Roger Corman's
Concorde-New Horizons
VP of Production & "Screenwriter" (Quotes Included for Truth's Sake!)
I came for a gap year before studying entertainment law.
And then he asked, "Do you know what a screenplay looks like?"
One day, I was asked to give a Stanford tour.
My thesis advisor had a last-minute favor: show around a prospective student and her dad–Roger Corman.
Who's Roger Corman? Oh, just the King of B-movies like Attack of the Crab Monsters and A Bucket of Blood.
And the career launchpad for Martin Scorsese, James Cameron, Jonathan Demme, and half of your favorite directors on Netflix.
He also gave Ronnie Howard–yes, Richie Cunningham–his first directing gig, and actors like Jack Nicholson their first roles.
You know, no big deal!
At the end of the tour, Roger asked what I was doing after graduation.
I said law school. Entertainment law.
He said, "No, you're not."
I wasn't quite expecting that.
Then he said, "You're working for me for a year. And you're going to see why entertainment law is not for you."
Did I sell Stanford to his daughter? Nope–she went to Harvard.
Did I accidentally land a job with a Hollywood legend? Yep.
One month later, I was his assistant–for a whopping $16K a year.
My life swerved off course.
I never saw the need to steer it back.
Three weeks in, Roger popped into my office late on a Friday.
"Do you know what a screenplay looks like?"
Umm...
So he held one up like an exhibit and laid out the plan.
We were doing the first-ever Russian-American co-production since the Cold War.
The catch? It had to be filmed on an already-built set at Russia's Mosfilm Studios.
Which was...?
"It's 17th century France. And the big money piece is a piano," Roger said.
Like that explained everything.
Then he added, "We need a screenplay."
Cool! Should I call powerhouse agent Mike Ovitz to see if he has something that fits the bill?
"No," Roger replied. "Go home and write it. I need 120 pages by Monday."
Oh... umm... okay... WHAT???
After the initial shock wore off, I got slick. Negotiated myself a savvy bonus... $300!
Roger hemmed and hawed, then agreed.
(Big win for the writers of America.)
I went home, started the coffee pot, and typed.
Several cups (and somewhere around 52 sleepless hours) later, I finished.
Was it Oscar-worthy?
What do you think?
But I handed in my "masterpiece" Monday morning.
Roger–who didn't believe in computers ("not worth the money")–read it, gave me his handwritten notes in pencil, and sent me home for a 24-hour rewrite.
I pulled yet another all-nighter and turned in the next draft the following morning.
Two hours later, it was faxed to Russia.
By that evening, the film was shooting in Moscow.
And just like that, I was a screenwriter.
Sorry, Aaron Sorkin–I know I wasn't quite in your league.
That was just the start.
Over the next 18 months, I directed three movies (including Full Contact II–which, for the record, had no Full Contact I...), and got promoted to Vice President of Production.
I produced a dozen international films from my desk in L.A.
(Never visited a set once–because, hey, even a cargo-hold plane ticket wasn't in the budget.)
I wrote four more screenplays that all got made, including Burial of the Rats.
Tempted to watch it with a name like that?
Yeah... didn't think so.
Oh, I ran the publicity department, too.
One highlight? The time Roger insisted I convince a major national magazine that Jurassic Park ripped off his movie Carnosaur.
I must have been convincing. Or the journalist found it amusing.
It ran in print.
I doubt Spielberg lost sleep over it.
Entertainment Weekly did cancel my subscription.
I cut trailers, developed screenplays (36 of them, to be exact), faxed scripts across time zones, pitched stories between coffee runs, and fielded distributor calls about why our alien had visible zipper seams. ("It's a creative choice.")
Film school? Nope.
This was Corman School.
I earned a master's in the bizarre–and loved every second.
It was scrappy, brilliant, and completely off the rails.
It taught me how to tell a story, close a deal, and bring the absurd to life–on an even more absurd budget.
I never thought about law school again.
Screenwriting
Five Screenplays. All Produced. Quality? Questionable.
At Concorde-New Horizons, I wrote five screenplays. All five got made. Not because they were brilliant. But because... well, something had to get filmed.
One did make history as the first-ever Russian-American co-production, so there's that! The others? Less historical, more hysterical (sadly, not on purpose).
The longest I ever had to write one was a week–and that was a luxury. I was usually juggling screenwriting with directing notes, trailer edits, and press calls. At one point, Roger–in classic Roger fashion–had me hole up behind closed doors until the script was done. A production assistant left a turkey sandwich outside so I could keep going without stopping. Roger's version of craft services.
