Finally Understanding "Subplots" Part 5 of 5: What is a REAL "Subplot"?

 Throughout this series of articles, I have attempted in a roundabout manner to define just what a “subplot” is by progressively identifying and eliminating the various inter-narrative structures we commonly call “subplots” but are in fact NOT: relational arcs, the multiple story threads in plural storytelling, prologue and epilogue narratives. With this task completed, the time has come to finally define just what exactly does constitute a “subplot” and how these structures function within the overall narrative discourse.

From my observations, I can venture a definition of a “true” subplot based on four qualities:

1. A subplot possesses the structure of a fully-formed narrative.

   Like any other complete and self-contained narrative, a true subplot features the standard narrative structure of incitement, development, and resolution, centered upon a unique problem or dramatic conflict. As such, the subplot constitutes a fully-fledged “story” in its own right and may be understood as such even if completely extracted from all other story material. This differentiates a subplot from a relational arc. As defined in the first article of this series, a relational arc is the “unfolding” of a functional character relationship already essential to the central plotline. As such, the “narrative” of a relational arc cannot be fully understood without reference to the central plotline, while a true subplot may be understood with no reference to the central plotline at all.

2. The events of a subplot are independent from the events of the central plotline and bear only minor, if only tangential connections.
   As a consequence, the events of a subplot exert only minimal influence upon the course of the central plotline, or no influence at all, and vice versa. This again means that the subplot may be viewed as a separate narrative story in its own right. As a result, a subplot could be completely removed from a movie with no loss of comprehension of the events in the central plotline. This quality differentiates the subplot from the multiple character threads found in plural storytelling (as discussed previously in Braveheart or Die Hard), whereby threads interact, influence one another, and all contribute in some manner to the development of the overall plotline.

3. A subplot's narrative develops concurrently with the central plotline's narrative.
   This a subplot's most obvious quality. Over the course of a film, the discourse alternates between the central plotline and the subplot, momentarily pausing the attention given to one narrative to dedicate time to another, giving the impression that subplot material exists within the “gaps” of the central storyline. However, this impression is merely a consequence of the limitations of linear storytelling: only one narrative may be told at a time. Furthermore, no real “pause” occurs in the development of either subplot or central plotline, as it is always implied that the fabula material of the absent narrative continues to progress off-screen during the time dedicated to its alternate. This “concurrentness” draws a clear line between a true subplot and prologue or epilogue narratives. Prologue narratives develop from beginning to end, without interruption, before the central plotline is even introduced. Epilogue narratives operate in the same manner, except they do not begin until after the central plotline has reached its conclusion

4. While independent in terms of plot, the events of subplot and central plotline can, and frequently do, exert a mutual influence in terms of the dimensions of character and theme.
   This is particularly so whenever one or more key characters play primary roles in both the central plotline and subplot (which is often, but not always the case). As such, the arcs of those characters will be affected by the events of both narrative lines. Furthermore, since the thematic dimension transcends a film's entire story discourse, the story's Thematic Argument draws on material from both the central plotline and all subplots to communicate an overall meaning. This modifies Point #2 somewhat: subplots and the central plotline can exert an influence upon one another, but only in an indirect manner along the planes of character and theme.

With these qualities of a “true” subplot defined, we may further identify two structural varieties of subplot: parallel subplots and episodic subplots.

Parallel Subplots

As the name denotes, parallel subplots develop in parallel with the central plotline, generally extending over the entire length of the film. Depending upon the film's strategy of discourse, the subplot may run “end-to-end,” introduced in the movie's setup sequence and never fully resolved until the movie's final sequence; or, the subplot could be more neatly “packaged” into the interior structure, introduced soon after the central plotline's inciting incident and resolved immediately before the central plotline's main climax. In either case, the film's narrative discourse will continually alternate between the subplot and central plotline.

To illustrate, let us use The Sixth Sense (2001). The Sixth Sense features dual protagonists: child psychologist Dr. Malcolm Crowe (Bruce Willis) and the young boy Cole (Haley Joel Osmet). The central plotline focuses upon the relationship between these two protagonists, with dramatic conflict arising from Crowe's desire to help the troubled Cole opposed by Cole's resistance due to his fear of revealing his paranormal secret.

Whenever Crowe and Cole are not engaged with each other, they both participate in their own parallel subplots. Cole's subplot deals with Cole's relationship with his mother Lynn (Toni Collette). This relationship has become strained due to a lack of clear and honest communication. Cole struggles over how or if to explain his odd behavior to his mother, causing Lynn to fear that her son is growing unruly, dishonest, or worse, emotionally disturbed.

 

Dr. Crowe's subplot deal's with (what appears to be) Crowe's failing marriage with his wife Anna (Olivia Williams). Crowe and Anna's relationship seems to have grown cold and distant, and comes under direct threat with the appearance of a rival suitor vying for Anna's affections. Again, like with Cole and Lynn, the problem is a failure to communicate.

  

Both subplots operate as independent, self-contained narratives. In each, we may identify a unique Story Spine, executed through a “3-Act” structure with clear turning point events demarcating the beginning and end of each “act.” Both subplot narratives exist independently from the central Crowe/Cole plotline. Lynn makes only a brief appearance in an early Crowe/Cole scene (and does not interact with Crowe), while Anna does not appear in the central plotline. Indeed, both the Cole/Lynn and Crowe/Anna subplots could be completely extracted from all other story material to stand on their own as perfectly functional narratives. In the same way, both subplots could be completely removed from The Sixth Sense with no damage to the central Crowe/Cole plotline. In fact, the only carry-over between the subplots and the central plotline is found in some brief conversation between Crowe and Cole about their respective difficulties communicating with their wife and mother, along with Crowe mentioning Cole to Anna as an excuse for being late to dinner. However, these conversations do not amount to actual plot interactions between the narrative lines.

Yet if the subplots and central plotline are indeed structurally independent, what connects these pieces to make The Sixth Sense feel like a unified, cohesive story? Here the fourth quality of a “true” subplot comes into play. While exclusive from one another in terms of the dimension of plot, the subplots and central plotline are still interconnected in terms of the dimensions of character and theme. Crowe and Cole's Character Arcs are continuous throughout the movie's discourse. Whether Crowe is interacting with Cole or Anna, or whether Cole is interacting with Crowe or Lynn, they remain the same person on the same emotional journey, struggling with the same personal difficulties. As long as character behavior remains consistent between main plot and subplot, both narrative lines will serve to illustrate and influence the course of the character's emotional arc, making the Character Arc a thread connecting subplot and central plotline. We see this quite clearly in The Sixth Sense. Cole's experiences with Crowe give Cole the courage to finally speak honestly with his mother, resolving the Cole/Lynn subplot. Likewise, Cole suggests a way for Crowe to communicate with his wife, leading to the resolution of the Crowe/Anna subplot.

