Any story breaks down exactly the same, into those same three sections, or as they’re known in dramatic terminology: ‘Acts’. When applied to a screenplay these three Acts are imaginatively entitled Act I (the beginning), Act II (the middle) and Act III (the end). These three Acts, and the turning points between them, must be mastered by an author structuring a tale.

The Beginning

Act I introduces the key elements of the story. These include its world (place, time, etc), its genre or feel (comedy, action, thriller, etc), and its major characters (notably the heroic protagonist and villainous antagonist). Furthermore Act I identifies a ‘flaw’ in the protagonist, to be later addressed through pursuing a ‘goal’ (that ‘flaw’ represents a ‘need’ to be inadvertently resolved through chasing a ‘want’). The ‘goal’ (the hero’s ‘mission’) is also introduced in Act I, through a particularly insightful incident. From this comprehensive introduction the scene is set.

The Middle

In Act II the protagonist starts trying on a new persona, skill or scenario in pursuit of that goal they’re now committed to, while the nasty antagonist throws obstacles into their path. Act II is therefore a boiling sea of conflict and tension in which villainous challenges test the growing hero, who tastes success, but also failure. The comfortable old world of Act I appeals at times of disheartening failure, but the call of the quest is strong, so the hero gets up and goes on, honing their arsenal for an ultimate showdown. Through Act II the grip of past weakness loosens, and heroic development is steeled and strengthened in readiness for a grand finale.

The End

Act III provides that finale, concluding the tale by finally fixing the protagonist’s flaw, as the world of Act I is banished forever in favor of a new improved version going forward. This all-important transition is sealed through the ultimate defeat of the antagonist, served with a twist for dramatic panache. The journey, and growth that comes with it, is therefore complete, and all manner of other loose ends are also tied up (seeds sewn in earlier Acts are harvested here). Act III lays all open issues to rest, in glorious conclusion.

So there it is, as simple as that… almost. Act II, the middle, can be a muddle, and is twice as long as its straddling counterparts. Purist ponds bubble with the question of whether it should indeed be considered just one Act at all. Most agree that its central point (the centre of the entire movie) must be marked by a notable event (typically a false high or low for the hero, as a taste of things to come) but whether this marks the boundary between two distinct Acts (“Middle” and “More Middle” as some say) continues to fire academic discourse. The point is largely moot, and best left to the mass debaters.

Absolutely unquestioned is the importance of the events marking the turning points between Acts I & II, and II & III. In the former the hero having identified the goal has shied from it, debated it, and eventually at this key juncture commits to its pursuit. Here they lock themselves in, by openly declaring that the world of Act I just won’t do, so a journey of growth will be embarked upon. This is the “Let’s do this thing” moment.

The break from Act II to III comes deep into the quest, after the villain has spat out all manner of venom bringing the hero down to stare into the cold dead abyss of defeat… from here the hero’s new qualities must mature, harmonize and gloriously emerge with a plan of attack to take forward through resurrection into the final showdown. This is the “Let’s finish this thing” moment.

So in its biggest chunks a screenplay, like anything else, is just a beginning, middle and end. These three Acts are divided by easily identifiable key events, with another such event bang in the middle of the middle. These three points of definition are the first that an author must identify when laying out the story to be told… they are the three key pegs on the timeline of the tale…

…but more must follow… this particular story is still very much at the beginning.

There’s no better example of an idea to use than a 6’3 walking talking Badger in Hollywood. The PROTAGONIST (or hero, with whom the audience must sympathize, or

Badgers - always the best heroes

at least be fascinated by) in this case is obviously the Badger himself (badgers always make the best heroes). The GOAL too is simple: he wants to write and sell a screenplay (d’uh!). But identifying the ANTAGONIST (or enemy – the someone or something that will try to prevent the hero achieving the goal) is trickier here. By heeding the advice of lore to not defecate and masturbate simultaneously the Badger will ensure that the distasteful Wanky Shit Demon won’t feature as a candidate, so who WILL stand in his way? Actually the better question in this example is ‘what’ will stand in his way, and the answer is ‘procrastination’… but for a movie, such an intangible force must be personified through an actual character representing it. This is where the writer’s imagination comes in (must the writer do everything?!), by creating for example a vile demon such as ‘The Evil Time-Sucker’, who stands on the Badger’s future grave,