Titles were negotiable. The same movie—somehow starring Ben Cross of Chariots of Fire and TV legend Beverly Garland (apologies to both; I’m sure at least one of you woke up mid-shoot wondering, “How did I end up in this???”)—was released as Haunted Symphony in one country, Hellfire in another, and Blood Song wherever subtlety didn’t sell. It all depended on what VHS cover art tested better—with whoever happened to walk by the marketing person that day.
Rebranding at its finest.
Even my dad–eternal supporter, giver of pep talks, and loyal watcher of all things flick-worthy–only made it five minutes into one of mine before turning to me and saying:
"Well, we saw your name in the opening credits. Do we need to keep watching?"
We did not.
One of the many VHS covers for my first "masterpiece."
The artwork was about the same caliber as the writing.
Foam first.
Script second.
Franchise third.
Welcome to Corman's.
Script Development
36 Scripts. Not Enough Chairs. Too Many Opinions
Roger Corman didn't have a development department. He had us–a rotating crew of just-out-of-college kids, most of whom hadn't taken a single film class.
Development meetings meant cramming into his office, with the screenwriter front and center. The cushioned chairs were ripped. The coffee table was cracked. And the vibe? Less Hollywood, more Hunger Games.
Over time, I gave notes on 36 scripts. Roger sat in on every session–scribbling ideas, nodding thoughtfully, and somehow making you feel like your comment on page 72 might actually save the movie. (It didn't.)
Looking back, it felt more like a high school seminar than a studio meeting. A bunch of kids waiting our turn–some ready, others wishing for invisibility. And when the wish didn't work, there'd be the mumbled, "I didn't understand any of it."
Not exactly the surefire way to inspire a writer.
That's where I learned to finesse it–to think like a producer but speak like a writer. To offer critique without killing momentum. I didn't realize it then, but in that shabby, stuffy room, I was building the muscle that would later earn me the nickname the writer's producer.
Not everyone had that skill. I saw that firsthand–especially when I was the one in the hot seat, getting feedback with less oomph, more ouch.
Some scripts got made. Others didn't. A few were greenlit simply because the "costume department" had already pieced together enough green foam to make a dinosaur suit.
(Carnosaur, looking at you!)
That one got two sequels–proving, at least in Roger's world, that sunk costs beat story structure every time.
That was development at Roger's.
We weren't chasing Oscars.
We were chasing Tuesday's shooting schedule.
Directing
Cigarette Butts. No Sleep. Totally Worth It.
Most of the kids in Roger Corman’s office never made it to his dingy Venice studio.
(That's Venice, California, unfortunately. Not the Italy one).
We were glued to our desks–juggling rewrites, production crises, and trying to convince actors that a zero was not missing from their paycheck.
But I wanted in.
I wanted to see how the chaos actually got made.
Roger agreed—on one condition: my day job came first.
Great, no problem.
So for nine days, it was 9 to 6 in the office, 7 to 6 on set. Maybe two hours of sleep–if I hit no red lights. And yes—you read that right: nine days to shoot a full-length movie.
Roger had a knack for stretching every dollar. Ambulance happens to be racing by? That’s your action scene. Police lights down the block? Grab the shot and write it in later. I hauled gear too—after all, I was already making $16,000 a year. Why pay crew when I came free?
My first night at the Venice studio, I was there as a lowly PA. But everyone knew I was Roger’s assistant. That didn’t sit well with the director. He thought I was a spy. So he gave me one job: pick up the cigarette butts. All night. And wow, did that crew smoke.
Then something happened—no one said what—and the director was out.
Suddenly, I wasn’t cleaning the set anymore. I was running it.
That’s how things worked at Roger's. One minute you’re the lowest on the call sheet. The next, you’re calling the shots.
And that’s how I earned my first director's credit.
I went on to direct three action movies. One was called Full Contact II.
Fun fact: there was no Full Contact I.
The plot? A cop chasing a dancer who was either in trouble or possibly the problem. Honestly, I don’t remember. I do remember being told I’d have to stage her dance performance–one involving a pole. (Why I thought there’d be a choreographer in the budget is beyond me.) My ten-year-old ballet classes weren’t much help.
We shot fast. We shot cheap. More than one take? Roger considered it a waste.
The movies went to VHS and shipped overseas. Some got retitled. Some fizzled fast. But they got made—and I learned how to lead with zero prep and zero margin for error.
No monitors. No glamour. No time to second-guess.
Just a working title, a ticking clock, and a team who knew the chaos wasn’t optional.
It was the job.
Studio Exterior:
Graffiti.
Dumpsters.
Fire Escape.
That's Just Enough for "Action!"
Great stories don't write themselves. Let's talk.
Tara McCann