06 A Screenwriter - S Guide To Reading A Screenplay Scott Myers

© Scott Myers
About the Author

I’m Scott Myers and I have been a screenwriter for three decades. I broke into the
business when I sold a spec script to Universal Pictures which became the hit movie
K-9 and spawned two sequels. I've written over 30 movie and TV projects for every
major studio and broadcast network, including Alaska (Sony/ Castle Rock), and Trojan
War (Warner Bros.). I have been a member of the Writers’ Guild of America, West since
1987.
I graduated from the University of Virginia with a Bachelor of Arts degree (with Honors)
in Religious Studies and Yale University, where I received a Masters of Divinity degree
cum laude. I’ve variously enjoyed stints as a musician and stand-up comedian.
From 2002-2010, I was an executive producer at Trailblazer Studios, overseeing the

company’s original TV content development for Scripps and Discovery networks.
In my spare time, I took up teaching in 2002 in the UCLA Extension Writers’ Program,
receiving its Outstanding Instructor Award in 2005. For eight years, I was a visiting
lecturer in the Writing for Screen and Stage program at the University of North Carolina
at Chapel Hill. In 2010, I co-founded Screenwriting Master Class with my longtime
friend and professional colleague Tom Benedek whose movie credits include Cocoon.
In 2008, I launched Go Into The Story which for the last five years has been the Official
Screenwriting Blog of the Black List. Some numbers: The site has had over 10 million
unique visits, 20 million page views, and I have posted 20,000+ items for over 3,000
consecutive days. The Go Into The Story Twitter feed has over 43,000 followers.
In November 2015, I went public with the Zero Draft Thirty Challenge – write an entire
script draft in 30 days – and over 1,000 writers joined in. Out of that, the Zero Draft
Thirty Facebook group emerged and as of January 2017 has over 1,400 members.
In 2016, I was excited to be offered and accept the position of Assistant Professor at the
DePaul University School of Cinematic Arts in Chicago where I teach screenwriting to
both undergraduate and graduate students.
The adventure continues...
© Scott Myers
About the Go Into The Story PDF Series
The Go Into The Story PDF Series
Two motivators I had in launching Go Into The Story in May 2008 were:
1. to create an extensive online resource for writers and
2. to provide that information for free.
The world needs more diverse voices in the filmmaking community and making
educational content available to anyone and everyone is my humble way to facilitate
that vision.
There are currently over 20,000 posts on my blog and while an impressive number, it
can be overwhelming for readers. So, based on suggestions from several people, I
decided to launch a new initiative:
Make a new Go Into The Story PDF available each month to the public.
I reached out to the GITS community for volunteers to help with this effort and I’d like to
express my deep gratitude to Trish Curtin and George “Clay” Mitchell. They stepped
up to handle the process of taking blog posts and creating the ebooks in this series. A
special blast of creative juju to you both!
You can download the previous editions by clicking on their titles below.
Volume 1: 30 Things about Screenwriting

Volume 2: So-Called Screenwriting Rules
Volume 3: Writing a Screenplay
Volume 4: Rewriting a Screenplay
Volume 5: A Screenwriter’s Guide to Aristotle’s Poetics
© Scott Myers
A Screenwriter’s Guide to Reading a Screenplay:Contents
This book is the sixth in the Go Into The Story PDF Series, and is titled:
A Screenwriter’s Guide to Reading a Screenplay.
It’s in four sections:
The first section: How To Read A Screenplay - is a series of blog posts providing my
approach to reading and analyzing a screenplay that I hope will be helpful for screenwriters
who want to learn their craft better. It’s not the way - just one approach - every writer finds
their own method. Nothing to do with what professional Script Readers do - we’ll hear from
them later in the book. This section is one method of reading from a writer’s perspective,
with a focus on the craft, hoping to find insights to help us write our own screenplays more
effectively.
The second section: A Script Reader Speaks - is a serialized interview with Professional
Story Analyst D. C. Mar which featured on the blog in 2008. Still highly relevant, and
extremely informative - I couldn’t be more grateful to her for sharing these insights into the
world of a professional Script Reader. It’s vital as screenwriters that we understand what
readers look for from us.
The third section: The Twitter Conversations: Script Readers - is a real treat. Links to the
transcripts of Twitter conversations with well known, current working script readers (that you
should be following) who were incredibly forthcoming and candid about the realities of their
task, and the industry. I serialized those conversations on the blog, along with commentary.
There’s fifteen in all - five for the first conversation in 2012, and then - it was so much fun, we
did it twice more - the last of them in 2013, I think. Enjoy!
The fourth and last Section: The Story Behind Script Coverage - is a deep dive into one
Agency’s Script Coverage Packet - A copyright-free instruction manual for staffers providing
script coverage in the industry. It’s a gold mine of pragmatic and instructive insights we can
learn from. This resource shines a bright light on the mechanics of script coverage - a
screenwriter’s most important audience.
Overall - a fairly broad range of guidance there on Reading a Screenplay. Not prescriptive,
but relevant, practical and certainly illuminating. I hope you enjoy these insights, and that
they result in a deeper understanding of the craft, and better screenplays from all of us.
Onward!
© Scott Myers
How To Read A Screenplay
I can’t remember exactly how this subject came up on the blog, but it did, and when I asked
whether people would like to explore how to read and analyze a screenplay, the response
was quite positive. So here we are with yet another GITS series on screenwriting.
Let me be clear up front: I am not suggesting you have to read scripts precisely this way. Nor
am I saying if you choose to use this overall approach that you do so in the order presented.
These are not steps so much as analytical tools which you can use any way you see fit.
I begin with this supposition: There are multiple layers to any story. The more you dig, the
deeper your understanding. Moreover there is a special kind of learning you can experience
only by cracking open a story and exploring its many moving parts, a knowledge that settles
into your gut where you start to develop an innate sense of what works and what doesn’t.
From the standpoint of being a professional screenwriter, when often you are working against
a ticking clock, either to assess a story and come up with a take to pitch, or do a writing
assignment, having that internal sense of story is critical to your success as it can help you
feel your way through the process.
So at the very least, I would encourage you to try out these approaches I will be detailing in
this series to see if and how they fit with your own writing sensibilities. Look at each as a
different ‘lens’ through which you can examine a story, providing a unique perspective and
insight into the overall narrative.
Note: This section is not in any way, shape or form an attempt to train people how to be a
professional script reader. They have their own approach and I am almost positive would not
have nearly the time to go through as many steps as I’m suggesting here. We’ll learn more
about the professionals and how they do their thing later in this book. Rather this is for writers
who want to learn their craft better. Here’s a Table of Contents for this section:
How to Read a Screenplay:
The First Pass
The Scene-By-Scene Breakdown
Plotline Points and Sequences
Subplots, Relationships and Character Functions
Metamorphosis
Themes
Style and Language
© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Reading A Screenplay 5

The First Pass
This is pretty easy — with one proviso [see below] — because it is basically what you do now:
Sit down and read the script. Personally I like to turn off my analytical mind as much as
possible and simply read the story for what it is. Obviously if I have thoughts and
observations, I don’t chase them away. Rather I quickly jot them down, then move on.
The main point of a first pass is to read it straight-through in one sitting,

trying as much as possible to stay within the story universe.
Save the analysis for later.
Here is the proviso: Perhaps the single hardest aspect of reading a screenplay in today’s
world is simply finding the time, space, and quiet in which to do it. If you are thumbing
through a script on your smart phone while standing in line at the grocery store, you are
‘reading,’ so to speak, but what are your eyes really seeing? If you read a script yet allow
yourself to get interrupted every five minutes by emails or Tweets, again you are ‘reading,’
but how can you enter into a story universe if this one keeps yanking you back?
And so the hard part: If you really want to read a script in order to analyze it, you have
to shut everything else down. I know, I know, how can you possibly give yourself permission
to set aside 90 minutes or so to read a script with no breaks, no interruptions, no
distractions, just you and the story? Let me put it to you this way:
Are you serious about learning the craft?

If you are, then you will find the strength of will to shut everything down when you read and
engage a script. If you aren’t, well… go ahead and answer your email.
In order for stories to reveal themselves to us requires a mindfulness on our part. We have
to be here now in order to enter fully into a story universe, muck around in there, break
things apart, and explore the vital parts of the whole. Indeed this is great training for us and
our writing because it requires the same immersion and intensity as sitting down to write.
So try this:
1. Pick a screenplay for a movie you think you know well. If reading a script as a PDF
on an electronic device makes it too tempting to slip over onto the Internet, you
may have to break down and print out a copy. [Bad for the environment, I know,
but the next time you go into town, don’t drive your car, ride your bike to balance
out the impact.]
2. Then go into a quiet room, shut the door… and read.
3. Give yourself over to the characters. Let yourself flow into the story universe.
4. Read all the way through from FADE IN to FADE OUT.
5. And that is your first pass. Here you form general impressions, make initial
observations, but perhaps the most important thing is to note what you felt while
reading the script. Then ask yourself this:
“Why did the story make me feel the way I did?”
That is the first step in an analytical process which leads to the Scene-By-Scene Breakdown.

The Scene-By-Scene Breakdown
After a first pass, it’s time to crack open the script for a deeper analysis and you can do that
by creating a scene-by-scene breakdown. It is precisely what it sounds like: A list of all the
scenes in the script accompanied by a brief description of the events that transpire.
For purposes of this exercise, I have a slightly different take on scene. Here I am looking not
just for individual scenes per se, but a scene or set of scenes that comprise one event or a
continuous piece of action. Admittedly this is subjective and there is no right or wrong, the
point is simply to break down the script into a series of parts which you then can use dig into
the script’s structure and themes.
Here is a scene-by-scene breakdown of the movie Up, my all-time favorite Pixar story.
⁃ The scenes are pegged to what pages they occurred on in the script.
⁃ When characters are introduced, I bold their names.
⁃ I noted some bits of business that suggested some thematic relevance.
⁃ But mostly it is the story’s narrative broken down by scenes.
P. 1–3: Newsreel footage of Charles Muntz, “The Spirit of Adventure,” and Paradise Falls.
Watched by young Carl Frederickson in a movie theater. Muntz accused of fabricating
skeleton of “The Monster of Paradise Falls.” Muntz’s goal: To “capture the beast alive.”
P. 4–7: Carl imagining himself as Muntz, then hears a voice: “Adventure is out there!”
From a rickety, abandoned house. It’s Ellie, who is as big a fan of Muntz as Carl is. [She
gives him her grape soda pin and says, “You and me, we’re in a club now.”] Trying to
retrieve his balloon, Carl falls. Ambulance.

P. 7–10: Carl in his room at night with broken arm. Ellie shows up with his balloon and
shares with Carl “My Adventure Book.” [“Cross your heart!”] Her goal: To go to Paradise
Falls. [“Only I just don’t know how I’m going to get to PF.”] Carl sees his balloon. “That’s it.
You’ll take us in a blimp. Swear you’ll do it. Cross your heart. Cross it!” And Carl’s first
word: “Wow.”
P. 10–14: Carl and Ellie’s life together montage. Key plot points: (A) Wedding. (B) He gets
a job at a zoo selling helium balloons. (C) They want to have children, but find out they
can’t. (D) Set sights on Paradise Falls, but those plans laid aside due to a series of financial
setbacks. (E) Now old, Carl plans to surprise Ellie with tickets to go to PF, but Ellie dies.
P. 14–15: A day in the life. Carl wakes up — alone. Descends the stairs. Breakfast. Cleans
artifacts of Ellie. Note: Grape soda pin. [Note: Multiple locks on door to suggest trying to
keep the world out]. Heads outside and sits on his porch, revealing his house is
surrounded by mammoth construction zone.
P. 15–17: Carl watches construction all around him. “Quite a sight, eh, Ellie,” looking
skyward. Mail: “Shady Oaks retirement home.” Conversation with construction foreman
where he learns that the Boss will double last offer to buy Carl’s house. Carl: “You can have
my house… when I’m dead.”
P. 17–20: Carl watching TV. Knock on door. Meet Russell, member of the Wilderness
Explorers. He’s missing merit badge: “Assisting the elderly” badge. His goal: To get the
badge in order to become a Senior Wilderness Explorer. Note: “There’s a big ceremony
and all our dads come…” Carl sends Russell away to look for a “snipe,” a big bird Carl
makes up to get rid of the kid.
P. 20–21: A construction truck hits Carl’s mailbox. Carl accosts a worker, who is trying to
help, injuring the worker. Witnesses gather, along with police car, and Boss stares at Carl
and his “hand rests on Carl’s fence” [symbolic of intent].
P. 22: Carl summoned to court. Dropped back home by policewoman — “You don’t look
like a public menace to me.” Touching the mailbox, Carl asks, “What do I do now, Ellie?”
P. 23: Getting his suitcase down to pack for the move to the retirement home, Carl finds
Ellie’s “My Adventure Book.” He hits the “Stuff I’m Going to Do” page, sees the photo on
the mantel of young Ellie, then her painting of her clubhouse atop Paradise Falls,
considers the brochure for the retirement home, and staring at the painting of PF, Carl
crosses his heart — he’s made a decision.
P. 23–24: Retirement home guys show up. Carl wants one last chance to say good-bye to

his house. Then balloons. And the house goes airborne. He calls out to the guys, “I’ll send
you a postcard from Paradise Falls!”
P. 24–25: Airborne travel montage ending with Carl kissing a photo of Ellie: “We’re on
our way, Ellie.” Heading south to South America.
P. 25–26: A knock-knock-knock at the door. Carl doesn’t answer. Then frantic knocking.
Carl gets up. It’s Russell. He asks to be let in. Carl relents.
P. 26–28: Russell immediately gets into Carl’s stuff, curiosity run amok. Carl fantasizes
about getting rid of Russell. But Russell is nothing compared to what happens next.
P. 28–30: Storm scenes.
P. 30–32: After the storm, it seems that Russell has miraculously guided the house to
Paradise Falls (using his Wilderness Explorer GPS, which he then accidentally flings out
the window).
P. 32–35: They descend through the clouds and land — roughly — almost losing the house
and their lives. But the clouds part and indeed, they are at Paradise Falls. Looking up, Carl
says, “Ellie, we made it.” Note: Russell saves Carl from dying, chipping away at Carl’s
mistrust of the boy. When Russell can’t climb to the house to haul up Carl, Carl thinks
they’re stuck — so close, yet so far. Then Russell has a suggestion: “We could walk it over,
just like a parade balloon.”
P. 36–37: Walking the house. Exposition: Have about 3 days before the helium wears out
(ticking clock). Carl lays down rules for Russell’s behavior.
P. 37: Three dogs, led by their pack leader Alpha, chase a mysterious big bird, but the
feedback from Carl’s hearing aid drives the dogs away.
P. 38–39: As they continue to plod along, Russell whines about how tired he is, body
aches, bathroom needs. Finally Carl tells him to go to the bathroom.
P. 39–40: Having handled his bathroom needs, Russell sees some bird tracks. “Snipe!”
Then eats some chocolate and woos the mysterious bird. “Giant snipe!”
P. 40–44: Russell appears to Carl with the bird in tow. Naming the bird Kevin, Russell
asks to keep it. Carl says no. “Do you believe this, Ellie?” Hearing that, Russell has a
‘conversation’ with Ellie, stating that Ellie said, “To let me.” Carl: “No. N-O.”
P. 44–48: Continuing their trek toward PF, Russell drops chocolates on the ground so

Kevin will keep following them. Then a voice: “Hey, are you okay over there?” It’s a dog —
Dug. He has a collar that allows him to talk. He mentions his “master” and how he’s been
sent out to find the “bird.” Seeing Kevin, Dug asks to take the bird prisoner — and off the
four go toward PF.
P. 48–51: The dogs have picked up Kevin’s scent, Russell (“chocolate”) and Carl
(“prunes”). They contact Dug via video monitor system, see Kevin and Russell (“Why is he
with that small mailman”). Locating Dug’s position on the tracking device, they take off to
find and capture the bird.
P. 51–54: The Foursome continue their trek, but Carl is having troubles keeping them in
line (Note: House crashes against rock wall, breaking a glass window — deconstruction of
the house). Pointing to Dug and Kevin, he says, “I don’t want you here and I don’t want you
here,” then at Russell, “And I’m stuck with you.” [Note: Carl fighting the inertia toward
bonding with his new ‘family’]. Carl throws a ball for Dug to chase and chocolate for Kevin.
Running away from Dug and Kevin. Doesn’t work as the two creatures find Carl and
Russell. [Note: Carl tries to challenge the emergence of his ‘family,’ but their allegiance is
stronger than his efforts].
P. 54–57: That night, the four prepare to sleep in the rain. Russell fails with building a tent,
then confesses he barely has a relationship with his father. “But he promised to come to
my Explorer ceremony to pin on my Assisting the Elderly badge. So he can show me
about tents then, right?” And now we know why this whole thing was really so important for
Russell: Not to be a Senior Wilderness Explorer, but to win the attention of his father. Then
Russell asks Carl to promise to take Kevin with them. “Cross your heart?”
P. 57–59: Waking up the next morning, Dug explains that Kevin is calling out to her
babies who live in the “twisty rocks.” Kevin departs.
P. 59–60: Then Alpha and the other two tracking dogs show up. They confront Dug asking
where the bird is and not getting a satisfactory answer, ‘escort’ Carl, Russell, and Dug back
to Muntz’s headquarters.
P. 60–63: Brought to Muntz’s place, the mood shifts quickly as Carl recognizes Muntz and
Muntz acknowledges a fan. Now they are guests.
P. 63–64: After parking his house, Carl and the others are invited into the “Spirit of
Adventure.” Meanwhile Dug is put in the “cone of shame.”
P. 64–65: Muntz shows off some of his hunting trophies.
P. 66–70: Muntz insists that he needs to bring back “this creature” to clear his name — and

