Sample of the Perfect Pitch 2nd Edition

2ND EDITION

HOW TO SELL YOURSELF AND YOUR MOVIE TO HOLLYWOOD

THEPERFECT PITCH

KEN ROTCOP

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Preface to the Second Edition viii Introduction ix

Dedication x

Prologue xii

Acknowledgments xvAuthor’s Note xv

Question 1: “Alright, I Give Up. What’s a Good Pitch?” 1 Question 2: “What If I Just Pitch an Idea and Not a Screenplay?” 9 Question 3: “What Does ‘Public Domain’ Mean?” 1 1

Question 4: “What’s the Shortest Pitch You Ever Made?” 13

Question 5: “And What Was Your Longest Pitch?” 17

Question 6: “And Your Greatest Pitch?” 23

Question 7: “If a Company Takes My Screenplay, Who Reads It?” 25

Question 8: “How Do I Know They Won’t Steal My Story?” 31

Question 9: “I Hear You Hate Synopsis. So What Do You Do?” 39

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Question 10: “Can I Take a Gimmick or Prop Into a Pitch Meeting?” 43

Question 11: “I’m Intimidated by Studio Executives. Any Tips?” 49

Question 12: “Did You Ever Walk Out of a Meeting?” 51

Question 13: “So How Do I Get an Agent?” 55

Question 14: “How Do People at the Top Pitch? 61

Question 15: I’ll Bet Your Agent’s a Good Pitcher. How’s He Do It?” 71

Question 16: “I Loved ‘Overheard at the Workshops.’ Any New Ones?” 79

Question 17: “What the Heck Is a PitchMart?” 89

Question 18: “I’m a Helluva Salesman. Will That Help Me Pitch?” 97

Question 19: “What If I Can Get Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie to Commit to My Subject?” 105

Question 20: “Do All Your Workshop Writers Succeed?” 113

Question 21: “I’m Up for a Studio Job. Should I Pitch Myself?” 123

Question 22: “What’s the Difference Between a Log Line, a Step Outline, and a Synopsis?” 129

The Perfect Pitch . 2nd Edition . Ken Rotcop

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Question 23: “Tell Me Again, How Do I Protect My Script?” 133

Question 24: “Do You Have a Favorite Student?” 137

Question 25: “When I Finish My Pitch, What Kind of Questions Are They Likely to Ask?” 149

Question 26: “Any Final Tips?” 151

Question 27: “Any Contests You Recommend?” 153

Question 28: “Am I Ready For My Final Exam?” 155

Question 29: “What About Pitches That Have Actually Sold?” 161

Question 30: “So How’d You Get to Win All Those Awards?” 189

“Are You Another Irv Weinhouse?” 195

In Conclusion 198

Ken Rotcop’s Professional Writers Workshop 200

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PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION

So Why a Second Edition?

First, because writers all over the world have been bombarding my computer with emails after reading the first edition. They wanted to know more. More about pitching, more about the movie business, more about the television industry, more about me and my personal experiences as a writer, a producer, and as a studio executive. Secondly is because the industry is constantly changing. Writers are pitching via email and iPhones and Blackberrys, electronic devices that didn’t even exist a few years back. They’re attending pitch sessions and putting their scripts on Virtual Pitchfests and Inktip, hiring “script consultants,” submitting to screenplay contests offered by god-knows-who. They’re pitching on YouTube and MySpace and other Internet outlets. And while I’ve kept the best parts of the first edition, almost everything has been updated, revised, and clarified. And thirdly, I do a lot of speaking at film festivals, and writing clubs, and on cruise ships, and in bookstores. And I’ve made a list of the twenty-nine most-asked questions. In this edition I not only answer these questions but I share a lot of industry secrets from my days as a studio executive. So read on. Enjoy. And learn.

Ken Rotcop


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Question 1

“Alright, I Give Up. What’s a

Good Pitch?”

I have listened to over one thousand pitches in my lifetime. I’ve probably given a couple of hundred. I’ve been Creative Head of four studios, and have literally had a parade of writers, directors, producers, and executives come to my numerous offices to pitch and pitch and pitch yet again. As a writer, I’ve gone to every studio and to most produc-tion companies and to cocktail parties and ball games, anyplace where I could get the ear of somebody who might be of some influence, and I’d pitch and pitch and pitch yet again. Spend a week in Hollywood and you will hear a zillion pitches whether you’re in the industry or not. Everybody in town has a story, everybody likes to pitch.

