I H8 VAGUE (& the virtue of clear, crisp description)

 Vague is the enemy of good screenwriting. The ability to communicate with clear, expressive language rather than vague words is a factor that separates the professional from the amateur.

Cinema is a medium dependent on concrete existence. That means the content of a film or movie must be made up solely of things that physically exist in some form (whether they be people, props, locations, etc). Otherwise, they cannot be photographed with a camera and shown to an audience (or in the case of modern cinema, at least brought into visual existence using CGI). So, a movie is made up of specific and concrete visuals. The script may only mention that the scene contains “a man.” But the audience does not see a generic man, they see Matt Damon. The script may mention “a car,” but the audience sees a specific car, a yellow 1978 Datsun.

The goal of the writer should be to use the written word to communicate the actions and images of a scene with sufficient visual detail to allow the reader to visualize the scene as closely as possible to how the audience will experience it on the screen. A good story can succeed or fail with the reader depending on how well the writer does this. If the writer lays out action in vague, wishy-washy words, what the writer wishes to be interesting and/or emotionally charged will come off flat. Consider this example:

'Mark walks down the street. It is a cold autumn morning. Mark stops at his car and gets in.'

Given that this description lacks much visual detail, the reader has no choice but to imagine the action in the most generic manner possible. To the reader, this piece of action feels unimaginative, bland, and dull. Compare it to this improved version:

'Mark walks slump-shouldered down a sidewalk lined with small New England-style homes. He shivers as wind blows dead leaves across his feet. Mark opens the unlocked door of a shiny black Mercedes CL and climbs inside.'

This version, while longer, not only has the benefit of allowing the reader to visualize the scene in greater detail, but also communicates information about Mark and his environment in the process. Merely saying “autumn” doesn't indicate much. Autumn looks different depending on where you are and how late in the year it is. This passage helps us zero in on that. We learn information about Mark. Rather than having a generic “car,” we see he can afford a luxury vehicle which for some reason he has the confidence to leave unlocked.

First and second drafts always start out rather vague. This is expected, since the writer's focus at this point should be on figuring out the best way to make scenes do what they needs to do according to their function in the overall narrative. But once this has been worked out, scenes should be brought into clearer and clearer focus with each revision, like an optometrist putting a series of lenses in front of the eye. It all comes down to knowing your scene and knowing your characters. If the writer has gotten to a point where he or she knows the story and characters down to the most intimate detail, this becomes easy. Once a writer has become this familiar with their story world, they can see it inside their head in the smallest detail and know exactly how their characters may behave in any situation. The only challenge that remains is communicating these nuances on the page in a manner that is clear and efficient.

Once a writer reaches the stage where he/she can communicate with such a level of detail, his or her work makes the jump from just being a good script, to becoming a potential movie. There are a lot of good scripts out there, but very few potential movies. Good scripts may work on paper, but they are still not ready for the screen. Only once the script attains a required level of visual detail does it cross the threshold. What is needed is not only a great story, but a great story that directors, cinematographers, actors, and the like can pick up, visualize, and immediately understand what they must do to make the story happen.

Vagary is a hallmark of an amateur screenwriter. Everything in the script seems typical, average, or generic*. The locations are all treated like stock settings. The characters are little more than names on a page. Geography is unclear. Character actions are hazy. We cannot visualize where the characters exist spatially in relation to each other and their environment -- instead characters seem to float in some kind of limbo space. Usually, this lack of visual detail occurs because the writer is still not exactly sure what is going on in the scene in his or her own head. The scene is hazy on the page because it is still a fog in the writer's imagination. The writer still has not made the effort to know his or her story and characters well enough to tell the story with a VOICE OF AUTHORITY.

(* BTW, never describe your protagonist, or any other character, as “an average 20-something,” or “a typical high school teacher.” WTF is interesting about a character who is "average"? Why would an audience want to spend two hours of their life caring about a person who has nothing unique or special about them? “Average” means “boring.” This is lazy characterization. It is also unnatural characterization. There is no such thing as an “average” person in real life. There are no identical clone pods walking around with the same brains and personalities. Everyone has something about them that makes them unique. Find it and communicate it. No one wants the watch “The Underwhelming Adventures of Nobody Special.”)

