Story time, story time! Hooray, it's story time!

When we were all young whipper snaps, adults entrained us with fairy tales. These stories were very simple. They were short in length, filled with characters making clear, straightforward actions, and had an obvious beginning, middle, and end. Fairy tales were the ideal mode of storytelling for us at that age because they were storytelling at its simplest. So simple that our developing minds had no problem following the story's action and understanding the logic that inevitably led to the conclusion.

Screenwriting, on the other hand, is among modern society's most complicated forms of storytelling. This is mostly because of a movie's far greater length (from a three-minute fairy tale to an over ninety-minute movie), and because of the structural rules necessary to maintain the audience's attentions for such a long span of time. Many times, a young screenwriter bravely ventures out to create a cinematic story and ends up getting lost along the way. In the attempt to make enough “stuff happen” to fill what can seem like an epic length of time, writers end up with a first draft that is a cluttered, meandering journey where the simple structure found in the stories of our childhood has been either lost or ignored. Misguided attempts to fix things in later drafts -- a tweak here, a rearrangement there, a new scene over here -- often manage to only make things worse. The script's story becomes a patchwork of flaws, turning what the writer first imagined as clear and simple into the kind of confused quagmire that drives many aspiring scribes into complete surrender.

However, screenplays and fairy tales, despite their differences, are both forms of the same art. They are birds of the same feather and follow the same basic rules. Whether it be Little Red Riding Hood or Casablanca, they are all simple tales of humans confronted by problems, who then take goal-oriented actions to overcome them. If you are a writer currently confused in the murky depths of plotting, if you can't seem to figure out how to make your story work no matter how hard you try, if you have read all the books on screenwriting but still can't seem to put it into practice, it would do you some good to take a look at fairy tales. Because within the simple sentences of fairy tales there exists a microcosm of cinematic structure.

Take a look at Hansel & Gretel.

Hansel & Gretel

Once upon a time, there was brother and sister named Hansel and Gretel (introduction of the protagonists) who lived in the forest with their father the woodcutter and their wicked stepmother. The stepmother always complained of there never being enough food and demanded that her husband abandon the children in the woods (the story setup). One day, the woodcutter could take no more and took Hansel and Gretel deep into the woods and left them there. (inciting incident) However, Hansel had overheard his parents' argument the night before and had filled his pockets with white pebbles, which he left in a trail as their father led them into the woods. When night fell, Hansel and Gretel followed the pebbles back to the safety of their home. (end of the 1^st act)

The next morning the stepmother was furious to find that Hansel and Gretel had returned. She screamed at the woodcutter all day until he agreed to take the children back into the woods, deeper this time. However this time, Hansel had no pebbles and could only mark their way with bread crumbs. When the time came to find their way home again, Hansel and Gretel were shocked to find that all the crumbs had been eaten by birds. (an obstacle complicates the story situation) They were lost.

Hansel and Gretel wandered the woods for days until they came upon a strange house made entirely of candy. Starved, they ran to the house and ate the candy that made its walls. But they had fell into a trap. In the house lived an old witch who lured them into the house and captured them. (end of the 2^nd act)

The witch locked Hansel in a cage so she might fatten him up to eat him. With Gretel, she forced to do housework until she decided to eat her too. Eventually the day came for the witch to have her meal. But when the witch bent down to check whether her oven was ready, Gretel pushed her in and closed the door. (climax) Gretel freed her brother, and in the witch's house they found a casket of gold coins.

Hansel and Gretel went back into the woods and, when they found their way home, they learned that their stepmother was dead and their father begged their forgiveness. (story resolution) And they lived happily ever after.

Think of some of your favorite films, films with stories that never fail to captivate your interest. If you look past all the details, and focus just on the bare bones of the how their plots unfold, you will find that any and every well-written screen story can be completely told in a half-page fairy tale like the one above. Here's an example.

The Matrix

Once upon a time, there was a whiz computer hacker named Neo. (introduction of the protagonist) Through Neo was successful, he was not happy. He always seemed to feel like there was something fake about the world he lived in. (story setup) One day, Neo was contacted by mysterious strangers who offered to tell him about the secrets of “the matrix.” However, his mysterious friends also got the attention of the evil Agent Smith, who now wished to capture Neo. (inciting incident) Neo's new friends help him escape Agent Smith. They then offer him a magical pill with the promise that it will show him the truth about the world. Neo takes the pill. (end of 1^st act)

Neo wakes up in a strange new world. Morpheus, the leader of Neo's new friends, tell him that the world he knows is a lie, and that humanity is enslaved by machines. Neo does not want to believe this, but Morpheus insists, because he believes Neo is “The One,” the man prophesied to help humanity defeat the machines. Neo and his friends go back into the matrix to see if this is true. However one of the friends has betrayed them to Agent Smith. (a complication to the story situation) Agent Smith's forces attack them and take Morpheus captive. (end of 2^nd act)

Neo and his friends are very sad over the loss of Morpheus. But, rather than give up, Neo decides to go back into the matrix to rescue Morpheus. In an epic battle, Neo and his friends save Morpheus. However, as he tries to escape, he is cut off by Agent Smith and they are forced to fight to the death. In the battle, Neo comes to believe that he is in fact The One, and with that confidence, kills Agent Smith. (story climax). Neo and his friends return to safety, stronger than ever (resolution). And they lived happily ever after.

Now, you're probably thinking, "Well yeah, of course this works for The Matrix. A fantasy/sci-fi story would naturally have a lot in common with a fairy tale." Well then, let's go a step further and try to make a fairy tale of a story that couldn't be further from the likes of fantasy.

Ordinary People

Once upon a time, there was a boy named Conrad. Conrad had recently come home from a mental hospital after attempting suicide from the guilt over a boating accident which killed his older brother Buck. Conrad's father struggles to re-connect with his troubled son, but his mother has grown cold toward Conrad, and has become fixated on maintaining the appearance of normalcy around her. (story setup) One day, Conrad decides to see a psychiatrist named Dr. Berger. (inciting incident) Conrad has troubles re-establishing his relationship with his friends and family, so Dr. Berger suggests he talk to someone he feels he can be open with. Conrad contacts Karen, a girl he knew from the hospital. (end of 1^st act)

However, Conrad's weak attempts to follow Dr. Berger's advice do not get good results. His friends treat him strangely and his mother rejects his attempts to communicate. This leads Conrad to choose to quit the swim team, which only makes his friends and mother more angry. Yet things look like they may turn around when Conrad begin a relationship with a nice girl named Jeannine. However, a bad date with Jeannine and a violent fight with his friends again pushes him toward depression. When Conrad tries to call Karen to cheer himself up, he hears that Karen has committed suicide. (end of 2^nd act)

Conrad is driven off the deep end by the news. He briefly considers killing himself, but decides instead to reach out to Dr. Berger for help. In an emotionally agonizing battle with Dr. Berger, Conrad comes to realize that he blames himself for his brother's death-- but that he was not responsible. This realization helps him overcome his problem. (climax)

Understanding this, Conrad is able to move on and start a healthy relationship with Jeannine. However, through all this, Conrad's father has noticed how cold his wife is to Conrad and tells her he doesn't love her the way he used to. Conrad's mother decides to leave. In the aftermath, Conrad and his father come to terms with each other. (resolution) And they lived, more or less, happily ever after.

