sometimes the language is foreign to the main character, and we want the audience to feel just as confused as them, by not translating. In this case, you write the dialogue in the script in the original foreign language – without parenthetical.

This means there won’t be any subtitles, keeping the audience in the hero’s POV.

Do you know of any other ways of dealing with accents, dialect or foreign language? Or do you have great script examples to prove or disprove any of the above, please tell us in the comments.

Duh!

Yet, I’ve read so many rants about the quality of scripts, that it warrants a clear view on what is out there, and what we can learn from them.

When Django Unchained won Best Original Screenplay, I was dismayed. While I found the movie exhilarating, the script was a complete disaster. It was obvious that the voting Academy members had not bothered to read the screenplay.

More recently, some people have questioned the quality of the script for Promising Young Woman, insinuating its success is undeserved. We are all missing the point. Irrespective of any Academy Award nominations, Django is about Tarantino, and PYM is about Emerald Fennell — not the script.

We’ll talk about this in a minute, as both fall under the category of auteur films.

I recently posted a video to our YouTube channel about the topic, but I wanted to give you a more methodical breakdown.

So let’s dive in.

What Screenplays Should You Be Reading?

A screenplay is not an effective learning tool, just because the movie was successful or because you managed to lay your hands on it.

From the thousands of scripts on the web, there are only a handful I recommend to my students as exemplary writing. (I am using these for the online course I designed, Immersion Screenwriting. The story of how this course came about is here.)

We need to treat most scripts with a healthy dose of scepticism.

A wild variety of scripts circulate on the web, from unproduced amateur scripts, to fan fiction or TV specs. Looking for the pilot of Rick and Morty, a while ago some sites would offer up one of the many fan specs instead. Go figure…

Yes, you can learn something from reading any script. But if your time is limited, you’ll need to choose. The scripts that matter roughly fall into one of 2 categories: the studio script, and the spec.

The Studio Script

Most of the PDF’s out there are studio drafts, simply because they’re the movies people watch, and they are disseminated virally. Better teaching examples exist, but they are harder to find, as they excite less people.

Studio scripts are written by established writers who are hired and paid to do so. Sometimes early drafts leak, and unfinished scripts appear on various websites. While they may illuminate the process if you compare them with later drafts, they’re not always examples of how to write well.

Completed studio scripts could be misleading, too, as they rarely showcase the type of material you should write. Most are adaptations, sequels, remakes or franchise material, and you have no access to the rights of any of this, as it is exclusive studio property.

For all the above reasons, we better look at the spec script.

The Spec Script

A spec script is written on the speculation that one day it will sell. The writer is not paid for their time, as they fund the development themselves. In this way, they keep complete freedom and control.

A great source of spec scripts is the Black List. If you have never heard of it, it’s time to do your research. In my view, these are the type of scripts you can learn from the most.

While it is a bonus to know what scripts find their way to production, you should be reading scripts people buy. And the annual Black List is a barometer of what scores high among agents and executives. And these are the ones that do the deals.

Mind The Draft

Before reading a script – and certainly before drawing any conclusions about writing quality or style – check what draft you’re holding.

(TLDR for this section: The perfect screenplay to study is the marketing draft of a sold spec script.)

Early Drafts

An early draft is useful only if you compare it with the finished film. Compared to later drafts or the finished film, it shows development or production decisions. In this way, we learn what didn’t work in the mind of the writer (or director/producer).

A Quiet Place
Early Draft
(click image)

Marketing Draft

This is the one that gets producers across the line. It makes people part with their money – if they do. Therefore, it is the best version of the script to learn from as a beginning screenwriter. Sometimes, the marketing draft is labeled the ‘final draft’.

Hell or High Water
Final draft
(click image)

Shooting Script

The shooting draft will more closely resemble the finished film. It may have received input from the producers and/or director. And any post-sale changes may have somewhat muddled the writer’s original vision.

Joker
Shooting draft
(click image).

Post-Production Draft

These are pretty rare, and that’s okay. Post-production drafts aren’t useful in terms of writing style, because it is a purely technical draft of a script that was likely sold or greenlit in a very different format.

The Fellowship of the Ring
Post-production draft
(click image)

For Your Consideration

Every year around Oscar time, you’ll find a flurry of studio scripts available ‘for consideration’. Like Django Unchained, remember?

Technically, they are meant for Academy Members, but often the PDF’s are widely available. These production drafts may have been rewritten, polished or sanitised after the sale, or even the movie’s release.

