Adapting IP? Utilize These 2 Types of Colleagues

There’s something inherently fascinating about a story that is told and retold, repeated and reiterated, across multiple generations and even across differing mediums. Initially, the material may have started as a hit musical from Broadway, a scintillating novel from Victorian London, or an epic myth from an ancient civilization long gone. But sooner or later the story falls into new hands and is adapted into a fresh version of its former self. The stage production transforms into a feature film. The novel shifts into a miniseries on the small screen. Fairytales and myths spawn an entire Hollywood franchise, complete with princesses, merchandise, and theme parks. 

When it’s done right, it’s a brilliant, joyous ride for everyone involved. When it’s done poorly, it’s a huge setback for the creative team, and not just financially. So how can industry players—particularly those who work with the updated script in its early stages of development—take the necessary steps to steer the project towards success? 

When a writer finishes a draft of the script, there are two kinds of readers they should seek out for critique. The point is to engage with both camps, and not to favor or neglect either perspective. Namely, they need to find A) a reader who knows the original source material like the back of their hand and B) a reader who has little-to-no knowledge of the original IP at all. Each of these two readers offer something invaluable to the development process, but to rely on only one of them can present problems. 

Let’s go over the benefits (and potential downfalls) of getting feedback from each of these two viewpoints.  

Firstly: the reader who knows the IP intimately. 

Either this person has been given a copy of the pre-existing intellectual property so they can study it at length, or the person is already an avid fan of the material and grew up reading that summer beach read every year for the last five years. Their thorough understanding of the content is undeniable. 

One of the biggest benefits to seeking feedback from this individual is the fact that they can help pinpoint elements in the source material that would be least helpful to replicate in the adaptation. For example: “Remember that character from act 1, who totally disappeared in act 2, only to then play a major, game-changing role in the last ten pages of act 3? That always struck me as way too far-farfetched. Let’s not do that again.” If it bumped the reader in its first format, it’s most likely going to continue bumping audiences when it’s moved into another format. The plot holes that linger at the story’s peripheral, the inconsistencies that are begging for some sort of remedy, these are things the reader can flag early on.  

There is, however, a chance that this type of reader grows so connected to the original material that they feel a need to protect it at all costs. For diehard fans, it’s a matter of upholding complete fidelity to their first love. Any sign that the story’s retelling is less than 99.9% faithful to the initial version receives pushback. And if absolute fidelity is not the adaptor’s primary goal, those kinds of notes from the reader can feel like a nuisance. 

If you find yourself tasked with giving critique on a bold, reverse-engineered, upside-down retelling of a story you love, you can find ways to avoid falling into this trap of being overprotective. Take the time to ask the adaptor what they enjoy most about the IP, and what it is they want to carry with them into the new medium. This then becomes a common ground between the two of you. It gives you an anchor to focus on, and you can aid the writer by letting them know to what extent the latest script draft is aligning with that intended anchor. For example: maybe the writer says they were really struck by how the villain always seems to be just 1 small move away from redemption, but never takes the olive branch, so they stay teetering dangerously on a shadowy edge between good and evil. It’s the underlying spirit of the character they want to bring to the screen, so it doesn’t matter if the look of the whole story is revised to take place on a farm, in outer space, or underwater in a submarine, rather than in a staid corporate office.

Secondly: the reader who’s going into it blind. 

This is an individual who approaches the read cold, with practically nothing beyond a logline to prepare them beforehand. They have little-to-no expectations.

The obvious advantage to soliciting feedback from this type of reader is that there’s no judgement as to whether or not the content matches its predecessor; the only demand is that the script be good. Captivating. Properly fleshed out. If an adaptor is intrigued by the family dynamics in Shakespeare’s Hamlet and wants to explore those relationships via a kid-friendly, animated film about a pack of lions and hyenas in the Sahara, then great. This reader is open to it! They will continue to champion the basic principles of storytelling craft, undaunted by the fact that the scribe is building in the biggest, most unusual sandbox they can think of. For instance, they can hold the writer’s feet to the fire if the newly-dressed characters are confusing, dull, or indistinguishable. 

This kind of colleague is also great at pointing out if there are any information gaps in the retelling that need to be more concretely filled in. Screenwriters are often told to be abundantly clear on the page, but while using as few words as possible. The economy of space on the page is a real issue. Therefore, sometimes a scribe may inadvertently fail to fully explain an idea that’s central to following the story—probably because they already know the key information so well that it feels obvious to them. Perhaps they thought they had already described what the Nazgûl are and what these riders want on page 22, but in reality there’s still more to clarify in the draft, particularly for those who have never read The Lord of the Rings before. The reader will let the wordsmith know.

Meanwhile, the downside of only seeking feedback from this one type of perspective, and not taking notes from someone who’s familiar with the source material, is that the reader can’t help protect the adaptor from constructing the retelling so far afield that it alienates and upsets the loyal fanbase that is waiting to see the finished project. 

Usually, the point of reviving a story and transferring it into a new medium is so that as many people as possible can enjoy it. Why invest in a costly redo if you’re going to disregard the views of a pre-existing audience and leave their money on the table? It’s just poor business. The familiar fans represent an entire pool of consumers that shouldn’t be ignored. 

If you find yourself asked to provide constructive notes on someone’s adaptation of a popular tale, but don’t actually know the original material yourself, don’t fret. Your perspective is a real asset, but it’s more powerful when you admit that that perspective can only take the writer so far. Make sure the writer understands the value of befriending the fans and why it matters to their bottom line. The scribe will see your commitment to making the project as successful as it can be and appreciate you for it. 

By getting feedback from multiple readers with a mix of perspectives, the adaptor prepares their work for being seen by an audience that is equally full of alternating viewpoints. When a crowd fills a movie theater or swarms to a streaming platform, they represent multiple demographics. Some may have already read the novel that a film is based on because they follow the works of that particular author. Others may be sitting down to watch because they like the acting chops of the leading lady. Both points of entry are equally valid. 

In whatever way an audience encounters the material, the end goal is that a sweeping majority of viewers relish the piece. As the writer and their multiple critique partners work together, that goal becomes more attainable.