Furthermore, the thematic dimension transcends all structures of both plot and character, unifying the film's entire collection of events under a single philosophical discourse. As previously mentioned, a failure or refusal to communicate is at the root of the conflicts of the Cole/Lynn subplot, the Crowe/Anna subplot, as well as the main Crowe/Cole plot. When combined with the metaphors implicit in The Sixth Sense's supernatural premise, the positive resolutions of all three narrative lines combine to express a single unifying message: “Traumatic events can disrupt interpersonal relationships. A happy and healthy relationship is regained when one acknowledges the “ghosts” haunting them and then communicates openly and honestly with partners about such problems.”

Before concluding this section, it should be noted that parallel subplots need not always feature the story's central protagonist. The subplot might alternatively belong to a secondary character, creating a true “side-story” like the “B-stories” found in television sitcom episodes. As this similarity to sitcoms suggests, such subplots are found far more often in comedy than drama, such as the squirrel-creature Scrat's quest for his acorn in Ice Age (2002) or the misadventures of poor bullied Milton in Office Space (1999). As such, this variety of subplot is usually played for laughs, and often has no significant effect upon the circumstances confronting the main protagonist; except for the possibility of an ironic twist which causes the subplot and main plot to intersect in the end in true sitcom fashion (as seen in the conclusion of Office Space.)

Episodic Subplots

In contrast with parallel subplots, episodic subplots do not run the length of a film. While episodic subplots still develop concurrently with the central plotline, this variety can initiate at practically any point in the film's discourse, only to develop and reach its conclusion within a relatively short length of time. Once concluded, the subplot is not returned to again. In this way, episodic subplots really are like mini-narratives embedded within the discourse of the main narrative, making them a most accurate fit for the term “sub”-plot.

The Godfather contains two good examples. The first episodic subplot is nestled cozily between the film's opening exposition sequence (the wedding reception) and the setup sequence for the story's central conflict (Sollozzo's business proposal). This is the “Hollywood sequence” in which Tom Hagen (Robert Duvall) strongarms movie mogul Jack Woltz as a favor to Vito Corleone's godson Johnny Fontaine (ending with the famous “horse head” scene). This segment of narrative is truly episodic in that it presents a brief story which, once resolved, is never returned to again. Yet despite its brevity, the “Hollywood subplot” can be considered a complete and self-contained narrative, with its own Story Spine and three-act structure. 

Furthermore, this subplot is independent from the central plotline, as it has no influence on the circumstances to be encountered in the story's main narrative. Why, then, was this subplot included in The Godfather? Clues to the subplot's discursive function can be found in where this episode is placed within the film. The Godfather's opening sequence introduces Vito Corleone as a wise, soft-spoken father figure. The following “Hollywood” subplot counters this by showing a contrasting side of Vito and the way he runs his business. The methods by which Vito (through Tom Hagen) resolves his conflict with Jack Woltz shows not only that Vito is an extremely powerful man, but a man unafraid to take extreme, and often bloody, actions to get whatever he wants. Therefore, though disconnected from the story's central plotline, the “Hollywood subplot” serves the story's development along the dimensions of character and theme.

The Godfather's second episodic subplot is located squarely within the film's late Act 2A: the Sonny/Connie/Carlo subplot. Sonny (James Caan) sees bruises on his sister Connie's face (Talia Shire) to learn her husband Carlo has been hitting her. In response, Sonny brutally assaults Carlo in the street, threatening to kill Carlo if he hurts Connie again. Later, there is an escalated incident of domestic violence between Carlo and Connie. Enraged, Sonny charges from the safety of his home to punish Carlo, only to fall into a trap laid by the family's enemies and is killed. Like the Hollywood subplot, this Sonny/Connie/Carlo subplot is a self-contained mini-narrative with its own three-part structure of incitement, development, and resolution. Likewise, once the subplot is finished, the narrative of Connie and Carlo's marriage is never returned to. (With the exception, of course, of a resolution thread left hanging—practically forgotten about—until the movie's end when Michael takes long-delayed revenge on Carlo for his involvement in Sonny's death.) Likewise, the content of this subplot lives an independent existence from the central plotline, the only impact on the central plotline being the elimination of the Sonny character.

This subplot, however, is relevant to the movie's overall narrative discourse along the dimensions of character and theme, albeit in an indirect manner. The Godfather's protagonist is not Sonny, but Michael Corleone (Al Pacino). Michael's Character Arc can be summarized as follows: To grow into the type of man capable of taking charge of the Corleone family, Michael Corleone must acquire his father's cold, pragmatic mindset. Moral values should not interfere with decisions, nor should personal emotions. The Sonny/Connie/Carlo subplot presents a negative example of this character theme. Sonny fails in his role as family leader because he is driven by his emotions. Sonny takes events personally, a flaw which leads to his violent demise. The subplot thus presents a cautionary example in counterpoint to Michael's Character Arc and the theme expressed therein.

As these examples show, episodic subplots operate as mini-stories embedded within the confines of the central plotline's course of events, like a grape suspended within a cube of jello. They should not be confused with the sequences found in films which rely on a wholly episodic structure, such as in Forrest Gump (1994). Gump's narrative discourse is composed entirely of episodic sequences. To call any one of them a “subplot” would make all the other episodes “subplots” as well. This would then render an analysis absurd, as there cannot be a story composed of nothing but subplots without any central plotline for the episodes to be “sub” to.

The Shawshank Redemption (1994) also presents an episodic structuration. This is less noticeable than in Forrest Gump since Shawshank overlaps the beginnings and ends of its various episodes (for example, Andy Dufrene's troubles with the Sisters, Andy's ascents to a position of importance in the prison, Andy's quest to build a new prison library) to give the impression of a continuous flow of narrative time rather than the herky-jerky start-and-stop of Gump's episodes. Nevertheless, Shawshank does contain one clear example of an episodic subplot: the tragic story of old man Brooks' parole. 

 

Like the Hollywood sequence in The Godfather, the Brooks parole subplot is its own self-contained mini-narrative which Shawshank pauses all other story discourse to tell from beginning to end. Its story structure is as follows: Inciting Incident: Brooks is paroled after decades in prison. Act 1: Brooks tries to adjust to life in the outside world. Act 2: Brooks despairs, wants to return to prison, contemplates alternatives. Act 3: Brooks sets about ending it all. Conclusion: Brooks hangs himself. Through this discursive strategy, the Brooks parole subplot stands out, both narratively and structurally, from all other narrative episodes as its own independent sub-narrative.

