Anatomy of a TV Pilot Teleplay
Scenes from My Cold War Psychic Spy Series
When I began writing screenplays, I perused a how-to book by Syd Field on formatting. After that, I learned the craft by reading the screenplays of my favorite movies. This was the early ‘90s. So, no internet. However, in the heart of Hollywood Boulevard, beyond the streetwalkers flashing for cheap tricks, tacky tourists hunting for stars on the Walk of Fame, and Scientologists hawking copies of Dianetics to potential converts, there was something else.
A funky old bookstore.
In addition to books, they had stacks of Hollywood movie scripts for a few bucks a pop. I felt the same familiar excitement I used to have as a kid when entering a comic book store with my week’s allowance grasped tightly in my sweaty palm. Places like these always have a distinct smell. Nostalgia.
I read Blade Runner first, then Platoon by Oliver Stone. What people don’t always remember is that Oliver Stone was an Oscar-winning writer before he became a director. The story practically jumped off the page when I read it. I later met Stone at an apartment party in Westwood. And he was stoned, laughing his ass off with two equally stoned women on a balcony when I stepped outside for air.
Later, I read True Romance, studying Quentin Tarantino’s mastery of writing quirky dialogue. Snappy patter. He also has a knack for taking a scene in unexpected directions.
So my advice is this: Yeah, learn about formatting—the three-act structure, plot points, when to introduce key characters, yada yada yada. But then, read. It’s so easy now because you can literally pull up a PDF of virtually any script you want in five seconds. There’s no excuse. Read, read, read.
Then, start brainstorming.
My stories always start with a seed of an idea—which will hopefully grow into a mighty oak—that I keep coming back to, watering with more ideas throughout the day. Sometimes—if it turns out to be a weed—I pluck it and move on. But if I keep going, once it reaches the stage where I think I have something, I write out a two-page synopsis. That’s where I give the story its locations, the characters their names, the story its style and tone. Once I’ve done that, I know what I have.
My suggestion is this: don’t try to write what you think the market is currently looking for. By the time you finish your script, the fickle script market will have moved on to something entirely different. I despise Hollywood mandates. Be selfish. Write the movie you want to see. Create the world you want to experience.
Side Note Number One: Early in my writing career, due to my background as a comic book fan, I would mix genres—horror with sci-fi, martial arts with fantasy. At the time, people in the industry kept telling me what a no-no that was. Then The Matrix came out, and I never heard that criticism again.
Write what you want. I believe that gives you a better chance of catching lightning in a bottle. It beats chasing the herd.
Many years ago, I had an idea for a story. It grew out of my fascination with the Cold War and the remote viewer programs of the ‘60s and ‘70s. Basically, psychic spies.
This concept combined two of my interests: the world of espionage, spycraft and the science fiction genre. The subject matter had been comically tackled in The Men Who Stare at Goats, but I didn’t see psychic spies as humorous or satirical at all. I saw this as a dark and dangerous world of international intrigue and languid, romantic characters to develop and explore. To me, it was deadly serious.
There is a line from my eventual novel that has always stuck with me:
“Most of humanity went through their routine little lives without ever knowing there were creatures out there who could crawl around in their heads, blaspheming the temple of their own private psyches.”
Definitions
Remote Viewing: A purported extrasensory technique for information retrieval, in which one obtains mental impressions of what a target subject is seeing or thinking.
Remote viewers do not hear your thoughts. They see them.
They view remotely.
Bending: The ability to bend the will of someone in close proximity using simple psychic commands.
It’s like this: If someone has a gun in their hand, a bender can make them pull the trigger. If someone’s on a ledge, a bender can make them jump. It’s not foolproof, affected by extreme emotion.
The United States government had multiple projects dedicated to this research and its application, operating under various names: Stargate, Grill Flame, Center Lane, Project CF, Sun Streak, and Scanate. However, as I researched the topic online, many of the claims seemed far-fetched. So I asked an expert—Michael Sellers, a former undercover field operative for the CIA and, at the time, owner of Quantum Entertainment, a film distribution and production company in Los Angeles.
