Send Your Characters to Hell, ScreenwritingU!

Written by Hal Croasmun on June 19, 2010.

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When your lead character is placed in a terrible spot, entertaining things happen.  The audience worries about him. They feel sympathy for him.  They want to know what is going to happen to him.  Why? Because you, the God of your script, set it up that way.

Or did you?

Sometimes, it appears that writers are too nice to their characters. You've established a deep friendship with those characters and don't want to hurt their feelings.  You'd never put a friend in such an awful situation.  So why would you do that to your characters?
There's nothing wrong with loving your characters.  After all, they were so much fun to create.  But remember, they have a job to do that, if done right, will bring them to life along with your career.
What is their job?  To go through hell and somehow survive to tell about it.
Think of it this way.  If your characters don't experience conflict and tension, neither will your audience.  This is important.  I don't mean that a story can't have happiness or fun or any other positive emotions.  For a story to be an emotional roller-coaster ride, there has to be both ups and downs.
But the highs and lows need to be delivered effectively and in most stories, it is the conflict that keeps an audience glued to their seats.

SOLUTION: Turn up the heat on your characters and watch them roast.

Here are a few suggestions.  At some point, I may write articles providing details on these strategies.  But for now, this simple list can provide you some possible solutions.

1. Put them in uncomfortable situations as often as possible.

2. Make sure the main conflict of the story is an absolutely "unsolvable puzzle" for the main characters.

3. Every time it looks like they'll succeed, send them a twist that mucks up their plans.

4. Place other characters in their lives that either sabotage or disrupt your main character's usual coping strategies.

5. Alternate "hope" and "hopelessness" whenever possible. The first pulls us back in and the second makes us worry.

6. Force them to do the one thing they would never do.

7. Don't give them the easy way out.  Leave them in pain for as long as possible.

8. Murphy's Law and misfortune suddenly visit their lives in unusual and interesting ways.

9. Take their problems to an extreme.

10. Make sure their internal conflict is represented in a graphic manner as well.

 
BTW, movies aren't all about pain.  As I said, there are both highs and lows in any good movie.   But try this exercise and see what you find out about conflict:

-------------------- EXERCISE --------------------------

Watch three of your favorite movies with a pad of paper.  As you do, make a list of all the things the writer did to cause pain and conflict for the main characters.

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Even if you've written 10 screenplays and watched thousands of movies, you may still be surprised at the results.  You'll see both conflicts and setups for conflict that you never noticed before.
I heard a song once that said "you got to go through hell to get to heaven."  Could be that same advice applies to writing movies... or being a writer...or even being a producer.
Send your characters to hell and you'll send your audience through a highly entertaining movie.
And if you want help punching up your script, check out our "Fresh & Edgy Screenwriting Class."

Besting Your Own Best, ScreenwritingU!

Written by Hal Croasmun on June 9, 2010.

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About a year ago, we started having a curious thing happen in our more advanced classes.  People started asking me this question:
 
"This is the best script I've ever written.  How can I possibly improve the best I've ever done?"
 
My normal thought on this is to learn more skills and then apply them to the script.  But the writers who were asking were some of our best writers, so I had to look deeper.
So I read some of their scripts and they were right.  Those were some pretty good scripts.  The interesting thing was that there was nothing wrong with those scripts.
Nothing wrong.
Make sure you understand this because it is going to be important later in this article.  Most scripts have things wrong with them. Some have glaring mistakes.  So they are easy to critique and improve.  You just solve the problems.
But these scripts didn't have any problems.  There was nothing wrong with them.  So the standard solutions didn't work.
And that is when I realized something.  Most people work to the point where there is nothing wrong with their script...and then they're done.  Their standard for success is "nothing wrong."
Essentially, they have a script with no flaws.  Is that the same thing as a great script?  Can a script have nothing wrong and still not sell? You bet.
You don't just want a flawless script.  You want an amazing script.
Right?
You want a script that blows producers away.  You want it to sell you as a writer and you want it to be produced.
That takes more than "nothing's wrong."
So I created a simple, but profound 4-step process for besting your best.
 
THE PROCESS FOR BESTING YOUR BEST
 
1.  Decide that you are going to improve this script until it is truly amazing and until it causes people in this industry to give you the respect and admiration you deserve.
 
This is important.  When I talk with people who have written their best script ever, most of them don't want to do anything else to it. What they want is for it to sell the way it is.
Essentially, they've shut off the creative process because they thought their script was already done.
In order to improve it (improve is different than change, remember?), they must step back into the arena and fight the fight again.  All it takes is a decision.
Make the decision now and you'll enter into the creative process on this script.  As soon as you decide, you'll start thinking of ways to improve the script.  Just do it.
 
2.  Put the script away for 7 to 21 days.
 
You've made the decision to improve this script.  Now, I want you to get some distance from it.  That way, the next step will be so much more valuable.
If you've ever done this, you know that when you return to the script, the break time allows you to see the script with fresh eyes.
I know that you are going to want to dive in right away, but that is just stirring the same pot.  The objective here is to separate the script from the emotion that may be clouding your thinking.
When you return to the script, you'll be more objective and that means you'll be more creative.
 
3.  Change your standard from "nothing wrong" to "nothing can be improved" and discover all the areas that can be elevated.
 