CONCLUSION

I hope this series of articles has accomplished a great deal in alleviating the confusion surrounding the notion of cinematic subplots. As stated in the introductory article, much of this confusion has originated from the bad habit of using the term “subplot” to label a wide variety of inter-narrative structures, regardless of whether these structures actually meet the formal definition of a “true” subplot provided in this final article. Relational arcs are not really subplots. Story threads belonging to secondary characters in films using plural storytelling are not subplots. Prologue and epilogue narratives are not subplots. A true subplot 1) possesses the structure of a fully-formed narrative, 2) develops independently from the events of the central plotline, 3) develops concurrently with the central plotline, and 4) while disconnected along the dimension of plot, still contributes to the development of the overall story along the dimensions of character and theme.

Such definitions are important to the work of screencraft. If we cannot define exactly what terms mean, and then provide criteria to determine what does or does not qualify as an example, the result will be only confusion and unproductive argument. Now that we have what may be accepted as a formal definition for the “subplot,” as well as the other inter-narrative structures frequently mislabeled as “subplots,” we may engage in clearer and more productive discussions on these inter-narrative structures and how they function within the overall cinematic story discourse.

Finally Understanding "Subplots", Part 4 of 5: Prologue & Epilogue Narratives

 If you are a fan of Raiders of the Lost Ark, it is likely that some of your favorite moments from the film are not those of Indy in Egypt chasing the Ark of the Covenant. They instead come from the film’s opening thirteen minutes, a section depicting a completely different adventure set in a completely different spot on the globe: Indy’s quest for the golden idol in the Peruvian temple. Yet if you are a student of screencraft, versed in the rules of movie structure, you should realize that this section is irrelevant to Raiders’ main narrative, as the pursuit of the idol has nothing to do with Indy battling the Nazis for the Ark. In fact, this little adventure it is over and done with before Indy even learns of the Ark (the story’s inciting incident). Indeed, a viewer could skip the first thirteen minutes of Raiders and not miss out on anything that might keep them from understanding the remainder of the film. So what exactly is this opening section, and what is its deal?

 In the same way, depending on who you are, your favorite part of Rocky might have nothing to do with the titular character’s match with Heavyweight Champion Apollo Creed, but Rocky’s sweet yet bumbling efforts to woo Adrian over the film’s opening fifty minutes. Like the Peruvian section of Raiders, the romance between Rocky and Adrian has nothing to do with Rocky’s main Story Spine, and reaches a point of resolution before the story’s true inciting incident (at 56:00) when Apollo Creed selects Rocky as his next opponent. For the remainder of the film, Rocky’s relationship with Adrian remains stable and uneventful, exerting practically no influence upon the story’s central conflict. Indeed, if a viewer cares nothing for romance, they might skip the movie’s first fifty minutes and not miss much of a beat.

 So, structurally speaking, what are these sections? Why have they been included in the film?

Are THESE subplots? Once again, the answer is NO. These are prologue narratives.

A prologue narrative is an independent, self-contained, mini-story presented at the beginning of a film. They are self-contained in that they feature their own clear beginning, middle, and end—a course of narration that plays out, without interruption, to a conclusion before the introduction of the inciting incident of the movie’s main plotline. As their own “mini” stories, prologue narratives bear all the marks of the classic cinematic narrative structure, albeit played on a shorter timeline. Every prologue narrative possesses its own story spine, its own three-act structure punctuated by dramatic turning points, and its own climactic resolution. Once the prologue narrative reaches its conclusion, the discourse pauses and then switches tracks, now initiating the setup for what will be the movie’s main narrative. To put this another way, the movie ends the appetizer story and starts its main course, with no return to the dramatic conflicts or objectives found the former.

Prologue narratives are rare events in feature films. Nevertheless, Hollywood has given us several memorable examples. Along with Raiders and Rocky, the 2001 Best Picture winner A Beautiful Mind opens with a 27-minute prologue narrative depicting protagonist John Nash’s experiences as a Harvard grad student. After a climax in which Nash receives formal recognition for his peculiar intellectual gifts, the discourse jumps five years into the future, with Nash now a Professor. This is when Mind’s real story begins. Braveheart contains TWO prologue narratives: the first depicting protagonist William Wallace in his youth; the second Wallace’s return to his native village to fall in love and marry Murron, with the hopes of starting a home and family. These twin prologue narratives have the effect of delaying the main narrative’s true inciting incident to around the 45 minute mark. (Although there is some overlap: the event which serves as the climax for the second prologue pulls double-duty as the inciting incident of the main narrative). And, let’s not forget the James Bond franchise, where practically every installment begins with an action-packed prologue which is often only tangentially related, or not at all related, to the mission Bond later receives.

If prologue narratives are their own self-contained pieces of storytelling, a piece the movie could essentially operate fine without, what it their purpose? What does the discourse gain from presenting a mini-story as an appetizer before its main course? Apart from being entertaining stories in their own right, prologue narratives also provide an active setup for the main story-to-come, as opposed to the static setups found in most feature films. A static setup simply introduces the protagonist’s status quo: the main characters and their lives and environment as it exists before the inciting incident throws things into disequilibrium. A prologue narrative, however, introduces the characters, their qualities, the story environment, and other elements constituent to the main plotline in an active manner as we observe the protagonist engaging with other problems and taking goal-oriented actions to resolve them. When the prologue narrative concludes, most of the expositional heavy-lifted has been accomplished, allowing the discourse to swiftly shift into the setup for its main plotline. Thus, before the inciting incident throws the main drama into motion, we already know Indy’s skill as a relic-hunter (and of his professional rivalry with Belloq); we know all about Rocky Balboa’s characteristic virtues and insecurities, along with the characteristics of his friends and allies; and we know what motivates William Wallace to revolt against the English.

If a film can open with a mini-story as a prologue narrative, can it not also end with an epilogue narrative; that is, another self-contained mini-story placed at the end of the film, initiating after the resolution of the main Story Spine? Theoretically, yes. However, this is almost never seen in theatrical feature films. Why? Well, once the main plot’s climactic event occurs (that is, the moment when the protagonist either successfully achieves or permanently fails to achieve his or her Story Goal), the Story Spine is completed and the story is essentially over. The conflict has been resolved, the audience’s questions have been answered, and there is not much left to retain viewer interest. So, a movie would need a pretty darn good reason to keep the viewers in their seats for another fifteen to twenty minutes, rather than wrap the film up then and there.