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I have found that the best pitches take no more than two minutes. A pitch is a two-minute commercial. If they can sell millions of widgets in a one-minute commercial on television, why in the world can’t you convince an executive to read your script in two minutes? A pitch screams out, between the lines, “Read my script. Read my script. Please, please read my script.” And on the other hand, the screenplay itself, between those lines, screams out, “Buy me, buy me, buy me. I will make you a lot of money, I promise you.” When you sit down to pitch a script, the very first thing you want to do is make eye contact with the executive. Next, tell him the name of the script and the genre. In other words, whether it is action adventure or comedy or drama. Then, let him know if it is for a feature film or a Movie of the Week (MOW) for television. Then, if you have representation, give him the name of your agent, manager, or entertainment attorney. Many executives have a million things on their minds when you sit down to pitch. They may be thinking about another pitch they’ve heard that day that was terrific, and in their minds, they’re deciding how to cast it. They may be thinking about a movie they saw the night before that they wish they had made. Or they may just be thinking about what they want to have for lunch. So, what you must do immediately is grab their attention. Two examples of something that I might use to get their attention are:

1) Ask them a question that has to do with the script. For instance, for my screenplay, “Red Mafia,” I might ask them how much they know about the Russian Mafia and how it affects their lives.

This will immediately grab their attention as they start to think of an answer to your question. They may know a great deal about the Russian Mafia and they might go on for a number of minutes talking about it. That’s wonderful. You now have them involved in a script which you haven’t even started to pitch yet. On the other hand, they might say, “I don’t know any-thing about the Russian Mafia,” which is fine too, because again, they’ve stopped to think about your script. They’ve taken every-thing else that was on their mind and put it in the background. So it doesn’t matter whether they answer your question “yes” or if the answer is “no.” What you’ve done is taken them away from whatever they were thinking about before you walked in and now they can hone in on you. By asking them a question, you’ve gotten them involved.

2) The second thing I do before I start my pitch is try to find an interesting story to tell. A story that has to do with how or why I wrote the screenplay. In my script that was under option to Sony Studios, called “The Arcade,” I talked about visiting a house where I once lived. The current occupants, six men and six women, all had one thing in common; they were all going through a divorce. Just like it was when I was staying there.

During my visit, there was a party for all the people who had ever lived there. We all sat around having dinner, meeting new people, catching up with former housemates and sharing a smoke or two. There was a swimming pool at this house, and after dinner we all went in and stood there holding hands around the perim-eter of the pool. Somebody from the far side of the pool yelled at me, “Hey, Rotcop, you’re a writer, I’m charging you with the responsibility of writing about this house.”

“Alright I Give Up. What’s a Good Pitch?”

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You see, this building was a halfway house for divorced people. I lived there when I split with my wife. While I’d gone through numerous adventures there, I had never once thought about the possibility of writing a screenplay until this guy on the other side of the pool yelled out at me, “Hey, Rotcop, write about the house.” So I did and was able to sell that script. I find that when I tell that story of how I came to write the screenplay, I immediately get the executive’s interest, and he can hardly wait for the pitch. So, those are the two systems that I use. One, ask a question that has to do with your script to get their attention. Two, tell an interesting story of why or how you wrote the script. You will find that you now have their undivided attention. The pitch itself should be no longer than two minutes. Af-ter two minutes, you’re going to start to lose their attention. You may notice their eyes glazing over. You may notice a leg begins to shake. Or, they may start to reach for certain things on their desk, sometimes even just straightening the desk out. These are all hints that you’ve gone about as far as you can with that pitch. My old boss, Joseph E. Levine, would take off his wristwatch and place it on the desk. You knew it was time to end the pitch. Let them know the pitch is over by saying, “Would you like to read my script?” That tells them you’re finished. Or you could ask, “Do you have any questions?” or “Is there anything more I can tell you about my story?” If they liked what they’ve heard, they will start to ask you a lot of questions. Questions are good, because no one knows the story better than you. Questions are easier to answer than pitching the story. They might ask you about casting. They might ask what the budget might be for the script. They might ask you about locations. They might ask you a lot of questions that you cannot answer.

