Scriptmonk's Plot Pattern Extravaganza -- ALL Y'ALL FAVORITES! (Part 5)

I dunno. I searched for "story patterns" in Google Images, and this is what it gave me.

Who wants to see even more examples of the 34 Common Plot Patterns in action? Well, I got 38 more movies to throw on the pile. [What are plot patterns, you ask? Read this article if this is your first time hearing about this concept.]

Really, at this point, I’m just amassing mountains of evidence for anyone who still is not convinced of the plot pattern phenomena. Plot patterns are no mere isolated occurrences. And my theory is not the result of simply finding a handful of movies which happen to share the same structural design. The presence of the 34 common plot patterns is utterly pervasive in Hollywood and American Independent cinema. Nearly every narratively-successful American film of traditional three-act form produced over the last forty years (and even beyond) follows one or a combination of the thirty-four patterns I have outlined on this blog and in my book Screenwriting & The Unified Theory of Narrative, Part II.

Of course, this is not entirely uniform. Some films follow the patterns more closely than others. (That is, some are “prototypical” and others “non-prototypical.”) However, I have observed that the less a film adheres to a designated pattern, the less success it tends to have with its viewing audience. And, as I have mentioned before, Hollywood dumps out a lot of stinkers that contain no pattern or a confused mish-mash of their constituent elements. These are typically the exceptions which prove the rule, as such patternless films usually do quite poorly with audiences (hence the qualifier “narratively-successful” used in my earlier statement). [Also, I must note that “narrative success” is never necessarily related to commercial success. Anyone can be duped into buying a ticket for a bad movie, and thus box office income is a completely different metric. By narrative success, I refer to the viewers’ qualitative opinion of the story; whether it is “good” or “bad.”] Additionally, the few narratively-successful films with stories I have not been able to categorize tend to bear striking structural resemblances to each other, suggesting that they too follow a plot pattern. Yet this potential pattern is one I have not yet been able to identify due to its rarity and current lack of enough examples to confirm the new pattern’s structure. Hopefully, I will be able to announce the discovery of these patterns soon.

I am not going to go into detail with this list of films as I did with the previous four installments of this article series (because, frankly, it’s pretty exhausting). I have already discussed half of these patterns in recent articles, anyway. Instead, I will simply provide the titles, their patterns, and notes where needed. Please refer back to this previous article and its follow-up here for brief descriptions of the 34 patterns with examples. (Otherwise, this list is just a bunch of names and numbers.) Hopefully, if you are familiar with the titles below, the pattern’s description and its prototypical examples will be all you need to see how the particular movie fits into the mold. Also, refer to this additional section for information on hybrids, combo patterns, and dual-protagonist narratives.

The Addams Family (1991) — Dual-protagonist narrative:
Addams Family grants separate protagonist status to two characters: Fester and Gomez. As such, each protagonist follows their own pattern. Fester’s line is a 3b: Crisis of Conscience. (Fester is initially an impostor used by the story’s villains to con the family. He then has a reversal of loyalties and turns on the villains.) Gomez’s line is a 7a: The Infecting Being. (Gomez does not suspect any threat from these villains until it is too late.) Since these two patterns are intertwined into a singular narrative (and done quite skillfully, I might add), neither is wholly prototypical as each pattern must accommodate for the essential dramatic events of its opposite.

Air Force One (1997) — Combo pattern
Air Force One follows the structure of 12: The Vengeance Narrative for Acts 1, 2A & 2B. (In terms of the shape and function of its major plot events, that is. Air Force One shows that the structure of the “Vengeance Narrative” can be adapted to stories that are not essentially about revenge.) After the (premature) death of the antagonist at the end of Act 2B, the film transitions to 8b: There & Back Again for its final act (the pattern’s trademark Act 3 escape and return home).

Aladdin (1992) — 2b: Breakaway Hero, but also contains some hybrid elements from 2a: The Summoned Hero.

Beverly Hills Cop (1984) — 9b: Voluntary Snowball of Complications

City Slickers (1991) — 1a: Reluctant Hero
The protagonist transitions from a passive-reactive character to one who proactively takes charge of the story situation after the Midpoint. This is the clearest identifier of a Reluctant Hero.

Cloverfield (2008) — A hybrid Snowball of Complications, combining structural elements from both the Voluntary and Involuntary varieties.
Cloverfield demonstrates qualities of the Voluntary Snowball in that the lead character voluntarily chooses to continually advance into more dangerous territory out of the desire to rescue his trapped ex-girlfriend when he could simply escape the chaos to safety. The shape of the plot, however, conforms to the structure of the Involuntary Snowball in that this complication involving the ex-girlfriend character is established at the End of Act 1 and resolved at the End of Act 2B.

Contact (1997) — 10b: Overreacher
As one of the “Rise & Fall” plot patterns, Overreachers typically end with their flawed protagonists receiving an ultimate comeuppance for their overweening ambition. The protagonist suffers a downfall at the Midpoint, receives a second chance in Act 2B, but falls back onto their flawed old habits to meet defeat once again in Act 3. Contact, however, demonstrates that this need not always be the case. The Overreacher may conclude with a Celebratory resolution if the protagonist learns from his or her past mistakes and makes good on the second chance to succeed in the end.

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button (2008) — None.
Trick question. Like Forrest Gump, Benjamin Button is not a traditional three-act Spine & Character Arc narrative. It instead employs an alternative narrative structure I have named the God Narrative. Click here for an article describing the God Narrative. In fact, the structural resemblances between Button and Gump are uncanny.

Despicable Me (2010) — 5c: Exploiter
A rare Celebratory Exploiter. (See the entries on Nightcrawler and The Big Short in this previous article for information on the Exploiter.) Like the Overreacher, the Exploiter also features ambitious, and often highly unscrupulous, protagonists who typically meet sad or ignoble ends. Yet in Despicable Me, the protagonist Gru undergoes a complete reversal in his Character Arc, turning him from a heartless exploiter to a sympathetic caretaker, allowing the story its up-ending. Of course, Despicable is a work of pure fantasy. A complete character reversal of this type might be implausible or even impossible for more realistic narratives.

E.T. (1982) — 15a: The Tragic Alliance
Most Tragic Alliances are romance narratives, but E.T. shows that a prototypical Tragic Alliance works just as well for stories about other close personal relationships.

First Blood (1982) — 6a: The Destructive Beast
John Rambo is more aggressive than the usual Destructive Beast protagonist (these protagonists are typically victims of persecution who must continually run & escape, run & escape). Yet the circumstances of the story conflict in First Blood are the same as those found in The Incredible Hulk (2008, another Destructive Beast). The protagonist wouldn’t cause any trouble if the antagonists would simply leave him alone. But no, they got to keep poking the bear, at the same points of attack found in any Destructive Beast, until Rambo is left with no choice but to turn the tables in Act 3 to force his antagonizers to back down.

