An excerpt from my journey into Filmmaking

Jeff Robison

      We were nobody filmmakers from Oklahoma with nary a credit to our name and had, after just one phone call, secured three Oscar Nominees with a combined 3 SAGS, 4 Emmys and 1 Golden Globe to appear in our movie. 

Shortly after, we had a meeting with CAA, where words like “Awards material” and “Twenty million dollar budget” were tossed around in regards to our script.

Then, we secured unused demos from a musical group who had just recently won “Best Rock Band” at the Grammys.

So we had three legit movie stars, music from one of the best bands on planet Earth, and were ready to make our first movie.

And then we waited.

And waited.

And…you get the point.

It would take three-and-a-half years to potentially make it.

Because you know what having 3 Oscar Nominees and a Grammy-Award winning band attached to your project means? Jack. Squat.

*Little advice right here: If you’re venturing out to make your first independent movie, you better possess the patience of Job, skin as thick as an elephant’s hide, a wife/husband/supporting partner who REALLY supports you, and a prescription to Xanax. Because this business will drive you straight to Arkham.

FOR THE LOVE OF THE MOVIE

       I got hooked at an early age. Born in 1971, Bonanza and Star Trek dominated my television time, with a healthy sprinkling of Happy Days, The Big Valley, the Brady Bunch, Good Times, Leave it to Beaver, and Batman tossed in for good measure.

In the 70’s, networks would make big announcements about upcoming movies they were airing, and if The Wizard of Oz was on that night and we were away from the house, you’d better bet we were buzzing home to watch it. Cinematically, The Wizard of Oz probably captured my interest before any others. I saw it twice between the ages of 3 and 5, and it was as magical then as it is today and had to have been 40 years prior.

But one random afternoon, while settling down for a bit between sessions of playing as Batman or James T. Kirk, riding bikes with my brother, or tossing a ball around, I sat on our old, cramped living room floor and became totally immersed in the second film to ever capture my imagination completely: King Kong. The 1933 version. What started out, probably, as just a break between playing turned into a total immersion into another world. I was enthralled. When the big guy climbed the Empire State Building at the end and all those biplanes started whipping bullets at our hero (and make no mistake, even at that age, 5, I knew Kong was our hero), I was in fits. “Stop! Stop shooting him! Stop!” After a noble fight, Kong ultimately toppled down that huge building and landed on the street below. I held my breath, hopeful that, in spite of the bullets, the pain, his sacrifice, he’d somehow survived. 

When it was clear he was, indeed, dead, I burst into tears and heard both of my parents laughing. Not laughing at me, mind you, but, in retrospect, or maybe even being mindful of it at the time, out of that overwhelming feeling of compassion and cuteness that parents bestow upon their children at that age. “What’s wrong?” my mom asked me. She knew the answer, but I sobbed out, “Why did they have to kill him? He was nice! He was scared! And they killed him!” I promptly rushed outside to lament the cruel realities of life, but, more likely, I forgot about it as soon as my brother challenged me to a race.

But it definitely stayed with me. A strong sense of wrong and right was beginning to permeate in my little mind, and, subconsciously, most likely, a light knot in my stomach began to form, a direct result of this strange feeling that a movie had DONE something to me. It had caused me to think. And care. And, more than anything, it taught me that I wanted to feel those feelings again, to soak in more and more experiences like that one.

We were a lower class family of four living in southside Oklahoma City, and daily fist fights, even at that young age (in the years that would follow, once we’d moved, my dad would drive down that street and ask, “Jeff, if you still lived here, you think you’d be a little tougher?” No doubt about it.), were common, but we still found most of our fun outside. We really had no choice. There never was much money left over to do much else. But my dad loved movies, so we’d venture to the cinema now and again.