Be honest. Tell them, “I’m not prepared to answer that question for you. I don’t know who would make good casting. I don’t know what a good budget would be. I have no idea where this picture should be shot.” Don’t worry about those answers. Better to be honest with them than to try to create suggestions on the spur of the moment. In fact, they may be testing you. They really don’t care who you would like to see cast in the movie. They know you don’t have any concept of budget. After all, you’re a writer, not a pro-duction manager. Thirdly, as far as location is concerned, who cares where you want to shoot it? You may want to shoot it in Sydney, Australia. They may want to shoot it in your backyard. They’re asking these questions for a particular reason — to see if you are somebody they can work with. In other words, when you pitch a story, you are being judged in two areas. One, how good is the story, and, two, is this somebody they want to work with? The questions could even get more preposterous: Do you have a spouse? What did he or she think of the script? Or, gee, I love the story about these cowboys in the West, but could you make them gnomes instead? They’re testing you. They want to see how you respond. They might also ask what other companies have seen the script. You must be honest and tell them so they don’t duplicate submissions. They may ask you who has turned down the script. Do not bad mouth any of the companies. Don’t say, “Damn that MGM. I thought I had a deal there, but they’re so stupid, they turned it down at the last minute.” The executive you’re pitching to is going to think to himself, “If you’re bad mouthing MGM today, you could be bad mouthing me tomorrow. Since Hollywood is a relatively small community, I don’t need to work with somebody who is walking around with a chip on his shoulder.”


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You could actually lose a deal. Believe me, I’ve known a number of deals that have been blown where the executive loved the material, but disliked the writer. Don’t come across as a malcontent. When you pitch, you must bring two elements to the pitch: enthusiasm and passion. Be enthusiastic about your pitch. Let the executive know how lucky he is that you have come to him to share your story. Make him feel that this is the highlight of his day, and boy, he should hang onto every word because you’re about to bring him fame and fortune. Enthusiasm while you pitch is very important. The second thing is passion. You must be passionate about your story. Don’t let them derail you by watering down your pas-sion. I know one executive who, when he wants to say “no” to a pitch, instead says, after the writer has pitched the story, “Who cares about these people? Why would anybody waste ten dol-lars to spend two hours with people nobody is going to care about?” You have just been rejected. You must fight for your story. You must convince that executive that people will care, that this story is important, that there are thousands and thousands of people out there who have gone through similar experiences or who will be curious to share that experience. Even if he rejects your pitch, he will admire you for being passionate about your story. And, I guarantee you, he’ll say to you, “When you have another project, please call because I love your passion.” Don’t be afraid of screwing up. When I first started in the business, at one of the first meetings I took, the executive asked me a question, which I’ve since blocked out after all these years, but I gave an answer. As I was giving it, I said to myself, “This is

the most stupid thing I have ever said. I can’t believe these words are coming out of my mouth. I can’t believe I’m actually saying this. He must think I’m the biggest jerk in the world. Oh my God, I can’t stop now, I’ve got to complete these sentences.” When I left the office, I remember walking into the hallway and banging my forehead against the wall, and yelling out for anyone to hear, “Stupid, stupid, stupid. Oh, did I blow that meeting, what a jerk I am.” I probably did that two or three times in the early years of my career. Moronic things come out when you’re nervous, when you’re so desperate to make a deal, when you’re trying so hard to be liked and appreciated. Stupid things come out of your mouth. It happens all the time. How do I know it happens all the time? Because a number of years later, when I was Creative Head of a studio, I must have had phone calls from five different writers within a one year period who said something to the effect of, “Mr. Rotcop, I met with you two days ago and I said something so stupid, I’ve been beating myself and punishing myself ever since. So I had to call you and apologize for the stupid thing I said. You must think I’m an idiot.” In truth, number one, I didn’t remember what they said that was so stupid. Number two, I probably couldn’t even remember them! Number three, all I cared about was their story. Number four, if they came across as people that I couldn’t work with, then it didn’t matter what they said, because I wasn’t going to use them anyway. Try to remember that within one week executives will see writer after writer after director after producer, so it’s not at all unusual for an executive to get twenty to twenty-five pitches in that time frame. In a good month, I could hear close to a hundred different pitches.


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If you think executives remember something stupid that you’ve said, trust me, they don’t. It’s what we call the Gestalt theory, which means they get a holistic view of the writer. They get an impression, an overview of who you are. You may hang on every word, but, I promise you, they don’t. Stop worrying about saying something idiotic. As a matter of fact, what you think is stupid, they may think is brilliant. Screenwriters have to pitch. Television episodic writers have to pitch. Only the poet, the novelist and the playwright don’t have to pitch. If you hate pitching, I suggest you become a poet, a novelist or a playwright. Without a doubt the easiest pitches to make are based on action stories, horror movies, thrillers, science fiction, action ad-venture, and fantasy. Tougher pitches are romantic comedies or character driven stories that depend on characterization and dia-logue. These are called “soft stories.” Soft stories don’t usually generate much visual excitement, and are much more difficult to pitch. If you have that kind of story, you better damn well practice your pitch. Make it as in-teresting as you can because you don’t have the car chases or ghosts coming out of the walls. You don’t have people with guns shooting at each other. You don’t have earthquakes, firestorms, tornadoes, or violent destruction to fall back on. If you have a romantic comedy, or a people driven story, you must work on your pitch to make it as exciting as a roller coaster. The conflict must be compelling. You might start the “soft” pitch by getting the executive in-volved. “What would you do if the woman you loved, etc., etc?” In other words, put the exec in the movie. I find that the best way to pitch a people story. Then I always get the next, follow-up question.

