By Susan Wilson
Guest Columnist
Oak Bluffs, MA, USA
A number of weeks ago I
participated in a panel discussion on the topic of getting one’s book turned
into a movie. I was in very good company: an Academy Award-winning
screenwriter/novelist, who moderated the discussion; a Pulitzer Prize-winning
novelist; and, a director-producer of a very successful high-budget action
film. We sat in the sun-filled gallery of our local arts center, a gorgeous
blue-sky August day behind us, an enthusiastic audience before us. To start the
discussion, our moderator threw out a question to the audience: “Have you ever
thought that the book you’re working on would make a great movie?” A show of
hands revealed just how pervasive that dream is.
You may be wondering how
little old me got asked to be on such an illustrious panel. Well, oddly enough,
I’ve been hit by movie lightening once, and grazed by it another time. Let me
explain. In 1996, my first novel, Beauty,
was released to underwhelming acclaim. Nonetheless, through the good offices of
my agency’s LA co-agency, it was picked up by a production company. (I’m a
little vague on the details, so bear with me.) Beyond receiving the check for
the option, we never heard another word. If I asked about it, and I’m sure I
did, I was told that most of the time nothing happens and the option lapses. No
harm no foul. Sometimes the option will be picked up by someone else, sometimes
it just goes to where options die.
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| Beauty - Movie Poster |
Except!! One afternoon my
agent called to say that the darn thing had not only been made into a film, but
Beauty would be featured as a CBS
Sunday Night Movie! Not one word from the producer prior to this announcement. If
I’d been expecting or hoping for something along the lines of: “Hey, wanna
check out the screenplay, give it your approval?” Or, “Maybe you want to visit
the set?” Or, even, “Want to be a walk on? Meet the actors? Schmooze a little
in LA?” Nada. Bought, made, and about to be broadcast. I thought this was
normal. Another, nicer, check arrived.
As television movies
don’t have red carpet premier nights, I made one up. We invited a bunch of
friends, dressed up, bought Champagne and I even donned my daughter’s Junior Prom Queen’s tiara. Now, this was 1998, and normal folks didn’t own television sets
larger than refrigerators at that time, so we rented as wide a screen
television as we could find and set it up on top of a cabinet so that everyone
could see it. We ate; we drank; we waited. This was Sunday night in the fall. This
was football season. There was a particularly long game being played (again,
this is 1998, football could take six hours what with all the huddles). It was
nigh unto ten o’clock in the evening when Beauty
the movie was finally on. In the
meantime, the Champagne was gone, everyone was a bit tiddly, and I found myself
too nervous to actually watch the thing. These were friends, but was I about to
embarrass myself in front of them with a schlocky made-for-TV movie?
About midnight, the homegrown
premier party wrapped up. (As an aside, my 102-year-old Cuban refugee neighbor
was the last to leave. God rest her soul; she was a party animal.) I realized then
that I had no recollection of any of the show. Was it good? Did I look like a
fool trying to retell the beloved Beauty and the Beast fairy tale? Did
Janine Turner and Jamey Sheridan and Hal Holbrook inhabit the creatures of my
mind with verisimilitude? I have no idea. I went to bed.
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| Susan Wilson |
It might have been three
months later when I chanced to be home alone. I slipped the tape that the
production company had sent me into the VCR (again, it’s 1998). Without
commercial interruption, without anyone else there to broadcast a false thumbs
up or, worse, a flinch, I sat and watched my words, my story, my vision come to
life and breathed, finally, a sigh of relief. It was just fine.
A postscript to this once
in a lifetime experience. When I wrote the book, it ended a bit happily ever
after because, after all, it was based on a happily-ever-after tale. My editor
at the time, highly respected, and a goddess to me because, well, because she
liked my work and gave me a chance, decreed that it was too H-E-A. I tacked on an unhappily ever after ending for which I
received many an angry letter. Even friends berated my going for the tearjerker.
To my everlasting joy, the producers of “Beauty, the CBS Sunday Night Movie,”
ended the film at exactly the point I had ended my original manuscript. I was
validated!!
Lest you think that once
a novelist hits the Holy Grail of book-to-film it happens on a regular basis. I’m
living proof that is a false notion. Eleven books in, only one other has ever
been optioned. For those who are unfamiliar with the term “option,” it means
your work is held in the clutches of someone who really really wants to make it
into a movie and is willing to keep giving you some money to prevent anyone
else from doing it. They are renewable resources, these options. An annuity of
sorts. One Good Dog has been
optioned, and that option renewed several times over the last seven years. My
option holder is sincere and working toward the ultimate goal of production. The
obstacles to that goal are many and varied and pretty expensive. I get updates
annually, always upbeat, always optimistic. A new producing partner has been
found, a new screenwriter, a discussion with a high-profile, yet unnamed actor
has been had. One more year, maybe two. Let’s just say that I’ve stopped
planning my outfit for the Academy Awards.
I am patient. I am
sanguine. We have a motto in our family: What will be will be and if it’s meant
to be it will happen.
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Susan Wilson is a New York Times bestselling
author. Her latest novel is Two Good Dogs.