HOW TO USE THIS

Take a look at the script you are working on right now. Are you sure that your story is clear and easy to understand? Does the action take a clear course, or does it wander? Does the story situation develop because the action contained in each event naturally triggers the next event to happen? Or do people do things arbitrarily, without a good reason forcing them? Does it have strong, dramatic turning points that give the story an obvious beginning, middle, and end? Does all the action of your story stick to a strong, dramatic Story Spine in which characters constantly struggle with a Main Story Problem, and tirelessly pursue a Main Story Goal? Don't just say “yes” and move on. The only way to be sure is to put it to the test.

Write out your script's story as if it were a fairy tale. Start out with “Once upon a time...” and using simple language, tell your entire story in a block paragraphs that take up no more than half a page of paper. Now of course, you can't fit in everything, just the important moments and characters; the stuff your story won't make sense without. Until you can tell your story in a way that even a kindergartner can understand, your script will lack the elegant, hidden-under-the-surface simplicity that makes a great cinematic story. A great movie is made of a simple story with complex characters. This test makes sure you don't have it the other way around.

Look at what you have written. Were you able to fit the story onto half a page? If not, this means your plot is too cluttered. You are trying to cram too much into a movie's limited space. You may be attempting too many subplots, serve too many characters, or the story many have gone off its spine into unrelated areas. Maybe it tries to do too much too fast, tearing into oblivion like a runaway train. A cluttered script leaves reader and viewer alike feeling like their brains have been fried. There is just too much to keep track of and they get confused.

Also take warning if you weren't able to fill half a page. This means that despite your script's length, you have a story were nothing much happens. It is most likely filled with long scenes of unnecessary dialogue, or uneventful action with no relevance to the central dramatic premise. Maybe it is filled with scenes unrelated to the Story Spine. Or, more likely, it has no Spine to guide it at all, creating a narrative that wanders without purpose. If you don't have enough story to fill a half page, this means that the story will not develop at a sufficient pace to keep audience interest, and the viewer may end up deathly bored.

Can you see a clear cause-and-effect relationship from sentence to sentence in your fairy tale? Things should occur in manner where THIS happening causes THAT to happen. And then because of THAT, THIS was the result. If instead your fairy tale has a lot of “then this happened, then this other unrelated thing happened, and then the character went and did this other thing” without much of a causal thread connecting events, this means that much of your action is arbitrary and does not follow a Story Spine. When a story stays on its Spine, removing one moment from the fairy tale would make everything fall apart, causing everything that occurs afterward to make no sense. If you can remove a piece with no real damage, this means your script is simply a collection of random events, not a tightly-plotted cinematic story that unfolds with the natural momentum a movie needs.

Do the main turning points of your story (the inciting incident, end of first act turning point, end of second act turning point, and story climax) clearly stand out from the rest of your fairy tale? Do the turning points that end your first and second acts work to divide your story into an obvious beginning, middle, and end? Or are these moments lost in all the other details? The latter would indicate that your story still has problems with its structure. More work needs to be done to strengthen these moments or else they will become insignificant events awash in all your other scenes.

CONCLUSION

Once upon a time, there was a screenwriter who had trouble making their script work (inciting incident). Then, one day they found this blog article encouraging them to think of their story as a fairy tale (1^st Act Turning point). The screenwriter took the article's advice, did the exercise, and found where the problem lay in their script. (2^nd Act Turning point). They fixed their script, and it was produced as a successful feature film. And they all lived happily ever after. (We hope.)

THE END

So what is this "conflict" anyway? - Part II: the practice

(Related article: What is "conflict"? Part I)

Enough of your borax, Poindexter. We need action!

While preparing my last article, my philosophical though somewhat unresolved search for the nature of story conflict did unearth some information that proves practically applicable to screenwriters and when it comes to actual story creation.

Everybody knows that a dramatic story cannot exist without conflict, but I have encountered many aspiring screenwriters who are unclear on what story conflict actually is. These writers think they follow the rules, yet in the end cannot understand why their scripts fail. As I have said before, if anyone is going to understand something, they must first define just what the heck they are talking about. I found an official definition of the term "conflict" used by those who specialize in real-world conflict resolution:

Conflict is, "when two or more parties, with perceived incompatible goals, seek to undermine each other's goal-seeking capability".

This definition could not be more valid to the craft of screenwriting. Conflict is not two characters bickering. Conflict does not come simply from two characters who do not like each other. Conflict does not come from arbitrary fighting, chasing, shooting, or blowing stuff up. Real story conflict can only exist when a.) two or more characters have individual goals directly opposed to one another, and b.) the characters take action toward their goal at the expense of the other character's objectives. Directly opposed goals are the key. Conflicts between characters must be so arranged that one person's goal cannot be achieved without defeating of the other person's goal in the process. There can be no win-win situation (that is, unless one or both parties is convinced to compromise by altering their goals). The cop wants to put the criminal in jail, but the criminal wants to remain free. The monster would like to kill the teenager, but the teenager prefers to stay alive. One kid wants the last cookie, but so does another kid. It is impossible for both sides to get what they want. One of them will have to lose. When one character pursues their goal, and then finds that the other character is a threat to that goal, the first character becomes willing to FIGHT in order to win the contest. This is the only place from which “dramatic conflict” can come.

As stated in my last article, human beings love to see conflict. They are drawn to it like a moth to a light. Conflict is what makes a story interesting. This means, in order to write a screenplay that holds an audience's interest from beginning to end, EVERY scene requires some sort of conflict. This conflict does not necessarily have to be between the protagonist and antagonist. It could be between any two forces. This conflict may directly involve the Main Story Conflict that drives the story's narrative, or it may have little to do with it. All that is required in every scene is two or more forces with opposing desires, and that these forces are willing to stick to their guns and try to get what they want despite the opposition.

Detective Jake Gittes in Chinatown wants to look up recent land sales, but the rude clerk just wants Jake to leave him alone. John McClane in Die Hard wants to ride in the limo in peace and quiet, but the driver Argyle wants to talk. Jason Bourne in The Bourne Identity wants Marie to drive him to Paris, but Marie wants nothing to do with this stranger. The scene ends when one side wins by forcing (or convincing through subtler means) the other to give in. Who wins all depends on which side is more dedicated to their goal. Gittes is dedicated enough to his case that he will not let a little rudeness stop him. Argyle wants conversation so bad that he ignores McClane's attempts to make him stop. Bourne is willing to offer a stack of money to overcome Marie's resistance.

But a scene does not always end in a win-lose situation. Sometimes it is lose-lose. Or, sometimes the two parties are interrupted in the middle of their conflict and the battle remains unresolved. But the result of the scene's conflict is not nearly as important as the fact that there exists a conflict to power the drama of the scene in the first place. Each scene has a purpose. Conflict provides a dramatically-engaging way to achieve it.

