The Arson Bot & I: Rewriting for the Budget
The first draft is for fun, but the second, third, and fourth are for filming.
Welcome to part 3 of “Free Indie Film,” a boots-on-the-ground chronicle of my effort to finance, produce, and direct a feature film. Previously we covered securing our first investor and the inspiration and writing of the “vomit draft.”
Film Updates:
It’s been roughly a month since we began (pre) pre-production on our NonDē horror film (standing for “non-dependent” film— thanks to Substack icons Ted Hope & Donny Broussard for the phrase), and here’s a quick update on the last week of work:
Visited our *fingers crossed* set. And it’s f-cking amazing, y’all. More to come…
Met our casting director. Actor wish-lists, availability, outreach strategies… if only it was as easy as calling a gal up and offering her the part.
Prelim discussions with special effects artists. It’s not a blood-sucking motel if we don’t see it drink a little blood, baby.
Now, on to the post!
Standing on a Hollywood soundstage as a robot I’d concocted rolled up and said, “hello,” was the out-of-body experience that convinced (doomed?) me to work in the film industry forever. I cooked up “Arson Bot,” the rogue campfire-starting automaton in my first produced television script, during a late night brainstorming session. At the time, I was a writer’s assistant on Netflix’s Team Kaylie, and had been offered a chance to pitch an episode. The story caught fire ;) in the room the next day and, a week or two later, the special effects team slyly called me down to set. Arson Bot, now named “Sal,” was alive. A team of wildly-talented artists took the words I’d scribbled in my sweltering studio apartment, spent a bunch of money, and made them reality. If that’s not Hollywood magic, I don’t know what is.
The magic of seeing one of my nebulous ideas wrestled into reality is a joy I hope never fades. But magic ain’t cheap, kid. The greatest script in the world will remain a script forever if there’s not enough money to shoot it, and an incredible TV episode will die a swift death in the writers’ room if it’s too expensive for the show’s budget. An often neglected skill in screenwriting is not just composing the right words, but knowing just how expensive those words are going to be, and this skill is triply important if you plan to be your own producer, too.
To be clear, I don’t think it helps to think of the budget when first writing a film. The “vomit draft,” to me, should be totally unencumbered by piddling constraints like “time,” or “money,” or “an AD’s sanity.” Sure, some part of my brain keeps tabs on the big-ticket items — extra locations, stunts, etc. — but film budgeting is a series of compromises and trade-offs. It’s not until I get into revisions that I start really thinking about the scenes, images, moments, and sets from a more practical, line-item lens.
Luckily for me, working on multi-cam sitcoms like Team Kaylie and Bunk'd: Learning the Ropes offered me more than the chance to dream up milk-powered jet packs, ring-bearing kangaroos, and bean-themed nudie suits — it taught me to predict what those things would cost, and write them accordingly. When I co-founded Salt Cellar Films and began producing $30k, $50k, and $100k short films, that knowledge only grew deeper. At the end of the day, the best way to learn how much scripts cost is to actually produce scripts. Budgeting is neither a precise nor predictable science (as I remember it, the jet pack was shockingly cheap), but there are a few general tips from my time in TV that have served me well:
Time is your most expensive asset. Every day you work, you have to pay & feed your crew and rent the location and gear. Every hour of overtime is worth double.
Additions increase costs exponentially. Adding a character can also mean adding hair and make-up, food, changing rooms, costumes, and transport to set. An extra location requires more set decoration, time spent moving lights and cameras into place, and a bevy of unexpected variables (one “free” location we got, once, was next to a school full of kids, bless them, just couldn’t stay out of frame).
One killer, big-budget scene beats 3-4 middle-tier ones. In sitcoms, we called it our “block comedy” bit— the scene or moment that would define the episode and thus warrant the greatest investment. While I think a 90-minute film may need more than one of these scenes, the point still holds. It’s not about being stingy, it’s about being strategic.
Here’s how I took ‘em for a spin, one by one, as I revised the script:
(I’m realizing that, even more than documenting our progress on this film, this Substack has been an incredible way to teach myself as we go. Having to organize my thoughts like this continues to open up new avenues and ideas. It’s invigorating! Anyway, back to the post.)
1. “Time = Money” is a Cliché for a reason
The most expensive consistent item on a budget is the number of shoot days. Figuring out the number of days you need to produce X script is far too complex for this post, but a decent rule of thumb for Salt Cellar is to shoot 5-7 pages of the script each day. We’ve shot 12 pages (a few actors sitting and talking), and we’ve shot 2 pages (fight scenes are all-day affairs, at least). No matter what your average, however, more shoot days requires more budget.
