The A-Z of film

Is it weird to want to read an entire dictionary?

That's the thought that went through my head as I paged through my copy of The Comprehensive Dictionary of Cinema, written by Kory Orban, Chrissy Mozylisky, Scooter Corkle, and a cohort of Cinematicalist, and it's a book that I wish existed when I was working as a writer and editor full time. I'm finding it to be an indispensable resource, and every time I crack it open, I find myself lingering on each page, taking in new terms – and realizing that there's more to learn about the terms that I've used frequently over the years.

Launched as a Kickstarter project last year, the authors write in the book’s introduction that it was intended as a wide-ranging guide: “we built this book to be a comprehensive, authoritative, and accessible collection of terminology that examines film and television through academic, fan-centric, technical, creative, and industry lenses.

It’s an ambitious tome — and weighing in at 1,292 pages, it certainly falls into what I think of as a “Cat-Killer Class” book — that encompasses an enormous range of topics, spread out across film theory, taxonomy, screenwriting, the film business, the art of filmmaking, production, techniques, effects, promotion and awards, presentation, and how we discuss films. That’s a lot of ground to cover, and with a huge team of writers and editors, this feels very much like they’ve succeeded in their mission.

Talking about film is something I’ve done a lot over the course of my career as a writer: I’ve written everything from film reviews to news updates, deep-dives into Hollywood productions and franchises, and mused about the nature of the stories this industry produces. But I grew up in Vermont, thousands of miles away from where these stories are made — I don’t have a degree or training in film or television, and much of my experience has been as an outsider, learning on the go: reading good pieces of work, paying attention to how the industry works, taking part in press junkets, occasionally visiting sets and productions, and reading up on behind-the-scenes features and books to understand how Hollywood operates.

I’ve learned a lot over the course of my career, but there’s something satisfying about having a tome that anchors the vast terminology of cinema in one place: a helpful reference for when I need to better understand what a “bottle episode” is (An episode of series television that takes place in a single location, often centering around character dynamics rather than story development. Bottle episodes are frequently produced to reduce costs, accommodate schedule constraints, or allow writers to focus on character, performance, and relationships in greater depth.) or what “greenlight” actually means (To formally approve a film or television project to proceed into production. In industry usage, a greenlight typically follows development and packaging and signifies that financial, scheduling, and key creative elements have been sufficiently approved to authorize spending and physical execution.)

I know what these things mean because I’ve seen them used in context over the years. I know that a film’s “Gross” means how much money it took in, but now I know that it’s “the total theatrical box office revenue generated by a film before deductions such as exhibitor splits, distribution fees, or marketing costs.” Or that a television show’s syndication means that it’s sold for broadcast elsewhere. “The licensing of a completed television program to multiple broadcast or cable outlets for exhibition outside of its original commissioning network or platform.”

But more than just a helpful reference, a book like this provides useful connective tissue and an agreed-upon foundation for writers and industrial professionals. Having a better vocabulary leads to better and more precise writing, and while I don’t feel that I’ve been a poor or sloppy writer when it comes to films, there’s always room to improve.

In a world where film writing is being reduced to click-bait lists and sensationalized “articles”, writers having the tools to improve their craft and the way in which they can write about the industry has never been more important, especially as these sites cut their rates so low that most good writers can’t afford to exist in the field anymore. This book doesn’t solve those big, systemic problems, but in the week that I’ve been paging through it, I’ve found it to be an incredibly useful tool for myself, something that I can use to level up my own criticism and commentary, and a route through which I can think about and better understand the industry that I frequently cover.

At its core, this is just a good practice as a writer. But while I do pull out a dictionary from time to time, I’ve never been particularly compelled to read it. That’s not the case with this volume: I find it compulsively readable, flipping it open to find a term only to find myself going down a daisy-chain of terms to find things that I’ve never known about, or to find out exactly what it is an “Executive Producer” does (“A senior creative or managerial role credited on a film and television project, encompassing a range of responsibilities that may include securing financing, overseeing development, supervising production, or providing high-level creative or strategic guidance.”). I’m looking forward to the things that I’ll learn from it.