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

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

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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.

Once again we bring you screenwriting guru Ronnie Pudding, who’s going to share with us his “best movies of the year” list. Lists. We love ‘em [for the official, boring & serious Best of 2007 List go here]

I’ll admit it; I didn’t see a lot of movies in 2007. Probably because I’d spent most of the year in a Monclova prison after trying to sneak over the Mexican border with $20,000 worth of Oxycotin up my colon. Luckily mom was able to sell her kidney and bribe the judge in time to get me Stateside so I could work on my Best Movies of 2007 list. And while I can’t guarantee I was conscious through ALL of the below, I saw enough of them to know I at least didn’t HATE them, which was enough to put them on my list. Hope you enjoy it.

- Ronnie

Knocked Up

2007 may well be remembered as the Year of the Apatowmedy. With two break-out successes (and one, er… Dewey Cox) in the same year, writer/producer/director Judd Apatow and his stable of mop-topped, potty-mouthed husky Jews have risen to the top of the comedy heap with their patented recipe of 99% dick jokes, 1% heart. Now certain feminists (including the film’s star Katherine Heigl) have criticized Knocked Up due to the alleged improbability of a hot babe with a good career giving it all up to father the child of some ugly slacker she had a one-night stand with. Silly feminists. This sort of thing happens all the time. Of course usually the dirtbags in question have guitars in their hands, but so long as he manifests some semblance of a father’s withheld love ANY dirtbag can bed supermodel-quality women regardless of the creative endeavor he’s half-heartedly pursuing. Still, I do find it charming that some women are still romantic enough to believe that their fairer gender cares what a man looks like, or does for a living, enough to short-circuit their own subconscious daddy issues. Awww, feminists… ain’t they widdle faces so durned cute?

Black Snake Moan

While I didn’t see it, the fact that Sam Jackson chains a half-naked Christina Ricci to a radiator puts this film on my list. Funny, last time I chained a naked chick to my radiator I got arrested, but I think that had something to do with the fact that it was the radiator of my car, and because I was going 120 MPH westbound on the 134 at the time.

300

Some critics wrongly pooh-poohed this movie due to its historical inaccuracies, agit-prop jingoism and flagrant homoeroticism. Well I say pooh-pooh on them! There’s absolutely NOTHING homoerotic about a bunch of oiled-up, hard-bodied hunks in Speedos and capes climbing into a deep crevice with their spears in hand, THRUSTING their spears over and over as their clean-shorn BODIES glisten with SWEAT, steely sinew rubbing against steely sinew as they take on wave after wave of desperate MEN, THOUSANDS of desperate MEN, charging at them with SWORDS and lances hoping to PENETRATE their fleshy wall of brotherhood, hoping to SPREAD them apart and INVADE the musky recesses of the chocolate-brown CAVERN they protect with their sweaty, oiled-up, SHAVEN-CHESTED lives…

Hell, if that shit’s gay, color me Liberace.

Planet Terror

Zombies? Check. Strippers? Check. Amputee strippers? Check. Amputee strippers with machine guns mounted on their stumps? Check. Bruce Willis? Check. Graphic violence, torture and rape? Check check check. Quentin Tarantino’s balls melting off? Checkity-check. Best movie of the century? Check.

28 Weeks Later

Zombies? Check. Strip… uh… oh, it’s JUST zombies? Good enough.

Juno

Speaking of strippers, and zombies, and thinly veiled pro-life propaganda:
I was just as skeptical as everyone else when I’d first heard Juno screenwriter Dakota Fanning Coyote’s back-story. A woman? Who can write? Words? Who taught her that!?! Her story went from dubious to ridiculous when it was revealed that Ms. Delmonico Feldman Cory listed “coconut-scented pole princess” on her resume. Because as far as I knew strippers were only good for two things: Ruining sweatpants and supporting musicians. But as it turns out, Madame El Destructo Kobe is the real deal. Sister can write. Which should serve as a life-lesson to all of you people out there with disabilities like womanhood, or estrogen dependency, or possessing ovaries: If you believe in yourself, you can overcome any adversity to accomplish your dreams! Mr. T knew it; so should you.