This is the fundamental shift that will double or triple the quality of your screenwriting.  Once you have a script where there is nothing wrong, you can then go for this new standard.
This step is simple.  As you read your script, flag everything that can be improved.  Using a 1 - 10 scale, if a character is a 6 and you'd like them to be a 10, flag that character.  If a scene is good, but not great, flag that scene.
Do that process on every structural point, character, scene, description line, and dialogue line.
We had a lady come to us with a "perfect script."  She had two different consultants confirm that the script was perfect and ready for the market.
Both Cheryl and I read it and we were very impressed.  She had written a script to be proud of.  There wasn't a single thing wrong with it and it was a compelling read.
When I did this process with it, I found 39 places we could improve.
Keep this in mind.  The script consultants weren't lying to her.  Her script was perfect -- according to their standards. But she wanted the script to go to Studios, so I applied a higher standard.
When we finished elevating those 39 spots, she said that the script was at least 200% better.   I believe her assessment was accurate.
 
4.  Elevate everything you can until nothing can be improved.
 
This final step means you are going to apply the best skills you have and you'll be doing a lot of brainstorming.
But it is worth it.
Simply put, just start with the first item that needs to be improved and get clear on the purpose of that item.  Then, brainstorm ways to fulfill that purpose and don't stop until you have elevated the item.
Then move to the next item.  Continue that process until all the items are improved to the level you want them to be.
BTW, this works extremely well -- if you have professional level skills so you can elevate any piece of writing.   If you want to improve your skills, join us for an upcoming ProSeries and you'll get what you need to make this process fly at a professional level.
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WHAT TO DO?

It is easy to think that you've worked your script to death and there is nothing else you can do.   But if you actually go through your script focusing on the search for places you can improve, you'll be surprised how many show up.
Do this process one time and you'll be hooked.  It will take a lot of work, but the results will astound you.  Anyone who has read your writing before will see a significant improvement. Many of them will be overwhelmed at the new quality level.
Final Recommendation:  Take a script you've already written through this process IMMEDIATELY.  It will give you a better script to showcase your talent and turn this information into an experience that will pay off many times in the future.
And when you win a contest or sell a script, email me to let me know how this process worked for you.
I'm looking forward to that.

Becoming a Naturally Talented Screenwriter, by ScreenwritingU!

Written by Hal Croasmun on February 19, 2010.

What if agents and producers saw you as “naturally talented?”

There are two ways to become a great screenwriter.  One is to find your “natural talent.”  The other is to build in all the skills, understanding, and creative process that can express that talent in the most amazing way possible. 
You need to do both.   Today, I’ll map out a plan for writing from your core – from that natural talent that you have deep inside of you. 
Keep this in mind:  Becoming a great screenwriter is a growth process.  Done right, you’ll mature a bit more every day – in writing skill, in philosophy, and in creatively expressing yourself.

1.  What are you naturally good at that can help your screenwriting?

A quick search will likely reveal some of your natural talents.  Maybe you can visualize a story.  Maybe you come up with good dialogue.  Maybe you can dream up unique and interesting characters.  Maybe you just love movies. 
Make a list of what you just naturally do well having to do with writing.   But don’t stop with the obvious.   Keep looking for a deeper understanding of what you are naturally talented at.   The more you understand your own talents, the more you’ll be able to focus on them to deliver your own unique voice in your screenplays.
Every day, you can discover something more about what you are naturally good at.  Brilliant talent isn’t always easy to understand or see.   Keep looking deeper. 
And with each discovery, your TALENT emerges.

2.  What interesting situations have you lived that you can bring to your characters and stories?

We’ve all had ups and downs in life.  Love and tragedy.  Successes and failures.  Embarrassments and proud moments.  Breakdowns and breakthroughs. 
Just as important, we all have a public face and a private face.  We’ve said one thing and meant another.  We’ve been both courageous and fearful .  We’ve had times we’ve won and felt like losers, but also had times we lost and felt like a winner.  Life has given us enough experience to build the most interesting situations and characters. 
Find those moments – especially the paradoxical moments – and fill your stories with them. 

3.  How can you use your imagination to bring those moments to life in a unique way?

The most common thing for people to do is write exactly what happened to them.  They put their characters in common situations and have them do common things.
Rather than that, what if you took your experiences and understanding and translated that into something amazing?   Your experience of being embarrassed at dinner becomes a tabloid publicized humiliation for your character.   Your experience of being pulled over by a traffic cop becomes your character being arrested for multiple felonies someone else did. 
Use your imagination to transform your experiences into an emotional roller-coaster ride that causes your character to grow in some amazing way while still feeling real.  
What makes it feel real is that it comes from your experience and understanding.  What makes it amazing is when you use your imagination to set it in a whole new context or to give it to us in an unexpected way. 
Can you take what you know and imagine it in an even more entertaining way?   You bet you can. 

4.  What skills will you learn that will elevate the quality of your screenwriting?

If you don’t think this game is about skill, you need to look again.  Read any great screenplay and you’ll see a combination of character depth, subtext, meaning, setup/payoff, and interest – all designed into single lines of dialogue. 
Those happen because the writer spent years learning ALL OF THOSE SKILLS.   Translating the story in your mind onto the page is all about having the right skills.  Higher quality skills equals a stronger translation of your vision and a more compelling read. 
But don’t worry; you’ll learn those skills as you progress.   You’ll discover them as you read produced screenplays and experiment with your own scripts or you can learn them even faster in ScreenwritingU classes because we give you exactly what you need to succeed.
Whichever route you take, make learning high-level screenwriting skills a priority now.