The Fugitive (1993) — 1a: The Reluctant Hero
The presence of the Tommy Lee Jones character made me initially believe this film to be a 16a: Moral Mirrors, but the structure does not fit. Fugitive in fact closely follows the structure of the Reluctant Hero: By poor luck or fate the protagonist is swept up into a dramatic situation outside of his control (Dr. Kimble is falsely convicted of the murder of his wife; the prison transport then crashes through no action of Kimble’s). Though partially committed to the situation, the protagonist initially responds to events in a passive or reactive manner (Kimble does little more than run away to avoid capture throughout Act 2A). At the Midpoint, the protagonist transitions from passive/reactive to proactive in an effort to seize control of the situation in Act 2B (Kimble goes from simply running to actively seeking the real killer so he may clear his name). Act 3 then presents the ultimate test of this transition (Kimble attempts to apprehend the killer, even though the authorities are right on his heels).

Gran Torino (2008) — Hybrid Taking on the Mantle, combining structural elements from 3a: Crisis of Character and 3b: Crisis of Conscience.
As a socially-isolated misanthrope, the story forces Clint Eastwood’s protagonist to open up to meaningful interpersonal relationships in the manner of a Crisis of Character. In the process, he is compelled by these new friends to take heroic action in the style of a Crisis of Conscience.

Gremlins (1984) — 7a: The Infecting Being
Following the footsteps of the original Alien (1979), Gremlins is about as prototypical (and literal) as an Infecting Being narrative can get. Read the description and you will see what I mean.

Groundhog Day (1993) — 1a: The Reluctant Hero
Same drill as before: The protagonist is unwillingly swept up into a dramatic predicament outside of his control. The protagonist at first responds to situations in a passive or reactive manner. At the Midpoint, the protagonist transitions to proactivity in order to seize control of his destiny. Act 3 contains the ultimate test of this transition.

Ice Age (2002) — Primarily 8a: The Quest; however, the Diego character’s subplot follows 3b: Crisis of Conscience.
It’s a kids’ film. Not really anything worth examining too deeply. Nice to see another good example of the Quest, though. The Quest is not found very often, but the few popular prototypes are all excellent films (The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring, Saving Private Ryan, Children of Men).

The Incredibles (2004) — 2c: Returning Hero
This one is pretty obvious. The Incredibles literally tells the story of a HERO who returns to action, with a structure that sticks close to the established pattern.

Interview with the Vampire (1994) — 2b: Breakaway Hero
Like all Breakaway Heroes, Vampire is the story of a character who breaks away from his master/benefactor to achieve an independent identity, only to have that master/benefactor return late in the story to threaten the hero with destruction. One deviation: It is not the original master who enacts revenge at the end of Vampire’s Act 2B, but the vampire community at large, exacting punishment for violating the rule against vampires killing their own kind.

The Karate Kid (1984) — 1a: Reluctant Hero
Once again, Daniel is passive/reactive in the first half of the film, proactive in the second half. (Daniel does not ask Mr. Miyagi to teach him karate until the story’s Midpoint.) Act 3 is entirely made up of a test of this personal transformation (the karate tournament).

Lethal Weapon (1987) — Combo pattern: First half follows 14a: The Odd Couple, but makes the transition to 9b: The Voluntary Snowball of Complications at the story’s Midpoint.Lethal Weapon starts out as a fairly prototypical Odd Couple, but then completely drops that pattern as soon as the two leads gain each other’s respect at the Midpoint. After that, the film becomes a series of over-the-top Shane Black action sequences with the situation snowballing out of control.

The Lion King (1994) — 5b: The Ejected
(You may review the Ejected pattern by reading the sections on Big, The Shawshank Redemption, and Rushmore in the first installment of this series of articles.) The Lion King contains an extremely simple plot. (If the songs are removed, the film would be less than an hour long.) It is also fairly front-heavy, with a long Act 1 and a very short Acts 2A & 2B. However, it still follows the Ejected pattern fairly well, with one slight exception: Simba cannot be entirely blamed for his End of Act 1 ejection, as typical with the pattern. This event is mostly the work of the villain Scar. However, Simba is still partially at fault, as his impetuousness and gullibility play right into Scar’s plan, sending Simba into exile.

Major League (1989) — Hybrid Small Man/Woman Rises, incorporating narrative elements from both 2a: The Summoned Hero and 2b: The Breakaway Hero.
The story’s collective protagonists (the members of the team) are summoned to fill an important role in Act 1, and are trained by a mentor in Act 2A (elements of the Summoned Hero). However, the protagonists eventually learn that their master/benefactor (the team owner) is working against their best interests, prompting them to break away and become independent heroes by winning the pennant (elements of the Breakaway Hero).

Mean Girls (2004) — 1b: Wrongway Hero
Due to internal weaknesses, the protagonist is lured into following a faulty path. The protagonist discovers this error at the Midpoint. The protagonist then turns a 180 and, for the remainder of the film, fights against the current to correct the actions he/she previously committed in order to put life on a healthier path. The Graduate provides a prototypical example.

Midnight Run (1988) — 8a: The Quest
The Quest: What initially appears to be a simple mission (usually involving a macguffin), becomes extended by complications at the end of each act. This demands that the protagonist continually choose to escalate his/her involvement, becoming more and more dedicated to selfless heroic action.

My Cousin Vinny (1992) — Combo pattern: Begins as 2a: Summoned Hero, then transitions into 1b: Wrongway Hero after the End of Act 1 Turning Point.

Pitch Black (2000) — 14a: The Odd CouplePitch Black shows the flexibility of the Odd Couple pattern in terms of genre and story premise. While most often associated with “buddy films” where two characters of conflicting personalities learn to get along so they may cooperate in pursuit of personal goals, Pitch Black presents a sci-fi horror where the two leads cannot trust each other, yet must work together for their own survival.

Platoon (1986) — 7b: The Infecting Idea
Read the sections on Se7en and Close Encounters of the Third Kind in Part 3 of this series for more information on the Infecting Idea. In the Infecting Idea, the story’s malevolent force tends to be more psychological than physical. In Platoon, we clearly see the pattern of characters becoming mentally “infected” at the Midpoint, causing infected and non-infected characters to turn on each other in Acts 2B & 3.

Pretty Woman (1990) — 14b: Coming Together

Ratatouille (2007) — Combo pattern
To be honest, Ratatouille is not one of my favorite Pixar films. For a franchise known for its excellent story structures, Ratatouille is... not so great. The story begins as a 4b: The Ejected. Remy the Rat, pursuing a personal ambition, makes an error which effectively ejects him from his familiar environment. Yet what would usually be the opening sequences of an Ejected’s Act 2A are then folded into the beginning of a new pattern, 14b: Coming Together. This means, structurally, Ratatouille suffers from a false start. The film then forces sources of conflict extraneous to the Coming Together into the narrative, along with an Odd Couple subplot between Linguini and Colette, in an effort to give its soft premise more drama. This does not always work so well. Yet evidently, this was seen as necessary to keep its young audience interested in a film which is essentially an animated take on watching Mom or Dad make dinner.

