My early days as a writer began in television, specifically on a show called Get a Life. It was a unique program, heavily influenced by the distinct voices of its creators, Chris Elliott and Adam Resnick, both alumni of the David Letterman Show. Adam Resnick’s scripts were truly the highlight of Get a Life, and as writers, our main task was to emulate Adam’s comedic voice. That was the essence of the job.
However, I found myself increasingly frustrated. It became clear to me that genuine creative satisfaction was unattainable as long as I was confined to imitating someone else’s style. The solution seemed obvious: I needed to find a project where I could express myself authentically, where “me” was the driving force. The biggest hurdle was overcoming the deeply ingrained belief that my own perspective wasn’t inherently interesting or valuable.
Early in my Get a Life experience, I was almost paralyzed in the writers’ room. Despite being hired to contribute to a sitcom, I found myself unable to speak up. It wasn’t a conscious choice to remain silent; I physically couldn’t articulate my thoughts. No words would come out. This lasted for about six weeks. I genuinely thought I was going to be fired, and in retrospect, perhaps I should have been.
During a break before the next sitcom hiring season, I wrote Being John Malkovich. My intention was pragmatic: to create a script that would serve as a calling card, a way to secure future writing work. The concept emerged from combining two disparate ideas I had been toying with – one about discovering a portal into someone’s mind, and another about an affair with a coworker. Neither idea was progressing on its own, so I decided to merge them.
The script for Being John Malkovich generated an unexpectedly positive buzz. People read it, found it funny, and I started gaining some recognition. I was invited to numerous meetings, where executives would praise the script but also express doubts about its filmability. I had around fifteen such meetings, so my expectations of it actually being produced were low. Then, the script reached Spike Jonze, who was in a position to get movies made. Even then, I didn’t anticipate it becoming anything significant. I don’t think Spike did either.
I recall when Being John Malkovich was selected for the Venice Film Festival, which marked its first major public exposure. I wasn’t invited to the festival, but Spike, Cameron Diaz, and Catherine Keener attended. Then, I received a phone call informing me that the film was a sensation, followed by a wave of articles being written about it. It was a truly exhilarating experience.
Storytelling, at its core, is a transformative process, even potentially distorting. Consider a traumatic personal event. Reflect on your initial experience of it. Then think about how you recounted it to someone a year later. Finally, consider how you tell that story now, after countless retellings. It’s no longer the same, is it? While perspective is often seen as beneficial, allowing for character arcs, moral lessons, and contextual understanding, this perspective is inherently a reconstruction. It’s imbued with meaning retrospectively and thus, may bear little resemblance to the original raw event.
Another aspect of storytelling is adjustment. You subconsciously identify which parts of the narrative resonate, which to amplify, and which to discard. You shape and refine it with the goal of being engaging. This holds true whether you’re sharing a story at a dinner party or crafting a screenplay for a movie like Being John Malkovich. Don’t let anyone dictate what a story should be or what elements it must include. As a creative exercise, try writing a “non-story.” It might surprise you with its originality.
Let me share a brief, somewhat cinematic anecdote. I often run in my neighborhood. One day, I passed a man running in the opposite direction – an older, robust guy who was clearly struggling, breathing heavily. I was running downhill, and he was going uphill. As he passed, he quipped, “Well, sure, it’s all downhill that way.” I appreciated the joke. I felt a connection, and in my mind, this became “the cool running guy,” almost a friend.
A few weeks later, I encountered him again. I thought, “There’s that cool guy.” As we passed, he repeated, “Well, sure, it’s all downhill that way.” I thought, “Okay, he has a routine. I’m not that special. He’s probably said it to others, maybe doesn’t remember me… but alright.” I laughed, though this time it felt a little forced.
Then, I passed him yet another time, and he said it again. This time, he was going downhill, and I was going uphill, so the comment didn’t even make sense. I started feeling a sense of discomfort, almost embarrassment for him, wondering if something was wrong. And then it continued to happen – probably seven or eight more times. I started actively avoiding him.
What fascinates me about this story is how the narrative shifts and evolves internally, even when external circumstances remain unchanged. The transformation occurs within my own perception, driven by a realization on my part. And this story, like the story of Being John Malkovich, can only truly be conveyed through a specific medium – in this case, verbally. It wouldn’t translate effectively into a painting, for example. The core point is the importance of utilizing the unique capabilities of your chosen medium. If you can’t articulate why your story needs to be told in a particular form, then perhaps it doesn’t need to be told at all. This principle was central to the creation of Being John Malkovich and its distinctive cinematic identity.
This is adapted from an excerpt of a lecture by Charlie Kaufman for Bafta and the BFI. The full series is available at bafta.org/screenwriters.
