Wednesday, August 22, 2018

Clearing up the "Show, Don't Tell" Confusion -- Mimesis vs. Diegesis

Of all the pithy little axioms preached at students of screenwriting, the most oft-repeated is the command to “show, don't tell.” The phrase sounds simple enough. “Show” and “tell” are two of the most basic verbs in the English vocabulary. Yet the vaguery surrounding this three-word statement has caused endless confusion and even controversy over whether the advice is even valid. Once again, the “script gurus” have dumbed things down to the point of obfuscation.

Allow me to shed a little light on the subject. “Showing” vs. “Telling” is really just a plain-English way of articulating mimesis vs. diegesis, two of the oldest concepts in the Western philosophies of art. These terms sound old and Greek because they are old and Greek, dating back to before the time of Plato. For the sake of the reader, I will not go into the numerous tedious arguments surrounding the terms, and at the risk of reductionism I will boil things down to their basics (so I ask that anyone familiar with the topic please forgive me for any lack of exactitude). So let us begin by broadly stating, mimesis is an approach to art that “shows”; diegesis is an approach that “tells.”

Now, these terms tend to be difficult for newcomers to keep straight. So it helps to remember them in relation to similar and more common English words. Mimesis comes from the same Greek root as the words “mime” or “imitate.” As this connection suggests, mimesis refers to any artistic attempt to represent an object, image, action, event, etc, in sensory detail so that the thing represented appears in “present” in some form. This can range from a simple pictorial representation of a subject to an exact imitation which makes the subject seem real and existing within in the receiver’s midst. Dramatic actors may thus be considered the foremost practitioners of mimesis, as their craft entails the reproduction of actions, emotions, and so on with such accuracy that they appear real and immediate. As such, staged live theatre is the most mimetic of art forms (more so than cinema, for in theatre the dramatic action occurs within the immediate presence of the viewer without cinema’s spatial and temporal discontinuities). Mimesis therefore “shows”—not only visually, but potentially through all the senses—while the receiving party “observes.” Recipients are expected to take in the sensory information and form conclusions it in the same manner that they make sense of all the stimuli they encounter in daily life.

Diegesis, in its original usage, roughly translates as “to guide” and corresponds with the modern Greek word for “to narrate.” Helpful English sound-alikes include “description” or “diagram.” Diegesis always presupposes a speaker and an audience spoken to. Some individual, wherever he or she may be, is in control of the discourse and responsible for guiding the receiving party through it. Along with describing or explaining its subjects, diegesis will often include a degree of interpretation or commentary. It “tells” from a specific point of view. Rhetoric, the art of influencing opinions through speech, is therefore the most diegetic of art forms. (In the classical sense, that is. The ancient Greeks considered rhetoric to be the highest art, but modern academics now place it in a category outside the “creative” fields.) Like rhetorical speeches, diegetic storytelling relates events in a manner whereby all content is guided and therefore mediated by a narrator, with the discourse focused upon whatever the narrator considers most significant.

Comparing mimesis to diegesis, one finds that mimesis is primarily sensory while diegesis is primarily verbal. The former presents a receiver with this or that (more or less objectively); the latter tells the receiver of this or that (more or less subjectively). Diegesis often contains ready-made interpretations, while mimesis allows receivers more freedom to interpret content for themselves. There are also sharp differences in terms of the sense of distance felt between the receiver and the content or speaker. With mimesis, the content feels close, present and “real.” Meanwhile, the entity who presents the work (the artist, creator, “speaker”) seems to reside at a distance or to be entirely absent. Diegesis creates the opposite experience. The creator/narrator holds a close and present relation with the receiver while the narrated content has the quality of feeling distant in space or time. (That is, the speaker relates something that exists in a place or time different from the “here and now.”)

To provide a comparative example, let us say I want to present you with the historical tale of the assassination of Julius Caesar. In a diegetic mode, I could stand on a stage and give a lecture on the event; tell who was there and what they did, emphasizing or elaborating on certain points, engaging your interest through my use of language. Yet to tell the story is a mimetic mode, I would have to remove myself from the stage and do as William Shakespeare did; present performers intended to “be” the event’s participants and play the scene out action for action (more or less accurately) as if the event were occurring in the moment. The first “tells,” the second “shows.”

To turn this information into advice on proper screenwriting, our path must briefly pass through literature. Literature is an entirely verbal medium. Though it relates sensory information for readers to imagine with their mind’s eye, all this information must be given through written words. This, along with the constant presence of a narrator (whether this presence be overt or merely implied), requires literary discourse to lean toward diegesis rather than mimesis. Yet literature also allows a certain range of freedom between these two poles. A work may employ a highly diegetic approach, with the voice of an outside narrator constantly intervening into story action to supply his or her own judgments or opinions. (Laurence Sterne’s Tristam Shandy presents one of the most extreme examples. Less radically, Charles Dickens frequently adheres to this style.) Alternatively, narration can be limited to a style that comes close to mimesis, verbally relating only what might be seen, heard, or smelled by an unattached party observing the “scene.” (Ernest Hemingway used this approach.)

Cinema, in contrast, is not a verbal medium. It communicates with near exclusivity through image and sound. The audience sees and hears events as they occur, with the implication that the events are “real.” Cinematic discourse must therefore lean much closer to mimesis than diegesis.* Cinema “shows” and expects the viewer to do much of the cognitive work necessary to piece information together. Cinema cannot explicitly dictate the viewer’s mental experience the way literature can; it can only lead a viewer’s mind in certain directions through indirect means. The command “show, don’t tell” is therefore an injunction to craft narratives in ways that play to the cinema’s strengths while avoiding its weaknesses. Communication ought to occur primarily through images and actions while avoiding an over-reliance on words.

Yet herein lies the rub for screenwriters. Though screenwriters create narratives intended to be composed of images and sound, they must momentarily capture these narratives in written words on a printed page. Screenwriters must therefore perform a literary function in service of a non-literary medium. Walking this tightrope between the mimetic and the temporarily diegetic thus becomes one of the greatest challenges of screencraft and quite often the trap into which many newcomers fall.

The command “show, don’t tell” is particularly relevant to two common amateur stumbling blocks. The first occurs in the area of a script’s passages of action or description—that is, the words on the page which no one other than a select few will ever actually read. “Show, don’t tell” reminds screenwriters that they are not literary authors. A writer may enjoy penning long flowery descriptions, complete with intriguing background information and cheeky asides, but all these words are essentially useless as they will never be translated onto the screen to become part of the final product. Here is another axiom in the world of screencraft: “If it is not on the screen, it doesn’t exist.” Unless the information is sensory information which a director, performers, or crew can directly express in image, action or sound, it will never reach the audience and wind up dead on the page. Screenwriters must strive for a mimetic, not a diegetic discourse, which “presents” everything essential for a viewer’s narrative comprehension in audio or visual form. If writers absolutely must imitate a literary style, they should be Hemingway and not Dickens.