5.  How are you going to test your writing to make sure it is professional?

At some point, you need to find out how good you really are – and how much improvement you truly need to be professional.  
One way to think of it is climbing a ladder.  You write a script and move to rung 1.   You submit it to a contest and maybe you don’t even place.  So you take some classes, write another script…and your script is a Quarter-finalist.  You’ve moved to rung 2. 
Go back, apply more of #1 – #4 (natural talent, experience, imagination, and skill) and you make it to Finalist.  Not bad.  You’re on rung 3.  Now take some more classes, write another script, get script consulting, and surprise; you win the contest.  Rung 4. 
But does that make you professional?  So you test that script against the market and are turned down by everyone.  Give up?  Hell no.  You’ve come this far and with a bit more work, you’ll get where you want to go.  Apply more of #1 – #4.  Take better classes, get a better script consultant, write a better script…and you get optioned.  Rung 5. 
You continue moving up that ladder until one day, you’re at the top – A-List. 
Notice two things – 1.  You kept going back to your core and most likely, each time, you discovered something new about your natural talents.  2.  You kept learning, growing, and finding even better ways to express yourself in screenplays. 
Stay on this path and soon, you’ll be seen as “naturally talented” — and you’ll be paid for it!

Are You Thankful For Your Writing?

by, Jacob Krueger November 24 2011

On this Thanksgiving Holiday, I’d like to invite you to take a moment to ask yourself the following question:

What are you thankful for in your writing?

So often, we spend our time criticizing ourselves, searching for what is wrong, and what can be improved in the words we write.  And certainly there is value in that part of the process.

But it’s important to remember that the real key to becoming the writers we want to be lies in identifying what we love.

When you identify on the things you love about your writing, you shift your focus away from the things you lack, and onto the wonderful gifts you already have.

In this way, you give yourself a foundation upon which to build, open yourself up to the opportunities in your writing, and invest yourself with the hope and excitement that will carry you through to the end.

So take a moment today, think about your writing, and write down the things you most love about it.

Think about your process.  What about it makes you happy?

Look at a scene you’ve written or a character you’ve created.  What do you most connect to?

What’s a line of dialogue you’re thankful to have discovered? A theme you’re thankful to have explored? A character you’re glad to have taken on a journey? Or an obstacle you’re grateful to have wrestled with and overcome?

Get specific about all the things you’re thankful for.  And then,  if you’d like, share some of them with us and with your friends by posting what you love about your writing to our new Facebook Page!

We’ll be thankful that you did!

Happy Thanksgiving!

Jake

Titanic, Leo's Ticket to Rose!

Where Is Your Character Going?

by Jacob Krueger

I’m writing this from the air on my way to Costa Rica, thinking about the importance of location, both in screenplays and in life.
We behave differently in different places, and so do our characters. Travelling abroad, we speak to people we wouldn’t necessarily speak to, face fears we wouldn’t normally face, and get in touch with aspects of ourselves we wouldn’t normally recognize. New locations break us out of our routines, and open us to new experiences.

 

And of course they do the same for our characters.

As writers we know our job is to take our characters on a profound journey. But oftentimes we pay so much attention to the emotional side of that journey, that we forget the value of the physical side.



Simply choosing the right physical location for a scene to take place can completely change the value of that scene, the given circumstances for your character, and the feeling it gives to your screenplay.

 

There are many ways to take your characters abroad.

The concept of home is important for everyone, and we tend to be attached to the places we consider home, whether they are working for us or not. We stay in places we find unsatisfying simply because it feels safe, normal or routine. And our characters do the same thing.
Taking your characters abroad means forcing them out of the places they think of as home: the places are comfortable and normal for them. You can do this by taking them to a foreign place or an unexpected location. Or by choosing a location that already has a strong value for them and allowing that value to change.



Make your characters confront their fears, go to a place they are afraid of and allow something beautiful to happen to them there. Or, pick a place that seems comfortable and safe and violate that safety with something out of the ordinary. Force them to confront an old memory in a location in a place where they grew up, and find something different than they expected. Or allow an element from a location in their past to enter their present day life.

When you break your characters routine, you force them to take profound journeys.

And the great thing is, when you choose the right location, the place itself can do half the writing work for you! In Toy Story 3, think about the value of the daycare center, which begins as pure heaven, the answer to the toys’ desperate need to be played with, and ends up turning into a living hell, run by a satanic teddy bear. The contrast between the value of the daycare center and the shifting value of home helps us understand the character’s journey, simply by understanding the location.
Think about the value of a location in a movie like Into The Wild, as a character travels toward his imagined paradise of Alaska, only to realize he’s said no to all the real paradises that were offered him along the way.
Think about any haunted house movie, or a twist on the genre like Cabin in the Woods, and once again you’ll see how important the specifics of a given location can be to your storytelling and your character’s journey.

 

Your scenes can travel too.

If you’ve ever tried to get anyone to change, you know it doesn’t happen easily. Our characters cling to familiarity just like our loved ones do. And we cling to familiarity as well.
One of the unconscious ways we do this is by writing familiar scenes in familiar locations: the breakup at the fancy restaurant, the argument about dirty dishes in the kitchen, the drunken binge at the bar. We end up unconsciously writing scenes that feel cliché, simply because we’re attached to the locations that feel familiar to us.