Scream (1996) — 6a: Destructive Beast
Check out this previous article for a detailed explanation of the Destructive Beast pattern. Unlike in most “slasher” films, the killer in Scream does not choose its victims indiscriminately. It targets the protagonist Sydney from the start, setting up the Destructive Beast’s familiar structure of attack/escape, attack/escape. Scream, however, demonstrates some alternative options in the Destructive Beast. The “Beast” need not always attack the protagonist directly. It may alternatively commit indirect assaults by attacking innocent persons close to the protagonist.

Speed (1994) — 9a: Involuntary Snowball of ComplicationsSpeed is deceptive in that its trailer, promotional materials, and even its title all suggest that the film’s Spine is all about the speeding bus. However, the situation on the bus is not the main Story Problem. It is the Involuntary Snowball’s End of Act 1 complication. Act 1 establishes the main Story Goal: Capture the mad bomber (in the prolonged opening elevator sequence). The mad bomber then rigs the bus as revenge against the hero for ruining his Act 1 plans (the complication which begins Act 2A). Acts 2A & 2B are all about dealing with this complication. In prototypical fashion, this complication is resolved at the end of Act 2B. The story then shifts its focus back onto the original problem for Act 3: Capturing the mad bomber.

Talladega Nights: The Legend of Ricky Bobby (2006)— Combo pattern: 10b: The Overreacher + 7c: The Spoiler. Talladega starts out as an Overreacher (a variety of a Rise & Fall narrative where an over-ambitious character is always reaching for more than social forces will allow). It shifts into a Spoiler in Act 2A with the arrival of the Sasha Baron Cohen character. It then returns to the Overreacher at the Midpoint with the protagonist’s downfall, Act 2B desperation, and the seizing of the second chance offered in late Act 2B.

Ted (2012) — A hybrid Loving Alliance, combining structural elements from 15a: Tragic Alliance and 15b: Toxic Alliance.
The Tragic Alliance is about a partnership that fights to stay together against outside forces vying to pull them apart. The Toxic Alliance is about a partnership threatened by internal differences and conflicting ambitions. Ted’s partnership is threatened by both internal and external pressures, making it a hybrid Loving Alliance.

Thor (2011) — 5b: The Ejected

Top Gun (1986) — 2a: Summoned Hero
Non-prototypical in one regard: In most Summoned Heroes, the protagonist graduates training/apprenticeship at the Midpoint so he/she may spend the rest of the film confronting the story’s real-world problems. In Top Gun, “graduation” is delayed until the end of Act 2B. This is an acceptable alternative form of the pattern, as Top Gun is a story more about personal growth and the acquisition of life skills than any specific mission for which these skills are needed.

Walk the Line (2005) — 10b: Overreacher
This film’s pattern becomes simple to identify as soon as June Carter literally tells the protagonist Johnny Cash “We’ve been given a second chance” in late Act 2B. A Midpoint downfall followed by a late 2B second chance is the most defining feature of the Overreacher structure.

Witness (1985) — Combo pattern: Begins as 9a: Involuntary Snowball of Complications, but transfers into 2b: The Breakaway Hero in Act 2A.

X-Men (2000) — The first X-Men film follows the Summoned Hero pattern—but does so in a pretty wonky way. This is primarily because the film is never entirely clear about which character is supposed to be its actual protagonist: Logan/Wolverine or Rogue. Though the film gives the lion’s share of attention to Wolverine, all the major dramatic turning points center upon Rogue. As such, the development of X-Men’s Summoned Hero pattern is kind of rocky. The character lines of both characters fit into the pattern. The film is just inconsistent about who the titular “hero” is at any moment. X-Men does, however, evince an interesting alternative form of the Summoned Hero. In X-Men, Rogue is “summoned” not by a benign force to serve an extraordinary purpose, but by the villain to be used for a nefarious purpose. In most Summoned Heroes, the summoning force and the mentor character are either the same individual or allied on the same side. In X-Men, the summoning force (Magneto) is directly opposed by the mentor (Professor Xavier), adding an interesting wrinkle to the standard conflict.

Dispelling a Few Myths on "Character Identification" -- Excerpt from Screenwriting & The Unified Theory of Narrative, Part II

Hello all. I was recently reviewing my book Screenwriting & The Unified Theory of Narrative, Part II for the first time since it was printed and came upon a section on character development which I had completely forgotten about. I have decided to repost it here, as it provides some excellent information on the concept of “character identification.” In particular, it dispels some of the common myths about the purpose and function of character identification and the means by which viewers relate to a character’s thoughts or behavior. Contrary to popular opinion, viewers find personal meaning in a character’s words and deeds not so much through the perceived similarities between the character and themselves, but far more through the stark contrasts and differences. Detailed psychological development is thus a prerequisite for meaningful communication through character, as this allows viewers to comprehend the causes of a character’s attitudes and behaviors and thus compare the character’s example of humanity to their own—virtues, flaws, idiosyncrasies and all.

The protagonist is more than a character. It is the audience’s guide. The cinematic story creates a vicarious experience that allows viewers to evaluate its events not from an impartial distance, but through the wants, needs, hopes, and fears of a specific individual. Because of this, a story’s choice of protagonist has a crucial impact upon its ultimate meaning. How the audience thinks and feels about the story will differ depending on whose eyes they experience it through.

On its most basic level, the use of a protagonist gives narratives a practical means to express their messages more clearly. While the genre or mode presents a broad social dilemma, and the plot pattern forwards a possible solution, the message provided by these layers remains in the abstract. The story is only a philosophical argument on how things “should” be or how persons “ought to” behave. To grasp the physical significance of this message, the audience must observe how such issues may directly impact a person like themselves. This makes the message relateable. By focusing its issues onto the struggle of a single individual, the story moves its message from the abstract to the concrete. The audience can understand the ideas by observing their effect on a flesh-and-blood human being...

With this, ideological communication takes a clearer shape, turning an idea into a lesson. Lessons show how abstract ideas can be brought into reality through physical action. To put this another way, lessons teach people how to behave in order to achieve a desired result. For the most part, cinematic stories provide their lessons through the structure of the protagonist’s Character Arc. The protagonist begins the story exhibiting certain fatally-flawed attitudes or behaviors (qualities that oppose the plot pattern’s suggested balance). These traits are proven harmful or ineffective when they create, aggravate, or fail to resolve the story’s problems (demonstrating how these qualities cause or worsen social imbalances). In Celebratory or Cynical narratives, the protagonist eventually abandons these flaws in favor of more appropriate attitudes or behaviors (qualities that support the suggested balance). The ensuing actions resolve the story conflict and put the world back in proper order (proving the worth of that quality). In Cautionary or Tragic narratives, the protagonist maintains the flawed attitudes and behaviors, leaving him or her unable to correct the story’s problems, leading to failure (thereby condemning these qualities and proving the worth of their opposite). Thus, with its opposition between a single beneficial quality and a single detrimental quality, the Character Arc provides a simple lesson on one of the many ways we must think or behave to resolve our social problems.