The second area where developing screenwriters are prone to telling rather than showing occurs within moments where the script must provide important background information. Now the easiest way to give this information is to simply “tell” it to the audience. Voiceover narration or long expository speeches are the most common offenders here. While these methods do provide the necessary information, their flatly diegetic mode tends to bore the audience as it fails to play to the cinema’s ideal form of discourse or provide viewers with the desired audio-visual stimulation. In other words, a lot of “telling” has been put into a medium that thrives on “showing.” As a result, such passages fail to promote mentally-active viewership by engaging the audience’s sensory interests. They instead turn viewers into passive, involved listeners, making the experience feel dull and anti-dramatic.

These are of course not the only areas where “show, don’t tell” is immediately relevant. However, I hope this article has cleared up some confusion. By referring to the opposition between mimesis and diegesis, “show, don’t tell” intends to remind storytellers what the cinema is as a medium, where its strengths lie, and what its narratives should or should not do. Cinematic stories function differently than stories in mediums such as literature, and thus must be executed in the most appropriate discursive mode.

* Note: I must warn that some caution must be used regarding the word “diegetic” in a cinematic context, as film critics and production professionals often use the same word for a completely different purpose with a completely different definition. In this latter usage, “diegetic” refers to anything which exists within the story world. The best example comes in the form of music. If a scene features a song playing on a radio—a song all the characters can hear—this is “diegetic music,” since it exists within the story world. In contrast, a musical score added to the film’s soundtrack is considered “non-diegetic” or “extra-diegetic” music since it exists outside of the story world and can only be heard by the audience. It is important to not confuses the two uses. This article uses the term diegestic only in its classical sense, that is its opposition to the mimetic.

Wednesday, October 11, 2017

TWO New Scriptmonk Articles in MOVIEMAKER MAGAZINE

Last month I had a new two-part article published over on the Moviemaker Magazine website. But I have been so busy that I have had barely enough time to even mention it--which is odd, seeing the extensive amount of time I put into preparing these articles.

If you have read Screenwriting & The Unified Theory of Narrative, Part I, the content should already be familiar to you. If you haven't, give the articles a read for a taste of what UTN Part I is all about.

In short, the two pieces repacks in a tighter and more compact a few of Unified Theory, Part I's most crucial concepts: Hollywood filmmaking's four narrative types (Celebratory, Cautionary, Tragic, and Cynical), and the practical mechanics behind the way these four types communicate thematic meaning through the combined structures of plot and character.

Follow the links:
Part #1: When the Bad Guys Win

Part #2: Hero Versus the World

All pretty much crucial info to understand how the structures of plot, character, and theme interact to create a unified whole.

Scribble on.


Tuesday, June 6, 2017

New SCRIPTMONK Article in Creative Screenwriting Magazine! And Updates! Exclamation points!

Hello all!!!

Creative Screenwriting Magazine online has recently published a revised and expanded version of my November 2016 blog article "Hand of the Princess, The Keys to the Kingdom; Or, Why the Romantic Subplot?" This improved version of the original article features more on the practical application of its insights into the Hollywood romantic subplot, particularly the direct structural links between the romantic subplot and the hero's Character Arc. Read the CS article HERE.

I have also begun work on another article for Creative Screenwriting, to be titled "When the Bad Guys Win" on the four narrative types detailed in Screenwriting & The Unified Theory of Narrative, Part I; particularly defining the Tragic and Cynical narratives--two common varieties of cinematic story so often ignored by other materials on screencraft. Look out for the new article in the coming months.

You may also like to know that I soon plan to return to my "SCRIPTMONK! Goes to the Movies" series of articles on a regular monthly basis. Far more than simple movie "reviews," these articles will analyze what can be learned from the narrative successes and failures of recent releases, taken purely from the perspective of screencraft and narrative theory.

Friday, May 19, 2017

SCRIPTMONK's Plot Pattern DVD Bin, Part II!

The more films I watch, the more I am convinced. The thirty-four common plot patterns of American cinema just might be the dramatic find of the century. Of course, I’m not surprised if most people are skeptical. They just have not seen the mountain of evidence I have. With every new, even marginally-successful motion picture, I find the same patterns again and again. And again. And again and again and again. Films with great plots follow these patterns with almost perfect accuracy. So-so films do it in a so-so manner. Poorly plotted films fail to follow any pattern at all.

Most of the skepticism likely stems from a confusion between pattern and formula. PLOT PATTERNS ARE NOT FORMULAS. Formulas are intentional. They are consciously applied from the outset of creation to achieve a repeated result. Patterns are naturally-occurring. They arise without conscious intent, usually in a manner so automatic and intuitive that the creators themselves do not recognize them. This phenomenon, I believe, is a result of artists repeatedly drawing upon the same sets of social and cultural beliefs. For a brief proposition of how and why this occurs, see this article. Of course, this theory is explained in far greater detail in Screenwriting & The Unified Theory of Narrative, Part II: Genre, Pattern &The Concept of Total Meaning.

Plot patterns possess an incredible flexibility. While stable enough to perform their basic dramatic and ideological functions again and again, plot patterns can adapt to any given premise or narrative conflict through the highly figurative nature of their constituent elements as well as a wide array of alternatives and variations. This makes plot patterns consistent yet fluid, explaining how they can reoccur so frequently yet continue to go unnoticed by their viewers. Each story is allowed to do what it needs to develop its unique uses of plot, character, and theme upon the narrative surface while retaining the strength and meaning of the structure underneath. In this article, I will continue to demonstrate the plot pattern phenomenon by showing how a random selection of recent films succeed by following, stumble by deviating from, or accommodate themselves through variations upon these hidden narrative structures.

Captain America: Civil War (2016)
Type 16a: Moral Mirrors. I love a good Moral Mirrors. When done properly (in films such as The Departed, Heat, or Touch of Evil), it can be the most mentally-involving of patterns on all three levels of narrative discourse: plot, character, and theme. The Moral Mirrors contains two protagonists: one a Hero, the other an Anti-hero. In most cases, these protagonists begin their stories by pursuing independent lines of action with their own separate goals. Yet whether the protagonists realize it or not (more often not), these two goals directly oppose one another. This causes the two lines to converge, gradually turning each protagonist into the other’s antagonist.