 

When you switch your location, magic can happen.

Allow your breakup scene to happen at the top of a ferris wheel. Move your argument about dirty dishes to midnight mass, or allow your drunken binge to happen in a nursery school, and suddenly you transform a scene that feels cliché into one that feels fresh and exciting.
I’m reminded of a student who wrote his very first scene in my Write Your Screenplay class. It was a lovers’ quarrel, taking place in the bedroom as the couple got dressed. And it read pretty much like every other lovers’ quarrel. I suggested that he change the location, and he came back next class with one of the most hilarious scenes I’ve ever read. And the dialogue was exactly the same.
All he’d done was switch the location, from the bedroom, to a skydiving lesson. The characters were delivering the same lines to each other, but they were doing so as they plummeted toward the earth. The result not only made us laugh—but also made us recognize just how bad things actually were between them, because they were still discussing it, even in this totally ridiculous situation.

 

Location forces your character to do something interesting.

 

One of the big problems many writers have is that their characters aren’t doing anything. They stand around posed, delivering their lines, or doing their normal routine. But when you allow them to interact with a new location, they suddenly start to do fun stuff that roots your scene in action, and creates those movie moments that people can really connect to.
Remember the scene from When Harry Met Sally, when they’re “doing the wave” at the ballpark? Set this scene in any other location, and it’s going to be one of the most boring scenes in history. It’s purely exposition: Billy Crystal catching his friend up on his breakup with his ex-wife. There’s no conflict, and in the lines themselves there’s not so much comedy.
But watching the two of them seamlessly continue their conversation, standing and sitting to do the wave each time it comes around to them, transforms this scene into one of the most memorable scenes in the whole movie.

The Truth About Awesome Dialogue..

by Jacob Krueger 

 

Just Because Your Character Says Something Doesn’t Make It Dialogue.

 

Dialogue can be one of the most daunting aspects of writing for many screenwriters. It’s easy to become so obsessed with how an audience is perceiving your dialogue (is it believable, memorable, original, unique to our characters, realistic and compelling enough to captivate an audience) that you entirely forget to ask the most important questions:

What is dialogue? And what is it supposed to do in your screenplay?

I’m about to say something radical: just because your character SAYS something doesn’t make it dialogue.
Real dialogue, good dialogue (and the kind of dialogue you actually want in your screenplay) is distinguished from all the other stuff your character says by one simple quality…

Dialogue is just another way of getting what a character wants.

Your characters are just like you. When they talk, they’re doing it for a reason, whether they are conscious of that reason or not.
There’s no such thing as “just talk” in movies, or in life. And though that idea may seem counterintuitive at first, think about a recent social situation where you were “just talking” and you’ll probably be surprised to realize how many hidden wants were happening just under the surface, things you were trying to get from the person you were talking to: approval, congratulations, laughs, sympathy, compassion, protection, encouragement, excitement, thrills, sex, status, a free drink, a friendly smile.



And guess what? The person you were “just talking” with had a similar symphony of wants playing in their mind, the whole time they were talking to you, adding complex, barely perceptible conflicts to the scene that infused it with a certain feeling, and a certain reality.
When dialogue gets separated from the wants that motivate it, it’s almost impossible to make it feel authentic.

The reason most writers have such a hard time writing dialogue is because what they’re really trying to write is not dialogue, but simply talk.



Rather than listening to the complex symphony of their character’s wants, writers find themselves obsessing over the characters individual words and the way they’ll be perceived by an audience.
When you write dialogue in this way, there’s no drive or structure to it. Your dialogue isn’t actually doing anything. And more importantly, it’s not reflecting anything in the real world. That means the burden falls upon you, as the writer, to turn in the perfect virtuoso performance, in order to pass off a false product as a real one. And even if you succeed, unless you have a marvelous gift, you’re going to have to work your butt off for every word.
It’s like attending a concert at Carnegie Hall and listening only to a single violin. No matter how well executed the performance may be, it can’t help but sound a little tinny and false when divorced from the broader context of the symphony.
And heaven forbid a single chord be misplayed or a mistake be made in this context. Rather than being absorbed, or providing an interesting complement to the larger soundscape, it suddenly becomes an object of fixation for the writer, cutting them off from their creative impulses and from their natural talents.

Once you learn that your characters are using their words to get something from another character, the character starts to do most of the heavy lifting for you.

Rather than fixating on the words of the character (and your fear of being judged for how you write them), you can instead allow yourself to tap into the complex symphony of your character’s desires, allowing yourself to play around with the different ways your character can use their words to get what they want, in ways that are unique to that character.
Now, when you first set out to write a scene, the words themselves no longer need to be perfect, because you’re building around the deeper intentions that drive them, following your instincts and listening to the instincts of your character, focusing on what the characters are doing with their words, rather than what they are saying.
As you then work into later drafts, it becomes much easier to hone and refine your dialogue, and to separate the lines you need (the ones that pursue a want in a way that’s unique to that character) from the ones you don’t.

Tap into the symphony, without micromanaging the conductor!



