Inglourious Basterds – I’ll be honest, I only went to see Inglourious Basterds to mock it. Death Proof — QT’s insufferable, pointless-dialog-laden half of Grindhouse — left such a foul taste in my mouth that I was convinced the pomo-pastiche artist had finally lost his shit. And while I didn’t think Inglourious Basterds was a flawless film by any stretch (here again, QT’s characters babble with a smug machine-gun bravado normally reserved for Hollywood Hills coke parties), Inglourious Basterds was at the very least -– unreservedly, unapologetically — a Quentin Tarantino film, its every frame slathered with the director’s Clorox-scented make. Love him or hate him, Quentin ONLY makes Tarantino films. You’ll never see his name on a Gnip Gnop adaptation or remake of Look Who’s Talking. No journeyman, he is the closest thing American cinema has to a bonerfide “auteur” circa now. And he may be the last of his kind.

I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell – This film goes on my list not because it was good, or even because I’ve actually seen it, but because its abysmal failure hopefully kicked date-rape blogger Tucker Max to the zeitgeist’s curb, permanent-like. The douchebag’s Warhol-allotted fifteen minutes expired two years ago; releasing this adaptation of his faux memoir in 2009 is like making a film about pogs, or an adaptation of the arcade game Street Fighter (er, um…). And besides, we already know by now that the internet does not create actual stars. Just ask Tay Zonday’s agent or the idiots who signed Leave Britney Alone Guy to a production deal. Everything about the internet is a lie, and this is certainly true of the fictional true-life accounts of gnarly sex with actual women who are not dudes that made Tucker Max a MySpace-hold name for about five seconds in the middle of this almost-dead decade.

Crank 2 – This sequel thankfully stripped away any pretense of trying to make sense from its predecessor, emptied a syringe of Heisenberg-grade crystal meth into its cock and set it loose with a blow torch and grenade-bedecked-bandolier on a playground full of kindergartners. Watching C-list fame-whore Bai Ling shamelessly hamming up the most racist depiction of an Asian person on screen since Long Duck Dong was worth the price of admission alone. I’m truly surprised Neveldine and Taylor stopped short of giving her fake buck teeth, thick glasses, and making her run around peeing in everyone’s Coke. This movie literally gave two great big middle fingers to anyone stupid enough to pay for a ticket. It was the cinematic equivalent of paying a dominatrix to kick you in the nuts until you cum blood.

Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen – Michael Bay truly does not give a fuck. He will do whatever he wants, whenever he wants – which generally, nay, without exception involves explosions and tits — and you will swallow it like the turd-hungry German fecophiles you are. If Two Girls, One Cup had been made with a $200 million budget it would’ve turned out EXACTLY like Revenge of the Fallen.

The Road – If you found Winter Light, Breaking the Waves and Sophie’s Choice too upbeat, then The Road is the movie for you. John Hillcoat’s adaptation of the happy-fun-time Cormac McCarthy novel not only proves that you don’t need Mel Gibson to make a kick-ass post-apocalyptic film, it also proves that you that don’t need actual zombies to make a kick-ass zombie movie. Some critics have pointed out (paraphrasing), “well at least the ending was somewhat hopeful.” Incorrect. All it did was stop one scene short of showing Viggo’s son raped and devoured by a family of toothless strangers. But believe me, twenty years from now, when you’ve just about wiped the memory of The Road from your mind, John Hillcoat will show up at your door with the missing final reel and completely fuck your world.