In fact, I can think of only one good example of a film which successfully implements an epilogue sequence: The Shawshank Redemption (1994). 

 The Shawshank Redemption is the story of Andy Dufrene and his twenty-year imprisonment for a murder he did not commit. At the story’s climax, Andy escapes from Shawshank prison, brings punishment upon the corrupt Warden, and disappears to freedom in Mexico. So, the story is over, right? The protagonist is gone. The movie can happily end right there. 

Yet Shawshank’s storytellers sense a good reason to keep the discourse going. Surmising that its viewers would grow quite fond of the supporting character Red, enough to want to know how his story ends, the storytellers saw fit to give Red his own epilogue narrative covering the last twelve minutes of the film. Red’s epilogue is its own self-contained mini-story. It has a unique protagonist (Red), its own story spine (centered around the question: Will Red survive life outside of prison, or will he meet the same tragic end of his friend Brooks?), and its own three-act structure:

Inciting incident: Red is paroled. Act 1: Red follows the same path as Brooks upon his release, leading to self-despair. First turning point: Red decides he can’t give up until he fulfills a promise he made to Andy. Act 2: Red ventures forth following Andy’s instructions. Second turning point: Red finds a letter from Andy with an invitation to join him in Mexico. Act 3: Red breaks parole to head to Mexico. Climactic resolution: Red reunites with Andy to start a happy new life.

Yet, despite this one well-known instance, epilogue narratives are an extreme rarity – more of a theoretical possibility than a familiar practice. If you can think of any other films that conclude with a full-fledged epilogue narrative, please let me know in the comments.

(Okay, I guess technically Cast Away (2000) ends with an epilogue narrative which tells the story of the protagonist’s attempts to reunite with his wife. But I wouldn’t call this a successful epilogue, as it comes off more as a long and tedious resolution sequence. If there are two things people remember about Cast Away, they are Wilson the Volleyball and how boring the last fifteen minutes were.)

So, to summarize this series of articles thus far: relational arcs are not really “subplots”; story threads in a plural narrative discourse are not “subplots”; prologue and epilogue narratives are not “subplots.” What narrative structures, then, DO fit the formal definition of a “subplot?” Well, now that we have cleared away the various narrative structures often mislabeled as “subplots,” we can now look into what IS a true subplot to finally define the concept in the proper. This will be the topic of the following and final article.

Finally Understanding "subplots" Part 3 of 5: "Story Threads" & Plural Storytelling

 In my previous two articles, I examined the use of “relational arcs” (not “subplots”) in Raiders of the Lost Ark and The Matrix. I used these two films for illustration because they contained, in my words, “simple and straight-forward” plots. I say simple and straight-forward because the narrative discourse of both films maintains a singular focus: everything is about the protagonist and his Story Spine. Every plot point in Raiders is about Indy’s pursuit of the Ark. Every plot point in The Matrix is about Neo’s journey to becoming the “One.” There is rarely a scene in either film which does not feature the protagonist; and when there is such a scene, it is brief and acts for the propose of complicating some elements of the protagonist’s Spine (complicating the main source of conflict, the stakes, the protagonist’s path of action...). When you boil it all down, the movie’s discourse is all about one person striving to achieve one thing. Everything else exists to either assist or oppose that person’s efforts.

But what do we find when we consider movies with a more “sophisticated” narrative discourse? To figure this out, let us look at The Bourne Identity, a movie with a middling discursive complexity.

The protagonist of The Bourne Identity is, of course, Jason Bourne. Bourne’s Spine is clear: His Story Problem is that, as an amnesiac, he has lost all memory of his past as a CIA assassin. His Story Goal, therefore, is to recover the knowledge of his past so he may resolve all the chaos that past now inflicts upon him. If The Bourne Identity focused solely on the hero’s line of action in the same manner as Raiders or The Matrix, we would have a functional, self-contained, and entertaining narrative. That is, a good movie in its own right. However, the discourse repeatedly cuts away to a second narrative line which does not feature Jason Bourne. In fact, this line of narrative takes place thousands of miles away from Bourne in the CIA offices of Langley, Virginia. 

 Here, Ted Conklin is the center of the narrative universe. Conklin takes his own independent actions in pursuit of his own objectives, and faces his own conflicts as a result. To Conklin, Bourne’s actions in Europe are only a nuisance and obstacle to Conklin’s own objectives; an obstacle which must be eliminated before Conklin’s goals can be reached. Meanwhile, the discourse occasionally interjects a third line of narrative, this one with deposed dictator Wombosi as its lead. Like Conklin in the second line, Wombosi is in charge of the narrative here (neither Bourne nor Conklin make an appearance), as Wombosi takes his own, independent actions toward his own objective: blackmailing the CIA by threatening to expose an assassination attempt.

So, we have three lines of narrative within a single movie story. Does this mean that Bourne’s line is the main plotline while Conklin and Wombosi’s are mere subplots (or the B-Story and C-Story, respectively)? No, they are not. The Bourne, Conklin, and Wombosi lines are three quasi-autonomous, yet interdependent story threads which, when intertwined, constitute the story discourse of The Bourne Identity as a whole.*

(*There is also a potential fourth line, that of Paris CIA operative Nicki (Julia Stiles). However, Nicki’s dramatic function is limited to carrying out Conklin’s orders, and she never pursues objectives of her own. As such, Nicki’s line may be considered as a simple extension of Conklin’s line.)

What do I mean by “story threads”? Well, if we take a simple movie narrative like Raiders of the Lost Ark, the structural composition can be likened to a length of cord: a single piece of material stretching from the beginning of the story discourse to its end. (Sure, this cord is “thickened” in various places by the unfolding of relational arcs, but it is still of one piece.) Now, a more complicated narrative discourse, like that found in Bourne, is more like a rope. A rope is created by tightly intertwining numerous individual threads. This intertwining of threads makes a rope stronger than a cord; and, likewise, the intertwining of story threads gives a movie narrative greater complexity and sophistication than one which focuses on a single line of action.

 

Let's use a second film for further illustration: Braveheart (1995). In Braveheart, we may clearly discern four distinct story threads. The first belongs to William Wallace (Mel Gibson) as Wallace leads a Scottish rebellion against the English.

 The second thread belongs to King Edward “Longshanks.” The focus of this thread is the King’s efforts to maintain tyrannical authority over his empire; a goal which concerns not only the Scottish rebellion, but other matters such as the King’s conflict with France and his relationship with his weak and ineffectual heir, the Prince. 

The Princess Isabelle is given a third thread. The focus of this thread is more personal than geopolitical: Though smart and resourceful in the realm of politics, Isabelle strives to overcome the alienation and lack of regard she suffers in the court of King Edward.

