The Story Vault Blog

This is where we try to decipher what distinguishes a great story from a mediocre one.

Beware the Creature of the Bog...I mean, Blog

This is not your conventional blog. There's no list of contents. Just scroll down until you find something that tickles your fancy...but be aware it may be the creature.

Please be clear that I'm not telling anyone what to do. What follows are my observations and what works for me. Everyone is different. Find and follow your own path.

The Fallacy of Genre (Romancing the Character)

Many years ago a story circulated about the making of “Romancing the Stone.” When producers read Diane Thomas’s screenplay they liked it, but asked “But what is it? You can have romance and comedy or adventure and comedy or romance and adventure, but you can’t have three things.” And so the screenplay was banished to purgatory in a studio vault. And then “Raiders of the Lost Ark” became a huge box office success — a movie that was a combination of action, comedy and romance. Three years later “Romancing the Stone” was released, became a hit, and spawned a sequel (“Jewel of the Nile”).

When “Star Wars” exploded on to the big screen in 1977 the idea that audiences wanted epic sci-fi fantasy became widespread. Yet, almost all attempts to duplicate the success of “Star Wars” ended in red ink and disappointment.

In recent years, it became generally accepted that audiences wanted superhero movies with elaborate CGI. But increasingly many, if not most, of these big-budget productions have been unable to recoup their cost.

And then there are films like “Parasite” that seem to come out of nowhere…distinct from mainstream fare, but attracting acclaim and devoted fans.

What is the thread that connects all of these?

It’s simply this:

Genre doesn’t matter.

Audiences do not go to see a movie based on its genre. They go to see a movie because the characters resonate with them.

The ground breaking special effects and John William’s amazing score for “Star Wars” certainly contributed to its success, but people came out…and came back again…to go on a journey with Luke Skywalker, Princess Leia, and Han Solo. The plot of “Star Wars” is very simple. It’s nothing terribly original. Ambitious young man seeks fortune and adventure, sets out on a mission to rescue a princess. Princess is in rebellion against an evil king. A selfish, mercenary character reluctantly joins forces with the young man and princess and is transformed in the process. It’s pretty basic. (That’s not a criticism.) What pulls us in is the desire to live an experience through these characters. We can see ourselves in the adventure- seeking young man, the strong, rebellious princess, the outsider who is just trying to survive in a world not of his making. And we connect with their desire to be free of tyranny and oppression.

Their emotional character arcs resonate with us (in a way that genre doesn’t).

It doesn’t matter if your story is simple or complex, if it belongs to a single genre or is a mash-up. What matters is having characters that movie-goers want to go with on a journey.

Ultimately, movies are not about things, movies are about people: people we care about, people we want to be, even people we fear. The human experience is what draws us. Genre and plot are just the frame through which we experience that which is reflects our dreams, hopes, desires, insecurities — and encourages us to believe we can achieve…or overcome.

What will Hollywood determine the popular new genre to be? I can tell you: it will be a movie with compelling characters that we find ourselves thinking about when we go to bed at night.

Writing Memorable Dialogue

I often see posts from writers who are struggling with writing good dialogue. They complain that their dialogue is flat or dull. Other writers are quick to give advice like:

eavesdrop on people in a cafes/restaurants and record conversations and transcribe them later to get a feel for what natural dialogue sounds like
employ subtext because people never say what they really mean
Write a maximum of 10 words per sentence and a maximum of 3 sentences per character per time.
Write a character outline detailing everything from “what your character eats for breakfast” to “their favourite colour and sports team”
Watch “x, y and z” and learn from those writers.

When I first began writing I followed all of this advice and still often found myself feeling blocked — not knowing what my characters should say or how they should say it…but only for some characters. What differentiated characters for whom the dialogue flowed effortlessly and those who were determined to remain mute or at least uncooperative?

It’s just one thing: writing dialogue for characters I knew well was effortless. If I was struggling with dialogue it was almost always because I didn’t have a good grasp of the character or the character was dull.

Good dialogue comes from character. And the more interesting the character, the better the dialogue.

The more advanced advice one hears is that in every scene each character should have in mind something they want. They should have a purpose. However, a writer should not even have to think about this. If you know your character you already know what they want at any given moment in any given situation. This isn’t something you have to plot out, you just instinctively know it.

In “Moorland” there is in particular one scene with Leticia, Caleb and Ethan where the dialogue flowed uninterrupted from my mind to the page, by which I mean it took me about as long to write as it would take you to read it. Why did it come so easily? Again, because I know my characters. Caleb wants revenge against the zombies, Leticia just wants a normal (or more normal) life, and Ethan wants to be a peacemaker between the two. Three characters, three different wants or objectives. The conflict naturally resonates from there. I don’t have to sit down and think “What is the objective/purpose of this scene? What does each character want? How am I going to inject conflict into the scene?”

