Difficult Men: Behind the Scenes of a Creative Revolution: From the Sopranos and the Wire to Mad Men and Breaking Bad by Brett Martin Page B
Authors: Brett Martin
Tags: Non-Fiction
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quickly—guarantees that he or she cannot do it alone.
Each showrunner must bend and shape this necessity to serve his or her own method, and there are as many subtle variations of writers’ rooms as there are rooms themselves. The only near-absolute is that there will be a quantity and flow of food reminiscent of a cruise ship, as though writing were an athletic feat demanding a constant infusion of calories. (Or, to be cynical, as though writers are so craven and easily manipulated that mere food will keep them loyal and docile. To which it can only be noted that every writer brags about the food in the writers’ room. Every single one of them.)
In most rooms, there is a conference table around which the writers gather. In the center will be a pile of snacks and takeout menus, as well as pads, pens, and other implements of creativity. Along the walls, there will be spaces to organize and visualize ideas—usually either whiteboards or bulletin boards covered with index cards. Depending on where in the process the room is, one might contain random ideas, bits of dialogue, stray themes. Another may have the evolving outline of a particular episode, a vertical stack of numbered scenes, or “beats.” Along the longest wall, there will likely be a grid divided into twelve or thirteen vertical columns, representing the number of episodes. Running horizontally will be the names of characters and what happens to them in each episode, thus allowing the writers to see each story arc at a single glance. If there’s a signature tool of the Third Golden Age, the whiteboard is it.
In one seat around the table, there will be a younger person, the writers’ assistant, feverishly transcribing the proceedings into a laptop. He or she will be the only one apparently engaged in what most of the world identifies as “work.” Indeed, a functional writers’ room must embrace, at least in its early stages, the creative ferment of procrastination, as its members get to know one another, trade stories, and mull over the themes and narrative threads of the show at hand. Most successful showrunners encourage such bullshit sessions. Eventually, the business of the room will turn to actually “breaking” story—that is, creating an outline of specific beats. As the show progresses, the writer assigned to a specific episode will take these often incredibly specific outlines and disappear for a week or two, to write. Later still, there will be rotating absences as writer-producers supervise the shooting of their scripts on set or location.
The ultimate goal, even if it’s unstated, is something that goes well beyond some version of screenwriting by committee: a kind of creative communion. Said David Milch, “The best situation of all is to come clean in the writers’ room and discover, through your encounter with your fellow writers, the nature and rhythms of the story that you’re trying to tell.”
But between reality and that lofty goal lie any number of quotidian pitfalls: writers who talk too much, writers who don’t talk at all, yes-men, naysayers, egos run amok. In other words, precisely as complicated and intense a set of conditions as one might imagine results from taking a group of artists—each the smartest and funniest in his or her class, each having gotten into the business with the dream of producing his or her own work, most neurotic to one degree or another, and all feeling the pressure of competition—and putting them in a room together for eight hours a day, mostly to face rejection and all in service of another person’s vision.
“That’s the job. You’re there to serve the Creator,” said James Manos, who also wrote for Shawn Ryan’s
The Shield
. “It’s a difficult position because someone like David or Shawn hires you because you have your own, strong voice and then, as soon as you get there, you have to start writing in
their
voice.”
Matthew Weiner admitted to being driven crazy by the idea that
Each showrunner must bend and shape this necessity to serve his or her own method, and there are as many subtle variations of writers’ rooms as there are rooms themselves. The only near-absolute is that there will be a quantity and flow of food reminiscent of a cruise ship, as though writing were an athletic feat demanding a constant infusion of calories. (Or, to be cynical, as though writers are so craven and easily manipulated that mere food will keep them loyal and docile. To which it can only be noted that every writer brags about the food in the writers’ room. Every single one of them.)
In most rooms, there is a conference table around which the writers gather. In the center will be a pile of snacks and takeout menus, as well as pads, pens, and other implements of creativity. Along the walls, there will be spaces to organize and visualize ideas—usually either whiteboards or bulletin boards covered with index cards. Depending on where in the process the room is, one might contain random ideas, bits of dialogue, stray themes. Another may have the evolving outline of a particular episode, a vertical stack of numbered scenes, or “beats.” Along the longest wall, there will likely be a grid divided into twelve or thirteen vertical columns, representing the number of episodes. Running horizontally will be the names of characters and what happens to them in each episode, thus allowing the writers to see each story arc at a single glance. If there’s a signature tool of the Third Golden Age, the whiteboard is it.
In one seat around the table, there will be a younger person, the writers’ assistant, feverishly transcribing the proceedings into a laptop. He or she will be the only one apparently engaged in what most of the world identifies as “work.” Indeed, a functional writers’ room must embrace, at least in its early stages, the creative ferment of procrastination, as its members get to know one another, trade stories, and mull over the themes and narrative threads of the show at hand. Most successful showrunners encourage such bullshit sessions. Eventually, the business of the room will turn to actually “breaking” story—that is, creating an outline of specific beats. As the show progresses, the writer assigned to a specific episode will take these often incredibly specific outlines and disappear for a week or two, to write. Later still, there will be rotating absences as writer-producers supervise the shooting of their scripts on set or location.
The ultimate goal, even if it’s unstated, is something that goes well beyond some version of screenwriting by committee: a kind of creative communion. Said David Milch, “The best situation of all is to come clean in the writers’ room and discover, through your encounter with your fellow writers, the nature and rhythms of the story that you’re trying to tell.”
But between reality and that lofty goal lie any number of quotidian pitfalls: writers who talk too much, writers who don’t talk at all, yes-men, naysayers, egos run amok. In other words, precisely as complicated and intense a set of conditions as one might imagine results from taking a group of artists—each the smartest and funniest in his or her class, each having gotten into the business with the dream of producing his or her own work, most neurotic to one degree or another, and all feeling the pressure of competition—and putting them in a room together for eight hours a day, mostly to face rejection and all in service of another person’s vision.
“That’s the job. You’re there to serve the Creator,” said James Manos, who also wrote for Shawn Ryan’s
The Shield
. “It’s a difficult position because someone like David or Shawn hires you because you have your own, strong voice and then, as soon as you get there, you have to start writing in
their
voice.”
Matthew Weiner admitted to being driven crazy by the idea that
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