Finally, a fourth story thread belongs to Robert the Bruce. Robert the Bruce’s overall goal is to manage the politics amongst the Scottish nobles, and between Scotland and England, with the ultimate aim of acquiring the Scottish crown.

If one would chop up Braveheart to watch only those scenes involving each of these four characters, all in turn, in isolation, each thread will be found to be quasi-autonomous in nature. By this I mean each of the four characters acts as the protagonist of their own narrative line. In that line, the character takes independent action in pursuit of their own objectives, objectives which may or may not bear relations to the objectives of the other “protagonists.” As such, each of the four story threads could make a perfectly suitable movie story in their own right. That is, the storytellers could have potentially eliminated the other story threads to made that one “protagonist” Braveheart’s the sole focus in the manner of Raiders or The Matrix.

However, these story threads are only quasi-autonomous. In terms of the overall story discourse, story threads do not have complete autonomy. Though story threads develop separately, their mutual development is interconnected and interdependent upon events contained in the other threads. This is what is meant when we say that threads are intertwined. At times, the threads may directly intersect, bringing two or more of the “protagonists” face-to-face: Wallace’s thread routinely intersects with Robert the Bruce’s thread; Isabelle’s thread intersects at various points with those of King Edward and Wallace. Robert the Bruce’s thread even briefly intersects with King Edward. In these moments of intersection, dramatic outcomes create potential turning points for both story threads.

Story threads also affect one another indirectly, meaning that actions taken in one thread may alter the circumstances of other threads. The best example is the indirect interaction between the Wallace and King Edward threads. Though the two characters never meet face-to-face, every major action taken by Wallace alters King Edward’s circumstances in such a way that forces a response from King Edward. Likewise, every major action taken by King Edward alters the circumstances of the Wallace thread.

As a result, Braveheart does not present four separate stories, but a single story discourse composed of four interconnected threads. Braveheart is not William Wallace’s story, nor King Edward’s story, nor Princess Isabelle’s story, nor Robert the Bruce’s story, but a multi-thread narrative composition which ultimately presents a story experience greater than the sum of its parts. Braveheart is an example of plural, rather than singular, storytelling.*

(* Plural, multi-thread storytelling, however, should not be confused with true multi-narrative films like Magnolia (1999), Crash (2004), or Babel (2006) (often referred to as “ensemble” films). Produced far more rarely, multi-narrative films present several COMPLETELY autonomous narratives with few or no causal connections between them. Often, the only connections between the narratives are coincidental or rooted in a shared theme. Multi-narrative films thus present several independent stories within a single movie, whereas plural multi-thread storytelling presents a single, unified story composed of multiple interconnected character threads.)

Plural, multi-thread storytelling is rarely mentioned in the various “how-to” materials on screenwriting. This is because beginners are taught to think simple. The concept of “story” is presented in the singular: one main character, one line of action, one central conflict, one resolution. Yet in reality, what we experience as the “Story” of a movie is the entirety of its discourse, which may contain as few or as many story threads as the storyteller desires. Films such as Braveheart and The Bourne Identity thus present a higher level of storytelling sophistication than movies like Raiders or The Matrix, a level to which students of screenwriting may aspire after they have grasped the fundamentals of storytelling in the singular.

How many story threads can a single movie contain? Well, let’s look at one of the most surprisingly-complex popular movie narratives: Die Hard.

 Let’s count the story threads in Die Hard. First, of course, we have our hero John McClane. John’s goal is get himself and all hostages out of Nakatomi Tower alive. Next, the villain Hans Gruber. Hans wants to steal the millions of dollars of bonds in Nakatomi’s safe. Meanwhile, outside the Tower, we have Sgt. Al Powell desperately trying to keep his incompetent superior Lt. Robinson from turning the situation into a bloodbath. But wait, that’s not all. Holly takes on a leader role among the hostages. Henchman Karl is out for revenge. TV reporter Dick Thornburg pursues a potentially career-making news story. Ellis tries to be the hero in his own way and pays the price. FBI Agents Johnson & Johnson take over to shoot first and ask questions later. Argyle is trapped in the parking garage.

In Die Hard, practically every significant character is granted their own personal story thread. This surprising complexity of discourse is one reason why Die Hard's success has never been duplicated by its many imitators. Die Hard is not just a story about John McClane, or of a clash between a hero and a villain. Its “story” is the sum of all of its threads, their individual moments along with their interactions and intersections, with each thread contributing pieces to the overall story discourse.

 

The important point here is that story threads are NOT “subplots.” Each thread is not “sub” to anything. They are quasi-autonomous, each holding the potential of being a stand-alone narrative in their own right. Argyle’s thread is his own story. As are Holly’s, Karl’s, or Dick Thornberg’s.

But wait, you may be thinking, if story threads belonging to “secondary” characters are not subordinate to the central protagonist’s thread, does this not imply that all story threads are of equal importance? That, in Die Hard, Argyle’s thread should be considered equal to John McClane’s thread; or in The Bourne Identity, Wombosi’s thread be equal to Jason Bourne’s thread; even though the narrative discourse gives them far less time and attention? Well, the answer is yes and no. To understand, we must return to the distinction between fabula and syuzhet.

As explained in the first article of this series, the fabula of Die Hard contains every moment experienced by the characters of every story thread, from the beginning of the story’s timeframe to its end—whether it happens to be featured on screen or not. The fabula includes, for instance; every little thing Argyle does while waiting in the parking garage; every single thing Dick Thornburg does before, during, and after the moments we see him on screen; every little detail of John, Holly, or Hans’ experiences, seen or unseen. As the reservoir of all potential story material, the fabula considers every event, action, or piece of information as more or less equal.

The syuzhet, on the other hand, is the end result of all conscious decisions made by the storyteller regarding what fabula material to present, and when to present it, in the construction of the overall narrative discourse. In Die Hard, this includes every choice regarding when to stick with John’s thread, when to cut to Hans, and what (for instance) is important from the Holly and Karl threads and when to interject that material. As a result of these choices, vast portions of the fabula are omitted; either because the storyteller deems them unimportant, or for the sake of generating mystery, surprise, or suspense. In the process of making such choices, certain story threads become more prominent within the discourse (John, Hans, Sgt. Powell), while others are limited to bits and pieces (Argyle, Thornburg, Ellis). As such, the perception of Die Hard as the story of John versus Hans with occasional “subplots” involving “secondary” characters is merely an illusion of the syuzhet. The storytellers simply chose to make certain story threads more prominent than others. If the storytellers wished, they could have constructed a different syuzhet where Holly, Karl, or Thornburg’s thread becomes most prominent, causing those characters to appear as the “central” protagonist.