Carl realizes that he’s talking about Kevin. Then Muntz talks about “bandits” who have tried
to get the bird instead of him. Not paying attention, Kevin pipes up that the bird looks like
Kevin, how he’s domesticated her by using chocolate. Carl attempts to end the
conversation, “She’s gone off now” re Kevin. But Muntz isn’t buying it, knows that Carl
knows something about the bird. Then Carl sees Kevin through the window on top of his
house. Finally Kevin cries out and Muntz sees the bird as well. But Carl has raced away
with Russell.
P. 70–73: Chase. Dug and Kevin prove to be worthy allies in helping the group escape
Muntz’s dogs. Kevin, whose leg was bit by Alpha in the chase scenes, is hurt. She hears her
babies’ cry and try to respond, but can’t. Kevin asks Carl, “Can’t we help her get home?”
Carl is torn between his goal and Kevin (and Russell’s) goal — but he agrees. “But we gotta
hurry.”
P.73–74: Back at Muntz’s lair, Muntz is livid that Carl and the others escaped. They blame
Dug — “He helped them escape.” And it is his location signal that Muntz thinks will help
them find Kevin.
P. 74–75: With Dug confirming that the pack isn’t following them and Kevin lying in the
house with his injured leg, Carl and Russell pull the house in the direction of Kevin’s
babies. Russell tells a story about how his father used to take him for ice cream and they
would sit on the curb counting red cars and blue cars. “It might sound boring, but I think
it’s the boring stuff I remember the most.”
P. 75–77: Hearing her babies, Kevin and the group take off, getting close to Kevin’s home.
But Muntz arrives in the blimp and casts a net catching Kevin. Then he sets fire to Carl’s
house. Carl has to choose — and chooses to save the house. Muntz takes off with Kevin
while Carl douses the flames.
P. 77: The group is fractured. Russell feels like Carl gave away Kevin, but Carl is angry —
he didn’t ask for any of this — and tells off Dug. He sets out to take the house to Paradise
Falls, even if “it kills him.”
P. 78: Travel scenes. Even the house is ‘low,’ scraping the ground, underscoring the
downer mood. Arrival at Paradise Falls. A pyrrhic victory for Carl with little satisfaction at
having achieved his goal. Then an angry Kevin flings down his achievement belt — “I don’t
want this anymore” — in effect, denying his goal.
P. 78–79: Carl enters the house. It’s a mess — just like his dreams / goal. Seeking solace,
he sits in his chair, next to Ellie’s chair, and pulls out “My Adventure Book”. When he
comes to the “Stuff I’m Gonna Do” page, at first he is crushed. But then sees that she filled
in the book with photos and memorabilia from her marriage with Carl. Then a message:

“Thanks for the adventure — now go have a new one. Love, Ellie.” Picking up Russell’s merit
sash, Carl crosses his heart.
P. 79–80: Carl exits to find Russell floating in mid-air, connected to a bunch of balloons.
“I’m going to help Kevin even if you’re not.” Using a leaf blower as propulsion, he zooms
away. Carl tries to lift the house, but it won’t raise up. Frustrated Carl tosses a chair off the
front porch — which gives him an idea. He throws everything inside the house out, reducing
the house’s weight so it can fly away.
P. 80–81: Knock at the door. It’s Dug. Carl and he bond once again. “You’re my dog, and
I’m your master.”
P. 81–84: Alpha informs Muntz that Russell is on board. Muntz confronts Russell — who
says that Carl isn’t his “friend” anymore. Seeing Carl approaching in the balloon house,
Muntz sets Russell on a ramp that opens toward the sky.
P. 84–85: Spotting Russell sliding down the ramp, Carl veers over and just catches Russell
in the nick of time. Carl deposits Russell, still tied to a chair, in the house. Russell wants to
help save Kevin, but Carl says no: “I want you to be safe.” He and Dug head into the blimp.
P. 85–87: Carl and Dug head through a tunnel and find Kevin. But Alpha deposits a bevy
of guard dogs there. Inspired by Dug chewing on a tennis ball on Carl’s walker, Carl
throws a ball down the hall which the guard dogs chase, then Carl locks them out. He
frees Kevin.
P. 87–88: While Muntz tries to decipher several dogs crying out for help on the blimp
intercom system, Kevin hops in his chair out to the front porch of the house — “I want to
help.” Russell barely saves himself by grabbing onto the front porch hose. Then Muntz
sees him and sends out three dogs in airplanes to attack Russell with bullet-darts.
P. 88–91: Carl, Dug, and Kevin are stopped by Muntz, who locks Dug out of the room
with he and Carl. Dug chased by Alpha and other dogs. Muntz and Carl fight. Just when
Muntz is about to slice Carl with his sword, Dug slides onto a control that sends the blimp
tumbling sideways, knocking Muntz off his feet. Carl almost falls out, then he and Kevin
climb onto the outside of the blimp onto a wall ladder, pursued by Muntz.
P. 91–92: Dug chased by Alpha and other dogs, but Dug get Alpha trapped with Cone of
Shame and his voice device messed up as before. The other dogs laugh at Alpha’s voice,
then Dug becomes the new alpha dog.
P. 92–93: Seeing Carl and Kevin in danger on the side of the blimp, Russell pushes
himself to climb the hose, then as the dog planes zero in on him, he points and yells,

“Squirrel!” The planes crash into each other.
P. 93–95: Dug opens a hatch and appears on the outside of the blimp, joining Carl and
Kevin. Russell appears with the balloon house. All aboard — then Muntz shows up,
shooting a rifle, bursting some balloons, causing the house to drop onto the blimp. Carl
grabs hose to stop house from falling off edge of blimp while Muntz blasts his way into
the house. Carl tells Russell and Dug to hold onto Kevin, then waves chocolate, causing
Kevin to fly (with Russell and Dug) over to the blimp. Muntz leaps after them, but his foot
catches in balloon strings, and he plummets to his death.
P.96: Safe on the blimp, Carl watches his house float away and disappear into the clouds.
Russell says, “Sorry about your house, Mr. Frederickson.” Carl responds, “You know, it’s
just a house.”
P. 96–98: Kevin reunites with her babies. Carl and Russell co-pilot the blimp away into the
sky.
P. 98–100: Russell stands in line with other Wilderness Explorers as he’s about to receive
his final merit badge. He looks up expectantly, hoping his father will show up — then Carl
appears: “I’m here for him.” He awards Russell the “highest honor I can bestow — the Ellie
badge,” the grape soda badge Ellie gave Carl the day they first met. Russell shows it off
with pride to his mother, who is with Dug, and all the other dogs in the back join in the
celebration.
P. 100–101: Carl and Russell sit on the curb in front of Russell’s favorite ice cream place
(that he mentioned earlier), counting red and blue cars. Then into the clouds where we see
Carl’s house, which has landed in Ellie’s dream spot atop Paradise Falls.
Armed with a scene-by-scene breakdown, I can move onto the next layer of analysis:
Plotline Points and Sequences.

Plotline Points and Sequences
What can you do with a Scene-By-Scene Breakdown? Firstly, use it to identify the major
Plotline points. By doing that, you not only discover where something significant happens
that twists the narrative in a new direction, you also determine the beginning and end points
of the screenplay’s sequences. [For background on the sequence approach, go here].
Picking up with the scene-by-scene breakdown of Up, I have filled in my take on the
screenplay’s major Plotline points and sequences.
ACT ONE (Set up, establish initial predicament)
THE OPENING
P. 1–3: Newsreel footage of Charles Muntz, “The Spirit of

Adventure,” and Paradise Falls. Watched by young Carl
Frederickson in a movie theater. Muntz accused of
fabricating skeleton of “The Monster of Paradise Falls.”
Muntz’s goal: To “capture the beast alive.”
P. 4–7: Carl imagining himself as Muntz, then hears a voice:

“Adventure is out there!” From a rickety, abandoned house.
It’s Ellie, who is as big a fan of Muntz as Carl is. [She gives
him her grape soda pin and says, “You and me, we’re in a
club now.”] Trying to retrieve his balloon, Carl falls.
Ambulance.
P. 7–10: Carl in his room at night with broken arm. Ellie

shows up with his balloon and shares with Carl “My
Adventure Book.” [“Cross your heart!”] Her goal: To go to
Paradise Falls. [“Only I just don’t know how I’m going to get
to PF.”] Carl sees his balloon. “That’s it. You’ll take us in a
blimp. Swear you’ll do it. Cross your heart. Cross it!” And
Carl’s first word: “Wow.”
P. 10–14: Carl and Ellie’s life together montage.

Key plot points: (A) Wedding. (B) He gets a job at a zoo
selling helium balloons. (C) They want to have children, but
find out they can’t. (D) Set sights on Paradise Falls, but those
plans laid aside due to a series of financial setbacks. (E) Now
old, Carl plans to surprise Ellie with tickets to go to PF, but
Ellie dies.
The Opening Summary: Carl has made a promise to Ellie to take her to Paradise Falls because of her childhood
dream of building a clubhouse right next to the falls.
Major Plotline Point: Ellie dies. How to fulfill that promise?

SEQUENCE 1
P. 14–15: A day in the life. Carl wakes up — alone. Descends

the stairs. Breakfast. Cleans artifacts of Ellie. Note: Grape
soda pin. Note: Multiple locks on door to suggest trying to
keep the world out. Heads outside and sits on his porch,
revealing his house is surrounded by mammoth construction
zone.
P. 15–17: Carl watches construction all around him. “Quite a

sight, eh, Ellie,” looking skyward. Mail: “Shady Oaks
retirement home.” Conversation with construction foreman
where he learns that the Boss will double last offer to buy
Carl’s house. Carl: “You can have my house… when I’m
dead.”
P. 17–20: Carl watching TV. Knock on door. Meet Russell,

member of the Wilderness Explorers. He’s missing a merit
badge: “Assisting the elderly” badge. His goal: To get the
badge in order to become a Senior Wilderness Explorer.
Note: “There’s a big ceremony and all the dads come…” Carl
sends Russell away to look for a “snipe,” a big bird Carl
makes up to get rid of him.
P. 20–21: A construction truck hits Carl’s mailbox. Carl

accosts a worker, who is trying to help, injuring the worker.
Witnesses gather, along with police car, and Boss stares at
Carl and his “hand rests on Carl’s fence” [symbolic of intent].
P. 22: Carl summoned to court.

Dropped back home by policewoman — “You don’t look like
a public menace to me. The folks from Shady Oaks will be by
to collect you tomorrow”
Touching Ellie’s handprint on the mailbox, Carl asks, “What
do I do now, Ellie?”
Sequence 1 Summary: To establish Protagonist, exposition, flow of life and inciting incident.
We see Carl’s life (post-Ellie), his solitude and his pessimism.
Inciting incident: Carl assaulting the construction worker.
The Hook summary: We meet two ‘outsiders’ to Carl’s little world — the Boss / construction crew, who want
Carl out of the house so they can bulldoze it and add to their project - and we meet Russell for the first time.
Major Plotline Point: Carl is to be moved from his house to a retirement home. Carl asks, what will he do now?

SEQUENCE 2
P. 23: Getting his suitcase down to pack for the move to the
retirement home, Carl finds Ellie’s “My Adventure Book.” He
hits the “Stuff I’m Going to Do” page, sees the photo on the
mantel of young Ellie, then her painting of her clubhouse
atop Paradise Falls, considers the brochure for the
retirement home, and staring at the painting of Paradise
Falls, Carl crosses his heart — he’s made a decision.
P. 23–24:
Retirement home guys show up to collect him.
Carl wants one last chance to say good-bye to his house.
Then balloons. And the house goes airborne.
He calls out to the guys,
“I’ll send you a postcard from Paradise Falls!”
P. 24–25:
Airborne travel montage ending with Carl kissing a photo of
Ellie: “We’re on our way, Ellie.”
Heading south to South America..
P. 25–26:
A knock-knock-knock at the door.
Carl doesn’t answer.
Then frantic knocking. Carl gets up.
It’s Russell. He asks to be let in. Carl relents.
Sequence 2 Summary: Create a predicament, establish the main tension + pose the 2nd Act dramatic question.
The predicament: What will Carl do about being forced out of his house? He creates a balloon house.
Dramatic Question: Will he succeed in getting to Paradise Falls?
The Lock Summary: Carl en route to Paradise Falls with an interloper, Russell - who wasn’t part of Carl’s plan.
Major Plotline Point: Carl’s decision to take off with his balloon house.

ACT TWO (Complicating action, rising and descending)
SEQUENCE 3: DECONSTRUCTION TESTS
P. 26–28: Russell immediately gets into Carl’s stuff, curiosity

run amok. Carl fantasizes about getting rid of Russell.
But Russell is nothing compared to what happens next.
P. 28–30:
Storm scenes.
P. 30–32:
After the storm, it seems that Russell has miraculously
guided the house to Paradise Falls (using his Wilderness
Explorer GPS, which he then accidentally flings out the
window).
P. 32–35: They descend through the clouds and land —

roughly — almost losing the house and their lives. But the
clouds part and indeed, they are at Paradise Falls. Looking
up, Carl says, “Ellie, we made it.” Note: Russell saves Carl
from dying, chipping away at Carl’s mistrust of the boy.
When Russell can’t climb to the house to haul up Carl, Carl
thinks they’re stuck — so close, yet so far. Then Russell has a
suggestion: “We could walk it over, just like a parade
balloon.”
P. 36–37: Walking the house. Exposition: Have about 3 days

before the helium wears out (ticking clock). Carl lays down
rules for Russell’s behavior.
P. 37: Three dogs, led by their pack leader Alpha, chase a

mysterious big bird, but the feedback from Carl’s hearing
aid drives the dogs away.
Sequence 3 Summary: The Protagonist makes initial attempts at solving the problem.
They’ve made it to South America within sight of Paradise Falls, but can’t fly anymore. Russell comes up with the
idea to walk the house over to Paradise Falls ‘like a parade balloon.’ Maybe this kid’s not so bad after all?
Deconstruction Tests Summary: What’s being deconstructed is Carl’s solitude, by virtue of his forced
relationship with Russell, and his pessimism, by virtue of his big adventure.
Major Plot Point: They have to walk the house to Paradise Falls.

SEQUENCE 4: TRANSITION
P. 38–39:
As they continue to plod along, Russell whines about how
tired he is, body aches, bathroom needs.
Finally Carl tells him to go to the bathroom.
P. 39–40:
Having handled his bathroom needs, Russell sees some bird
tracks. “Snipe!” Then eats some chocolate and woos the
mysterious bird. “Giant snipe!”
P. 40–44:
Russell appears to Carl with the bird in tow. Naming the bird
Kevin, Russell asks to keep it. Carl says no. “Do you believe
this, Ellie?” Hearing that, Russell has a ‘conversation’ with
Ellie, stating that Ellie said, “To let me.” Carl: “No. N-O.”
P. 44–48: Continuing their trek toward PF, Russell drops

chocolates on the ground so Kevin will keep following them.
Then a voice: “Hey, are you okay over there?” It’s a dog —
Dug. He has a collar that allows him to talk. He mentions his
“master” and how he’s been sent out to find the “bird.”
Seeing Kevin, Dug asks to take the bird prisoner — and off
the four go toward PF.
P. 48–51: The dogs have picked up Kevin’s scent, Russell

(“chocolate”) and Carl (“prunes”). They contact Dug via
video monitor system, see Kevin and Russell (“Why is he
with that small mailman”). Locating Dug’s position on the
tracking device, they take off to find and capture the bird.
Sequence 4 Summary: The Protagonist makes more desperate attempts to solve the problem.
Carl forced to deal with the addition of Kevin and Dug to his group of fellow travelers.
Transition summary: Carl doesn’t even know it, but this little group is starting to form a de facto family.
Major Plotline Point: Finding Kevin sets off a whole chain of events leading into its own subplot.

SEQUENCE 5: RECONSTRUCTION TESTS
P. 51–54: The Foursome continue their trek, but Carl is

having troubles keeping them in line (Note: House crashes
against rock wall, breaking a glass window — deconstruction
of the house). Pointing to Dug and Kevin, he says, “I don’t
want you here and I don’t want you here,” then at Russell,
“And I’m stuck with you.” [Note: Carl fighting the inertia
toward bonding with his new ‘family’]. Carl throws a ball for
Dug to chase and chocolate for Kevin. Running away from
Dug and Kevin. Doesn’t work as the two creatures find Carl
and Russell. [Note: Carl tries to challenge the emergence of
his ‘family,’ but their allegiance is stronger than his efforts].
P. 54–57: That night, the four prepare to sleep in the rain.