Some new writers may think that writing in broad strokes is good enough, that merely suggesting action and visuals are enough for other creative professionals to take over and fill in the gaps. This is not true. Being vague only manages to leave the writer open to criticism. Using wishy-washy words communicates a story in a timid voice. Rather than tell us what is happening, the words seem to merely suggest or guess at what should happen, allowing the story to show through as a contrived, made-up world. The reader starts to question the storyteller's authority. You're trying to be the Great and Powerful Oz, but your show is so underwhelming that it allows us to notice your butt sticking out from behind the curtain. On the other hand, strong, visual words communicate a story with a voice of AUTHORITY. Rather than reading a suggested story, the reader is led to SEE the film, exactly as it should be happening. This is a script that grabs the reader and says, 'This IS what is happening, right NOW. There is no questioning it. This is REAL.'

But how much detail is too much? Overdoing it is just as easy as coming up short. Ironically, the same day I started work on this article, I began reading a spec script that has the exact opposite problem. This script was completely OVERWRITTEN. The description spelled out every little pointless and repetitive detail. Simple actions were described with entire paragraphs. Sentences were cluttered with unnecessary adjectives and adverbs. This script must have been at least ten pages longer than necessary simply from all the unneeded description.

Here's the thing: I can't give you hard and fast rules about how much is too much. You just have to know when to say when. You do not have to tell the reader how many chairs are in the room (unless this information is important to the scene). We do not have to be told about every piece of clothing the character's mom wears (unless these details communicate something about her or the story we need to know.) We do not need to know the exact time of day, all the items in the hero's sock drawer, or how many steps the villain takes to cross the room (unless this information has some sort of significance to the story).

Do you see a pattern here? Your script needs visual detail, but only those details that are significant in terms of conveying story or character. Every detail should communicate something. Either something that advances the story, allows the audience an improved understanding of the people, places, and things of the story, or helps deepen character. For example, if we have an important character walking his dog, learning the type of dog he owns helps us learn more about what type of person he is. Is it a rottweiler? A chihuahua? A shelter-rescued mutt? On the other hand, if a scene takes place in a park with plenty background persons walking their dogs, it would be pointless to give details on these people and their pets. They have nothing to do with the story, so who cares?

Don't be redundant with details. If you establish in Scene 1 that the story takes place in the freezing cold of winter, you don't need to keep telling us it is cold all the way through Scene 114. Audiences/readers only need to be given information once. They don't have that Memento disease where they forget every ten minutes. For example, we only need to call Mark's car (from the example above) a “shiny black Mercedes CL” the first time it is seen. From then on, it can simply be referred to as his “car,” since a proper visual for that car has already been established.

When it comes to describing characters and locations seen for the first time, create only a handful of telling visual details that get essential ideas across and let the reader's mind fill in the rest. Here is a good example from The Bourne Identity:

INT. FISHING BOAT BUNK ROOM -- NIGHT

        A wreck.  Too small for all the people in here right now --
        SAILORS sweeping off the table -- rough hands laying THE MAN
        down --

        THE CAPTAIN -- brutal and impatient -- watching from the 
        door as --

        GIANCARLO tears through the clutter -- searching for a
        medical kit buried in the shambles.  GIANCARLO is sixty. A bloodshot soul.

There is very little actual information written in this excerpt. Yet still, it is enough for us to see the scene and character in our heads because our minds fill in the rest of the details.

But, all of this aside, there is a far more deadly type of vague that may be lurking about your script. Vague character motivations. This will be the topic of my next article.

FORCED DECISIONS and DILEMMAS (and lack of narrative free will)

Throughout this blog, I have made frequent references to characters making choices. At every turning point of your narrative, an obstacle forces characters to choose a new direction of action in order to circumvent the obstacle and continue onward. But the word choose is not entirely accurate. In a well-written cinematic story, these decisions are never much of a choice. In reality, the character has only two options: 1. Escalate the conflict, or 2. Accept failure.

In a well-written cinematic story, there is really no such thing as FREE WILL. Every single thing a character does during his or her pursuit of the Story Goal is not really done by choice -- not done because the character wants to take these actions -- but because the story situation has forced them to. The story situation has painted them into a corner, and the only way out is to take on more risk and more danger with an action they would NEVER take under regular circumstances. The best story actions are those someone would have to be crazy to take if it weren't for the extraordinary forces bearing down on the protagonist. Would a sane person jump off a skyscraper with nothing but a firehose tied around their waist? Of course not. But that is what John McClane is forced to do in Die Hard. Not because he is crazy, but because this has become his only option due to the extraordinary circumstances he finds himself within.