Also, conflict is not limited to scenes with more than one character. Conflict can and should be at play in solo scenes as well. Something in that scene should make it more difficult for the character to reach his or her objective. If a man tries to start his car, but it won't turn over, the conflict is man vs. object. The man want his car to start, the car refuses. If a woman is merely walking to her apartment building, but the heat of the sun makes this act uncomfortable, the conflict is woman vs. environment. A person can be alone, but still struggle with internal conflict. Internal conflict means that the person possesses two conflicting desires that cannot both be fulfilled. A man is mad at his girlfriend and wants to cut off all contact, but at the same time he is dying to pick up the phone and talk to her. Internal conflict splits a character in two, as if he or she were now two individual people struggling against each other for what they want.

Internal conflict is another area of confusion for developing writers. I often find scripts where the writer claims that the main conflict is internal, but all I really get is a long, boring narrative where nothing happens. The conflict is not internal. There IS no conflict.

Internal conflict does not mean a lack of external conflict. Quite to the contrary, a writer needs to create just as much direct person-to-person conflict in a story where the main conflict is supposed to be internal as they would with a traditional external conflict. A conflict only exists when the audience can SEE two forces butting heads on the screen. If a character is wracked with conflicting desires, this internal struggle must MANIFEST itself in the outside world through the character's actions. The internal struggle motivates the character to take actions that create secondary conflicts with the people around him/her. This is the only way for the audience to understand the conflict, and it is also the only way to keep the story from being a total snore.

The same thing goes for stories that, in lieu of a person-vs-person conflict, attempt a conflict on the social level, or a cosmic one. A character may attempt to fight against a notion such as “injustice,” but in a cinematic story, a conflict cannot be played out against the abstract. The character needs to have a physical opponent to fight against in order for the audience to experience the conflict. If a character sets out to battle “injustice,” conflict must come when she runs afoul of another character whose opinions of this injustice are the complete opposite of hers. This secondary character comes to represent the abstract concept the protagonist is fighting against as a tangible antagonist.

Another area where people sometimes have problems is telling the difference between general “dramatic conflict” -- the type that should exist in every scene just to keep events interesting, (a conflict that could come from practically any two sources, from hero vs. villain to a cat vs. a bowling ball), and the Main Story Conflict -- the central conflict that drives the entire story. The Main Story Conflict refers only to the opposition that occurs between the protagonist and the antagonist (or the force of antagonism, if there is no human antagonist in the story) once the protagonist begins his or her pursuit of the Main Story Goal according to the Story's Spine. Here once more is my diagram of the Story Spine and its five essential components:

In a correctly-constructed Story Spine, once the protagonist recognizes that he/she has a Problem and begins down the Path of Action towards his/her Main Story Goal, the antagonist creates an ever-present conflict blocking the protagonist's way. The antagonist is in the way because, as I have already said, the antagonist has his or her own goal which stand in complete opposition to the protagonist's.

It is easy for readers and writers alike to become confused between general dramatic conflict and the Main Story Conflict because they are usually referred to by the same terms. When someone talks about “the conflict” of a story, it is difficult to tell to which they refer. Ancient Greeks like Aristotle used term agon to refer to the central contest in a tragedy. Aristotle used this term in Poetics to apply to to the main story conflict at play, but perhaps we need to invent a newer, little less ancient term to make things easier to comprehend.

Further difficulty comes when it is unclear when the Main Story Conflict officially begins. Screenwriters have almost unanimously adopted the term “Inciting Incident” for this moment. The inciting incident is the moment when the story truly starts in earnest, because it marks the starting point of the Story Spine. The inciting incident occurs at the point when the protagonist, a) recognizes the Main Story Problem, b) realizes something must be done about the problem, and then, c) decides to take action -- action that will put them into conflict with the antagonist.

However, in many movies, the Main Story Problem already exists well before the official “inciting incident.” For instance, in The Dark Knight, the Joker is already running rampant all over Gotham City before Batman even knows of his existence. Where then would the inciting incident be placed? How about American Beauty, where the protagonist Lester Burnham is fully aware of his problem even before the story begins (his life sucks), but does not do anything about it until after the fifteen minute mark?

According to the study of real-world conflict resolution, there are five stages to any type of conflict:

1. Prelude to Conflict: Variables that make conflict possible between those involved
   
2. Triggering Event: A particular event, such as criticism which creates the conflict
   
3. Initiation Phase: Occurs when at least one person makes it known to the other that a conflict exists
   
4. Differentiation Phase: Parties raise the conflict issues and pursue reasons for the varying positions
   
5. Integration stage / Resolution: Parties acknowledge common grounds and explore possibilities to move towards a solution
   

In a cinematic story, the inciting incident does not happen until the first THREE phases listed above occur. The inciting incident only happens (launching the Story Spine and beginning the main conflict) once three things take place: First, the Story Problem must come into existence. Second, the protagonist must LEARN that the Story Problem exists. And finally, the protagonist decides to TAKE ACTION to do something about that Problem. Until all three of these have occurred, the inciting incident has not yet arrived, and the story has yet to officially begin. Anything that takes place before all three of these moments are merely part of the story's setup, and not part of the Story Spine proper.

The reason I make such an effort to point this out is that I have encountered many scripts that go on for dozens and dozens of pages before finally reaching a real inciting incident. I have seen plenty of scripts where no real Story Problem arises until page 40. I have read 100 page scripts where the Story Problem shows up on page 10, but the protagonist neglects to take any action until page 60. The result of the latter is a movie that has a whopping sixty minutes of setup, but a mere forty minutes of real story. To create a properly-paced screenplay, the first three phases of conflict listed above must take place within the first 10-18 pages. Otherwise, the script will begin to bore the reader. Why? Because there is no real conflict. I cannot say this enough: until the inciting incident launches the Story Spine and initiates the main conflict, YOUR STORY HAS NOT YET BEGUN! You are just making the audience impatient by keeping them waiting.

Once the inciting incident takes place, Phase 4, the Differentiation Phase, then takes up the majority of the rest of a story; everything from the inciting incident to the story's main climax. Here the two sides play out their conflict while pursuing their goals, developing the story situation and escalating their efforts against each other. The final phase, Resolution, takes place at the story's climax. However, in a cinematic story, there can be no “acknowledgment of common ground” between the two parties. There can be no peaceful resolution or win-win situation. The fact that protagonist and antagonist have completely opposite and contradictory goals (Aristotle's "unity of opposites") means that story conflict can only be resolved by one side winning and the other side losing. And this loss must be irrevocable, meaning the losing side is left completely unable to continue fighting. Story conflict is life or death. The two sides must be an irresistible force versus an immovable object. The only way to end the conflict is for one side to finally give.

So what is this "conflict" anyway? - Part I: the theory

(Related article: What is "conflict", Part II)

We've all heard it a thousand times. Drama cannot exist without conflict. Drama IS conflict. Conflict is the force that powers drama. Etc., etc., etc. This is unquestionably true. As anyone who reads scripts will know, a story without sufficient conflict is a terribly dull and pointless experience. Nothing worth caring about happens, simply because there is no dramatic reason for anything worth caring about TO happen. According to the Story Spine, a story without conflict cannot even be called a story. It bears about as much drama as your aunt's four hours of vacation slides, or a description of a blouse in last year's Sears catalog. Without conflict, there is nothing for an audience to find interesting. No matter how creative a narrative's premise, setting, and characters, a storyteller will never hold an audience's attention for more than ten minutes without conflict.

