It’s the first tenet of good storytelling: Determine what, exactly, the protagonist wants – and what is keeping him (or her) from having it. Dorothy wants to go home. Rhett wants Scarlett. Scarlett wants Ashley. This leads to the second question. Do they get what they want? Dorothy? Yes. Scarlett? No. Rhett? By the time Scarlett wants Rhett, frankly, he doesn’t give a damn.

I’m sorry, Rhett, but no way I’m walking off into the fog while Vivien Leigh’s begging me to stay. My ending would’ve been different. That’s probably why Margaret Mitchell’s book became one of the greatest movies ever made, and mine will be a “straight to DVD” cultless classic. Or so my instructor implied, after our class on alternative endings.

I think we got off on the wrong foot. At my first screenwriting workshop’s first session, each student had to state what they sought to accomplish – their goals, inner-fulfillment stuff or what-have-you. Sally wanted to write about an Afghan couple who risk life and limb against the Taliban to save their goat. As she framed it: “Even if only 10 people see my movie, I don’t care. As long as I raise house-pet awareness.” Ponytailed Jake had an idea for a documentary on hydroponic plant-food enhancers – also not concerned about his gross receipts. Another woman’s film pitch was about toxic elastic in women’s underwear. Very convoluted, but intriguing. (Just women’s undies? Are you sure this chemical isn’t what’s also keeping my Joe Boxers up close and personal?) She, too, appeared indifferent to potentially low box-office appeal. What’s wrong with these people, I thought?

My turn. “My name is Mike Martino. I’m a little older than most of my fellow classmates, so excuse me if my dream cuts to the chase. I want my first film to be a $200 million blockbuster. It’s a disaster movie, set out West. My 2 1/2-minute trailer teaser will begin with James Earl Jones grimly asking, ‘What if it started to snow  serenely, and never stopped?’ as we pan to happy skiers offloading from many planes at Denver International, all seeking to take advantage of this strange meteorological phenomenon. Then, the be-careful-what-you-wish-for scenario kicks in: Tsk-tsk environmental messages, sex, murder, mystical Indian curses. Did I mention sex? I plan a Thanksgiving Eve, 3,500-theater opening, with the premiere at the Ridgewood Warner Quad. Klieg lights. Paris Hilton stumbling out of a limo – contingent, of course, upon the local PD being able to handle the conga line of limos coming off Route 17.”

Silence.

What? Oh! After some quick Mikey thinking, I added, “My second movie will be a documentary about global warming’s impact on Arizona roof-shingle warranties … which I’ll do gratis, naturally.”

More silence.

“Well, that’s certainly an aggressive screenwriting agenda,” the instructor said.

“Yep. I love movies. Big movies. Not a fan of the subtitle, either. And, I only like black-and-whites so old, the actors are all dead.”

Sally raised her hand, asking “Can I change my movie idea?” But Ms. Killer Underwear sniffed, “Ooo, cinema vérité for the crass. Lovely.”

“Heeyyy, wait a min ...”
Jake had my back. “Right on, man. It’s the developers, right? They raped and pillaged the land, so the Native Americans dosed ’em with a curse.”

“Actually, no, but that’s not bad,” I said.

The instructor quickly seized control once again of this impromptu brainstorming session, and formal class commenced.  

Over the next few weeks, we polished up our scripts, but something strange began to happen. Everyone’s original ideas changed, some drastically. Jake and Sally were now collaborating on a film about a magical, poppy-based animal feed that produced killer goats.
Ms. KU dropped her story line completely. Her new theme concerned the death of film as an art form; the villain was a guy interested only in making movies people actually wanted to see.

When she presented it, Jake leaned toward my desk, “Dude, you’re in her flick!” He then yelled out, “What are you gonna call it, Don’t Show Me The Money?”

“You know, Jake,” I said. “I think I got a part for you.”

M.C. Martino can be reached by e-mailing editor@201.net.