It’s important to remember that just like you, your character may not always be consciously aware of their wants. And if you get super literal about analyzing every want before you even start to write, you may find that it’s just as much of an impediment to your writing as not thinking about the want at all.
Instead, I’d encourage you to keep your characters’ big wants (or at least the ones they are consciously aware of in the scene) somewhere in the back of your mind. And then allow yourself to play, enjoying the different tactics they use as they attempt to achieve those wants, and allowing your subconscious impulses to guide you.
You can then work back into the dialogue you have written, eliminating dialogue that doesn’t relate to the character’s desire, and getting more specific with the dialogue that does.

The Truth About Truth & Cliche, J Krueger

by Jacob Krueger

Cliché. If you’re a writer, you’ve probably experienced the terror this word implies about your writing:  boring, tired, overused, uninspired, uncreative, or just plain not good enough.

If you’ve ever been part of a writing class, you’ve probably had the dangers of cliché burned into your brain like a mark of shame.

 

And detecting it like a bad smell lurking in your pages despite all your attempts to avoid it, you’ve probably found yourself questioning if you really have what it takes to be a writer.
So here’s a little bit of truth for you to chew on:

 

All Writers Write Clichés.  All The Time.

Screenplays are just like people.  At first glance, they seem like they fit into certain types, but if you look at them closely, you come to realize that they are all filled with complexities and contradictions.
People are weird and strange and surprising, and absolutely nobody is normal if you’re looking at them closely.  The same is true of every character, every line of dialogue, every image and every scene of your script.

 

 

Writing a first draft of a screenplay is like going on a first date. 

Based on a very little bit of information, you extrapolate an entire story of who your characters are, and what your journey together might look like.  And as well observed as you may try to make it, this story is naturally full of clichés, because you haven’t really gotten the chance to know the character or the story deeply.
As you spend more time with your characters and your story, you start to discover all the things that make them special.  The qualities about them that you never could have seen coming on that “first date.”  Just like a relationship, this takes time, meditation and exploration… and involves going through some tough times together.

 

Clichés Are Necessary For Survival

If you were bombarded with all the complexities and contradictions of a person the first time you sat down to sip a Margarita, the chances are you’d never get to a second date with anyone.  Yet this is the mistake writers often make with their screenplays, trying to discover every layer of detail before they even have a sense of who their characters are or what their story is.

As cliché as they might be, it’s those early assumptions, that early sense of the scene, the character, or the story, that allows you to hang in long enough to decide which ones you want to explore more deeply.  And which ones you want to get the heck out of!

 

Your job as a writer is not to avoid cliché, to fear cliché, or beat yourself up over being cliché. 

When you’re feeling that desperate need to impress people as a writer, it’s hard to just sit down and be real with your characters.  So instead of worrying about how people are going to perceive your writing, put your focus on learning to step into the worlds of your characters, so you can capture them as truthfully as you possibly can.
Your job is to allow yourself the clichés you need in early phases of your writing, and then to look more closely at them, so you can uncover the truth, and turn them into more specific, more exciting or more closely observed writing.



Nobody is normal.  And no scene is normal either.  So next time you feel your writing is cliché, just sit with it awhile, and ask yourself what you’re missing.  What’s that extra detail that would make it special, and compelling?  What would be slightly cooler, slightly more exciting, or slightly more complex about the truth?
Capture that detail, and you’ll no longer have a cliché.
In fact, you may even find you have a screenplay worthy of a second date.

 

Connect to the Truth of Your Characters With Meditative Writing

 

If you’d like to discover a new way of moving beyond your clichés, connecting to your characters, developing your voice as a writer, and capturing the compelling heart of every moment of your story, I invite you to check out our new 6 Week Meditative Writing class with Jessica Hinds, starting soon.
Each class begins with a guided meditation, and then segues into a series of mind opening writing exercises designed to set free your voice as a writer and connect you to your characters, your story, and the truth of each moment in your writing.  Over several weeks, you’ll develop a meditative writing practice that you can use every time you sit down to write to get to your best writing faster, and find the inspiration you need every time you sit down to write.
I’m so excited about this class that I’m taking it as a student!  And hope that you will join me either in our NYC Studio, or through our Live Online Video Stream.

Film Director by Wikipedia!

A film director is a person who directs the making of a film. Generally, a film director controls a film's artistic and dramatic aspects, and visualizes the script while guiding the technical crew and actors in the fulfillment of that vision. The director has the "final day" in choosing the cast members, production design, and the creative aspects of filmmaking.

Responsibilities

Film directors create an overall vision through which a film eventually becomes realized. Realizing this vision includes overseeing the artistic and technical elements of film production, as well as directing the shooting timetable and meeting deadlines. This entails organizing the film crew in such a way as to achieve his or her vision of the film. This requires skills of group leadership, as well as the ability to maintain a singular focus even in the stressful environment of a film set. Moreover it is necessary to have an artistic eye to frame shots and to give precise feedback to cast and crew, thus, excellent communication skills are a must. Since the film director depends on the successful cooperation of many different creative individuals with possibly strongly contradicting artistic ideals and visions, he or she also needs to possess conflict resolution skills in order to mediate whenever necessary. Thus the director ensures that all individuals involved in the film production are working towards an identical vision for the completed film. The set of varying challenges he or she has to tackle has been described as "a multi-dimensional jigsaw puzzle with egos and weather thrown in for good measure". It adds to the pressure that the success of a film can influence when and how they will work again. Omnipresent are the boundaries of the films budget. Additionally, the director may also have to ensure an intended age rating. Theoretically the sole superior of a director is the studio that is financing the film, however a poor working relationship between a film director and an actor could possibly result in the director being replaced if the actor is a major film star. Even so, it is arguable that the director spends more time on a project than anyone else, considering that the director is one of the few positions that requires intimate involvement during every stage of film production. Thus, the position of film director is widely considered to be a highly stressful and demanding one. It has been said that "20-hour days are not unusual".