Michael had been interested in some of my projects, but the timing always seemed to be off. One day, over coffee, I asked him about the CIA’s remote viewer program. Now, Michael Sellers is a pretty low-key guy. Definitely not James Bond. More like a college professor. So I expected him to scoff at my query. Instead, he became very still and said in a cryptic tone, “They had guys who were scary.”
That was enough for me. I started writing my story. I also wanted it to serve as a social commentary on race relations, given the irony that my character, John, enjoyed more freedom in the European nations he was spying from than in his own country, where he was a second-class citizen, forced to sit in the back of the bus and eat at diners with signs that read: No restrooms for Coloreds.
I wrote a TV pilot teleplay with an accompanying thirty-page Bible outlining the first four seasons, a feature film screenplay, and later, a 60,000-word novel manuscript.
My Project: Mindbender
Logline:
In the early 1960s, at the height of the Cold War and the dawn of the Civil Rights Movement—when the superpowers were deploying psychic spies behind the Iron Curtain to engage in intrigue and espionage—the CIA discovers a man who just may be the most powerful remote viewer of them all: a young African American man serving a life sentence in the Deep South. His name is John.
Blurb:
The first volume in a book series reminiscent of the James Bond novels, Mindbender is woven from the same somber cloth as John le Carré’s The Spy Who Came in from the Cold. Cinematically, it explores the same emotionally weighty landscapes as Steven Spielberg’s Munich and Spike Lee’s BlacKKKlansman.
The rest grew out of the logline and blurb.
Side Note Number Two: The following scenes take place in Istanbul, Turkey. I visited Istanbul late last spring before heading to Marseille for the summer. I had dreamed of going to Istanbul ever since I saw the James Bond flick From Russia with Love, where Bond takes the infamous Orient Express from Istanbul.
Istanbul was jam-packed with tourists. So much for my romantic expectations.
Little-known fact: Istanbul is the nose and boob job capital of the world. I looked it up after seeing an unusual number of bandaged noses. At first, I thought it might be the underground fight capital of the world.
I didn’t see any bandaged boobs.
But I did see plenty of swollen ones, popping out of low-cut tops like Ballpark franks sweating in the sweltering sun. They do plump when you cook ’em.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy this sample of my writing. My goal was to introduce this world in a retro film noir style. I wanted it to have the dazzling Technicolor allure of the Sean Connery Bond movies combined with the stark, gritty character depth of le Carré.
Writing screenplays is more stream-of-consciousness than writing a novel, which is all about crackling prose. Scripts are about creating visual images in the reader’s mind.
In that regard, it’s a lot like remote viewing.
I adjusted the screenplay structure regarding character and dialogue to give it a more literary read.
SCENES FROM THE TV PILOT
EXT. ASIAN EUROPEAN CITY - NIGHT
The sights and sounds of the city are alluring, sparkling -- the waters of the GOLDEN HORN running down its center. A world chock full of OPEN AIR BAZAARS and EXOTIC MARKETS.
The din of many different languages being spoken simultaneously by -- Asians, Turks, Middle-Easterners, Africans, and Europeans FILL THE AIR.
Rightfully dubbed the City of the World’s Desires.
SUPER: ISTANBUL, TURKEY, 1962
In the heart of all this, a swanky jewel, a decadent luxury hotel.
SUPER: PERA PALACE HOTEL
Turkish Men in top hats and coats with brass buttons open doors for well-to-do International Travelers. Bell Hops hustle to retrieve luggage from arriving cars and cabs.
INT. HOTEL SUITE - NIGHT
Aside from the light from a DESK LAMP, the place is dark. John is stretched out on a black leather recliner. His eyes are closed. He’s motionless. An artist sketch pad and pencil sit on the armrest next to him.
CLOSE ON JOHN
His forehead constricts slightly. Then, so subtly we’d miss it if we weren’t so close --John’s mouth tightens.
