So that’s it; you’ve been blogging for a while now and people seem to like the things you say; maybe you’ve even written a post or two and received some OK reviews. Maybe it’s time to spread your literary wings, perhaps with a magazine article or some short stories; maybe even a book… A book…? Forget it. A half-decent book means at least a hundred thousand words and unless you areΒ Barbara Cartland,Β that takes about a year to write and edit. How about a screenplay? Now that’s an idea, but what genre and what subject?

There are few, if any, rules concerning subject matter when it comes to writing a Hollywood screenplay. Hollywood scriptwriters have given us incredible shrinking men, and incredible giant women, and talking animals, and super-powered heroes, and intergalactic space travel. They’ve stretched our feeble imaginations with a bikini-clad Raquel Welch, tormenting Neanderthal machismos a million years before the birth of Christ, and a bikini-clad Carrie Fisher tormenting alien machismos in a galaxy far-far away. They’ve shown us a gigantic prehistoric love-struck ape, swatting biplanes and clinging to the top of the Empire State Building, and had us believe that a man can not only fly faster than the speed of light, but turn back time in order to save the girl he loves.

The point is that Hollywood never did turn down a script because the subject matter was too outlandish, or lurid, or crass, or unbelievable. So why are there ten-thousand ever-hopeful screenwriting failures, living out there in Rejection-Slip Land?

The slush-pile lottery plays a major part of course, but Hollywood also has some rules, and those rules are absolute. The script needs to be well-written, and legible, interesting and well-paced, but success will require more than pace and presentation. There are archetypes that you must include, and a well-worn path for your hero to travel… above all you need a hero who is severely tested, makes incredible sacrifices, and does wonderfully heroic things.

So let’s cut to the chase. You’ve chosen sport as the genre, a subject you know well and love, which is always a good idea. You’ve chosen your beloved Arsenal’s young captain as your story’s hero, and a little unimaginatively called it The Cesc Fabregas Story. Weeks of deprivation have passed, and you finally have your script ready. You also have an edge; a contact to help avoid the slush-pile lotteries of agents and producers.

You’ve got a friend, who knows a friend, whose auntie’s next-door-neighbour has a pen-pal in American who knows a film producer/director called Steven. He’s here in the U.K. visiting a firm in Wardour Street, the celluloid city of dreams. He’s got a space between meetings. Against his better judgement he agrees to see you. Congratulations. You’ve fast-tracked the process. You’re on your way.

In truth the pitch doesn’t start well. Steven growls and points to an alarm clock on the desk… you’ve got thirty-seconds. You tell him you’ve got a screenplay. He snarls. Everyone’s got a screenplay; welcome to the world. Undaunted you press on. This one is a sports story; about football. He snarls again. He’s had grid-iron, up the wazooo. You persevere. This is different; it’s not that sort of football… it’s what Americans call soccer.

Soccer! He bellows an expletive. Apparently there hasn’t been a decent pitch on that since Escape to Victory, and that was shit. He gives a knowing grin… given your current goalkeeping problems, maybe you should be pitching this to Sly Stallone. He obviously knows more about Arsenal than he’s letting on. Maybe he had dinner with Stan last night.

No, you plead, this is different. It’s like Star Wars meets Fever Pitch.

Star Wars!!! His eyes glaze over, just for a moment. Suddenly he leans across the desk, picks up the clock and hurls it against the wall; it shatters into a dozen pieces. Seems he’s been waiting over thirty years to get one over on George Lucas; now you’ve got his undivided attention. You tell him it’s a true story. He couldn’t give a damn. Just get to the pitch.

You remember the rules and tell him your story begins with the first archetype, your hero. He’s a swarthy and handsome young Spaniard named Cesc, and he’s languishing in the Barcelona Academy in his ordinary Catalonian world. Young Cesc dreams of one day playing for the first team, maybe even playing for Spain, and scoring the goal or making the slide-rule pass that wins the world cup. He dreams of fabulous wealth and dusky seΓ±oritas and fast cars and fame and fortune, but he’s just another hopeful boy among a plethora of similarly hopeful boys. Will he ever escape the shackles of the academy? Will he ever achieve his dreams? Right now it seems a forlorn hope.

Great first scene…  Steven starts openly salivating. This is looking good. You move on.

Enter the next archetype, the herald announcing the call to adventure; you’ve named him Arse2-DD. He has come to essential Spain from a strange and wonderful land across the sea. He brings news of a desperate war being waged to the north, between the forces of light in London’s N5 and the forces of darkness that threaten to return the footballing world to a time of dubbing, and heavy-leather footballs, swamp-like pitches, and, worst of all, English managers.