Russell fails with building a tent, then confesses he barely
has a relationship with his father. “But he promised to come
to my Explorer ceremony to pin on my Assisting the Elderly
badge. So he can show me about tents then, right?” And
now we know why this whole thing was really so important
for Russell: Not to be a Senior Wilderness Explorer, but to
win the attention of his father. Then Russell asks Carl to
promise to take Kevin with them. “Cross your heart?”
P. 57–59: Waking up the next morning, Dug explains that

Kevin is calling out to her babies who live in the “twisty
rocks.” Russell is surprised: “Kevin’s a girl?”
Kevin departs.
P. 59–60: Then Alpha and the other two tracking dogs show
up. They confront Dug asking where the bird is and not
getting a satisfactory answer, ‘escort’ Carl, Russell, and Dug
back to Muntz’s headquarters.
Sequence 5 summary: New complications force the protagonist into a descending spiral.
Being taken hostage has deviated them from the goal of Paradise Falls.
Reconstruction Tests summary: Bonding with Russell signifies a big moment in Carl’s emotional reconstruction.
The fact that he makes a promise and crosses his heart evokes the memory of Ellie. In effect, Carl’s heart, which was
broken when Ellie died, is being revived through his growing connection to Russell.
Major Plotline Point: Being taken hostage.

SEQUENCE 6: ALL IS LOST
P. 60–63: Brought to Muntz’s place, the mood shifts quickly
as Carl recognizes Muntz and Muntz acknowledges a fan.
Now they are guests.
P. 63–64: After parking his house, Carl and the others are
invited into the “Spirit of Adventure.” Meanwhile Dug is put
in the “cone of shame” by Alpha for having lost the bird.
P. 64–65: Muntz shows off some of his hunting trophies.
P. 66–70: Muntz insists that he needs to bring back “this

creature” to clear his name — and Carl realizes that he’s
talking about Kevin. Then Muntz talks about “bandits” who
have tried to get the bird instead of him. Not paying
attention, Kevin pipes up that the bird looks like Kevin, how
he’s domesticated her by using chocolate. Carl attempts to
end the conversation, “She’s gone off now” re Kevin. But
Muntz isn’t buying it, then Carl spots Kevin through the
window atop his house. Finally Kevin cries out and Muntz
sees the bird as well. But Carl has raced away with Russell.
P. 70–73: Chase. Dug and Kevin prove worthy allies in the

group escape from Muntz’s dogs. Kevin, bitten by Alpha in
the chase scenes, is lame. She can’t respond to her babies’
cry. Russell asks Carl, “Can’t we help her get home?” Carl,
torn between his goal and helping Kevin (a new shared goal
with Russell) — agrees. “But we gotta hurry.”
P.73–74: Back at Muntz’s lair, Muntz is livid that Carl and the
others escaped. They blame Dug — “He helped them
escape.” And it is his location signal that Muntz thinks will
help them find Kevin.
P. 74–75: With Dug confirming that the pack isn’t following

them and Kevin lying in the house with her injured leg, Carl
and Russell pull the house toward Kevin’s babies. Russell
tells about his father taking him for ice cream and their car-
counting game. “It might sound boring, but I think it’s the
boring stuff I remember the most.” Carl is moved.
P. 75–77: Hearing her babies, Kevin and the group take off,
getting close to Kevin’s home.
But Muntz arrives in the blimp and captures Kevin.
Then he sets fire to Carl’s house.
Carl has to choose. He chooses to save his house.
Muntz takes off with Kevin while Carl douses the flames.
Sequence 6 Summary: The main tension is resolved or reframed.

Carl’s goal of getting the house to Paradise Falls is compromised by attempting to reunite Kevin with her babies.
All Is Lost summary: Just when success was in sight, Kevin is taken away by Muntz, Carl’s house is damaged, and
the group is back on their heels.
Major Plotline Point: Muntz captures Kevin.

ACT THREE (Acceleration towards resolution)
SEQUENCE 7: ON THE OFFENSIVE
P 77: The group is fractured. Russell feels like Carl gave

away Kevin, but Carl is angry — he didn’t ask for any of this —
and tells off Dug. He sets out to take the house to Paradise
Falls, even without Russell’s assistance - even if “it kills him.”
P. 78: Travel scenes. Even the house is ‘low,’ scraping the

ground, underscoring the downer mood. Arrival at Paradise
Falls. A pyrrhic victory for Carl with little satisfaction at
having achieved his goal. Then an angry Kevin flings down
his achievement belt — “I don’t want this anymore” — in effect,
denying his goal.
P. 78–79: Carl enters the house. It’s a mess — just like his

dreams / goal. Seeking solace, he sits in his chair, next to
Ellie’s, and pulls out “My Adventure Book”. When he comes
to the “Stuff I’m Gonna Do” page, at first he is crushed. But
then sees that she filled in the book with photos and
memorabilia from her marriage with Carl. Then a message:
“Thanks for the adventure — now go have a new one. Love,
Ellie.” Picking up Russell’s merit sash, Carl crosses his heart.
P. 79–80: Carl exits to find Russell floating in mid-air,

connected to a bunch of balloons. “I’m going to help Kevin
even if you’re not.” Using a leaf blower as propulsion, he
zooms away. Carl tries to lift the house, but it won’t raise up.
Frustrated Carl tosses a chair off the front porch — which
gives him an idea. He throws everything inside the house
out, reducing the house’s weight so it can fly away.
P. 81: Carl is flyying his house to go help Russell rescue

Kevin. Knock at the door. It’s Dug. They bond once again.
“You’re my dog, and I’m your master.”
“Oh boy oh boy!”
Sequence 7 summary: Protagonist faces a new obstacle or objective. Carl heads off to help Russell and Kevin.
On The Offensive summary: Moving from low and defeated, Carl taps into a deeper level of energy to leap into
a new adventure. Major Plotline Point: Russell takes off after Kevin, causing Carl to follow Russell.

SEQUENCE 8: FINAL STRUGGLE
P. 81–84: Alpha informs Muntz that Russell is on board.

Muntz confronts Russell — who says that Carl isn’t his “friend”
anymore. Seeing Carl approaching in the balloon house,
Muntz sets Russell on a ramp that opens toward the sky.
P. 84–85: Spotting Russell sliding down the ramp, Carl veers

over and just catches Russell in the nick of time. Carl
deposits Russell, still tied to a chair, in the house. Russell
wants to help save Kevin, but Carl says no: “I want you to be
safe.” He and Dug head into the blimp.
P. 85–87: Carl and Dug head through a tunnel and find

Kevin. But Alpha deposits a bevy of guard dogs there.
Inspired by Dug chewing on a tennis ball on Carl’s walker,
Carl throws a ball down the hall which the guard dogs chase,
then Carl locks them out. He frees Kevin.
P. 87–88: While Muntz tries to decipher several dogs crying

out for help on the blimp intercom system, Kevin hops in his
chair out to the front porch of the house — “I want to help.”
Russell barely saves himself by grabbing onto the front
porch hose. Then Muntz sees him and sends out three dogs
in airplanes to attack Russell with bullet-darts.
P. 88–91: Carl, Dug, and Kevin are stopped by Muntz, who

locks Dug out of the room with he and Carl. Dug chased by
Alpha and other dogs. Muntz and Carl fight. Just when Muntz
is about to slice Carl with his sword, Dug slides onto a
control that sends the blimp tumbling sideways, knocking
Muntz off his feet. Carl almost falls out, then he and Kevin
climb onto the outside of the blimp onto a wall ladder,
pursued by Muntz.
P. 91–92: Dug chased by Alpha and other dogs, but Dug get
Alpha trapped with Cone of Shame and his voice device
messed up as before. The other dogs laugh at Alpha’s voice,
then Dug becomes the new alpha dog.

P. 92–93: Seeing Carl and Kevin in danger on the side of
the blimp, Russell pushes himself to climb the hose, then as
the dog planes zero in on him, he points and yells,
“Squirrel!” The planes crash into each other.
P. 93–95: Dug opens a hatch and appears on the outside

of the blimp, joining Carl and Kevin. Russell appears
with the balloon house. All aboard — then Muntz shows
up, shooting a rifle, bursting some balloons, causing the
house to drop onto the blimp. Carl grabs hose to stop
house from falling off edge of blimp while Muntz blasts
his way into the house. Carl tells Russell and Dug to hold
onto Kevin, then waves chocolate, causing Kevin to fly
(with Russell and Dug) over to the blimp. Muntz leaps
after them, but his foot catches in balloon strings, and
he plummets to his death.
P.96: Safe on the blimp, Carl watches his house float away
and disappear into the clouds. Russell says, “Sorry about
your house, Mr. Frederickson.” Carl responds, “You know,
it’s just a house.”
P. 96–98: Kevin reunites with her babies. Carl and Russell

co-pilot the blimp away into the sky.
Sequence 8 summary: Resolution. Loose ends are tied up. Kevin subplot resolved. Muntz taken care of.
Final Struggle summary: Carl’s ‘family’ works together to defeat the Antagonist. So Carl achieves Russell’s goal
of saving Kevin and reuniting her with her family. Major Plotline Point: Carl et al save Kevin.
THE DENOUEMENT
P. 98–100: Russell stands in line with other Wilderness
Explorers as he’s about to receive his final merit badge. He
looks up expectantly, hoping his father will show up — then
Carl appears: “I’m here for him.” He awards Russell the
“highest honor I can bestow — the Ellie badge,” the grape
soda badge Ellie gave Carl the day they first met. Russell
shows it off with pride to his mother, who is with Dug, and
all the other dogs in the back join in the celebration.
P. 100–101: Carl, Russell + Dug sit on the curb in front of

Russell’s favorite ice cream place (that he mentioned
earlier), counting red and blue cars.

… Then into the clouds where we see Carl’s house, which
has landed in Ellie’s dream spot atop Paradise Falls.
The Denouement summary: Carl fully embraces the role of substitute father to Russell and in so doing cements
his revitalization as a person. And the house atop Paradise Falls fulfills his original goal. But Carl doesn’t know — and
doesn’t care. He’s found a new adventure: A life as Russell’s paternal figure.
When you get to the point of breaking down a script into major Plotline points and
sequences [if it is a sequence type structure], you have exposed much in the way of its
structure, but not all of it. There is the External World [Plotline], but there is also the
Internal World [Themeline]. The best way into that world is to delve more deeply into the
characters which is what we will do next, with
Subplots, Relationships and Character Functions.
Reminder: This is just one approach to analyzing a screenplay. Everyone is different and has different needs, either
personally or per project. If you resonate with any ideas here, feel free to use them. If not, feel free to lose them.

Subplots, Relationships and Character Functions
It’s impossible to emphasize enough how important subplots are for… well, I suppose every
screenplay. At their most basic level of value, they provide a way for the writer to cut away
from the Plotline which is hugely important on many fronts including time management and
pace. But their significance is multifaceted.
Here’s how I think of subplots: Relationships.
If you want to track down subplots in a screenplay, locate all the primary and
even key secondary characters, especially the ones who directly connect with the
Protagonist, and you’re almost assuredly looking at a subplot.
Continuing with our study script UP!, let’s list the various relationships in the story:
Carl + Ellie Carl + Muntz

Carl + Kevin
Carl + Russell Carl + Real Estate Developer
Carl + Dug
Russell + Kevin Muntz + Kevin
Russell + His Father
Kevin + Her Babies Dug + Alpha and the Other Dogs
All these relationships represent subplots that tie into and impact the Plotline.
The Plotline: Carl getting the house up to Paradise Falls.

Carl would not have a Want [Conscious Goal] to get the house
to Paradise Falls were it not for his promise to Ellie, and of
Carl + Ellie: course the love and affection he has for his late wife, as well as
the shadow of guilt about never having fulfilled this shared
dream.
Carl acts on his goal when the Real Estate Developer manages
C arl + Re al E state
to get Carl set to move into an old folks home, relinquishing
Developer:
the rights to his house and the valuable land on which it sits.
Once airborne, the surprise appearance of Russell enables Carl
to get the house to Paradise Falls [Russell steers the house there
Carl + Russell:
while Carl is knocked out], but then the boy’s presence creates
disruptions in Carl’s plan.

The first disruption occurs when Russell finds and befriends
Russell + Kevin: Kevin, who then follows the pair until he becomes an ad hoc
member of the expedition.
Kevin creates a secondary goal for the group, of getting the

Carl + Kevin:
bird to her babies.
Dug intersects with Carl, Russell and Kevin because he is
Carl + Dug:
searching for the bird, then he joins the traveling troop.
Dug + Alpha and the Alpha intersects with Carl and company because Dug is with
Other Dogs: Carl and company.
Carl intersects with Muntz because of all the previously noted

Carl + Muntz:
connections.
Note how the subplots in Up create a seamless path from Carl’s home in the city to Carl
being chased by Muntz. One group [Carl, Russell, Kevin, Dug] vs. the other [Muntz, Alpha,
Other Dogs].
So at one level, that is their character function — to create that narrative path.
But there is much more to the function of characters and their relationships as they help
take us from the Plotline into the Themeline and the soul of the story.
And that leads us to a fascinating way to view the Plotline and subplots: Look at them
through the lens of Character Archetypes. Here's my take on the character archetypes in Up.
Protagonist : Carl
Nemesis: Muntz, Alpha and the Other Dogs, Real Estate Developer
Attractor: Ellie, Russell
Mentor: Dug
Trickster : Kevin
For a deeper analysis of how I've applied archetypes to the characters in UP! - you can go
here to a previous GITS post.

With regard to reading and analyzing a screenplay, the point is this:
Another tool at your disposal is to identify and break down the story’s subplots:
◆ Subplots can be intimately connected to the Plotline.
◆ Subplots are generally tied to individual characters who have
unique relationships with the Protagonist and sometimes with each
other.
◆ Subplots are typically shaped the way they are by virtue of their
character’s narrative function.
◆ Subplots can be explored in terms of primary character archetypes.
◆ Subplots provide sub-themes that amplify and widen the meaning
of the story’s central theme.
In sum, subplots open doorways into the soul of a story, a presence that is intimately
connected with a dynamic Joseph Campbell said lies at the center of The Hero’s Journey:
Transformation, or as I prefer, Metamorphosis. That's next.

Metamorphosis
Author Malcolm Cowley said this:
In the end something has changed. If nothing has changed, it isn’t a story.
At a fundamental level, stories are about change. Events change, circumstances change,
locations change, time changes. But perhaps the single most important change in a movie is
this:
metamorphosis.
Joseph Campbell said that at some level, the entire point of the Hero’s Journey is
metamorphosis [he used the term “transformation”].
Whose metamorphosis?
The Hero, of course, a character screenwriters refer to as the Protagonist.
Therefore another lens through which we can read and analyze a screenplay is to study the
Protagonist’s metamorphosis arc.
There is the physical journey they go through in the External World [Plotline], but that is
accompanied by the psychological journey in the Internal World [Themeline].
We can ask these questions as we dig into a screenplay:
◆ Where does the Protagonist begin their psychological journey?

◆ Where does the Protagonist end their psychological journey?
◆ What stages of development do they go through from beginning to end?
In the screenplay for Pixar’s Up, the Protagonist Carl Frederickson begins the story in a
profound state of Disunity:
▪ He is an old man living alone.
▪ He struggles with a body that works against him [e.g., bad back, needs to use a cane
to walk, must ride an escalating seat up and down the stairs].
▪ He wakes in the morning, eats his bran cereal, ties his bow tie, walks out the front
door, then proceeds to plop onto a seat on the front porch, nowhere to go, nowhere
to be.
▪ Even his house exists in a state of Disunity, surrounded on all sides by mammoth
skyscrapers, the last vestige of the past amidst the pull of the future.
But of course, the single most significant aspect of Carl’s Disunity is the fact he is a
widower. His beloved wife of many years Ellie has died.

In my interview with Mary Coleman, head of the Pixar story department, she described
Carl’s circumstance this way:
“Carl has been living the past, not even living, just biding his time
until he dies and joins Ellie. He stopped living when she died.”
He stopped living when she died. This is an apt description of where Carl begins his
psychological journey, a deep, dark state of Disunity.
Once Russell intervenes in his life and the narrative shifts to South America, Carl goes
through a process of Deconstruction.
Between the boy, Kevin and Dug, and finding himself forced to drag his floating house all the
way across the other side of the valley to reach Paradise Falls, Carl’s old ways — beliefs and
behaviors — get knocked about and pushed around.
▪ His ingrained behavior is to be alone, but Russell, Kevin and Dug won’t let him.
▪ His habit is to be a curmudgeonly old man, but Russell’s boundless enthusiasm for
exploration, Dug’s immediate and unconditional love, and Kevin’s tricks constantly
assault his ability to wear his gruff mask.
▪ Even his old body is forced to accommodate itself to new circumstances, oftentimes
setting aside his walker, even running albeit trying to escape Kevin and Dug [to no
avail].
At a psychological level what is happening is this: Russell, Kevin, Dug and his hero’s journey
poke holes in Carl’s defenses, opening the way… to his heart.
This is the core of what transpires in the next stage: Reconstruction.