With this, it should be made obvious that the more distinctive and sharply-defined a protagonist’s behaviors, the clearer and more effective the story’s lesson will be. Ambiguity is the enemy of effective communication. Like an out-of-focus image, poorly-defined characters give no details for viewers to grasp onto, leaving any lesson vague or ambiguous. In contrast, characters with fully developed backgrounds and psychologies think and act in clearly-defined ways, making it much easier for viewers to identify what thoughts, attitudes, or behaviors lead to the character’s success or failure. 

 

Yet detailed character psychologies aid a story on more than a didactic level. They also help the audience identify with the protagonist and find personal significance in his or her behaviors. This, in turn, improves the story’s ability to communicate. Lessons are most effective when one can sense a connection between the lesson and one’s own life. As such, the cinematic story’s lessons on human behavior are most effective when viewers can understand the character’s thoughts and actions and relate them to their own. However, such connections are difficult when characters do not seem sufficiently “real.” If characters should lack the depth and authenticity found in the behavior of real-life human beings, they will be as impossible to relate to as an inanimate object. In contrast, the more detailed a character’s psychology, the more real his or her attitudes and behaviors will appear, and the easier they become for viewers to comprehend. Such understanding leads to empathy. Empathy leads the viewer to relate the character’s thoughts and behaviors to his or her own. As a result, any lesson gained from observing the character’s behaviors may be found personally applicable to the viewer’s own life.

To make this point through contrast, many old-fashioned morality tales make use of an “everyman” character—an intentionally nondescript individual meant to represent every person on earth. Yet ironically, this attempt to represent everyone results in a character personally identifiable to no one. By lacking unique details of thought and behavior, these characters present empty shells with nothing for audiences to grasp onto or understand. Thus, the audience feels no connection. As a result, such stories usually feel flat, shallow, and childishly simplistic. The audience cannot find any deep significance in the story’s events because they are unable to inhabit the character’s mind and understand what the events might actually mean to an individual experiencing them.

Yet despite the obvious inadequacy of the everyman character, similar characters remain rampant in modern attempts at screenwriting due to a common misconception about the nature of a cinematic protagonist. Beginners are routinely told a protagonist should be “identifiable” and assume this means viewers must be presented with a person who seems just like themselves. Yet aside from the most universal principles of human behavior, it should be obvious that it is impossible for one character to mirror an entire audience. Every person is different from the next, and thus any given character will be similar to only the tiniest fraction of viewers. To counter this, some screenwriters try to cast the widest net by making their protagonists as “average” as possible. Yet with a less distinct character, these stories achieve the same poor results as the everyman tales described above.

The idea that audiences can only identify with a character similar to themselves is possibly the most amateur assumption in screencraft. Audiences are able to identify with any character through the same process that we come to identify with our family or friends. Personal knowledge of an individual allows us to understand their thoughts and actions. This creates empathy, permitting us to see things from their point of view. In the same way, if a viewer is allowed to understand the way a character thinks and feels, he or she may identify with that character, no matter how different from the viewer the character may be. In other words, audience identification is not a matter of conforming the character to the position of the viewer, but of leading the viewer into the position of the character by providing the information the viewer needs to understand the character’s thoughts, words, and deeds.

However, just because a viewer can understand a character’s behavior, this does not necessarily mean he or she must support or agree with it. To the contrary, the lessons found in character are often most effective when the viewer finds reason to question, criticize, or object to behavior. For when we observe a character, we gain only little insight through the ways we and the character are similar. Instead, far more is learned by observing the ways we and the character are different.

Part I of this book stated that cinematic stories do not contain worlds meant to be identical to our own. Rather, they present alternate worlds for us to compare our world to.* By observing the ways the story world is similar to or different from our own, we receive a message on how our world might change for the better or worse. A similar relationship exists between a story’s protagonist and the individual viewer. The protagonist is a person different from the viewer—sometimes drastically so. Yet no matter how extreme these differences may be, the viewer may potentially learn a personal lesson from the character’s behavior—one specifically tailored to the viewer’s own attitudes or beliefs. Just as the story world presents a fictional model of reality for us to compare to our own, the protagonist presents a model of human behavior for us to compare to ourselves. As we observe the protagonist’s actions, we recognize the many ways the character is similar to or different from ourselves. We then see how these similar or dissimilar qualities each lead to punishment or reward. With this, we reach certain conclusions regarding not only the character’s behaviors, but our own, depending upon whether we share or lack the same qualities.

* See Part I, Chapter 1-5.

To explain, if the viewer observes a character exhibiting a quality similar to his or her own, and then sees that quality punished, the viewer is led to realize the quality is harmful and may feel compelled to stop thinking or acting in such ways. Likewise, if a character demonstrates a quality the viewer lacks, and is then rewarded for that quality, the viewer feels encouraged to adopt the missing quality so he or she may also find reward. In the same way, if a viewer sees a character rewarded for a quality he or she already possesses, or punished for a quality he or she already avoids, the story validates the viewer’s current attitudes and reinforces his or her beliefs. 

 

This leads to two conclusions: First, a viewer may potentially find personal meaning in any kind of character, no matter how similar or dissimilar to the viewer the character may be. Second, such lessons are found more clearly in the contrasts between viewer and character than the similarities. To conclude, the protagonist is not meant to “be like” the viewer. The protagonist is a behavioral model the viewer is encouraged to become more or less like. It then bears repeating that the more sharply-defined a protagonist’s psychology, the greater the story’s potential for individual meaning, as distinctive characters give the viewer far more material for personal comparison and contrast.

Scriptmonk's Plot Pattern Extravaganza -- ALL Y'ALL FAVORITES! (Part 4)

Click here to read this series of articles from the start

Click here for an overview on the 34 Common Plot Patterns of American Cinema

In this fourth and final installment of my Plot Pattern Extravaganza, I briefly break down three modern classics whose patterns have been highly difficult to identify in the past. Yet this difficulty has been resolved now that I have recognized the alternative paths or deviations implemented in each story. This series then ends with an extended look at Type 11b: The Insurrectionist, through three new films with diverse story premises.

Unforgiven (1992)

Clint Eastwood’s Unforgiven can be called an “anti-Western” in that it intentionally attempts to de-mythologize the genre by pointing out the falsehoods of many of its most popular tropes. Particularly, Unforgiven refutes the myth of the gunslinger-as-social mediator: the heroic outsider, living by an honorable code, who uses violence to remedy social problems. In addition, Unforgiven casts a similarly ambiguous light on the genre’s other stock hero, the ethically-just lawman (played in this film by Gene Hackman).