In Civil War, the idealist Steve Rogers/Captain America performs the role of the Hero, while the pragmatist Tony Stark/Iron Man fills that of the Anti-hero. The Moral Mirrors structure begins with an inciting incident (or incidents) which sets the stage for its protagonists’ eventual opposition, but does not yet begin direct conflict. (A mission-related mishap causes the international community to demand the Avengers subject their actions to government oversight.) In response, one protagonist irreversibly commits to a personal objective midway through Act 1. (Stark takes a firm stance in support of the initiative.) The other protagonist then completes the dramatic setup by passing a point of no return in commitment to a directly opposing objective at the End of Act 1 Turning Point. (Events convince Rogers to rebel against the initiative in order to save his friend Bucky.) In Act 2A, both protagonists pursue their goals independently, often in ignorance of their counterpart. Yet each action has the effect of drawing the two characters into deeper opposition, leading both to finally recognize the threat posed by the other protagonist at or around the Midpoint. (Rogers gives Stark a final refusal to cooperate and then solidifies this antagonism by going fully rogue when Bucky escapes confinement.) This initiates an Act 2B composed of a series of back-and-forth actions between Hero and Anti-hero intended to defeat or undermine the opposing party. This now open antagonism eventually escalates into a direct face-to-face battle in Act 3.

Yet Civil War hardly presents a classic Moral Mirrors, for one clear reason. Despite its Captain America title, this is really the third Avengers film. And like its two predecessors, Civil War becomes unusually convoluted due to its inclusion of a large number of supporting characters with their own dramatic subplots. This greatly complicates the use of the Moral Mirrors plot pattern in one key area. In a typical Moral Mirrors narrative, the conflict is not bi-lateral but triangular, involving not only the Hero and the Anti-hero, but also a third character I call the Wild Card. The Wild Card is an independent party of shifting loyalties who at some times opposes both the Hero and the Anti-hero and at other times may form or break alliances with one protagonist against the other. While this role is usually filled by only one or possibly two related characters (such as Frank Costello in The Departed or Joe Grandi in Touch of Evil), Civil War features multiple characters who carry out this function, each adding a separate line of conflict. Bucky, Black Panther, the villain Helmut Zemo, even Natasha Romanoff and other members of the Avengers team can be labeled Wild Card characters. Luckily, the film manages to keep these many separate threads united into a fairly comprehensible narrative. Yet it must be said that, like the other Avengers films, Civil War violates many rules of thumb regarding structural clarity. It succeeds in spite of its convolutions rather than because of them.

Kubo and the Two-Strings (2016)
Kubo and the Two-Strings presents a contrast between the formal compositions of its story and its plot. While Kubo’s story (the material seen and heard by the audience) takes on the form of a quest, its plot (the physical arrangement of dramatic developments) finds shape through a pattern not usually associated with quest stories, Type 6a: The Destructive Beast. Home to such examples as The Terminator, The Bourne Identity, and No Country for Old Men, the Destructive Beast features a protagonist relentlessly pursued by a malevolent entity (the “Beast”) which will not stop until the protagonist is killed, captured, or ruined. This usually creates a narrative patterned by repeated sequences of attack and escape. Yet while Kubo’s three-act development does adhere to this pattern—the story’s “Beast” (the Moon King and his two evil daughters) always attacks at the proper moments, with outcomes that alter the narrative situation in ways similar to other Destructive Beasts (see this article for details)—Kubo’s tone feels much different than other examples because the content found between attacks dwells far more upon the quest elements of the story. This shifts attention from a mere flight from the Beast to the objectives that must be achieved to defeat the Beast. As a result, the Beast is not a constant figure of menace, but takes a back seat to the quest, only arriving to attack at the plot’s key turning points. For this reason, Kubo’s drama feels far more relaxed and lacks the constant fear and tension found in other Destructive Beasts.

Kubo contains another variation on the Destructive Beast. Typically, the protagonist forms an alliance with a “Sole Companion” character after the Beast’s first direct assault at the End of 1st Act Turning Point. This Sole Companion soon becomes the one and only character the protagonist can depend on as the story unfolds. Kubo follows suit, matching its hero with his protector Monkey. Yet in this case, the “Sole” Companion does not stay sole, as Kubo collects two more companions in Act 2A, turning the Sole Companion into a group of characters with different traits and abilities. Yet Kubo returns to standard form at the End of Act 2B when, as usual, the hero is cut off from his companions. He then faces a choice: either continue running from the Beast (a path which will lead to failure) or finally confront and defeat the Beast all alone.

The Revenant (2015)
Type 12: The Vengeance Narrative. As I mention in Screenwriting & The Unified Theory of Narrative, Part II, the Vengeance Narrative is the simplest and most formulaic of the thirty-four common plot patterns. Yet this potential drawback is compensated by a far greater flexibility in terms of where and when key structural events can occur. This allows what are essentially very similar plots (for example, those found in Gladiator, Kill Bill, The Crow) to still appear different as they unfold. The Revenant takes this flexibility to its extreme. This two-hour, thirty-one minute drama is extremely front-heavy, with a long setup and an Act 2A that by itself takes up over an hour of the total run time. This pushes the Vengeance Narrative’s key structural events much later in the film than usual. While the inciting incident arrives at 26:00 minutes, the vengeance-worthy action does not occur until 49:00. The hero’s resurrection and decision to pursue vengeance (an event which usually occurs no later than a quarter of the way into a film) is pushed back to 55:30. The pattern’s Midpoint event (in which the target of vengeance becomes aware of the protagonist’s intentions and takes counter-action) arrives even further behind schedule, not until 1:59:30. This is followed by the End of 2B reversal at 2:16:00—giving the film only a fifteen-minute Act 3. As you may surmise, this makes the structure extremely lopsided, as the film cares to expend far more time on the story’s early obstacles than the direct battle between the protagonist and his betrayer. This resulted in fairly predictable audience responses. Lovers of art films (known for their patience with slow-developing narratives) tended to praise the film. Viewers with more mainstream tastes responded less enthusiastically, as they felt impatient waiting for the direct hero/villain conflict to finally kick the action into high gear.

Ex Machina (2014)
Type 16b: False Friendship. Like the Moral Mirrors, the False Friendship centers upon a dynamic between a Hero and an Anti-hero. Only in this case, the characters begin in an amicable partnership. Yet, as we see in the pattern’s other examples (such as Training Day, Fight Club, The Master), conflict slowly develops within this relationship, eventually turning into direct antagonism in the story’s later stages. The source of this division lies in the fact that the relationship is not really one between two friends, but between a master and an apprentice. The oft charming, impressive, or powerful Anti-hero wishes to mold the Hero into a loyal slave who will unquestionably submit to his or her warped personal philosophy. The Hero initially accepts this role, yet later finds the Anti-hero hides darker intentions. This creates a schism between the pair. The plot structure then splits into two potential paths near the end of Act 2B. In Celebratory or Cynical narratives (in which things end well for the Hero: Training Day, Fight Club), the Anti-hero momentarily regains the Hero’s allegiance. But this is only a trick by the Anti-hero, followed by an act of betrayal. This forces the Hero to confront and defeat his or her one time mentor and friend. In Cautionary or Tragic narratives (in which things do not end well for the Hero: The Master, The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford), it is the Hero who chooses to betray the Anti-hero. While the Hero usually comes to regret this decision in Act 3, the die has been cast and cannot be reversed, leading the Hero to an ignoble end.

