There was recent article in The New York Times about using data “to solve the equation of the hit film script.” While I’m in favor of any great idea that might improve the quality of a screenplay – or movies as a whole – I am conflicted about what this means for the future of Hollywood… and humankind.

Stats might reflect what formulas will work, but they have NOTHING to do with creativity, imagination, gut-instinct or love of film, which is the primary reason most of us were drawn to Hollywood in the first place.

We’re entering an era of data mining, algorithms, digital genomics. Computers are pre-selecting everything for us. Susan Blackmore, a memologist and scholar, has said that the pithy notions and bite-sized content we so eagerly share with each other on Facebook and Twitter are a form of computers using human beings as instruments for those ideas’ propagation. We have, in essence, become the devices by which memes pre-selected and influenced by machines are spread.

A popular meme

In similar fashion, the data-crunching, computer-optimized statistical system of script analysis outlined in the article is yet another blow to the “creative community” that was Hollywood. It demonstrates an effort to remove creativity—humanity!–from the equation. And it begs the question: What’s the point of fostering “ideas” at all when you can have a statistician tell you what formulas will work?

A formula is an equation that produces an expected result. 1 + 1 = 2. It guarantees combining specific quantities will yield a certain outcome. But isn’t Hollywood where “creative” accounting originated? Wasn’t this the land of 1 + 1 = 3? For anyone involved in the creative process of making movies, our collective aspiration is that the outcome is greater than the sum of the parts. The sky is the limit on any given project. That’s how the magic happens. That’s the alchemy.

Hollywood "Creative Accounting" exemplified

But all of that has been subjugated to one mighty aim: making money. Just like Wall Street. So that means removing the human element, instituting a system of statistical script analysis that’s the Hollywood equivalent of electronic trading.

Makes sense. If a computer can make the most informed choice, the most efficient bet, then why have a human element at all? Computers can pick the movies, fashion the scripts, control the production pipeline––everything is digital from beginning to end in terms of shooting, editing, visual effects, finishing and post now anyway. Then computers can distribute the movies to us, measure our viewership and report back to other computers the algorithms of our consumption. Ergo, humanity is out of the equation entirely. Success!

This posits a future in which machines will be occupied with computing each other while what’s left of humanity will go back to the campfire to tell each other cautionary tales about it.

Moviegoing in the good 'ole days

Presaging Hollywood’s trajectory, Griffin Mill muses aloud in The Player during a big wheel meeting where studio execs dispense with writers in favor of movies constructed from newspaper headlines: “I was just thinking what an interesting concept it is to eliminate the writer from the artistic process. If we could just get rid of these actors and directors, maybe we’ve got something here.”

Griffin Mill: smooth, smug & well-tailored

Then again, The Player wouldn’t have passed muster in the algorithmic green-lighting process. It wouldn’t have been made. In the e-trading, optimized and formulaic future of Hollywood, the town won’t have any more Griffin Mills. It won’t have any more “Players.” The statisticians will have eliminated their necessity. And the “Players” will have been the instruments of their own extinction.

Wait --the algorithm said what?!

*This article was first published in The Hollywood Journal and in The Huffington Post.

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He introduces a number of insights and original concepts on media including: defining what it means to a “Content Creator,” what the “Mediaverse™” is and how to navigate it, “Permission” and why you shouldn’t be seeking it, “Gatekeepers” and why you don’t need them, “Free is the New Black,” “Micro-Audiences” and how to leverage them, “Show me the Love” and more…

If you are an established Content Creator, an aspiring Content Creator or simply a fan of Hollywood, movies or media, this talk is for you.

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“Read Between The Lines”

Hollywood has a vernacular all its own and it’s best to learn the lingo so that you can become an eloquent practitioner. It’s what identifies you as a native to the other members of our tribe, as someone who’s in the know. Among the Town’s most popular pieces of parlance is “I don’t disagree.” But is it an affirmation worth a damn or is it just another equivocation on the road to development hell?