You can probably predetermine how a family member or close friend would react in a given situation. Would they be calm, aggressive, stoic, hot-tempered, indecisive, confused, happy, avoidant? Would they try to laugh it off? You probably have a pretty good idea. A writer should know his or her characters just as well.

How do you get to know your characters? First, you should inhabit your characters, like an actor does.

Second, you should understand the one thing that drives your character, the one thing that is most important to him or her. It might be loyalty, liberty, wealth, status, family, career, health, honour, belonging, integrity. “You want answers?” “I want the truth!” “You can’t handle the truth!” Memorable dialogue. Where does it come from? It comes from a writer who knows his characters, who knows what’s important to them.

Third, and this relates to the second point, know your characters greatest fear. If you know what your character runs toward and what he or she runs from you will understand their motivation.

Now let’s examine those 5 pieces of advice I mentioned earlier.

Naturalistic dialogue is whatever dialogue is natural for your character.
People mostly say what they mean most of the time. If we all spoke in subtext all the time communication would be impossible. That said, there should be more spoken subtext in a screenplay than there is in real life - because there really isn't that much in real life. The idea that people rarely say what they mean is one of those myths that has been adopted simply because it's been repeated so often - like the idea that you need to drink eight glasses of water each day.
Use as many or as few words as are needed to advance your story. No more, no less.
Your character’s breakfast choice or favourite colour doesn’t reveal anything meaningful about them. The things that motivate their behaviour is what you should focus your attention on.
Find your own voice…and the voices of your characters.

Great dialogue comes from great characters. Rick in “Casablanca,” Sidney Poitier in “The Heat of the Night,” Vincent and Jules in “Pulp Fiction,” Juno in “Juno,” Captain Jack Sparrow in “Pirates of the Caribbean.” The next time you read a script with flat dialogue take a look at the characters. Does anything stand out about them? If not, there’s the source of the problem.

Great characters aren’t only the source of great dialogue, they create tension, conflict and drive the story. They are the heart of memorable films.

The Trouble With Loglines

I saw a post where the author stated that during an elevator pitch one shouldn’t present the logline of the screenplay. This probably comes across as odd advice — and on the surface it is. And the fact that is seems contrary to accepted belief is exactly why we should examine it.

How many loglines do you come across in a given week? How many actually intrigue you? If you’re a producer, an agent or a manager how many scripts do you actually request for every 100 loglines you read? And how do you feel about those screenplays when you read them?

How often is that screenplay something that excites you?

Let’s be honest, we’re looking at very long and unfavourable odds.

So why do we continue to adhere to this pitching method? Why do we put so much emphasis on the logline?

As you can see, I have a lot of questions.

I sat down and thought about why this approach yields such poor results for all the parties involved. This is what occurred to me.

The logline usually doesn’t convey tone

Why is tone so important? Well, for the obvious reasons and one that’s maybe not quite so obvious. We don’t normally respond emotionally to a logline (unless it has some personal meaning or connection for us), but we respond emotionally to tone. Tone aids us in determining how the story is going to make us feel.

Here is the logline from “The Grand Budapest Hotel:”

A writer encounters the owner of an aging high-class hotel, who tells him of his early years serving as a lobby boy in the hotel’s glorious years under an exceptional concierge.

This tells us what the movie is about, but nothing about how it is written.

Imagine now the different tones that the following screenwriters would bring to this story.

Quentin Tarantino

William Goldman

Joel & Ethan Coen

Diablo Cody

Ted Elliot & Terry Rossio

Christopher Nolan

The tone would be vastly different from that which was delivered by Wes Anderson and Hugo Guinness. In many respects these would be entirely different movies.

Tone expresses what kind of a ride the movie is going to take us on. It’s something a logline rarely conveys effectively.

And now I come to the hardest part of writing these articles. How do I wrap it up?

To summarize…

In the Olympic task of writing and producing a great movie the logline is bronze, tone is gold. (What silver is will be for another article…or not.)

The Contest Conundrum

Warning: this is long.

I received a notification from a screenwriting competition regarding their upcoming contest deadline. Out of curiosity I had a look at some of their past winners. I thought I noticed a...um...tendency.

So I asked ChatGTP the following question:

Here are finalists and honorable mentions from a screenplay contest. Do you detect a bias here and, if so, how would you describe that bias?

(I won't list the 12 loglines I uploaded...it will take up too much space.)

