Why you should read Jason Arnopp's blog

On a wet Sunday afternoon, it seems unlikely that I'm going to write anything better and more helpful than a few posts I've found on Jason Arnopp's excellent blog. In fact, on a warm Tuesday afternoon with a following wind, I'm still unlikely to write anything better that these posts which are really good.

I've worked with Jason on a radio sketch show - and he wrote some hilariously demented sketches. But he also writes a bunch of other stuff and written about writing. He's written a very good piece on how stories can go wrong called "Five Ways to Kill Audience Satisfaction" here.

There's another post about attitudes to scripts, breaking into the business and luck called "Your Script is Not a Lottery Ticket" here. I particularly like the bit where he says "Don't succumb to that deeply weird Scriptwriter Quirk which compels you to sling an imperfect script into a competition 'just to get something in'."

And if you're starting out in the writing business, there's an excellent post called 'Eight Ways to Annoy People whose help you want.' Here. It's brilliant and sadly very true.

It was also through following Jason on twitter that I came across this post about a letter a rookie magician wrote to Teller, from Penn and Teller, my favourite part of which is this:

Love something besides magic, in the arts. Get inspired by a particular poet, film-maker, sculptor, composer. You will never be the first Brian Allen Brushwood of magic if you want to be Penn & Teller. But if you want to be, say, the Salvador Dali of magic, we'll THERE'S an opening.

I should be a film editor. I'm a magician. And if I'm good, it's because I should be a film editor. Bach should have written opera or plays. But instead, he worked in eighteenth-century counterpoint. That's why his counterpoints have so much more point than other contrapuntalists. They have passion and plot. Shakespeare, on the other hand, should have been a musician, writing counterpoint. That's why his plays stand out from the others through their plot and music.

It applies to comedy just as much. Cheers, Jason. Keeping feeding my writing soul.

The Importance of the Clear Quest

I watched the first episode of Series 2 of White Van Man last night. This show has been a big hit for BBC3 and has lots of things going for it. (Interested declared: I know the director, and have met the writer, Adrian Poynton, when we recorded this podcast and found him to be a thoroughly nice bloke).

But here's what struck me about the episode that aspiring sitcom writers can learn from. If you'd never seen the show before, you'd feel completely at ease watching the show because each of the characters had very clear quests that were understandable, tangible and visible. And crystal clarity is your friend when it comes to comedy (just as confusion is your sworn enemy). I've posted on this a number of times because lack of clarity in the clear central quest of the main character(s) can make a show hard to watch and kill of the comedy, like here, and here for a start.

The Title is a Good Start
White Van Man is brilliantly titled and you get the premise immediately. It's about a White Van Man. We all know what that type is and so a lot of the work is done for us. We then meet Ollie (Will Mellor) - who is the eponymous White Van Man. And his uber-quest is clear. He wants a new white van. Fair enough. And even better, he has a picture of it. We can see it. Later on, when things are going badly, we see the picture torn in two - his dream is being shattered. It's a clear visual sign-post for the audience that requires now words and keeps up the pace.

So, it seems that's his quest for the series. His secondary quest, for this episode, is the kitchen for the orphanage. He has to find one and fit it in a fixed time period. Great. Task in hand. Against the clock. Away you go.

Meanwhile, his useless assistant, Darren, has a pretend baby to look after. And in the cafe, there is a competition about the tips - with visible tip-jars so we can see who's winning (I felt there could have been more of this).

This kind of writing really puts the viewer at ease so they can enjoy the characters and the jokes. (The funniest bit for me was in the kitchen shop with the various discounts for different causes with the brilliant Amit Shah.) It's no surprise that it's a popular show.

So if you haven't seen it, watch it (here 'til 5th April 2012) and you'll see a nicely plotted, clearly signposted show - which doesn't sound like a compliment, but in the context of this blog, it really is!

Scripts are Like a Flowing River

The other day, without thinking, I described the script of a show to a producer as being like a flowing river. I’m not ensure what – or who – possessed me to say such a pompous thing, but I’ve been thinking about what I meant ever since. (That’s pretty much my modus operandi – speak first, ask questions later). But I think I meant that a script is a moving, flowing thing.

The Block of Ice
A script is not a big impenetrable block of ice, or glacier, that cannot be altered or change. This is an easy trap to fall into . When you lock yourself away to finally write that darned script, you can emerge some days or weeks later, squinting in the natural light, clutching something that is, in your considered, unbiased opinion ‘perfect’.

It isn’t.

Even Hemingway said ‘the first draft of anything is shit’. Hemingway said that. Not a hack writer who cranked out prose by the yard. Hemingway. Winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature 1954. First drafts are shit.

This is a really important lesson to learn. Your first draft isn’t very good. Yours and mine. With experience, your first drafts tend to get incrementally better. I like to think my first draft now, having been writing professionally for twelve-ish years, is equivalent to a second draft ten years ago. No great achievement as my second drafts ten years were also atrocious.

But one can be seduced by this improvement. Writers do tend to get better and better as they get older (especially novelists). The trick is to do just as many drafts as you did when you were starting out, but this way, you end up with better drafts all the way along the long – and the quality of your work improves.

Sometimes you read or watch the work of a highly successful pro and you wonder whether they felt their first draft was already pretty good and therefore the script didn’t get the love and attention it needed. This can easily happen when writers become executive producers of their own show, or become very powerful. Lines are left unedited. Gaps that need jokes go unfilled. Sequels are very very long and baggy. The quality declines, even though the writer is better and more experienced than they were twenty years earlier.

So, a script is not a block of ice. It has to be pulled around, to ebb and flow at its own pace and find its way from the source to the ocean.

The immaculate script you produced in dimly lit isolation often doesn't seem so clever in the cold light of day. After a little while, plot inconsistencies come to the surface, motives seem muddle, and the set-pieces aren’t as funny as you remember – and turn out to have been done by David Croft thirty years ago, better.