 

But, we can complexify things even further. In the previous two articles of this series, I introduced the concept of relational arcs, as seen in single-thread narratives like Raiders of the Lost Ark and The Matrix. Relational arcs are also quite common in multi-thread narratives. These arcs tends to develop in one of two ways.

In the first case, a relational arc forms in the same manner previously identified in Raiders and The Matrix. To review, a relational arc “unfolds” an existing character relationship already integral to the functioning of the plot. The only difference with multi-thread narratives is that this “unfolding” occurs between two characters with a plot-functional relationship isolated within only ONE of the several threads. We find two clear examples in The Bourne Identity. In the Jason Bourne thread, the plot-functional partnership between Bourne and Marie is given greater depth as it unfolds into a romantic arc. In the Ted Conklin thread, the perfunctory chain-of-command between Conklin and his supervisor Ward Abbot is unfolded into an interpersonal conflict based on their clashing philosophies and institutional priorities. These relational arcs are “isolated” within their respective threads in the sense that they are relevant only to that particular thread and have virtually no effect upon any other thread.

 

A second form of relational arc develops between story threads. This occurs when two threads intersect or overlap with such frequency that a progressing inter-personal relationship forms between the threads’ “lead” characters. In Braveheart, for example, Princess Isabelle’s thread intersects with Wallace’s thread with increasing frequency over the second half of the narrative to the point where they ultimately overlap. As a result of their compatible desires and interests, Isabelle and Wallace’s interactions become a progressing relationship, resulting in a romantic arc. 

We also find two clear examples in Die Hard. The first is between John and Holly. John and Holly’s threads overlap entirely during the film’s opening setup sequence. In fact, the troubled relationship between John and Holly is used as the film’s primary source of drama until the inciting incident occurs. When John and Holly are separated by the inciting incident, their relational arc is left to linger, but is resolved when their threads finally reunite at the movie’s end. A second inter-thread relational arc forms between the John and Sgt. Powell threads. Though the two threads are geographically separated (John is trapped inside the building, Powell stuck outside the building), there is enough interaction between John and Powell that a plot-significant relationship forms. Since the desires and interests of the two parties are closely aligned (both want to see the situation resolved without the loss of innocent lives) an informal partnership, or “buddy” relational arc forms between the two otherwise separate threads, complete with structural moments of initiation, development, and resolution.

To conclude, the past three articles have examined two common intra-narrative structures frequently mislabeled as “subplots”: relational arcs, and story threads found in narratives of plural construction. In the next installment, we shall explore two more narrational structures often misconstrued as “subplots”: prologue and epilogue sequences. Then, in my concluding article, we will finally define examples of true “subplots.”

Finally Understanding "Subplots," Part 2 of 5: Relational Arcs & Theme

In the last article, I introduced the relational arc, the most common of the several intra-narrative structures erroneously lumped together as “subplots.” Using Raiders of the Lost Ark, I showed how the inclusion of relational arcs added “depth” to the story’s character dimension, but stopped short when it came to the question of theme. In this installment, I pick up where I left off, but with a different movie, The Matrix.

Like Raiders, the central plotline of The Matrix is fairly simple and straight-forward. Here is its plot in a nutshell: In a world where humanity is enslaved by machines, Neo is recruited by the human resistance; Neo is trained by his mentor Morpheus to become “The One”; through betrayal, Morpheus is captured by the antagonist Agent Smith; Neo rescues Morpheus; Neo defeats Agent Smith by believing his is indeed The One.

Summarized thusly, we have a purely functional story, one that aligns with the tried-and-true “Hero’s Journey” pattern. However, the story is fairly one-dimensional. To “dimensionalize” the story and give it greater “depth,” the storytellers do the same as in Raiders: they “unfold” character relationships already present within the central plotline, adding multiple “relational arcs.” In The Matrix, we may identify three relational arcs: Trinity’s “romance” with Neo (I put romance in quotations for a reason), Cypher’s betrayal of his comrades, and Morpheus’s mentorship of Neo.

Just like Marion and Belloq in Raiders, Trinity, Cypher, and Morpheus do not exist outside of the central plotline, nor are their relational arcs simply tacked on to the existing narrative. All three characters and their inter-personal relationships already serve VITAL FUNCTIONAL ROLES in the central plot. Morpheus serves a MENTOR and LEADER role. Trinity is the HERALD character and Neo’s GUIDE. Cypher, of course, is the TRAITOR directly responsible for Morpheus’s capture at the Midpoint Crisis Event. The Matrix, however, expands these existing story relationships into relational arcs by asking a simple question: “Why do these characters do what they DO?” WHY does Morpheus insist that Neo believe he is The One? WHY does Trinity become so personally involved in Neo’s journey? WHY does Cypher choose to betray his brethren? 

 Once we unfold these layers of the narrative—adding depth to the dimension of character—we find something like a family melodrama operating underneath these once-purely functional relationships. Morpheus is an adoptive father who believes his life’s purpose is to nurture a gifted child to maturity. Trinity, the eldest child, feels emotionally conflicted over her new brother; drawn to him, wishing to believe what father says of him, but with doubts. Cypher, on the other hand, is the overlooked middle child jealous over daddy’s new favorite.

This unfolding of character relationships does more to benefit the story than adding greater depth to the dimensions of plot and character. It takes what is otherwise a cold, cerebral, purely functional narrative, and humanizes it by recasting its actions in terms of human need and emotion. As a result, this fantastic sci-fi narrative becomes relatable to its audience because they can now understand all actions in human terms.

But what of the dimension of THEME? Many writers on screencraft have rightly claimed that one of the greatest benefits of expanding a narrative through “subplots” (whichever variety of form these “subplots” take) is in service of communicating the story’s theme. A good theme is pervasive. It permeates all story elements, deciding what is relevant to the story and what is not, unifying all actions and events under a common expression of meaning. In fact, all plot and character actions might be considered dramatic metaphors designed to ultimately communicate this conclusive meaning. However, a theme is an abstract, multi-faceted, and thus difficult to represent thing. It exists in the realm of ideas, not physical action.

As such, a cinematic story cannot state a theme, it can only imply a thematic message through a line of action presented on screen. Yet the capacity of this single line to express an abstract idea is limited to the explicit details of its unique conflict or situation. It thus can give only one tiny instance of a universalizing idea. And if the narrative is too simple or straight-forward, the audience may not receive enough material to even grasp what that idea might be. However, “subplots,” with their mini narratives, provide the story with opportunities to present the theme from other angles, within other situations, and in relation to additional conflicts or character relationships. In other words, “subplots” provide opportunities to dimensionalize a story’s theme by communicating different aspects of the same thematic idea through other dramatic situations. As a result, the audience may “see” the multi-facted nature of this abstract idea from various angles and better grasp the message the story wishes to convey.