In terms of its plot pattern, Unforgiven mirrors Type 2c: The Returning Hero. Being one of the more rarely-seen plot patterns, Screenwriting & The Unified Theory of Narrative, Part II resorts to an odd trio of prototypes to illustrate the Returning Hero structure: The Dark Knight Rises (2012), Airplane! (1980), and Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery (1997). The pattern is fairly straightforward: The protagonist is a hero of former greatness who, due to accumulated personal flaws, has receded into disrepute or obscurity. The arrival of the Story Problem causes characters to ask the protagonist to return to his or her former role. The protagonist then attempts to engage with the story conflict through his or her old, accustomed methods. Yet the character struggles as these methods prove flawed and/or obsolete, bringing the protagonist to a lowest point at the end of Act 2A. Moments of self-reflection then prompt the protagonist to reevaluate the attitudes or beliefs attached to the hero’s past fall from grace and reinvent him or herself as a new and improved hero. With this transformation, the hero overcomes the story conflict and returns to glory.

When viewed purely in terms of plot, Unforgiven follows this pattern. Eastwood plays Bill Munny, a formerly notorious outlaw who, after being reformed by his now-deceased wife, has settled down into the humble life of a father and hog farmer. A band of prostitutes in the town of Big Whiskey have put a bounty on the heads of two cowpokes for cutting up the face of one of the women. A boastful youngster calling himself the “Shofield Kid” (Jaimz Woolvet) comes to Munny’s farm to ask for his help killing the cowpokes, giving an exaggerated account of the crime. Munny first refuses, but soon relents out of his need for the money, recruiting his friend Ned Logan (Morgan Freeman), another former outlaw turned farmer, to join him. On the journey to Big Whiskey, Munny insists that he is not the man he used to be. He is referring to his moral character, but it is clear that this broken-down old man is far from the same man physically as well. This is quickly proven at the story’s Midpoint. Upon arrival in Big Whiskey, Munny, weak from fever, is easily thrashed by Marshall “Little Bill” Dagget (Hackman), forcing him and his comrades to retreat into hiding.

Yet, while Unforgiven seems to mirror the Returning Hero’s other prototypical examples in terms of its plot, Unforgiven presents a complete reversal of the pattern’s familiar Character Arc. The Dark Knight Rises, Airplane!, and Austin Powers are all Celebratory narratives—the thematic type in which the protagonist ultimately succeeds by choosing to embrace a socially-approved behavioral value, thus becoming a “better” person. Unforgiven, however, offers a Cynical narrative—the thematic type in which the protagonist succeeds by embracing a socially-condemned behavioral value, thus becoming a “worse” person. (I explain these thematic types in great detail in Screenwriting & The Unified Theory of Narrative, Part I. You may also find a thorough essay on the subject HERE) This makes all the difference when it comes to evaluating Unforgiven as a Returning Hero. The old Bill Munny was a vicious, cold-blooded, and thoroughly-despicable person. Yet the Munny we meet at the start of Unforgiven has already changed his misguided ways, abandoned his flaws, and grown into a more ideal person. Rather than grow worse in his time away from the spotlight like other Returning Hero protagonists, he has improved his character. Yet, just like in the pattern’s other examples, this changed nature now makes him unsuitable to successfully answer the call to return to his old role. Munny’s insistence that he is no longer a remorseless killer is proven by his dismal failure at the story’s Midpoint.

Munny’s changed, more temperate nature thus constitutes his “fatal flaw” in the quest to collect the bounty on the two cowpokes. To succeed, he must abandon his conscience to become a killer once again. Despite strong reservations, Munny continues this mission thanks to the spurring of the Shofield Kid and his sympathy for the disfigured prostitute Delilah (Anna Thomson). Though they successfully achieve their mission’s objective, the shameful and cowardly nature of the killings only intensifies Munny’s moral dilemma. Munny’s “flaw” encourages him to end any further action and return home. However, the plot intervenes at the End of Act 2B to force Munny to complete his full character conversion. Little Bill captures and executes Ned Logan. Enraged by this senseless murder of his only friend, Munny throws away his “flawed” good nature to once again become the psychopathic anti-hero he once was in order to take revenge on Little Bill and his associates in Act 3. By choosing to present its story in the Cynical mode rather than the Celebratory, Unforgiven puts a twist on the Returning Hero plot pattern. Instead of a “Returning Hero,” we have a “Returning Anti-hero.”

Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid (1969)

Another Western—this one produced during Hollywood’s “Silver Age” (a period covering the 1960s and 1970s, situated between the end of the Hollywood Studio System and the start of the modern “Blockbuster Age”). As noted in my discussion on North by Northwest in Part 2 of this series, it can be tricky to analyze the structures of “classic” films, since the narrative norms implemented during Hollywood’s “Golden Age” differed in many slight, yet significant ways from the modern films we are used to seeing today. The “Silver Age” was a period of transition and experimentation. Thus, some films demonstrate the prototypical shape of the plot patterns so common today (such as in The Godfather [1972] or The Graduate [1967]), some contain no identifiable pattern, while in others we see the vague form of a modern pattern with sharp deviations. Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid belongs to the last group. However, the story’s major plot points indicate the shape of a certain pattern which will become further refined (and thus more recognizable) in later years.

Here is the film’s (very simple) plot in a nutshell: Butch and his best friend Sundance lead the notorious “Hole in the Wall” gang. Butch seizes upon the ambitious idea to rob the Union Pacific Flyer train not once, but twice in succession. The first robbery goes perfectly and our heroes easily escape capture. Butch and Sundance feel invincible. Yet rather than get out while the getting’s good, they attempt the second robbery. This second attempt proves disastrous, revealing a posse lying in wait to pursue the robbers. With this, we discover that the heroes’ reach has exceeded their grasp; that their ambition extended far beyond good sense. Butch and Sundance are endlessly pursued by the posse until a point when both conclude they must escape the country. Transporting themselves to Bolivia, Butch and Sundance first try to go straight by getting a job with honest pay. Yet this soon proves unsatisfactory, and the pair return to the lifestyle of notorious bandits. This choice leads the protagonists to their eventual doom, culminating in the famous climax where Butch and Sundance are surrounded and slaughtered by the Bolivian military.

This outline charts a clear rise and fall in the fortunes of the ambitious anti-heroes. There is a family of plot patterns dedicated to such stories, literally called the “Rise & Fall.” This family has two subtypes. In Type 10a: The Power Glutton (exemplified by films like Citizen Kane [1941], Goodfellas [1990], and The Wolf of Wall Street [2013]), an anti-hero of extraordinary abilities achieves glory, and is ultimately undone, by an insatiable lust to amass more and more wealth, power, or fame. In Type 10b: The Overreacher (exemplified by films like Scarface [1983], Patton [1970], and The Imitation Game [2014]) a gutsy and determined anti-hero pursues and attains a modest level of success. Yet the anti-hero is not satisfied, and reaches for more than figures of authority are willing to allow, leading to a downfall at the story’s Midpoint. The anti-hero is then given a second chance in Act 2B. The protagonist may learn his/her lesson, change his/her ways, and make good on this second chance to achieve a happy end. Yet more often, the protagonist falls back into his or her old, flawed habits, leading to a second and permanent downfall.

