Chapter 2: The Hollywood-Style Screenplay
Professor Anderson picked up the folder from the coffee table and, under Wayne's expectant gaze, opened the clasp. Inside were two documents—one thick stack of pages, and a much thinner one beneath it.
"Happy Death Day?" he murmured as he flipped open the thicker script and began skimming through it.
After a quick read, Anderson nodded with visible satisfaction. The screenplay followed the standardized formatting used in Hollywood, which was a good sign.
For a film project, a professionally formatted script makes the entire production process smooth and efficient. Investors find it persuasive, producers find it reassuring, directors find it readable, and actors find it usable. But what exactly constitutes a properly formatted Hollywood script?
The one Anderson held in his hands was divided neatly into six core elements:
1. Scene Description & Character Action
This line typically appears right below the scene heading and offers a brief description of the setting and the characters' actions within it.
2. Character Name
This refers to the speaker. For minor roles, labels like "Thug A" or "Robber B" suffice.
3. Dialogue
The lines spoken by characters, including voiceovers, monologues, and narration. Everything must be clearly indicated.
4. Parentheticals
These include voice direction and off-screen sounds, placed either after the character's name or beneath it to describe tone or physical action—for instance, "(coughs)," "(choking up)," or "(excitedly)."
5. Transitions
These denote changes between scenes—like fade in, fade out, dissolve, or cut. These are usually added only when necessary.
6. Scene Headings
These follow the format: INT/EXT — LOCATION — TIME. "INT" stands for interior scenes and is the equivalent of "inside" in Chinese scripts. Note: scene numbers are not to be included. In Hollywood, the shooting order is determined later by the director.
These conventions form the basis of the Hollywood screenplay format. For large-scale commercial productions, even more detail is expected, such as three-act structures or elaborate beat sheets often shared online.
By the second read-through, Anderson slowed down to engage more deeply with the content. When he came across the protagonist's bizarre predicament—being murdered repeatedly on their birthday—he couldn't help but chuckle.
As he read further, however, he noticed that some sections didn't align with conventional logic at all. In fact, a few parts were downright absurd.
Yet despite this, he didn't stop reading.
But with a classic Hollywood narrative framework, the story managed to tie everything together convincingly. Anderson understood that not everything needed to be realistic—the charm of the screenplay lay precisely in its clever structure. It clearly had elements of a cult-style, dark horror comedy.
"This script is quite interesting. If it's filmed exactly as written, it could really resonate with a certain demographic—especially teens," Anderson said, visibly impressed as he set the screenplay down.
This wasn't just a student's short graduation project. Based on the script alone, it was shockingly professional. Anderson realized this student had an incredibly solid foundation in film knowledge.
"You know, Professor, I've been researching dark cinema since freshman year," Wayne said. "I made a few experimental short films, but none of my classmates or professors really appreciated them.
Other than you, nearly every professor dismissed my style. They think movies with dark themes, absurd premises, blood, and human depravity are too niche. So I wrote this screenplay that tones it down a bit, something more palatable."
Wayne wasn't obsessed with dark cinema by accident. In his past life, he had been a projectionist—he'd watched countless films of every genre, but few had truly left a mark on him. Toward the end of that life, though, he became obsessed with dark cinema. He devoured them—good or bad, mainstream or obscure.
His biggest asset was the vivid memory of all those films he'd watched before. And since most of them were in the dark cinema category, it only made sense that he'd delve deeper into that genre now.
"There's nothing wrong with having a strong personal style," Anderson replied. "But filmmaking is still a form of mass entertainment. You need to understand how to strike that balance. I can see that your screenplay goes well beyond the scope of a graduation film—but actually shooting it will be extremely challenging."
Anderson tapped the script thoughtfully, already picturing the practical hurdles it would face during production. Then he casually picked up the thinner document beneath it.
"…Well, I have to admit, you've exceeded my expectations," he said after skimming the pages. "You actually created a detailed project proposal. With this, it's no longer just a student film—it's a full-fledged commercial film package with clear selling points."
"Professor," Wayne said seriously, "I know that as a newcomer to independent filmmaking, it's nearly impossible to get funding from a company. But I still wanted to write a complete proposal. I would never underestimate how difficult it is to produce a feature-length film. So I want to be as prepared as possible."