QUICK FLASH of something, almost subliminal. Then, there it is again.
EXT. HORIZON - DAY
IN JOHN'S MIND'S EYE, WE SEE -- CLEAR BLUE SKY. Then, something boils up out of it -- building, growing. A plumb of smoke rises up gracefully high into the atmosphere, becoming a MUSHROOM CLOUD. It’s almost pretty. Then we realize it’s a --
FIFTY MEGATON NUCLEAR DETONATION -- the blast coming our way. A moment later, everything’s gone.
VAPORIZED.
BLACK.
INT. HOTEL SUITE - NIGHT
STILL CLOSE ON JOHN. His forehead now has a thin layer of sweat over it.
A CLOUD OF SMOKE drifts over from the couch in the low light.
Cigarette smoke.
It’s coming from the burly Suit - the CHAPERONE (mid 50s) - on the couch with a smoldering fag dangling out his mouth, legs crossed comfortably, a discreet bulge in his jacket underneath the left arm.
The Chaperone looks at his watch as Thomas Orly quietly lets himself in. They speak softly, so as not to disturb John.
CHAPERONE: Fancy digs, huh? You know Agatha Christie wrote “Murder On the Orient Express” in this very hotel? John told me dat.
Orly skips the small talk.
ORLY: How long’s he been at it?
CHAPERONE: Going on four hours now.
The Chaperone stands and shakes the sleep out of his legs.
ORLY: Go anywhere?
CHAPERONE (indignant): You kidding. I ain’t left his side not even once.
ORLY: Take a piss?
CHAPERONE: Maybe once.
Orly shrugs, already bored with harassing the Chaperone.
CHAPERONE: Sure he’s not napping?
ORLY: He’s not napping.
CHAPERONE: Ain’t like the old days, is it, Tommy Boy? Be damned if I ever get used to this remote viewing. Creepy business. At the very least... definitely rules out a friendly game of poker.
ORLY: He can hear you, you know.
CHAPERONE: Hell, just saying. When’d you get so motherly? You’re his control. Not his nursemaid.
Orly lights a smoke and searches for an ashtray.
CHAPERONE: Positive he’s not catching some zees?
JOHN (O.S.): I assure you I wasn’t.
Orly and the Chaperone turn.
They find John sitting on the edge of the recliner, drawing a diagram in the sketch pad, consumed with concentration, face gleaming with perspiration. John looks exhausted, as if he just finished a workout.
JOHN: The Soviets are building a missile base in Cuba. Nuclear missiles capable of reaching the United States within minutes.
CHAPERONE: Jesus.
JOHN: It’s well camouflaged. So HQ will need this to find the base, Orly.
John stands and hands the diagram to Orly.
ORLY: Where’s the scientist?
JOHN: Pyotr Liukin’s in the suite directly above us. I had a clear connection.
ORLY: We have Jupiter and Thor here in Turkey within striking distance of Moscow. They’re trying to even things up with Cuba.
Orly picks up the phone, starts dialing.
ORLY: I better call the architects, let ‘em know.
CHAPERONE: Give Doyle my regards. But not that creepy Putnam.
The Chaperone exits.
JOHN: One more thing.
Orly stops dialing.
ORLY: Yeah?
JOHN: Liukin, doing the math, running the numbers, played out the two scenarios in his head that would likely occur if there was ever nuclear war. One where the United States achieves ’first strike.’ The other where the Soviets launch first.
ORLY: And?
JOHN: In both scenarios, America and Russia are completely annihilated, with radioactive fallout taking eighty percent of the planet with it.
ORLY: Has Liukin shared this with his superiors?
JOHN: He’s too afraid to.
ORLY: Can’t say I blame him. Soviets don’t handle bad news well. Tend to shoot the messenger. What took you so long?
JOHN: The scientist and his wife are having marital problems. That’s why he brought her along. That’s what was on his mind. His marriage, his daughter. It was awhile before he started thinking about his work. When he did, I got the picture.