So what is the theme of The Matrix? A purely external, premise-based reading would say The Matrix is a story designed to prompt questions regarding the nature of Reality: What is really “Real”? What is really “True”? What is just an illusion? How can we tell the difference between truth and illusion?

But let’s recast these thematics in human terms: If modern philosophy has taught us anything over the past two centuries (a subject the Wachowskis hold considerable knowledgeable about), it is that there can be no certainty regarding just what “Truth” and “Reality” are. Every trend in modern philosophy has cast further and further doubt on traditional notions of metaphysics, the human mind, and the social reality which surrounds us. What is merely perception? What is simply a made-up social construct? How do we reconcile spirituality with empirical science? The bottom line is that “reality” is subjective. We accept something to be “real” or “true” because we personally believes it to be so, or because we agree with the claims made by outside authorities on the subject. In other words, “reality” is a matter of FAITH. Faith is defined as a belief in something which cannot be absolutely proven. We are able to make our ways through life with some certainty because we have FAITH that certain ideas, perceptions, and concepts are indeed real and true.

As such, FAITH is the true theme of The Matrix. We see this quite clearly in Neo’s Character Arc. Neo’s fate, the fate of the human resistance, and indeed the fate of all humanity rests on the question of whether Neo can place faith in the idea that he is The One; whether or not he can truly believe everything his mentor Morpheus teaches him. As described below, the relational arcs involving Morpheus, Cypher, and Trinity also center upon issues of faith. As such, the inclusion of these relational arcs serves to dimensionalize the story’s theme by presenting other characters who, like Neo, also struggle with issues of faith, but in different ways and from differing perspectives.

Morpheus is a man of absolute faith. He believes without reservation in his mission, in the prophesies he has been told, and that Neo is indeed “The One”—even though this all has yet to be proven. Morpheus’s personal goal is to indoctrinate Neo with his faith so Neo will believe as strongly as he does. But, as several pieces of dialogue between other characters indicate, Morpheus is so blind in his faith that it actually constitutes his character flaw. Morpheus’s faith is so absolute that he foolishly sacrifices himself at the story’s Midpoint so save Neo, shouting “He’s all that matters!”

 Cypher, on the other hand, is a man who has lost all faith. His disillusionment so so profound that he, like the Biblical Judas, is willing to betray his teacher and return to false illusion. In Cypher’s only scene alone with Neo, Cypher wastes no time undermining Neo’s shaky faith in Morpheus’s teachings. “Did he tell you?” he asks, “Did he tell you why you’re here? – Geez! What a mindjob! What do you say to that? So you’re here to save the world?”

Trinity’s relational arc, it turns out, is the most complex. While most would quickly brush off the Trinity/Neo arc as yet another “romantic subplot,” this relational arc in fact resounds with the story’s theme far more strongly than any other. However, this thematic significance is hidden behind the illusion of a typical “girl falls in love with boy” tropeline until the syuzhet finally reveals a pivotal piece of fabula information late in the third act. At this moment, Trinity confesses that the Oracle prophesied that she would fall in love with The One. This revelation rewrites everything we previously understood about the Trinity/Neo relational arc. We now know that the question “Is Trinity in love with Neo?” is intimately tied up with the question “Is Neo the One?”; conversely, the question “Is Neo the One?” is attached to the question “Is Trinity in love with Neo?” With this, we discover that the “romance” between Trinity and Neo is in fact a story of Trinity’s struggle with her FAITH. Trinity wants to believe Morpheus when he says Neo is the One, yet she is uncertain because she is unsure whether she loves Neo. But if she does sense growing feelings for Neo, is this because Neo is truly the One or only because she wants him to be the One? This explains why Trinity is so emotionally invested in Neo from the beginning of the story to its end. She wishes to believe, but is suffering a crisis of faith.

 In addition to dimensionalizing the theme of faith, Neo’s participation in these relational arcs serves a subtle yet significant role in shaping the narrative discourse so that the dimensions of Plot and Character work together to deliver the story’s ultimate thematic message: Neo’s interactions in the relational arcs impact the development of Neo’s Character Arc, which subsequently affect the actions Neo takes in the latter half of the story, which set up the climactic event and the overt thematic message conveyed by Neo’s ultimate victory. Neo is able to defeat Agent Smith only because he has acquired full and total faith, both in himself and everything his mentor has taught him. Anything less would would have resulted in failure.

So, in the end, the faiths of Neo, Morpheus, and Trinity are rewarded (while Cypher’s lack of faith is punished), and humanity has hope for the future because of that faith. This theme is the reason why The Matrix, a film which depicts a nightmare dysptopian future, leaves its audience in such uplifted spirits. The message of The Matrix, communicated by its Character Arc and supported by its three relational arcs, is that humanity will survive its modern, technology-driven world that now lacks all certainty about what is “Real,” as long as we continues to have FAITH.

But what then of Raiders of the Lost Ark? I concluded the previous article with the question of why Raiders’ storytellers chose to unfold the relational arcs between Indy/Belloq and Indy/Marion, but left all other character relationships “flat.” My suggestion was that these two relational arcs were developed because they were particularly useful in the communication of the story’s theme. So, what is the theme of Raiders of the Lost Ark and how do the two relational arcs help express it?

When sniffing out a theme, the best place to start is the protagonist’s Character Arc. And yes, Indiana Jones DOES have a Character Arc in Raiders (despite what some less-informed sources on the internet might tell you).

Indiana Jones begins Raiders as a man who sees value only in the material. Meanwhile, he shows no interest in, and even scoffs at, things of immaterial value (such as emotional human relationships, the ideals of a higher cause, a belief in a higher power, and so on).

At the story’s inciting incident, when Indy is informed by US Agents that the Nazis have found the location of the Ark of the Covenant, presumably to use the Ark’s power to conquer the world, Indy jumps at the chance the beat the Nazis to the Ark first. Indy does this not out of any sense of patriotism or concern over the fate of the world (he never betrays a hint of either), but because the Ark is a highly-valued material object that he, a professional treasure hunter, considers the ultimate prize. Not only does Indy care little for the geopolitical conflict surrounding the Ark, he shows no interest in the sacred or deeply-religious value of the Ark. As a Professor of Archaeology, Indy adheres to an objective, scientific view of historical artifacts. Like the golden idol from the movie’s prologue, the Ark is merely buried treasure to be dug up and sold to a museum. (Watch the prologue sequence. The film’s opening presents a clear contrast between the religious superstitions of the native peoples and Indy’s purely material apprehensions of the idol.)