Ex Machina follows the latter path. Shocked by the secrets he uncovers in Act 2B, the Hero Caleb decides to betray the Anti-hero Nathan so he may help the automaton Ava escape. Yet Caleb finds out too late he has been tricked. Unable to reverse his betrayal, Caleb can do nothing to stop Ava from killing Nathan and abandoning him in the isolated compound to an unknown, though certainly undesirable fate.

Deadpool (2016)
Another Vengeance Narrative. Remember how I said the Vengeance Narrative is extremely flexible in terms of its placement of key events? Deadpool proves this again, but in a much different way. The first half of Deadpool is presented non-linearly, opening with an extended sequence which would more traditionally occur just before the film’s Midpoint. We are then given flashbacks to provide the skipped-over setup, Act 1, and early Act 2A events. When these sequences are rearranged chronologically, we again find the tried and true Vengeance Narrative structure: 1. The hero is betrayed/unfairly victimized by the villain. 2. The hero is left for dead. 3. The hero resurrects in a changed form. 4. The hero secretly pursues a plan of vengeance in Act 2A. 5. The villain learns of the hero’s intentions at the Midpoint. 6. The villain takes counter-actions, creating an escalating contest of wills in Act 2B. 7. A reversal of power allows the villain to steal control of the situation. 8. A final battle which climaxes with the hero ultimately choosing between justice and vengeance and meeting the consequences. (Compare the climactic moments of The Revenant and Deadpool to see two different responses to this final decision, creating significant contrast in their thematic resolutions.)

Deadpool’s nonlinearity is a pretty neat trick, seeing how audiences would have likely found the chronologically-arranged plot too predictable. Additionally, this delaying of the story setup not only starts Deadpool with a huge bang, but acts to engage the audience with elements of mystery and surprise which would not have been present if all details had been known beforehand.

Mad Max: Fury Road (2015)
Fury Road has plenty of structural problems, the first and foremost being its weak protagonist. “Weak” because we are never certain who the real protagonist is supposed to be. The title character spends the entire first act as a passive nonparticipant. When he is finally allowed to act on his own, his hero charisma amounts to little more than grunting and gesturing like Koko the Gorilla. It is the Furiosa character (Charlize Theron) whose actions actually drive the narrative. Yet she is never allowed to step into the center of the protagonist spotlight. As such, when the two join forces, we get a Who’s the Boss? scenario where it remains unclear who is supposed to be in charge of the story. Of course, the film does intend Koko—sorry, I mean Max to be its protagonist, despite its mishandling of the character in the first act. This claim is fully supported by the film’s choice of plot pattern.

Fury Road uses Type 8a: The Quest. In The Quest (Saving Private Ryan, The Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring, Children of Men), a protagonist (willingly or not) must escort a macguffin to a far-off place, or journey to a far-off place to retrieve such a macguffin. While this first seems to be a simple task, the protagonist encounters major complications at the end of each act which continually demand the character extend his or her involvement beyond previous expectations. With each complication, the protagonist grudgingly chooses to escalate his or her level of dedication and push into deeper and more dangerous territory, slowly turning a reluctant protagonist into a selfless hero willing to sacrifice anything to see the mission to its end. Likewise, Fury Road’s plot centers upon an effort to safely transport a group of macguffins from Point A to Point B. (Specifically, Furiousa seeks to smuggle the villain’s slave brides to a place where he can no longer reach them.) In Act 1, Max is dragged into this scenario unwillingly. Once freed to take his own actions at the late-occurring End of Act 1, Max wants nothing more than to end his involvement and leave the situation behind. Yet circumstances prevent this. He has no choice but to accompany Furiosa and the brides to their final destination. With their fates now intertwined, Max must dedicate himself to defending this band of refugees from their pursuing enemies.

True to all other examples of The Quest, Max faces his second major crossroad halfway through Act 2B (again, this turning point occurs late, as it usually arrives at the story’s Midpoint) when the mission reaches what appears to be its end—at least in terms of the protagonist’s direct involvement. Only this end is not as it first seems. A second, even more unexpected complication creates a dilemma which compels Max to extend his involvement once more, this time at an even greater threat to life and limb. (The heroes reach the Many Mothers, an army Furiosa expects to protect them in the safe haven she calls the Green Place. Yet they find the Green Place no longer exists and the Mothers are too few for protection.) Given the option to leave, Max heroically chooses to remain with the group, devising a plan to lead them straight through the enemy forces to the promise of safety on the other side. Just like all other films of the Quest plot pattern, Act 3 begins with the onset of a final battle through which the formerly unwilling hero must prove his now full and selfless dedication to the mission despite the extreme personal sacrifices will demands.

American Sniper (2015)
American Sniper is not only based on a true story, but adapted from an autobiography written by the very hero it depicts. Adapting from an autobiography rather than a novel presents certain difficulties for a screenwriter. The first is the challenge of shaping a long series of loosely-connected chronological events into a discrete narrative with a clear beginning, middle, and end, unified by a single Story Spine. The second is the limited freedom the screenwriter holds when it comes to reinventing or rearranging events into a dramatic 3-Act rise-and-fall without overly violating the historical truth behind them. American Sniper manages to overcome these difficulties and at the same time find a skeletal plot pattern by playing up the role of the protagonist’s enemy rival Mustafa. By developing this rivalry into a thread that builds in intensity over the course of the film, American Sniper follows Type 9b: The Voluntary Snowball.

The Voluntary Snowball is marked by a protagonist who willingly embroils him or herself deeper and deeper into a conflict – which he or she may otherwise avoid – due to a growing obsession with the lure of a “Siren.” This lure can take many forms: a mystery the protagonist is irrationally compelled to solve (Chinatown), an object the protagonist will do anything to claim (Raiders of the Lost Ark), a romantic obsession (Blue Velvet, Brazil, WALL-E), or a nemesis the protagonist feels an absolute need to defeat. American Sniper uses this last form of Siren. In nearly every key moment of Chris Kyle’s experiences in combat, Kyle is continually defeated or frustrated by Mustafa’s appearance (in body or at least in the mention of his ghostly name). Taunted by this Siren, Kyle is motivated to continually escalate his activities until the rival is finally hunted down and defeated.