Chocolate – My retard’s kung fu is strong. When director Prachya Pinkaew dropped Ong-bak on the world, he proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that Thailand is the next Korea is the next Japan is the next Hong Kong with regard to balls-out action flicks. But I don’t think anyone expected him to raise the bar by bringing retards in the mix as he did with Chocolate. Okay, technically jailbait hottie JeeJa Yanin’s character Zen is autistic, not retarded. But that’s like saying you prefer catsup on your French-fried potatoes over ketchup. “Autistic” is just what white, upper-middle-class people call their retards. Can he speak? Read a book? No? Does he spend the day smearing poo on the wall instead? Yeah? Then sorry Jenny McCarthy, but your kid’s a mongo, I don’t care if he can count cards like Rainman or learn Chopin’s entire catalog in one day by ear. Besides, all retarded people have at least one super power, everyone knows this. Zen’s super power in Chocolate happens to be kicking ass and taking names. Oh, and if the thought of ONE retarded martial arts master makes you masturbate with joy, better save your money shot for Chocolate’s grand finale which features a water-head battle royale. I shit you not.

Zombieland – I knew Zombieland was going to make my top ten during the opening credits — which featured zombies, zombies, strippers, zombies, zombies and Metallica (from back when Metallica was Metallica). Then Woody Harrelson shows up and gives his best performance since Kingpin. Sure, Jesse Eisenberg is fine as We Couldn’t Get Michael Cera, but this movie’s all about Woody and zombies… and zombies. Oh, and the top-secret cameo — which I’m sure you already know about by now, but I’m not going to be the asshole who spoils it for you if you don’t – is brilliant, yes, but merely the icing on a near-perfect zombedy cake.

Anvil! The Story of Anvil – As a veteran headbanger/bass-raper/dragon-slayer I can tell you from first hand experience toiling in the clubs playing rock obscura, no film has crystallized what it’s like being in a band this well since Spinal Tap. Ironically, the lovably clueless Canucks comprising bonerfide metal band Anvil don’t have the talent or chops of the aforementioned comedy troupe’s mock metal act, but they do have hearts as big as their delusions, which has kept them rocking long past the point of anyone giving a shit. I dare you to try not shedding a tear for Lips and the boys. Go on, jaded hipster nihilists! I double-dog dare ya.

Bad Lieutenant: Port Of Call New Orleans – As all three fans of this blog know well, I’ve long held the theory that Nic Cage, artist, is intentionally trying to destroy cinema. His insane, over-the-top turns in bland blockbusters and shitty action movies are not the poor career choices of a man who’ll take any gig so long as the check clears; they are the thought-out creative acts of an artistic genius who has turned his entire body of work into a display of post modern deconstructive performance art. Of course even I had some doubts about my theory; that is, until I saw Bad Lieutenant. Not so much a remake, not so much even film as an experience, German director Werner Herzog has clearly found in Cage a worthy muse to replace mad daughter-fucker Klaus Kinski, who goose-stepped off this moral coil some years ago. As with Kinski, together Herzog and Cage form like Volton into a giant robot of demented genius. And there are lizards.

World’s Greatest Dad – Why doesn’t anyone make black comedies anymore? I know what you’re gonna say: “what about Tyler Perry?” BA-DUMP CHING! But I was actually referring to the black-in-tone, chock full o’ cynicism-satire-and-deadpan-irony sort of films that long ago were made for thinking adults to laugh at. Films like Dr. Strangelove, Heathers, Repo Man, Harold & Maude, Eating Raoul, Eat the Rich, The Cook, the Thief, His Wife & Her Lover (shit, there’s a lot of people eating other people on this list). I know, the public’s tastes have er, “evolved” (faaaart), but if I’m going to have to sit through another two-hour buddy comedy featuring Judd Apatow’s latest stable of curly-haired Jew bears, could you at least make them gang rapists? Or could there at least be one scene where they kill Jonah Hill and eat him? I mean where they actually do it in real life, and film it? The benefit there being that you don’t have to worry about craft service; there’s enough meat on that boy to feed an entire crew of Teamsters for a month.