These are called FORCED DECISIONS. Forced decisions are the most common, and often the most effective way to advance a plotline while keeping actions plausible and maintaining character integrity.

To explain:

Human beings naturally seek the path of least resistance. If an easier, simpler, less risky way to do things is known, we will always choose it. This is part of our survival mechanism. Why take a larger risk than we have to? Why expel more energy than needed? If one option has a potential for unnecessary conflict, we will try to avoid it. If something may result in a negative outcome, we avoid that too. That is called common sense.

Since following the path of least resistance is natural human behavior, a character who has the path of least resistance open to him/her and chooses not to take it will not be considered believable. People often mock horror movies where the victim being chased chooses to run up the stairs instead of out the front door to safety. This is because there was an easier, more common sense option open to the character; but instead, the character willingly chose to riskier, more dangerous path. The audience then turns their back on the character for being stupid.

However, here's the thing about the path of least resistence: It makes boring cinema. Nothing could be less exciting than watching people stick to the least risky, most conflict-free options.

Forced decisions help the storyteller reconcile the contradiction between the natural human instinct to avoid conflict (found in believable characters), and the necessity for situations filled with conflict to create an exciting story.

The goal of the writer must be to take away the path of least resistance in order to force the character into riskier choices. If the horror movie victim was being chased by one killer, and a second killer arrives to block the front door, then running up the stairs would become the character's only option. In this case, no one in the audience can say a word to criticize the character's actions.

Quite often, a story requires characters to take risky or dangerous actions simply to move the story to where the writer wishes it to go. Forced decisions are often the only way to make such actions plausible. In Star Wars, when Luke, Obi Wan, and the rest first encounter the Death Star, the story requires them to go onto the Death Star so they might find and rescue Princess Leia. However, only a fool would do this voluntarily. At this point in the story, the heroes have no pressing reason to take on the risk of infiltrating an enemy base. The common sense decision would be to get out of there as fast as possible and alert the Rebel Army. But instead, the story FORCES the heroes onboard when a tractor beam locks onto their ship. They now have no choice but to come on board and find a way out of the corner they have been painted into. Likewise, Back to the Future's Marty McFly does not choose to jump into the time machine and travel back to 1955. It happens as a result of Marty being forced to use the Deloreon to escape from the Libyan terrorists.

Any time a character needs to take action, the storyteller must be constantly aware of all alternative options available to the character. If the storyteller does not realize easier options exist, the audience definitely will, making the audience lose faith in the storyteller's capability. If the protagonist chooses to confront the bad guys in a one-on-one gun battle when he could have simply solved things by calling the police, it creates a LOGICAL HOLE in the story. Logical holes make both you, the storyteller, and your characters look stupid. It becomes hard to keep the audience on your side once this has happened.

To plug potential logical holes, the storyteller should first recognize all available options, and then force the character down the most dramatic road by providing physical evidence as to why the easier paths cannot be followed. If a character does not take a more reasonable option, there should be a good reason why. There must be an obstacle blocking the way, or at least a darn good (and plausible) character reason.

The invention of cellular phones has become somewhat of a bane to screenwriters. Before cell phones became ubiquitous, all a writer needed to do to keep a character in jeopardy was put him or her in a place where the character could not reach a phone to call for help. But now, in the twenty-first century, all someone needs to do to get help is reach into their pocket. Because of this, modern scripts are filled cell phones that get lost, broken, or have dead batteries, as evidence to the audience as to why the character cannot follow the path of least resistance when in danger.

To avoid logical holes, the rule is CYA (“cover your ass”). Look over your script and try to find all the logical actions your character could have taken, but chose not to. Then, make sure you have provided good logical evidence as to why not. There is a lot of CYA going on in Hans Gruber's first sequence in Die Hard. Before the villains even make their presence known, we see them cutting phone lines, shutting down elevators, eliminating security guards, etc. The audience needs to be shown this evidence in order for them to understand that the hero John McClane does not have the traditional methods available for help. He is forced to do something more extreme. If storytellers do their jobs correctly; by forcing characters down paths of action that escalate the conflict (by necessity, not choice), and providing physical evidence along the way as to why these are the characters' only choices; the storyteller will create narratives where, no matter what happens in the story, no matter how crazy or far-flung the premise, all events will appear inevitable and necessary. The path to the climax must seem like the only possible path, thanks to all the obstacles that blocked every alternative.