Two other traits (among many others) mark this film as a Voluntary Snowball. The first is the fact that the story’s first turning point is not the inciting incident. Like other films of the pattern, the first turning point is an initiating event that does not yet establish the story’s main conflict, but rather motivates the protagonist to pursue some tangential objective. (Reports of terrorist attacks in Africa motivate Kyle to join the Navy SEALS.) This allows us to learn more about the protagonist and his or her situation through an active setup rather than the inactive setups found in most other cinematic narratives. The story’s actual inciting incident comes at the second turning point (Kyle is sent to his first tour in Iraq). Second, in the Voluntary Snowball, the protagonist is always given options or opportunities to remove him or herself from the conflict with no further consequences. However, the protagonist chooses each time to not only continue but escalate his or her involvement due to a growing obsession with the Siren. In Sniper, Kyle is given the option of refusing another tour of duty each time he returns home. Yet he willingly returns to Iraq again and again because the call of his Siren will not let him rest.

Silver Linings Playbook (2012)
This is not a recent film, but after seeing it a second time I thought I’d use it to round out this article since it makes use of a pattern we have not yet discussed. Silver Linings follows Type 4a: The Resistive Wounded (one of the two “Healing Narratives”), a pattern shared with Good Will Hunting, Sideways, and Ordinary People. In these stories, the protagonist carries a “wound” stemming from past trauma. However, the protagonist refuses to face this wound or even admit it exists no matter how much damage it does to his or her current life. Lining’s protagonist Pat, suffering from bipolar disorder, has been psychologically scarred after witnessing his wife Nikki’s sexual infidelity. Unable to move on, Pat is certain that if he tries hard enough he can get back together with Nikki and everything will return to what it once was. Since the protagonist cannot heal until he or she is forced to recognize the wound, the story requires the intervention of a Healer Character. Enter Tiffany (Jennifer Lawrence). As usual, this Healer carries emotional issues of her own, and through their interaction both characters are eventually led to greater well-being.

The Resistive Wounded begins with a “soft” inciting incident in which the Healer takes notice of the protagonist’s problems and resolves to help. Yet the protagonist is initially reluctant, and refuses to cooperate until the end of Act 1. Though now on board, the protagonist refuses to take the Healer’s efforts to help seriously in early Act 2A, requiring the Healer to step up the pressure. This leads to a minor breakthrough at the Midpoint. Things improve for the protagonist in Act 2B. It seems healing is finally starting to begin. Yet a misstep or unexpected development sends the protagonist into a full relapse at the end of Act 2B.

For the most part, Silver Linings follows this pattern—with the exception of a significant failure in its second half. Specifically, the film slides off-pattern in Act 3 in a contrived effort to force the film into a tired and cliched romantic resolution. In a proper Resistive Wounded, the protagonist suffers a full relapse at the end of Act 2B. It seems the wound has gotten the best of the character and he or she is doomed to eternal misery. This low point sets up the situation that will drive the drama to its conclusion in Act 3. Yet in Linings, Pat does not suffer such a relapse—only a minor incident from which he immediately recovers. In place of the relapse, the film tries to substitute an issue related to Pat’s father—material from a subplot completely outside of the protagonist’s Story Spine. Instead of propelling Pat’s drama forward, this only shoots it sideways. Also, with no need to get Pat back on the right track (because he is still on it), Act 3 incongruously shifts focus onto Tiffany, turning Pat’s wound into a secondary concern. The story does not give Pat’s healing the climactic resolution it deserves, preferring to brush it off in favor of the same “true love was right in front of you the whole time” resolution we have seen in a thousand Romantic Dramas before.

Sunday, March 26, 2017

SCRIPTMONK's Big, Huge (not so huge) Plot Pattern DVD Bin (part 1)

Six years ago, I stumbled upon the first hints of a cinematic phenomenon I still quite frankly find amazing. Under their surface, wide collections of Hollywood’s most successful and well-loved feature films; despite extreme differences in style, premise, content, or genre; appeared to follow identical patterns of plot. These were not broad or general patterns like the vague and unwieldy 3-Act Restorative Structure, but very specific patterns where films mirrored one another on a sequence-by-sequence, event-by-event basis. Digging into a closer analysis of hundreds of films, I found this was no rare occurrence. Every well-plotted American film (of traditional three-act form) fit snugly into one of these patterns. The faults of mediocre films could be traced to where they strayed from these patterns. On the other hand, poorly-plotted films followed no pattern at all. Soon, every new film had me at some point jumping from my seat, triumphantly shouting “Type 2b!” “Type 8c!” “Type 15a!” Most amazing of all, these plot patterns seem to arise naturally on their own accord, without the knowledge of even the artists who create them. All in all, I have identified thirty-four common plot patterns of American cinema, detailed for the first time in my most recent book Screenwriting & The Unified Theory of Narrative, Part II: Genre, Pattern & The Concept of Total Meaning. Together with the Unified Narrative Structure presented in Screenwriting & The Unified Theory of Narrative, Part I and the contributions of genre, protagonist psychology, and artistic specialization, the plot pattern phenomenon provides a key part to our comprehensive understanding of how cinematic stories function and communicate meaning.

But enough prologue. Over the last few months I have gotten some rare free time to catch up on films I missed in theaters. Needless to say, each new film continues to confirm my findings. Yet still, nearly every one teaches me something new. Considered one at a time, each instance reveals in greater detail the strength and versatility of their pattern (or in some cases, patterns). Plot patterns are not rigid or restrictive, but highly flexible and capable of serving practically any premise. (As I have always said, structure must adapt to the needs of the story, not the other way around.) Every new example gives fresh evidence of how plot patterns can be bent (and the consequences of being broken) or reveals creative alternatives and variations which may be used to match a strong structural foundation to an original premise. Here follows a selection of nine films with an analysis of their use of plot pattern.

Nightcrawler (2014)
Type 5c: The Exploiter. The Exploiter is one of the least common American plot patterns. Luckily, Nightcrawler give another instance to add to the examples There Will Be Blood, The Social Network, and Bowfinger used in UTN Part II. Like these films, Nightcrawler centers upon a morally-dubious protagonist (Louis Bloom, played by Jake Gyllenhaal) selfishly pursuing an opportunity which requires him to continually lie, cheat, and manipulate others for personal gain. Success in this endeavor requires the continued loyalty or unwilling (or unwitting, depending on the case) compliance of two key supporting characters: the Close Comrade and the Dupe. In Nightcrawler, these roles are served by Louis’ “intern” Rick and TV executive Nina. (Though unlike other Exploiters, it is unclear which character serves which specific role. The functions of the two roles seem to be shared between Rick and Nina, as Louis treats them both as the Close Comrade or the Dupe depending on the situation.)