Recently, I’ve just burned through four drafts of a script in less than a month. I thought draft 1 was very clever. But it wasn’t really. It was a perfectably respectable start to the process – like an undercoat on the wall before the proper paint goes on – but it only got good on Draft 3. But if the script is produced (it's just a pilot script for now), I’m sure the script will change significantly several times – once after its been cast and we work out where the jokes really are, then again during rehearsal, followed by tweaks, nips and tucks all the way through shooting, one or two of which might quite big difference to the story, plot or tone.

The Splurging Spray
Given that the script never seems to be finished, the writer can make a different mistake, in which they have no real confidence in any draft at all, starting with the first. Maybe they lock themselves away and produce that draft, but rather than clutching it with ill-advised certainty, they toss it to the producer with a shrug, saying ‘the show should be this sort of thing’. If the script is written with this approach, the temptation is to see the first draft as a splurging spray, some of which may hit the target, but most of which will not. This is a bad way of writing.

Given that most writers are highly strung and care passionately about every single word on the page, this is a less common problem, but it can happen. The first draft is written quickly, or in fits and starts, and then offered around with excuses like ‘I can’t make the ending work, but the beginning’s not right either, so when that’s fixed, I’ll do a new ending’. The obvious – and correct – response to this is ‘So fix the beginning, then the ending and show that to me when you’re done’.

I have mentioned this before – here. It can come about in those starting out because of lack of confidence, when ultimately the writer needs to just ‘man up’ and write what they think is funny to the best of their ability. But it can happen in more seasoned professionals too. All the lines are essentially placeholders, because the real lines, real jokes, real script will emerge in further drafts – and rehearsal. This approach is a high risk strategy, and is either cowardly, hubristic or lazy. The draft you are writing now is the most important draft. And if has to be perfect. And then you'll have to do it again.

Herein lies the dilemma of the writer – to write as if the first draft is the final one, firm in the knowledge that it will probably change beyond recognition, except, in my experience, it is surprising how much of the first draft survives. The first formation or phrasing of a joke you think of is often the best. Little routines sometimes tumble out right first time. Some set-pieces and exchanges can sail through untouched. But then other parts of the script (usually the beginning and the end) are sweated over and endless rewritten. It can be hard, gruelling, exhausting work. But it’s not done down a coal-mine or slum. It’s usually done with a Macbook, Spotify and some hot coffee, so it’s really not that bad.

The script is, ultimately, a flowing river. It can change course with some effort if need be. Changes cause ripples and waves, but it can cope with them. The script is not a babbling brook that easily changes course, or a spray that mostly misses the target. Nor a block of ice that can only be chipped at. Or cracked and broken.

By the way, Jason Arnopp has written a lovely blog post here about the freedom of Draft Zero. I've often done Drafts Zeros and can testify that they are a Good Thing.

Everything Happens for A Reason

The last forty hours haven't been good for me. I'm fine. Everything's fine. Really. But like my escapade to B&Q last week, I find myself being constantly blown off-course and distracted by the tedious minutiae of life.

The long and the short of it is that my wife has tonsilitis and has been, to use a cricket metaphor, knocked for six. Looking after her is the easy bit. I have two girls, aged 3 and 1, who need looking after and that's been the main task in hand for the last couple of days. It's been fun. Kind of. When I haven't been thinking about all the work I haven't been doing, and the scripts that haven't been started and the other scripts that haven't been finished.

This simply means that in the evening I put the kids to bed. Have dinner. Put my wife to bed. And then work. Except last night I had to attend a PCC meeting because, as I have said before, I'm a church warden. Meetings must be held. Fetes must be planned. Pews must be arranged to be fixed. And so forth.

The Dishwasher. Yes, really.
So last night saw me frustrated, tired and about to start work at 11pm when the dishwasher started winking at me. With a light I've never seen before. And a fault called F11 flashing on the screen. Something was wrong with it.

Let us pass over a number of observations here - and potential for sitcom storylines and scenes. At first, I couldn't find the manual. Had no idea where we kept manuals. Guessed right fairly quickly. Found a bunch of manuals for all manner of appliances past and present, and turned the right page and got to work. Let us pass over the fact that my heart sunk at mere sight of the instructions, which were optimistically written. Let us briefly note that, despite comedy stereotypes and my expectations, the instructions were right to be optimistic. I followed them. Washed out various components. Refitted them. Didn't get wet. Pressed the button to restart the programme. And it worked. Hey presto. Call me Dwayne the Drain. I have troubleshot the problem.

Here's what I thought as I saw the dishwasher was faulty. I thought "For this to work in a sitcom, the malfunction of that dishwasher has to have been my fault". I needed to have ignored the careful instructions of my wife, or tried to fit too much in, or gallantly tried to fix the washing machine next to it despite the protestations of a housemate. In real life, things just break for no reason. But they don't half way through a sitcom. I am the protagonist in my life. If there's a problem that gets in the way and needs fixing - and it's not another person - it should be my fault, or at least another character's fault.

I was watching Downton Abbey on Sunday night and noting how carefully plotted it was - and that every single thing was done for a reason. Nothing just happened. Even more masterful is Modern Family in which a dozen characters move in and out of each other's lives and nothing simply happens or goes wrong that isn't the result of one character doing something in character.

Why is now the worst time for this to happen?
Sometimes, when I'm bashing storylines with people, one of the questions I ask is 'Why is now the worst possible time for this thing to happen?' So let's say our hero has had a run-in with a dry cleaner and his suit is ruined. Why is now the worst possible time for that to have happened? He has to go to a wedding. Great. Escalation. Our character has a quest. But whose wedding? Why are they getting married now? Why does he have to wear that suit? Why couldn't he get it cleaned earlier? Or somewhere else? Why does he have problems getting another one? And crucially - how has our protagonist brought this on himself? The wrecking of the suit somehow needs to be the fault of the protagonist. Or a lead character.

I'm tired. It's late. I have to work. The dishwasher is now broken. Why? What did I do wrong? In real life, things just break. Not in sitcom - where everything happens for a reason.