Bug

Though he doesn’t have the name recognition of his “Easy Riders, Raging Bulls” brethren, William Friedkin was responsible for some of the most memorable films of his epoch. The French Connection for instance, with its infamous 12 hour chase scene shot sans permits down a busy New York street which cost thousands of people their lives. Or The Exorcist, which I saw when I was 12 years old and had me so convinced I was possessed by demons that I stapled a crucifix to my penis, doused it in holy water then slammed it in the car door until I passed out from heavy bleeding. Well, the PCP had a little something to do with that, but mostly it was The Exorcist.

Yet while contemporaries like Scorsese and Coppola were being lionized well past their expiration dates, Friedkin was left to languish in obscurity. Why? A little film called To Live and Die in L.A., that’s why. Did it suck? Hell no, it was awesome, but Friedkin’s decision to let sexually ambiguous 80’s synth pop band WANG CHUNG score the entire fucking movie guaranteed that no one living in a year past 1986 would be able to watch the thing without laughing. Too bad, because unlike Marty “sympathy Oscar” Scorsese and Francis Ford “even my fugly daughter’s a better director than me” Coppola, Friedkin’s still got his chops, as evidenced by the horrific tweaker fever-dream BUG. Like my favorite film of 2006, CRANK, Friedkin’s BUG had my teeth grinding like I’d shot a crank case full of biker meth into my eyeball even though I’ve been STONE COLD SOBER (as far as my parole officer knows anyways) for months. Oh, and Ashley Judd shows her mom boobs in it.

Undisputed II

Though it contains all the trappings of its Van-Damme-dominated, shot-in-Bulgaria straight-to-video martial arts genre — this sequel (featuring none of the original cast) to the Wesley Snipes/ Ving Rhames boxing-movie failure is 5000 better than the original thanks to the high-flying kung fu skillz of British action-ninja Scott Adkins. Who is Scott Adkins, you might ask. And you’d be dumb for asking. Adkins is only the next martial arts it-guy, and he’s arrived just in time, because the J.C. Van Dammes, Stevie Seagals and Mike Dudikoffs of the world are looking like haggard, paunchy, paranoid-schizophrenic parodies of their former selves. Oh and Michael Jai White is in it, as the hero or something.

Live Free or Die Hard

Holy fuck! Shit blowed up! It blowed up good!

Smokin’ Aces (trailer)

While the movie itself was borderline unwatchable (outside of anything involving the totally awesome Tremor Brothers), this minute-long teaser-trailer was better than 99.99987% of what was released in theaters this past year. Yeah, um about 15 thousand people get shot, there’s a crazy skinhead wielding a machete, we get to watch Ben Affleck die, all while what is inarguably one of the greatest songs of all time by what is inarguably one of the greatest rock bands of all time plays, i.e. Motorhead’s “Ace of Spades.” Can a trailer win an Oscar for best picture? Probably not, but only because the Academy’s a bunch of soft-serve player-hatin’ pussies.

Beowulf (in IMAX 3D)

Take away the 3D goggles and this movie’s just a weaker version of one of the segues in Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion. But seeing this thing in an IMAX theater in 3 fucking D was easily the cinematic highlight of 2007 for me. I can’t remember the last time I shit my pants in a movie theater when I WASN’T in the throes of delirium tremens, but Beowulf’s 3D action had me spraying scat like I was two girls and my pants were one cup. If you want to remember what it was like to be EXCITED at the movies, and don’t mind walking around for the rest of the day with a load in your undies like it’s 1992 and your name is Ronald Reagan, find yourself an IMAX theater and see this before it’s too late.

Due to popular demand, we’re once again handing over our blog to screenwriting guru Ronnie Pudding who’ll answer questions from his mailbag.

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Dear Ronnie,

Thanks a lot!
Tiffany C.