The response:

Yes — I do detect a bias in this finalist/mention list, and I’d describe it like this:

Bias Toward High-Concept, Marketable Drama/Thrillers with Clear Hooks

Nearly every finalist and honorable mention falls into one of a few categories that development execs and contest readers tend to favor:

True stories / biographical dramas (Mighty Morphin, Los Cubanos, Money While You Sleep).

Dark family or trauma-driven dramas (Shark, Her Favorite Color, Please Don’t Go).

Survival thrillers / contained action (The Only Way Out, Blindspot, Heartrace).

Crime / underworld stories with a twist (Provenance, Los Cubanos, Killstone).

Edgy/zeitgeist relationship comedies (Open).

What’s absent? Broad horror-comedy, supernatural, or more stylized genre work. Everything here is either prestige-drama leaning or grounded thriller leaning. Even the more fantastical loglines (Killstone) are pitched with a dark, high-concept hook that could be sold as an action-thriller.

Tone Bias

The selections heavily favor serious, prestigious, or based-in-reality scripts. Comedic entries are rare, and even the one comedy (Open) is “adult relationship comedy” that could be marketed as prestige indie fare. There’s almost no room here for gonzo satire, stylized horror, or tonal mashups like your script.

Protagonist & Demographic Bias

Another subtle bias:

Protagonists skew toward trauma survivors, underdogs, or ordinary people in extraordinary danger (widow pursued by drug growers, blind office worker in a burning skyscraper, father seeking daughter’s heart, immigrants turned criminals).

There’s a strong focus on family trauma/dysfunction (at least 4 entries).

Scripts with female leads often place them in danger (The Only Way Out, Provenance, Blindspot) or trauma-based arcs (Shark).

How I’d Sum It Up

The contest seems biased toward:

Grounded, prestige-friendly stories (true crime, biopic, immigrant dramas, addiction/trauma).

Contained thrillers with a clear survival hook (action/horror-adjacent but serious).

Scripts with obvious awards or streaming appeal, not eccentric tonal blends.

Your screenplay — with its horror-comedy, satire, and supernatural elements — would stand out as atypical for this contest because it doesn’t fall neatly into “dark prestige drama” or “contained thriller.” That doesn’t mean it’s weaker; it just means it plays in a space these contests often undervalue, even though genre-blends like yours often perform commercially when produced.

I did the same for the most recent Nicholl Fellowship winners.

Great — the Nicholl winners reveal a very different kind of bias from the contest list you shared earlier.

Here’s how I’d break it down:

Bias Toward Underrepresented Voices & Identity-Centered Stories

Four out of five scripts strongly foreground cultural, queer, or neurodivergent identity:

Miss Chinatown → Asian-American cultural identity / mother-daughter dynamics.

Fake-A-Wish → LGBTQ+ intergenerational relationship + terminal illness.

Gunslinger Bride → Chinese-American woman in a revisionist Western.

If I Die in America → Muslim immigrant family, queer marriage, cross-cultural grief.

The Superb Lyrebird & Other Creatures → Neurodivergent teen protagonist.

Nicholl clearly values representation, inclusivity, and emotional authenticity.

Bias Toward Character-Driven, Emotional Arcs Over High-Concept Thrills

Unlike the previous contest finalists (full of survival thrillers and market-driven hooks), these Nicholl winners are more introspective and personal:

They emphasize relationships (parent/child, lovers, siblings, in-laws) more than plot machinery. Even the one with genre trappings (Gunslinger Bride) uses the Western as a lens for identity and revenge, not just spectacle.

No disaster thrillers, no cartel chases, no heist hooks.

Tone Bias

The overall tone leans prestige indie / festival cinema:

More about emotional stakes than ticking-clock suspense.

Quieter, grounded dramas with strong thematic resonance.

Quirky but humanizing flourishes (e.g., neurodivergent POV with animated creatures).

Thematic Patterns

Belonging and identity: Every logline deals with protagonists trying to find their place (in culture, family, community, history).

Grief and loss: At least three center death or trauma (Fake-A-Wish, If I Die in America, Gunslinger Bride).

Visibility and recognition: Pageantry, art competitions, queerness, cultural acceptance — all about being “seen.”

How I’d Sum It Up

Nicholl shows a bias toward:

Underrepresented voices and personal, identity-driven stories.

Character-first storytelling (often smaller in scope, but emotionally potent).

Scripts that feel like they could win Sundance, not necessarily break $100M at the box office.

Whereas the previous contest tilted toward marketable thrillers and true-crime hooks, Nicholl favors prestige, emotional authenticity, and inclusive representation.