It's all good, really

Today was a rotten day. I woke up feeling groggy and slightly flu-ey and generally under the weather. I felt up to some clerical work and emails just after lunch. A project I've been trying to get through a well-known broadcasting corporation has been delayed again. (other broadcasters are avaialable. At least I hope so).

Then the real fun began. I tried to arrange for a faulty dishwasher at my church hall to be fixed - for I am Church Warden (seriously) and this sort of holy order falls to me.

The dishwasher has a problem closing but is still under warranty, or so I thought. I checked the website of the vendor, by the name of B&Q. I don't know what that stands for. I'm so tired and bored, I can't even think a joke for that (two adjectives beginning in B&Q. Leave comments.) Clearly the idea that one of their products might malfunction is alien to them since there's no information on their website. I phoned a well-hidden number. Ring ring ring ring. Eventually a battery of questions - and then a suggestion I ring the branch where the thing was bought. I didn't buy the dishwasher as it happens. It was bought by the previous church warden. Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring ring...

I got in the car, realise I was nearly out of fuel, stalled the car, briefly panicked that I'd run out of fuel in a diesel car, which is a real nusiance. Then got going again, refuelled and went down to B&Q in delightful Wandsworth.

And this was where creatively the lousy day was almost redeemed. I walked into B&Q and wondered around looking for someone who could help me - for ages. At one point, it felt like the only member of staff there was the security guard trying to prevent £1m+ worth of good from being stolen. In my foul and furious state, I reckon I could have taken in him on. But that would have made me a common looter (well, a middle-class looter, but a looter nonetheless).

Eventually I spoke to a member of staff, who guided me to a desk where someone was unable to help, who took me to his boss, who asked me questions I simply couldn't understand, who then got the duty store manager, who ultimately said he couldn't help. He explained that the dishwasher was used in a commercial setting (apparently churches are commercial, which is news to me, given the state of our accounts). This meant Indesit wouldn't fix it. That was that. I said that the buyer said at the time that it was for church use. He asked if I had proof. I had none.

I walked away, furious and before I said anything that would bring the church into disrepute. Driving home I realised I had proof - all the delivery notes were addressed to the church. I couldn't go back. I was broken. Finished. But I realised that if I hadn't been so tired and angry, the situation I had been in had comic potential. The eerie lack of staff, the chronic indifference to my plight and the kafka-esque levels of service. All funny now you look at it.

And that is why I mention this mildly dull anecdote. Not because it's especially funny, but because it's an interesting starting point for a storyline. Or a sketch. Or a scene. Or a moment. Back in April, I wrote this about changing the battery on a burglar alarm. This one will go on the list too. It's logged in the memory. That's because sitcom writing isn't just about imagining situations - but experiencing them first hand. And then turning them up to 11 on the screen.

Plus it gave me something to write about on this blog. It's all good, really.

Script Competitions

I've never been keen on sitcom competitions, script initiatives, new writing prizes and all that.

Given that the BBC Writers Room get sent thousands of script a year anyway - ever single one of which is read - there seems little need to spend money on competitions and executives to manage them and readers to read the scripts. You could simply pay writers who show promise a little bit of money to make their scripts better.

But I've been warming, slightly, to these competitions recently since they encourage people to write - and finish - scripts. Many people respond to a deadline, so the fact there is a clear date, a prize and the promise of the script being read.

There is, however, a downside to this. Writing a decent half hour script takes ages. Especially a pilot script for a new show. It involves coming up with characters, honing them, storylining, honing the stories, writing, re-writing and editing. It's the kind of thing that would take me at least three weeks before I had anything I could bear to show to another human being who wasn't genetically programmed to love me unconditionally. That's three weeks of Monday-Friday, ten til six. I can do that because it's sort of my job.

Most people don't have this luxury, because they're holding down a day-job, or raising kids. Therefore, the whole process is done in evenings, or at weekends. This sounds really hard to me. That kind of bitty process probably lends itself to sketch writing, but not writing a half hour scripts. (It normally takes me 90 minutes to really get into a script for a day.) And so writing a script this way will take months. But most people don't have this sort of time, or hear about the competition late, or just don't knuckle down early enough. And therefore the script is half-baked, and sent off anyway.

This seems to be a widespread problem. I was interested to read this post on Chortle about Jon Plowman's session at the London Comedy Writers' Festival. Jon Plowman always says very sensible things about comedy and is a good egg, so anything he says should be given great credence. For me, the telling line was "a recurring theme of the festival [was that] writers [should] think carefully before sending off a script."

This chimes with my own experience. In recent weeks, I've been meeting a number of new and aspiring writers, and many of them said similar things about the last bunch of sitcom competitions. Something along the lines 'I entered the competition, but the script was a mess. I couldn't really get the ending to work, and one of the characters isn't funny. But I thought I'd send it anyway'.

People say these things for all kinds of reason. It might be because it's true. It's partly emotional insurance and a fear of failure, which is completely understandable. It's probably lack of confidence too, along the lines of 'I have no idea what works, so I may have written something good without realising it.' But let's be honest about this. It seems unlikely that a script that even you think isn't working would win a scriptwriting competition. So why send it in that state?

Given the proliferation of these competitions, it might be better to wait until the next competition comes round. Take that extra time to make the script good. Or really good. Put the script to one side for a month and then come back to it fresh. Be brutal. Go through each line. Does this line need to be here? Is it a joke, a set-up to a joke, or developing plot/character? If not, delete it.

The reality is that if you write a decent script, a really decent script, you don't need a competition to succeed. This is simply because there are hardly any decent scripts out there. Micheal Jacob, in his last blog for the BBC, writes:

I must have read - taking competitions and College of Comedy applications into account - maybe 10,000 aspiring scripts or part scripts. And the depressing fact is that no more than 100 were any good. The tragedy of comedy is that many people think they can write it and hardly anyone can.