Will the intrepid young Cesc cross the seas to join the mighty Arsenal and free the world from darkness, and dangerous tackles, route-one pedantry, and boring football?

Well of course he will. Whatever La Mancha can boast Catalonia can better, and when did any proud young Catalonian hero deny himself the opportunity to tilt at the scything windmills of a lunging defender’s studs?

By now you’ve got him spielbound; he can’t wait to hear the third scene, and neither can you dear blogger… I can tell. He leans across the desk and rips the pages from your hands. You stand nervously watching as he feverishly scans the print, muttering as he reads.

β€˜Good, good; Cesc leaves his ordinary world and flies to England to join The Invincibles? Yeah, that’s got a ring to it; I can run with that. Cesc meets with the mentor. Who is this guy, this Arsene Wenger? So what’s he look like? Slim, grey haired, sharp as a whip, the archetypal Obi-Wan Kenobi… great’! He hits the intercom… β€˜Give Alec Guinness a call; see if he’s free…. He’s what? Damn! When did that happen? Did we send flowers? OK, what about Clooney; he’ll do anything these days; give him a call.’

Steven loves your script… the young Cesc’s allies are like knights from some futuristic round table: DB10 and TH14 and Pires and Freddie and the rest of the Invincibles. The villains are almost as colourful. He says they’re like something from a damn monster movie… Old Red Nose and Fat Sam, β€˜Arry the twitch, Orange Brown, and Paranoid Pulis; this script’s got everything… except maybe a girl.

You rack your brain for a solution, and there it is. A red light suddenly comes on in your head, and you remember. You tell him there is a girl; in Manchester. Her name’s Coleen. She was going to play an extra in the new Shrek movie, but he blew the budget on another girl, or blew another girl on the budget. Either way, she’s just started supporting Arsenal. Steven looks inquisitively across; would she look good in a gold bikini, chained to Fat Sam? You nod. He smiles. You’re over the first hurdle. He reads on.

He’s hooked, mentally lining up the shell companies as he reads… Cesc grows with every game; a true gladiator. He says that bit where the evil Emperor Platini brings back Juventus Paddy, the previous undefeated champion, for a man-to-man contest with young Cesc, is marvellous. He even thinks we should maybe start calling young Cesc β€˜The Spaniard’. He smiles maliciously, and says β€˜wouldn’t that annoy the crap out of Ridley Scott’. Still he reads, and still he smiles…The carnage wreaked by Taylor the Terrible at St. Andrews field, and the dastardly deed of Shawcross the Shameless; it’s all compelling stuff, and somehow Cesc survives… remarkable!

Now though he’s reaching the final few pages… the crescendo is nearing. From across the sea the shadows and tricksters are gathering; their voices whispering terrible things into youthful Spanish ears; their sirens calls are unsettling and beguiling young Cesc. These are the dark times; the times of dread and fear. This is his sternest test. Steven looks up and smiles knowledgeably. Don’t tell me; you tie Cesc to the mast, and put wax in everyone’s ears? You shake your head; wrong plot. He scowls and goes back to the script.

Steven suddenly looks up again. He’s run out of pages. Where the hell’s the rest of it? You tell him again that it’s a true story and it’s not finished yet. He growls at you…Screw that! Whad’yer think’s gonna happen? He insists you make a guess. You say you think Cesc’s gonna go home; you nervously add, that’s pretty much the end of the story.

End of the story, he roars. End of what story? What kind of cockamamie story was that? Where was the finale, the crescendo, the ultimate victory; the final and most difficult test being passed? What the hell happened to the hero…? Roy Scheider snatching victory from the jaws of Jaws; Grace Kelly running down the street to save Gary Cooper from the Miller Gang; Clint Eastwood, throwing back the poncho to reveal the iron shield before totalling the villainous Ramon Rojo. Far as he can see all you got here is a talented kid who got homesick, broke his word, and better-dealt his allies the first chance he got.

He snarls for you to β€˜get the hell outta here’ and, as you leave his office, you hear him on the intercom. He’s asking his secretary to get hold of the guy with the comedy script; the one about shaking-down that sheik in Man-Chester. It’s the one where that lanky streak-of-piss runs eighty yards to confront his old supporters, before realising he’s scored an own goal.

You wander on down Wardour Street; sadly shaking your head… He was right of course; you were so close, so very close. It could have been a great story, a blockbuster film, a classic tale of triumph over adversity, but just when it looked like you had the world at your feet, you somehow blew it.

Written by mikeB