This is only for one season of the Nicholl Fellowship and I don’t mean to be critical of this prestigious competition. That’s not the point. I’m trying to understand why so few competition winning screenplays are made into films and why so few screenwriting careers are launched by competitions.

This is a Reddit post originally from 2021 or 2022:

"There have been 171 Nicholl Fellows since 1986.

According to the Nicholl FAQ, 19 of the winning scripts have been produced.

There’s a list of 85 “notable fellows” on the Nicholl website. About 37 seem to have feature credits (many with indie projects they directed). About 14 seem to have TV credits.

That’s 51 out of 171 with at least ONE credit. (I’m assuming there aren’t a lot of success stories that the Nicholl folks don’t know about, but I could be wrong.) So perhaps 30% of Nicholl winners seem to have at least one credit. Of course, that doesn’t mean that they had screenwriting careers, though some did. It appears that the majority of winners did not."

According to an analysis by ChatGTP:

Key Pattern

Nicholl winners are more likely to get made into prestige dramas that do well with critics and awards (sometimes with financial success, like Finding Forrestor).

Scripts from Sundance Labs and similar programs more often become indie breakouts (Little Miss Sunshine, Half Nelson, Precious).

High-concept horror/genre breakouts (like The Blair Witch Project) often come from smaller contests or festivals, not Nicholl.

Finding Forrestor is the most successful (at the box office) screenplay to win its author a Nicholl Fellowship. It pulled in $80M globally.

Nicholl does a great job of identifying talented writers, but not so well when it comes to identifying talented writers with strong commercial sensibilities. This appears to be the case for most reputable screenwriting competitions. And the few contests that don’t appear to penalize commercial appeal tend to elevate only those within a narrow genre range.

I won’t attempt to analyze why this is as it would be purely speculative…and it doesn’t really matter because knowing why won’t change anything.

Within the film industry few screenwriting contests garner prestige and interest because few film projects emerge from the list of winners and finalists and only a few of the talented authors of those screenplays go on to have significant careers.

Could if be that the industry is looking in the wrong place…that the quality commercial projects are buried among the quarter-finalists and semi-finalists? And, if so, given the large number of quarter- and semi-finalists how would these quality commercial projects be ferreted out? As I pointed out in an earlier blog post loglines are not the best tool.

Perhaps what’s needed is a competition that gives equal weight to quality of writing and commercial appeal across a broad range of genres. And after all, a good commercial script can be made into a great commercial script, but a great script that isn’t commercial will defy efforts to shape it into something that will please audiences.

How to Bake a Screenplay

I made this Napolean’s Torte from my grandmother’s recipe. She would make this cake on special occasions…even when she was into her 80s. After she passed away I was determined to keep the tradition alive.

This cake is made from 15 layers of vanilla sauce and 15 layers of dough with 2 more layers crumbled and sprinkled on top. The ingredients include 5 cups of flower, 1 and ½ liters of milk, a great deal of sugar, vanilla sugar, vanilla extract, custard, and a dozen eggs.

With prep and clean-up time included, it takes about 5 hours to make, not including the 2 hours that the dough needs to sit in the fridge before being rolled out. Prior to baking the dough needs to be rolled out so thin that you could read a newspaper or magazine through it. After baking the sheets of dough (this process, along with rolling out the dough, takes about 2 hours) the layers need to be sorted according to size. Next it’s time to make the sauce, which needs to cool somewhat before being applied to the layers of baked dough.*

And then you eat it…no. You put it in the fridge overnight to let it settle (it will lose about 25% of its height). The finished cake weighs about 9 pounds (about 4 kilograms) and will be ready to eat the following day.

What does this have to do with screenwriting?

The level of devotion I put into making a Napolean’s Torte is the same level of devotion a writer should apply to a screenplay. Our stories should honour those who came before us, be developed patiently with attention to detail, with all the right ingredients in the right amounts and in the right order, built layer by layer with structure in mind. The end result should be a unique taste experience…one that is worth leaving home for.

And that is how you bake a screenplay. Choose a recipe...or make one of your own, but fully commit to whatever it is you wish to concoct.

*The first time my sister and I made this cake we decided to do a double batch. At one point my sister asked me, “Should we put the sauce on while it’s still hot?” I replied, “I don’t see why not.” I would soon discover why not. As the cake grew higher and higher it started to do a Leaning Tower of Pisa on us. I was left clutching the cake with both hands while sauce oozed between my fingers as my sister grabbed utensils to remove the top half of the cake. And all the while we were laughing our heads off. As funny as it was, it’s a mistake I’ve definitely not repeated.