Career pathways

Some film directors started as screenwriters, film editors or actors. Other film directors have attended a film school to "get formal training and education in their craft". Film students generally study the basic skills utilized in making a film. This includes, for example, preparation, shot lists and storyboards, blocking, protocols of dealing with professional actors, and reading scripts. Some film schools are equipped with sound stages and post-production facilities. Besides basic technical and logistical skills, students also receive education on the nature of professional relationships that occur during film production. A full degree course can be designed for up to five years of studying. Future directors usually complete short films during their enrollment. The National Film School of Denmark has the student's final projects presented on national TV. Some film schools retain the rights for their students' works. Many directors successfully prepared for making feature films by working in television. The German Film and Television Academy Berlin consequently cooperates with the Berlin/Brandenburg TV station RBB (Berlin-Brandenburg Broadcasting) and ARTE.
A handful of top directors made from $13 M to $257 M in 2011, such as James Cameron and Steven Spielberg. The average movie director makes a lot less. In May 2011, the average US film director made $92,220.

Almaz, You lucky lucky thing...

Με το ίδιο μακό, Ελευθερία Αρβανιτάκη..

Να μείνεις εδώ... Χατζηγιάννης

"Μπορεί να παίξει την ευτυχία μονά ζυγά.."

A far l'amore comincia tu RaffaellaCarra

A 48 hour computer simulation of Typhoon Mawar using the Weather Research and Forecasting model!

 

(Source Wikipedia)

The Art of Stagecraft by Wikipedia!

Stagecraft is the technical aspect of theatrical, film, and video production. It includes constructing and rigging scenery, hanging and focusing of lighting, design and procurement of costumes, makeup, procurement of props, stage management, and recording and mixing of sound. Stagecraft is distinct from the wider umbrella term of scenography. Considered a technical rather than an artistic field, it is primarily the practical implementation of a designer's artistic vision.
In its most basic form, stagecraft is managed by a single person (often the stage manager of a smaller production) who arranges all scenery, costumes, lighting, and sound, and organizes the cast. At a more professional level, for example modern Broadway houses, stagecraft is managed by hundreds of skilled carpenters, painters, electricians, stagehands, stitchers, wigmakers, and the like. This modern form of stagecraft is highly technical and specialized: it comprises many sub-disciplines and a vast trove of history and tradition.
The majority of stagecraft lies between these two extremes. Regional theatres and larger community theatres will generally have a technical director and a complement of designers, each of whom has a direct hand in their respective designs.

History

Greeks were the earliest recorded practitioners of stagecraft. "Skene" is Greek, translating roughly into "scene" or "scenery", and refers to a large scenic house, about one story tall, with three doors. On the audience-side of the Skene, what are now known as "flats" could be hung. Flats developed to two-sided painted flats which would be mounted, centered, on a rotating pin, with rope running around each consecutive pin, so the flats could be turned for a scene-change. The double-sided-flat eventually evolved into the periaktoi (pl. periaktos).
As well as flats, the Greeks also used such machines as the ekkyklema, essentially a platform on wheels, and the deus ex machina, a hand-cranked lift to be used to lift a character/scenery over the skene. Over 20 such scenic inventions can be traced back to the Greeks. No light but that of the sun was used; plays started at sun-rise and continued until sun-down.
Plays of Medieval times were held in different places such as the streets of towns and cities, performed by traveling, secular troupes. Some were also held in monasteries, performed by church-controlled groups, often portraying religious scenes. The playing place could represent many different things such as indoors or outdoors (plain-an-gwarry (theatre)). They were played in certain places so the props could be used for the play. Songs and spectacles were often used in plays to enhance participation.
More modern stagecraft was in developed in England between 1576-1642. There were three different types of theaters in London - public, private and court. The size and shape varied but many were suggested to be round theaters. Public playhouses such as the Globe Theatre used rigging housed in a room on the roof to lower and raise in scenery or actors, and utilized the raised stage by developing the practice of using trap-doors in theatrical productions. Most of the theatres had circular-design, with an open area above the pit to allow sunlight to enter and light the stage. It was a penny admission to stand in the pit. Prices increase for seating. Court plays were used for holidays and special occasions.
Proscenium stages, or picture-box stages, were constructed in France around the time of the English Restoration, and maintain the place of the most popular form of stage in use to-date, and originally combined elements of the skene in design, essentially building a skene on-stage. Lighting of the period would have consisted of candles, used as foot-lights, and hanging from chandeliers above the stage.
Lighting continued to develop, first with the help of the English, in an effort to accurately map the coast of England, would triangulate cliff locations by using flame, and two ships at sea. Due to extreme fog, limestone had to be burned in order to see the light from the ocean. English sailors, propagators of many modern stagecraft practices, brought the use of limestone as a light source into the theatre for the purposes of spotlighting, hence the phrase "limelight". To control the focus of the light, a Fresnel lens was used.
Originally intended to replace large, convex lenses in lighthouses, Dr. Fresnel sectioned out the convex lens in a series of circles, like tree-rings, and keeping the angle of the specific section, moved the section much closer to the flat side of the convex lens.
After candles, came gas lighting, utilizing pipes with small openings which were lit before every performance, and could be dimmed by controlling the flow of gas, so long as the flame never went out. With the turn of the 20th century, many theatre companies making the transition from gas to electricity would install the new system right next to the old one, resulting in many explosions and fires due to the electricity igniting the gas lines.
Modern theatrical lighting is electrically-based. Many lamps and lighting instruments are in use today, and the field is rapidly becoming one of the most diverse and complex in the industry.