If you can write - and you also write a superb script (not the same thing) - producers will want to meet you and stuff will happen. It's all about the script. Don't sell it short. Don't let it go off half-cock. Plan it. Mull it. Research it. Filter it. Replan it. Write it. Rewrite it. Edit it. Put it to one side. Forget it. Then get it out. Read it. Re-read it. Edit it. Then put in some more jokes. Then cut some of them out. And check it over again. It might then be ready to send.

It takes ages. Even if you're talented. Perhaps the proliferation of competitions gives people the idea that anyone can have a go because writing is easy. It is true that anyone can have a go. But it isn't easy. I've been doing it for over ten years professionally and only now am I starting to think I might have the beginnings of a clue as to what I'm doing. But I do know this. Talent is fine. But there is no substitute for hard work.

Alarm Bells

So today, I’m going to be screaming at a burglar alarm. And my 3-year-old daughter will probably be joining in. And my little baby too. It’s going to be awful. But potentially very useful. Let me explain. And it does relate to sitcom-writing. I promise.

I live in a rented house with a burglar alarm that I don’t understand, with a manual written by someone who’s never met another person. We’ve lived in the house for 18 months, and have never switched the alarm on, mainly because I can’t face looking at the instructions. They are so annoying, unclear and counter-intuitive, they make me both drowsy and furious simultaneously.

But now it’s starting to bleep occasionally because one of the batteries is flat. And this looks ominous and potentially noisy. So I must take on the task of getting my head around it. And while I’m minding the kids while my wife goes out for a couple of hours later today, I’m going to try and do it then. I’m already doomed. I can’t be with my kids and achieve anything else at the same time. But let’s pass over this mild delusion. That’s not the point.

The point is this: I am embracing this situation in the hope that jokes and comic situations will be forthcoming. I am going to learn the ins and outs of burglar alams. Or at least one burglar alarm. And this may come in handy one day. Maybe along these lines:

Int. Writers Room. Day.
Eight writers are sitting round a large table in an airless, windowless room. There is a problem with this week's script. The story isn’t working. Our main character has to break into his own house for some hilarious but subtley contrived reason – but it’s not as funny as it could be. After a third coffee, Sitcomgeek’s brain finally kicks in and he speaks.

Sitcomgeek: What about the burglar alarm?

Writer 2: They don’t have one.

Sitcomgeek: Maybe they should have one.

Writer 3: But are burglar alarms? Are they funny? Really?

Sitcomgeek: They are if you don’t know how they work and you have to learn very quickly.

Writer 3: But you just punch in the code, surely? Every one knows their code. Who’s not going to know their code?

Sitcomgeek: I don’t know my code.

Writer 3: How could you not know your code.

Sitcomgeek: I never use mine. I rent. It was fitted before we moved in. It’s a hassle. And we have kids and I mostly work from home, so we’re always in.

Writer 2: So how does that help?

Sitcomgeek: I had change the battery on one of the movement sensors once. While I was minding the kids. Disaster. Kind of. It could have been catastrophic, though. It would have been if I’d had to have worked it out at night. Like our hero would have to.

Writer 2: That could work.

Sitcomgeek: Do you have any idea how hard those things are to work if you don’t know what you’re doing? The manuals are written by droids and pretty much everything triggers the alarm. It’s a nightmare.

Writer 4: When did this happen?

Sitcomgeek: Ages ago. I remember thinking at the time that this experience could be useful. It was the same day that I went to the gym, got out of the pool and discovered someone walked off with my towel and key. But that’s another story.

If you’re a sitcom writer, the upside of personal catastrophe is that you might be able to use it. Embrace that. Everything you do, the every day trials of life, are material. Go to gigs you might not like. Agree to do stuff that you might hate. Live life. And if possible, write it down. Keep a list that you can refer back to when the stories aren’t flowing. They might trigger something. And alarm bells might start to ring. Except in a good way.

The Answer Was There All Along

This evening I watched Big Bang Theory. The episode was called 'The Pants Alternative' (Season 3, Ep18), the climax of which you can see here. It won Jim Parsons an Emmy for his performance.

Let's make no bones about this. Big Bang Theory is a funny show. It's a good setting, the characters are well-drawn and the jokes are laugh-out-loud funny. I like it. I don't love it, for reasons I'll explain. For me, the writers have allowed Sheldon to become too dominant. The show, for me, should be about Leonard, as he is our 'way in' to the world - and someone we can identify with. I, personally, would have made it a will-they/won't-they with Penny and ran that for a few years. But then, Chuck Lorre really does know what he's doing. The house I live in would probably fit into the downstairs bathroom of his house.

Clear Quest
But I felt 'The Pants Alternative' episode had a strong positive and a strong negative that was worthy of note. And some annoying niggles. The big positive is that the quest of the characters is pin-sharp, easy and clear:

Sheldon has to give a speech. Why? Sheldon has won an award. But a condition of accepting it is giving a speech to a large room of people.

Problem: Sheldon physically cannot give a speech to a room of people large enough to trample him. (Funny joke - but hides the fact that I don't quite believe this. Sure, Sheldon could give a speech. He is surpremely self-confident, but I'll got with it).

Solution: The other characters take it upon themselves to get Sheldon through it, and prepare him to give a speech. Penny takes him shopping for a new suit. Leonard tries psychiatry. Rajesh does meditiation. It provides three decent set-piece scenes. Seems odd that no-one has mentioned what he's going to say, but again, I'll go with it. So far, so good.

No New Information
Leonard steps up to introduce Sheldon at the dinner for the speech - but in Leonard's speech, Sheldon gets nervous. So what happens? He has a drink. Sheldon doesn't drink, apparently. This hadn't been mentioned in the episode before. Then Sheldon gets up and, hammered, gives an inappropriate speech, leading to losing his trousers.

Here's the big negative: Why are we introducing alcohol to the story? For me, the third act, leading to the climax, should contain no new information, or anything that hasn't been feature in the episode. The quest is clear. The problem crops up. We think we have a solution. But it doesn't work. We need another solution - and it should be something that was there all along. Otherwise if feels that the characters are not to blame for missing it. It feels like a deus ex machina.