Indy maintains this attitude for much of Raiders. Yet, by the story’s conclusion, Indy has grown into a man who can indeed recognize value in the immaterial, in the intangible, in the spiritual or idealistic, over the strictly material. It is a subtle rather than a profound shift, motivated not so much by the events of the main plotline, but in the drama of his two relational arcs.

To begin with the Indy/Bellow relational arc: Thematically, Belloq serves as a “dark mirror” figure to Indiana Jones; identical in some aspects, the inverse in others. This is made explicit in the arc’s most significant stand-alone scene: the conversation between Indy and Belloq in the Cairo cafe in Act 2A, where Belloq states the (now cliched) line, “You and I are very much alike.” Belloq is an image of what Indy could become if he should take his material-value mindset too far. Belloq is also an archaeologist and treasure-hunter, but he has grown morally and ethically bankrupt in his pursuit of valuable objects. Whereas Indy is merely indifferent to the geopolitics surrounding the Ark, Belloq is positioned as a traitor to the ideals of the free world. Though never explicitly stated in the film (and, technically, set in 1936, the movie takes place before open hostilities broke out in Europe), Raiders relies on its audience’s knowledge of history to emphasize Belloq’s moral bankruptcy. Belloq is a Frenchman collaborating with the Nazis to find an object that may help the Nazis conquer the world. Belloq does this, however, not because he supports the Nazi cause (that would be a form of idealism), but because he would work with the Devil himself to procure a materially-valuable object like the Ark. Furthermore, Belloq is presented as a thief. On two occasions, Belloq steals away an object Indy has risked life and limb to retrieve, showing that he no longer respects even the unwritten rules and ethical guidelines of his profession.

Belloq presents the dark side of the story’s developing theme. The Indy/Marion relational arc, however, provides a force to nudge Indy in the opposite direction. If we walk through the main beats of this arc, we see Indy’s progression along the thematic line. Indy’s first encounter with Marion is intended as purely transactional. He is to give Marion some money, she is to give him the headpiece he needs to locate the Ark. But Marion does not see it this way. She is upset at Indy for breaking her heart years ago. Though Indy says he is sorry, it is obvious he remains indifferent to Marion’s feelings and the value of their previous relationship. He just wants the headpiece.

When Indy arrives in Cairo with Marion as his partner, Indy sees this as merely a business relationship, despite Marion’s attempts to restart a personal friendship. When Marion is kidnapped and supposedly killed in the marketplace sequence, we encounter the arc’s next major beat. Distraught, Indy gets drunk in a cafe. Following the old saw that “you don’t know what you got until it’s gone,” Indy realizes he has lost something of great immaterial value that he did not appreciate before.

Yet when, lo and behold, Indy finds Marion alive again, tied and gagged in the Nazi camp, what does Indy do? He leaves Marion there, despite Marion’s protests, because freeing Marion might jeopardize his pursuit of the Ark. Though Indy has gotten back what he has lost, he still prizes the material more – thus, Marion remains of secondary importance.

 Next, we encounter one of the most interesting sequences in Raiders from a structural standpoint in which the two relational arcs intersect: Belloq unbinds Marion, gives her a beautiful dress, and treats her to a candlelight dinner. In terms of the Belloq line, Belloq is escalating his rivalry with Indy. No longer content with simply stealing Indy’s treasures, he now desires to steal Indy’s love interest as well. Though it is made clear that Marion is merely playing along, it cannot be said that Marion is not a little bit charmed by this development. Belloq has attractive qualities Indy lacks, and it is highly unlikely that Indy would ever shower Marion with beautiful gifts and romantic dinners. Thus, there is the slightest hint that Indy, due to his material-mindedness, might lose Marion to his rival. This suggestion is subtly implied when the film intercuts Marion’s dinner with Belloq with Indy hard at work uncovering the Ark at the Well of Souls. With this, like in The Matrix, we find a personally-relateable metaphor on human relations hidden within the fantastic premise: Like so many professional men obsessed with material success, Indy risks losing his romantic partner to a rival while he is busy at work because he has ignored his partner’s needs.

When, after the story’s Midpoint, Indy and Marion are reunited in the Well of Souls, Indy actually expresses jealousy when he sees Marion in Belloq’s dress. However, the crisis forces the pair to quickly reconcile their differences and work together on common ground.

After several long sequences in which Indy escapes the Well of Souls, chases down and recaptures the Ark, we are treated at the end of Act 2B to what is the most clear and obvious “romance” scene of the movie. Safe aboard a ship back to America, Indy finally softens to Marion, shows appreciation for her value, and they kiss (though the film smartly has Indy falls asleep before the romantic relationship can be fully consummated). But something should be noted about this scene. It occurs after the Ark is safely in Indy’s possession. It is only now that Indy’s material desires have been satiated that he is fully capable of considering and appreciating the great immaterial value of his relationship with Marion.

Yet when Belloq and the Nazis reappear in the following sequence, taking both the Ark and Marion, the question is now which Indy values more. Indy’s character seems to have arced when, ambushing the Ark’ procession with a rocket launcher, he offers to let Belloq keep the Ark if he releases Marion. Yet when Belloq calls Indy’s bluff, Indy cannot bring himself to destroy the Ark. This indicates that Indy still personally holds the material value of the Ark to be of at least equal importance to the value of his relationship with Marion.

As for the movie’s climax, thematically, it is a bit confused, arguably constituting the movie’s biggest flaw. Indy survives the climactic event by closing his eyes as Belloq opens the Ark. This suggests that Indy now understand that the Ark is more than silver and gold, but something of power and value beyond our petty materialistic understanding. Unfortunately, the narrative has given no previous events to explain how or why Indy came to this realization. There is thus a hole in Indy’s completed Character Arc – possibly the reason why some (falsely) assert that his character does not arc.

Yet of course, this is untrue. Indy’s Character Arc is subtle, and would be practically unobservable without the story’s two relational arcs, explaining their importance to the narrative and its expression of theme. We see some of this subtle change in character in Indy’s final scene. Indy again loses the Ark, this time to the US Agents. Yet his vocal complaint is, “They don’t know what they have there,” meaning that Indy now realizes the Ark is more than a material treasure, and its immaterial value should be recognized and appreciated. Nevertheless, he gives up to have a drink with Marion, suggesting that he will go on in life with a renewed appreciation for things and relationship beyond the material.