A few I remember from that time as really sticking out to me were Sinbad and the Eye of the Tiger (and my first introduction to Ray Harryhausen) and, ironically, Fast Break, the 1979 basketball movie starring Gabe Kaplan. Seeing that movie was also the first time in my life I can remember being selfless about something. I’d wanted to see Buck Rogers in the 25th Century that night, but my brother, already unimpressed by the new blockbusters popping up, including my biggest influence of all time, wanted to go see the sports movie. So, between bites of my Long John Silvers fried fish filet (we got to eat out that night!), the movie theater visible out the window just across the parking lot, I relented, we went to see Gabe Kaplan after the meal, and we shared a few chuckles.

There were a few others. Young Frankenstein (I enjoyed, but didn’t fully understand/appreciate until later), matinees of movies like Darby O’Gill and the Little People, The Bad News Bears, etc. But even though some of them came out after or before 1977, the big daddy, the undisputed champ, like most my age, was Star Wars.

The details are fuzzy, as many things are upon contemplation, especially details pertaining to a “party” when the vast majority of participants are 5-9 year olds screaming their heads off. If it had been a current theater, I’m not sure someone wouldn’t have cut the movie short, chastised us (and our parents) for our outrageous behavior, and made us go home. But, upon reflection, I think that, maybe, even the employees of that Reding 4 in Oklahoma City were just as mesmerized as we were.

After watching it the first time, I called my uncle Robert and begged him to take me to my second trip. He, somewhat annoyingly, somewhat compassionately, told my parents that during the entire movie I’d constantly elbow him, sit up on my knees, and say stuff like, “Here it is. Watch! Watch this!” And then I’d try to explain to him who Star Vader was and how amazing it all was and how sad it was when Obi Old Man died. I’m pretty sure he thought it was kind of cute, but I didn’t care. I had the fever, man, and I was all in on Star Wars.

Obviously, there was no internet, and being only 5 at the time, some of my memories are sketchy. But not the feeling. The euphoria. After Star Wars came out in theaters, Kenner, realizing it was sitting on a goldmine but with not much to offer in the way of toys, offered an early bird special to meet the demands of the Christmas season in 1977. It was a cardboard box, about 8x10, that featured these contents on the inside: A flat cardboard stand in which plastic pieces with knobs could be inserted into the holes in the feet of the action figures you purchased, and on the upright portion behind the stand, drawn pictures of all of the action figures you’d eventually get to buy.

There was no overnight shipping. Once you sent in your money, you’d wait 4-6 weeks, typically, to receive your first four action figures: Chewbacca, Princess Leia, R2-D2, and Luke Skywalker. So during those 4-6 weeks, I played, almost incessantly, with that piece of cardboard, using nothing but my imagination to recreate the story with these magical two-dimensional beings crudely placed on the backstop of a piece of thick paper.

And one day, they came. All individually wrapped in clear plastic, set within a flimsy, white package. I opened them carefully one by one, held them each in my hands like I was cradling invaluable treasures. I remember every line in their bodies. The touch. The smell. The soft click-click-click of R2-D2’s rotating head. Magical.

I feel it’s important to remember that, in spite of the fact that I was 5 when the movie was released and I obviously had no means of transportation, even if I had, resources available concerning the movie would have been scarce. It was a phenomenon, no doubt, and was covered in detail by the media, the vast, vast majority to which I had no access. But if you wanted to discuss fan theories, you’d have to do it with your pals in the neighborhood who shared your enthusiasm. I’m not even sure how we’d hear rumors. Well before the internet, actual, literal word-of-mouth was the only means available.

The closest theater was not even remotely within walking distance, but I saw Star Wars at least twice in theaters. That I know for sure. No VCR’s. No playbacks. You soaked it all up in your viewings and used that information to run around the house to the soundtrack, the only thing, besides a comic book and that early bird stand, to connect me with the movie.

*watching movie trailers was another thing. You either got lucky and caught a TV spot, or you bought a ticket to a movie and got what you got.

We moved from Oklahoma City to the suburbs of Mustang, Oklahoma in the summer of 1978 before my first-grade year.