The hero must fight his enemy - and feel the pain

relentlessly yanking on an invisible rope that stretches back in time to noose our black ‘n’ white hero’s neck, dragging him closer to his ultimate fate, hour by hour, day by day, month by month, over and over and over… the rope gets ever shorter as time runs out… and ‘The Evil Time-Sucker’ wants what’s left for himself, for by claiming it he’ll take the Badger’s very soul. To that end this sinister antagonist will throw juicy distractions onto the path that the Badger follows, with every temptation taken being a victory for the forces of darkness, and every one resisted in favor of actual writing being a step towards that screenplay selling goal. It’s a race against time. It’s a battle of wills. Yeah… it could work.

Now to produce that all-important logline, these three elements are simply fused into a sentence or two with as many adjectives necessary to convey the journey and conflict of the tale. In our example it may go a little something like this:

Describe the hero as somehow flawed (eg naive) at the outset

“A naïve 6’3 walking-talking Badger with nothing but a pen and a dream of writing and selling a screenplay, arrives in uncaring, unscrupulous Hollywood, where The Evil Time-Sucker repeatedly tempts him into procrastination with wild and alluring distractions, in the hope of ultimately claiming his soul.”

And so a logline is curled down… and now the actual screenplay planning can start. Now the timeline of the movie can be rolled out, empty at first but ready to be populated. From it’s beginning on Page 1 (funnily enough) to its end on Page 110 (again not carved in stone, but for initial planning 110 pages is the sensible target). Now the scale of the task is clearly visible: 110 blank pages, to be filled with whatever intrigue, excitement, interest, humor, heart-ache, action, emotion etc, that it takes to tell the tale captured in that logline.

Thankfully the full 110 pages are not to be swallowed whole… if they were the author would choke on what would be considered a huge pile of crap (frankly, not pleasant). No, before wading into the whole, it must be broken down chunk by chunk to make it both

Wise old sages are here to help

digestible (ie writable) to the author AND credible to the potential customer, ie the movie-maker. To aid the break-down process a wealth of wise sages lie waiting, such as Blake Snyder (‘Save The Cat’), The Script Lab website, William Akers (‘Your Screenplay Sucks’) and the grand-daddy of them all Syd Field. Their specifics may vary, but they all start with that blank ‘beginning to end’ timeline, onto to which they peg specific markers at specific page points, to break the whole into specific sections.

So get out your knife and fork, for with our live example now up and running through its polished logline, we’re gonna tuck into some tasty Badger… breakdown’s comin’ up round the bend!

Blur: there was another way

Oasis instead. In the Brit-pop world it transpired that the Manc oik brothers Gallagher were indeed ‘another way’.

All worlds have ‘another way’, including that of structuring movie screenplays. Blake Snyder’s “Save The Cat” (STC) methodology is recognized as the best for getting a novice from raw idea to finished script – but it’s not the only show in Tinsel Town. That said, all the gurus agree that having spawned an idea, the first action is to chew its main elements until a logline is curled down – it’s a truth universally acknowledged. What comes next though is subject to debate. Snyder advocates immediately beating the meat of the logline into a Beat Sheet, specifically the Blake Snyder Beat Sheet (aka the BS2) comprising fifteen distinct story stages… but there is another way. In fact there are several.

Oasis: Brit-pop's other way

An alternative resource for scribes, both newbie and experienced, is The Script Lab (TSL). This website gem covers the expansive gamut of screenwriting in tremendous detail – and includes a magical stand-alone tab entitled “How To Write A Screenplay” (somewhat more self-explanatory than the moniker “Save The Cat”). This intuitive section does exactly what it says on the tin, walking through those steps necessary to gradually build an idea into a script, as does STC. One key difference TSL suggests over STC however is the level of detail to break into on that first step from the logline. STC says to beat it into a sheet of 15 beats, while TSL says to pause, and first concentrate on the Five Key Moments, which every movie has.