Thankfully, Bobcat Goldthwait picked up the gauntlet – yes THAT Bobcat Goldthwaith – when he made World’s Greatest Dad, a film that actually redeems Robin Williams through the next two laughless family comedies after Old Dogs. Williams plays a milquetoast school teacher who loves his son – despite the fact that the kid’s a stupid, mean, ugly, worthless waste of air. This is kind of a spoiler coming up, but I have a feeling you won’t bother seeing the film unless I tell you about it: When the puke son accidentally kills himself by way of autoerotic asphyxiation, Williams’ dad earns his titular designation by making the death look like a suicide, and in so doing grants his son the heart, soul, and brains he never had in real life. If you’ve ever wondered, just as you regain consciousness sticky with your own seed, how horrible it would actually be for your parents to discover your corpse in such a state – and hey, haven’t we all? – World’s Greatest Dad is a must-see. It’s also my film of the year.

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Hard to believe it’s been a year since I posted one of these things. Yet as quickly as the time went by, so much has changed since last December that it’s like I up and moved to Bizarro Superman’s neighborhood. The housing market, the U.S. economy and a good deal of the cartilage in my nose collapsed thanks to bad mortgages, Wall Street corruption and a particularly potent batch of my cousin Rudy’s bathtub meth. And something I NEVER thought I’d see in my lifetime happened — a momentous, unprecedented event permanently etched into our history books – when that little turd Eli Manning beat Tom Brady’s Patriots in the Superbowl. Oh and apparently America’s white male property owners voted a ni… a ne… a socialist into the White House. Hey, don’t blame me. I didn’t vote for him. Only election I’m allowed to vote in is Folsom Prison’s Annual Sexiest Bitch Contest (FYI, my money’s on Juanito Suarez this year).

With all that’s been going on in the real world, seems like Hollywood movies have become little more than an afterthought — especially for those producing them. For anyone following the showbiz trades you’d think the entire industry had collectively thrown up their hands and started picking random yard sale objects to adapt into movies. Hey, with every piece of crap intellectual property from the 1980’s already in development, can we blame studio execs for green-lighting such projects as Lava Lamp: The Movie, Busted Speak n’ Spell, Mismatched Pair of Ski Poles and the one I’m particularly looking forward to, Grand Funk Railroad 8-Track (Think I’m kidding? Guillermo Del Toro’s already attached to direct)? Yeah, actually we can blame them. Good work cementing your own obsolescence, dicktards. And unfortunately for you, the TV execs already grabbed up all the good shifts at Jamba Juice.

Still, despite the feculence studios forced down our gullets like the two girls to our one cup, a few good movies did manage to sneak through the non-ass-related cracks. As usual I’ve listed them below in no particular order. Since most are available on DVD already I suggest checking your neighbor’s mailbox for Netflix envelopes. Hey, you might get lucky.

Speed Racer

When Speed Racer’s theatrical bow crashed and burned like Dale Earnhardt, I naturally assumed it was God punishing Larry Wachowski for snipping off the rape-wand our Lord had gifted him with. I also assumed it was partially due to the film being a stink-pile on par with the last two Matrix films. How wrong I was. After finally viewing the Blu-Ray I was hypnotized by a world of bright colors, swirling lights and jovial monkeys the likes of which I’d never seen. Now I’m not saying you HAVE to gobble a handful of psilocybin mushrooms in order to enjoy Speed Racer, but… no, actually I am saying it. But that still makes Speed Racer better than just about every other “tent pole” released last summer.

Trailer Park Boys: The Movie

While hacks like Judd Apatow and Will Ferrell have built an industry by wiping their asses with three-hole-punch paper and calling it a script, our neighbors to the north have been crafting solid comedies the old fashioned way… using actual, boner fide humor and intriguing characters. The titular boys — Ricky, Julian and Bubbles — are lovable trailer park miscreants maintaining their drunken, pot-smoking, lay-about lifestyles with petty crime and stolen shopping carts — all the while dreaming of the Big Score that’ll allow them to go straight. Sounds like 80% of my family. Hell, sounds like me. You won’t find characters that relatable amongst Apatow Inc’s gallery of frizzle-haired man-boy tubbos. Like Rush, Molson’s Ice and Slik Toxik before them, it took America a few years to finally warm to Canada’s latest export (the film was released up north in 2006), but their Stateside fan base will hopefully continue to grow like one of Ricky’s super-skunk hydro crops.