Not to dismiss the period from 1978-1980, but a new home, a new school, and a new passion, basketball, all took place in those years. I do remember being slightly disappointed in Close Encounters of the Third Kind (at the time, I didn’t know why I appreciated some of it, but I did. Mostly, though, I thought it was boring. No space battles? Come on…), and, being in a new neighborhood with new, and mostly older, including my brother, kids, opened up the movie library to more “adult” fare, movies that they’d broadcast on television, like The Amityville Horror and The Exorcist, the latter of which I couldn’t watch completely until I was in my 20’s.

In 1979, Kenner wisely decided to get a jump start on the 1980 release of The Empire Strikes Back by offering a mail-away for a new character, Boba Fett. With four proof-of-purchase seals, little circles you’d cut out of the cardboard packaging of other action figures, you could get the new figure almost a year before you even knew what he was or what he did. He looked cool. He could have looked horrible, though. Everyone would have jumped on the opportunity.

So I dutifully sent in my order, and, being a Star Wars convert based upon my love, or more likely the fact that I talked about it so much and he knew the only way to truly communicate with me was to jump on board, my new best friend, Derek, who lived down the street, sent his in a couple of weeks later.

I’d ask my mom daily if it’d been four weeks, and when she finally notified me that it had, I’d literally spend 30 minutes every day sitting on the curb waiting on the mail to come. And every day for the next two weeks, it didn’t arrive.

But Derek’s did.

It was maybe my first personal lesson of the cruelty of life. King Kong had done it through film, but I was living this nightmare. 

I’ve never considered myself to be a champion of causes, but, at the ripe age of 7, I knew I was the victim of some evil injustice, and I devised a plan to fix it.

With my toys, I began to stage elaborate action sequences that would perfectly illustrate the technical expertise of a filmmaker. These sequences would undoubtedly express not only the love I had for the movie, but simultaneously show off the vast collection of toys I had amassed (I probably had twelve figures by then, and also the Death Star playset, which I still think is the granddaddy of all playsets ever, the Millennium Falcon, a land speeder, and an X-Wing). In truth, I took our Polaroid camera and snapped out-of-focus and poorly lit stills. But in my head, man, would I show them.

I’d shove a couple of the photos into an envelope along with a hand-written letter. “My friend Derek sent his in after me and he got his Boba Fett before me and I’d be the gladdest boy in the world if I could have a Boba Fett.”

And I’d wait a week. And nothing.

So I’d send in another envelope with photos and a letter.

And nothing.

Convinced I had done something wrong in the world and was being punished for my unknown sins (I’d also pick up rocks sometimes and imagine that one of these special rocks would grant me untold wishes, but I’ll save that for the creative portion), I had almost given up hope until one day in early August, I received a package.

It was my Boba Fett. Not only that, I’d received an apology from Kenner, along with my original letter and photos.

I was the gladdest boy in the world.

About two days later, I received another package. It was a second Boba Fett, along with another apology and another letter and photo I’d sent.

A week later, the same thing.

I ended up with four Boba Fetts in all, a true testament to the will and determination of the human spirit, and also to the professionalism and dedication of a company that had to have realized the importance of the customer and, ideally, hopefully, the dreams of a young boy. Thank you, Kenner.

MY FIRST SCREENPLAY

Having written on and off since I was first able, including "srcripts", probably three pages of chicken scratch, and movie posters with all of the positions (occupied by family and family friends) listed, deciding to write my first “real” script didn’t seem to be too daunting a task. Like a lot of things in my life, I just needed a push, internally, whatever that spark is that lies in all of us, and I wish I knew what mine was, but it’s rarely if ever along the lines of “Get off your butt and get moving”, to begin.

I’d read enough to know that Final Draft was the preferred choice among screenwriters. So I bought the software. I installed it, fiddled around a bit, and started writing. It was just that simple.