So which of these two (of the many guides available) represents the path to righteousness? Perhaps the power of analogy can help answer that, if we apply a couple of bodily functions to the scenario. If curling down a logline can be likened to defecation for instance, and beating the meat into a Beat Sheet be likened to, say, masturbation, then any young lad read regular bedtime stories by his wise old uncle knows the answer. Defecation and masturbation should not mix – for if they do, the dreaded Wanky Shit Demon is summoned – leading to an eternity in a puke-inducing hell of shit and wank, eating

The Wanky Shit Demon - do not summon!

nothing but cakes made of shit and wank. Frankly it’s not good. Defecation and masturbation do NOT mix.

So, by applying scientific analogy, the conclusion is that despite Snyder’s recommendation, it’s actually best NOT to go straight from curling down a logline to beating the meat into a beat sheet, but instead to pause, and heed The Script Lab advice to identify the story’s Five Key Moments, before breaking out further detail.

Whoever’s gospel is followed the final destination is the same: a polished script to a standard and format instantly recognizable and credible to Hollywood industry types. So unsurprisingly those TSL Five Key Moments overlap significantly with the fifteen beats of the STC BS2. The two are not mutually exclusive, they just develop the detail at different paces. Cracking the TSL moments will in fact make cracking STC beats all the simpler. They can be considered complementary.

So on his movie-writing dream journey the 6’3 walking talking badger will pause from saving the cat, to fight off the Wanky Shit Demon by studying The Script Lab’s Five Key Moments.

These five moments will follow… in just five short moments… meanwhile take some advice from a fool: defecation and masturbation do NOT mix.

Anyone can strain out an idea, anyone

Extracting that idea to start building a full movie upon, initially requires the construction of the ‘logline’. This is the one or two-sentence distillation of exactly what the movie, idea or story, is about. Back in the thirties loglines marked the spines of scripts, enabling studio types to review stacks of screenplays at a glance, without disturbing their vaulted piles. Today the logline opens a movie’s sales pitch (it often IS the movie’s sales pitch), and more importantly is the touchstone point of focus for the writer as they write. By precisely capturing the story’s essence, the logline acts as a beacon, drawing every written word onto the right path. If any scene, setting or dialogue line doesn’t support what’s in the logline, it simply doesn’t belong in the script. The logline rules. The logline is vital. The logline has to be right.

Anyone can let an idea rip, anyone

All movies have a logline, and all ideas can have one applied. Even the flimsiest idea will expand into the backbone of a full cinematic tale when crunched into a logline format. The process catalyses creativity. It grips the idea, then slaps it into shape, making a man of it.

To curl one down is to ask some basic questions, three in particular:

1) Who is the idea about, or at least through whose eyes will the tale be seen? Every story has a protagonist, or hero, with whom the audience associates (or at least understands, or is fascinated by). So who in that germ of an idea would the central figure be? Who is the protagonist?

2) What is the protagonist trying to achieve? A story takes us from a beginning to an end, through which shit happens, primarily because of the hero driving, striving, and/or fighting for something. What, in that embryonic idea, is that something? What is the hero aiming for? What is the goal?

3) What is blocking the path? A hero strolling to their goal unopposed may seem rather dandy, but it makes for a bloody dull story. It needs tension, the dramatic tension from the friction of an opposing force. The hero must have hurdles to leap, and these must be summarized into or represented by a greater entity or enemy. What is that major obstacle in the fledgling idea? Who is the antagonist?

By answering these three questions the story is conceived, and can grow. Of course the

Anyone can curl down a logline, anyone

eventual movie will contain far more detail, and in fact the logline itself should have a level more detail than these simple answers may give. It needs this to fire the author’s belly as they write, and to sell the concept to an outsider. The logline must excite and evoke emotion, eliciting investment in the story. The right logline stitches the reader in, to the idea, the tale, the whole journey.

So adjectives must be applied to protagonist, goal and antagonist, that ratchet up the dramatic tension and vibrance of the scenario. The logline should burst with color, crackle with electricity and burn with conflict. It should bite.

Some illustrative examples include the following:

An alienated boy bonds with an extraterrestrial child stranded on earth. The boy defies the adults to help the alien contact his mother-ship so he can go home. (E.T.)