Sex and Death 101

Full disclosure: Sex and Death 101’s writer/director Daniel Waters is a friend of mine. He throws awesome parties, or at least I assume they’re awesome because I rarely remember them, which further indicates the magnitude of their awesomeness, and while I’d like to continue being invited to said parties, his film’s appearance on my “best of” list is in no way an attempt to suck up to Mr. Waters. If I wanted to do that, I’d just tell him his comb-over’s hardly noticeable. Ya see, long before I’d escaped from jail, faked my own death, changed my name and moved to Hollywood in order to pursue my own Tinseltown dreams, Daniel Waters had written one of my favoritest films of all time, 1989’s Heathers. Sex and Death 101 is loaded with the aforementioned film’s same bile-black humor and the sort of snappy dialog strippers win Oscars by imitating. Only unlike Heathers, this is a film ABOUT and FOR adults – a segment of the population I unfortunately belong to, at least according to California’s Age of Consent laws. Unlike with the other films on this list, I suggest you actually BUY yourselves a copy of Sex and Death 101. Not because Daniel Waters needs the money, but because Johnny Walker Black ain’t cheap, and I want to make sure he’s well-stocked for his next soirée.

Tropic Thunder

Okay, occasionally an American mainstream comedy comes along that DOES get it right. Tropic Thunder managed to be post-modernly self-referential and meta without shoving our noses in it, without injecting some contrived love story or “heart” to fuck up the third act, all while managing to be consistently hilarious throughout. But if I had to choose ONE reason for putting Tropic Thunder on my list, it’s because it introduced the term “full retard” to the lexicon, thus offending the same water-heads who go see Friedberg/Seltzer films on opening weekend.

Zombie Strippers

Didn’t see it, but with a title this good it HAS to be better than Dark Knight.

Foot Fist Way

Should’ve been this year’s Napoleon Dynamite; instead its theatrical run was in-out-and-over quicker than me on a romantic evening with my lady friend. However it did manage to secure a career for Danny McBride playing “Tubby Manboy # 5” in the next 5000 Apatow movies.

The Incredibly Dark Iron Hulk

Thanks to Brett Ratner’s welcome absence, this was a year for superhero movies that didn’t suck. And while they’ve all blended together in my head by now, I can strongly assert that Former Indie Director did a stellar job, as did Serious Actor, and the CGI thingamabobs were great.

Jason Statham Drives Fast, Kicks Shit, Talks all Cockney

Ah, Jason Statham. You’re like James Bond for chavs. Jean-Claude Van Damme for heterosexuals. And no matter which film it is in which you deliver the exact same performance, following the exact same plot points, you never fail to entertain… oh so ruggedly.

JCVD

Speaking of Belgium’s preeminent glute-flexing split-kicker, Jean-Claude Van Damme’s JVCD is the dark horse on my list this year. Nearly devoid of martial arts, JCVD still managed to be an intriguing piece of post-modernism. Yet on another level it was so hard to watch it made the Daniel Pearl beheading video look like an episode of Pucca. Not due to any gratuitous violence or ass-flexing or anything, but because we’re exposed to WAY more of J.C.V.D’s inner psyche than the prescribed non-lethal dose.