Sub-disciplines

Stagecraft comprises many disciplines, typically divided into a number of main disciplines:

• Lighting: Lighting design, which involves the process of determining the angle, size, intensity, shape, and color of light for a given scene. Hanging, focusing, procurement and maintenance of lighting and special effects equipment, aspects of show control
• Make-up/Wigs: The application of makeup and wigs to accentuate an actor's features.
• Mechanics: Design, engineering and operation of Flown scenery or flying of performers and mechanised scenic elements and special effects.
• Production, comprising stage management, production management, show control, house management and company management
• Scenery, which includes set construction, scenic painting, theater drapes and stage curtains, and special effects.
• Sound design, which can include musical underscoring, vocal and instrument mixing as well as theatrical sound effects.
• Theatrical property, or props, which includes furnishings, set dressings, and all items large and small which cannot be classified as scenery, electrics or wardrobe. Some crossover may apply. Props handled by actors are known as hand props, and props which are kept in an actor's costume are known as personal props.
• Wardrobe: costume design, construction, procurement and maintenance.
• Video (or Projection) is a relatively recent field of stagecraft which is gaining recognition. As well as being a discipline in itself, its role may also be taken on by the Lighting or Scenery disciplines.

Music Workstation by Wikipedia!

A music workstation is an electronic musical instrument providing the facilities of:

• a sound module,
• a music sequencer and
• (usually) a musical keyboard.

It enables a musician to compose electronic music using just one piece of equipment.

History

The concept of a music sequencer combined with a synthesizer originated in the late 1970s with the combination of microprocessors, mini-computers, digital synthesis, disk-based storage, and control devices such as musical keyboards becoming feasible to combine into a single piece of equipment that was affordable to high-end studios and producers, as well as being portable for performers. Prior to this, the integration between sequencing and synthesis was generally a manual function based on wiring of components in large modular synthesizers, and the storage of notes was simply based on potentiometer settings in an analog sequencer.
Examples of early music workstations included the New England Digital Synclavier and the Fairlight CMI.

 

Key technologies for the first generation

Low-cost computer hardware

Leveraging the technology of personal computers, adding a microprocessor enabled complex control functions to be expressed in software rather than wiring. In 1977, the Sequential Circuits Prophet-5 and other polyphonic synthesizers had used microprocessors to control patch storage and recall, and the music workstations applied it to control sequence storage and recall as well. The Fairlight used a dual Motorola 6800 configuration, while the Synclavier used a mini-computer called the ABLE.

Digital synthesis

While it was possible to create a music workstation with digitally controlled analog synthesis modules, few companies did this, instead seeking to produce new sounds and capabilities based on digital synthesis (early units were based on FM synthesis or sample playback).

Disk-based storage

Again leveraging the technology of personal computers, music workstations used floppy disks to record patches, sequences, and samples. Hard disk storage appeared in the second generation.

Control devices

In a music workstation, the keyboard was not directly connected to the synthesis modules, as in a Minimoog or ARP Odyssey. Instead, the keyboard switches were digitally scanned, and control signals sent over a computer backplane where they were inputs to the computer processor, which would then route the signals to the synthesis modules, which were output devices on the backplane. This approach had been used for years in computer systems, and allowed the addition of new input and output peripherals without obsoleting the entire computer. In the case of the music workstations, the next output devices to be added were typically computer terminal displays (some with graphics), and in the case of the Fairlight, the next input device was a light pen for "drawing" on the display screen.

The result was that music workstations evolved rapidly during this period, as new software releases could add more functionality, new voice cards developed, and new input technologies added.

 

Second generation music workstations

By 1982, the Fairlight CMI Series II represented another advance as it now offered more RAM-based sample memory than any other system with an improved sample rate, and in the Series III (1985) changed from 8-bit to 16-bit samples. The Synclavier introduced hard-disk based sampling in 1982, storing megabytes of samples for the first time.
Other products also combined synthesis and sequencing. For instance the Sequential Circuits Six-Trak provided this possibility. The Six-Trak was a polyphonic analog synthesizer, which featured an on-board six-track sequencer.
Still other products focused on combining sampling and sequencing. For instance the E-mu Emulator models, first introduced in 1982, combined sample memory (read from floppy disks) with a simple sequencer in the initial model, and an 8-track sequencer in later models.
The biggest change in the industry was the development of the MIDI standard in 1983 for representing musical note sequences. For the first time, sequences could be moved from one digitally controlled music device to another.
In the late 1980s, on-board MIDI sequencers began to appear more frequently on professional synthesizers. The Korg M1 (released 1988) was the first widely known and popular music workstation, and became the world's best-selling digital keyboard synthesizer of all time. During its six-year production period, more than 250,000 units were sold.