And I wrote what was, in retrospect, a script that wasn’t that great. It was based upon my actual experiences, mostly as a bachelor, playing golf with chiselers aged 25-75 and basically being a walking ATM Machine for them, and much of the time spent I spent with my friends at Lake Texoma, which borders the southern part of Oklahoma and the northern part of Texas (catchy name, huh?). 

The script had its moments, and I’ll stand by many of them (and many of them paid off down the line), but the characters were by and large very similar, spoke similarly, and the action, the portions of the script that simply show what the character(s) is/are doing or what’s happening in the scene, not just shootouts and car chases, was poorly constructed.

After buying a couple of books on how to actually write a screenplay, two things immediately became obvious: 1. There was a lot of convoluted, confusing information in them, which wasn’t so much the fault of the authors as it was my inexperience with the craft, and 2. I’d almost hit every beat, just as they’d told me.

Screenplays are, typically, unless you’re Tarantino or Nolan, broken up into 3 acts: The beginning, the middle, and the end.

In the beginning, it’s all about set-up. Although Blake Snyder has a fantastic beat sheet I’ve used, more or less, many times, there are a lot of ways to go about it, but here’s what’s most important:

1. Set up the world.

2. Introduce your character(s).

3. Establish a tone.

4. Introduce conflict.

The first act, and especially those first 3-7 pages, better draw the reader in, or they’ll never read past them.

NOTE: the below is not formatted correctly, but I'm still getting the hang of this

Here almost the entire first page of that first crack at a script, written sometime between 2001-2002:

                                                    FADE IN:

EXT. EAGLEWOOD GOLF COURSE-MORNING

MONTAGE OF SHOTS

The sun rises on the horizon.

Small drops of dew hang from shortly cropped blades of grass.

On a riding mower, a half asleep LAWN MOWING TEENAGER mows the rough surrounding an immaculate fairway. He pulls behind a tree, pulls out his one-hitter, and takes a quick hit.

A man sits in the back of his SUV as he puts on his golf shoes.

Several nattily-dressed men sit on the patio, golf bags close by, sipping coffee while engaged in the typical pre-round bullshit.

Three HISPANIC MEN stop their landscaping and stare as a group of women wearing short golfing skirts walk by. The youngest begins humping the air at them. The oldest punches him to stop, even though he's laughing. 

A row of pre-teen boys laugh as they hit punch shots at the cart scooping balls on the fairway.

The CART SCOOP TEENAGER shoots the pre-teen boys the finger.

A man stands just off the putting clock, concentrating intently as he chips ball after ball towards his target on the green.

Lawn Mowing Teen, eyes glazed, stares at the PLASTIC COUGARS sunbathing in the elaborate pool. The riding mower SMASHES against a large oak.

I could have easily cut that down, and if I’d have been a known, established professional, I probably could have gotten away with it. But, I felt that it was important to explicitly show what kind of environment we were dealing with. As it stands, there’s nothing particularly relevant about this opening except for the fact that it quickly (more on that in a bit) introduces a few minor characters who will pop up throughout the script.

Maybe I write:

“The unmistakable scent of freshly cropped grass, dew clinging to the crisp, trimmed blades, the sun barely peeking over the horizon. 

OLD MEN linger and chat on the patio. PLASTIC COUGARS use lustful gazes as their morning caffeine, already flaunting at the pool. A stoned TEENAGER lazily scoops balls up into his bin as SNOTTY KIDS pepper it with line drives. A WEEKEND WARRIOR overanalyzes a putt on the practice green…

This is a golf course. To the uninitiated, a potential freak show. To the golfer...heaven.”

Continuing...

EXT. PRO SHOP - CONTINUOUS

JAKE HAMILTON emerges carrying two cups of coffee.

Twins GARY and JERRY (70's), wearing the latest golf apparel circa 1985, appear from out of nowhere, cutting him off.

JAKE

Geeminy!