Gotta admit Tiff, I was a little nervous reading your email. When Ronnie receives a missive from a 13-year old, it usually means there’s either a paternity suit or a visit from Chris Hansen coming down the pike. So as you can imagine I’m more than a little relieved that you were merely looking for screenwriting advice. Do you have any pictures of yourself, maybe dressed in a cheerleader uniform, or jumping on a trampoline? For the column I mean. Actually, never mind. Not that I doubt your sincerity; but that Hansen fellow is tricky. Number of times I’ve been on his TV show, they should be giving me a friggin’ SAG card, not some damn chemical castration pill! But I digress, Tiff. I digress. Now on to your questions…

It’s good that you love movies. But just because you love something doesn’t mean it’s right for you career-wise. For instance when I was your age I loved huffing paint. So you’d naturally think me getting a job at McGrover’s Paint Store would’ve been the perfect fit. As it turned out, not so much. I’d been there less than a week when ol’ Mr. McGrover handed me my walking papers, allegedly because he found me passed out in the stock room, naked save for a husk of gold matte on my face and the bloody pentagrams I’d carved into my chest. I’ll have to take his word for it. I killed so many brain cells huffing that sweet Krylon Kandy, I still have trouble remembering to keep my pants on in mixed company. You hear that, Chris Hansen? It’s a medical condition.

So I’m gonna tell you the same thing I told the kids at my sister’s Christian camp last summer: God is dead. Nietzsche said so. But also, before you set yourself down a path toward inevitable disappointment, disillusionment and drug dependency you should figure out if it’s an actual talent that you’re pissing away your life for, not just delusions of grandeur. Yeah, that’s right. Talent. All the screenwriting classes in the world ain’t gonna teach you talent. You either got it or you don’t. Fellatio, on the other hand, is a skill one can develop through trial and error, and with regular practice. But if you’re good enough at knob-bobbin’ to land a gig, might as well use it toward something with steadier pay. Like a creative exec job for instance, or a regular cast spot on CSI: Miami.

Still, if screenwriting’s what you’ve got your little heart set on, and it seems like you got the talent and/or tongue skills to make it work, you definitely wanna go about it the right away. And yup, that includes choosing the right university. Now bear in mind the only college ol’ Ronnie ever partook in was a week of Tractor-Trailer school, and I still managed to scratch out something of a career in the word-writing game. But if I had it all to do over — like if I had a time machine or fell into one of those inter-dimensional wormholes like that creepy little guy in the talking wheelchair’s always going on and on about — I’d probably put a little more thought into my post-GED education. Because where you go to school is one of the most important decisions an aspiring screenwriter such as yourself will ever make.

Before you pick a school, you should figure out what kind of career trajectory you want to follow first. Do you want to make unwatchable pseudo-European experimental films and bemoan the sorry state of American cinema before settling into a lifelong service industry career? Then NYU’s the school for you. Do you want to make promising shot-on-HD Sundance favorites which you’ll bring up in interviews to justify your creative existence for the entirety of your subsequent career making morally bankrupt CGI-explosion-filled blockbusters? Then think Wesleyan. Do you want to make a big spec script sale your first year out of college, for a ridiculous sum despite the fact that the project will never make it out of development hell, then segue into a career as a grossly overpaid script doctor for the projects your old dorm mates are producing? Then you definitely want to enroll at USC. Do you want to work as a second assistant for two years before going to law school and giving up on screenwriting entirely? Then it’s gotta be UCLA. Not that you’re actually going to LEARN anything at any of these places. Hell no! But the connections you make and the reputation you stake out at college are going to follow for your whole career.

Which brings us to your last question: Is screenwriting a good idea for a career? Sure, if you like the idea of being the lowest person on the creative totem pole in an industry that fucks you out of money and credit and residuals at every turn despite the fact that their product wouldn’t EXIST if not for you. Does that sound like caramel apples and cotton candy to you? It does? Then go for it! Good luck “Tiffany,” if that IS your real name. And tell your buddy Chris Hansen I said hello. Cripes, you Dateline people think I was born yesterday?!?

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 premieres in lesser-known video stores everywhere on November 14th.

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