Back on the Disney shows, we shot entire 22-minute episodes in just 2 days, and I quickly learned that an effective shoot starts on the page, with a script that understands the elements that secretly add time and is written accordingly:
More script pages = more time shooting. I mean, “duh,” but still. My first revision is almost entirely a red-pen “cut pass.” Even 1-2 lines of dialogue per scene can add up quick.
One tip from TV: we always tried to end a scene at the end of a page instead of letting it drift 4-5 lines over. Turns out, it’s the kind of artistic constraint that can often spark creative solutions and tighter scenes. If it doesn’t work, no sweat, but try it out.
Costume changes are never quick. Changing an actor’s shirt almost always leads to bathroom breaks, hair and makeup touch ups, and delays. These can sneak up on you, too— if it’s “the next day” in the story, the character needs new clothes. Moving a few scenes to the night before or the morning after is easy.
The more actors in a scene, the longer it’ll take to shoot. In my first draft, there was a short scene where both parents greet their son first thing in the morning. But for a 1/2 page scene, is it really worth it to put three actors through hair and make-up, block them, and get individual coverage? Nope! Cut one parent.
Speciality shots are never as quick as you think. This includes shots that require precise timing, stunts, or complex camera moves. This isn’t just a director problem down the line — if it is in the script, your crew will spend time planning for it, too. As a low-budget filmmaker, these are the “darlings” I have to kill first. Unless it is essential to the story, is part of rule #3 below, or it undoubtedly adheres to the Rule of Cool, I axe it (but make a note, just in case time opens up unexpectedly on the day).
Remember, though, that it is most important to think about the average number of pages you can shoot. My goal in revising was not to cut every scene into quick and easy shots, but to balance the scenes that might take all day with 4-5 scenes that could all be shot back-to-back.
2. Adding script elements adds exponential costs
Any given shot in a film requires a complex interplay of artists, crewmembers, schedules, and surprises, and it is very rare that “one simple addition” ends up being very simple. When we wrote that kangaroo into the Disney Channel show, two trainers had to be paid and fed, an area of the stage had to be set aside for a pen and feeding area, and a safety rep brought on for the day. Adding a single crane shot to our short film “One Last Round” (premiering at Hollyshorts in August— grab your tickets!) ended up requiring an increase to our insurance premium just to secure the rental, a specialized technician to run, and several adaptors to attach the camera.
This doesn’t mean I don’t add new things to the script when revising, but I try my best to ensure we’re getting our bang for our buck when I do. The kangaroo, who was initially in only one scene, ended up in 2-3 scenes— we were paying for her to be there, after all. We used the crane to replace our dolly on several other shots, getting more for our money and saving crucial time on set laying track.
So, if I’m going to add something, I try to amortize the addition across the entire story. On the flip side, if I can cut something out that only has one small function, like taking two characters who each speak one line and conflating them into one, the savings will be exponential, too.
3. Ensure you can shoot your big-money scenes as intended.
For me, revising the script isn’t about saving money, it’s about getting the most out of the money I have. Semantics? Maybe. But, as kickass director Howard Hawks once proclaimed: “a good movie is three good scenes and no bad scenes.” I knew what those three scenes were going to be as I wrote the first few drafts — they’re the scenes that convinced me to write it in the first place — but protecting that vision meant killing some darlings.
As I combed through the script, I knew I had to rob some resources from smaller scenes, cutting out the cool location that only features in 1/2 a page and conflating two smaller characters into one. I cut a few scenes entirely, moving the essential story points into other scenes where I could.
There’s an interview out there with Christopher Nolan, discussing his first feature, where he admits he put ~ 80% of the time and budget into the first 10 minutes of the film. He knew that the goodwill bought by a killer first scene would carry through the film, and would be the part audiences walked away remembering anyway. I’m sure he wishes he had the budget to put that much care into the whole movie; don’t we all? He wisely used what limited resources he had for their maximum impact. My revision aimed to do the same.
The goal of my budget revision isn’t to cut story away just for cutting’s sake, but to make sure I have a very good reason for keeping that part of the story in the script. If I’m going to ask a group of hardworking artists to build an Arson Bot, I better be sure it is worth their time, the story’s needs, and the producer’s money.
Because, as I’ve learned the hard way, the people investing in me want more than a cocky grin when they ask how their money is being spent. They want rationale. And the only way you can do that is by breaking down exactly what the script requires, scene by scene and image by image. Once I feel like the story is humming and the characters feel alive, it’s time to put aside the Artist hat and write like a Producer. Which means, of course… spreadsheets:
That, however, is the subject of another post… the next one!
I offer script consultations, either for creative direction or with an eye towards produceability. Looking for some notes? Hit me up at nick@saltcellarfilms.com or the link below!
Identity with sweet little Timmy
Identity is the film that was also shot there!