JERRY

                          Mornin'... 

GARY

                           ...Jake.

JAKE

              Guys, you have to stop sneaking 

                           up on me.

GARY

                           We didn't…

JERRY

                  Sneak up. Just wanted to make sure…

GARY

              ...you were ready for our round.

JAKE

                     Tee off in ten minutes. We'll be there.

JERRY

            That's dandy. Just don't think 

                        because you're the assistant pro out here…

GARY

                 ...you're gonna win today, big boy.

Gary takes a playful punch at Jake's stomach. Then Jerry punches him in the arm, spilling some of the coffee.

The punches actually hurt a little, and Jake winces.

JERRY

                          Get tough…

GARY

...ya big stinkin' weenie.

For a gentle reminder, I’ll go ahead and mention the subjective nature of anything artistic. I won’t be debating the merits of the quality of writing too much, and I promise, you’ll find no harsher critic of me than me. Rather, we’ll focus on what I (think) I got right, and certainly where I made mistakes.

First of all, my lead character was just introduced, and all I told the reader was that he walked out of the pro shop. How do you know he’s the lead character? You don’t! Nothing would imply his importance other than the information that followed. By the way, you don’t bold print LEAD CHARACTER or SECONDARY CHARACTER when you’re introducing one, but give them a little flavor, for crying out loud. I had nothing about him oozing charm, how he doesn’t care that part of his shirt is untucked, that his hat is on backwards, that he strolls with a confident rhythm...nothing. Big freaking mistake. I figured all of that would be easy to ascertain by how he spoke and treated those around him. I was way, way wrong.

I know a heckuva lot more about those twins than I do Jake, and it’s not just because I described what they were wearing. The twins could be the leads for all we know. The only thing we know about Jake is that he’s the assistant pro, information gained from the twins through exposition, which is certainly a viable way to provide the audience information. But even though dialogue/exposition is not a bad way to describe things the audience may not know, necessarily, I’ve given you almost nothing about Jake, the twins have taken over the movie, and we just started.

Continued…

The twins meander off. Jake finally reaches his cart and hands a cup of coffee to his buddy TYLER (early 30's), average in all aspects.

Tyler watches the old men as they walk towards the putting clock. They simultaneously lift the same leg and fart.

Nitpicky English teacher-ish point here, but who are “they”? The twins or Tyler and Jake? “Average in all aspects” isn’t great, either, but it’s more than I gave Jake.

TYLER

               Awesome.

(confident)

                          Money in the bag.

JAKE

             Don't get too confident. They're 

                          Scramblers.

TYLER

     Dude, they're, like, 90.

JAKE

                          Don't get cocky.

TYLER

                          Sure thing, Han.

Wonderful. So I got my Star Wars reference in early. Very discreetly, too. It’s one of those moments that make me cringe a little. I use callbacks from my favorite films often, but I at least attempt to be (more) subtle about them now.

A young woman with a girl-next-door charm, KARLEE (mid-20's), stops at the cart as she ties on an apron.

Okay...so I’ve done something decent here. “...ties on an apron.” That’s more like it. Who ties on an apron? See, I’ve shown you something rather than told you something.

It’s cliche, but there’s lots of truth to it, as there is with most cliches. “Show don’t tell.” The biggest reason for this is because you want to give the reader a chance to connect dots themselves without specifically telling them, “She’s a waitress/bartender/chef.”

TYLER

           Karlee, my dear, when will you 

                          finally succumb to my charms and 

                          accompany me on a passion-filled 

                          adventure?

KARLEE

            Maybe when you get a real job.

(beat)

                    Nah. SOMETHING FUNNY AND SMART ALLECK.

Clever, huh? I never went back to fix it, but I do think it’s important to a writer to understand that if you feel as though you’ve established a rhythm, keep going. This happens a lot, actually. Don’t worry about a silly punchline. Somebody will most likely think of a better one before you film, anyway.