But the question I have the arrogance to ask is, “Why?” WHY can't drama exist without conflict? Why does a story need conflict in order to exist? What is it about the nature of conflict that makes it interesting to a human viewer, while anything without is a flat bore? Over and over I have heard men and women, experts in the field of drama, make statements about conflict as if they were as much as a given as the sky being blue, but I have never heard anyone explain why. Is there a reason behind this?

In mathematics, there are concepts known as “axioms.” An axiom is a basic mathematical proposition that is considered to be self-evident. If someone wanted to proved it through logical deduction, they would find it impossible. Examples include that if a = b, then therefore b=a, or a+b=b+a. Unlike theorems, axioms cannot be derived by principles of deduction, nor are they demonstrable by mathematical proofs, simply because they are starting points; there is nothing else from which they logically follow. Doubt the axioms, and all of mathematics falls apart. Is drama=conflict an axiom of storytelling? An unproveable fact that must be accepted by faith? Or is there a reason behind it?

To proceed logically, we must begin by defining our terms. What exactly is “drama?” Both drama and dramatic are used in such various ways the terms become vague and abstract. Even in literary and artistic circles it becomes a go-to label to describe just about anything narrative, theatrical, or emotionally striking. But when one tries to pinpoint an actual definition, we find that our question is a dog chasing its own tail.  

“Drama” means “conflict”. The two terms are nearly synonymous. If someone says that a situation was dramatic, they mean that it was filled with conflict. If you had too much drama in your last relationship, this means you and your other had constantly conflicting attitudes and emotions. If something creates a “dramatic change,” this means that there is a definite contrast (a conflict in appearance or perception) between how things were before and after. Even when “dramatic” denotes strong displays of emotion, one must admit that such displays cannot exist without a conflict to trigger it. Therefore, we need to throw the word “drama” out the window and change the question to, “Why does a story demand conflict?” What is it about conflict that people find interesting?

Human beings love to experience conflict. They crave it. It's an urge still alive and well after millions of years of evolution in our reptilian brains. And I don't just mean the ancient savagery of cheering for blood in a gladiator arena. It exists in all of our lives. Modern enjoyments of conflict include an interest in sporting events, court cases, politics, gossip, board games, business, contests, competitions, hunting, fishing, hide-and-go-seek, the list could go on. But people rarely want to experience conflict directly in its cruel and unchecked form. Very few enjoy the stress of arguments or the threat of fist fights. We want to experience the joy of conflict from either the perspective of an uninvolved viewer, or within safe controlled boundaries, such as the rules of a sport. This is completely normal, and healthy within limits. But to try to find an explanation, one would have to delve deep into the nature of human psychology. There are undoubtedly volumes of discussion dedicated to this question, but to investigate further would probably only create more questions than answers. So, I will leave that Pandora's box closed and focus specifically on how the human desire for conflict manifests itself in story

Why does a story need conflict in order to exist? I have thought about it, and try as I might, I cannot come up with any direct answer. All I can hope to do is relate it to the needs of a narrative story.
Definition time again: What exactly do we mean by “story?” What separates a story from other types of narrative communication, such as a news article or television commercial? In a chapter of my upcoming book, I present this definition:

A STORY is 1.) a structured series of events, 2.) about characters, 3.) dealing with a problem, 4.) unified by a premise.

Now, trust me when I say my definition backed up by sound logic, because the only part of this definition of interest at the moment is part #3. Stories are about problems. From the simplest of folktales to the grandest of literary epics, all well-told stories from the beginning of time revolve around a character dealing with some kind of problem. A problem naturally implies conflict. Something is wrong with the protagonist's world, and the protagonist sets out to struggle against forces to solve that problem.
 
Why is this? Why have all stories ever told fit into this simple pattern? The answer lies in why stories exist in human culture in the first place. Humanity has a psychological need for stories. The world we live in is chaotic, confusing, orderless, and sometimes meaningless. Things rarely turn out the way we want them to, and the cumulative effect of our hopes and desires going consistently unfulfilled can drive a person to despair or even madness

Story's most important social function is to give people the illusion of a structured, orderly world where things happen for a reason, where actions have tangible results and clear meanings, a world where things are resolved in the end. Stories are not a reflection of the world we live in, but an analogy of the world as we would like it to be.
 
We all have problems in our lives. They can overwhelm us. Many seem unsolvable. Sometimes our problems are so great they just might drive us insane. This is where stories come in. Stories are social therapy. Stories give us people with problems. People just like us. As the story progresses, the character moves forward to overcome that problem. Once the character's problem has been solved, the story comes to an end. Through the social therapy of stories, people come to believe that their troubles are not insurmountable, that problems do have solutions, and that no matter how bad things may seem, everyone has a shot at a happy ending.
 
So, one reason why a story demands conflict is because a story demands a character struggling against a problem. From their comfortable position as a detached viewer, the audience can watch human beings like them take on enormous problems and battle against conflicts more severe than any of us ever hope to encounter ourselves. We watch these people fight for their lives, their loves, their souls against forces which appear insurmountable. And the audience gains pleasure from that. If they see others fighting against such problems and ultimately succeeding, it makes the audience's own problems seem far less threatening. If others can achieve the impossible, it gives the audience hope for success in their own lives. And the bigger the conflict they experience through the story, the more pleasure they will receive.

I realize that this does not completely answer the question I originally set out to answer. It only illuminates story conflict on its most macroscopic level. There is more to uncover that will explain things on a deeper level.

F@#% THE CAT!

(Related article: How to Save $19.99)
 

 Over the past decade, Blake Snyder's Save the Cat has been the world's best selling instructional book on screenwriting. Go to Amazon.com and type “screenwriting” in the books section and Save the Cat will always come up at the top of the search list. But, in my opinion, this book has been the biggest detriment to the community of aspiring screenwriters in decades. If I had my way, every copy would be cleared from the shelves. If I ever hear another screenwriter wanna-be using the phrase “save the cat” as if it were an actual term of the craft, I will personally take his or her copy of the book and make them eat it.

My problem with this book is that Snyder has taken all the over-emphasized and often short-sighted terms, theories, and rules preached by various screenwriting “gurus” over the years, and diluted then down into a collection of cutely-named cliches. The result has been an entire generation of aspiring screenwriters who believe that they can create an audience-pleasing screenplay by simply connecting the dots. Yet although they may follow these “rules” exactly, the writer's work still stands little potential of ever becoming a produced films because their superficial knowledge and assembly-line approach creates nothing but weak, formulaic shells. Such "storytelling" amounts to hackwork because these writers have not been given the deep-down, under-the-surface knowledge necessary to create works of true merit. They are never given the real information on just exactly what a cinematic story is, how it works, and why it works. Synder's outside-in approach creates nothing but pretty facades. They look fine on the surface, but are hollow underneath

Forgive this opening rant. The target of this article is not Blake Synder's book in its entirety. (That would take too long, and is probably not necessary. Hopefully, the readers of this blog have grown out of beginner's books like this anyway). Instead, I want to debunk the concept that provides Synder's title. Synder suggests that in the setup of every story, we should see the protagonist have a “save the cat” moment. By this he means that the audience should see the hero doing something nice, something the audience can approve of, such as saving a cat stuck in a tree. This is so we can that the hero is a “nice guy.” Supposedly, wedging in such a moment will create audience sympathy, or empathy, or whatever the hell you want to call it. Either way, he seems to suggest that the only way to make an audience get behind a character is to make him/her “likeable,” in a nice kitty-petting sort of way.