Q uestion 2

“What If I Just Pitch an Idea and Not a Screenplay?”

If you just pitch an idea you’re in trouble. You cannot copyright ideas. Or titles, or names of characters, or bits and pieces of dialogue, or ideas for scenes. Copyright protects the “execution” of your idea; that includes your characters, your dialogue, your situations, your plot turns, all the elements that make your story truly yours.

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So if we start with plagiarism, which leads us to copyright, then inevitably I’m asked:

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Question 3

“I Don’tWant to Steal

Somebody Else’s Work, But What the Heck Does ‘Public Domain’

Mean?”

Public Domain (or PD) means that material is no longer protected by copyright. Here are the guidelines for PD: 1) If a work is published before 1923, it’s PD.

2) If a work is published between 1923 and 1963, it could be PD after 28 years or the copyright could be renewed for a total of 67 years.

Still with me? Okay, let’s proceed.

3) If a work was published between 1964 and 1977, the work will not be PD until 67 years after the publication.

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4) If a work was published January 1, 1978 or after, PD doesn’t kick in until 70 years after the death of the creator.

5) If the work was created before January 1, 1978 but pub-lished between then and December 31, 2002, PD starts 70 years after the death of the creator or December 31, 2047 or whichever comes later.

Confused? I hope not.

Question 4

“What’s the Shortest Pitch You Ever Made?”

Actually, there were two. When I was with Canon Films, I called my friend, Stan Lee, who created “Spiderman,” “The Hulk,” and many, many other comic book heroes and asked him if there was one of his characters that had never been made into a movie. “Captain America,” he said. “And we have some great stories that would work well on film.” “Send me a poster of the ol’ Captain,” I said. And so he did. It was a huge poster of Captain America in his red, white, and blue costume, face covered with a hooded mask with an “A” on it. (I guess for those who didn’t know America

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started with the letter “A.”) In his left hand was a shield (like the old Roman soldiers used), to protect his expensive costume I assume. His right hand was balled up in a fist ready to clobber all the enemies of Marvel Comics. I took this poster into my boss’s office. Menahem Golan, you must understand, was an Israeli. He wouldn’t know Captain America from Joe DiMaggio. “How the hell am I gonna pitch this?” I wondered all the way to his office. I unrolled the poster, stretched it out in front of Menahem and said, “Menahem, you of all people should make this movie!” Why I said that? I haven’t a clue. But that’s what came out and now I was stuck with it. Menahem studied the picture. The costume, the shield, the mask with the “A,” the fist. “Let’s make it,” he said with his Israeli accent.

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The other one-line pitch took place at CBS. I was meeting with the head of movies-for-television and his cronies. I actually had a longer pitch planned but when I blurted out the first line, that’s all they needed to hear. Here’s the line: “When I got divorced I moved into a half-way-house.” Here I paused for dramatic effect and held up one finger to let them know I wasn’t done, then came out with the punchline, “a half-way house for divorced people.” I paused again to let the line sink in, to let them know I had just said something profound (well, at least profound for television). Peter Frankovitch, the head guy, said, “Let’s do it.” So, in one line I had made yet another deal.

Because, in both situations, Menahem Golan and Peter Frankovitch could see the possibilities. Just one line, but many possible story lines began to dance in their heads. Both men were creative enough to see the potential.

“What’s the Shortest Pitch You Ever Made?”

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Question 5

“And What Was

Your LongestPitch?”

My longest pitch, believe it or not, was not to a studio. In fact, it wasn’t even in L.A. “You still living in Vegas?” It’s my agent on the phone. “Yep.” I’ve been Creative Head of TransWorld Productions in Las Vegas for about six months at this point. “The Las Vegas Hilton is looking for somebody to write a movie teaching people how to play the games of the casino; a movie that’ll run 24/7 in all the rooms in the hotel.” “Oh.” “Do you play blackjack?”

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“Uh, no.” “Roulette?” “Uh-uh.” “Craps?” “Looks too complicated.” “Chemin de fer?” “Charmin de what?!” I can hear my agent slowly dying on the other end of the phone. “Anyway,” he mumbles, “I set up a meeting for you with all the Hilton top brass Thursday at 11.” “AM or PM?” After all, this is Las Vegas. “AM, AM.” He’s getting impatient with me. “You’ll be competing against about a dozen writers. Good luck.” He hangs up exasperated.