THE EXCEPTION (but not really)

One caveat must be made. Often, the most dramatic story moment arises when the character DOES have a choice between more than one option. However, this a choice the character does not want, because no matter what the character chooses, it will make the situation worse. This is called the DILEMMA – a forced choice between two or more equally undesirable outcomes. You're damned if you do, and you're damned if you don't. No matter what the hero chooses, he/she loses.

A common (and cliched) example can be found in countless action films. The hero has something the villain wants. The hero must keep this thing out of the villain's hands. But, the villain grabs the hero's friend/lover/child/etc, and puts a gun to their head. The hero is offered a dilemma. Either give the villain what he/she wants, or allow the villain to kill the friend/lover/child. Both options are undesirable. The hero does not want either outcome. But, the hero MUST decide. He/she must pick the lesser of two evils and give the villain what its wants. (Or maybe the hero allows the villain to blow the innocent person's brains out. Wouldn't that be a surprise?)

The dilemma is the worst choice you could ever force upon a character (from the character's perspective, that is). In a regular forced decision, the character still has hope that the risky and undesirable path may still lead to success. With a dilemma, the character knows they are screwed no matter what. Yet still, the choice must be made. It is usually the most important decision the character will make. Everything hinges on this moment. Choose right, and the character may still find a way to overcome the conflict find success. Choose wrong, and the character will doom themselves to utter failure.

The Matrix features a classic dilemma at the end of its second act. Neo and Trinity have just escaped from the matrix, but their mentor Morpheus has been captured by evil agents. They know that, given enough time, the agents will “hack into” Morpheus's brain to retrieve a code that will mean an end to humanity's hopes for freedom. Neo faces a dilemma: he can either let that happen, or he can unplug Morpheus, killing him before he can be cracked. The idea of killing his mentor is unthinkable, but if he does not do it, he will doom them all. Neo and Trinity must choose the lesser of two evils. However, at the last moment, Neo discovers a third option to the dilemma. They could go back into the matrix and rescue Morpheus. This option is no more appealing than the other two. Two fighters against a building full of agents is suicide. And if they can't reach Morpheus before he surrenders the code, it all will be for nothing. All three options are unappealing, yet Neo chooses the third. The rest of the story hinges on whether Neo chose correctly.

Dilemmas over what action to take can make extremely powerful turning points. In addition, a good ethical dilemma can work wonders to communicate character and theme. Captain Miller in Saving Private Ryan faces an ethical dilemma at the story's midpoint when his squad captures a German machine gunner. Most of the squad want to execute the German, but the Corporal considers it murder. It is up to the Captain to decide. Both sides make strong arguments, and no matter what the Captain chooses, he will lose the respect of his men. Captain Miller decides to let the German go, communicating information on his inner character and providing evidence on the story's theme.

Dilemmas are not found in every story. A story can do fine and dandy without one. However, if dilemmas are used, they should be used sparingly. One or two per story is enough, ideally at the end of the second act, or just prior to the climax. Dilemmas are one of the most powerful tools at the storyteller's disposal, so overuse results in overkill. Anything of power loses its ability to shock and surprise if used too much. Save your big bombs for when you need them the most.

CONCLUSION

Dilemmas and forced decisions allow the storyteller to naturally advance the plot while retaining the integrity of the characters. A storyteller naturally wants to put characters into more and more extreme situations as the story advances, but the characters, being sensible people, would rather not put themselves at risk. By creating forced decisions and dilemmas, the storyteller manipulates the character's universe so the character is forced down roads they do not wish to travel, leading them ultimately to the dramatic climax. Looking back, the story's climax should seem necessary and inevitable, since there was never any other option along the way.