JAKE

Where you at today?

KARLEE

                          Pool bar.

(beat)

                          Who ya got today?

TYLER

            Those two geriatrics over there.

KARLEE

                      The twins? Be careful. They're scramblers.

Jake shoots Tyler a "Told ya" look.

As she walks away, Tyler checks her out head to toe. Or, from this angle, heel.

TYLER

                Dude, she is so sexy. When are you 

going to hit that?

JAKE

       Told ya, employees can't…

TYLER

             Date employees. Yeah, and I say 

            the hell with that. She is so, so foxy.

Hey, I’m just getting started introducing characters. I mean, I’m going to throw almost the entire kitchen sink into these first few pages.

Continued...

Jake starts to pull away, only to be waved down by LARRY MCCRACKEN (30's), the pear-shaped club donator, wobbling towards their cart. 

It's early morning, and he's already wasted.

TYLER

Shit. Here comes your boy.

LARRY

          Fellas, fellas. Wassah happenin', hot 

                      stuff? Ffffssss.

Generally speaking, save dialects for novels and short stories. This isn't a no-no, necessarily, but the director and actor will dictate how the character slurs or doesn’t slur his words.

JAKE

                                                                       Larry.

LARRY

                That was from Sixteen Candle. I justwon twenty bucks off a guy on the

putting clock.

He reaches into a pocket and pulls out a wallet, stacked with hundreds. 

He dives into the other pocket and produces several tees, a pill bottle and a golf ball. Most of it falls on the ground.

Staying positive here, we know, or should, that Larry has money. We know he’s drunk. And we know, or should know, he pops pills. Also, I managed to “squeeze in” a John Hughes reference. My second influence, no less literal, in the first three pages! Yes!

JAKE

       Larry, we're about to tee off.

                                                                                             LARRY

                        Dammit, it's in here…

Finally, he produces a crumpled up twenty dollar bill.

LARRY

                        Check it. Respect it.

JAKE

                        Congratulations, man.

LARRY

                 Thanks. Dumbass spotted me two in a game 

                of 7-up. Beat 'im seven to six. Then he 

                 cried like a little baby. It was fucking 

                                                                  HILARIOUS.

That “HILARIOUS” probably shouldn’t have been capitalized. Not only is it mostly considered improper formatting, but I shouldn’t have given a stage direction to the actor. Generally speaking, we use underlines very sparingly, and only if we think it’s absolutely imperative to the dialogue. We’ve been fortunate enough to work with directors and actors who don’t question it, and maybe it’s because we use them so seldomly. Same with a caps. But I could definitely hear an actor saying, out loud or to themselves, “I’ll decide where the emphasis goes, thanks.”

Jake looks towards the putting clock and notices a 7-year-old sobbing on the fringe.

Okay, gag is complete.

JAKE

(pointing to the boy)

                                                                          That the dumbass?

LARRY

Yeah. Big baby. Wah-wah.

(beat)

     So, you guys need an extra today?

And now I’ve possibly ruined the gag by explaining the joke. It pays off a little later in the script when the boy's dad shows up. Still, you gotta know when to stop.

JAKE

      Gotta game with the twins. Sorry.

LARRY

               DAMMIT! I NEVER get to play with you guys.

JAKE

                                                                 We'll play sometime.

Larry reaches deep into the front of his shorts and finally produces a beer. After dropping three pills from his bottle in his hand, he pops them in his mouth and empties the beer can.

VOICE

(O.S.)

Larry Lindenbergh McCracken!

There are different ways to approach the introduction of a character. Since we’re not physically establishing this one, I chose to signify an off screen introduction with just “VOICE”.

Startled by the voice, Larry shoots his hands up, spilling pills everywhere.

A cart screeches to a halt next to Jake's. The driver, Dean, sits next to TAYLOR MCCRACKEN (early teens and one of the boys hitting balls at the cart scooper), an almost identical clone to his father.