If we track the course of Carl’s subplot relationships in the second half of Act Two, we find:
▪ Carl listening to Russell talk about his favorite memory of his now absent father
[sitting outside the ice cream parlor counting cars].
▪ Carl promising Russell they will help Kevin get back to her babies.
▪ Carl begrudgingly accepting Dug as a companion.
What happens here is an ad hoc family is forming, one that becomes a surrogate for Carl’s
relationship with Ellie with the potential to fill that void he feels inside.
In Act Three once Carl has achieved his original goal — get the house to Paradise falls to
fulfill his promise to Ellie — he has a choice: Accept the fact he has accomplished what he set
out to do or take on a new goal by going after Russell and trying to save Kevin from Muntz’s
clutches. In the end, of course, the Good Guys win the day. And if you want a snapshot of a
pivotal moment in Carl’s metamorphosis, there is this moment on P. 96:

Carl looks into the distance. His house, now empty, floats
softly down into the clouds, and disappears.
RUSSELL
Sorry about your house, Mr.
Fredricksen.
Carl smiles. He puts his arm around Russell.
CARL
You know, it's just a house.
A house which symbolized Ellie so much that Carl used to talk to it as if speaking to his wife.
Now after all is said and done, it’s just a house.
That signifies metamorphosis.
And with the denouement when Carl shows up at Russell’s merit badge award ceremony to
give him the Ellie Badge [the grape soda pin Ellie gave Carl when they were kids], then the
pair sit outside Fenton’s Ice Cream Parlor counting cars with Dug [“Green one”], we see Carl
in a state of Unity, a new family to replace his old one, a man who had stopped living
transformed into one who has embraced life again.
Almost every single movie has some sort of metamorphosis going on.
Positive metamorphosis, negative metamorphosis, resistance to metamorphosis,

Protagonists who change, Protagonists who change others. If you want to understand a
screenplay when you read it, this is an important set of eyes to use to do just that.

Themes
My take on theme is comprised of two major points:
(1) Theme = Meaning.
Theme is the glue that binds together a story and gives it meaning.
(2) A story will have multiple themes.
Theme is not just the moral of the story, the story’s premise, or its
proposition, but rather the narrative dynamics tied to the psychological
impact of what transpires in every event and every scene.
It is critical for a writer to understand, at least in part, the themes in their own stories. One
of the best ways to learn how to do that is read screenplays, analyzing them to see how the
writers use themes and how themes emerge in the context of the narrative.
For purposes of script analysis, I zero in on two types of themes:
The Central Theme: The overriding meaning of the story

Sub-Themes: A specific aspect or variation of the central theme that
sheds a distinctive light on the narrative’s significance.
So for example in The Silence of the Lambs, we might say that its central theme is this:
To silence the nightmare of the past, Clarice must confront it.
Some sub-themes would be:
1) Death
⁃ its power to inflict pain [the murder of Clarice’s father];
⁃ its power to provide redemption [the killing of Buffalo bill].
2) Transformation
⁃ Buffalo Bill seeks to become a woman (i.e., his obsession with moths, sewing
a female body suit made out of his victim’s skin, dressing like a woman);
⁃ Clarice seeks to resolve the guilt she feels about her father’s death and
become a whole person.
Continuing with our analysis of the movie UP!, how would we go about surfacing its themes?
It’s always a good idea to start with the Protagonist, so let’s look at Carl and in particular
the nature of his metamorphosis.
In the beginning, after the death of his beloved wife Ellie, Carl basically exists in a lifeless
state. Think about that word: Life. Less. By the end, he is full of life and enjoying himself.
Indeed there are two images in the script involving food that provide visual bookends to his
transformation.

The beginning: The end:
What is the difference?

In the first, he is alone. In the second, he is joined by Russell and Dug.
Thus we can see that in one way, Carl’s metamorphosis is about finding connections.
We might typify the story’s central theme as this:
“In order to find new life, Carl needs to open himself up to the possibilities life offers.”
Indeed in my interview with Mary Coleman, head of Pixar’s story department, we discussed
this very point:
SM: We see that point of personal connection in Up very profoundly, don’t we? We
start off with Carl as a boy, meeting young Ellie, then losing her in that poignant
sequence of their married life together. And having experienced the loss of Ellie, Carl
is almost ‘life-less,’ left to string out the remaining days of his life. Then he goes on this
big journey to South America, accompanied by Russell, who is an adventurer and full
of life. And here again, strange sojourners — an old man fading from life, a young boy
full of life. Yet each has their own shadow: Carl who has a void where Ellie used to
be, Russell who has a void where his father used to be. Those internal dynamics push
the pair as they go on their external journey, all the while overcoming obstacles and
over time forming a connection. And per this idea of the philosophical stakes, for Carl
isn’t it finally a story of resurrection?
MC: Absolutely. Carl has been living the past, not even living, just biding his time until
he dies and joins Ellie. He stopped living when she died. So yes, it’s a rebirth story
because by the end he’s able to have a new relationship in the present. And it’s sweet
because while the primary relationship is with Russell, by accepting the unconditional
love of the dog Dug, letting him come in, jump on him, and be his dog, you’ve got a
satisfying B-plot of another present-tense relationship.
We could even shorthand the central theme of Up as being about resurrection.
But what about sub-themes?

One of the best ways I know to explore a story’s multiple themes is by examining its
subplots. Remember how in an earlier chapter, I identified Up’s subplots? Each of them, as
we noted, is comprised of a relationship (e.g., Carl+Ellie, Carl+Real Estate Developer,
Carl+Russell, Russell+Kevin).
Since each subplot offers a slightly different access point to a story’s Themeline, it makes
sense that a subplot can provide a sub-theme related to the story’s central theme.
Picking up on Mary Coleman’s point about Dug —
“accepting the unconditional love of the dog Dug, letting him come in, jump on him,

and be his dog, you’ve got a satisfying B-plot of another present-tense relationship”
— there you have a sub-theme: Dug shows Carl the meaning of unconditional love.
Remember this moment when Dug first intersects with Carl and Russell [P. 46]:
“I have just met you and I love you.” That is the essence of unconditional love. Which
is why I think Dug functions as a Mentor, conveying to Carl two important lessons:
1) The ability to be open to connection with another being.
2) The joy of giving and receiving love.
Carl needs to learn both of these things in order to move out of his Life-Less state, where he
has been so attached to Ellie, he can’t move on. And what better way to physicalize the reality
of unconditional love than a happy, slobbering dog full of boundless ardor for his newfound
Master?
Themes represent another lens through which we can read and analyze a screenplay. The
more we learn about them and see how they work in the context of many scripts, the more
we can bring that understanding to our own writing.

Style and Language
This one is easy. And you need go no further than today’s Screenwriting 101 quote from
Shane Black:
“I studied William Goldman’s writing style, especially the scripts for Marathon Man
and Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. I found both of those to be really riveting,
entertaining in their own right, as if you were reading a condensed novel good for
one sitting. Similarly, Walter Hill’s scripts for Alien and the original 48 Hours when
they were looking for a Clint Eastwood kind of pairing — I thought these were
wonderfully written scripts. I studied the language and the style. I didn’t realize as I
was reading them, that these were very unusual. That most people wrote scripts much
differently. I assumed there weren’t many rules and you just sort of did whatever you
wanted to stylistically and had fun with it. So, I took those two writers as examples
and mentors.”
I studied William Goldman’s writing style [emphasis added].

Point made. Hopefully point taken.
In the past, I’ve mentioned how I immersed myself in scripts when I first broke into
Hollywood, reading everything I could get my hands on. In fact, that’s where I came up with
many of the ideas about script analysis I’ve laid out in this series. Here’s another one: Go

through a script and excerpt all the good, strong visual writing.
In a nice bit of synergy, here is what I did with Shane Black’s script for The Last Boy Scout
about 20 years ago:

See, I wasn’t lying when I said I did all that script analysis! And check out that action writing
and scene description. It’s taut and efficient, yet visual and cinematic.
Clearly Black is a writer who loves language and understands the power of words.
That is something to which we should all aspire.
You should feel free to play around with your writing style.
Read a bunch of scripts, pick up some ideas, then test them out.
Eventually you will settle into a style that suits you.
Plus don’t forget the importance of considering your story’s Narrative Voice.
You must make choices about style within the context of your story’s genre.
So yet another lens through which to read a screenplay: style and language.
Comment Archive

A Script Reader Speaks: Story Analyst D.C. Mar
Script readers are Hollywood’s threshold guardians.
Nobody who is involved in the script acquisition and development decision-making

process reads a script without coverage.
But a script reader, or more accurately story analyst, is much more than merely about
providing script coverage.
This Exclusive Q&A interview series began on my Go Into The Story Blog way back in
2008, and still holds true today.
I asked one of my online screenwriting students and longtime story analyst, D.C. Mar,
to answer a series of questions I posed to her.
She sent back a remarkable document that includes some of the most important
information for screenwriters, aspiring and professional, I have ever seen. Enjoy!
Table of Contents: A Script Reader Speaks
What does a Scriptreader / Story Analyst do?
How did you go about becoming a script reader?
How many scripts do you read and for who?
What is your process?
Rank them: Concept, Characters, Style
Common mistakes that drive you crazy?
Key elements for a "Recommend"?

What does a Scriptreader / Story Analyst do?
How would you describe what a script reader/story analyst does?
We can be likened to the gardeners whose job is to weed out everything but the few
rare blooms that might actually have a chance at becoming a movie.
We’ve all heard that readers and coverage exist because the executives don’t bother
to read. That’s not entirely accurate. Yes, most execs will have only read the
coverage or even just the logline or summary on the coverage. But they do read the
scripts that intrigue or excite them based on favorable coverage or something in the
coverage that catches their fancy. And sure, the studio chiefs and the production
company heads only read the very few scripts that reach their desk after it’s been
thoroughly screened and championed by everyone from the lowly reader and
assistant on up to the VPs and Presidents of the company. It’s impossible for these execs
to read every single script, book and other property that is submitted to them. And
that’s where readers come in. There are fewer of them and a lot of us and our job is to
thin down the pile to only the few and most promising gems.
We do have to read everything that is submitted and determine which of the few merit
a closer look by those in the position to make decisions about moving it on up the
pipeline for potential acquisition and development. If we readers rave about a script
in coverage, and the executive requesting the coverage agrees and also raves about
it, this script will be passed on to the highest level exec or producer(s) in the company
who have the ultimate say so on whether a property is acquired or not.
Of course, as with everything, there are inexperienced readers and veteran readers
ranging from the intern doing his/her first coverage to the weary, skeptical pro who’s
read thousands upon thousands of scripts. The best readers take into consideration
many factors and one of the most important is the specific tastes and filmmaking
philosophy of the company/entity for which they read. Something I recommend for
the Weinstein Company might not be right for New Line or vice versa.
The industry calls us “script readers” or more often just “readers,” but the term is a
misnomer since we not only read and analyze scripts but also (fiction/non-fiction)
manuscripts, books and book proposals, treatments, teleplays, pilots, comic books,
graphic novels, magazine and news articles and watch VHS/DVDs of foreign movies
or classics for remake potential. “Story analyst” is the more accurate term since we
evaluate just about anything that could potentially be translated into a movie (or TV
series/miniseries). Certainly a big chunk of what we evaluate is screenplays submitted
from talent agencies, other production entities, actors, directors, friends of the head
honchos or less frequently the writers themselves. But because Hollywood loves
adaptations sometimes more than screenplays, a sizable percentage of submissions
are also books and manuscripts from publishers and book agents.
Also, the type of coverage and function it serves will vary. Depending on whether a
story analyst is evaluating a submission for a talent agency (seller) or production

company (buyer) or actor/director (talent) or writing services geared towards writer,
the type of analysis will be very different. For example, coverage for literary
agencies/management companies are geared towards assessing the potential of the
script or project to sell and to whom and/or whether the script/book/project etc. being
evaluated would be appropriate for a specific actor or director. Coverage for studios,
production companies, producers are geared towards whether the company should
buy the project and invest in development based on the company/individual’s specific
mandate. Another type of coverage analysts do for studios, ProdCos and producers are
detailed project and/or comparison coverage on projects these companies/individuals
own and have in development, which entails providing comprehensive notes on the
latest draft or comparing the most recent draft with the earlier draft. Project coverage
also includes evaluating writing samples submitted for writer candidates being
considered for rewrites on a given project.

Most script readers, me included, are writers who read for a living to get by while
writing that break-through script or jockeying for that entry level creative executive
or junior agent/manager position. How I and most others gained a foothold in the story
analyst door is by doing coverage while at another job (as an assistant, for example)
and/or doing internships while in film school.
In my case, my first job in the film industry was as an assistant to a literary agent at
CAA. This agent was head of the book department at the time and one of my job
duties, aside from rolling phone calls and other dreary but typical assistant chores,
was doing coverage on the piles and piles of books that flooded into the department
from NY lit agents. Then in film school, I won a writing award sponsored by Harmony
Gold and one of the benefits was that they hired me to read scripts and books for them
during the summers.
When I started looking for enough reading work to make a living, I put together a
coverage sample package from book coverage I did for CAA and script coverage for
Harmony Gold and canvassed story editors all over town with query letters. I
eventually landed a full time reading gig with Turner Pictures. After reading for them
for a year, they shut down, but executives from there went on to other companies and
they brought me on board at New Regency and Radiant, where I stayed for many
years. Once you do consistent work at a company and the executives like your
coverage, word gets out and other companies needing analysts contact you about
reading for them.
So the direct answer to the question of how to become script reader is to do

internships when you’re in college (Benderspink has a great internship program) and
accumulate good coverage samples while getting valuable industry experience.
Once you’ve read for a big production company and accumulated enough coverage,
you use those samples to get subsequent reading jobs at other companies, or better
yet, have executives like your coverage enough to refer you to other story editors
who are looking for good, reliable readers.
Becoming a script reader is a tried and true way to break into screenwriting. As Josh noted
in previous comments, screenwriter John August started out reading scripts.
Two things that does for you: (1) You get to read a ton of material which gives you a Gestalt
understanding of the craft. (2) Since 99% of the scripts you read are crap, you are inspired
to write something on your own.

How many scripts do you read and for who?
How many scripts do you read/provide coverage on each week and for what type of
companies?
When I was reading full-time for several companies at a time, I would read 2–3 three
scripts per DAY with 9 am, noon and 4:30 pm deadlines or one book per day with
either a 9 am overnight deadline or 4:30 pm next day deadline or day after next
“regular” deadline. The volume of material and deadlines were dependent on the
company. I was a full-time senior reader at New Regency for 12 years and their
deadlines were the most stringent and but fairly typical at a big production house.
Scripts and often books were expected on an overnight basis, meaning the coverage
had to be emailed in by 9 am. Deadlines at NR got a bit looser in the last few years I
was them, mostly due to budget cuts, and then we readers were expected to get our
two-three script coverage or one book in by a “next day” deadline, which is 4:30 pm.
On average, I read 10–14 scripts a week for New Regency along with about 1 or 2
scripts or books that same week for other companies, which included APG when that
company was still around and Radiant Prods., which is Wolfgang Petersen’s
production company. So the type of companies I provided coverage for included big
production companies like New Regency with lots of submissions coming in each day
from top agents, studios, actors, directors and producers and other prodcos looking for
a co-financing partner), management/production companies like AMG, which folded
into The Firm, which had submissions coming in from or for their talent roster needing
coverage on whether these projects would be appropriate for their clients. I also read
for smaller production companies like AMG’s production arm, APG, which mostly had
me provide coverage on their projects in development, and talent based production
companies like Wolfgang Petersen’s and Katherine Bigelow’s needing coverage on
projects he or she might produce and/or direct and also story notes on their projects
already in development.
Currently, I read for The Weinstein Company and occasionally for a script writer
service called Script Shark, both of which require a different mindset from the
mainstream, studio-affiliated entities I’ve typically provided coverage for in the past.
An important thing to keep in mind when reading for various entities is not what you
personally like but what is right for that particular company/executives’ tastes and
philosophy. TWC looks for projects that will not only earn money at the box office but
also quality “filmmakers’ films” that have awards potential. But they also scout for
Dimension Films, which is lower budget mainstream with an eye towards the younger
demographics and thus a preference for high concept horror. Readers need to
understand market conditions and trends and the specific tastes of the company for
which they’re providing coverage. The insights a reader must cultivate when reading
for different entities is good practice for the screenwriter also. If your low budget art
house script lands at a mainstream oriented production house like New Regency, the
script will likely get passed on no matter how great the writing is because it’s just not
the right marriage.

10–14 scripts per week. Let that sink in. Imagine your screenplay is one of that group. How
can you make your script stand out from all the rest? What can you write on P.1 that will
make an exhausted and cynical script reader immediately get hooked into your story? How
can you structure each scene, each page so the reader will want to keep reading until they get
to FADE OUT?