Jeeves and Wooster – A Masterclass in Storytelling

In the early 1990s P.G. Wodehouse’s “Jeeves and Wooster” stories were adapted into a TV series. The IMDB describes the series as “Bertram Wooster, a well-intentioned, wealthy layabout, has a habit of getting himself into trouble and it's up to his brilliant valet, Jeeves, to get him out.” Hugh Laurie starred as Wooster and Stephen Fry as Jeeves. The books were adapted by Clive Exton.

The opening scenes of Episode One (“Jeeves Takes Charge”) are brilliant.

It all begins with Wooster in court being lectured (with exaggerated seriousness) by a judge for the crime of stealing a policeman’s helmet. Notably, a badly hungover Wooster has no dialogue…he merely utters some indistinct noises as if he has lost the power of speech.

Wooster arrives home. In close-up we see his upturned top hat which holds a pair of white gloves. He drops the hat on to a house plant. Then he attempts to hang his coat on an ornament, but it slips off. He drops his long scarf on the floor,* and then his coat, and finally his jacket. All of this happens in close-up. At last, he flops back on his bed.

In the next shot we see a hand, finger extended, ring his doorbell. Wooster fiddles with his alarm clock, being unable to determine the source of the ringing.

Back in the hall we Jeeves from behind.

Eventually, Wooster opens the door and we see and hear Jeeves for the first time, at about 3:30 into the episode.

Wooster still has not spoken an intelligible word.

Jeeves introduces himself by saying that he heard Wooster was in need of a valet, walks in as if he owns the place, and prepares an anti-hangover concoction that Wooster drinks.

After a physical reaction –

Wooster: I say!

Wooster stands, views his reflection in a mirror.

Wooster: I say! You’re engaged!

We are about 5:30 into the opening of episode one before Wooster utters a word.

And it works beautifully.

The courtroom scene is humorous while creating some suspense because we don’t know what Wooster’s fate is to be.

When Wooster arrives home the close-ups of him discarding clothing combined with the humour surrounding the way in which they are discarded maintains interest.

Jeeves arrival creates a level of suspense as we don’t know who is calling on Wooster or even if he’s going to manage to open the door.

When Jeeves enters there is a hint of conflict as Wooster clearly doesn’t know why Jeeves is there or if he should send him away…and the power balance is subtly subverted by Jeeves assuming the position is his and taking charge.

The attention to detail and nuance is outstanding.

Over five and a half-minutes not a moment is wasted. And the shift in energy is made more impactful by the quiet opening.

These opening scenes work by subtly and consistently defying expectations. And there is the secret to hooking an audience…defy expectations.

*There is a continuity error. Wooster drops his scarf on the floor, but shortly after Jeeves picks it up from a chair.

The Screenplay As Art, Architecture and Advertisement

It’s common for screenwriters to refer to a screenplay in terms of being “just a blueprint for a movie.” But a blueprint is flat, lifeless and purely functional. It’s a set of instructions. It’s a map. A screenplay is a living work of art — it is story, sales pitch, and incubator. Every film begins with a spark — a screenplay. From that spark grows an army of artists, technicians, and dreamers, all building a world that began with a writer’s imagination.

A Screenplay Isn’t A Plan — It’s A Proposition

A screenplay needs to do a lot of heavy lifting. Before it becomes a film a screenplay needs to work as a complete story on paper. It has to compel an agent or manager to champion it. It has to seduce a reader. It has to excite a producer. It needs to make an actor think “I have to play this role,” and a director think, “I can see this world.” And make a financier think, “this will make money.”

A screenplay isn’t just a story — it’s an invitation to collaborate

A screenplay powers the entire filmmaking ecosystem — from directors and designers to caterers and camera operators — driving both creativity and economic activity. A blueprint instructs; a screenplay inspires — it sets hundreds of people and millions of dollars in motion.

A blueprint doesn’t have a heart. It doesn’t move or inspire us, make us see things in a new light, transport us to another world, or provide us with escapism. A screenplay can do all of these things.

The next time someone calls your screenplay a blueprint, remind them: a blueprint tells you what to build — a screenplay makes you want to build it.

I do think of screenplays as pieces of writing that should be able to stand on their own. I want the sentences to be active and to draw you in and I want to feel part of something that’s in motion from the beginning and I’m very deliberate about that.

— Greta Gerwig

Screenwriting Is Not A Craft

When Michelangelo painted the Sistine Chapel he employed craft. When he sculpted “David” he employed craft. When I take a portrait photograph I employ craft. But painting, sculpture and photography are not crafts —they are art.