Uwe Boll’s Postal

This is not an attempt at irony. This is not me being contrarian just for the sake of it. Teutonic auteur Boll, long the butt of all jokes on movie-related internet websites, got the delicious last laugh by proving that he could make a better movie than the combined efforts of fanboy godheads George Lucas and Steven Spielberg with a fraction of the budget. Granted, that’s not saying much; my wife’s last ultrasound was more entertaining than the latest Indiana Jones flick, and that little stillbirth barely moved at all. But Boll’s Postal deserves its place on this list for the first 15 minutes alone, which contained a set-piece that was equal parts hilarious and deeply, deeply, deeply offensive. And to think I once thought rape jokes were edgy! Granted the film does unravel after the 45 minute mark, but not before Boll shows us Dave Foley’s penis (something I’ve been longing for since his Kids In the Hall days) and admits, on camera, that his films are indeed financed by Nazi gold. And how can you hate a movie that closes with George W. Bush and Osama Bin Laden walking off, hand-in-hand, into a post-Apocalyptic sunset? It is… how you say… ze heartwarming? Maybe not the BEST film of the year, but certainly better than any of the “For Your Consideration” DVDs I just swiped out of your Prius.

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We’re once again handing over our blog to screenwriting guru Ronnie Pudding who’ll answer questions from his mailbag.
***

Dear Ronnie,

Best regards,
Luke S.

Luke S, huh? Is that a pseudonym or are you writing to me from the droid shed of some Tatooine moisture farm? Get it? That’s a Star Wars joke. See, shit like that there’s the reason Ronnie gets paid the big bucks for writing films like PYTHON V: SLITHERING DEATH (coming soon to DVD) while you’re off doing “meetings” with “producers” that your stupid “agent” set up for ya. Which reminds me. Judging from your email I’m gonna make a wild hobo-stabbin’ guess that you’re one of those air-quotes guys. So my first advice is to not, under any circumstances, do “that.” Ever. Nothing gets my rectal polyps flaring like you damn air-quoters. First of all, who the hell are you quoting? Is there really some unnamed third party injecting tired clichés into your inner dialog or are you using that gesture as a place-holder for a less annoying, less overused turn of phrase? Second, why do you air-quoters always put both quotation marks at the beginning of whatever it is you’re “quoting?” That’s just bad punctuation there, sport. If you’re gonna raise my ire with that damn little snakebite thing you’re doing, might as well at least do it right. Left-hand air-quote = beginning of phrase. Right-hand air-quote = end of phrase. Now you work on that while I take time out of my busy schedule of bong-scraping and playing Tetris on my mobile phone to answer to your stupid question.

Before you go giving yourself the anxiety-shits trying to hash out entertaining, persuasive pitches for story ideas that currently exist only in the form of log-lines scribbled on the backs of strip-club cocktail napkins, take solace in the fact that what you’ve got on your hands is a mere “General Meeting” (see, now you’ve got me doing that damn quotation mark thing). You bust out a full pitch at a General Meeting and that exec’s going to stare cancer into your face with a slit-eyed disdain usually reserved for child molesters, al-Qaeda terrorists, and the server at The Grill who forgot to put their ranch dressing on the side. See, in the military, something called a “General Meeting” would probably be pretty important; but in Show Business -– an industry comprised mostly of over-educated, over-privileged snivelers too cowardly to serve their country by blow-torching unarmed Asian peasants the way my Pappy and Grandpappy both did –- the General Meeting ranks just below changing toner cartridges, cleaning the break room fridge, and writing reference letters for summer interns.

General Meetings were invented by some crafty creative executive who –- upon realizing that their daily routine consisted mostly of passive-aggressively avoiding phone calls, glancing at the first page of coverage for scripts they were supposed to read over the weekend but didn’t, screaming at their assistant for putting through the call they were passive-aggressively trying to avoid, parroting to their bosses whatever crap it was their assistant just read on some tracking board, and (mostly) dicking around on whatever the pre-Scrabulous version of Scrabulous was -– decided they needed to pad at least some portion of their workday with stuff that couldn’t potentially get them fired. In other words, something that RESEMBLED actual work… but wasn’t. And thus the General Meeting was born.