I began thinking on this subject the other day as I was reading a spec script by an aspiring writer. The story's protagonist is supposed to be a sort of financial/Wall Street/investment badass. He is the James Bond of investment firms, able to flip on the world news and instantly understand how turmoil and misfortune around the globe can be exploited for millions of dollars. And exploit them he does. However, he is “above” the trapping of the rich and successful. He's so good at making money it bores him. He has no interest in the booze, drugs, and women that his coworkers revel in. Seems like a nice anti-hero, right? A person who has a lot of room to grow and branch out to become a better person.

But then, I get to an abrupt and completely disconnected scene where this detached badass is sweetly teaching math to underprivileged children as a unpaid volunteer. It was at this moment that I KNEW this writer had Save the Cat sitting on his bookshelf. This “pet the kitty” scene did not help the script. Quite to the contrary. Not only was its content irrelevant to the rest of the story, but it actually served to undercut the character. Everything the writer put into this scene contradicted the character traits he had already worked to establish. Instead of a clearly defined character, he became a confused middling mush. Instead of have a clear path for his character arc, it became blurred and unclear whether he should have one at all. The writer didn't need to show that his protagonist is a “nice guy.” He is not SUPPOSED to be a nice guy. He is an exploiter. No one can be a “nice” exploiter. He is a man begging to be taught a life lesson through the conflict of story events and to grow into a better human being as a result.

Let me ask a question: Just what is so wrong about having a FLAWED character in the first place? A character whom we in the audience, with the collective moral judgment we bring with us to the theater, cannot completely approve of? A character who has ugly black smudges on their soul, who can only be awakened to their wrongs and purged of those black marks by having their life thrown into chaos, so they may grow into a better person? Isn't this what a character arc is supposed to be all about? Isn't this what STORIES are supposed to be all about? Who among us in the audience do not have black spots on our own souls? How many of us are not incomplete persons ourselves, ashamed of our shortcomings, and held back in life by our flaws? And who among us has never watched a film and felt uplifted and inspired by vicariously watching another flawed person (a person even MORE flawed than ourselves) find redemption on the screen? Now let me ask you this: who in the hell is going to say that the people in the audience will not identify with these “unlikeable” characters? What type of person would you feel more inclined to identify with? A character with whom we can share a secret affinity through our own weaknesses and insecurities? Or some goody-goody kitty-petter who has no real need for the catharsis of character growth?

I have had the privilege of getting to know Lew Hunter, the Chairman Emeritus of the UCLA Screenwriting program. Several months ago, I was thumbing through his book Screenwriting 434, a collection of his wisdom from his years teaching the craft, and found this little nugget buried in the back:

We do not need to “like the people.” We need to understand the people.

This quote is found in a chapter on dealing with the business of being a professional writer. (My wager is that Lew became so exasperated throughout his career with receiving notes from network suits on whether a character is “likeable,” that he chose to make a special note of it). However, I immediately wrote his words down on a post-it note and put it by my computer, where it remains today, because I recognized its truth went far beyond its context. In movies as in life, we do not have to like everybody. But as long as we can understand them, who they are and why they act the way they do, we will still care.

Books on screenwriting need to stop talking about “sympathetic” characters. Many books, on the other hand, explicitly argue against sympathy and instead emphasize the importance of making character “empathic.” But I think both terms should be eliminated. For one, most aspiring writers can't seem to understand the difference between the two. It's not their fault. It's hard for ANYONE to really tell the difference! Don't believe me? I have here Webster's New World Dictionary. Here is their definitions.

sympathy [Greek syn- together, -pathos feeling] 1. sameness of feeling. 2. mutual liking or understanding. 3. ability to share another's ideas, emotions, etc.

empathy [Greek. em- in, -pathos feeling] 1. ability to share another's ideas, thoughts, or feelings.

Hold up! Am I seeing things or do both sympathy and empathy have the exact same definition?! No wonder there is so much confusion! “Character empathy” has always been such an abstract concept to define that, no matter how hard the script gurus try, most writers remain unsure. Plenty aim to create this so-called empathetic character but end up swerving into the sympathetic. And this problem gets worse when we take into account that modern English has given “sympathy” the connotation of either a feeling of pity, or a feeling of sweet emotions. And from this we get writers who feel compelled to have their characters save cats.

But “pity” or “sweet feelings,” are certainly not necessary for an audience to get behind a main character. Really, they do not care if a character is “sympathetic,” or “empathetic,” or if the character is a “nice person.” What they want, and need, is a character they can RESPECT! We the audience will get behind a character, support them, and even love them despite of all their ugly flaws and unsympathetic traits as long as there is something about the person that we can respect. Citizen Kane's Charles Foster Kane harbors plenty of unsympathetic characteristics and commits many actions worthy of disapproval. But we still love him. Why? Because we can respect him. We respect his guts, his leadership ability, his charm and charisma. Hannibal Lecter could be the the most detestable human being ever to live on the screen. Yet we love him because there are still things about him we can respect; such as his intellect, his exquisite tastes, or his ability to size up a person in a glance. Our financial badass who leads the spec script discussed earlier has qualities that show potential for the audience's respect. He is brilliant and resourceful, and he has the personal strength to not get sucked down into the vices that often come with money and power. We do not need to see him acting all cuddly and cute with disadvantaged kids for us to get behind him.

A worthiness for audience respect is the most important trait for a protagonist to possess. The reasons are quite clear. When an audience enters a story's world, they look for a person they can latch on to. They need someone they can identify with, someone whose eyes to see the story's world through, someone through whom they can have a vicarious emotional experience. However, they are by no means looking for someone who is “just like them.” How many movies have you ever seen with a protagonist who was exactly like you? To enjoy a story, the audience needs someone who will be their guide in this unfamiliar world. In short, they need someone to be their LEADER. What the audience needs out of a main character are traits that make the audience comfortable enough to trust this character to lead them into the story and not be disappointed.

Think about it, for what reason would you choose to follow someone into danger? Or rather, what qualities would you like to have in your mayor, governor, or president? Would you follow someone because they seem like a really nice person? Or because they have qualities that you can respect and trust?

The ability to garner audience respect is the dividing line that separates a hero the viewer will love from a villain they will hate. How many movies have we seen where the hero is a thief, a killer, a con man, a blood-sucking vampire, or a beast from hell? What makes these unlikely characters “heroic”? We still consider these characters to be heroes in spite of their immoral activities because they still possess other character traits which earn our respect. You will find in many movies that the hero and the villain are the same type of person. It is just that one character has something that makes them worthy of our respect- and affection- and the other one does not.

But, of course, there's always a chance you'll create a character whose only respectable trait IS that he rescues cats stuck in trees. However, I have faith that you can be a little more creative than that.

HOW TO WRITE A STORY: A Character-First Understanding

Story comes from character. Not the other way around. This is a golden concept every writer must learn if he or she ever wishes to create stories that connect with their audiences.