A mild-mannered Jewish doctor struggles with bizarre personality changes, unfamiliar slaughterhouse memories and increasingly violent episodes after receiving an emergency heart transplant of unknown origin. (Swine Heart Horror)

A naïve 6’3 walking talking badger arrives in unscrupulous, uncaring Hollywood with

Anyone can draw off an idea, and nurture it into a logline, anyone

nothing but a pen, and a dream of writing movies. (Badger With A Pen)

Curl down the logline right, and the rest will solidly follow. It is the acorn from which the mighty oak will grow, and the compass through which the writer’s journey will be plotted.

Curl down your logline, and you can then start to beat the meat of your movie into a full structured screenplay… and THAT is what comes next.

Of course there are cerebral snobs with works of great significance burning inside who would NEVER submit to such apparent abdication of creative duty. But maybe they should. Rigid structure can generate freedom rather than bondage – it can release rather than shackle. Within a pre-defined framework, story and character can blossom in all manner of creative ways, while disciplining the imagination really works the expressive muscle, and draws out the real essence of a tale. The process forces a writer to confront want it is they really want to say, and to wrestle with it, and eventually say it. Free of such chains of direction the cerebral snob can just lazily ejaculate globby gloops of self-absorbed narrative all over their page, hosing splattered prose up and down in endless thraps of wordy masturbation. But what are they actually saying, at heart? Do they even know? Does anyone actually care? Or are they just another boring wanker?

So, despite its criticism the first-timer may be well advised to “Save The Cat”, at least through a first draft. Let Snyder hold your hand, as you take the foundation of your idea and build it up into a lavish screenplay… one that Hollywood types won’t automatically regard as penned by another clueless hick from the potato-fields. Banishing that latter fear AND saving oneself from becoming a boring wanker… surely a no-brainer.

There are several more worthy justifications for an aspiring screenwriter to “Save The Cat”… but for the 6’3 walking talking badger, newly arrived in Hollywood with a pen and a dream of writing movies, none of these were necessary. He was already drawn to Snyder’s works by another force altogether.

The Badger, you see, was already a published writer, having first been commissioned years previously in his native Britain. This great ambition back then had needed encouragement and direction to achieve, with both coming through a journalist friend who saw talent in his raw scrawl, and nurtured it. Contacts were established, pitches made, and commissions came. The badger wrote (on burning issues such as “Adult Male Incontinence” and “Beauty Secrets Of Italian Women In Their Forties”), the badger was published… and the badger was paid.

The money, though not insignificant, was incidental. The point was glorious validation, revelation, the feeding of a dream, and the opening of a whole new world. So when those commission checks arrived, just as the journalist friend was losing her job and simultaneously almost losing her beloved young cat to sickness (no job, no wages, no vet bill payment), the answer was obvious. The commissions paid the vet… The Badger Saved The Cat…

Just as written in Paolo Coehlo’s inspirational “The Alchemist”, destiny years later left a sign for the badger following his dream…to Hollywood… where the guide he really needed in a blinding blizzard of choice was titled “Save The Cat”. Of course it was. The answer was obvious.

Wheelie, that original cat, lived a full and healthy life, and her journalist friend owner was re-employment in due course. She currently works for Elle magazine, where the badger still graces her commissioning couch, despite his journey having progressed since those bygone days. That early episode of feline charity was, literally, a “Save The Cat” moment… which according to “Save The Cat” methodology all great stories should have at their outset…

The Badger’s might just be a great story yet… so you be sure to keep rooting for its hero.

Enter the Packers

emerge into the sun down ferry gangways to be suddenly mobbed by waiting locals, all waving ragged flaps of card bearing photos of rooms for rent, as they shouted prices and flashed their best (but invariably gnarly) salesman smiles. The dizzying array of temporary accommodation offered by this writhing mass of Mediterranean colour, sound and odour left many a lily-skinned newcomer utterly bewildered (“It’s all Greek to me”). To the experienced hopper however, with oiled skin bronzed to Bourbon biscuit brown, the process was a breeze. They’d completely ignore physical features, of the properties or their agents, and just bellow out

Who wouldn

four quick-fire questions: “How far? How many? How long? How much?” A chorus of competing bids would bark back in, tussling each other in auction, before a swift final negotiation would close a deal to see bags thrown onto some old jalopy as away to the first beer they’d go. Bish bash bosh. Sure it meant some dodgy rooms were procured, but so what? It was quick, cheap and good enough when all you needed was somewhere close to the life to lay your bag, and maybe your head, before moving on again after a few days revelry and relaxation. Golden times.