Many dreamers who come to Hollywood think having a good script is enough to land an investment. The reality is, film companies rarely even read scripts from unknowns. What they look at first is your project proposal.
Without a professional proposal, a first-time director might as well forget it. Every day, thousands of scripts are sent to studios. The odds of one being bought are less than one in ten thousand.
And even if a script is purchased, who knows when—or if—it will ever be made? Ninety-nine percent end up collecting dust in a script library. So why would investors bet millions on an unproven script with no foreseeable return?
Even after years of formal education, Wayne sometimes still fantasized about someone discovering his script and handing him a massive check to fund his dream project.
But he knew that was just a fantasy.
The real key to getting a film made was presenting a thorough, well-researched business proposal to potential investors and production companies. A proposal that clearly outlined budgeting, casting, shooting plans, and logistical strategies.
"Wayne, with this in hand, I can try helping you secure some funding. I've seen directors twice your age still hustling for money for their first feature. What they lacked was exactly what you've made—a solid, complete proposal."
Professor Anderson flipped through the few pages. They covered everything—the production process, potential challenges, and even contingency solutions. For a low-budget film, it was impressively comprehensive. But even a modest budget could be astronomical for a newcomer. Studios wouldn't even blink, and private investors rarely gambled on unknowns. Anderson thought he might be able to connect Wayne with some independent film grants that supported new talent.
"Professor, I've actually found a way to raise the funds. I designed the entire project around what I think I can realistically gather. I probably won't be attending many more classes—time's tight. I need to make sure I finish the shoot before graduation."
"Good," Anderson nodded. "You already have enough credits to graduate from last year. What you need now is real hands-on experience. If you can bring the script to life as written, it'll give you a major advantage in landing work later."
Anderson looked at the young man in front of him. His classmates thought he was aloof, cold, and anti-social—but that was because he poured all his time and energy into learning. He was a smart kid. He knew exactly what he wanted, and he was fighting for it.
Wayne finished his coffee, packed up the screenplay, and stood to leave.
"Professor, I have a meeting with my agent. I'll head out first."
"Go on. If you need anything, just give me a call," Anderson said, patting him on the shoulder.
Wayne left the office and headed to a coffee shop near campus. After ordering a cup, he sat by the window, watching pedestrians pass by while waiting for his agent to arrive.
He had lived in Greater Los Angeles for twenty years since being born in 1970, but the memories of his previous life—across the Pacific—still felt fresh, like they happened just yesterday.
In his youth, he'd stumbled upon a film called Cinema Paradiso that moved him deeply. It led him to become a projectionist. His film career was eventually derailed by illness. Confined to a hospital bed, he sank into depression—and into the embrace of dark cinema. It became his obsession… until one day, he woke up, and his life had been reset.
He believed fate was fair—it had taken his old, disease-ridden body and given him a new, healthy life. At age five, he moved with his parents to a farm in Ventura County. His father wasn't super-rich, but the family had more than enough to provide him with an excellent education.
This time around, Wayne wasn't naive. He knew exactly what he wanted and had worked hard for it. His privileged upbringing gave him a head start: he had attended private schools all his life.
From childhood through adolescence, his mother often took him to visit old friends working on film sets, letting him observe the inner workings of Hollywood's movie machine. Becoming a director was a dream—but also an expensive one.
Since college, he had spent heavily on books, film stock, and renting equipment to shoot his experimental shorts—costs most average families simply couldn't afford.
"Hey Wayne, what's up?" a voice interrupted his thoughts. "Honestly, if you hadn't called, I'd almost forgotten you were a film director."
A young man not much older than Wayne pulled out a chair and sat across from him. Wearing a clean, pressed suit, he looked sharp and energetic.
"Jimmy, I'm graduating soon. I'm about to start shooting my first feature film. I'll need your help soon with recruitment—crew and a few cast members."
He looked seriously at his agent. Jimmy had approached him during his junior year—a fresh-faced agent straight out of CAA's mailroom. He'd heard a film prodigy had emerged from USC's cinema program, and jumped at the chance to sign him.
"What kind of film is it this time? Another one of your blood-soaked experimental shorts?" Jimmy asked, sipping his coffee with a skeptical frown.