We may identify Butch & Sundance as an Overreacher by the fact that the protagonists receive a second chance to correct their ways in Bolivia, yet soon throw this chance away to return to their old habits. This commits the protagonists to a path to their ultimate downfall. Yet Butch & Sundance deviates from the pattern’s more familiar examples (and is thus made more difficult to identify) in one obvious way. Most Rise & Fall narratives cover many years of story time, charting the entire course of an anti-hero’s career. The causes of the protagonist’s rise to glory and fall to ruin typically cannot be credited to individual actions, but an accumulation of objectives and behaviors. Butch & Sundance, on the other hand, simplifies the Overreacher narrative a great deal, as the course of the protagonists’ changing fortunes is composed entirely from one linear cause-and-effect chain of action. Butch & Sundance thus presents a stripped-down and highly limited use of the Overreacher. This shows that the pattern may be used to dramatize a single, short-lived—and self-dooming—chain of actions, just as it might a character’s entire career. (In this way, Butch & Sundance has less in common with Patton or Scarface than it does with 500 Days of Summer [2009], a film which uses the Overreacher to chart the rise and fall of a romantic relationship.)

Beetlejuice (1988)

For the longest time, Beetlejuice was a real flaw in the ointment of my plot pattern paradigm. Though an undeniably successful narrative, it did not seem to fit into any of my thirty-four patterns. It is not a foreign film. It does not use one of the non-traditional story structures (as films like Forrest Gump [1994] or The Curious Case of Benjamin Button [2008] do). Nor is it an “art film” which intentionally subverts conventional norms. No, it is a commercial Hollywood genre narrative of traditional three-act form.

But the mystery was solved with one simple question: Just what the heck is Beetlejuice in this story? He is not the protagonist. Nor is he the antagonist. He is a third party, acting independently, forging and breaking alliances in pursuit of his own objectives. A-ha! It all makes sense now. I have just described a “Wild Card,” a key character role found in Type 16a: The Moral Mirrors.

Exemplified by prototypes such as The Departed (2006), Heat (1995), and There’s Something About Mary (1998), the Moral Mirrors follows the actions of two separate parties: a hero and an anti-hero. In Act 1, both parties commit to independent, yet directly-opposing, story goals. This makes each protagonist the other’s antagonist. However, both parties are initially unaware of this opposition, or even of the other party’s existence. The characters then discover this conflict of interests at the story’s Midpoint, causing the two narrative lines to converge into a direct interpersonal conflict. (We can thus say the Moral Mirrors features a Y-shaped structure.) Due to the unity of opposites, every step taken toward the goal of one party poses a threat to the other party’s goal. As such, both parties take actions to derail the other in Act 2B. The addition of the Wild Card character complicates the situation. The Wild Card is a third party who sometimes opposes both hero and anti-hero, and at other times forges (often short-lived) alliances with one party against the other. The story typically makes its Act 3 turn with an “end-game” move perpetrated by one of the three parties against one of the other two. This sets up a direct confrontation between the surviving parties, culminating in an all-or-nothing battle at the story climax.

Yet, upon initial viewing, Beetlejuice does not seem to resemble any of the Moral Mirror’s prototypical examples. This is due to the film’s use of multiple alternative options. While every plot pattern offers storytellers a handful of structural alternatives, most non-prototypical examples make use of only one or two of these. Beetlejuice, however, appears completely unique alongside other Moral Mirrors since it uses practically all of the pattern’s alternatives. First of all, the hero role is played by dual characters: Barbara and Adam Maitland (Geena Davis & Alec Baldwin). As recently-deceased ghosts, the Maitlands’ goal is to keep their treasured home as their own so they may carry on in the same peace and quiet they enjoyed while alive. The anti-hero role is also played by dual characters: Delia and Charles Deetz (Catherine O’Hara and Jeffrey Jones). Practically the antithesis of the Maitlands, the Deetzes have purchased the Maitlands’ home with the goal of remaking it in their own tacky image to find happiness in their own obnoxious way. With this setup, we find a clear unity of opposites. Yet while the Deetzes are ignorant of the Maitlands (as is the norm with the Moral Mirrors pattern), Beetlejuice deviates in that the Maitlands are intensely aware of the threat posed by the Deetzes from the beginning. Yet the structure remains on track in Act 2A due to the fact that the Maitlands (being noncorporeal ghosts) are currently unable to take any direct actions against the Deetzes. Yet true to the pattern’s form, both parties become fully aware of the mutual opposition at the story’s Midpoint with the “Banana Boat” song sequence.(You’ll have to find this scene online if you are unfamiliar with it. It is a bit too strange to succinctly explain.) Yet this does not have the results the Maitlands had hoped for (it in fact gives the Deetzes the upper hand). Such failures finally seal a wary alliance with the Wild Card Beetlejuice to scare the Deetzes out of the home. (I should also note that the Deetzes’ daughter Lydia [Winona Ryder] also performs a Wild Card role in this story. This is not a deviation, as it is common for a Moral Mirrors to feature more than one Wild Card. For example, in Captain America: Civil War [2016] over a half-dozen supporting characters perform the Wild Card function at various points in the narrative,)

Most Moral Mirrors climax with either one primary party reaching success at the other’s expense (Heat and There’s Something About Mary) or a battle of mutual annihilation where neither achieve victory (The Departed and Captain America: Civil War). Beetlejuice, however, makes use of a rarely-implemented alternative where the hero and the anti-hero reconcile their differences by choosing to compromise their original goals. (The Maitlands and Deetzes eventually drop their opposition and decide to share the house in peace.) Well then, if the hero and anti-hero are on the road to making nice, from where does the climactic Act 3 conflict arise? From the Wild Card, of course. The “end-game” move at the End of Act 2B (or early Act 3) may consist of any of the three parties (Wild Card included) taking action against any of the other parties. With a triangular conflict, the Moral Mirrors may be at any time a war of all-against-all, or a conflict of any two allied parties against the third. For example, an alternative version of The Departed may have opted for an Act 3 where the anti-hero Colin Sullivan (Matt Damon) attempts to escape his predicament as a mob-informant by allying himself with the hero Billy Costigan (Leonard Di Caprio) in a pact of mutual opposition against the Wild Card, mobster Frank Costello (Jack Nicholson). Likewise, when the Wild Card Beetlejuice begins to wreck havoc in Act 3, threatening both the heroes and anti-heroes, the Maitlands and the Deetzes are forced to reconcile their differences to oppose the Wild Card’s mutual threat. As such, Beetlejuice presents a rare Celebratory Moral Mirrors where both hero and anti-hero enjoy a happy end.