What is your process?
What is your process when you sit down to read a script (i.e., look at the title page to see
who’s written the script and who represents it, flip to the back to see how many pages the
script is, flip through the pages to get a sense of how the writer approached scene
description/balance of SD and dialogue, etc.)
With most companies I read for, the submission comes with a coverage submission
form issued by the executive requesting the coverage. This form tells me the title of
the project, the writer, who script was submitted to (which executive, producer, etc.)
and from whom (agent, producer, studio exec, talent, writer, etc.), type of coverage
needed (standard, general writing sample, project writing sample, project coverage,
breakdowns, etc.) and when the coverage is due (same day rush, overnight, next day,
regular, low priority). This sheet is what I look at first. From this information, I’m
already making judgments about the script. For example, if the script deadline is a
same day rush (meaning I have to get that coverage in asap within a few hours and
probably have to call in a verbal assessment before writing the official coverage), the
writer is a well-known name, the script has been submitted to a top executive in the
company and it’s been submitted by one of the big agencies or a big name producer,
I’m already going into the script with a positive bias — that there’s already hot buzz on
and interest in the project or the turnaround for the coverage wouldn’t be so fast and
urgent. That certainly does not guarantee I’ll give the script a “consider.” But if I do
decide to pass on it, I have to make a much stronger case than usual for why it’s not
right for the company.
If, on the other hand, I receive a standard coverage request and the deadline is low
priority (meaning I have a few days to get the coverage in), it’s written by an
unknown writer and submitted by an agency that’s not one of the top tier agencies (or
directly from the writer), I’ve already formed a negative bias that this script isn’t that
important, the executive receiving the submission and requesting coverage isn’t too
keen about the concept and it will be a likely “pass.” It’s not fair, but this script gets
shoved to the back of the pile, after all the “overnights” and “next days” and will
have a harder time convincing me it doesn’t deserve a “pass.” If in this case I decide
the script is great and should be considered further, I have to be certain to make a
very strong case for why.
Other information on the coverage submission form that affects my bias going into the
read is whether there are any talent attachments, such as producers, actors, directors,
writers doing the adaptation , etc.
The point of all this is that most scripts, fairly or not, have the odds stacked heavily
against them from the moment we receive them. Seemingly superfluous information
such as who submitted the script and to whom and when it’s due tell me a lot about
the script even before I read one word. Of course, I’ve read scripts that I expected not
be impressed by and were pleasantly surprised as I kept reading. Those are the few
gems that beat the odds because they were just too good to be ignored or overlooked.

After I pick through my pile of scripts to be covered and determine in what order they
get covered, this is my typical process:
— First, I look at the title and make a guess as to what genre it is — comedy, drama,
action-adventure, etc.
— I look to see if I know of the writer.
— I flip to the back to check the page count, which tells me if the writer has stuck
within the average length for a given genre (shorter for comedies and horrors — 96–
105, longer for action/thrillers 105–118, longest for dramas up to 120, etc.). These are
NOT hard fast rules and some scripts come in longer that are great. But as I mentioned
above, if your script exceeds the average page count for your genre, I’m going into it
with some negative assumptions about you and your script and it’s up to the script and
the writing to convince me I’m totally off base.
— I flip through the script to see how much dark space there is (i.e., long chunks of
dialogue and big blocks of stage description).
— I set a timer for 45 minutes. That’s how long it should take me to read to the
midpoint of the script. When the timer goes off and I’m still not at the midpoint, I
endeavor to read faster to keep the read no longer than 1 ½ hours. A script that
doesn’t allow for speedy reading and slows me down due to dense, overwritten
narrative or disjointed, incoherent execution will earn itself a “pass.”
— As I start reading, the first page tells me a lot. Does the tone clearly signal what
kind of movie I’m in for (genre)? Does the script have me hooked yet? Or am I
confused? Indifferent? Bored? Or am I intrigued, excited, amused, unsettled and, in
other words, emotionally engaged in some way?
— By page five, if something hasn’t hooked me yet, I’m scribbling peevish notes on
the margins such as “what’s going on?” “what’s happening?”
— By the end of act one, if I’m still not hooked, I’ve already formed enough of an
opinion and am starting to write the comment for the coverage.
— As I read, I circle major characters and plot points. To be honest, I’m reading so
quickly that I’m not always paying attention to whether ALL the major story pillars are
in place. I don’t break down your script’s structure, but I am reacting to whether or
not it’s essentially sound.
I do pay attention to four major pillars and these are the ones I usually circle as I read:
inciting incident, end of act one, midpoint and end of act two. I’m not saying to
myself, “okay, here’s the inciting incident…here’s the ‘all is lost moment.’” But what
I’m thinking as I read is, “something interesting has just happened to the main
character (inciting incident/catalyst). “ “Ah, the central question or core problem is
raised (end of act one). “ “Oh shit, everything just got more messed up (midpoint),”

and “Oh shit, the protag is doomed, but let’s see how he/she get out of it (end of act
two).” If I’m thinking “huh? What’s the central question? What’s the main character’s
problem? When the heck is something going to happen?” — that means the story
pillars aren’t in place, I’m bored and the script will get an easy “pass” (and probably
a line in the coverage that reads something to the effect of “not enough happens in
the plot to sustain audience involvement for the duration…” etc.).
— After I finish reading the script, I set the timer again for 1 hour, which is the time I
allot for writing the synopsis and then another 30 minutes for writing up and/or
finishing up the comments. All told, I allow an average of three hours per script from
read to completed coverage. Sometimes it takes a tad longer, like four hours, for
genres like sci-fi, historical dramas, etc. Readers hate when the read is dense and
tedious, too bogged down by unnecessary details. If it takes me too long to read the
script and grasp the story and characters without effort, and especially if I have to stop
repeatedly to go back and re-read passages to make sense of what’s going on, the
script will get an easy pass.
Every professional reader I know tries to stick to a time limit for each script, plus or
minus an hour or so. Writers may protest that their script isn’t get fair treatment and
would be more favorably received if these lazy readers spent more quality time on
each script digesting the nuances. But the sad, hard fact is that 1) readers are under
intense deadline imposed by the companies they read for 2) it’s a well known fact that
most readers do not get paid much at all, which is why they read 2–3 scripts a day
and do so quickly and under deadline. A reader taking eight hours to read one script a
day simply can’t survive financially unless he/she has another job and 3) the simple
fact is, great scripts are a breeze to read and are easily and quickly recognized. They
don’t need hours upon hours of careful scrutiny and contemplation to “get.”
What all this translates to is that the majority of the scripts get weeded out quickly if they
are not GREAT reads.
Okay, admit it — this is fascinating.
To find out the actual process that a script reader goes through to read a screenplay.
And her first three steps:
• Check to see who the writer is to establish what priority she will give the script;
• flip to the back page to see how long the script is;
• then flip through the script to get an overall sense of the look of the pages,
comparing black to white space.
That is precisely what those script readers I befriended in the late 80s told me. So some
things never change.

Rank them: Concept, Characters, Style
If you had to rank in importance these three elements — great story concept, strong
characters, distinctive writing style — which is the most important and why?
This is a tough one to answer since I’ve seen scripts bought that are strong in one or
the other. There are always exceptions and no hard and fast rule. But I will say that
theoretically, especially with regards to the studio contracted companies or producers
staking their future on box office hits, the concept is probably the most important of the
three. It’s possible for a poorly executed script with thin characters but great concept
to be bought over a solidly executed script with an okay or not so great concept. In
coverage, a script with exceptional concept but bad execution would rate:
Project: Consider with reservations (or “consider” if the concept is that good)
Writer: Pass
A script with great characters and solid execution all around but unexciting concept
rates as follows:
Project: Pass
Writer: Consider
In comments, I would rave about the writing, what kind of projects (owned by the
company or in general) this writer would be a great match for and suggest that the
writer be tracked.
So all is not lost if the writing is great.
Having said this however, I would seemingly contradict myself by saying that great
characters often make all the difference between a “pass” or “consider.”
In my experience, the scripts I give “considers” to almost always have GREAT or
memorable characters to go along with a great concept. I often find that excellent
characters are what make the difference between a concept that is familiar and one
given a fresh slant. Often it is the characterization that elevates a run-of-the-mill script
to a great one and the element that tips the scale from a “pass” to a “consider.”
A great distinctive writing style could also get you favorable coverage even if
concept isn’t great or characters aren’t exceptional because Hollywood loves finding
new writers with that fresh, new and unique voice. Even though their script may not
get picked up, the writer gets buzz, which translates to meetings and sometimes even
writing assignments.
The ideal, however, is a script that has all three elements working in tandem. These
are the scripts that get readers excited and raving about the script in their coverage.
These are the scripts that a reader happily rates a “consider” for both project and
writer.
A reader hardly ever gives a script a Recommend. First, very few scripts that come
across the desk are that great and second, readers are reticent to put their professional
credibility on the line. Much safer to write glowing remarks in the assessment and
offer a Consider.

Common mistakes that drive you crazy?
What are the common mistakes screenwriters make that drive you crazy?
There are so many, too many to note here, such as careless spelling/grammar,
improper formatting, dense, novelistic stage descriptions, etc. Instead I’ll concentrate
on a few less obvious ones that account for a majority of the “passes.”
Characterization: A common mistake made by both pros and novice writers is an
inattention to characters. This may seem a contradiction to the answer I gave above
about “concept” being the most important element of the three cited. But your
concept would have to be out of this world for me to forgive reading a hundred or so
pages of a script with characters I’m given no reason to care about.
Whether your script is action or thriller or horror or broad comedy or rom-com, I want
to understand, identify with and/or root for someone in your movie. Too often writers
plug in stock characters that simply serve the dictates of the plot. If your characters
are bland or poorly motivated or unsympathetic or don’t make sense because they’re
simply slaves to plot dictates or are a carbon copy of the villains and heroes from
other movies, then chances are your great concept and/or wonderful plot will be
undermined and obscured to the point where I won’t even recognize their potential.
As a reader, I’m most excited by scripts that carry me into the story through well
drawn and/or memorable characters and I’m turned off by scripts that have thin,
undeveloped or stock good guys and bad guys. As I mentioned earlier, great,
memorable characters are often what elevate a familiar or okay concept to one that
is fresh or exceptional. One of the most common results of deficient character
development is a script that’s formulaic — what we readers often describe in coverage
as “by-the-numbers.”
Another common mistake is a reliance on dialogue to advance plot and characters.
The cardinal rule “show rather than tell” is essential. Although readers love seeing
pages of dialogue and sparse stage description — airiness — in scripts, that doesn’t
mean we like to see on-the-nose and/or expository dialogue that tries to explain what
should be dramatized — how the character feels, who the character is, what’s going
on in the plot, what are the themes, etc. A script with blistering, snappy dialogue is still
not going to get favorable coverage if it lacks the sound story architecture and
character development to go with it. It might get you a nod as a dialogue punch up
guy, but it’s simply not enough for a script to have good dialogue only while concept,
characters and plot are underwhelming.
Lacking visual writing. Another mistake that’s often a byproduct of the talky,
expository script is one that lacks visual writing. Movies are a visual medium and
readers want to “see” and “feel” the movie in their mind and feel it viscerally and
emotionally as they read. Consequently, scripts need visual and visceral impact. They
need to feel like they belong on a big screen and not on stage or on a tiny (YouTube)
window.
Clichés. Another common mistake, one that I guarantee that every reader hates, is the
use of clichés. We read so many scripts per week that what you might think is an
acceptable cliché, i.e., the phrase “…like a deer caught in headlights,” is something

we’ll catch and groan over. Clichés also include familiar character types (the
commitment-phobic boyfriend in a rom-com, for example) or situations (i.e., the
girlfriend catching boyfriend in bed with another woman, etc.). The catch phrase
you’ll want to avoid in coverage is “this tired, predictable and cliché-laden script…”
Another common mistake is a reliance on luck and convenience in the plot. There is
nothing more boring than following a character who constantly gets out of tight fixes
or solves problems due to luck and/or convenient factors.
Unclear / Overcomplicated - One thing I (and other readers) hate is writing that lacks
clarity or a script that is overly complicated and which forces me to backtrack often
and re-read portions to understand what’s going on. As I’ve been saying repeatedly, if
your script is not a fun, easy read, it won’t receive favorable coverage. Simplify the
stage descriptions to the are minimum. Prune the lyrical prose. Save it for your novel.
Overuse of sentence fragments - The flip side of dense, overwritten narrative is the
overuse of punchy, staccato sentence fragments. When used effectively, sentence
fragments are great. But when overused, as in every sentence is a fragment, it makes
for difficult and annoying read. We readers hate it when a script tries too hard to be
punchy and economical by stringing together all sentence fragments and no complete
sentences. This is because we have to fill in the missing gaps to understand the flow of
the action. There is an art to using sentence fragments and the trick is balance. Use
fragments in moderation and when it’s most effective as a point of emphasis.
Many mistakes signal “novice writer!”
If you’re green to writing and haven’t done your homework as to what is the proper
format or what constitutes a professionally presented script, it’s OBVIOUS and the
script will get an automatic pass. We still have to read it, but not happily and the
comments will be unforgiving. I’m always amazed by scripts that come in double-
spaced or have long, long blocks of stage descriptions or dialogues. At the very
minimum, scripts should be presented professionally and readers shouldn’t be able to
tell if this is a script written by a first time writer or by a working pro.
There are two types of scripts that readers love: the really, really good ones that are
an obvious, easy, no brainer “consider” or “recommend” and the really, really bad
ones that are an obvious, no brainer pass. This is because coverage for these are fast
and easy to write. It’s easy to rave about a script or rip it apart. The much harder ones
for readers to cover are those that have us on the fence because it’s much harder to
justify why it merits a consider or deserves a pass. Obviously, writers should avoid
making it easy for us readers to give their script a no-brainer pass. Even if your script
is not an obvious “consider,” at least make it hard for us to justify giving it a pass.
Then at the very least, you might wind up with a “consider” for the writing even if
your script gets a “pass.”
Once again, strong and practical advice from D.C.. I’d like to drive home two points:
Telling it, not showing it. And un-cinematic writing.
Those are related. Movies are primarily a visual medium.
Dialogue, while important, is secondary to action.
One of the things a writer should take into consideration when brainstorming and planning
every scene is its visuality: Can I show it, not say it?

UPDATE: Had this comment on the blog in response to the link I provided to the 6-part
series “A Script Reader Speaks” from Janice, a long-time script reader. Check this out:
Scott, thanks for posting DC Marr’s analysis of a reader’s job. I could have written that
word for word — I’ve been a full-time free lance (you know what I mean) reader for
14 years at a big agency. Every point DC made is accurate. It was great fun seeing it
so well articulated.
I have a ton of respect for script readers and story analysts. They have an almost
thankless job, reading a seemingly endless onslaught of scripts, most of them bad.
Screenwriters tend to revile script readers and their coverage, but that is — frankly —
stupid. In my view, we should aim our scripts directly at them. Script readers are,
what we used to call in the stand-up comedy trade, a “tough crowd.” But if we can
lure them into our stories, and win them over, their coverage becomes an enormous
‘ally’ for our script.
Yes, they are a tough crowd. And that should cause us, as screenwriters, to aim higher
with what we put down onto the printed page — better story concepts, richer
characters, stronger plots, more compelling stories.

Key elements for a "Recommend"?
What key elements would a script have to excel at in order for you to recommend?
Concept. Plot. Characters. Theme.
On most coverage, there is a rating chart that the reader uses to grade four elements
(concept, plot, characters, and dialogue) from poor, fair, good, to excellent.
For example:
Excellent Good Fair Poor
PREMISE
STORY LINE
CHARACTERIZATION
DIALOGUE
Project: ☐ Recommend ☐ Consider ☐ Pass

Writer: ☐ Recommend ☐ Consider ☐ Pass
You’ll notice that “theme” is not on this chart but I’ve included as one of the elements
that must excel. I’ll explain later.
But know that a writer needs most, if not all elements in this chart rated “good” for
their script and them as a writer to be given a “consider.”
The one element that’s I give some leeway is “dialogue.” If concept, characters and
plot are all “good” to “excellent,” but dialogue is only “fair” I’ll still give that script a
“consider.” But “fair” still means your dialogue is pretty darn competent, just not
standout enough to merit “good” or “recommend.”
Keep in mind that readers are under pressure to NOT give many “considers” and
certainly not “recommend.” I can count on one hand how many times I’ve given a
project a “recommend” in the many years I’ve been reading for a living. In fact, I
learned early on that “recommends” are taken very, very seriously when I was once
fired for giving a recommend on a script that the producer felt was unmerited. A sad
fact is that the reader who gives “considers” and “recommends” too liberally doesn’t
last on the job for long. That means your script has to be so good that we readers
won’t feel insecure about urging our bosses to take your script seriously and spend the
time to read it.
We’re there to weed out, not add to the executives’ pile of reading with material that
they won’t be excited about championing to their bosses or studio chiefs or financiers.