I can well imagine plenty of viewers have no problem with the episode - and laughed at Sheldon's drunken antics. And I'm just being picky. But I really think that episodes lose momentum when they introduce new elements too late in the story.

All that said, Sheldon, giving a speech drunk, was funny.

But it wasn't as funny as it could have been because it didn't have any consequences. Nothing was really at stake. The award was not withdrawn - which, granted, wouldn't have been funny. Nothing else happened. The episode just ended. Now, I'm all in favour of swift endings. Writers often labour over epilogue scenes which tie up all the loose ends when the audience just don't care. But in the case, I cared. And it didn't seem to matter. Which is why, ultimately, I don't love it.

Annoying People & Boring Bits

This week, I watched an episode of Red Dwarf Series IV that somehow I had never seen before. I am a huge fan of Red Dwarf and Series V and VI, especially - a really good blend of characters, gags and sci-fi imagination. But I missed the Waxworld episode all those years ago and never caught up.

Let's be honest. It's not the best of the episodes. The story is a bit wobbly and the location shooting is pretty ropey (which is a blog posting for another time). There are lots of unfamiliar characters that get in the way. But the episode starts with Rimmer telling a long boring story about a game of Risk that he played years earlier. The gag is that Rimmer is going on and on and has no idea how boring he's being. But, it's not really funny at all because it's, well, boring. Jokes about boredom, shaggy dog stories and anticlimaxes are often disastrous in shows, especially when shot in front of audiences. They don't usually play very well because they are boring, pointless or anti-climactic.

Non-audience shows can make a feature of these, and nuance them to perfection, as they did in The Office and People Like Us - making many others think they can do them. But my experience as an audience member, and as a writer, have taught me to avoid doing jokes along these lines.

A similar phenomenon has arisen in Friday Night Dinner. Mark Heap brilliantly plays a really annoying next door neighbour. But he doesn't make me laugh. He just makes me annoyed. The character is clearly sociopathic and doesn't realise when he's not wanted, and thus hangs around and causes embarrassment, and it's very true to life. People often don't get the message. It's believable. But I wonder how laugh-out-loud funny the character is.

There is certainly mileage to be had in these boring/annoying characters. But most of it is in the lengths the other characters have to go to in order to avoid being stuck with the annoying/boring character - and that this has comic consequence. In the Christmas episode of Miranda, she says that she finds carol singers annoying, because you just have to stand there while they sing and it's very awkward. And so, at the distant sound of carol singers, she pretends not to be in - and has to get all her customers to hide, which is, I think, rather funny. And even better, in so doing, she misses the van delivering her package in the process.

There are ways of doing this. But my general word of warning is to ask yourself whether you annoying character is funny - or just plain annoying. If it's the latter, delete, avoid, kill or rewrite.

A Big Silly Thing

Okay, enough talk about money and courses and radio. Let's do some script nitty-gritty: the time, A Big Silly Thing.

Sometimes, when sitting in a room storylining Miranda, we talk about big silly events happening - those big farcical moments that stretch the laws of probability and credulity, but are undoubtedly funny.

When that happens, you need to ask two questions. Is it funny enough to justify this stretch in credibility? It may well do. A big clear physical joke that does not contravene character is fine. You can bend the laws of Physics as much as you like, ironically. But when a character behaves implausibly for the sake of a joke, the audience won't like it. So play with Newtonian physics by all means, as long as the joke is consistent with the characters and the story. But don't mess with the characters.

But even then the timing might not be right. And here is the second question. Where is it happening in the script? Once or twice, I've found myself saying out loud 'It's okay - it's the end of the show so we can do it'. I've been trying to work out why I say that - and let's remember this is an art, not a science - but this big silly events can happen at the end of the script, but not in the middle.

Maybe it's because everything in a sitcom needs to have consequences, right the way to the end. If someone does something miraculous in the middle of the show, the characters would have to respond to it in some way, which could knock your story out of shape. There would be 'fall-out' from the story. But if this silly thing happens at the end, we're spared all that reaction. Besides, know that the slate is wiped clean and we begin again next week with everything back to normal.

So, a Big Silly Thing is essentially a 'joke for free' - or something that tops a set-piece scene or moment. Almost like a punchline. I shouldn't really matter. And it certainly shouldn't be a plot resolver - or it may look like a Deus Ex Machina, which is essentially a resolution to a story that none of us could have seen coming and isn't merited by the characters. (See Measure for Measure for Shakespeare's lousiest ending when a Duke appears out of nowhere and wraps it all up. I've not read it or seen it, but it sounds dreadul.)

The characters are the key - they get themselves into messes, and they have to get themselves out again, or at least overcome characters flaws in order to accept help.
I'd be interested to hear the views and experiences of others.

Choosing Wisely

Last night, I finally got round to watching The King's Speech - and was relieved and thrilled that it was as good as the hype suggested. Colin Firth's performance really is stunning, and his on-screen relationship with Logue (Geoffrey Rush) was electrifying. This is a film with no fireworks or special effects, camera tricks or plot gimmicks - just characters talking. The power of the words really is stunning.

Here's one thing I take from this movie: What a great choice of story. David Seidler could have written about any number of things - and struggled to make it cinematic or shootable. He chose a story that lends itself to a strong central relationship with a clear climax. Bertie, the Duke of York, has royal duties but cannot speak in public. There is the toe-curling opening scene in which this is made obvious. His quest is simple and comprehensible. We know he will be king because of his feckless brother, and he will have to overcome this disability. And it will be obvious to us when he does. The radio broadcast at the end is the clinching victory. And because the story is so straightforward, we can revel in this fascinating and extraordinary relationship between King and Speech Therapist, Logue. There is, of course, the extra moment when Logue calls Bertie 'Your Majesty' and offers him the approval and respect that Bertie craves - and has truly earned.

In a way, it seems like the writer is cheating. The story almost writes itself. (It doesn't, and never does, but you get the idea). But how many of us beat our heads against a wall trying to tell a story clearly and simply, when it doesn't want to be told? There's something inside the story that attracts us, but sometimes the nut is too tough to crack. In which case, look for another nut.