Lucky for you, Ronnie’s been on his fair share of generals, back when I had an agent who wasn’t disqualified for parole due to California’s Third Strike law (and before I started getting all my screenwriting work care of a cleverly-worded Penny Saver ad). So I can happily give you a gist of what you have in store:

First of all, plan on your meeting being re-scheduled at least 1 – 4 times (depending on how desperate the exec is to polish your agent’s ring-piece, which is directly proportional to the amount of more-important-than-you clients on his/her roster). The time of the scheduled meeting should give you an indication of how likely it is to actually occur. Before 11AM on a Monday? Forget it. Something will inevitably come up like a production meeting (hangover), casting meeting (Perez Hilton needs reading), or conference call (Facebook friend-requests to sort through) that will get your meeting bumped. Same goes for anything after 3 on a Friday, or anything before 10, or after 5, or within three weeks of Sundance, Cannes, the Oscars, or any major holiday. If you work a day-job all this schedule-jostling’s gonna eat up your sick time mighty quick, and is sure to arouse suspicion (especially if your co-workers are aware of your “screenwriting dreamz”). So I suggest contriving for yourself a handy serious illness to explain away all your sudden “doctor’s appointments.” My suggestion? AIDS. Guarantees that your boss won’t be asking you any stupid questions, and if even they do, just start coughing, or excreting bodily fluids, and you’ll be left to your own devices.

On the day of the actual meeting: Plan on showing up at least fifteen minutes early. That way you can wait for 45 minutes in their lobby instead of a half hour. Someone –- either the receptionist or the creative exec’s harried assistant — will inevitably ask you if you’d like some water. Don’t accept it. Accepting the water is a sign of weakness. Kindly explain that the only fluid you imbibe is your own urine, due to its “healing properties.” Then pull out a flask of piss and take a swig. Don’t forget to ask the receptionist/assistant if they’d care for a sip. This will cement your reputation at their company as an enigmatic, eccentric “creative type.” Execs love that shit.

Once escorted into the executive’s office, you will be asked again if you’d like some water. To avoid the uncomfortable moment of them watching you drink your own piss, just assure the exec that you’re “all set.” They’ll hear about the piss thing later, believe me.

The creative exec will then firmly shake your hand, exuding the false self-confidence of a person whose entire career was built upon their ability to exude confidence, and laud the script they supposedly read without giving away any details to reveal they actually didn’t. Small talk will ensue. They’ll start with some questions about your background. Don’t bore them with the petty details of your actual life. It’s your job to convince them you’re a story-maker, so make shit up. I usually tell them I worked as a soldier of fortune in former Yugoslavia, sparing no details about the Croat villages I massacred and the women I raped. An intriguing back-story like that ensures they won’t forget you once you walk out the door. But if weaving tall tales ain’t your cup of tea (I mean it’s only what you want to do for a living and all), just stare daggers at them and ask, “who sent you?”

That’s sure to move you along to the next stage of the meeting, wherein the exec talks at length about themselves mostly, and the company, and the vague buzz-words meant to describe the types of movies they’re looking to make. You’ll hear phrases like “genre,” “high concept,” “outside of the box” and “made for cost.” They will not be used in a way that makes sense, which is why it’s best to ignore pretty much everything coming of the exec’s mouth until it’s your turn to talk.

Which comes right after the exec asks you “So what else are you working on?” They’ll feign interest as you prattle on about your next spec, listening just enough (when they’re not texting on their Blackberries or hitting “refresh” on the Perez Hilton browser window) to pick out any ideas they may want to pilfer for themselves. That’s why I find it’s best to just spout a bunch of word-salad nonsense, peppering in phrases such as “heart-warming,” “character arc,” Will Ferrell” and “Juno-esque.” That way even if they do steal one of your ideas, there’ll already be 15 projects just like it in development. After you’re done with your hambone bit, the exec will once again firmly shake your hand, emphasize how much they want to be in the “(insert your name here) business,” and assure you they’ll be sending over a list of open writing assignments to your agent “within the week.”

