Don't congratulate us on getting published, produced, or invested in

The terrible contracts between capital and creatives

Some posts ago, I wrote about the years I’d spent pitching films and series to Mumbai’s production houses.

And, at the start of 2023, helped by my determined, steadfast agents at Tulsea, I came very close to selling an original screenplay.

The story was called Gold Digger: Treasure of Son Bhandar, an action-packed adventure, both clever and corny, set in a historic town in Bihar.

The production exec I had pitched to was a young woman whom I immediately liked and respected, because she had the same vision for the story that I did, and we shared the same set of references: Fool’s Gold, the National Treasure franchise, etc.

For the first time, after so many pitches, numbers were discussed: as a debut screenwriter, I could expect to receive between 20 to 30 lakhs for the script, I was told. (USD 22k to 35k.)

And, for the first time, I found out what I would have to give up. Namely: All literary, cinematic, audio, multimedia rights to my story and characters. Worldwide. Forevermore.

In essence, the contract from a producer to a screenwriter was:

“We love your story. Now take this money, and never think of your story again.”

Contracts between Capital and Creatives

Which creative or entrepreneur hasn’t faced such terms?

Netflix—platform for indie, new-age storytellers!—has draconian contracts. All rights to Netflix originals belong to them, non-negotiable. People I know who’ve written or directed or produced for Netflix don’t even receive viewership stats from the platform!

Author friends at big fancy publishing houses have struggled, and even petitioned, to keep their books in print. A fellow writer whose book was assigned a blah cover, offered to pay for a new cover herself and find a new designer—but she wasn’t allowed.

And start-up founders, goodness. They’re constantly battling being squeezed out of their company, their role, and their equity—against the very same people who’ve invested in them.

What is Creativity?

Look, I understand the concerns of investors and producers. I’m invested in creative productions as well, and of course I want to safeguard my money. I get it.

But I think the way we value creative talent is just plain stupid.

The start-up industry calls it “sweat equity” i.e. investors bring the cash, and founders the sweat, or hard work.

And I think that’s how producers think of creatives too. That the writer is simply the hand that writes. The hand that knows good grammar and formatting. The actor is simply the face that moves. The face that knows how to make expressions.

Sweat equity.

But do we read The Lord of the Rings for Tolkien’s masterful grammar and formatting? Because only he poured in the sweat to write down the saga?

Do we enjoy Yayoi Kusama’s art because she knows how to arrange polka dots?

Do you think Taylor Swift’s fans love her for her voice?

(Or Sandeep Reddy Vanga fans for his action scenes?)

Of course not. We turn to artists for their minds. For their world view.

For their honest or unexpected take on the world. For the clarity with which they explain, or the shocking intimacy with which they seem to have voiced aloud the secrets hidden within us.

For their perversity and wit, which surprise us so much that we burst out laughing. For the fantastic flights of their fancy.

Tolkien’s imagination. Kusama’s scientific perspective. Vanga’s visceral understanding of male secrets. Swift’s ability to transform grief, loneliness, and heartache into strength, grit, and bedazzled joy!—this is why they’re beloved.

This is why they have fandoms.

Invest in Creatives, if you’re a Fan

And the last thing a fan wants is to constrict that creative mind. To build fences around that brain, to ban it from its little jaunts and experiments.

(If the creative does something grossly wrong that puts everyone’s investment at risk—by all means, hold them liable. Make ‘em pay. But to preemptively take away their rights; their freedom to create?)

This is how you know that Scooter Braun wasn’t really a Taylor Swift fan. That VCs aren’t fans of the founders they invest in, or Netflix the storytellers it works with.

They are not fans, they are Shah Jahan: mighty investor of the Taj Mahal, who allegedly chopped off the arms of its architect, so the latter could never again design anything like it.

Creatives, go independent

During negotiations for Gold Digger: Treasure of Son Bhandar, I learned that I could, at the very least, carve out literary rights over the story. And my claim would be stronger if I already had a novel published of that same story.

In the next three months, I reverse adapted the Gold Digger screenplay into a novel, and published it under my own brand, Unibrow Stories.

I did the same with another popular screenplay—Beta Builder: Mumbai in the Metaverse—and I finally released The Lehenga Games too (after seven years and a dozen drafts).

All of these stories now exist as novels and screenplays. All of them continue to be pitched to producers. And I now insist on holding rights to the stories and characters, even if it’s only in the literary domain.

Self-published is not a bad word for me; it’s not something I say with shame, or as a sign of failure. Being self-produced, or self-published, or self-invested (should you have the time and ₹ to do so) is the fairest business model I know.

Until you find a true fan.

Sukriti.