Okay, that’s fine, but what does Dean look like? Why is his name not capitalized since he’s being introduced for the first time? How old is he? Any distinguishing traits?

Dean stares at the men with utter disdain.

DEAN MCCRACKEN

(to Larry)

          How many gosh damn times do I have to gosh damn tell you not to take those gosh damn 

pills in the gosh damn public?

TREVOR

   Yeah, how many gosh damn times…

                                                                                  DEAN MCCRACKEN

                                                                 Not the time, Taylor.

The small commotion has drawn a few stares. Dean puts on his best politician's smile and waves to the masses.

LARRY

           But Dad, my shoulder, it really hurts…

DEAN MCCRACKEN

           Shut your gosh damn mouth you gosh damn 

                     drunken idiot.

TAYLOR

                      Yeah, you gosh damn idiot!

DEAN MCCRACKEN

                      Taylor, not here.

LARRY

                    You're just gonna let him talk to me like that?

Dean's steely eyes bore a hole in Larry's head.

DEAN MCCRACKEN

            He treats you like that because he has IT, 

        Larry. IT! You know what IT is, Larry?

The “IT” is a perfect example of when it’d probably be okay to use an underline instead of caps.

LARRY

(under his breath)

                     Yes. Sir.

DEAN MCCRACKEN

                     What was that?

LARRY

                     Yessir.

                                                                                                       DEAN MCCRACKEN

                     And that is?

LARRY

(whispering)

                     Swagger.

Dean leans in close to punctuate the lesson.

DEAN MCCRACKEN

                     Again?

LARRY

                     Swagger.

DEAN MCCRACKEN

        Swagger! That's right. In order to be 

       the best, to be a champion, it is of 

       utmost importance that you display a 

                     magnificent sense of....

LARRY

                     Swagger.

DEAN MCCRACKEN

            Ah, Taylor, at least he can verbalize it. 

                     Now if he'd just apply it.

He looks at Jake and Tyler, disdain written all over his face.

“Disdain”. That’s twice I’ve used that word in a very short span. Thesauruses are your friend, writers.

DEAN MCCRACKEN

           I'll assume you're not interfering with 

        any of the members' tee times today?

JAKE

                      No, sir.

DEAN MCCRACKEN

              Remember, Mr. Hamilton, that your status 

                 as an assistant pro here does not grant you 

         permission to access tee times if a 

              member requests the one in which you are

                      assuming.

Through the years, I’ve noticed scripts/movies do this a lot - repeat people’s names, occupations, etc. This is going to sound simplistic, but it’s true: the more you watch, read, and analyze, the more you’ll pick up on things. Originally, I thought it was bad form to have repeated Jake’s status; however, since his position is an important piece of the story, I’m okay with it. 

JAKE

              Of course not, Mr. McCracken. It's wide 

    open. Playing with the twins.

DEAN MCCRACKEN

Jake, I don't like to small talk, so I'll 

cut the crap. I have thought and continue 

to think that your position here is 

unwarranted and, frankly, embarrassing. 

That lack of sportsmanship you displayed

towards my son Blake after your humiliating

loss put a black spot on your head no eraser 

in the world could ever extinguish.

                                                                                  TYLER

Your son cheated, that's why he 

got dissed.

DEAN MCCRACKEN

                      Mind your tongue, Tyler. I won't remind either of you that a certain person who is a member here and sits on the board of the directors that is sitting in this very seat talking directly to you has a powerful presence in our meetings.

The inspiration for Dean came from the amazing performances of Dean Vernon in Animal House and Ted Knight in Caddyshack. 

Jake and Tyler stare at him, feigning confusion.

DEAN MCCRACKEN

(frustrated)

                                                          I'm talking about ME, you knuckle-jerking

                                                         dick munchers.

Caps again.

TAYLOR

                      Dick munchers.

JAKE

(to Tyler)

                      Did you get that?