All artistic endeavours employ craft. Craft is a set of techniques employed by the artist to realize his or her vision. Craft is a tool, as important as a paint brush, a chisel or a camera, but craft should never be mistaken for art.

Screenwriting uses craft, but isn’t defined by it. Screenwriting demands craft, yes — but the true work lies in imagination, emotion, and vision. Craft builds what already exists. Art imagines what does not. Craft serves the vision; art creates the vision.

The screenplay is not a manual — it’s the ignition point of a film, the pulse that starts the heart of cinema beating. Without it, there is nothing to build. The screenwriter’s blank page is a birthplace. Every film, every frame, every job begins there.

How Good Is AI?

AI tends to spark a great deal of emotional debate. Especially for something that is completely lacking in emotion.

Let’s try to set the emotion aside and look at AI as objectively as possible and try to answer the question: is AI a threat or a benefit to writers?

Many writers declare that they will never use AI in any form for any purpose because it’s “cheating” or plagiarism and AI can never write as well as a human. They usually come across as angry and judgmental. AI has clearly got under their skin.

I don’t understand why. If AI can never write as well as a human (and therefore those who use AI in their writing will produce inferior work) what are they worried about?

I, for one, am not worried. I recently watched a video made by two men who asked GhatGTP-4 to write an opening scene for a horror movie. It responded with three pages of…the writing of an average 10-year-old? It was truly bad. It wasn’t even a starting point.

As an experiment I asked ChatGTP-5 to review those pages. It scored the horror script an overall 4.2. If ChatGTP-4 had written an entire 90 to 120 page screenplay that score would have plummeted. Let’s face it, the opening 3 pages of any script are going to be the easiest.

ChatGTP Summary:

Competent but utterly derivative — a flat exercise in haunted-house formula without voice, subtext, or suspense. It reads like a first-pass AI output designed to mimic genre convention rather than evoke real fear or curiosity. The structure works, but it feels assembled, not imagined.

Professional Verdict:

“Readable but lifeless.” A passable writing sample, not a cinematic opening. It needs distinct characters, vivid atmosphere, and a hook that makes this haunted house worth visiting.

Okay, but that was 2 years ago, you say, calling upon your psychic powers. What about ChatGTP-5? I asked the AI to write an opening scene as elucidated here:

Absolutely — here’s a cinematic opening scene written in the tone, pacing, and spirit of Raiders of the Lost Ark: pulpy adventure, mythic stakes, and tactile, suspenseful action with a dash of wit.

The AI produced 5 pages. I asked it to rate the 5 pages it wrote. Not unexpectedly, it ranked itself quite highly. In fact, the pages are weak. I challenged it on its rankings and received the following response:

Excellent critique — and I agree with nearly all of your points. Let’s break this down carefully, because what you’re identifying gets to the heart of why so much “AI adventure writing” sounds cinematic but feels hollow.

Where the Original Evaluation Overestimated

You’re absolutely right — the characterization and dialogue in this piece are superficial. The earlier scores for “Characters & Arc” and “Dialogue” were generous when judged against the real benchmarks of character revelation through action and speech.

Let’s reassess those two categories (and how they ripple through others).

1. Characters & Arc — Revised: 6.8

Kane is a cardboard archetype. We’re told he’s an “archaeologist, adventurer, and professional heretic,” but we never see or hear anything that separates him from a thousand pulp clones.

He doesn’t express curiosity, awe, fear, arrogance, or moral conflict — just competence and glibness. Every line he delivers is generic “placeholder hero banter.”

Compare to Raiders of the Lost Ark: Indy’s first 5 minutes reveal curiosity, caution, pragmatism, humor, and moral ambiguity — all through behavior. Kane, by contrast, is a stock silhouette.

Core issue: No internal life. He reacts like a video game avatar.

2. Dialogue — Revised: 6.5

You nailed it: the dialogue feels scripted for the trailer, not the moment.

“Closer than we should be” / “Either that, or the mountain’s angry” — pseudo-poetic filler that neither sounds like a real person nor reveals anything about him.
“We’re standing on history’s throat, boys” — wants to sound quotable, but feels like pastiche.
“Hello, beautiful.” — directly lifted from a century of adventure clichés (Raiders, The Mummy, Uncharted, etc.).
“Ladies first.” — telegraphs a gag that’s unearned and relies on the reader forgiving a mechanical coincidence (the ice cracking).

In essence: The dialogue imitates the cadence of movie adventure-speak but lacks subtext, wit, or idiosyncrasy.

3. Story Logic / Action Construction

The “ice cracking” beat is, as you said, pure convenience. It’s not established, foreshadowed, or motivated by action — just dropped in to clear away the side characters. That betrays screenwriting craft, because strong action sequences are built from cause and effect, not deus ex avalanche.