On the other side of the planet vaguely similar scenes played out in the bars of Manila, the Philippines, where new overseas visitors also faced potentially overwhelming arrays of choice. The man differences here were that the visitors were exclusively male, while the eager ‘sellers’ were all female (or so they seemed). These ladies would descend on

Boys and Girls

new entrants to their bars in such an excited entanglement of barely concealed fragrant flesh that any virgin to the scene would be really quite intimidated. But again, to the wise old buck, the process of calming the raging sea was simple. By contrast to choosing a Greek island room, here physical features were not only considered, but were ALL that were considered. Be it through sparkle of eye, inflection of voice, cut of bikini, or whatever, the choice was instinctive and immediate. With as little as a couple of nods the chosen were chosen, and rest of the flock instantly dispersed, to re-group in a swooping plunge onto the next thirsty punter through the door. Those chosen ones then had a few over-

They all need lovin

priced drinks bought for them, and should relaxed conversation take a particular turn further ‘services’ could then be discussed…apparently.

Having too many choices can be daunting, evoking the instinct to run for the hills, or to at least fumble, ponder, defer and procrastinate. In Greece or the Philippines that can leave you cold and alone, or even worse in a remote flea-pit shed with the hairy old snaggle-toothed whore who no-one else would entertain. Neither scenario really appeals… (although of course we’ve all been there).

For an aspiring scribe new to Hollywood the wealth of screenwriting guides available can represent an equivalent scenario. The ‘Writing’ shelves of Barnes & Noble and Borders burst forth with as much colourful variety as any Greek landlord mob or Philippine ‘pussy posse’ (their term, not mine)… here too the voice of experience is invaluable. In this case that collective voice cut recommends the bizarrely titled tome… “Save The Cat”. Irrelevantly feline though it sounds, it is hailed by critics as the most effective tool for extracting a movie idea from a dreamer’s head and crafting it into a palatably structured screenplay on the page.

So, with his final jigsaw piece of preparation in place, the badger dispelled all haunting memories of drafty sheds and snaggle-toothed whores, to focus exclusively, at last, on his screenplay… there would be no more running to the hills, fumbling, pondering, deferring or procrastinating… now was the time, his time… to write a movie.

Delicious… that’s better… now where were we? Ah yes, the blank page… well… my sock drawer was a tad disorganized the last time I checked. That really needs addressing. Bear with me…

OK, I’m back again… with a re-arranged sock drawer, a nice cup of tea, a dream, a pen… and still a blank page… what else is needed to get from utter novice to writer of a finished screenplay worthy of Hollywood note?

It boils down to a good idea well expressed, within a story tellers structure, in the right format.

A new screen-writer’s concern generally homes in on the latter, the dreaded format. They know there’s a precise combination of page lay-out, typography, spacing, font, etc that Hollywood instantly recognizes as ‘correct’. They also know that to get it ‘wrong’, no matter how brilliant their work, will be to have that work go unread and the author labelled an irrelevant outsider. It may seem unduly paranoid, but there’s truth in the fear. With so many scripts vying for attention the industry needs filters, and format is the first. It has to be ‘right’. So as a huge ferocious dragon, ‘format’ rains burning terror down upon the fledgling screenwriter… but it needn’t. There’s a simple solution through which this big fat bully can be slain with a slit throat through the nonchalant flick of the writer’s wrist, deftly swiping a razor sharp credit card: just buy ‘Final Draft’. This industry standard screenwriting software automatically takes care of all those all-important fonts, margins, spacings, etc, to dispel forever the specter of ‘poor formatting’, and bestow instead instant credence on a writer then freed to focus on story structure… and ‘the idea’.

