100 Books Like Start to Finish

Until I read Wasson’s provocative book, it was my understanding that Robert Towne crafted his Oscar-winning Chinatown script with guidance from his star (Jack Nicholson), producer (Robert Evans), and director (Roman Polanski), all of whom urged Towne to find a cogent narrative inside a sprawling concept embedded with powerful metaphors.

Then Wasson debunked the romantic myth of the genius scribe working in isolation by revealing not just the extent of Polanski’s notes but, even more explosively, the involvement of Edward Taylor as Towne’s “editor” and possible uncredited co-writer. I didn’t think it was possible for me to be shocked anymore by discoveries about my chosen field, but Wasson’s book reminded me that solo screenwriting credits are, at best, abstractions and, at worst, misnomers.

When I first read this years ago, it struck me as one of the great books about directing—Steven Spielberg’s ingenuity is a major focus. Revisiting it today, I realize it’s equally valuable as a screenwriting resource because serving a director’s vision is a huge part of the screenwriting life.

As Gottlieb recounts, making Jaws wasn’t stressful just because the mechanical shark kept malfunctioning but because of the pressure Spielberg was under to transform a pulpy bestseller into a crowd-pleasing spectacle. Gottlieb, the third writer to work on the project, offers his unique perspective on the all-too-common scenario of starting a production without a finished script.

Every time I return to this book, I discover another insight about screenwriting, about filmmaking, and about creativity.

Years ago, on a film festival panel, I opined that no American screenwriter had ever enjoyed total autonomy without also becoming a director or producer. Then another panelist proved me wrong by invoking Paddy Chayefsky. I think about that exchange whenever I revisit Itzkoff’s rigorous book about Network, Chayefsky’s scathing satire of television. Why? Because Chayefsky lived the screenwriter’s dream of determining exactly how his story reached audiences.

The empowering example conveyed by Itzkoff is the potential every screenwriter has to capture their cultural moment, and I particularly appreciate Itzkoff’s effort to render a holistic view of Network’s impact. Chayefsky’s flamboyant script set the tone for a generation’s perspective on mass media, and the script’s acidic observations about corporate control of public thought are even more troublingly relevant now.

I include Thelma & Louise in the syllabi for as many of my courses as possible because even though it’s a tough story centering sexual assault, what happened behind the scenes was every screenwriter’s fantasy. As Aikman describes in her breezy making-of book, first-time screenwriter Callie Khouri came up with a great idea, landed with a sympathetic director (Ridley Scott) and ideal stars (Geena Davis and Susan Sarandon), then somehow protected her controversial ending long enough to generate a box-office hit, an Oscar win, and a national conversation.

I respect how thoroughly Aikman tracks the project’s evolution, and it’s valuable to consider how Scott’s ornate visuals added scope to Khouri’s intimate narrative. Off the Cliff reminds me that the goal is not just to get scripts onscreen but to see their potential realized.

Harris focuses on Oscar night 1968 as four of the five films nominated for Best Picture evinced Hollywood’s reluctant affirmation of the American counterculture. These “pictures at a revolution,” as he terms them—Bonnie and Clyde, The Graduate, Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, and the Oscar winner In the Heat of the Night—signaled a necessary industry re-think, away from bloated old-Hollywood blockbusters (like Dr. Dolittle, the fifth nominee) and towards something more politically savvy and more hip. Harris does well to chronicle the backstage/behind-the-scenes histories of all five of these films.

Leonard Maltin shot to prominence as a youth publishing the annual Leonard Maltin’s Movie Guide, with each new edition becoming an instant New York Times bestseller. Maltin also served a long stint as an on-air correspondent for Entertainment Tonight, where he earned backstage access to generations of movie stars.

His recently published memoir details his early obsession with the movies and then his slow but steady rise as one of Hollywood’s leading historians. I love this book most for its insights into the old stars that Maltin met—stars who knew him from his books and TV work and opened up about their own histories, making this book a valuable resource for film scholars.

Yes, of course, just about everyone has heard of Roger Ebert (d. 2013), the great film critic for the Chicago Sun-Times and co-host, with Gene Siskel of the PBS program Sneak Previews. But have you ever read any of his reviews? They’re delightful–smart, funny, touching, and thoroughly readable.

Ebert must have seen every film ever made (his reviews are arranged in these collections alphabetically by film title). In each short review he offered, not just his opinion of the film in question, but striking insights into the film’s themes, meanings, symbols, and underlying philosophy.

Any film lover should immediately obtain all four collections. 

This lavishly illustrated large-format volume takes the reader from George Lucas’s childhood and early youth to his years at film school and his subsequent Hollywood career as a director, writer, and producer, with a particular emphasis on the production histories of his key films.

With unprecedented access to countless interviewees and archival materials, Hearn brings George Lucas and the making of his films to life.

Apart from telling compelling stories, he also reproduces a wide range of documents for the reader’s perusal so that the book may serve as an archive in its own right (and I have certainly used it precisely in this way in my own research).

Murray, the creator of the wonderful shows Rocko's Modern Life and Camp Laslo, details in full the story of his own career in animation while at the same time exploring the mechanics of producing animation for television.

He includes interviews with his colleagues and contemporaries in the field which are revelatory about how many great programs of the 1990s and 2000s were produced, and fills a major research gap in the process.

While most structural paradigms rely on a sequential series of seemingly unrelated plot points, Chamberlain’s nutshell technique breaks stories into eight interdependent stages that create a natural and logical flow to a story. Additionally, within these stages, she places equal importance on both the external elements of the plot and the internal motivations of the character to demonstrate how their interaction shapes the narrative. This is one of the more well-known books on the list, but one that I can’t recommend highly enough if you haven’t read it. I’d lend you my copy but it’s dog-eared to pieces.