When readers grade these key elements, particularly the concept, as good or better
and give the project a “consider,” the executives expect to agree with us and our
favorable coverage is telling them to stop everything and give the script a read
because it’s worth:
1) staking their reputation on and
2) paying millions upon millions of dollars to develop and produce.
If they don’t agree with the reader’s assessment on a regular basis, unfortunately, that
reader simply won’t be used again.
Thus the pressure is on readers to be very, very picky and discriminating. This is why
90 percent of the scripts receive “passes,” even those scripts that eventually go on to
defy that initial negative coverage and become a movie. Readers would love to be
generous with their grading and rating, but unless the four elements on the rating
charts earn a “good” grade (especially concept), the script is likely to get a pass.
Now regarding theme, it’s an element that’s often overlooked but one that must
resonate for me to recommend a script. It’s not singled out for rating on the chart, but
it’s integrated into concept, plot and characters and its impact on a great script is
noticeable. Theme provides concepts with a concrete situation. It dictates what
choices and tests a character will confront. It is translated through action (plot) and
great lines of dialogue (i.e. Maximus’ line in THE GLADIATOR: “What we do in life
echoes in eternity.”) It’s not always prevalent or crystallized in early drafts, but I
always notice and feel its impact in great scripts that I recommend, no matter the
genre. When I said earlier that great characters often make the difference between a
“pass” or “consider,” I’ve also observed that a compelling and universal theme
makes all the difference between decent and great characters and a decent and great
script.
Every great script and movie has a philosophical statement embedded into the plot
and the character arc, which are interlocked. The theme dictates the choices the
character will be presented with, how he/she’s tested and how he/she ultimately
triumphs over the antagonist…or not. If you look at movies like STAR WARS, LITTLE
MISS SUNSHINE, THE DARK KNIGHT, etc., they all have clear themes woven
through characters and plot that resonate. It is invariably the theme that brings the
characters to life for me and infuses the plot with meaning, all of which leaves me, the
reader, emotionally affected in some way, excited about wanting to see the script
turned into a movie, and a little sad that I’ve reached “Fade Out.”

GITS: The Twitter Conversations - Script Readers
Late one night back in May 2012, I stumbled into a Twitter conversation with
@amandapendo [Amanda Pendolino], @BittrScrptReadr [The Bitter Script Reader], and
@nate_winslow [Nate Winslow]. These three all have different things going on in their lives,
but one bit of business they have in common: they read scripts, covering them for Hollywood
industry insiders (production companies, agencies, etc]. In other words, they are
professional script readers and as such serve as the first line of defense in the Hollywood
script acquisition and development system.
Our conversation that night evolved into a spontaneous Q&A about the experience and
perspective of professional script readers about screenwriting. You can read a transcript of
that conversation in these GITS posts:
GITS: The Twitter Conversations — Script Readers (Part 1)

The response to the conversation was excellent, and I received lots of email and tweets
asking for it to happen again so others could join in with their questions.
So the following month, we held a second conversation with the same trio. I posted these
edited transcripts (links below) - essentially picking up from the first chat. - Enjoy!
In April of 2013, we had the 3rd GITS Twitter Conversation with industry insiders whose
jobs involve reading scripts: Amanda Pendolino [@amandapendo], Nate Winslow
[@nate_winslow], and The Bitter Script Reader [@BittrScrptReadr].

The Story Behind Script Coverage
This document has made the rounds and it doesn’t have a copyright, so I figured - why
not dig into it? And what is “it”?
It is the “ICM Story Department — Coverage Packet” basically the agency’s manual for
training readers how to prepare script coverage. Both instructive and informative.
Long-time GITS readers know how much emphasis I put on understanding the mindset
of the script reader. As I’ve said ad nauseum, script readers are Hollywood’s
gatekeepers and threshold guardians.
In a very real way, the audience you are writing your script for is the script reader. They
are the first people to read your screenplay and usually, it is their coverage that
determines how seriously buyers take your submission.
Therefore what the “ICM Story Department — Coverage Packet” offers is an open
window into how the buyers look at the script-reading process. By delving into this
document, we should gain some invaluable insight into their mindset.
Download Part 1 of the Coverage Packet: “How to do Script Coverage” here.
Download Part 2 of the Coverage Packet: ‘General Coverage Examples’ here.
Download Part 3 of the Coverage Packet: ‘Extended Coverage Examples’ here.
In this section, we’ll go through it, and see what we can learn that might be useful to us
as Screenwriters. Here’s a Table of Contents for this section:
The Story Behind Script Coverage:
Loglines
Character Breakdowns
Synopsis
Comments
Coverage Questions
General Coverage Information
How to Write Coverage
Primary and Secondary Genres

Loglines
Here we’ll look at the first section of the “ICM Story Department — Coverage Packet”
doc titled How to Do Script Coverage, beginning with the critical component:
Loglines:
The logline provides a one-sentence summary of the script’s

premise and plot. It should succinctly describe the situation of
the protagonist and include any major story elements.
Concise, concise, concise. One sentence that generally describes
the script. General is the key word. Don’t worry about every
detail of the story in the log line.
What can we learn from this?
• If your script has a complex story concept, then that will likely be reflected
from the get-go of the script reader’s coverage.
• Moreover if the script reader has to struggle to make your logline as concise
as possible, then you’re probably not scoring points with the reader
straightaway.
• If, on the other hand, the logline is lean, clean, and straight-ahead, that
should be a bonus in framing how your script is perceived.
• Note how important the Protagonist is as the assumption is that the P drives
the narrative throughline of the script.
• “Concise, concise, concise.” Another nod to a clean, streamlined story concept.
Here are three examples the doc uses for “good loglines”:
An attractive young nun and an ex-leprechaun venture into a bizarre

Irish fantasy world to return a stolen magical ring.
A private detective gets in over his head when a simple missing

persons case turns into a deadly chase for a priceless diamond.
An amnesiac plane crash survivor discovers that he is a government

assassin… or is he?
Note how the Protagonist is the subject of each logline. Note, too, how each logline
suggests what the central plot is, even forecasting Act Two complications.
Does this mean that you must have a simple story concept, reducible to a one-

sentence logline? No. Think of some of the greatest movies of all time:
Gone With The Wind / 2001:A Space Odyssey
Lawrence of Arabia / To Kill a Mockingbird
In theory, I suppose, you could work your ass off to concoct a logline that describes
one of these movies:
“A sweeping love story told against the backdrop of the Civil War”
but if it doesn’t convey much of anything about the story, does it even really qualify
as a logline?
The fact is, you can write and sell a script with a complex plot, set of characters, and/
or narrative elements.
However, as you can see plainly in the first few paragraphs of this ICM doc, you will
be swimming against the current of how Hollywood operates.

Character Breakdowns
Here we’re looking at the “ICM Story Department — Coverage Packet” document

titled How to Do Script Coverage, looking at the next component:
Character Breakdowns:
The maximum amount of character breakdowns is six. If there are

less than six, lead and / or co-star characters then only list those.
For example, THREESOME, main characters are two boys and a
girl, only list those three. If there is an important featured or
cameo role please include that. For example, SEVEN, the part of
the serial killer (Kevin Spacey), mostly a voice over only seen in a
few scenes, important role, list it.
First, let’s consider this question: Why a six character limit? Perhaps that reflects
the sense that a busy agent can only handle a cast of six characters in their head.
Perhaps, too, it reflects a natural aspect of most movies: They typically only have
around six primary characters.
Which leads me directly to my theory about Character Archetypes: Most movies

have a Protagonist, Nemesis, Attractor, Mentor, and Trickster. That’s five primary
character types. Throw in another Mentor character. Or another significant Trickster.
Maybe a story with Co-Protagonists. And you’ve got your six lead characters.
Whether there is a corollary to the number of Character Archetypes or not, one lesson
to take from the six character limit is that script coverage reduces characters to their
respective narrative functions. Character A is the Protagonist. Character B is the
Nemesis. Character C is love interest. Character D is a wisdom character…
Which underscores the importance of spending enough time with your characters so
that you understand their core essence / narrative function. It will not only help
you understand your individual characters better, not only help you see how their
respective roles function together as a whole, not only help you to shape them as
distinct and multifaceted individuals, it will almost assuredly help the script reader
to grab hold of your story, then — of critical importance — be able to convey that in
their script coverage.
What if your script only has three primary characters? Or four? That doesn’t
necessarily mean you have a ‘thin’ story. Many stage plays that have been adapted

into films have succeeded with less than six characters including Who’s Afraid of
Virginia Woolf? and Marty. However if you do only have three or four primary
characters, it’s certainly worth some brainstorming to see if there are aspects of your
story which you’ve yet to mine, and in particular interesting elements of your
Protagonist’s emotional and psychological journey that are lying there, just waiting to
be tapped. Oftentimes you can do that by creating characters who can tie in to those
Internal World dynamics and pull them to the surface of the External World through
actions and dialogue.
What if the converse is true: Your script has many more lead characters than six?
Let’s say 10, 11, or 12? First, ask yourself: What does “lead character” mean? Page
count can help to determine that, but not always — a character can have a dramatic
impact on the plot and an important relationship to the Protagonist, even if they only
appear in a few sequences. I think the best way to determine what a lead character is
ask these two questions: Do they have a significant role in the Plotline? Do they have
an influential connection with the Protagonist? If yes, then they are probably a lead
character.
If you have 10 or more lead characters, is your script in trouble? Again I think there
has to be some latitude in terms of these cut-off points. What if your script is an
historical drama played out on multiple fronts? That said, this “six lead character”
limit does suggest that a script reader could find a script with more characters than
six to be unwieldy. In other words, you’ve set yourself on a harder path. You’ve got to
make each of those lead characters compelling, distinguishable, and memorable.
That’s just harder to do with 10 characters than 6.
One final bit of subtext from the ICM doc’s description of character breakdowns:
People who work in the Hollywood movie business are busy. Theirs is a world of
100–150 phone calls a day, each about 1–2 minutes long. They start their days at
5:30AM and dont’ get done until midnight. You’ve heard about the importance of a
writer having an “elevator pitch” — a pitch you can tell to a buyer in the time it takes
to ride an elevator. Well, there’s a reason for that — and that is because everyone in
Hollywood is damn busy.
So when we learn that script readers operate with a “six lead character” limit,
probably the single most important lesson to take away from that is the people who
read your scripts are busy, easily distracted, and ready at any second to set your
script aside.
It’s up to you to craft a compelling enough story that you grab the attention of these
busy people and don’t let them leave your story world.
Therefore with every story concept, every character, every major plot point, every
sequence every scene, every page… oh, hell, why not, every line, you should ask
yourself, “What can I write that will grab and keep the reader’s attention?”

Synopsis
Here we’re looking at the “ICM Story Department — Coverage Packet” document

titled How to Do Script Coverage, looking at the next component:
Synopsis:
1) TELL A STORY — After reading the script, take a moment to

decide what the story was essentially about. Your synopsis
should not try to reproduce every detail; just the facts which the
reader of your coverage will need to know in order to understand
what’s going on.
2) PRESENT TENSE — The action should always be written in the

present tense. If some of the story takes place in the past, then
introduce the action with a phrase like: “Flashback to 1965”.
Then tell the 1965 action in the present tense. When that action
is over, move ahead in time by using a phrase like, “Return to the
present.”
3) INTRODUCING PEOPLE AND PLACES — When a person or

place appears in your synopsis for the first time, put his/her/its
name in capital letters. For characters, give a brief physical
description and whatever else needs to be said in order to
establish his/her relationship to the story or other characters.
4) EXTRA DETAILS — High quality synopses include key, non-

essential details wherever such details will give the reader of the
coverage a sense of the script’s tone/style. This is not always
necessary…but in subtler material, such extras may be essential.
Now we can really begin to see the agency’s mindset by holding up a ‘mirror’ to
certain key phrases and considering some of the assumptions in the description
above.
What can we learn?
The first thing is to note how many principles we use — as screenwriters — script

readers are told to use in their coverage: Tell a story; Present tense; Use
capitalization when introducing characters; Script’s tone/style. What does this
suggest? That the script coverage is not merely a litany of story facts, but should

reflect the feel of the script being covered. In other words, the coverage should come
across like a mini-version of the script being covered.
You’ve heard of novelizations, where a writer creates a short prose version of a script
in novel form? What if we thought of script coverage as a “scriptilization?” Because
that’s what this doc is telling the script reader to do: Coverage should tell the script’s
story, be in present tense, intro and handle key characters, and convey the script’s
tone and style.
Doesn’t that strike you as a big challenge for the script reader? And this is precisely
where your script meets a buzzsaw: Because some script readers are good writers
and, therefore, up to the challenge, while other readers are not good writers, so their
coverage can be more of a reflection of their writing than yours.
That is simply a fact of life and on the face of it, it would seem like there’s nothing
you can do as a counteractive. But there is. It’s up to you to supply the key elements
of good writing in your screenplay so that even if the script reader isn’t the most
effective writer around, those core elements of your script are still communicated in
the coverage.
First and foremost, this is yet another good reason to focus on generating a great
story concept. Even if reader is not the best at their ‘scriptilization’ of your
screenplay, the underlying story concept — if it’s a strong high concept — will be
almost impossible to miss.
Another way in which your good writing can cut through the coverage is with
compelling characters. In coverage, you can’t rely on characters’ dialogue; instead you
have to make sure that the characters’ actions in the story are interesting and
surprising. You can also do this: When you introduce your lead characters, provide a
memorable one-line description of their core essence. If it’s a good description, a
script reader is likely to simply copy and paste your description into their coverage.
For more on this subject, go here.
One more way good writing can come through in coverage is through your story’s
major plot points. If you’ve crafted a strong story structure with — again — interesting
and surprising plot shifts / points, then the script reader is likely to capture that in
their coverage.
Finally, if you are cognizant of and make good use of your Narrative Voice, a script
reader is much more likely to convey that in the “Extra Details” of the coverage in
terms of your script’s tone and style. For more information on Narrative Voice, go
here to download an article I wrote for Screentalk magazine.
Those are some ways you can use good writing to ‘control’ the coverage of your script.
What else can we learn from this part of the ICM doc?

“After reading the script, take a moment to decide what the story was essentially
about.” If that sentence doesn’t rattle your bones, I don’t know what will. A moment?
Story essentially about? This is what your 4–6 months of you working your fanny off
writing 120 pages comes down to? What that means is two things: You’d better damn
well know what your “story is essentially about” and that your story does a clear job
articulating that.
This is a great justification for you to spend time working and re-working your story’s
logline — if you can craft a clean, clear logline, then you’re likely in good shape in
terms of your story’s focus.
It’s also a great reason for you to spend time with your story themes — listing them,
thinking about them, how they interweave through the plot, the interplay of themes
with and between characters. Again the more you understand how your story works,
the more likely that a reader will in that “moment” grasp what your story is
“essentially about.”
Another bone-chilling moment: “Just the facts which the reader of your coverage
will need to know.” This is more than just exposition (where you use dialogue to
convey data, information, facts); this is about key aspects of who characters are, key
actions they take, key plot points. Yet again, the more you understand what’s going on
in your story and convey that on the printed page, the more likely those “facts” will
emerge in the coverage.
In summary, the key takeaway re this secion on synopsis is — know your story!
Because if you don’ t know it and do a good job conveying it on the page, you can’t
expect a script reader to distill it and its core narrative elements in an effective way.

Comments
Continuing our analysis of the “ICM Story Department — Coverage Packet” document

titled How to Do Script Coverage, now we consider the final part of the
introduction: Comments.
1) STRUCTURE — Your comments should begin with a summary

paragraph, briefly listing all the strengths and weaknesses you are
going to address in the body of your comments. The issues of
Concept, Story, Characterization, Dialogue, Action/Visuals, and
Commercial Potential should all be addressed. The final
paragraph should summarize your comments, making explicit
your overall impression of the material.
2) BE SPECIFIC — Simply saying, “Dialogue is good,” “The

second act is weak,” or “Characterization is excellent,” is not
very helpful. If you like the script, then explain why. Quote
dialogue to make your point. If a character has conflicting
personality traits, then list them. If the story is not engaging or
believable, then illustrate how and why. If a strong premise falls
apart, then point out where.
3) PRIORTIZE — The relative importance of the various script

elements — story, characterization, dialogue, etc — will vary from
script to script. Therefore, you should prioritize your comments,
beginning with (and devoting most time to) whatever element is
most significant. For most commercial properties, though, you
can be assured that the story and concept are very important
elements.

Comments is where the script reader gets a chance to weigh in with their analysis of
the screenplay. Therefore, to the degree you have captured the reader’s imagination
with your script, you may anticipate kudos; if you haven’t, then… not so much.
Take a good look at those categories by which the reader is expected to assess your
screenplay: Concept, Story, Characterization, Dialogue, Action/Visuals,
Commercial Potential. That serves as a good reminder to consider each of these
when prepping and writing our script, but perhaps a different approach to some of
them.

For example, when in prep-writing mode (brainstorming, plotting, character
development), that’s when Concept, Story, and Commercial Potential should
be top-of-mind — to help you:
a) determine if you have a strong enough foundation to
continue on and write the script, or drop the project if it
doesn’t seem big / good enough to be a motion picture
screenplay, and
b) shape the material to make it the most viable,
marketable story you can.
But when you’re in page-writing mode, you want those questions answered and
done with, not lingering in your mind, so you’re free to immerse yourself in your
creativity.
Likewise when you’re in page-writing mode, that’s when Characterization,

Dialogue, and Action/Visuals should be up-front-and-center considerations.
Much of the character work will have been done in the prep-writing phase, but you
want to be attuned to each character as you’re writing them, listening to what they
have to say and watching where they take you. The same with Dialogue and Action/
Visuals, but in some ways, those are best hammered out when you hit the rewrite
and polish drafts.
The bottom line is that — again — you need to spend time thinking about these
narrative elements, not only because that process should make your script better, but
also because you know that the script reader is going to analyze your script using
these categorical tools.
The admonition to the reader to “Be Specific” sounds like a great screenwriting
mantra to my ears. When I recall my young son’s advice, “Go into the story, and find
the animals”, what I take that to mean is a screenwriter needs to immerse themself
in their story to such a degree that the world of specific elements emerges — specific
character traits, specific backstory events, specific ways of talking in dialogue, specific
themes, specific moments and beats, etc. Those specifics can give your story
universe a rich, resonate texture translated into images and feelings on the part of
the reader, which they in turn can communicate — with specifics — in their coverage.
So the key to being specific is going into the story.
“Story and concept are very important elements.” Let me humbly nominate this as
The Screenwriting Understatement of the Century. What the doc is saying is
that scripts will vary in terms of genre, style, tone, etc, and therefore accordingly
certain of these assessment categories will rise and fall in importance. But most of
the time, the two most important elements in determining the fate of a script are —
Story and Concept.
Yet again, this doc drives us back to basics.