 

Key technologies for the second generation

MIDI

As mentioned above, MIDI data represents pitches, velocities, and controller events (e.g. pitch bend, modulation wheel). MIDI information could be used on the backplane that linked the elements of the workstation together, connecting the input devices to the synthesizers, or it could be sent to another device or received from another device.

Display technologies

Music workstations adopted the most effective input/output devices available for their price range, since there were complex control settings to display, complex waveforms, and complex sequences. The lower-end devices began to use LED displays that showed multiple lines of characters and later simple graphics, while the higher-end devices began to adopt personal computers with graphics as their front-ends (the Synclavier PostPro used an Apple Macintosh).

Large memory banks

Music workstations soon had megabytes of memory, located on large racks of cards.

Modular software

Music workstations had software that was organized around a set of common control functions, and then a set of options. In many cases, these options were organized as 'pages'. The Fairlight was known for its "Page R" functions which provided real-time composition in a graphical form which was similar to that later used on drum machines such as the Roland TR-808. The Synclavier offered music notation.

Digital signal processing

This enabled the music workstation to generate effects such as reverb or chorus within its hardware, rather than relying on external devices.

SMPTE

Since the primary users of the high-end workstations were film composers, the music workstations added hardware and software to generate SMPTE timecode, which is a standard in the motion picture industry. This allowed one to generate events that were matched to scenes and cuts in the film.

Third generation music workstations

Although many music workstations have a keyboard, this is not always the case. In the 1990s, Yamaha, and then Roland, released a series of portable music workstations (starting with the Yamaha QY10). These are sometimes called walkstations.

 

The concept of the workstation mutated around mid-1990s by the emergence of groove machine-concept birthed in mid-1980s - a keyless version of a workstation, still with a self-contained sound source and sequencer, mostly aimed at dance. Again, nowadays they also feature a sampler. The groove machines were realized in 1980s (ex. Linn 9000 (1984), SCI Studio 440 (1986), Simmons SDX (1987), well known E-mu SP-12/SP-1200 (1985/1987) and Akai MPC60 (1988)), and finally the concept have been widely accepted. Then in mid 1990s, Roland entered to the hype, with the MC-303, and also Korg and Yamaha followed suit. Korg created the much-used Electribe series.
Akai developed and refined the idea of the keyboard-less workstation, with the Music Production Center series of sampler workstations. The MPC breed of sampler freed the composer from the rigidity of step sequencing which was a limitation of earlier grooveboxes.

 

Key technologies for the third generation

Low-cost, high-capacity memory

By 1995, a music workstation might have 16 to 64 megabytes of memory in a few chips, which had required a rack of cards in 1985.

Sample libraries

While a second-generation workstation could be sold with just a few sounds or samples and the ability for the owner to create more, by 1995 most workstations had several additional sample sets available for purchase on ROM, and an industry had been created for third-party sample libraries. In addition, there were now standard formats for sound samples to achieve interoperability.

Battery power

Since music workstations were now used by wide range of performers, down to individual dance music DJ's and even street performers, portable designs avoided power-intensive components such as disk storage and began to rely on persistent memory and later flash-memory storage.

Interoperability with personal computers

Initially through custom interfaces and later USB standards.

Modern music workstations

Yamaha, Roland and Korg now have sampling as a default option with the Yamaha Motif line (introduced 2001), the Roland Fantom series (introduced 2001) and the Korg Triton (introduced 1999), Korg OASYS, and Korg M3 Workstations have a fairly large screen to give a comprehensive overview of the sound, sequencer and sampling options. Since the display is one of the most expensive components of these workstations, Roland and Yamaha initially chose to keep costs down by not using a touch screen or high-resolution display, but have added such in later models.
Another path of music product development that started with the feature set of music workstations is to provide entirely software-based products, using virtual instruments. This is the concept of the digital audio workstation, and many of these products have emulated the multitrack recording metaphors of sequencers first developed in the music workstations.
Open Labs introduced the Production Station in 2003, which changed the relationship of the music workstation and the personal computer from a model where the music workstation interfaces to the PC into one where the music workstation is a PC with a music keyboard and a touch screen display.
A variation on Open Labs' approach, Korg released the Korg OASYS in 2005. OASYS housed inside a keyboard music workstation housing a computer running a custom operating system built on the Linux kernel. OASYS was an acronym for Open Architecture SYnthesis Studio, underscoring Korg's ability to release new capabilities via ongoing software updates. OASYS not only included a synthesizer, sampling, and a sequencer, but the ability to digitally record multi-track audio. OASYS was discontinued in 2009, and Korg Kronos, an updated version built on the same concept, was introduced in January, 2011.

 

Evaluation of a music workstation

While advances in digital technology have greatly reduced the price of a professional-grade music workstation, the 'time cost' of learning to operate a complex instrument like this cannot be underestimated. Hence, product selection is critical, and is typically based upon:

• Ease of use
• Number of tracks in the sequencer
• Expansion options and modularity
• Size of user and support community
• Support for standards such as MIDI, SMPTE, Internet, etc.
• Reliable functioning
• Adaptation to most requirements of music production.