Orly finishes dialing his number.
JOHN: Excuse me a moment.
John goes into the bathroom.
INT. HOTEL SUITE - BATHROOM - NIGHT
John splashes cold water in his face, dabs it with a hand towel. Snatches of Orly’s conversation on the phone drift in. John overhears a word that catches his attention --
ECLIPSE.
He wonders what it means. John hears the suite door open and close.
INT. HOTEL SUITE - NIGHT
John returns. Orly is waiting for him.
JOHN: I’m done here.
John heads towards the door.
JOHN: Heading down to the bar for a drink.
ORLY: Mission ain't over just yet, John.
John stops, turns. Orly is looking at him with another level of seriousness.
ORLY: New orders. Liukin never sees Mother Russia again. He has an accident, tonight. Make it public. Make it messy. We’ll save him the cost of a Russian divorce.
John deduces the obvious.
JOHN: Eclipse.
Eclipse is code for assassination.
ORLY: Your chaperone is already handling the details.
JOHN (unenthusiastically): Great.
John crosses to the door.
JOHN: I’ll be at the bar.
ORLY: Didn’t you hear what I just said about the scientist?
JOHN: Liukin will be at the bar.
ORLY: You know this because you viewed it?
JOHN: I know it because he’s Russian.
John exits. Moments later:
ORLY: Goddamn mindfuckers.
INT. HOTEL RESTAURANT - NIGHT
The place is PACKED. The restaurant - like the city - is a fusion of Asian, Turkish and European dishes. The rich crowd is just as exotic a blend.
A TURKISH BAND plays on the far end.
A THICK CLOUD of cigar smoke hangs over the bar. John makes his way to the last empty bar stool. He looks around, worried someone is going to tell him he can’t sit there. Nobody pays any attention. Despite the packed house, a BARTENDER arrives instantly.
JOHN: Bourbon, please.
As his drink comes, John spots PYOTR LIUKIN (50s) - greatly thinning waxy hair, small waxy mustache to match - sitting at a table with his wife RAUZA (late 40s) - attractive, although her beauty has hardened somewhat. They eat in stiff silence, the way a couple does after an unresolved dispute. They wash down their meal with free flowing vodka martinis, large green olives dancing in the glasses.
Their table is practically in the middle of the room.
CENTER STAGE.
John is so focused on the couple, it takes him a moment to feel the SOFT LOVELY HAND resting languidly on his shoulder. He turns. The woman attached to the hand is URSULA SOBIESKI (early 20s) - model good looks, her honeysuckle blonde hair up in a swirl like the women in magazines. Ursula’s form-fittingly cocktail dress is covered in GOLD SEQUINS that make her ELECTRIC BLUE EYES pop.
Ursula puts her hands to her lips when she starts LAUGHING at John.
URSULA: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh.
Ursula’s English is good. The European accent makes it sound better.
URSULA: You just look so out of place here.
John takes immediate racial offense.
JOHN: Why?
URSULA: You look so serious.
John glances around and mentally curses himself for being so sensitive and a damn lousy spy. She’s right. Everyone is relaxed, drunk, happy, full of merriment. The Ethnicity of the place runs the gamut -- with some Asians and Middle Easterners owning darker complexions than John.
JOHN: I had something on my mind.
John relaxes his face muscles slightly. It almost passes for a smile. Ursula bites her lip, trying not to laugh at John’s latest attempt. This has the effect of making John’s face collapse into a genuine smile.
URSULA: Better.
Ursula holds up the cigarette on the long dainty holder in her hand.
URSULA: I was wondering if you by chance had a light?
JOHN: Sure.
John lights her -- watching Ursula’s cheeks HOLLOW as she pulls on the cigarette, turning the ash tip a BLAZING RED.
URSULA: Thank you. Enjoy your evening.
JOHN: You as well.
Ursula smiles, then turns and exits, parting the crowd as only a gorgeous woman can.