STARTING YOUR SCRIPT: the SCRIPTMONK method

Well, you just sit down and start writing, don't you? Just bang away and hope the story finds itself as you explore your ideas as you write. Well, you could do this, but this would be akin to getting in your car and hitting the road without any idea of how to get where you're going. And, you will most likely end up with a 150-page monster of a first draft that is meandering, unfocused, and haphazard in its structure. When it comes time to rewrite, you may be in over your head. It may take several drafts to pound your original story idea into workable shape.

However, if you take the time and effort before you start writing to explore and understand this story you are trying to create and what path must be laid in front of your characters, you can cut the torture of rewriting in half. This preparation all comes down to a series of simple steps.

Your script begins mostly as a loose collections of thoughts in your head. You've come up with a basic premise, thought up the characters who occupy it, and have probably managed a few pages of notes or a couple dozen notecards scribbled with ideas for scenes, bits of character, scraps of dialogue, and so on. But, regardless of what your Syd Field book tells you, the last thing you want to do at this point is grab the corkboard and hack out some half-cocked 3-Act structure. This might help you churn out a first draft, but it will undoubtedly be so weak and hole-filled that you will be consumed with confusion when you try to fix things in the rewrite. You are trying to create a story, and story does not come from plot. Story comes from character. So this is where we must start.

1. START WITH YOUR PROTAGONIST

You may be confused to hear that all story comes from your protagonist, and not the other way around. After all, you probably came up with your screenplay's premise first, and then invented a character suited to be its lead. But this was not the story creating the protagonist. This was merely the premise -- the seed of inspiration that will eventually lead to the creation of the story proper.

For now, forget about all the events you foresee happening in your story and focus only on your intended main character. Really get to know them, the way you might get to know a stranger whom you will be sharing the next year of your life – because, in a way, you WILL be. You need to grow to know this person better than you know your best friend. Explore their world and the people, places, and things they share it with. Understand how they feel about these things and how they choose to interact with them. Think of how they see themselves fitting in with that world. Think about the unique point of view they have towards it. How to they interpret the things around them? Positively? Negatively? Apathetically? Look into their past and find the reason behind that particular outlook. We are all an accumulation of our past experiences, and in order to understand who this person is in the present, you need to look into his or her past.

Above all, root out your protagonist's MAIN FLAW. The main flaw (or "Fatal Flaw") is the a psychological misconception that holds the character back in life. This is the cognitive/behavioral roadblock which has kept the character's life from being as happy or as successful as the character wishes it to be. We are all incomplete human beings. We all have internal flaws holding us back. No character can be perfect. If you have envisioned a “perfect” protagonist, give up on this script right now and start again, because nothing could be more boring or more inauthentic. A good story can be thought of as the process of watching someone grow as a person. A character begins flawed, but through the trials of dramatic events, the character is forced to change. The character cannot overcome the story problem while they are still flawed, so the character must reevaluate how they act and think, how they see themselves and the world, to transform into a better, more capable person. No matter who your character is, no matter how successful or happy they start out, they can never be a 100% complete person. They all have a flaw, and that flaw is holding them back. Find this flaw. It will be the source of the protagonist's INTERNAL NEED.

2. IDENTIFY THE PROTAGONIST'S INTERNAL NEED

The internal need is the essential thing missing from the protagonist's life. It is something that, once gained, will make the character a more complete, more satisfied person. Though the character may not yet realize it, this lack creates a hole in the character's life which prevents them from becoming a happier, more successful, more self-actualized individual.

The internal need is always directly linked to the character's main flaw. For instance, if a character believes that other people cannot be trusted, he or she will have few positive personal relationships. They will then be lonely, socially-isolated, or will lack the system of support he or she needs to achieve life's goals. Or, if the character believes he or she is worthless or incompetent, he or she will lack the confidence or drive to pursue basic objectives which may grant life a greater sense of meaning or self-worth.

The internal need should not be confused with a character's Story Goal. The Story Goal is an objective the character must physically achieve by the end of the story to overcome the Story Problem and resolve the main conflict. The Story Goal requires physical action. The internal need applies to the character's internal nature only; it relates to the character's abstract state of emotional well-being. To present a simple example, let's say you are running a marathon. The GOAL is to reach the finish line. To achieve this goal you must keep running and running and running. However, you may have entered the marathon because you feel a need to prove to yourself that you can survive this grueling test of endurance. By crossing the finish line, you fulfill this need. While reaching the GOAL may win you a trophy or medal, fulfilling your NEED grants you something of much greater personal value that will stay with you long after the race is over.