A while ago, I read a management book for research. It talked about some people in business whining that their competitors are cheating. Big airlines whinge that the lo-cost airlines are making easy money because they are cheating, with cheap hubs, cheap planes, profitable routes and luggage restrictions. If someone talks like this, ask them this. "So why aren't you cheating?"

It may be genuine fascination with a story, a relationship or even a fact. But it may be that you've invested so much time in it that it simply has to be made to work. If you're in a hole, stop digging. Move on. Choose another story or character or situation.

I have a number of scenarios and ideas for sitcoms that I keep coming back to. I'm sure that they should work, or can be made to work, but they're just too complicated, require too much explanation or have other related problems. I need to stop digging and move on. Maybe you do too. It may be that a light is switched on and the idea is transformed and I know how to tell that particular story. But until that moment, I need to spend my time elsewhere, finding characters and stories that can be beautifully and wonderfully told - like The King's Speech.

They're Nice And All, But We Don't Care

And so we reach the age old debate about 'likeable'.

I've heard it said (either by Goldman or Long) that networks want a Mickey Mouse. But comedy writers want to write Bugs Bunny. Let's not beat about the bush on this one - Mickey Mouse just isn't as cool, as funny or even as 'likeable' as Bugs Bunny, who torments, frustrates and bullies his assaillants and walks off with lines like 'Ain't I a stinker?'

Bugs is cowardly, brutal and mean. And yet, as a child, every time cartoons came on, I would cheer if it was Bugs Bunny and switch off mild-mannered-middle-of-the-road Mickey Mouse. Unless Donald Duck was around who as, at least, a comically hyper-charged ball of rage that would at least pass the time.

Let's keep going with this. One of the most appealling characters of British TV of the last ten years is Gene Hunt - a sexist, homophobic, xenophobic throwback to the bad old days of dodgy policing. He was literally head and shoulders above all others in that show because his character was larger than life in every way. Five series later, he's bigger than ever.

Previously I've blogged about the wonderful Damned United (here) in which the incorrigible Brian Clough is portrayed, a man who got under your skin and intentionally set out to annoy people - like Gregory House, MD. Or, for that matter, Gordon Ramsay on his TV shows.

And yet, in a way, we care about Bugs Bunny, Hunt, House and Clough - even though they are sadistic monsters. In pure sitcom, we have the likes of Victor Meldrew in One Foot in the Grave. In 30 Rock, we have Jack Donaghy and Tracey Jordan who are both rich and arrogant monsters in their way.

In my own limited experience, we have Penny and Tilly in Miranda who say and do outrageously unlikeable things, but we love them all the same. In writing Hut 33, I created a character called Professor Charles Gardiner, ultra-conservative Oxford don who was on first name terms with Rommel and Von Ribbentrop when war broke out. Played by the delightful Robert Bathurst, he often had the best jokes and zingers, and was a lot of fun to write for. In fact, the most popular character of that show was the Polish psychopath called Minka, voiced by Olivia Colman. She always brought the house down with her tales or threats of sustained and imaginative physical violence.

The common stereotype of the TV Commissioner is that they want someone 'likeable'. Or think other people think they want someone 'likeable'. This is sadly often true. But let's not confuse 'likable' with 'engaging' or 'absorbing' or 'charismatic'. The audience and the commissioner want the same thing - characters they keep coming back to. We need compelling characters, not necessary likeable ones. Miranda is very likeable. So was Del Boy. But Gregory House isn't likeable. He is an utter jerk, and cruel to anyone who shows love or affection for him. And yet, I've seen every single episode up to the middle of Series 6.

Conversely, the problem of Episodes is that we have a perfectly likeable couple at the centre of the show - but we don't really care about them, as I said here. They're nice and all, but we don't care.

Ultimately, we live with a paradox. We are able to love people we dislike. (Think of your own family). The skill, the trick, the art of writing is to make characters compelling, so that we have sympathy for them. It make be that we make them Mr Nice Guy. It may be that we can relate to them. Or it may be that we understand them, see the world through their eyes, but realise we would dislike them if we met them - but we just can't look away. eg. David Brent, Captain Mainwairing, Victor Meldrew, Tony Hancock.

It seems surprising that writers keep being asked for 'likeable', when that is not, ultimately, what the audience, the commissioners or any of us want.

Of course, Mickey Mouse made Disney and lots of other people hundreds of millions, so we can probably ignore all of the above.

But come on, who wants Mickey, Minnie, Donald and Pluto, when you can have Bugs Bunny, Yosemite Sam, Foghorn Leghorn and Elmer Fudd?

Episodes

So, Episodes.

Let's begin with the caveats. Let's bear in mind that my opinion doesn't matter to anyone; I'm an inexperienced comedy writer compared to the stupidly experienced David Crane who co-writes Episodes; I've read no reviews of Episodes and have no idea if it's already deemed a hit or a smash, so my opinion may be way off those of others, or blandly the same. My instinct is that critics will broadly be in favour of Episodes because it's about the media and they love self-parodying, industry stuff, even though most TV audiences show themselves to be consistently uninterested in this kind of thing. There. Caveats done. (and yes, 'caveat' is 3rd person present iussive subjunctive, and yes, I do have an A-Level in Latin and yes, I am keen to use it.)

Let us recall that scene in Seinfeld when Jerry and George pitch the idea for the show. George says it's about nothing. And the exec says one of those incredibly annoying things that execs say which is 'Why am I watching this show?' George tersely replies, 'Because it's on TV', implying that people will watch whatever's on.

Except George is wrong. And, it pains me to say, the exec is kind of right. "Why am I watching this show?" is one of those annoying questions to ask, but there's something in it.

And so I ask myself the question, Why am I watching Episodes? Well, I'm watching it because it's new, so I ought to watch it. It's written by one of the creators of Friends and bunch of other things. It's got Stephan Mangan and Tamsin Grieg in it - what's not to like? And, most of all, it's sort of about my job. There are four or five reasons right there.