There seems to be two approaches to the Hollywood screenplay: those where the storyteller begins with a character and then creates a story around that character's needs; and those which someone first comes up with a “cool concept” and then later dumps in a bunch of people to carry it out. The stories invented in the latter concept-first, outside-in manner invariably wind up with characters who are flat, stereotypical, or emotionally superficial. This is because these characters are wholly defined by the function they play in relation to an already-constructed plot, rather than the internal needs, emotions, and impulses that drive natural human behavior. “Concept-first” characters are little more than warm bodies used to connect the story’s dots. This is why most of them cannot help but become – to one degree or another – stereotypes. Quite often these characters are defined solely by their occupation. How many movies have we seen with a police officer as the protagonist, even though the movie it is not a police drama? How many scientists have we seen in movies that have nothing to do with science? How many generic reporters, lawyers, and businesspeople have been littered through the thousands upon thousands of average-to-subpar movies throughout the years?

A true story begins with the creation of a character-


 -a character with a strong INTERNAL NEED.

The “internal need” is something important missing from the character’s life -- whether the character realizes it or not. It is the thing that keeps the protagonist from being a complete, emotionally satisfied human being. It could be a need for self-worth (Rocky), a need to grow up and learn your place in the universe (Luke in Star Wars), a need to recognize and appreciate the value of family and home (Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz). This need could be anything -- as long as it is: 1) authentically human, and 2) strong enough to influence the character's behavior. The storyteller performs his/her craft by first inventing a character with this need... and then placing the character into a dramatic situation where he or she is FORCED to pursue that need.

In his book STORY, Robert McKee presents a concept from Renaissance philosophy known as of the “Mind Worm.”

“Suppose a creature had the power to burrow into the brain and come to know an individual completely – dreams, fears, strengths, weaknesses. Suppose that this Mind Worm also had the power to cause events in the world. It could create a specific happening geared to the unique nature of that person that would trigger a one of a kind adventure, a quest that would force him to the limit, to live his deepest and fullest. Whether a tragedy or fulfillment, this quest would reveal his humanity absolutely.”

It would be hard to find a better way to describe the creation of a character-centered story then the Mind Worm. However, I am going to give it a shot.

I prefer to think of the storyteller as the god of his or her story's world. The storyteller has absolute control, absolute power, and absolute knowledge over every single thing within that world. As the creator of the protagonist, the storyteller knows him or her down the smallest detail. The storyteller-god knows the character's strengths, and more importantly, knows his or her weaknesses. The storyteller-god is a benevolent god. He or she wishes the character to rise above his or her flaws and become a better, happier person. The storyteller-god knows exactly what the character needs in order to do this. However, the storyteller must be harsh, even cruel, in the methods he or she uses to bring this change about. After all, this great personal need cannot be simply given to the character. It must be earned. So, like the Olympian gods of myth, the storyteller inflicts a drastic change upon the protagonist’s world. Conflicts and overwhelming problems rise up to meet the character. This is all a test, one designed specifically for the purpose of giving the protagonist exactly what he or she needs through struggle and conflict. This way, the adventure causes the character to grow into a fuller, better person. However, though the protagonist did not chose to go on this adventure, success or failure is in the protagonist's hands. The protagonist can either gain the need and find victory, or refuse the need and meet defeat.

A character's struggle for his or her internal need must not be confused with the Story Spine. The Story Spine is composed up of the physical elements which make up the protagonist's adventure. The Story Spine follows a character's struggle against an external conflict through physical action after a tangible goal. The Story Spine represents the storyteller-god's test. The character's pursuit of his or her inner need is an internal struggle -- a non-literal journey of change from a flawed, incomplete human being to a better, more complete person at the story's end. This secondary journey is known as the CHARACTER ARC. 

The Story Spine and Character Arc are not two separate, divided lines of action. They are instead simultaneous journeys that not only interconnect and influence each other, but are dependent on each other for success.

To explain: In any given story, a character's personal traits influence how that character reacts to the situations presented by the Story Spine. A character's negative traits (lack of self-esteem, a bad attitude, an inability to connect with others, etc) will have a limiting effect on the character's success. As long as the character continues to have such traits, all of the story's obstacles cannot be overcome and the character will never reach the final goal. However, as the protagonist struggles against the Story Spine’s conflicts, the gradual and cumulative force of these events motivate the character to change internally. External conflict forces the protagonist to rise to the occasion and improve their flawed selves. As a character begins to change, he or she becomes better equipped to handle the conflicts he or she faces. Now new and improved, the protagonist gains the ability to overcome all obstacles, reach the story's goal, and complete the Story Spine.

To understand this better, it is necessary to look further into just where the “internal need” comes from and how story events force character change to occur.

If we look at any protagonist, we will find that all characters possess two types of personality traits: CONSTANT traits, and traits that undergo CHANGE.

CONSTANT traits are traits a character possesses at the beginning of the story and maintain through the story's end. These traits are usually positive or neutral in nature, many of which are found beneficial to the character’s struggle. Examples would be James Bond's cool confidence in the face of danger, John McClane's sarcastic humor, or Rick's strong silent nature in Casablanca. These traits make up the items in the character's personal toolbox – they are the means through which the character has gotten what he or she needs in the past and how he or she will continue get what he or she needs in the future. These traits help define a character from your average, nondescript stranger, and will not change simply because there is no need for them to change.

Then we have traits that undergo CHANGE. This is the stuff character arcs are made of. At the beginning of most stories (I should say all stories, but there will always be exceptions to every rule) the protagonist owns a collection of negative traits – traits that create adverse effects on the person's life. These negative traits are usually related, a bundle of traits that originate from a single, psychological FATAL FLAW. For example, if a character is flawed deep down by an unwillingness to connect with other people, this flaw will manifest itself as a collection of observable traits such as reclusiveness, loneliness, bitterness, or coarse and unfriendly behaviors toward others. If character's fatal flaw is a fear of taking chances in life, this will result in timidness, indecisiveness, or a hard time dealing with people who see the character as dull, weak, or cowardly.

A character’s fatal flaw blocks the way to his or her internal need. To become happy and healthy, the character must learn to abandon the flaw and become its opposite. Once this happens, all the negative traits that impede the character's life will reverse one by one and the door will open to success and a greater well-being.

However, one important thing must be realized about character change: the character's fatal flaw is always the character's OWN DAMN FAULT. Unlike a character's constant traits, negative traits are not the result of the real, physical world as it exists around the the character – but rather the result of the character's flawed PERCEPTION of the world.

Most therapists will agree that a majority of the emotional problems they see every day come not from their patients' actual reality, but from false perceptions of reality. Negative past experiences cause human beings to develop false sets of beliefs about their world, which in turn have negative effects on their behavior. A depressed person may in reality have plenty of friends, yet for whatever reason he honestly believes everyone hates him. A person suffering suffering a nervous breakdown may feel that her world is filled with insurmountable problems, yet in objective reality, this is not true.