John turns back to the Russian couple, right as the package arrives at their table. A small BLACK BOX with a red bow tied around it. Liukin takes the box from the Waiter, a puzzled expression on his face. Rauza is already looking at him with womanly suspicion. With the box on his lap, the bewildered Scientist opens it.
Inside, wrapped in a red silk handkerchief is -- A STUB NOSE .38 CALIBER REVOLVER.
Rauza leans forward, but can’t yet see what is in the box. As soon as the Scientist grips the handle of the gun, John quietly mouths what he is thinking at Liukin.
JOHN: Put it under your chin.
The Scientist pauses for a moment, blinks. The smarter they are, the harder to bend.
JOHN: Put-it-under your chin.
Liukin wavers half a second more, then places the gun under his chin -- in a direct trajectory with his brain.
JOHN: Pull the trigger.
Remarkably, this goes almost entirely unnoticed, except for Rauza, who has a slack-jawed look on her face, martini in hand -- and a DRUMMER in the band, who misses the beat.
JOHN: Pull-the-trigger.
Rauza drops her martini. The GLASS SHATTERING and the GUN FIRING occur simultaneously. A quick little geyser of blood and brain bits spray up at a slight angle, dousing the elderly BRITISH COUPLE supping at the next table. The Woman begins SCREAMING hysterically.
At the bar, John is hit, as if by a lighting bolt, with --
INT. RUSSIAN HOSPITAL - DAY - MOS
THE SCIENTIST'S DYING THOUGHT -- a younger Liukin looks at his newborn daughter with unbridled happiness. He holds the brand new life in his hands, lifting her up to eye level. Wet strands of hair are plastered to a head still damp with after-birth. His daughter looks back at him and smiles with eyes of pure innocence.
INT. HOTEL RESTAURANT - NIGHT
John breaks the connection quickly, the memory seared into his PSYCHE -- burned into his soul -- and looks for an avenue of escape.
PANDEMONIUM has broken out in the restaurant.
John sees Orly at the exit and moves towards him. As soon as John reaches Orly, the control begins walking. John, walking alongside, looks weak, almost ill.
JOHN: I didn’t get out of his head quick enough... I...
ORLY: Keep moving.
EXT. STREET - NIGHT
John and Orly make it to the street curb -- traffic still bustling in Istanbul, even at this late hour. Through the HAIL of fast moving vehicles heading in either direction, John can see the Chaperone sitting impatiently in a dark sedan across the street, engine RUNNING, exhaust fumes rising. As they wait for the light, John notices something else.
Across the street --
down the block --
through the maze of traffic --
John sees the honeysuckle blonde in the sequin dress standing completely still under the FLICKERING NEON LIGHT of a grocery store sign. Then, she thinks the words at John as she speaks them in a low tone.
URSULA: Tit for...
JOHN: Tat.
ORLY STEPS OUT IN FRONT OF A FAST MOVING BUS.
John is baptized in a SPRAY OF BLOOD from Orly’s instantly pulverized body that is now being DRAGGED, mangled under the bus as its breaks SCREECH. Orly’s bloody corpse is spit out behind the bus half a block away as it comes to a stop.
In shock, John looks at Ursula as she thinks at him --
JOHN: Run.
The NEON SIGN FLICKERS.
A truck passes.
Ursula is gone.
In the midst of traffic and chaos, John sees the Chaperone WAVING wildly at him to come over to the car.
A TURKISH MAN in a black turtle neck sweater and leather jacket and another MAN WITH A THICK MUSTACHE are shoving their way through the crowd, towards John.
John is trying to make it to the car, but it is clear now the two Men are flanking him, cutting him off. John sees the Turkish Man’s hand slip inside his coat. The Spy hesitates a fraction of a second more, Then --
RUNS FOR HIS LIFE down the block, into an alley. The two Men converge on the alley and follow John in.
The Chaperone BANGS his fist on the car hood.
CHAPERONE: Bloody hell!
He jumps in and GUNS THE ENGINE.
END OF EXCERPT
