Business screen magazine (1946)

paradox BY STANFORD SOBEL rVK \l)(1\: N<)sl:il(;i;i just imi'I uIuiI il used lo he in the c<Mid old &d\s. When I first started writing films there were a few general business principles accepted by everybody. One of the firmest of all was the conviction that if a producer dclivcrea a fine film which accomplished the purpose of the sponsor, and if he charged a fair price for the production value that he built into the picture, generally speaking he could count on the client's returning to him for his next project. Everybody accepted this notion. One way of selling a picture to a new client was to point to the many long years of repeat business from the same customers. Client loyalty was a reality. But client loyalty has practically disappeared today . . . both for producers and for writers. As recently as five years ago, 90'r of my own a.»signments were for people for whom I had previously written films. Today, that figure is closer to 50% , which is twice as high as it is for most of the writers I know. This is not because of any shortcomings in my own performance, nor is it because of any changes in producer performance for their clients. There are many marketing reasons for this situation . . . the "slopover" of buying patterns from the TV commercial business, the increased pressure by companies upon their executives for cost-cutting, the diminished rule of the film sidesman or account executive, the disappearance of some fine film production companies, the trend toward rnini-conglomeraies with all their lateral promotions" and their "profit-center consolidations," and the generally depressed business conilitions of the last 18 couple of \ears, which put a high premium on new sources of supply and bu\ing by the numbers. But whatever the underlying causes, client loyalty is not admired or regarded wiih high esteem. In today's business environment. .1 producer has absolutely no assur.mce that producing a good film for his client will assure that he will get the next film from that client, or even that he will be called in to compete for the job when the client is selecting a producer. This is a sad state of affairs, a kind of moral and ethical breakdown which has some ver\ serious implications for the future of our industry. For example, one obvious result is that the producer begins to look upon each individual job as a single profit entity . . . one on which he should make as much money as possible regardless of the consequences. After all, if he can't build any reservoir of goodwill for the future, he should not invest his creative resources in some intangible, abstract equity which may be non-existent by tomorrow morning. Furthermore, this approach makes films more expensi\c than they should be. One of my clients has given nie a script to do every single year for the last seventeen years. When I was planning this column I asked him whether they ever interviewed other writers. "Yes," he answered, "but they didn't come up with anything new. Besides, we can't afford to educate some new writer in our marketing patterns, our point of view, our product mix, our special problems . . . and that training would cost us a lot of expensive executive time." Then he continued with a smile, "Why, did you have someone in mind for us''" I mumbled a little and then adioilly changed the subject. Of course, there are some producers who partically invilc a client to move on lo someone else. These are the people who have what I call "Systematic Arrogance." They produce a certain kind of picture, and you accept the film you get from their system or you can damn well take your business elsewhere. These are people racked up with a particular ilirectorial point of view, or a systematic lormula to which all clients must confi or special equipment in which thi invested a lot of money, or a of real estate they have to amoi or sometimes even just a certain matographic philosophy which made a lot of money for them. One of the reasons nost.ilgia what it used to be is that the film dustry is moving so rapidly. I he "gi old days" today mean 1969 what's fascinating to me is the f; that the kind of client who gets good film and then moves on to a producer, just tor the sake of novdl IS the ver\ client most likely to an old-fashioned formula film his new producer. Why'.' Well, think about my 17-year clii for example. The big challenge is to come up with a fresh way telling their story every year. Yj can bet >our bottom dollar that wh, ever idea a different writer preset to them, in his effort to get the count, has already been done soi time during the last 17 years! suming that I remain inventive I original, their best chance for aa novative film idea is to challenge each year with a demand for "sou thing new." n. And that brings us to the real S " of this column. How docs a wril or a producer, come up with a n^J^-^ idea or an innovative film'.' The 0 question 1 am asked more often di any other when I speak at semin i^^v. or festivals is this one: "Where you get your ideas from'.'" The swer is ... I really don't know, one of the greatest mysteries of l^Wi lite. I know that sometimes the pr sure to come up with a new film id is sheer, unadulterated torture whi I feel will somehow never end. A yet ... in some strange niysterio •«< way the idea eventually does dc every single time . . . sometimes practicaPx the last moment. The whole creative process it vast, exotic realm which leaves I constantly astonished and in awe, C u-~^ ativity is a mystcr>', one which somehow tied in w'ith ego, expcrii conscious motivation, and subOC scious thinking. The writer thinks diflerent wa\s from the wa\ oti people ihink. My own originality coniinufd iMi page From his ego-centered office in New York City, Stanford Sobel looks at the hv of film with the special viewpoini of the free-lance writer. His column, "Parado appears in each issue of this muKUziiie. BUSINESS SCRE •'.tc"i 3MIS rut Ml «] sOlM 'msi