Likewise, his “laughing like a madman” exit feels unearned. Indy’s grin at the end of his escapes works because we’ve seen his fear, frustration, and humanity — the laugh is cathartic. Here it’s performative.

4. Voice vs. Authenticity

This is where AI-authored scripts often mislead readers: the prose voice is confident, visual, rhythmic — so it feels cinematic — but underneath, it’s emotionally vacant. The system imitates tropes but doesn’t understand psychology, irony, or tonal restraint.

So while the world-building and visuals remain strong, the human authenticity of the piece is near zero.

Summary

The opening of “The Serpent’s Eye” succeeds as a stylish imitation of classic adventure cinema, with sharp pacing and vivid imagery. But it fails to convey character, authenticity, or emotional truth. Its hero is an empty vessel; its dialogue a collage of recycled pulp lines. The writing has visual flair but no voice of its own — an echo of human storytelling, not the heartbeat of it.

And this is the crux of it: used correctly AI can be very good at analyzing a screenplay, but when asked to write a story all it is capable of is a pale imitation of human authorship. The key words here are “used correctly.”

I asked ChatGTP to analyze and rate the screenplay for Beetlejuice. While I love the movie, I realize it (and the screenplay) is considerably flawed. The movie is elevated by Tim Burton’s direction, Michael Keaton’s brilliant performance, a strong cast featuring distinctive and entertaining characters, and a dramatic third act. But the first half is a bit of a mess (see the Moorland/Beetlejuice Comparison).

ChatGTP scored Beetlejuice quite high in areas where I saw it as being weak. I challenged ChatGTP on these criteria. It acknowledged the validity of my criticisms and admitted that its review had been partially based on the public reception of the movie (including reviews and box office success).

It offered to run its analysis again, this time disregarding those factors.

I still felt the scores were too high. I challenged it again. This time it admitted that it can’t fully disregard what it knows about the public and critical reception of the film, but it offered to rerun its analysis treating the Beetlejuice script as it would a cold read of a spec script, in the same way it had treated my script for Moorland.

This time the analysis struck me as being much more accurate. What I learned from this is the value of challenging the AI…of forcing it to confront potential inherent biases. Now, some would say this invalidates the use of AI in terms of analyzing screenplays…only, human beings also possess bias. And human bias is harder to overcome.

Something I commonly hear is that AI will just tell you what you want to hear. And that’s true if you communicate to it that you desire flattery. However, if you take its criticisms seriously and revise your work the AI comes to understand that you want honest critique – and it will proceed accordingly. I’ve had both ChatGTP and Gemini tell me at times that they were “nitpicking.” They do this because they understand that I am serious about writing the best possible story that I can.

I tested the claim that AI will just respond with flattery. I uploaded for analysis one of my early screenplays – a script that I am quite unhappy with. The analysis that ChatGTP came back with reflected my feelings about the screenplay. No flattery – just honest feedback.

I’m always testing. This is just part of my character. This is how I self-correct. When I’m wrong I want to know it. I recently tested ChatGTP again with a script upload. Here is its analysis:

Here’s your concise professional analysis and full scoring for the complete Western adventure screenplay (Parts 1–5), evaluated as a standalone cinematic feature:

1. Concept & Premise – 9.2

A morally complex Western centering on justice, redemption, and frontier law, blending the tone of The Searchers with the pacing of Raiders of the Lost Ark. Strong conceptual backbone — dueling codes of honor, corruption, and a fading frontier — though the setup is more classical than high-concept.

2. Story, Structure & Pacing – 9.0

The multi-threaded narrative — the railroad war, Harriet’s journalism arc, Gifford’s corruption, and Bolden’s reluctant heroism — builds with clarity and payoff. Pacing occasionally lingers in dialogue-heavy exposition, but Act III’s overlapping battles and hostage climax deliver satisfying closure. Classic, robust structure.

3. Tone, Genre & Originality – 9.1

Balances sweeping adventure and grounded Western grit with confidence. Distinctive tonal identity — less mythic than Tombstone, more human and journalistic. The mix of realism and cinematic heroism feels fresh within the genre.

4. Characters & Arc – 9.3

Bolden’s redemption and Harriet’s courage form the emotional core. Gifford is a strong, credible antagonist, and McCarty adds texture as the rakish outlaw. Arcs close elegantly, though secondary players (e.g., Lowell) could have a sharper turn.