Nightcrawler’s plot however is missing a few common structural events found in other, more successful Exploiters: 1. The loss of the vital Close Comrade/Dupe near the Midpoint; 2. The protagonist’s efforts to replace or regain control over the lost character; and 3. The return of the lost Comrade/Dupe at the end of Act 2B. While Nightcrawler remains a serviceable narrative, these missing complications leave Act 2B one-dimensional. Since Louis’s ambition faces only a singular threat, the conflict seems simpler and far easier to overcome. Thus, the drama does not intensify as greatly as it would otherwise, keeping Nightcrawler’s final sequence from being as powerful a climax as we normally expect.

BoxTrolls (2014)
Type 11a: The Social Reformer. Typified by films like Braveheart or Erin Brockovich, the Social Reformer pits the weak and oppressed against a tyrannical authority; usually to address a social issue or themes on personal rights or freedoms. Boxtrolls shows that the content of such stories need not always be so serious. Despite being a lighthearted Family Adventure, this animated feature follows the Social Reformer pattern to a tee. Act 1 establishes the oppression or unfair treatment of a disempowered group of individuals by a Force of Tyranny (though a rolling setup rather than a single inciting incident). The protagonist takes notice of this, and at the End of Act 1 Turning Point voluntarily chooses to become the group’s champion. In Act 2A, the protagonist promotes this cause by forging alliances with more powerful individuals and encouraging the oppressed peoples to unite under a common front. With success, the protagonist makes his or her first major direct assault upon the Force of Tyranny at the Midpoint. This arouses the wrath of the Force, leading to counter-actions which weaken or completely destroy the protagonist’s alliances by the end of Act 2B. With the pattern’s common theme of “united we stand, divided we fall,” the protagonist can only hope to defeat the Force by reforging these crucial alliances in Act 3.

Boxtrolls however contains two interesting details which help us gain a more flexible understanding of the Social Reformer pattern. First, Social Reformers typically contain a vital character role I call the “OverBoss.” Played by Robert the Bruce in Braveheart and Erin’s employer Ed Masry in Brockovich, the OverBoss is a person of greater social power whose support the protagonist needs to grant his or her cause the necessary strength, resources, or legitimacy. In Boxtrolls, this function is served by the little girl Winnie, daughter of the city’s highest-ranking nobleman. This shows that the OverBoss need not be a character of actual power or authority, but merely a person with the knowhow, social standing, or resources to further the protagonist’s cause in ways the protagonist cannot. (As a result, I may have to rename the “OverBoss” to something more inclusive.)

Second, as explained in UTN, success or failure in Act 3 depends on the protagonist’s will to take the actions necessary to reforge lost or broken alliances, for the powerful Force of Tyranny cannot be defeated without a united front. Yet unlike examples such as Erin Brockovich, Boxtrolls’s alliances do not reform through the protagonist’s direct efforts, but behind the scenes and on their own accord—leading to the hero’s last-second rescue when his fate seems doomed. While this provides the Family Adventure with an equally acceptable conclusion, it may be accused of the dreaded deus ex machina. Thus, such an alternative is dramatically weaker and may be considered implausible in more realistic narratives.

The Big Short (2015)
Despite the aforementioned rarity of the Exploiter, we find another example in The Big Short. Yet Short appears much different than Nightcrawler due to its use of a multi-narrative structure. Short alternates between three separate and independent storylines, each with their or own protagonist (or protagonists). Nevertheless, these narratives all follow the Exploiter pattern; albeit in a simplified manner—simplified because each are allotted only a third of the film’s overall screen time and thus must limit themselves to only the pattern’s key events.

When we disentangle the three storylines and view them individually, the repeated Exploiter pattern becomes plainly obvious. Each begins with the protagonist(s) discovering an opportunity which, if exploited properly, may lead to enormous personal gain (all our heroes separately realize they have a chance to cash in on a mortgage industry on the verge of collapse). Yet the morally-questionable nature of this opportunity demands secrecy and some underhanded double-dealings. Like other Exploiters, the protagonists’ plans require the support of a Close Comrade and the unwitting compliance of a Dupe. In the Mark Baum (Steve Carell) storyline, Mark partners with the Close Comrade Jared Vennett (Ryan Gosling). In the Charlie Geller/Jamie Shipley (John Magro/Finn Wittrock) storyline, the dual leads gain the help of Ben Rickert (Brad Pitt). (It should be noted however that the Michael Burry (Christian Bale) line lacks a Close Comrade—yet this thread is granted the least dramatic development as well as the least amount of screen time.) Yet while the Close Comrades are different, all the protagonists seek to exploit the same Dupe – presented in Short not as a singular character, but more abstractly as the entire corrupt mortgage industry as a whole (everyone involved in this industry thus functions like as single collective character). This shared Dupe unifies the storylines (one of the greatest challenges of a multi-narrative film) since every action/reaction from the Dupe mutually affects all three plots.

To return to plot structure, the protagonists’ initial actions culminate in an End of Act 1 Turning Point which marks the exploitative venture’s official launch. (The protagonists invest all their money in their surety the mortgage industry will fail.) This venture appears to advance quite well in Act 2A, only to hit a major roadblock at the Exploiter’s Midpoint (the aforementioned event missing in Nightcrawler)—the loss of control over the Dupe. (The mortgage industry lies to investors to cover-up its failings, blocking the protagonists’ once certain path to success.) This incites the protagonists to desperate actions to save their flailing ventures in Act 2B. Yet (in perfect conformity with the Exploiter pattern) the Dupe “returns” at the End of 2nd Act Turning Point (the mortgage industry is forced to admit it is going down the tubes), sending the protagonists into an exploitative frenzy in order to achieve their goals before time runs out.

As explained in Unified Theory of Narrative, Part I, a multi-narrative film ends with multiple climactic resolutions. This grants the thematic message greater depth and detail, as it allows the audience to compare and contrast the fates of multiple characters (and the choices which led to such fates). In other words, multi-narratives like The Big Short encourage viewers to evaluate the story’s central ideological issue from various angles and draw conclusions between them. Also, Short adds ambiguity to its resolutions (through structural devices also detailed in UTN Part I). Each protagonist achieves only a bittersweet victory at a great physical or ethical cost. Through these combined elements, Short intentionally avoids a clear-cut thematic message, preferring to leave its central issue open for continued reflection and debate.

The Imitation Game (2014)
Type 10b: The Overreacher. This one was a bit tricky to identify (largely due to its nonlinear structure composed of three separate storylines). However, the pattern became obvious once I located the true source of the film’s conflict.