That original idea, by contrast, comes from the writer alone – born of a maelstrom of inspiration, experience, dream and imagination. Technically, ideas can be gleaned from others (bought, gifted or stolen) but in the true art of creation genesis comes from within, through an inexplicable flash or the slow-growing of a minute seed. These ideas, at least one, if only embryonic, are the writer’s rawest of raw material. No fancy software package can act as substitute here, and no real writer would want it to. The idea, and its expression through the beauty of language, is after-all what makes a writer a writer.

Which leaves structure… the crafting of the idea into a tale. It’s the creation of a hero, the population of supporting and opposing characters, and the embarking of them all onto journeys, of one kind or another. It’s the expression of theme, and the development of such through activity. It’s the melding of images, words and actions to take an audience from one point, place or mindset, to another, while entertaining, enthralling, terrifying, amusing and / or educating along the way. It’s the ancient art of story telling… and it’s all about structure.

The question is, is ‘structure’ as applied to Hollywood screenplays, subject to such excruciating rigidity as ‘format’, or like the original ‘idea’ is it solely within the remit of the writer? The answer lies in-between. There are specific ‘rules’, but they guide rather than dictate. They encourage the writer to find ways to make their story fit them, by moulding and massaging original ideas and premises, creating a richer tale for doing so. Such ‘rules’ do indeed apply today in Hollywood, and to ignore them is ill advised. While not as rigid as those of format, which can be wholly handled by software, they are quite precise (certain turns should occur at certain stages, as shown on certain pages of a script). Without them a screenplay can meander and wane, in a manner instantly recognizable to Hollywood (whose cultured nostrils smell sh*t like a shark senses blood).

So a good writer is conscious of structural ‘rules’, which can enhance both story and credibility. And while there is no direct equivalent to Final Draft to simply take up all such responsibility, there is a wealth of help and resource available, at the local bookshop or on the net. By imparting the wisdom of disciplined structure these resources don’t restrict or hinder writers, but offer them a framework to be free in while honing their written product into the readable, the credible… maybe even the sellable.

The writer must still take their original idea on an adventurous journey of creation… but can do so with a guide to the jungle… a guardian angel if you will…

So enough procrastination… enough tea… enough sock drawer re-arrangement… enough with the blank page. Let’s grab a guide, or indeed a few of them, and get this party started.

Write now…

Being so famous Venice and Santa Monica attract a swamp of tourist-trap tackiness, that festers into grim seediness and even base criminality (linger on Venice Beach as the sun sets, to see the kooks come out and the sinister mood harden, in minutes… actually, don’t). Such edginess is sold as bohemian style, and is certainly something to experience, but frankly it ain’t too pleasant.

Any distasteful oozing down the California coast is broken at Marina Del Rey, by the marina itself, which dams back the effluent atmosphere to the north, from the affluent feel below. Its a boundary reenforced by the noisy LAX airport, Chevron’s hulking oil refinery (their second – hence the name of the immediate area, ‘El Segundo’ (‘The Second’)) and Hyperion’s sewage treatment plant (yes, there is SOME effluent in South Bay). Not exactly stereotypical symbols of idyllic beach life, these brutes act as gate-keepers and camouflage, deterring those who know no better from pushing through to the oasis beyond: South Bay.

The coastal community of South Bay comprises the ‘beach cities’ of Manhattan, Hermosa, Redondo and Palos Verdes. Relatively unknown internationally they’re more residential than tourist magnet, and therein lies their appeal. People live there. They take lasting pride. Consequently the South Bay beach cities are clean, fresh, healthy, relaxed, friendly and safe. That said, each has its own individual flavor, distinguishing it from its neighbors.

PV

Palos Verdes, furthest south, sports a craggy natural coastline more akin to Dorset than California. From its jagged cliffs (backdrop to many ‘Pirates Of The Caribbean’ scenes) roll wild dramatic hills dotted with luxurious estates, golf courses and stables (this being horse country). Old austere wealth is embedded in exclusive Palos Verdes… and it shows.