Nomadland
For consideration
(click image)

Not All About Story

Only a fraction of working screenwriters sell their specs. The others sell their skills.

We all remember the names of those who get their own stories to the screen. But they’re only the tip of the industry iceberg. Most of the money is under the surface.

If you want to make a living from your writing, don’t get caught up in the hunt for the high concept. What matters is the clarity and freshness of your writing more than your unbridled imagination for wild cinematic adventures.

Unless, of course, you’re a multi-hyphenate.

Beware of the Auteur

Aspiring screenwriters watch more films than the average human. We’re always out to find something new and refreshing. We love rule-breakers, because they surprise us and make us believe we can do it, too.

What some forget is that many films in this category were written by the director, and greenlit based on their visual prowess. Think Paul T. Anderson, Alfonso Cuaron and Kubrick. Some small indie auteur films fall under the same category.

When you are excited about a movie, ask yourself why it was made. Auteur projects are all about the voice and visual style of the writer-director. They’re not about the story per se. Many of them were greenly based on earlier work by the filmmaker, be it a short film or previous feature work.

Of course, you were told that every movie is first and foremost about the script. But some… are not.

Instead of reading 2001 A Space Odyssey, Eraserhead or The Grand Budapest Hotel, study Alien, [500] Days of Summer or Hell Or High Water. The core vision was incapsulated in the script, and not in the mind of the director. And each of these was executed in a supremely effective, wonderful writing style.

What Can We Learn From Reading Screenplays

I look out for three things, when reading screenplays:

• • • First, by focusing on spec sales, we find out what sort of concepts, themes, genres and story types are popular in today’s market.
    • Next, we can learn how stories are organised. You can learn this from the finished film too, but it is useful to see how structure is articulated on the page.
    • Finally, we study writing style to see how specific challenges are addressed on the page.

Now you know what scripts to look for, it’s time to get reading!

If you don’t have the time to hunt for scripts, or choose which one to read, sign up for a curated program, such as the Immersion Screenwriting course, where the scripts are cherry-picked for you.

The course offers a methodic approach to reading and processing the material, following an achievable schedule of daily reading and writing tasks.

And to finish, here is a little bonus for you: 10 Great Screenplays. (No catch. Just a download.)

What are the scripts you have learned from the most? Please tell us in the comments!

Happy reading, and happy writing!

It makes sense to read 10 pages of a script, if the reader is out to find a writer. If your dream is to sell your script, there is no escaping the synopsis.

10 Pages Of Hell

Of course you hate that you have to leave out all the gripping details, but remember, every other screenwriter is in the same boat with you – except perhaps the A-listers.

The title of this piece may be misleading. Like most things in our industry, there is no clear consensus on the rules of the synopsis. So, let’s look at the different types of text you may need to deliver.

Development Synopsis v. Marketing Synopsis

Just like there are different types of logline, your synopsis may serve different purposes, each of which require their own approach.

During development, the synopsis helps to see the story clearly, and it communicates the direction of the script to your producer, manager or co-writer. Sometimes screenplay contests or funding programs also ask you to provide several types of synopsis along with the script.

Most of the time, your concern is just with the development synopsis. This version includes all important story elements, including the ending.

Once the film is complete and ready to go out, the development synopsis won’t cut it any longer. To reel in distribution gatekeepers, the producers and marketeers will need documents that resemble the synopsis, but that go by different names.

Siblings Of The Synopsis

Because different people label the types of summary differently, some confusion exists around what we call a logline, a synopsis, outline or treatment. It doesn’t matter what you call it, as long as you understand what to write.

Serial Summaries – The Show Bible

For serial material, the most common type of synopsis would be the series bible, summarising the episodes as part of the pitch document – sometimes also called the pitch bible or show bible.

One episode would typically fit in one or two paragraphs. In more extensive bibles, each episode synopsis could take up to a page.

Treatment Territory

Some people will call a 10-page summary still a synopsis, while others will call it a treatment or outline. I call anything over 4 pages a treatment.

A treatment may run from 10 to 50 pages, or even longer. James Cameron is known to write scriptments, running over 100 pages.

Sentence – Paragraph – Page

When you summarise a story in one sentence, people usually call it a logline, even if you don’t stick to the industry guidelines for loglines.

A logline typically holds only 20 to 30 words, although complex stories may require longer loglines. But when your logline blows out, it may end up being a paragraph synopsis, which can hold around 50 to 200 words.

For this article, I’m going to focus on what I believe is the most common type: the one-pager film synopsis that tells the entire story. You can write this type of document for a feature film, but it would work just as well for a TV episode.