* * * * *

I will now wrap up this article with three newly-discovered examples of Type 11b: The Insurrectionist. The Insurrectionist belongs to the “Hero Versus the System” family of patterns. However, unlike its sister pattern, The Social Reformer, the Insurrectionist protagonist has no desire to change the world. These protagonists merely wish to be granted the freedom or liberty to live as they please or to do as they see fit. Unfortunately, the character exists within a suffocating System of Oppression which enslaves individuals under strict, unfair or unethical rules. The protagonist rebels, triggering backlash from the System. (One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest [1975] presents the most prototypical example of this pattern.) We will start with a film that presents this “struggle for freedom” in the most literal fashion possible:

12 Years a Slave (2013)

12 Years a Slave is based upon the true-life story of Solomon Northrup, a free black Northerner kidnapped and sold into slavery in 1841. While the narrative follows real-life events, we find that some dramatic license has been taken to adapt the actual events into the film’s structural pattern.

Using One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest as our guide, we can see the inciting incident occurs with the entry of the protagonist into the oppressive environment. (Northrup, drugged by men he thought to be employers, wakes in chains and is accused of being a runaway slave.) As a free-thinking individualist, the protagonist immediately creates friction in this new environment, prompting correction from the system. (Northrup is mistreated by the slavers for insisting on his free status. Some men in the same predicament warn Northrup to stay quiet and act dumb if he wishes to survive.) Act 1 then turns with the protagonist deciding not to conform to the system’s rules, but to resist. (Northrup says to his enslaved comrades, “You’re telling me that’s the way to survive? I don’t want to survive. I want to live.”)

In Act 2A, the protagonist presents low-level resistance to his oppressors. However, it should be noted that this is not yet open rebellion. The protagonist merely stands firm to request an allotment of liberty in order to retain a sense of dignity or personal control. (Rather than keep quiet, Northrup demonstrates his skill and intelligence to his new master Mr. Ford [Benedict Cumberbatch] to prove his right to better treatment.) However, the System sees the protagonist as a troublemaker trying to disrupt the status quo, and responds with actions intended to force the protagonist back in line. (The plantation’s “handler” Tibeats [Paul Dano] takes offense to Northrup’s impudence and takes every opportunity to insult and degrade him.)

Such retaliation makes clear that the System refuses to grant the desired liberties. Refusing submission, the protagonist shifts strategies to open opposition, taking an overt action to challenge the System’s authority. (After some bullying by Tibeats, the two get into an argument which results in Northrup striking Tibeats.) With this, the protagonist crosses a line in the sand. The System is infuriated by this act of open defiance and responds in swift and brutal fashion, creating the Midpoint event. (Tibeats attempts to lynch Northrup. Though Tibeats is prevented from killing Northrup, Northrup is still harshly punished for his action. Afterward, Ford informs Northrup that he has no choice but to sell Northrup to Mr. Epps, a notoriously brutal slavemaster.)

A state of “war” has now developed between the protagonist and the System in Act 2B. Compromise or cooperation is no longer possible. “Freedom!” is now the protagonist’s battle cry, while the System demands “Submit or die.” (The conditions are intolerable at the Epps plantation. Northrup can no longer hope to attain merciful and dignified treatment. His only option is to find a means to escape.) The protagonist thus shifts to a position of open rebellion. (However, in the case of 12 Years a Slave, Northrup cannot show any overt sign of rebellion, as this would surely cost him his life. This must be an internal rebellion where Northrup feigns compliance while seeking covert means of revolt.) The “war” of Act 2B intensifies through sequences of escalating actions by the protagonist met by greater counter-actions by the System. (Northrup makes several furtive attempts to evade or escape his oppressors, but each time is thwarted by fear or violence. In Late 2B, Northrup escalates his efforts by making a deal with a white worker Armsby two send a letter for help to the North. Yet, in counter-action, Armsby betrays the plan to Epps, crushing Northrup’s hopes.)

By the end of 2B, the situation reaches a breaking point. It becomes clear that no matter how hard the protagonist resists, the System will always keep him crushed under its heel. (This moment occurs in Slave when Epps forces Northrup at gunpoint to brutally whip his fellow slave Patsey.) Depending on the story, this leaves the protagonist with one of two options: Either directly face and hopefully defeat the System; or, when this is impossible (as it is in Slave) take action to permanently escape the System’s control. (Given no other choice, Northrup decides to risk an alliance with another white worker to send word to the North. This time, the confidant is Bass (Brad Pitt) a friendly Canadian with liberal beliefs on race and slavery.) In Cautionary or Tragic narratives, this plan is flawed or short-sighted and thus fails midway through Act 3. In Celebratory or Cynical narratives, the plan finds progress, but not without serious obstacles arising in the remainder of Act 3. (Bass is true to his word. A sheriff arrives with a Northern friend of Northrup’s.) In either case, this mid-Act 3 turning point often creates a “last stand” scenario. (A final conflict occurs between the two new arrivals and Epps over Northrup’s fate.) In Celebratory narratives like Slave, the film climaxes with the protagonist permanently escaping the System (or, alternatively, forcing the System to finally back down).

The Truman Show (1998)

Now, let us compare 12 Years a Slave with another Insurrectionist narrative, this one with a very different form of enslavement to a quite unusual System of Oppression. The Truman Show is the story of Truman Burbank (Jim Carrey), a young man who, completely unbeknownst to him, has lived his entire life as the star of the world’s longest-running reality TV series. In actuality, Truman’s entire world is an illusion created by the System (the show’s producers) to exploit Truman and keep him compliant. The town is a series of television sets, all the people are paid actors, and every moment has been scripted by writers. This is indeed an oppressive environment in that Truman has no personal freedom, with every aspect tightly controlled by outside authorities. However, The Truman Show is unique among Insurrectionists in that, while the viewer is made aware of the System of Oppression, the protagonist is ignorant of his enslavement for the majority of the film. Nevertheless, Truman feels restless and penned-in. He wants to leave this town and find his own life. This desire incites the story’s conflict. Thus, Truman Show makes use of the Insurrectionist’s alternative form of inciting incident. Rather than entering the oppressive environment, the story begins with the protagonist having existed in that environment for some time. The inciting incident occurs with a moment where the protagonist recognizes the suffocating nature of his or her world and feels the desire to seek freedom. This begins somewhat discreetly in Truman (we see Truman secretly tearing travel photos out of magazines and calling directory assistance to ask about Fiji). Truman then announces his intent to “rebel” at the End of Act 1 by confiding in his best friend (an actor, played by Noah Emmerich) his secret wish to quit his job and travel to Fiji. Meanwhile, Act 1 events provide Truman with initial hints about the fraudulence of his world. (A studio light falls out of the sky; it starts to rain, but only directly above Truman.)