In story, a character's fatal flaw comes from a deficiency in the way they view themselves, their world, or their place within it. Casablanca's Rick (Humphrey Bogart) treats everyone with a cold, self-centered detachment because he has been led to believe that if he allows himself to care about someone, he will get hurt. The Matrix's Neo (Keanu Reeves) is reluctant to become humanity’s savior because he honestly believes he is an insignificant person. Goodfellas's Henry Hill (Ray Liotta) digs himself deeper and deeper into the world of organized crime because he believes that satisfaction can only come with hoarding more, more, and more. But all of these problems are just in the character's heads.

So, here is how Character Arc works:

At the beginning of a story, a character's ability is limited by a defective view of themselves and/or the world around them. When that character comes face-to-face with a Story Problem and the conflict that comes with it, that character is FORCED to reevaluate this view. Pressured by the conflict, the character chooses to CHANGE. He or she then acquires a more positive, truthful perception of his or her universe. Through this change, the character is able to overcome the Story Problem and bring the story to an end.

The whole of “plotting” - and by extension, the whole of “storytelling” - is simply finding a course of events that causes this change to happen.

Story comes from character.

The True Face of EVIL!!! -- The Real Definition of "Antagonist"

(Related article: Unusual Antagonists)
 
 

Posted above are two popular movie characters. One is Cole, played by Haley Joel Osment in The Sixth Sense. The other is Hannibal Lecter, played by Anthony Hopkins in The Silence of the Lambs. One is a vulnerable little boy. The other is a psychopath of the purest evil.
 

Now, a question: between these two characters, which one qualifies as the ANTAGONIST of their story? One character definitely is their story's antagonist, the other clearly isn't.
 

The answer? Cole. Little rosy-cheeked, moppet-headed Cole.
 

Surprised? To understand why, we must clear up a common misconception on what exactly “antagonist” means.
 

Many people, writers among them, seem to believe that the word antagonist is synonymous with “bad guy.” This character must, in whatever story he or she occupies, be some villainous persona wishing harm upon the story's hero. In a lot of stories, this is more or less true. We have all watched thousands of stories – from the subtly realistic to the cartoonishly melodramatic -- where the antagonist is some despicable fiend, wringing their hands with glee over the hero's demise. The antagonist as “villain” is the most obvious choice for storytellers because it easily splits the story's conflict into a simple black-and-white situation, making it no challenge for the audience to decide to whom to give their sympathies. However, villainy is certainly NOT a requirement when it comes to an antagonist.
 

The true meaning of  “antagonist” is buried in its name. “Antagonist,” like “protagonist,” is a Greek word made of two parts. “Protagonist” is made up of “protos,” meaning “first,” and “agonistes,” meaning actor. The protagonist is the “first actor.” The “anti-” in “antagonist” means “against.” The antagonist is the character who works against the “first” actor. Whatever the protagonist is trying to achieve in the story, the antagonist provides the force pushing against it.
 

This “pushing against” essential when it comes to making a story a STORY. It is what comprises the fourth element of the Story Spine, CONFLICT. Let's briefly review the elements of the Story Spine (because they can never be reviewed enough). They are:

1. The Main Story Problem.
2. The Main Story Goal.
3. The protagonist's Path of Action.
4. The Main Conflict
5. The Stakes.

A story begins with a hero encountering a PROBLEM. In order to overcome this problem, the hero decides on a GOAL. The hero then sets out on a PATH OF ACTIONS to get to that goal. However, for a story to be dramatic, or at all interesting to an audience, that path must be made difficult and the goal very hard to achieve. There must some force that creates CONFLICT. (The word “dramatic” itself means “full of conflict.”) The antagonist is the embodiment of that force. It is a person who does not want the hero to achieve his or her goal and is willing to take action to stop the hero.
  

But, that is not enough. Great antagonists do not only want to stop the protagonist from achieving his or her goal, but they possess a goal of their own which is the EXACT OPPOSITE of the protagonist's goal, creating Aristotle's classic “unity of opposites.”
 

In The Matrix, the goal of Neo and his friends is to free humanity from the machines. The antagonist Agent Smith's goal is not only to stop Neo, but to destroy the entire human resistance in the process. Detective Jake Gittes in Chinatown wishes to expose the corrupt conspiracy behind Hollis Mulwray's death. The shadowy antagonist pulling the strings behind the scenes (later revealed to be Noah Cross) wishes not only to prevent Gittes from doing this, but to also carry out his conspiracy to it ultimate end.
 

A good protagonist/antagonist relationship creates a dichotomous story situation where the victory of one must mean the failure of the other. It is impossible for both sides to get what they want. The only way for the conflict to be resolved, and for the story to reach its end, is by the complete victory of one side, and the simultaneous defeat of the other.
 

With this in mind, let's return to our two examples, Cole and Dr. Lecter.
 

The Silence of the Lambs's protagonist is FBI agent-in-training Clarice Starling (played by Jodie Foster). Clarice's main story goal is “to find serial killer Buffalo Bill before he can claim his next victim.” Clarice's Path of Action takes her to Hannibal Lecter. It is believed that Lecter has knowledge of Bill's identity. But, unlike an antagonist, Lecter does not wish to stop Clarice from achieving her goal. In fact, he is willing to help her- and ultimately does give her enough information to catch Bill. Much of the confusion over Hannibal Lecter comes from the fact that, even though he is willing to help, there is still much conflict between Clarice and Lecter. However, this conflict comes not from a desire to stop Clarice, but to help her on his own terms-- to manipulate the situation in order to achieve his own personal goal. In fact, Hannibal Lecter's story role could not be further from that of an antagonist. Lecter is the story's mentor character. He tests Clarice, training her with the wits and wisdom she will ultimately need to find and defeat the story's real antagonist Buffalo Bill.
 

Now compare this to the Story Spine of The Sixth Sense. This film's protagonist is child psychologist Malcolm Crowe (played by Bruce Willis). Malcolm encounters his main story problem when he takes on a new patient, a seemingly disturbed little boy named Cole. Malcolm's goal is “to help Cole by learning his secret.” Now, no human being with a soul would wish to stop Malcolm from achieving this goal. It would be impossible to find anyone who would not want Malcolm to help a little boy – except the little boy himself. Cole does not WANT to be helped. Cole believes that no one, not even Malcolm, can help him. All of the external conflict that Malcolm encounters in the main storyline comes directly from Cole. This is because Cole has a personal goal which is the opposite of Malcolm's, “to hide his secret.” This creates a unity of opposites. Cole is Malcolm's antagonist. And just like any protagonist/antagonist relationship, the story ends with Malcolm “defeating” Cole. Malcolm achieves his main story goal by finally convincing Cole to abandon his own.
 

Conclusion:

Antagonists are not always “bad guys.” Likewise, protagonists are not always “good guys.” Sometimes, both sides of the conflict are “bad.” In some films, both sides are “good.” Don't let moral judgments confuse basic dramatic principles. (Structure, after all, is as morally-neutral as mathematics.) The only mandatory principle of antagonism is that, whenever the protagonist pushes forward, the antagonist must push back. Great conflict occurs when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object. Whether one considers that object to be morally “good” or “bad” is immaterial. What is important is the explosion that occurs when they meet.

Don't Pick It Up If You're Not Going to Use It

Back in the late 80's-early 90's, there was a software company called Sierra Online that produced these great text-based adventure games with titles such as “Space Quest,” “Kings Quest,” and “Leisure Suit Larry.” These games all ran on the same simple concept. The player would be a small animated character, and each screen would be a “room” of sorts-- and environment limited by the edges of the computer screen. The player would move the character about, explore the environment, and figure out how to advance further into the game by typing simple commands such as “look at table,” or “open door."
 