The Concept is critical, so before you type FADE IN, make sure you feel confident
that your core story concept is something the buyers will be able to visualize as a
movie.
And the Story? If you do due diligence and work out the Major Plot Points (Plotline)
as well as the Protagonist’s Transformation Arc (Themeline), and you can honestly
look at what you’ve got and say, “This is a compelling story”, then you should be in
good shape and ready to commence the page-writing part of your process.

Coverage Questions
Continuing our analysis of the “ICM Story Department — Coverage Packet” document

titled How to Do Script Coverage, following the introduction is a section titled
“Questions To Elaborate On When Writing Comments.”
CONCEPT/STORY
• What is the script’s intention?
• How well does it fulfill that intention?
• What works, what doesn’t work, why?
• How strong is the concept?
• How well executed is the story?
STRUCTURE
• Does the pacing build effectively?
• Do the subplots enhance the main story?
• Are there scenes that should be eliminated?
• Does the script feel long? Does it feel short?
• Are there any scenes missing?
• Does the writer have a firm grasp on screen writing?
CHARACTERS
• Are the characters three-dimensional?
⁃ Complex? Compelling? Interesting?
• Are they sympathetic? Motivated? Believable?
• What are the goals of the characters?
⁃ Do they obtain these goals?
• Do the characters change throughout the script?
⁃ What changes do they go through?
• Do they overcome obstacles?
• Do they develop relationships?
DIALOGUE
• If it’s humorous, is the humor effective? Is it good?
• Does the dialogue match the characters and the story?
• Is there too much dialogue?
• Is there more telling than showing?
ACTION / VISUALS / COMMERCIAL POTENTIAL

• Are there any particular production challenges?
⁃ Special effects? Crowds? Elaborate sets?
• Can this be made into a movie?
• Will people want to see this movie?
• Is there commercial appeal?
• Why should someone consider making this film?

Okay, this is quite a list of questions.
What can we learn from them, individually and collectively?
Instead of me pontificating, I’d rather hear from you:
• What insight do you get from assessing these questions?

• What do these questions tell you about:
⁃ The script coverage process?
⁃ What the buyers are interested in?
• Any bits of ‘wisdom’ you should take away re how to approach screenwriting?
To me, there’s a lot here — and a couple of rather surprising pieces of subtext.
You can read the comments archive from the 2009 GITS blog post here.
To add your own insights to the post on the live blog (as at June 2017) - go here.
BLOG UPDATE: Now that folks have had a chance to comment, let me add two points.
The first is something Alissa noted: Those critical questions — Can this be made into a
movie? Will people want to see this movie? Is there commercial appeal? — that’s pretty much
a case of burying the lede because these should be some of the first questions to raise. You
can ask the question in a number of ways. For example, figuring the average price of a
movie ticket is $6 and your movie will have a budget (including P&A) of $60M, the question
becomes, “Is this script going to turn into a movie that causes 10 million people to get off
their barcoloungers, drive to the theater, plunk down cash to see it?” Another thing you can
do is try to envision the face of your target audience. If you can’t get a clear vision of that
person, you may not know what type of movie you want to write.
The second thing I noticed is that these questions sound like they were written by someone
who has taken some courses and read some books on screenwriting, and knows most of the
necessary topics of consideration in assessing a script. But I get a pretty strong feeling that
at the end of the day, this person does not really understand how a story works. And in fact,
there are a lot of people in Hwood — execs, agents, producers, and yes, even readers — who
don’t quite get ‘it.’ With an exec, it’s easy to tell as they’ll have comments like, “Just lose this
subplot, it shouldn’t affect the overall plot,” when in fact, it changes everything. So with this
document, when I read questions like, “Are there scenes that should be eliminated? Scenes
that should be added?” or “Does the writer have a firm grasp on screen writing?”, that feels
like someone picking at the edges of the script, not the substance. I’d rather ask questions
like, “Does the Act Three final struggle resolve the primary question that’s established with
the Protagonist in Act One” or “Is the Nemesis character a worthy foe to the Protagonist,”
much more at the guts of the script.
Fortunately, execs and agents, producers and readers don’t need to understand the subtleties
of story to know when they’ve read a great one. So once again, we come back to the prime
directive: Write a great script. And everything else will take care of itself.

General Coverage Information
Continuing our analysis of the “ICM Story Department — Coverage Packet”. The

scintillating saga continues with the next section entitled:
General Coverage Information:
TITLE & AUTHOR:

Rely on the title page of the script for correct spelling.
If the writer is a client your comments need to focus primarily on the
positive aspects of the script. The box scores should not be x’d below
good in regard to the story. Please be especially diplomatic when writing
coverage on a client’s piece.
The emphasis should be on selling the project.
AGENT:
Always write first and last names of the agent and be sure the spelling is
correct. If it’s hard to read, or you are unsure of the agent’s name, please
call us.
PURPOSE OF SUBMISSION:
write the name of the client or the purpose given on the request form
(i.e., packaging, casting, open directing, etc.).
TALENT:
You are reading the script with this particular actor in mind. When
writing your comments, talk about the role, not the actor. The word
career is prohibited and must not appear anywhere in your comments.
An appropriate way to address a bad script for an actor would be to say
“this would not be a good vehicle for x” or “the role is not challenging
enough for x” or “the role is underdeveloped and therefore should be
overlooked by x.” Never say anything about prior career choices or
presume to make a career choice for the actor. Please do not mention
the name of the specific actor/actress or director until the last line of the
coverage (as in the examples used above).
DIRECTOR:
The script is to be read with the particular director in mind and paying
attention to that client’s forte or genre. Point out the needs of the script for
adaptation to the screen, i.e., what kind of director is needed. There is
always the chance that the director will not like the script, but another
one will. Be objective yet specific so we understand the tone of the
project and can compile a list of possible directors.

OPEN DIRECTING:
This is a job for a client: the studio is actively looking for a director. The
above comments apply here. Be as cinematic as possible.
PACKAGING:
We are looking at this script as a potential ICM package, meaning we
can bring at least two clients to the project. Therefore, comment on the
script as a whole (the roles, the kind of director needed, its commercial
potential and its international appeal).
GENRE, SETTING, LOCALE, ETC.:

Please refer to our computer list only, and be as specific as possible. If
something is not on our list, point it out to us, we may add it. Copies of
these lists are included on the pages immediately following.
SUBMITTED BY:
Again, make sure spelling is correct. If it’s illegible, please ask.
RANKING GRID:
Please be sure to fill out the ranking grid for the last page of the
coverage.
SYNOPSIS & COMMENTS:

Synopsis, comments and grids should continue to be as they are, each on
a separate page.
LENGTH OF COVERAGE:
For General coverage, the synopsis should be approximately 1 page and
the comments should run between 1/2 to 3/4 of a page. For Extended
coverage, the synopsis should be 1 1/2–2 pages and the comments should
run 1–1 1/2 pages.
All script coverage is not alike. Some are General coverage, others require
Extended coverage. If a script is going out to talent or directors or it’s a potential
package, script coverage needs to be tailored to fit each project.
One important ramification for a screenwriter is that a script reader will often have a
set of priorities as a kind of lens through which they will assess your script. If it’s a
script going out to potential directors, they may be paying special attention to the
visual nature of your writing. If it’s going out to talent, they may focus their
comments on specific roles and how well you have done in creating multidimensional
characters.

Of course, you can’t know any of those specifics going into your scripting process. But
you can know that at some point, readers — and talent, directors, etc — will be parsing
your script with those particulars in mind. The lesson you should take from this
point: You can not slough off in writing any aspect of your script. If you’ve got a great
story concept, structure, dialogue, but have not done as good a job with your
characters, that will come back to bite you in the ass. Or if you’re great with
characters, but the Plotline has some weaknesses, same thing.
As an analogy, it’s like baseball when they talk about a 5-tool player, someone who can
(1) hit for average, (2) hit for power, (3) has speed, (4) good defense (i.e., fielding
abilities), and (5) good arm. A 5-tool screenwriter is a writer who can (1) generate a
great story concept, (2) craft a solid plot structure, (3) develop compelling,
multilayered characters, (4) write distinctive, entertaining dialogue, and (5) weave
thematic elements throughout the script. So strive to be a 5-tool screenwriter.
On another matter, if you haven’t heard of packaging, it’s important to understand.

To package a project is to get two or more clients signed to do that movie. Why is this
important? An agency makes 10% of what their clients make. If they can put 2, 3, 4,
or more clients on one project, that means their revenue on that project rises
substantially. Agencies routinely try to put as many of their clients onto the same
project.
When you sign with an agency, here’s some advice: It will behoove you to find out
which talent your agency represents. Because if you write a script with parts tailored
for 2 or more of the agency’s talent clients, it’s possible that the agency will give your
script a ‘better’ read and more attention than another script — just because your
script is more likely to result in a strong package.
Of course, the notion of a ‘better’ read brings us to the very first point raised in this
section of the ICM doc:
If the writer is a client your comments need to focus primarily on the positive
aspects of the script. The box scores should not be x’d below good in regard to
the story. Please be especially diplomatic when writing coverage on a client’s
piece. The emphasis should be on selling the project.
This brings to mind that moment in the movie Casablanca where Captain Renault
(Claude Rains) storms up to Rick (Humphrey Bogart) in Rick’s nightclub and
announces,
“I’m shocked, shocked to find there’s gambling going on in here.”
Here it’s our turn to blurt out:
“I’m shocked, shocked to discover there’s favoritism in script coverage!”
But at least they’re upfront about it:
Give our writer client’s script at least ‘good’ coverage.

After all, an agency’s business is about selling.
And this brings up another big point: Agents and managers can often be more
focused on the deal than the story. On the one hand, that makes sense because
they only make money when a script sells. On the other hand, it’s wrongheaded
because it puts story second. And taking that step generally puts a project on bad
footing from the beginning — and now you know one reason why so many movies
suck: Too much focus on the deal, not enough focus on story.
Then there’s the infamous ranking grid. That’s where the script reader reduces
your script to key categories — typically Story Concept, Characterizations, Structure,
Dialogue — and to these levels of assessment: Excellent, Good, Fair, Poor. And you
thought you left that sort of thing behind in high school years ago!
Why a ranking grid? Circle back to one of our first posts in this series — about how
busy people are in Hollywood. Sometimes… perhaps even oftentimes, these busy
people can’t be bothered to read the coverage, let alone the script; they just need the
bottom line. Hence, the ranking grid.
Don’t believe me? Someone I know — let’s call him Alfred — was an intern at 20th
Century Fox and worked for a movie exec there. One day, the exec stormed out of his
office, waving some script coverage at Alfred. “This is too much to read,” he said.
“But it’s just the coverage,” Alfred said. To which the exec replied, “Well, cover the
coverage!” In other words, sum up the summary. That’s how frenetic these people
are. And if the ranking grid isn’t bad enough, there’s this last piece of info in script
coverage:
Script: ☐ Recommend ☐ Consider ☐ Pass
Writer: ☐ Recommend ☐ Consider ☐ Pass
A script reader rarely if ever chooses “Recommend.” Why? Because what if they
recommend a script that their overlords don’t like? That would call into judgment the
reader’s tastes, understanding, abilities, etc.
Translated: Most script readers are afraid to give a recommend.
So even if a script is awesome, they’re more likely to say Consider.
A Consider with great comments is an implied Recommend.
Notice, too, there is the Writer category. And this goes back to something I’ve said
before here and here: Even if a spec script doesn’t sell, it can be an asset. How? If the
script reader gives you — the Writer — a Consider or, heaven help us, a Recommend,
then an agent might meet with you, just based on the quality of your writing. In turn,
they can send the script around as a “writing sample” and you can get meetings with
producers and studio execs based on that.
Here ends today’s saga.
What did you learn from this little venture into the belly of The Beast?
Share your thoughts in comments on the GITS blog - keep the conversation going!

How to Write Coverage
Once more into the breech with our ongoing dissection of the “ICM Story Department —
Coverage Packet.” Our next scintillating subject:
“Appendix A: Summary Outline: How to Write Coverage.”
Ooh. Doesn’t that title just send a tingle up your spine?
Actually I think you will find this pretty fascinating, offering another window into the soul of
a script reader — and yes, they do have souls, at least for the first 1,000 bad scripts they
read. After that… who knows?
APPENDIX A
SUMMARY OUTLINE
HOW TO WRITE COVERAGE
You will find this summary especially useful as a quick reference guide when writing
your coverages. The main points of each coverage component are outlined here to jog
your memory.
I. The art of reading

A. Look for:
1. The main points of the plot
2. The main and supporting characters
3. Aspects of the work pertaining to the purpose of your coverage
4. Visual value
B. Ignore:
1. The little things: typos, grammatical errors, tense changes, and the like
C. Skim:
1. Fight scenes
2. Chase scenes
3. Love scenes
4. Bloodbaths
5. Background and internal action unrelated to the main plot or to major
points of character development
II. Writing the synopsis

A. Stick to the main plot
B. Write as much as you can from memory
C. Capture some of the mood or tone of the work
D. Use evocative words (use a thesaurus)
E. Simplify
F. Show the work in its best light

III. Writing the character breakdown
A. List roles in the following order:
1. Leads
2. Co-stars
3. Supporting roles
4. Minor roles
5. Cameos
B. For each character, include:
1. Name
2. Age
3. Physical appearance
4. Personality or background
5. Page number on which the character first appears
C. Follow closely the writer’s description of the character
IV. Address comments to:

A. Concept
1. How original it is
2. Whether it’s high concept or a soft story
B. Premise/theme
1. Strength
2. Universality
C. Plot
1. Predictability
2. Obstacles, complications, reversals, twists
3. Believability
4. Subplots, if any
5. The hook, if any
6. Continuity
D. Main and supporting characters
1. Background
2. Range of emotion and expression
3. Motivation
4. Fatal and other flaws
5. Evolution
6. Consistent development
7. Rooting interest
8. The spice of life: variety of characters
9. The proof of the premise: the right hero for the story
10. In general, what kind of talent would be appropriate

E. Dialogue
1. Reveals character traits
2. Reveals essential information
3. Flows or flounders
4. Is over- or underwritten
5. Sounds like people talking
a. Is appropriate for the various characters
b. Is appropriate for the time period and culture
F. The stakes
1. What is at stake?
2. How crucial is it?
3. How dangerous is it?
G. Structure
1. Use of back story or ghost (a beginning that is really the middle)
2. Proper setup of main character and conflict in the beginning
3. A middle that smoothly follows character development
and pursuit of the goal
4. An ending that resolves the conflict presented in the beginning
H. Pace
1. Fast, slow, or varied
2. Appropriate for the tone and theme of the piece
I. The writing itself
1. Mastery of the craft
2. Individual style
3. Concept and execution
J. Audience
1. Age
2. Sex
3. Media
a. Feature film
b. Public television production
c. MOW (TV movie of the week)
d. TV series, drama or sitcom
e. Miniseries
K. Does the work succeed in its objectives?
1. Realization of the premise
2. Evokes the intended emotional response
L. Comparisons
1. Refer to genre
2. Refer to similar films if appropriate
M. Overall reaction

1. Mention anything unique about the work
2. Is it a good blueprint for a movie?
N. The grid may include any or all of the following:
1. Characterization
2. Dialogue
3. Story line/plot
4. Setting/production value
5. Structure
6. Theme/concept
7. Writing ability
8. Budget
9. Recommend, consider, pass
V. The cover sheet

A. Copy info directly from the work itself when possible
B. Use “N/A” when information is not available
C. Write a catchy, brief log line
VI. Editing
A. Organize your thoughts
B. Be clear and concise
1. Cut out unnecessary phrases
2. Beware of redundancies
3. Use verbs instead of nouns to express action
4. Use verbs in the active voice instead of the passive
5. Keep subject, verb, and object close to each other
6. Express one thought per sentence or clause
C. Refer back to the project itself as necessary for accuracy
D. Check spelling, punctuation, and grammar
E. Use running heads
F. Keep a copy of each of your coverages.
Okay. Yes. I will grant that the whole outline approach, plus, the business at the end about
keeping subject, verb, and object close to each other and the rest is very much like forcing
you to relive that 5th grade class with your cross-eyed shrew of a teacher Ms. Hauck. But if
you can get beyond those horrible memories of your childhood, it’s possible to zero in some
key insights into how a script reader thinks… and even more importantly, how a lit agent
thinks.