Below it, Redondo acts as gateway to the north. Pebbled rock-pool beaches give way just south of its famous pier to the wide flat sandy expanses that mark all the other South Bay beach cities (and indeed Venice, Santa Monica, and beyond). That pier, the marina, and their surrounds buzz gently with acoustic music and fine dining (there’s nowhere better to mallet a fresh crab). It’s tranquil, but livelier in Redondo than in the Palos Verdes hills above.

Hermosa is livelier still… and then some! This is where the kids come to play, be it beach volleyball (of ALL standards) by day, or drinking and dancing in the thumping bars by night. Music blares, alcohol flows, yet it stays clean, healthy and safe (all the ingredients exist for Hermosa nightlife to match that of a British town-centre’s, but it thankfully doesn’t – aggression is rare). Sure it’s a tad frat boy, but Hermosa is sexy and fun.

Badger Beach - far away in time

Then there’s Manhattan Beach, more mature than Hermosa, but still with a fresh thriving restaurant, coffee-shop and bar scene. It’s slick, yet relaxed (getting dressed up generally involves picking out your smartest flip-flops). The laid back feeling is further influenced by all the surfers drawn by its world-class waves, particularly to the El Porto north end, where dolphins regularly ride the breakers amongst their human kindred spirits.

Critics say it’s too conservative and self-satisfied. Too Tommy Bahama! But life is good in South Bay. It’s understated, subtle and largely hidden from world view… but good, really good. Hence so many celebrity families settle there, particularly those of LA’s high-profile sports teams. South Bay is where you live when you’ve made it.

And that’s what dawned on the badger with a pen… after eighteen perfect months in Manhattan Beach, living the kind of dream you strive all your life to enjoy, once you’ve ‘made it’. Only the badger had skipped a rather important step… he hadn’t ‘made it’.

He’d arrived in Los Angeles with a pen, and a dream of writing movies, and was immediately seduced by the spectacular beaches, bikini-clad roller-blading girls, those dolphins and the wonderful warmth of welcoming new friends. His life was a beach… but he didn’t deserve it… not yet… he hadn’t ‘made it’… in fact he hadn’t even tried. To do so he had to move inland, to get amongst the guts of where it’s at. To where the movies were made.

…so with renewed determination the badger, eventually, packed his pen…

…he was going to Hollywood.

Internet dating, that’s what.

To engage his prospective new environ, the first thing the badger did when Los Angeles arose as a possibility, was to sign up on Match.com. Whereupon, to his surprise, conversational floodgates opened, and all manner of hints, tips and helpful advice rained down upon him. LA ladies love to talk… and there are lots of them.

The first big question thrown to the throng was “Where should I live?”. Los Angeles is huge. It’s enormity can only truly be appreciated by flying over it, to see its streets and ‘hoods go on and on ad infinitum below… only Sao Paulo rivals it for sheer surface area of intense urban sprawl. Furthermore, this endless expanse that outsiders regard as the ‘city of LA’ is actually LA county, comprising almost ninety smaller ‘cities’ (equivalent to British ‘boroughs’) compacted together. Each of these ‘cities’ has its own distinct flavor, often contrasting markedly with that of even its closest neighbors. Choose your city rashly and life can be unpleasant. This was the advice of the internet dating collective, who also nominated cities that might suit a single white badger from far, far away. One name came up repeatedly: Manhattan Beach.

Such was the badger’s naivety he hadn’t even appreciated Los Angeles HAD beaches. Sure he’d seen classic beach movies like ‘Surf Nazis Must Die’, ‘Point Break’ and ‘Surf School’, but never made the connection with their Los Angeles setting. Sure on hearing names like ‘Malibu’ or ‘Venice Beach’ he formed images of slo-mo lifeguards bounding through salt spray or big shiny grunters pumping iron on hot seaside sand, but hadn’t realized these iconic locales were sub-cities of Los Angeles. And sure, if he’d looked at a frickin’ map he’d have seen the sea, a whole Pacific Ocean of it, right there alongside Los Angeles, as a pretty solid indication that beaches would feature. But, the badger was kinda dumb. So when the cyber-harem recommended a Los Angeles beach as a potential new home, he was surprised… and excited.