Though he does not yet realize it, Truman begins to fight for his personal liberties in Act 2A by pushing forward on his dream of escaping to Fiji. Yet, as usual with an Insurrectionist, the System does not approve of such independent thought and responds by manipulating Truman’s world with events intended to get Truman back in line—events which further clue Truman into the controlling and oppressive nature of his environment. Finally recognizing the opposition between himself and his world, Truman crosses a line in the sand with an open act of rebellion at the story’s Midpoint. Truman makes a mad dash to escape the island town in his car, but is stopped by a bizarre series of roadblocks.

Recognizing that Truman has entered a state of overt rebellion, the System attempts to crack down on Truman’s behavior through the actors Truman believes to be his family and friends. But Truman is not fooled. He now understands that he is at war with some oppressive force which wishes to keep him enslaved. Act 2B thus presents an escalating battle of actions and counteractions between the protagonist and the System. (The producers even stoop so low to bring back Truman’s deceased “father” in hope that this will keep Truman on the island.)

As mentioned in the previous section, Act 2B turns into Act 3 with the protagonist realizing that he or she will never be able to convince the System to back down willingly. The only solution is to take decisive action to escape the oppressive System for good. Truman fools the producers with a ruse and sets out to “sea” in a small boat. Again, there is a vicious counteraction by the System mid-act: the producers create a storm to force Truman back to land. Yet Truman soldiers on and ultimately finds a door which will take him out of the System to freedom, ending the film with a Celebratory resolution.

Dead Poets Society (1989)

Yet one more Insurrectionist; this one with a “soft” conflict where “enslavement,” “rebellion,” and “escape” occur in a more figurative sense. Dead Poets Society is the coming-of-age a story of a group of teenage boys who, encouraged by a mentor figure, learn to become free-thinking individualists within an academic institution that demands conformity to strict rules and expectations. This Insurrectionist thus dramatizes a fight for the right to non-conform within an oppressive System of Conformity. Society differs from 12 Years a Slave and The Truman Show in some other obvious ways. First, rather than a singular hero, Society operates with a group protagonist (though two boys, Todd [Ethan Hawke] and Neil [Robert Sean Leonard] receive the most attention). Second, Society concludes in a Tragic resolution, meaning that while the protagonists fight the good fight, their efforts ultimately come up short and the System defeats them in the end. Finally, the presence of the mentor figure Mr. Keating (Robin Williams) makes Society somewhat unique. Not only does Keating serve as an outside catalyst for the boys’ rebellion, but becomes the focal point for much of the conflict later on.

In addition, for the sake of accuracy, I must note that Dead Poets Society is not a true prototypical Insurrectionist. It is in fact a hybrid Hero Versus the System, as the story incorporates several attributes from the Insurrectionist’s sister pattern, The Social Reformer. This hybridization shall be commented upon later.

Here once again is the narrative structure of the Insurrectionist, as seen in Dead Poets Society:

At the inciting incident, the protagonists enter the oppressive environment: New student Todd begins his first year at the prestigious boarding school Welton Academy for Boys. Likewise, the other boys return for the new semester. The boys meet the poetry teacher Mr. Keating and are inspired by his calls to think for oneself and “seize the day.” The boys find in an old yearbook that Keating was once a member of the “Dead Poets Society,” a secret club dedicated to “sucking the marrow out of life.” The boys decide to reform the DPS. (End of Act 1: The protagonists dedicate themselves to pursuing their own personal freedoms rather than blindly conform to the System’s rules and expectations.)

In Act 2A, through the secret meetings of the new DPS and class with Mr. Keating, the boys gain confidence and a burgeoning sense of self-independence. This sparks minor acts of rebellion: Neil auditions for, and gets the lead role in, the school play in defiance of his father’s wishes; Todd throws his parents’ thoughtless birthday present into the river; Knox (Josh Charles) drinks and makes a move on his crush Christine in front of her jock boyfriend; the boys invite girls from another school to join their DPS meetings. These actions are done in secret, however, so Society’s Act 2A does not yet feature any direct backlash from the System. [In this way, the act’s events are more similar to those found in a Social Reformer.] Yet, we do see these forces at play as Keating’s unorthodox teaching methods become a subject of rumor and controversy among Welton’s conservative faculty.

At the Midpoint, the boys cross a line in the sand with an act of open rebellion: Some DPS members write a sarcastic letter to the school asking for girls to be admitted, making the bold but foolish move of signing the letter “The Dead Poets Society.” The response from the System is immediate: The faculty hastily arrange a disciplinary meeting to address this action. The boys, however, escalate their defiance by interrupting the meeting with a prank. The boys are now in open revolt against the System’s rules (in all of its various forms), creating a series of escalating actions and counter-actions across the several story threads in Act 2B. (The school headmaster paddles Charlie [Gale Hansen] when he refuses to give up the names of the DPS members and Keating is reprimanded for encouraging their free-thinking; Neil’s father (Kurtwood Smith) orders Neil to quit the school play, but Neil lies to Keating about the incident in order to remain in the play; Knox makes a fool of himself by going to Christine’s school to publicly woo her with poetry). Such back-and-forth battles culminate with a crisis event to end Act 2B: Neil’s father is so furious about Neil defying his wishes that he announces plans to remove Neil from Welton to enroll him in military school. In the ultimate act of teen rebellion, Neil commits suicide.

Here, at the start of Act 3, the elements of the Social Reformer pattern come to the forefront. In the Social Reformer, a protagonist FIGHTS a Force of Tyranny to correct a social injustice (as in Braveheart [1995] or Erin Brockovich [2000]). A key part of this pattern’s development comes in the forging of alliances against the Force of Tyranny. We have already seen elements of this in Society’s Act 2A, as the initiation of the new DPS requires the participation of all the boys and the tacit support of Keating (Keating serves the function of the Prime Support [also called the “OverBoss”] character found in the Social Reformer). The Social Reformer’s End of 2B crisis event occurs when a major counter-strike by the Force of Tyranny causes these alliances to fall apart. This is what happens in Society’s Act 3 when Welton responds to Neil’s suicide: (Cameron [Dylan Kussman] betrays the DPS’s secrets to the headmaster. Charlie is expelled for punching Cameron as payback.) If the alliances can be reforged, the Social Reformer ends in victory (as happens in Brockovich). If not, the result is an inevitable failure (as in Braveheart). Society heads toward a Tragic resolution by following the latter path: (The remaining boys are forced to sign a confession blaming everything on the influence of Mr. Keating. Keating is fired.)

Yet, shifting back to the Insurrectionist, we find that (like in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest) even when an Insurrectionist ends tragically for some, the story will often conclude on a note of hope to suggest that freedoms and liberties are still worth fighting for. This occurs at Society’s bittersweet climax: The boys (with the exception of the traitor Cameron) defy the headmaster by standing atop their desks to salute Keating as he makes his final exit.