“The art of reading”: Nothing in “Look for” we haven’t covered already, but check out the
next two items: As far as the agency is concerned, they are granting script readers an
imprimatur to Ignore and Skim some script material. From a script reader’s perspective,
they are going to have to do that in order to plow through all the projects they have to cover;
but as far as the agency is concerned, that’s okay!
So what is okay to Ignore? “The little things: typos, grammatical errors, tense changes,
and the like” to which I say bull-shit! Yes, there may lenient script readers. Nice script
readers. Even ignorant script readers who don’t know the difference between “they’re,”
“their,” and “there.” But most script readers — myself included — despise stupid “little
things” like that. The way I look at it, if a writer doesn’t care enough to spellcheck their
script or handle grammar properly, then they probably don’t care enough about their plot,
their characters, their dialogue, or anything else. So Insider Secret: When you’re done with
final final final draft, get someone to proofread your damn script!
Okay, now let’s look at what’s okay to Skim: “Fight scenes, Chase scenes, Love scenes,
Bloodbaths.” Uh-huh. What do all those scenes have in common? They are heavy with scene
description. And that means another Insider Secret: Script readers don’t like to read
scene description. Dialogue margins are narrow, in fact narrow enough that a trained
reader doesn’t even have to move their eyes from left-to-right. Scene description, on the
other hand, does require the reader to shift their eyes. Plus, all those paragraphs! And here
you have the agency agreeing that they can “skim” SD.
Well, screw dat! Consider this a gauntlet thrown down at your cyber-feet! It’s up to you —
yes, you, Hollywood Pre-Pro Screenwriter — to write such great scene description, the reader
can’t look away, won’t skim your gripping words. How to do that?
• Start by keeping your paragraphs no longer than 2–3 lines.
• Embrace the fact that you don’t need to write in complete sentences (this is especially
true for action, thriller, horror movies).
• And approach SD more as poetry than prose
⁃ go here for some thoughts on that subject.
This is interesting: When writing the synopsis, they encourage the script reader to “Write as
much as you can from memory.” Big tip there for writers: Create memorable moments in
your script.
Another interesting point under synopsis: “Capture some of the mood or tone of the work.”
This goes back to Narrative Voice, the invisible character in your script. If you don’t have a
handle on your Narrative Voice, then you can’t very well expect a script reader to capture the
“mood or tone” of your script.
The whole section on “Character Breakdown” has this big fat subtext infused in each
word: Talent. Readers are supposed to set up the coverage so the agents can start “mind-
casting” the movie (see previous blog posts on packaging). Pay special attention to the last
note: “Follow closely the writer’s description of the character.” Which
underscores how important it is when you introduce your character. Provide 2–3 lines that
convey something about that character’s core essence, some key aspect of who they are.
The next section — “Address comments to” — provides a bunch of tips for writers. For
instance, what tops the list? Concept. This goes back to previous posts about how
incredibly important it is to have a great story concept.

Re Plot: I zero in on “Obstacles, complications, reversals, twists.” It’s ironic that by the end
of Act One, the reader should know where you’re story is heading, but they should not know
how you’re going to get there. How can you do that? Obstacles, complications, reversals, and
twists. For more on those, go here and here.
Interesting to see Structure located after Dialogue. In my experience, script

readers put a lot of focus on the plot structure. And while sparkling, great dialogue can
certainly make a script a better read, I don’t know any screenwrier who would claim that
it’s more important than the story’s structure.
A final thought re Pace: “Fast, slow, or varied” and “Appropriate for the tone and theme
of the piece.” Honest, now. Do you think about pace when you write your scripts? How the
pace should reflect the genre of the piece? I think readers are heavily attuned to this because
they typically read a script in one sitting. Therefore, they can feel — in a compressed fashion
(like a movie) — the ebb and flow of a script.
UPDATE: Let me underscore something I touched on previously. I’m only going through
this doc in order to give you a sense of what type of things can be going through a script
reader’s mind as they read your script. This is not meant to freak you out, leave you flailing,
and/or gnashing your teeth. Rather if you take some of the key points here, you can, I think,
use them to your advantage as a storyteller, plus make your script more attractive to a
script reader.

Primary and Secondary Genres
As we continue our exegesis of the literary tome “ICM Story Department — Coverage

Packet,” now we look at the next section: “Primary and Secondary Genres.”
PRIMARY GENRES
Action
Erotic Fantasy Science Fiction / Fantasy
Adventure
Historical Sports
Animation
Horror Thriller
Biographical
Musical Urban
Comedy
Mystery War
Drama
Non-Fiction Western
Dramedy
SECONDARY GENRES
Afro-American Detective Interracial Road Picture
Airplane Disaster Jazz Robbery
Allegory / Fable Docudrama Jeopardy Robot
Animal Domestic / Family KidnapLove Story Rock and Roll
Autobiography Drag Queen Martial Arts Romantic
Biblical Drug Medical Romantic Comedy
Biker Eccentric Melodrama Saga
Bittersweet Ensemble Military Satire
Black Comedy Epic Murder Science Fiction
British Flavor Erotic / Sexual Mystery Screwball Comedy
Broad Comedy Escape Nautical Show Business
Buddy Picture Espionage / Intrigue New Age Slapstick
Caper Family Noir Spoof
Character Study Fantasy Occult Sports
Chase Farce Opera Superhero
Children’s Film Noir Period Supernatural
Circus Foreign Political Survival
College Fish Out of Water Post Apocalyptic Suspense
Coming of Age Gamble Prison Swashbuckler
Comeback Story Gang Psychological Terrorist
Comic Book Gangster Racism Vietnam
Cop Ghost Refugee War
Corporate Gigolo Religious World War One
Courtroom Historical Revenge World War Two
Criminal Holocaust Relationship Youth
Dance Homosexual

A few comments:
The lists seem to be a bit slapdash as certain genres end up in both lists (e.g., Erotic,
Historical, Mystery, Sports). Also the lists seem dated. For example, the use of
“Afro-American” is decades old, replaced by the preferred “African-American.” Plus
the use of “Science Fiction / Fantasy” as a single category. Granted - up until Lord of
the Rings, fantasy was all but dead as a genre for Hollywood movies, but now with
Harry Potter and all the rest, fantasy is certainly deserving its own category.
The secondary genres are what I call “Movie Story Types” and you can go here
to link to brief takes on Bio-Pics, Body Switch, Buddy Picture, Fish-Out-Of-Water
(FOOW), Frustration Comedy, Heist, Mistaken Identity, Road Picture and more.
Twenty-six different types at last count.
I see two main values in knowing these lists. First, movie studios generally take a
‘mutual fund’ approach to their slate of movies — that is, they want to have a wide
variety of projects in development covering a number of genres. So if you track what
each studio is acquiring, you can have an idea of the type of movie they may
currently be seeking to fill a niche.
Second, we have talked about genre bending here and here — the practice of taking a
story concept and ‘bending’ it into another genre. So let’s say you have a story concept
— for example, a guy becomes a dog. You can take these lists and brainstorm
possibilities with that core idea to see if you can make it really distinctive: A guy
becomes a dog (comedy) is a far different movie than a guy becomes a dog (science
fiction) or a guy becomes a dog (horror).
As writers, we tend to make assumptions about our stories in terms of the genre. But
if you’ve ever pitched a story before, you’ll know that one of the first questions on the
part of the buyer is “What’s the genre?”
Knowing that helps the buyer know ‘how’ to listen to the pitch — a thriller or a
comedy requires a different set of ‘ears’ — and also tips them off straight off if this is
something they’re interested in (or not).

Go Into The Story And Find The Animals
This mantra is both the name of my blog, and my wish for you.
It derives from a conversation I had many years ago with my then three year-old son.
It went pretty much like this:
ME
Hey, Luke, I’m starting to write a
new script tomorrow. And it’s funny,
but no matter how many times I start
a new story, I get a bit, uh,
nervous about it. Got any, you know,
advice for your dad?
LUKE
(without hesitation)
Go into the story and find the
animals.
God as my witness, that’s what my son said.
Now who knows what Luke was really thinking at the time. Stupidly I didn’t follow
up with him, flummoxed as I was at his comment. I remember mulling it over and
thinking that the whole idea of going into a story is precisely what a writer does,
immersing themselves in a narrative universe that they create. That has always
seemed just right to me, both in its simplicity and profundity, which is frankly why I
named this blog GoIntoTheStory.
But over time, it’s the other part in which I’ve discovered more and more layers of
meaning.
Start with the verb “find.” Is there any word more appropriate to describe the
writing process? Here are some of its definitions:
to come upon by chance:
Doesn’t that sound like brainstorming?
to locate, attain, or obtain by search or effort:
Doesn’t that sound like research?
to discover or perceive after consideration:
Doesn’t that sound like what happens when we mull over our story?
to feel or perceive:
As we go into the story, we become more emotionally connected to it.
to become aware of, or discover:
The biggie, where as explorers we uncover a story’s hidden gems.

Then there is “the animals”.
I’m almost sure what Luke was thinking about was how a children’s story so often is
habituated by animals. Thus in his eyes, my task was probably pretty simple:
Go find the animals. They are your characters.
But what if we think about it more symbolically?

● Animals can be both domesticated and wild. So some things we discover as
we go into the story are what we might expect (domesticated). Other times
we’re surprised, even shocked by ideas and thoughts that spring to mind
(wild).
● Animals are alive, organic, and intuitive beings. So are our story’s characters.
● Throughout human history, animals have come to mean something in
stories. A fox is sly and cunning. A crow in many cultures signifies death. An
owl is wise. Per Jung and others who study myth and psychoanalysis, animals
can serve as conduits into the mind of the dreamer.
Which reminds me of something I read about a movie director who in prepping to

make a movie gave each of the actors their own animal token as something they could
reference in interpreting their character.
I’m sure if you think about it, you could probably come up with other shades of
meaning for the mantra.
I just know that this one’s my favorite mantra of all because of its source.
There you have it: My approach to rewriting a screenplay and my wish for you.
I hope that you have resonated with at least one of them. Use them to help you focus
your thoughts and bring clarity to your writing process.
But for now and always, my wish for each of you is the same sentiment as once
uttered by a cherubic youngster with bright blue eyes and a look of deep intention in
his face:
Go into the story… and find the animals.

Resources + Links
Go Into The Story: https://gointothestory.blcklst.com/
Screenwriting Master Class: http://screenwritingmasterclass.com/
DePaul School of Cinematic Arts: http://www.cdm.depaul.edu/about/Pages/School-

of-Cinematic-Arts.aspx
Zero Draft Thirty Facebook Group: https://www.facebook.com/groups/

731218807011913/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/GoIntoTheStory
Email: GITSblog@gmail.com
Special thanks to Franklin Leonard and the entire Black List team. In the 12 years of
its existence, the Black List has evolved into the single most important screenwriting
brand in Hollywood. Their commitment to shining a spotlight on the craft of
screenwriting and notable screenplays, and to create new avenues for outsiders to
break into the movie and TV business is a vision I share. I’m proud to contribute to
the Black List’s efforts through Go Into The Story and serve as a mentor at their
outstanding screenwriter labs.
For more information about the Black List: https://blcklst.com/
For previously published Free GITS ebooks - you’ll find links here, and at the link to
Go Into The Story at the top of this page. Share them around!
Back to Main Contents Page

The Sequence Approach
In March of 2009, we had a discussion on GITS in the Writing Question comments about the
“sequence approach” to busting a screenplay’s story structure. I remembered a Done Deal Pro
interview with screenwriter Ryan Condal. At the time, Ryan didn’t yet have any produced
writing credits, because he’d only sold his first spec script in 2008:
Ryan Condal was born and raised in Hasbrouck Heights, New Jersey. He attended Villanova
University in Pennsylvania, where he received his degree in Accountancy in 2001. After
spending six years working in pharmaceutical advertising, Ryan made his first sale with his
script Galahad to The Film Department in early 2008. Since then, he’s been hired by Warner
Bros. to pen the adaptation of Ocean, a graphic novel by Warren Ellis, for Nick Wechsler
Productions. He was recently hired by Spyglass Entertainment and Film 44 to write Hercules, a
comic book miniseries by Radical Comics that Peter Berg is attached to direct.
Update: Ryan has credits on six different projects now, including the screenplay for Logan’s
Run, and a rewrite for an upcoming 2018 project, Rampage.
Anyway in the interview, Condal talks about the sequence approach: Here’s that excerpt
You are using the sequencing method as I understand it to plot

out your scripts first? Can you let people know what the
sequence method is for those who have never worked with it?
And can you talk about how it helps you plan what to write?
Sequencing is gold. I hesitate to even talk about it, lest all of your
readers go out and become overnight successes and put me out of
work. I jest, but this approach really is that good. And there’s no
magic to it, it’s just good, common sense. That’s what’s so brilliant
about it.
Essentially, you want to look at your script as eight 12–15 page
sequences. Act 1 and Act 3 each get 2 sequences and Act 2 gets 4.
Each sequence should have a mini-goal for the protagonist (some
more defined than others) and a beginning, middle and end just like
your script does. That way, you end up with a sequenced script that
builds on itself and creates those wonderful “peaks and valleys” that
create tension/release, tension/release all throughout your story.
Each sequence has a goal — what is or isn’t accomplished at the end
of it — and a first, second and third act just like your script. The first
act of the sequence is the setup (2 or 3 pages), then the main body
is the conflict (5–9 pages) and then the resolution (1–3 pages). Each
sequence has to do with the greater goal of your story, each one
building on the last and raising the stakes and conflict until the story
and conflict is eventually resolved at the end of the script.
The best feature of sequencing is that it makes your script

digestible. Especially the second act. When you go in to outline
your script, instead of having 120 pages of scary infinity, you have 8
clear sequences you need to design and create that fill out this
larger structure.
It’s simple brilliance and something every writer should be doing.
Beyond having a killer concept, structure is king. Sequencing will
eventually lead you to bullet-proof structure. And structure will get
you respect and structure will win you jobs in the room, just like I
have. Bad structure means bad screenplays, even if you have great
dialogue and characters (which you should also have, of course —
like I said, this shit is competitive!)
The sequence approach makes a lot of sense. As noted in comments previously, one book on
the subject is “Screenwriting: The Hidden Structure of Successful Screenplays” by Paul
Gulino.
Every writer is different, every story is different, there’s no right way to write. Having said
that, the sequence approach is an increasingly popular one in contemporary screenwriting.

06 A Screenwriter - S Guide To Reading A Screenplay Scott Myers

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06 A Screenwriter - S Guide To Reading A Screenplay Scott Myers

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© Scott Myers

About the Author

From 2002-2010, I was an executive producer at Trailblazer Studios, overseeing the

The adventure continues...

Volume 1: 30 Things about Screenwriting

Volume 5: A Screenwriter’s Guide to Aristotle’s Poetics

The First Pass

The Scene-By-Scene Breakdown

Plotline Points and Sequences

Subplots, Relationships and Character Functions

Style and Language

© Scott Myers / Screenwriter's Guide to Reading A Screenplay 5

The main point of a first pass is to read it straight-through in one sitting,

Are you serious about learning the craft?

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P. 28–30: Storm scenes.

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P. 64–65: Muntz shows off some of his hunting trophies.

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Plotline Points and Sequences.

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ACT ONE (Set up, establish initial predicament)

P. 1–3: Newsreel footage of Charles Muntz, “The Spirit of

P. 4–7: Carl imagining himself as Muntz, then hears a voice:

P. 7–10: Carl in his room at night with broken arm. Ellie

P. 10–14: Carl and Ellie’s life together montage.

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P. 14–15: A day in the life. Carl wakes up — alone. Descends

P. 15–17: Carl watches construction all around him. “Quite a

P. 17–20: Carl watching TV. Knock on door. Meet Russell,

P. 20–21: A construction truck hits Carl’s mailbox. Carl

P. 22: Carl summoned to court.

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P. 26–28: Russell immediately gets into Carl’s stuff, curiosity

P. 32–35: They descend through the clouds and land —

P. 36–37: Walking the house. Exposition: Have about 3 days

P. 37: Three dogs, led by their pack leader Alpha, chase a

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P. 44–48: Continuing their trek toward PF, Russell drops

P. 48–51: The dogs have picked up Kevin’s scent, Russell

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P. 51–54: The Foursome continue their trek, but Carl is

P. 54–57: That night, the four prepare to sleep in the rain.

P. 57–59: Waking up the next morning, Dug explains that

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P. 66–70: Muntz insists that he needs to bring back “this

P. 70–73: Chase. Dug and Kevin prove worthy allies in the

P. 74–75: With Dug confirming that the pack isn’t following

Sequence 6 Summary: The main tension is resolved or reframed.

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P 77: The group is fractured. Russell feels like Carl gave

P. 78: Travel scenes. Even the house is ‘low,’ scraping the

P. 78–79: Carl enters the house. It’s a mess — just like his

P. 79–80: Carl exits to find Russell floating in mid-air,

P. 81: Carl is flyying his house to go help Russell rescue

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P. 81–84: Alpha informs Muntz that Russell is on board.

P. 84–85: Spotting Russell sliding down the ramp, Carl veers