And I'm glad I watched it. The performances were good. There were some jokes that made me laugh out loud. And before I had looked at my watch, it ended, which is a good sign.

But am I going to keep watching it? Am I excited about watching it again next week?

I have mentioned William Goldman's The Year of the Comet before on this blog. It was, apparently, the next screenplay he wrote after Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Goldman knows how to write a really decent movie. And yet, he wrote The Year of the Comet, which vanished without trace. Why? Because nobody cared. Why did nobody care? Because it's a romantic comedy about a couple who are trying to track down a bottle of wine. Seriously. The trailer for it is here: (sorry if there's another ad first)

YEAR OF THE COMET: Movie Trailer. Watch more top selected videos about: Movie Trailers, Year of the Comet

Have you seen the trailer? Doesn't it look dreadful? 'From the writer of The Princess Bride and Butch Cassidy' says the voiceover... William Goldman laughs about it now. He writes about it in his excellent and compulsory follow-up to Adventures in the Screen Trade called Which Lie did I Tell? But the point is this: Who cares about a couple who's quest is a valuable bottle of wine? Could we be made to care about them? Maybe. Do we? No. And I think this is my main problem with Episodes. I don't really care. And that makes a big difference.

Caring about these people is going to be a tall order, since this is a sitcom about wealthy successful people, who are about to have mildly annoying things done to them buy even wealthier more successful people. And the problem is what I'm really meant to care about is an abstract sitcom. This sitcom of theirs is set in a boarding school and Richard Griffiths is in it. It's won some awards. That's all I know about it. I don't get any sense that this is a prized and loved thing that I should care about. This sitcom should be their baby. It should be a part of them. Changes to it should be excruciating. But I don't quite buy that the characters really care about their baby all that much.

Maybe their sitcom should be based on themselves in some way - about a married couple - or some personal experience - and therefore tampering with it causes serious personal trauma and pain, and a clash in their relationship. The cabbie who took them home from the BAFTAs could have quoted a line or a catchphrase from the show or something. Please, just make me care about the things the characters care about. Otherwise, all they're going to do is walk away quite wealthy and slightly tanned from a failed american sitcom.

I'm sure I shall watch next week - but partly because I want to know more about the original show of theirs, just like I've always wanted to see Ricky Gervais write a whole episode of When The Whistle Blows. Writing comedy about the comedy industry is one thing. Writing a character-based sitcom for a mainstream studio audience is another. Crane can obviously do that. His awards and record prove that. He probably has two personal assistants, three homes and four yachts to prove that. This is not a bad show at all. I laughed along, and it was easy to enjoy. But I don't love it. Yet.

Characters and Stories

I'm going to spoil a book for you. An expensive one. That Robert McKee book called Story, which is now an astonishing £19.99 in paperback. In paperback. That said, we tend not prize that which has cost us nothing - so you'll ignore what I say when I summarise the book. McKee argues (I seem to remember) that story is character. Character is story. Characters only exists in stories. Stories are only meaningful with characters. You get the idea. What's the plot of your film, sitcom, or novel? Well, who are the characters and what are they trying to do? Story and Character are two sides of the same coin.

It's extremely easy to forget this, especially when coming up with ideas for a new sitcom. Whenever I read treatments for new shows by new writers - and look back at my old ones when I was 'new' - I often see this being forgotten or ignored.

Most comedy writers know that sitcom is about memorable characters. But often, much light and heat is generated explaining who the character is and where they have come from - their likes and dislikes. Often, these get very nuanced and contradictory. I always cringe when a character outline contains the words 'sometimes' or 'occasionally'. Sitcom characters don't do things occasionally. They either do them all the time. Or never. Or for a funny or compelling reason.

Here is what I mean. This is a sitcom I've just invented in the last 30 seconds. It's called The Greasy Pole.

Sally is a business woman who is trying to be a success, but it's not as easy as she thought it would be. She used to work for the local council, but she was frustrated that it was slow and bureaucratic. Then one day, she met a business guru who changed her life and told her that she could be anything she wanted to be. So she bought a power suit, got a loan from the bank and started her own business - a shop selling stationery. After all, everyone needs stationery, don't they? But her life is made even harder by the shop assistant, Pavlov, the Polish friend of a friend with bad English that she rashly hired because she felt sorry for him...

You get the idea. I had to stop there, as I was getting cross just writing it like that. The reality is that there could be a perfectly decent show in there (Miranda runs a shop) - and there was lots of detail, but we don't really know anything about Sally at all. Just what happened in the past. We're left asking the question 'Why?' an awful lot. The audience will be asking it all the time if they happen to tune in to episode 2, having missed the first one.

Characters need momentum - stories. They need quests and dreams. They need relationships. Why does anyone do anything? These are very basic questions about our very existence, but the sitcom-writer needs to address them.

When I was setting up my Radio 4 sitcom, Hut 33, I had to do this. The show is about a disparate bunch of people thrown together at Bletchley Park by the war. But where are they from? What drives them? Not exterior events in the war. Or even their roles within the war. It's about who there are and what they want: Charles is a snob who wants to preserve the pre-war status quo. He is into self-preservation, luxury and being seen to be right. Archie is an inverse-snob who wants to see the likes of Charles taken down a peg or two. Even though he's an academic hanging around with private school boys, he wants to preserve his working-class roots and embraces the language of Marxism. Gordon is a seventeen-year old who is trapped in the crossfire of Archie and Charles. He just wants everyone to be friends. And he wants to be taken seriously as a 'grown-up', and fit in, even though he is a teenager among men.

Once you have characters that have a forward momentum and attitudes, you can start to throw them into situations and see how they react - restrict their food, extend their working hours, drop a bomb on their hut or threaten them with a posting to the jungle, and see what happens. Ideally, they need to be the instigators of these things. Or the instigators of other stories, which are interrupted or modified by bombs or other circumstances beyond their control.