The One-Pager Synopsis

When big international film markets were a thing, I often attended as a buyer. For each film, sales companies would hand out a single A4 on hard paper, with artwork on one side and a synopsis on the other.

A Single page

The synopsis would run for half a page or a full page. I’m sure they still do it this way, even if most business happens outside those big independent film markets.

500 Words – 12 point

Whether you write your synopsis in US Letter format or A4, I recommend sticking to 500 words or less, to keep it easily legible. You don’t want to be one of those writers squeezing 2,000 words on a single sheet.

To fit 500 words on a page, you need to keep your font around 10-12 point. The smaller the font, the more white space you can insert, but the harder it is to read.

It doesn’t matter which font you use, but don’t go for courier, and instead pick a proportional font like Arial, Times New Roman or Helvetica. Readability is key.

What To Include?

The rule is simple: include the most important story elements that can fit on a single page, while making sure that everything makes sense from a logical and emotional perspective.

The point of a synopsis is to give as much information as possible, while keeping it a joy to read. Don’t deliberately leave out information, and certainly don’t omit the ending.

The ending

Until your screen story is ready to be viewed, you don’t really need to tease it. So even if you have only half a page available, you still need to include the final act. Not including it may suggest that it is not all that great…

The only instance I can think of where you leave out the ending, is where your document also contains a longer synopsis that includes the ending.

Main Characters

Depending on how many characters feed into your plot, you may or may not mention them all. What matters most is that your main character’s story makes sense.

If you struggle to include all the story beats, start by leaving out subplots and supporting characters. If you have a dual protagonist story, and you can’t keep a logical flow for both without going over the 500 word mark … well, you’ll have to figure it out.

The Theme

I don’t remember ever reading a good synopsis that explicitly states the movie’s theme. Typically, in great movies, the theme is clear from the story itself.

How To Write The Synopsis

Just like any other work you produce, your synopsis must follow the ‘3 C’s: it should be clear, concise and colourful, in that order. By colourful I mean it should be fun to read.

Format & Style of the Synopsis

Beginners’ synopses often include generic phrases such as “Jack encounters some major obstacles before he succeeds in his task.” These are a waste of space as they apply to every story. You must be specific and only share information that is unique to yours.

Leave out any act or sequence headings; you don’t have the space for those, and readers don’t care. Just tell the story. You can use paragraphs to show the act or sequence structure without explicitly referencing it.

Adjectives make prose more colourful, but in screen stories we focus on action instead. Adjectives also bulk up the word count, without adding any vital story info.

It is often said that the synopsis should evoke a tone that is not too distant from the genre of your film or series. Keep it lighthearted if this is the intended tone of your script; make it read deeply dramatic if this is the vibe you go for.

Rules and Techniques

It is tempting to get distracted by rules and guidelines around synopses. If you believe that a rule holds the reader back from enjoying greater satisfaction and becoming more invested, it is your duty to break it.

Don’t forget that there is only one goal: to get the reader excited about your story and convince them of your writing skills. A poorly written synopsis doesn’t bode well. Having said this —

The synopsis is written in the present tense, just like the logline or the action/description in your script.

To land on the perfect word count, I start from a longer version, and keep trimming down to the required word count. In this way, I can control what I cut, and keep only the most important story elements.

Synopsis Structure

Allocate roughly the same proportionate space to each structural element. In other words, your first act will take up a quarter to a third of the word count, the second act will take up half, and the final act, whatever is remaining.

Similarly, if you wrote your script in sequences, you might start a new sentence for each sequence in the synopsis. Readers love it when they can follow the dramatic flow of your piece on the page.

Whatever cliffhangers you (intend to) have in the script, they need to come out here on the page as well.

Keep it in sync

Writing the one-page synopsis is essentially a crash-test for your story. You will realise what works, and what needs more work. As you do this, you may decide on fundamental changes that affect not only the script, but even your logline. Make sure you keep all those documents in sync.

Once you have the perfect synopsis, update your logline. Conversely, if the logline captures your story more lively, update the synopsis. In short, keep your development documents in sync, and once you hit final draft, update them all.

Homework

Once you have a few synopses under your belt, the pain will ease. Heck, you may even enjoy writing them! I believe that the best practice is to write synopses for screenplays that are not yours.

In the Immersion Screenwriting course, you’re encouraged to write a synopsis for each of 7 curated scripts. Students who took the course have reported that their synopsis writing skills skyrocketed by the end.

What is your favourite movie? Why not write a synopsis for it today?

Enjoy!

-Karel Segers