TYLER

          He totally had me confused, but now I think I get it. Yeah. Because he reminded 

                          us and all. After he said he wouldn't. That helped.

DEAN MCCRACKEN

            Idiots. The three of you. God help us.

(to Larry)

              Don't do anything to embarrass us today, 

                      okay, son?

LARRY

Sure got it thing sir yes.

Dean looks at the three Hispanics landscaping.

DEAN MCCRACKEN

        Prune those azaleas, dammit! They 

                       look like shit!

A beer can falls out of Larry's pant leg.

Dean rolls his eyes and drives away. Taylor turns around and shoots them all the bird.

I’ve purposely left off the page numbers. Almost nine in full. Nine pages to set up the story. Nine characters introduced. Way too much going on, and, aside from the fact that Dean is a jerk and Jake can’t date Karlee, I have no idea what this “story” is about.

The dialogue...well, I’m not too proud of a lot of it. I like the mini-Dean, Taylor, but I wrote the danged thing and I’m already confused. It’s a little note, and you can name all of your characters “Fred” if you like, but it gets pretty confusing for the reader, and you’ll confuse yourself when you’re writing, if many of your characters’ names begin with the same letter, especially if you have the command set to remember each character when you’re typing dialogue. Final Draft has a preset of this feature, and it’s awesome, but, alphabetically, it’s going to pop up as “Taylor” first every time I type a “T” in the character field. Remember when I mentioned the thing about getting into a rhythm? You’ll make a mistake, write an entire scene with “Tyler” but use “Taylor”, and at the point you do it, you’ll probably have forgotten which is which, and if you’ve ever edited your own material, which I’ll assume you have, then you know how easy it is for your brain to miss something because it’s reading it the way you intended, not the way it actually is.

In other words, it’s recommended that you use a different letter to begin each character’s name. At least on those initial drafts.

Here’s an updated version, one that came in handy many years later, of the script.

EXT. MORNING WOODS GOLF CLUB - DRIVING RANGE - DAY

Nature’s sounds of grace and majesty on an emerging summer day, sun glistening off of crisply cropped blades of grass as the sun begins to peek over the eastern horizon.

IN THE DISTANCE, the familiar SLAP of the sweet spot as metal meets plastic.

THUD. A golf ball attacks the green; to the layman, its presence would be an assault on the peaceful landscape it has infiltrated. To the initiated, it is one with nature, synonymous with earth, wind, and fire.

The ball leaves a divot, bounces ahead five feet, spins, heads back in the direction from which it came.

Towards a hole. Closer and closer, a STICK haphazardly placed inside of it, leaning toward one side.

The ball’s momentum carries it to the hole’s edge, where it hangs precariously for what seems an eternity.

Finally, it drops inside the abyss. 

VOICE (O.C.)

Well, hose me sideways...

EXT. MORNING WOODS GOLF CLUB - DRIVING RANGE TEES - DAY

Polo half-tucked, zipper open, wearing flip-flops and Eddie Van Halen shades, JAKE HAMILTON (26) slams his 7-iron into the dirt.

LARRY MCCRACKEN (46), disheveled, slobbish, and currently wearing Kibuki makeup, beams.

A few things to note here. When I originally submitted this, there was even more description of the course. Birds chirping, things like that. It was suggested I cut it, make it less “wordy”, so I, obviously, eliminated a bit of it. But I felt pretty strongly that in order for the vulgarity that followed (and it gets more and more so, and quickly) to really hit, I needed to set up something serene and peaceful before it. This was all done for potential readers. I never truly intended for the director or DP to take these descriptions literally so long as the tone was established. There’s an adage about screenwriting that if it doesn’t advance the story, you toss it. The new opening didn’t advance the story, but it helped set up a tone, so I left it. 

Also, I’ve given Jake more life and personality with three words of dialogue and two lines of physical description, taking up a total of three lines, all on the first page, than I did in nine pages on my first crack.