But sometimes, the game would allow you to pick up items and take them with you. The items would be put into an “Inventory” where the player could use them later. But the game wouldn't let you pick up just anything. The player was only capable of taking specific items that had a use later in the game. If you tried to pick up something that did not have a future use, the game would give you a message explaining why you can't or shouldn't waste your time with that.

 

This trait was mostly due to the limited memory of computer systems at the time, but however, it had the side effect of creating a gamer who could predict where the game was going. IF the game allowed you to pick up something, the player KNEW that that item was needed in order to overcome an obstacle later in the game. Even if the item made no sense at the time, the simple fact that they could take it communicated that it held SOME sort of importance. For example, in Sierra's “Space Quest 2”, the player is able to open a gym locker on the second screen and finds a rubix cube and a jock strap. Now, at this early point in the game, the player has no clue what possible use either of these items could have. But, the mere fact that the game allows the items to be picked up communicates that these things will eventually come in handy.

 

When it comes to being a cinematic storyteller, the way you give information to the audience should be handled in much the same way. You do not want your audience to pick up and carry anything and everything unimportant- something they do not need to take with them. 

 

Audiences are far more savvy than they are given credit for. After years of watching hundreds of well-produced movies and TV shows, audiences come to innately understand that, if the camera pays particular attention to something, then that something must have importance. They might not know its import at the moment, but they know it WILL become important later on. Same thing if an actor makes an effort to communicate a piece of information in their actions or dialogue. So the main character announces that he's a former world-champion boomerang thrower. Okay, this info may not be relevant to anything in the story at the moment, but the audience instinctively understands that they should hold on to this information because SOMETHING will happen later that makes this knowledge worth knowing. So the audience picks it up, puts it in its mental inventory, and continues on.

 

This, I should say, is what happens when a competent and experienced storyteller is at the helm. With a skilled storyteller, the audience can relax with the confidence that they are in good hands. The storyteller will only steer them towards essential info -- lead them along in a straight line like a trail of informational bread crumbs-- and never astray into murky, confusing territory.

 

But inexperienced storytellers tend to lack this steady hand. Instead of sticking to communicating only what is essential and spinning a story with a clear focus, instead of leading the audience down a marked trail, they throw whole clouds of info at the audience, stuff both important and unimportant, with no way for the audience to tell which is which.

 

Why do beginning writers do this? I believe it is because they feel they are supposed to. Misguided by a shelf full of bad screenwriting books, they feel the need to “flush out” their script, so they add unnecessary dialogue and action to scenes that should be kept tight. In an attempt to “develop character” they make the person state their backstory-- how they grew up in Kenosha, Wisconsin, like bowling, and had the measles when they were nine-- even though none of this info will have any relevance to the story as it unfolds. They tack on subplots because they feel they must. And draft after draft, they hold on to scenes that do nothing to advance the story situation just because the scene is “funny” or “develops character” or is “cool,” when it reality it just hangs there like a useless piece of flesh.

 

The danger of unfocused writing of this sort is that, even though the storyteller knows that this extra bit of information is not important, the audience thinks it IS! Years of experience watching well-written movies has taught them so. The audience continues to hold this item in their mental inventory, expecting it to find a use somewhere. No matter what you put on screen, the audience will scoop it up like a net. 

 

If the storyteller is not conscious of the audience's mental inventory, the audience's mind will soon become clogged with useless crap, their pockets weighed down with pointless items. The audience becomes distracted by the clutter, and confused over what really is important and what is not. Then, they become annoyed or upset because the storyteller asked them to give their attention to something and then never backs it up. The audience has been given keys to a door that doesn't exist-- but they don't know that. They are going to continue jiggling doorknobs until they find it.

 

Worse yet, the information that IS important to the story starts to get lost. It gets diluted by the clutter and fails to stand out in the audience's mind so they can recall it when the story demands it. The audience has limited space in their mental inventory. They may forget the good stuff in order to make room for the clutter.

 

Most well-told cinematic stories feel “light” to the viewer. The story seems to unfold effortlessly as the plot breezes along from one event to the next. The audience needs only to relax and enjoy the trip. This sensation occurs because the storyteller has kept the audience's load light. You don't ask someone to take a parka to the beach, or a blender to a business meeting. Only ask the audience to carry with them what they absolutely need.

 

The bottom line of all of this is that, unless a piece of information is absolutely important to understand the story, LEAVE IT OUT.

 

The flip side, of course, is that if something IS important for the story to work, a writer must make sure to PUT IT IN!

 

I recently re-watched the original Back to the Future for the first time in years. The strongest thing that strikes me about 1980's family-adventure movies is how contrived their stories are. But, the contrivances never have a negative effect on the movie experience because these movies are so incredibly well-planned! Watching Back to the Future, I can't help but imagine a roomful of writers poring over a mapped-out diagram of every moment like Churchill planning the invasion of Europe. The dispersal of information is absolutely spot-on. Pieces of info are never ambiguous, never unnecessary, but delivered in a manner so clear that it would be impossible for the audience to miss their importance. 

  

Back to the Future's biggest structural flaw is undoubtedly its long opening setup sequence. It lasts so long that it pushes the story's inciting incident (the moment Marty escapes in the time machine and finds himself trapped in the year 1955) back to the thirty-minute mark, creating a sort of abnormal combined inciting incident/first act turning point. Although its writers ran the risk of losing the audience's interest early in the movie, this long setup was necessary in order to communicate all the information needed for their story's premise to work. Most of Back to the Future's story development -- as well as much of its humor -- comes from creating parallels between Marty's world of 1985 and that of 1955. This means that all the setup information necessary for the later three-quarters of the film needed to be communicated BEFORE Marty travels back in time.

 

There are very few wasted moments in this thirty-minute setup. Nearly everything we see or hear communicates information we will need to know later on. From Marty's skateboard running into a case of plutonium under Doc's bed, to the breakfast-making machine that communicates the character of a man who won't be seen for another twenty minutes, to the clock tower, to Marty's dad, to Biff Tannen. There are incidents of back-planting (see the April 4, 2010 article on Back-Planting). The audience must see how Marty skateboards to school in order to make the later 1955 skateboarding sequence plausible. We must know that Marty is a wannabe rock star in order for us the believe his guitar-shredding at the 1955 prom.

  

(However, I must mention, in the spirit of the first half of this article (though I know it may weaken my argument), Future's setup could have been tightened up by some judicious cutting. There are a couple moments -- namely, Marty's run-in with the school principal, and Marty's band audition for the 1985 school prom -- that give info which is not entirely necessary for the audience to know. Sure, both incidents have their parallels in 1955, but their significance is so small that the audience would have accepted their implied meaning even without any set-up.)

 

In conclusion, when a skilled storyteller presents anything to the audience, it should never be casual. It's not, “Check this out, isn't this interesting? You can do whatever you want with this.” Instead it is: “Here. Take this with you. You WILL need it later.” And if you load that item into the audience's backpack, they better be able to find a use for it later down the road.