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Now, when you have a pitch meeting, try to learn everything you can about the subject. First, I looked up “gambling” on the computer. There I learn the rules of all the games. That’s a start. But every other writer is going to learn or know all the rules of the games, too. I need something more. Something to dazzle the Hilton people with. But what? I go to the library at UNLV (University of Nevada at Las Vegas) where the librarian proudly tells me that they possess the largest collection of gambling books in America! And so I start to read. Bingo!

Some of the books go into great detail on the history of gambling. How each game started! That’s it! That’s my pitch! That is really interesting and maybe none of the other writers — I stop myself. Forget the other writers. It’s me and the Hilton execs and I’ve got to focus in on them. I know my pitch is going to be long but I believe it’s going to be damn interesting. Thursday comes. Eleven o’clock and I’m sitting in an ex-ecutive suite in the Vegas Hilton with a group of guys in suits. I start. “I want to tell, in this film, how every game started. For instance, let’s start with dice. Anyone know the origins of dice?” They all look from one to the other and either shrug or shake their heads. Inwardly I breathe a sigh of relief. I am the authority figure in the room! “It started with cave men.” I’m off and running. “They would take the ankle bones of sheep and make markings on them. Then, with all the men gathered around, they would take turns throwing the ankle bones down on the ground to see who would gather wood for the fire, who would hunt for the food, who would kill the dinosaurs, and who would take care of the women and children. Or something like that. But the ankle bones of sheep were the first dice!” I look around the room. They’re all smiling. I pull out a deck of cards. “No, no tricks,” I tell them. I hold up the four kings. “Did you know these are portraits of four of the world’s greatest rulers?” More shrugs and head shaking. “The king of clubs, that’s Alexander the Great. See, he holds an orb because he wanted to conquer the world.”

“And What Was Your Longest Pitch?”

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“That’s King David holding the harp on the king of spades.” I’m rolling now. “King of hearts is Charlemagne and king of diamonds, Ju-lius Caesar.” They’re smiling again. Some are leaning forward in their chairs — a good sign. “Now, talking about Caesar, he loved the chariot races. But what fascinated him the most was when a chariot would crash and the wheels would spin like crazy and cause all kinds of psy-chedelic colors within its whirring spokes. “He was so fascinated with the spinning spokes, he had a ‘wheel room’ erected in his palace. The wheel was placed on a stand and every time Caesar walked through the room a man guarding the wheel would spin it for Caesar’s enjoyment. “Well, the story goes that four families were preparing for battle over a piece of land. Each claimed to be the rightful owner. “Caesar came up with an idea. He placed the heads of the four families around the wheel and made a marking on the rim. He then had the wheel spun and said wherever the marking stopped, that family would be the sole and legal owner. “Caesar was so enchanted with the suspense of where that marking would stop that he decided to make it three-out-of-five! (Okay, I made that last part up!) “But that, gentlemen,” I concluded, “was the beginning of the roulette wheel!” More smiles, more nods. Now here’s where I threw in the kicker. “As I see it, by showing how these games started, it le-gitimizes the word ‘gambling’ and to the neophyte it’s almost like giving them permission to gamble. After all, cavemen did it, Caesar did it, French kings did it.”

I now wanted to proceed faster. They had the idea of what I was planning to do and I felt all I could do a that his point was screw it up. So I continued, “Talking about French kings, Chemin de fer was created by a French King who though it would be a good way to teach his child mathematics. He —” “Enough, Mr. Rotcop,” the distinguished looking man sit-ting in the middle stopped me. “I think we are all in agreement. You have overwhelmed us with your knowledge. The job is yours.” And that’s how I got to write the gambling movie that played at Hilton hotels in Vegas, Reno, and who-knows-where 24/7, teaching people to play the games of the casino. And to this day I’ve never bellied up to a gambling table. (I’m a writer, isn’t that enough of a crap shoot?) There it is, the longest pitch I’ve ever made. But I had done my homework, I had researched my subject thoroughly, I found an angle that would make my pitch unique, and, I must say, because I was so well prepared I made my presentation calmly and with confidence. When I called my agent to tell him that I got the assign-ment, there was a long pause on the other end. I think he fainted!

“And What Was Your Longest Pitch?”

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“Of all the honors I have been given for my writing, the most prestigious to me is the Writers Guild of America Award. The statuette was presented to me for my screenplay For Us the Living: The Story of Medgar Evers.

Sample of the Perfect Pitch 2nd Edition

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