Rather than diminish the expression, understand that “I don’t disagree” is the epitome of endorsement, the height of harmony, the apex of agreement — in other words, in Hollywood, it’s as good as it gets.

In other cultures, contexts and businesses when one makes a cogent point, another person’s accord might be expressed with a head nod and the assent “I agree with you,” or simply, “I agree.” But in Hollywood, where everyone is perennially looking for an “out” — a way to avoid commitment, a way not to be pinned down — “I don’t disagree” is music to the ears.

“I don’t disagree” plants our flag in that narrow slice of sand that exists somewhere between agreeing and disagreeing with someone. It’s a half-endorsement. A non-contradictory stance. A no-quarrel policy. Like gender-neutrality, the blindfold of justice, or Switzerland.

But what’s really being conveyed by this double-negative euphemism?

In a business driven by passion, we’re leading the other person to think there’s something to build on. Like a promising first date, “I don’t disagree” could one day evolve into a real accord, a genuine romance or a committed relationship. But for the time being, we’re just flirting with consent, keeping all of our options open because passion, after all, can be fleeting.

“I don’t disagree” leaves the door open without creating conflict. It says: “I’m agreeable-adjacent, but your opinion is not quite tantamount to my own. Not that I have an opinion, otherwise I’d express it so that you don’t disagree with it either.” In a town where we can’t take no for answer, “I don’t completely reject what you’re saying” has become validation enough. It’s as cogent a concord as you’re ever going to get or you ever need to give.

For an innocuous little phrase, “I don’t disagree” covers a lot bases. Whenever it’s uttered, a tacit pact occurs — one that keeps both parties off the hook: You haven’t rocked the boat with an opinion anyone disagreed with and They only half-agreed to whatever it is you ventured. You’re both in a comfort zone of plausible deniability. Reciprocity, you see, is part of our Hollywood Code. A Code that is all about conflict avoidance, which is why we’re prone to this tentative truce, to this détente of dialogue. “I don’t disagree” warms our cockles like a comfortable cashmere sweater.

And therein lies the truth about what this handy little ditty really means…

“I don’t disagree” has become an inside joke with Lee Cohen, an agent with whom I’ve worked for 14 years. When he uses it on me, I reason that if that’s the strongest covenant he’ll offer, my only appropriate response is “Fuck you, too.” It’s a good-natured joke, of course, and our mutual laughter signifies the truth of the matter. But there is truth there: if the best you’re prepared to offer someone is that you don’t disagree, isn’t that the same as flipping them the bird?

I hereby submit that the real meaning of “I don’t disagree” is “Fuck you.” If you’re in on the joke then when you tell another Hollywood denizen “I don’t disagree,” they’ll know that this is what you really mean.

So if you’re going to say it, say it with a smile. Utter it with feeling. Express it with gusto. Greet each other with it as you pass in the hallway. Take your game to the next level. Suss out who’s really in the know.

“I don’t disagree.” If you can’t say it, you can’t do it.

I dare you to disagree.

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Hollywood is like a big English muffin: often packed with empty calories, but almost universally palatable. Like an English muffin, though, Hollywood is full of nooks and crannies, and while that adds an interesting texture to your breakfast, if you don’t make it a policy to investigate every single nook and peer into every cranny of the business, you might be the one getting crunched.

The business of entertainment — a business of information and communication — demands a tremendous attention to detail and a constancy of dialogue, thoughtfulness and follow-through. No stone must go unturned. Nothing can be taking for granted. The only miscommunication is the call you didn’t make. The meeting that counted is the one you didn’t take.

Every day I find this lesson reinforced. To get things done well it’s imperative that you make ALL the calls, speak to ALL the people THROUGHOUT the process EVERY DAY. To leave one nook overlooked or one cranny unexplored could mean the difference between landing the project, booking the assignment, closing the deal, signing the client, squeezing the extra buck out of the buyer, selling the script, collecting the check or simply being an also-ran where the project moving forward simply has nothing to do with you — because the OTHER guy did the legwork.