That's what I'm doing at the moment with a number of sitcom projects. I've assembled some characters, and given them trajectories, hopes and dreams - and am now seeing what happens when things go wrong, or unexpectedly right for the wrong reason. It's only when you start storylining that your find our whether you have workable, active characters - who are the authors of their own downfall.

Let's go back to Sally in The Greasy Pole? Why did she hire Pavlov? Is it because she can't say 'no' to anyone because she wants to be liked? (like Geraldine in Dibley)? Which means that all her plans to run a business are almost certainly doomed to comic failure? Why is she even running a shop? Is she trying to prove her husband/boyfriend/mother wrong - and she wants to be taken seriously? Is she really that insecure? (she could be) Is she just passionate about stationery? If so, why? Could it be something else she is passionate about that says something about her? Could it be a haberdashery, because she likes pretty things - because she is all about looking good, rather than being good, and she hired Pavlov because he's cheap (thus making Sally a bitch, which might be funny). What happens when her personal life gets in the way of her shop? How does she manage that? On what basis does she make those decisions?

The fact is that failure to do this makes the show impossible to write, because you don't know why your characters get up in the morning. Once you have living, breathing, thinking characters, they start talking to you. You hear voices in your head (in a good way) and they go off and do things. When that happens, despite what any psychiatrist might say, you are really onto something good.

The Wonder of Narration

I've been so short of things to watch on TV that a couple of things have happened. Firstly, I have rejoined Lovefilm, which is exciting. (We have another baby due next month, so I'll be chained to the sofa significantly more than at the moment.) Secondly, I rewatched some old DVDs including the joyous wonder that is Arrested Development. Just looking at pictures of the characters below is making me smile. The characterisation is so clear and crisp. Quite often, non-audience, single-camera shows pull their punches on their characters and nuance things a little too much. They're too, well, real. The characters below, however, are huge monsters who have really strong motivations and we know exactly they will react in any situation. That is so important when putting together a comedy show. And often those starting out think they can have characters who change their minds more often or aren't so extreme. Treatments and outlines include phrases like "Something Peter gets really angry for no reason, but other times he's really calm" or "Sally loves her boyfriend, but sometimes doesn't, and she doesn't really know why". I exaggerate, but take a look at the characters below and you'll see what characters need to be. Buster is dumb and frightened. Gob ludicrously overestimates his own abilities and is incredibly selfish. Tobias is living in a dreamworld. And Michael is a slave to being 'responsible'. Simple clear character points are essential. If you don't have them, you don't have a show.

Arrested Development is one of those problem shows that in some ways highlights the gap between those who have mainstream and non-mainstream sensibilities. The show was a critical hit, won plenty of awards and the esteem of everyone in the media. Media-types and writers forever gush about The Larry Sanders Show and Curb Your Enthusiasm. Arrested Development falls into that category. (By the by, Curb does nothing for me, really. It's masterful in it's plotting. Almost a masterclass. But I want a properly honed script. Gimme Seinfeld any day.)

But, as with The Larry Sanders Show, Arrested Development was never a ratings hit. Middle America just did not take the show to its bosom - and nor did the English (as if that would have made the difference). The show looked expensive and needed more viewers to pay for itself. You can't pay for a TV show with boxed-set sales (yet). And so, the show was cancelled halfway through it's third season. I believe the last four episodes were all dumped on one night. The show itself made references to it's own cancellation in some of the most skillful self-referential comedy I've ever seen. But nobody watched it. Most Americans, it turns out, would rather watch reruns of Friends, than a brand-shining new episode of Arrested Development.

It's hard to pin-point why this is the case. The show contains mostly unlikeable characters, which can alienate mainstream viewers. But then, Michael, George-Michael and Buster are very likeable. And Seinfeld's four main characters are all unlikeable and selfish. The Office has two key unlikeable characters. I'm sure everyone has a theory as to why Arrested Development 'failed' (in the ratings sense). I'd be very interested to hear the views of others on this one.

So why do I mention this? Firstly because it makes me feel good, just thinking about Arrested Development. But secondly, the show contains one thing that most out-and-out comedies do not - Narration. The narrator makes a huge difference to the show, and I view the narrator device with envy. Often, one of the hardest things to do in a sitcom is move the plot along, purely with people talking. In a novel, you can simply say what's happening. In a film like Austin Powers, you can have a character called Basil Exposition - who tells Austin what to do next. In sitcoms, characters have to say things like "I have to go and pick up my son from his football session", but you have to think of a characterful joke to glue to it. That can be very hard.

But Arrested Development has a narrator (and what a wonderful voice that Ron Howard has). He can say things like 'meanwhile' to emphasise that something is taking place at the same time as another scene - which may be significant. The narrator can say 'this would have been okay, but unfortunately...' and give you a heads up on something bad happening. The narrator can remind, mislead and even do jokes of his own. (There are plenty in the show)

The narrator means that 'the plot' is often as funny as the jokes or the characters, which doesn't happen all that often. In Seinfeld, this can happen, but usually the calamity in a sitcom means that the characters do or say funny things. But careful, skillful plot can be genuinely satisfying in its own right, almost apart from the characters. There are two notable British writers who are brilliant at this. The first is David Renwick whose One Foot in the Grave plots were very clever indeed, hiding crucial bits of information and revealing at just the right time to create wonderfully daft situations and moments. The other is Steve Moffat - who wrote some episodes of Coupling that were superbly plotted, as if a West-End play (a good one). There's is much to learn about plotting from these guys. Plot or story should be satisfying and service the characters. But sometimes it can exceed all expectations and be hilarious in its own right.

So here's the point and the warning. When you're plotting an episode of sitcom, one can be very ambitious in the amount of story that can be crammed in. But if you take Arrested Development's lead, you may come unstuck unless you have a narrator, or a clever device to enable you to cut through plot very quickly. Normally, I find I have too much plot and have to cut back. This can be painful if you've got funny dialogue that you've sweated over in order to get it across. And we return to the importance of proper planning. The best jokes often occur from thin air, when you're writing the script itself, but you need that bedrock of a strong outline. At least I do. (Carla Lane doesn't. And she did okay, didn't she?)