In the Overreacher, an ambitious yet highly-flawed protagonist creates conflict by refusing to abide by the wishes of a far more conservative “Power of Approval.” Instead, the protagonist constantly demands this Power give more than it is willing to allow. (In Unified Theory of Narrative Part II, I used Scarface, 500 Days of Summer, and Patton as examples. In Scarface, Tony Montana both rises and falls by constantly challenging the authority of his superiors in the world cocaine syndicate. In Summer, Tom continually demands more commitment from his dream girl Summer than she is willing to give. In Patton, General Patton creates increasing friction with the military chiefs of command by refusing to follow orders in favor of this own path to glory.) In all three of The Imitation Game’s story threads, protagonist Alan Turing; alienated from others by a combination of his brilliance, social ineptitude, and the taboo of his secret homosexuality; remains a stubborn nonconformist in worlds which demand strict conformity to narrow-minded norms and expectations. In each case, Turing refuses to adapt or fully cooperate, demanding the Power of Approval allow him an absolute freedom of action.

In the first half of the Overreacher pattern, the Power of Approval initially, though quite reluctantly, yields to the protagonist’s determination. Yet the Power eventually feels pushed too far, punishing or rebuking the protagonist at the Midpoint. The Power then grants the protagonist a second chance in Act 2B. How the protagonist responds to this second opportunity will decide his or her fate. If the protagonist learns from the previous downfall and achieves a proper compromise with the Power, he or she is rewarded with a more acceptable level of happiness and success. Yet if the protagonist refuses such personal growth and reverts to his or her flawed ways, the Power of Approval turns on the protagonist once more, handing out a final crushing defeat. The Imitation Game follows the latter path. Turing once again refuses to adapt to expected (albeit close-minded) behavioral norms, ultimately compelling authorities to punish him in spite of his heroic achievements.

Unlike Scarface or Patton, The Imitation Game’s conclusion seems harsh and unfair. This is because Scarface and Patton are constructed as Cautionary narratives while Imitation Game presents a Tragic narrative. In a Cautionary narrative, a protagonist is rightly punished for clinging to a quality the audiences considers harmful or wrong. Yet in a Tragic narrative, the audiences feels sympathy towards—and even approves of—the protagonist’s qualities. However, these supposedly “positive” qualities prove to be the protagonist’s undoing, as he or she exists in an ethically-backwards world which rejects what the audience considers “good” and rewards its opposite. (See UTN, Part I for more information on the Celebratory, Cautionary, Tragic, and Cynical narrative types.) Since Game’s audience is led to feel sympathetic towards Turing and see the good in his “flaw,” his defeat is found unjust. The result is social criticism. What we believe to be good or right is not always rewarded in reality. As a result, Tragic narratives like Imitation Game argue the need to recognize social faults and press for change.

Jane Got a Gun (2015)
A fairly paint-by-the-numbers Type 14b: Coming Together. Because of its predictability, Jane failed to hold my interest and I stopped watching around the 40-minute mark. Granted, this prevents me from giving a genuine critique of the film, as I am unable (and do not care to) to conclude whether Jane’s lackluster success came from its predictability or its failure to stick to the Coming Together pattern from beginning to end. Either way, this film shows that the use of a plot pattern does not by itself guarantee success. Patterned films are most successful when audiences cannot readily perceive their pattern. The old Hollywood saw “Give me something familiar, yet different” definitely applies here. While every film demands a strong structural foundation, a lack of novelty in terms of external elements (such as the story’s premise, characters, and the nature of individual events) will allow the bones of the structure to poke through, causing the audience to compare the film to other obvious examples of the pattern and apply that hated label “formulaic.”

The Avengers: Age of Ultron (2015)
Yes, despite all the hype, it took me over a year to watch the Avengers sequel. And once again my instincts proved to be correct. Plot pattern? None. This, and other reasons, is why Ultron is so cluttered, confused, and fails at times to even make sense. The first Avengers movie (2012) did follow a plot pattern, Type 14b: Coming Together. (Actually, it features a combo pattern; beginning as Type 13: The Big Mission and then making a transition to the Coming Together at the End of Act 1 Turning Point; but that is too technical to get into here.) While not a perfect film, the adherence to an established plot pattern allowed the first Avengers to overcome many of the problems which usually dog such a high-concept tentpole with a huge ensemble cast. Yet Ultron falls into all the traps the first Avengers managed to avoid. Without a plot pattern to guide it, this overstuffed sequel fails to find sufficient direction or clarity in practically every significant area, from story structure to character development to the expression of theme.

Ant-Man (2015)
For the past few decades, Type 2a: The Summoned Hero has been so overused in the comic book, sci-fi, and fantasy genres that it has become a tiresome cliché. I am sure you are all familiar with it: A seemingly unextraordinary protagonist is plucked from obscurity to take on an incredible role; the hero is assigned a mentor, initiated into a fantastic new world, undergoes training; etc, etc, etc (The Matrix, Men in Black, Kung-fu Panda, Wanted all abide by this formula, to name only a few memorable examples (the less said about the many more mediocre examples, the better).) While Ant-Man follows this same old path, it deserves credit for injecting a bit of freshness into the pattern through some artful manipulations in its first act. In a typical Summoned Hero, the plot begins as follows: 1. An outside power selects the protagonist for a heroic role. 2. Upon meeting the mentor, the protagonist is given some form of test. 3. The protagonist proves his or her potential by passing this test, ending Act 1 with an official invitation into the fantastic new world. 4. The mentor fully initiates the fledgling hero into this world. Ant-Man however rearranges some of these sequences and delays the revelation of key information, adding elements of surprise and mystery to an otherwise predictable series of events. First, we are not initially told protagonist Scott Lang has been selected for greatness. Then, Lang’s test (the burglary of Dr. Hank Pym’s home, arranged by Dr. Pym himself) unfolds without Lang or the audience knowing this is indeed a test. Ant-Man then reverses the order of the next two events. Initiation precedes invitation. (As Pym plans, Lang puts on the Ant-Man suit without first knowing its power, throwing Lang into shock and bewilderment.) All this mystery is then resolved at the End of Act 1 when Pym finally reveals himself as to Lang and demands he accept the intended heroic role. Ant-Man then keeps us guessing in its second half with more complications and reversals than typically found in other Summoned Heroes. Through such alterations, Ant-Man surpassed industry expectations; giving us something familiar and yet somewhat different, helping it stand out from the more rote and uninspired films of the same pattern.

The Martian (2015)
Speaking of new twists on familiar patterns, lets talk of The Martian. The Martian fits into Type 9c: The Long Perilous Road (a pattern it shares with the likes of Apocalypse Now, O Brother Where Art Thou?, Finding Nemo, Little Miss Sunshine). The Long Perilous Road fits into a wider family of plot patterns I call “The Literal Journey.” Yet The Martian is the first case of a Literal Journey I have ever encountered which does not actually contain a literal journey! But then again, it kind of does.