It sounds intuitive, but you’d be surprised how many individuals leave it to others to fill in the blanks. Or default to an electronic missive to resolve an issue that can only be “grokked” through a conversation on the phone or even a face-to-face meeting. I’ve seen deals die because of a reliance on a few perfunctory emails.

A guideline I subscribe to for email communication: “Just the facts, Ma’am.” Use email to send material, to prod, to garner a yes/no response. As long as the message you are sending and the response does not require nuance, email will suffice. Alas, email is an endless cascade constantly pouring over us. How many times have you glanced at an email, intended to respond, but had your attention diverted to the next hundred new emails clamoring for your attention? Or failed to reply because it’s a more involved response than you can tap on your iPhone at a red light? Know that it’s as overwhelming for the recipient as the sender. I was on the phone with an agent and within a 30 second period, he was flooded with 75 CC’s. How could anyone possibly process that? Email is a torrent. An incessant flood. And email is terrible for tone — it’s often misinterpreted by the reader — so whenever tone is important or there’s a need to get to the “why,” eschew email for a phone call.

The phone. The lifeblood of Hollywood communication. When asked if a career in movies was tough, one veteran agent replied, “Tough? Try getting your call returned. Start there.” The phone sheet is definitive. You owe them or they owe you. You call is connected, returned or ignored, but even when you do connect, “voice” often isn’t enough to draw the listener’s focus. Typically, after a little small talk, you may have someone’s complete attention for 60 seconds. How often have we been on the phone with someone who begins replying to emails the second it’s your turn to speak? You could say, “I just electrocuted your cat,” and the reply would be: “Yeah, uh-huh, great,” as they tap-tap-tap away on their keyboard. I’ve been guilty of this, too, on occasion, but when I catch myself doing it, I’m reminded of Albert Brooks’ multitasking character in Broadcast News who sings, “I can SING while I READ, I am singing and reading BOTH.” But he didn’t get the girl. Or the dream job. And he was prone to flop sweats.

So there is this funny limitation about human beings: we cannot READ and LISTEN at the same time. Impossible. It can’t be done. We can only focus on one of those things at a time. Not that it stops us from trying. It’s why any writer who has ever pitched over the phone knows that it’s a complete waste of time. Those detestable speaker phones sound like you’re pitching into a cavernous void. You never know who’s in the room, if the listener is flipping through US Weekly or clipping their nails. (The one personal exception to this rule was when I sold a phone pitch to a studio president for a lot of money, but it was in an era before the digital dominated and when studios still paid a lot of money for pitches from new writers without big attachments.)

It’s why I like Skype. You get to see the other person. You can make eye contact, sort of. It’s as close to a meeting as you can get without being there. But Skype is still one layer removed. You’re still interacting through a screen. Which is why, in our infinitely-connected world rife with split-second attention spans, nothing clarifies the myriad complexities of our business like a good old-fashioned meeting. By crossing that digital divide, circumventing the cell phone and venturing into each other’s personal space, we can attempt to avoid some of the pitfalls that invariably mark our path.

If this sounds Old School, it’s because the art and commerce of Hollywood itself is a bit of a throwback: despite the speed at which information travels, the filmmaking process is still one based on the successful interlinking of creative personalities. The creative process is a glacial and protracted one. The reading of material takes time. The development and packaging and production process cannot be rushed. Since a successful collaboration is built upon the framework of getting INTO business together, it’s why the business end is so important — and why the devil is in the details, details, details. He’s hiding in the nooks and crannies. Just like subtext. The subtext that speaks volumes, but which is conveyed tacitly through body language, eye contact, non-verbal communication. It’s why we have to “get in a room:” we have to grok the vibe.

That’s why we take so many meetings. And why we do everything over a meal. It’s why Hollywood is legendary for lunching. It’s even popular for breakfast.

Just like an English Muffin.

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