Your parking ticket will then by validated, you’ll be shown on your way, and you will never hear from them or see them again. Unless you happen to run into them at a social event, like say a mutual friend’s wedding, where they will either avoid eye-contact all night or re-introduce themselves to you like you’ve never met. But don’t let that dissuade you. It’ll all part of the game, my friend. One more stop on the road toward achieving your “screenwriting dreamz.” And before you know it, you’ll no longer be doing shitty, pointless generals and will be ready for shitty, pointless actual pitches. Good luck, sport. Or should I say, “good luck.”

Ronnie Pudding is a semi-professional screenwriter, kickboxer and drill press operator who resides in Van Nuys, CA. His film PYTHON V: SLITHERING DEATH premieres in lesser-known video stores everywhere on June 8th.

If you have any questions for Ronnie Pudding please send them to boxofficepsychics@gmail.com

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We’re once again handing over our blog to screenwriting guru Ronnie Pudding who’ll answer questions from his mailbag.

***

Dear Ronnie,

Best regards,
Gary Wakley
Valley Village, CA

Dear Gary,

Hold on a second. Um… writing group?!? HA-HA-HA HA-HA-HA HAAAA!! What kind of DORK joins a writing group? What do y’all do, sit around talking about writing crap like character arcs and third-act reversals? Or do you just smell each other’s farts and take turns jacking off onto a Ritz cracker? Writing groups are two steps below furry conventions in my book. And furry conventions are two steps below NAMBLA meetings if that gives you any perspective (at least the pastries at NAMBLA meetings are fresh. And hey, free juice-boxes!). Man, the LAST place I’d wanna be is trapped in a room full of writers. The B.O. alone would kill me.

Okay, so now that I’ve got that out of the way: Um… you actually PAY for software?!? HA-HA-HA HA-HA-HA HAAAA!! What kind of DORK pays for software? What, are you writing to me through some space-time wormhole, from that ancient time before the internets were invented, when people actually went to the store and PAID for shit instead of downloading it for free off of some Russian bit-torrent site? Gary Wakley, you are too much! This is a joke, right? No, seriously.

But let’s just say you ARE a real person and not an FBI agent trying to trick me into sending an email so you can track my IP to use as evidence in my upcoming trial for allegedly stalking Florence Henderson. I ain’t too big on screenwriting programs myself; ever since I lost three fingers at the machine shop (mom was right, drinking and lathing DON’T mix) typing’s been as fruitless an endeavor as trying to teach a woman to drive stick. So I write most of my screenplays longhand, on the backs of humorous cocktail napkins I get from the Van Nuys gentleman’s club, The Tit Pit. The Tit Pit’s cocktail napkins are especially useful when writing comedies, seeing as they’ve already got the jokes printed on ‘em. All you gotta do is fill in the action lines and character names and shit.

However, assuming you’re one of those writers possessing all ten of your fingers and thus prefer to do your word-writing on a computer, I’d agree that $229 is WAY too much scratch to drop on software that’s essentially a crappier, buggier version of Microsoft Word. You’re better off spending that money on crystal meth – which, If you’re interested in, I can cut you a deal on – and downloading one of these FREE templates for Word from the Brit government’s TV network BBC here (I guess sometimes Communism ain’t so bad). These templates will not only cost you a helluva lot less (as in nothing), they won’t crash or crap out or make your fonts all funky when you type like Final Draft does.

Another alternative: Write your script from your browser at the new website Plotbot. It’s 100% FREE and so simple even a Down Syndrome kid could use it. Hell, I bet even Akiva Goldsman could use it. Of course it means entrusting your data to some nameless entity across the webosphere, but your drafts can be downloaded at anytime as XML or RTF files. So there’s that.

Or you could, you know, steal Final Draft and be done with it. Not that I’m condoning software theft or any other sort of crime for that matter. Because THAT would be in violation of my parole. Well, gotta go. Judge Mathis is on. Writing group… you slay me.

Ronnie.

Ronnie Pudding is a semi-professional screenwriter, kickboxer and drill press operator who resides in Van Nuys, CA. His film DEEP VENGEANCE III: STINGRAY’S RETURN is available in lesser-known video stores throughout the Midwest and Canada.

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