Naturally then, when his prospective employers at the final interviews threw him a rental Mustang to “Go see if Los Angeles is the sorta place you might wanna live”, the first name his paw pumped into its GPS was ‘Manhattan Beach’. Bouncing along to “California Dreamin’” he headed back towards LAX Airport, veering off the jam-packed 405 freeway, through the sleepy hollow of Playa Del Rey, where he followed instructions to “turn left at the lights”, up a slight rise to a brow, and over… to the flash of a standstill moment in which he fell instantly and irreversibly in love… suddenly before him was THE most spectacular beach he’d ever seen: an exaggerated expanse of white sand met by rolling surf undulating in from miles of crystal shiny sea shimmering flat out to a distant blue sky horizon… with not a soul on it. Such a beautiful day, aside such a burgeoning city, this vision of paradise had sprung before him… and was empty… but for the odd swaying palm and a string of silent pelicans gliding overhead. The Badger was smitten. California had bitten. Was this the sorta place he might wanna live? Oh yes!

According to the GPS Manhattan Beach lay further along that road, just beyond that beach. But drawing closer all he could see was an LAX perimeter fence, a metal monstrosity industrial oil refinery, and the apparently open pits of the municipal sewage works. Had the previous glimpse of perfection been a cruelly deceptive mirage? Had the internet ladies been laughing at him all along?

Holding his nose while gunning the gas, the badger took out his pen… one way or another a story lay ahead in that ‘Manhattan Beach’… and he was determined to write it.

That destiny was to write, particularly to write “movies”. The instinct to throw words onto page creating life through language had always been there, through countless school-books of illegible scrawl, hours spent happily editing relatives’ dull college assignments, and even the odd published magazine article. A parallel love of movies grew through the early teens, when video-cassettes (and a dog called Gyp) were constant and sole companions, providing all the emotional development a growing yet insular lad might need, from the magic of ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’, the sage lessons of ‘The Sure Thing’, ‘Withnail & I’ and ‘Porkys’, to the wonder and entertainment of ‘Jaws’, ‘Big Trouble In Little China’ and ‘The Cannonball Run’.

These movies, the more glamorous ones anyway, were made and more importantly written, in “Hollywood”… apparently. To a naive pup in rural England the name was mythical, represented by nine wooden letters on a hillside in a galaxy far, far away (for all he knew). Sure, he’d seen countless movies about the movies, like ‘The Player’, ‘Sunset Boulevard’, ‘The Big Picture’, ‘Sunset’ and ‘The Last Tycoon’, but like the planet Tatooine in ‘Star Wars’, Hollywood may just have been a figment of the imaginations it nurtured… for all he knew.

Dreams fade over time. If you let them. As life, and its practicalities, pervade. The badger studied business, took a responsible job, traveled the world (but not yet to California, where he’d learned with passing interest that Hollywood was), buried faithful friend Gyp, let his hair grow the colour that badger hair grows, and read Paolo Coelho’s “The Alchemist”.

But the universe conspires to help pursue even a dormant dream. Fate would lend the badger a hand, if the badger really wanted deep down to achieve his destiny. That’s what Coelho had said.

And Coelho had been right (wise old pompous Paolo). In the turn of an inebriated business conversation the following words were spoken “Hey I’ve got an open position in Los Angeles. Would you ever consider re-locating?” Time stood still. For an instant. It had taken over forty years for destiny to lose patience and in fourteen pivotal words to turn from hunted to hunter. Opportunity was suddenly knocking so hard that the door had come clean off it’s hinges. This was no subtle omen or gentle hint, fate was screaming in the badger’s face. Before glasses were drained the deal was done. Destiny no doubt breathed an exasperated sigh of relief.

Shortly thereafter, once house was sold, possessions shed, loved ones kissed goodbye, and visa granted, a 6’3 walking talking British badger slipped into America… with a pen, and with a destiny.

This blog aims to document the badger’s journey. To see a dream fulfilled, chart the obstacles and distractions along the way (I mean, it’s been eighteen months since he arrived, WTF has been occurring?) and in itself provide additional motivation to just do it.

So join the journey… lend your support, your derision, your interest or your ridicule… it’ll all help. And hey, it might be a fun ride… and who knows, there may just be a Hollywood movie in it…