100 Books Like The Jaws Log

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.

We believe you can learn more from failure than success. Misfires don’t come much bigger than the 1990 adaptation of Tom Wolfe’s blockbuster novel The Bonfire of the Vanities. The movie busted nary a block, which only makes director Brian De Palma’s willingness to open up the process to reporter/critic Salamon more remarkable.

This visits every department—including our favorite, costume design—and underscores that no one knows if a movie will be a smash or a flop while they’re making it, so cast and crew work just as hard on both. We love the story of second-unit director Eric Schwab seizing the opportunity to prove himself.

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.

I’ve been a fan of Josh Karp’s for years. So much so, that at this point I just blindly trust his taste. If he thinks something is worth writing about, I tend to end up agreeing. In Orson Welles’ Last Movie, he puts on his private-eye hat and starts digging into the legendary Citizen Kane director’s unfinished final film, The Other Side of the Wind (it was completed after Karp’s book was published and aired on Netflix). Yes, the story is about an auteur’s quest to realize his vision against crushing odds, but it’s also about something much larger—a promising young genius who tragically flamed out too soon and battled with every last breath and cent to do what he was born to do. Parts of it almost read like a Shakespearian tragedy.

This book coined the maxim far and away the most quoted in Hollywood to this day: “Nobody knows anything.” I first read it the year before I broke in. My copy is heavily annotated with yellow highlighter and red pen; a black paperclip still marks the second of Goldman’s two capitalized maxims, “Screenplays are structure.” The value of this book to anyone wanting to understand – or survive in – Hollywood is that, ironically, Goldman, one of the most successful screenwriters and novelists in Hollywood history, knew almost everything, not only about screenwriting, but also the psychology, cautious care, and perilous feeding of actors, directors, executives, and the rest of the Hollywood zoo. It’s both a textbook and survival guide, illustrated with a veteran’s vivid stories about life behind the tinsel.

As perfectly tragic as one of his Jazz Age characters, Fitzgerald drank himself to death before finishing this novel which in my opinion, could have been his best. Like Gatsby, Monroe Stahr is an eloquent, rich, and isolated character, pining for a mysterious woman. He is a hugely successful movie mogul in the golden age of Hollywood, and Fitzgerald’s contempt for the studio system’s treatment of writers is here on full satirical display. The sparse prose sparkles with diamond-like harshness and clarity as the doomed love affair plays out. I’m sure it's his least known novel since it is technically “unfinished,” but most editions publish Fitzgerald’s unfinished future chapters, his pass at the ending as well as his notes and outlines, making this a master class in novel writing.

Despite wars, plagues, and technological revolutions, the psychology of Hollywood endures and Schulberg’s novel about screenwriters in pre-World War Two Hollywood remains an obligatory read for anyone contemplating a life in showbusiness or wanting, as a member of the audience, to have a deeper understanding of the business. The book still so accurately describes the challenges of a writer’s life and work, that when I served on the Writers Guild of America West’s board, I’d sometimes read passages from the book to the rest of the board members during our discussions of potential strike issues or matters affecting Guild unity. Schulberg’s eloquent yet plain-spoken insights were simply still that valuable, convincing – and entertaining.

Oscar-nominated, Emmy-winning Eleanor Perry put her training as a psychiatric social worker to extraordinary use writing now-classic films including the hypnotic David and Lisa and The Diary of a Mad Housewife. She brought the same dramatic skills and insights to examining her own life as a writer at a time when women faced nearly impossible challenges in Hollywood. The result was this deeply felt, authentic, often autobiographical novel. My wife Loraine Despres, herself a highly regarded novelist and TV writer, gave it to me when I first confessed an interest in screenwriting. The book, now unjustly out of print but hopefully available from libraries and at a price from rare book dealers, has haunted me ever since.

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.