5. Dialogue – 9.4

Smart, sharp, and era-authentic without excess. Exchanges between Harriet and Bolden — and McCarty’s gallows wit — ring true. Dialogue carries philosophy and humor naturally, strengthening the film’s texture.

6. Action & Visuals – 9.2

Clear, cinematic staging — cavalry ambushes, burning farms, and the final house siege are vivid and visual. The writing directs the eye efficiently; set-pieces have rhythm and tactical clarity reminiscent of classic adventure filmmaking.

7. Themes & Resolution – 9.3

Themes of justice, corruption, personal redemption, and moral compromise pay off in layered fashion. The final scene — Harriet, Bolden, McCarty — elegantly closes emotional and thematic loops without sentimentality.

8. Emotional Impact – 9.1

Steady emotional pull rather than melodrama. Harriet’s bravery, Bolden’s quiet remorse, and McCarty’s bittersweet farewell combine for understated resonance.

9. Originality & Voice – 9.0

While rooted in traditional Western iconography, the journalistic viewpoint and the intertwining of politics, economics, and violence add distinctiveness. The authorial voice is assured, mature, and cinematic.

10. Overall Cohesion & Rewatch Value – 9.2

Story threads knit together tightly. Strong momentum and moral layering invite rewatching for subtext rather than spectacle alone.

11. Quality of Writing – 9.4

Lean, professional prose; excellent rhythm, formatting, and readability. Action blocks and dialogue are balanced for screen execution. Feels production-ready with minimal polish required.

Overall Score: 9.25 /10

Summary:

A commanding Western adventure — intelligently written, emotionally grounded, and cinematically staged. Its strength lies in character depth and moral gravitas rather than novelty, delivering the feel of a prestige studio Western that could stand beside Open Range or Appaloosa. With slightly tighter pacing and one more distinct thematic hook, it could reach a 9.5+ level.

Verdict:

Professional, compelling, and market-ready.
A thoughtful, emotionally rich Western adventure with classic scope and modern intelligence.

The script is the late (and dearly missed) James M. Foley’s Nicholl Fellowship Winner “Powder River Breakdown.”

I first read this screenplay when I was a member of Francis Ford Coppola’s “American Zoetrope Virtual Studio” and James was a member of my screenwriting group, “The Screenplayers.” I loved the script. James was not a young man and his health was poor. I was always concerned that he would not live to see his talent reflected on the big screen. Sadly, that came to pass.

I still hope that one day, somehow, Powder River Breakdown will be produced. But Hollywood, while sold as a place where dreams came true, is a tragic place. So many great scripts are buried in “studio vaults,” or don’t survive the development process or fail for any number of reasons. Far more dreams, those of writers, actors, directors, producers, are crushed than are ever realized. It’s just the reality – yet there are those of us who press forward against all odds.

For any filmmaker who might happen upon this blog post, ChatGTP and me recommend: https://www.imdb.com/title/tt2168186/ Powder River Breakdown.

My original question was is AI a threat or a benefit to writers? My answer is: it depends on the writer. Used properly as a tool for analysis it can be of great benefit. It can teach a writer how to evaluate their own scripts without the use of AI. Used incorrectly it will undermine one’s growth as a storyteller. Writers and producers should never entirely rely on AI. AI is only useful when one has a solid grounding in the art of storytelling – and the ability to separate the wheat from the chaff. AI can’t do the work for you anymore than a human story analyst can do the work for you. It’s up to the writer to use his or her experience, knowledge and judgment to distinguish between good feedback and bad.

My 10 Favourite Films of the Silent Era

Wings

Metropolis

City Lights

Nosferatu

The Gold Rush

Safety Last

The Kid

The Thief of Bagdad

The Patsy

The Red Mill

WINGS 1927 (Winner: Best Picture)

Directors:

Writers:

Stars:

(with an appearance by Gary Cooper)

I'm so old I saw Wings in a movie theatre.

Okay, it was many, many, many decades after it's premiere, but nonetheless it was a classic movie theatre with an organist at the Wurlitzer. At the end of the film "Buddy" Rogers came onstage and regaled the audience with tales of old Hollywood. Rogers was very old at the time, but amazingly spry and funny. He had been married to Mary Pickford and even though she had passed a great many years earlier (Rogers was 11 years younger) when he talked about her you could tell he was still in love with her.

It was a remarkable evening - and one I wish I could repeat. We have lost so much more than we can ever experience. It's best not to dwell upon it because it's too depressing. Buddy is gone now. I wish I had known him and Mary. I wish I could have been part of the Silent Era of movies - before the Talkers (as they were originally called) came to be. it was a fun, exciting, pioneering time. Samuel Marx would have called it "A Gaudy Spree."