In The Martian, Astronaut Mark Watney’s journey is not one over distance, but one over time. Stranded on Mars, Watney must find ways stay alive for four full years before he can find hope of rescue. Just like a physical journey, this temporal journey has a beginning, a destination, and a long stretch of unknown dangers in between. Once we stretch our idea of what a “journey” may mean, we see that The Martian’s plot structure is virtually identical to every other Long Perilous Road. The inciting incident gives the protagonist a pressing reason to take the “journey” (Watney is left stranded on Mars). The end of Act 1 marks the journey’s official launch (Watney refuses to accept his doom and dedicates himself on finding a series of means to stay alive for the next four years). Like the pattern’s other examples, Acts 2A & 2B take on an episodic structure where each sequence begins with an obstacle or challenge which threatens to bring the protagonist’s journey to a premature end. The protagonist overcomes this by the sequence’s end, allowing the journey to continue. Yet as soon as this is accomplished, a new obstacle or challenge incites the next sequence. Step by step, hurdle by hurdle, Watney pushes further down his road, advancing ever closer to his final destination.

The second act of a Long Perilous Road ends with the journey reaching its destination. Focus then shifts in Act 3 to the achieving the goal or objective that first motivated the journey. (In Little Miss Sunshine, the Hoover family reaches the beauty pageant. In Apocalypse Now, Captain Willard arrives and Colonel Kurtz’s compound and must now find a way to kill Kurtz. In Finding Nemo, Marlin finally gets to Sydney and must figure out how to rescue his son.) The Martian again stays true to this form. Act 2B ends with the four years passed and the rescue ship arrived. Act 3 then focuses on the pursuit of the great reward which incited Watney’s long journey: the opportunity to finally leave Mars.

Creed (2015)
Of all films covered in this article, Creed’s use of plot patterns is most complex. Yet complex does not necessarily mean better. In fact, the more complicated a structure, the more difficulties it brings. Fortunately, Creed manages to retain its narrative focus and gets through its structural obstacles relatively unscathed.

You might be wondering what is exactly is so complex about Creed. The first act ends when Rocky Balboa agrees to train Adonis (Johnson) Creed, right? Then, the Midpoint occurs when Rocky collapses halfway through the film. Right? Well, yes and no. These events constitute the major turning points of Rocky’s arc, not the arc of the story’s protagonist Adonis Creed. Though it has the appearance of a single story, Creed actually contains dual narrative arcs: one assigned to Adonis and another to Rocky Balboa. Each of these arcs follows a separate plot pattern. This is fairly unorthodox, and in many cases might court disaster. Luckily, there is enough compatibility between Creed’s two patterns to meld their events together into what seems to be a single cohesive narrative.

Rocky’s arc is the simpler of the two, so this is where we shall begin. When viewed independently from material exclusive to Adonis, Rocky’s arc follows the structure of Type 2c: The Returning Hero. The Returning Hero begins with a character of former greatness who has abandoned this role or faded into irrelevance. Events then compel others to ask the hero to step back into his old shoes. (Adonis begs Rocky to train him. Rocky politely refuses.) The hero relents by the end of Act 1, marking his official return. (Rocky agrees to mentor Adonis.) Yet the hero struggles with this comeback, either due to recently-developed flaws or an inability to adapt to a changed world. (Rocky does not put his whole heart in this venture. He believes he has already lost everything worth living for and the future holds little promise.) At the Midpoint, a major mistake, failure, or complication threatens a premature end to the comeback (Rocky learns he has cancer), forcing or compelling the flawed hero back into his former isolation (Rocky decides he will give up and let the cancer kill him). Yet in this darkest moment, the character finds the will to transform into a new kind of hero, one with the greater strength or virtue to overcome his problems. (Adonis convinces Rocky to reverse course and fight on.) This gives the hero a new lease on life, leading him to victory.

Let us now look at the primary arc belonging to Adonis Creed. To complicate our analysis further, Adonis’s plotline uses a combo pattern (see UTN Part II, Chapter 5). In a combo pattern, the story first follows one plot pattern, but then at some point transitions to the structure of a completely different pattern. Adonis’s story starts in the mold of Type 5b: The Ejected. In The Ejected, a restless protagonist pursues a great personal ambition he or she believes will bring joy or meaning to his or her less than satisfying life. Yet the protagonist fails to recognize certain truths about him or herself or the situation, causing the character to initially pursue this ambition in self-defeating ways. This leads to a crushing failure at the end of Act 1 which “ejects” the protagonist from his or her former world. (In Creed, Adonis rejects his identity as the son of former heavyweight champion Apollo Creed, driving his desire to gain recognition by his own merits. This misplaced pride and anger motivates Adonis to try to prove himself prematurely, embarrassing him in a sparring match against a legitimate heavyweight contender. Humiliated, Adonis decides he must leave the comforts of home to seek a lonely new path in Philadelphia.) Now lost in the wilderness, the ejected protagonist seeks out friends and allies (usually characters just as troubled as the protagonist) to help him find his way (Rocky Balboa and the musician/future girlfriend Bianca). Caught between his still-burning ambitions and a refusal to accept the truths which hold him back, the ups and downs of Act 2A compel the protagonist to make a Great Compromise at the story’s Midpoint. (Adonis is offered a shot to prove himself against the heavyweight champion, but only if he accepts the identity he despises by fighting under his father’s name.)

In a typical Ejected, the Great Compromise leads to failure in Act 2B; either because the choice is foolish or ill-planned, or because the protagonist sabotages this path by reverting back to the flaws suffered in Act 1. Creed however takes Act 2B in a more uplifting direction by making the sudden transition to the structure of Type 1a: The Reluctant Hero. The Reluctant Hero (seen in films as diverse as Star Wars, The Godfather, Donnie Darko, and The 40 Year-Old Virgin) contains a Midpoint where a formerly passive or reactive protagonist finally chooses to take charge of the story situation, thereby seizing control of his or her life. The protagonist must then mature into a more confident and self-reliant hero in Act 2B before meeting the ultimate test which makes up the whole of Act 3. Creed’s second half adopts this same pattern. Adonis has spent his life running from his dead father’s legacy because he secretly fears he is not worthy. Yet by agreeing to fight under Apollo’s name, Adonis seizes control of his destiny, eventually embracing rather than avoiding the ghost which has haunted him for so long. As usual with the Reluctant Hero, the beginning of Creed’s Act 3 marks the launch of an ultimate test (Adonis’s championship fight) through which the protagonist proves his transformation and overcomes all he once feared.

(More to come. Stay tuned.)