Characters rarely recognize their internal need. Most are ignorant of the fact that they have a need at all. If they understood from the beginning that they are incomplete persons and could be so much happier with a simple change, they would probably make an effort to achieve this change on their own before the story even begins. In other cases, characters begin their stories well aware of their personal problems, but refuse to change out of stubbornness or lack of will. In both cases, characters require the physical events of the story to force them to reevaluate their flawed ways of thought or action so the character may finally recognize and take the necessary steps toward achieving the need.

3. CREATE A UNIQUE STORY SITUATION THAT FORCES YOUR CHARACTER TO PURSUE THE INTERNAL NEED.

Here is the point where story literally emerges from character. The characters need to change. But they aren't going to change on their own. The rules of inertia are at play. Things don't start moving until something forces them to move. When the Story Problem engages at the inciting incident, circumstances force the character into action, placing him or her on a road filled with physical predicaments that will demand that the character slowly grow and change.

This is the “Mind Worm” that Robert McKee mentions in STORY. A mind worm is a fictional creature that can burrow inside a person's brain, learn what that person needs out of life, and then create an adventure specifically-tailored to give that person exactly what he or she needs. The mind worm might take a character in need of self-confidence and draft him into the army and send him to war. Here, the character must either learn to trust in his personal capabilities or die a coward. It might take a lazy, irresponsible character and make his rich industrialist father die, putting the family business into the slacker's hands-- a business his father's rival wishes to bankrupt.

You already have the premise of your story already in mind, so at this point it is just a matter of adapting the plot and its events to what your protagonist needs to experience to achieve a greater state of well-being. Or conversely, reimagine your protagonist so that his or her internal need is a perfect fit for the type of story events you plan to dramatize. Remember that a cinematic story must be made of physical actions that can be photographed and put on screen. A strictly internal journey will not play on screen. The plot must be made of tangible events in the external world that will consequently influence your character's internal nature.

4. MAP OUT THE STORY'S SPINE

Now that you have a story situation directly linked to your protagonist's internal need, map out the Story Spine which will comprise your hero's basic journey. (Do I have to again repeat just how damn important a Story Spine is? There's a reason why I capitalize it!) Specifically state – IN WRITING – 1. The Story Problem that confronts the protagonist. 2. The Story Goal the protagonist must achieve in order to overcome that problem. 3. The Path of Action – the series of actions the protagonist must take in order to reach that goal. 4. The Main Conflict that stands in the way of the protagonist's goal. And, last but certainly not least, 5. The Stakes that motivate the protagonist to keep pushing for the Goal despite the conflict standing in the way – what the protagonist has to gain upon success and/or what he or she will lose upon failure.

The Story Spine will be the basic roadmap for the rest of your story development.

5. CONSIDER THE SOURCE OF CONFLICT

Since the majority of a story's action is made up of the protagonist and antagonist clashing over competing goals, it is important to consider this source of dramatic conflict before we move on to plotting. Take time to think about the antagonist (or source of antagonism if the main conflict does not come from a singular person or creature) in the same way that you explored your protagonist. Map out the antagonist's spine. Have a clear idea before you start plotting of what the antagonist considers to be his or her problem, what the antagonist has chosen as a goal, what the antagonist is willing to do to accomplish that goal, what stands in his/her way (the protagonist of course, but it could be more than that), and what the antagonist has to win or lose to motivate his/her actions. The spines of the protagonist and antagonist should conflict; meaning that the actions the protagonist must take to reach his/her goal should somehow block the actions the antagonist takes to reach his/her own goal, and vice versa. This will create the maximum dramatic conflict, since it becomes impossible for one side to win without first defeating the other.

6. PLOT OUT YOUR STORY'S MAJOR TURNING POINTS

Now it is time to plan out the major events that will make up your story. This is where the world-famous 3-Act structure finally comes into play. But rather than start at the beginning and continue through to the end, there is a much easier and more logical way to perform the tasking mindwork of what-must-happen-when. Like any building project, we start with the most basic framework, and then gradually fill it in to slowly make it stronger and more complex.

The easiest, and possibly the most productive approach is to take a page from the world of animation artists. Animators use a method called “in-betweening” when it comes to drawing the many pictures necessary to make a character move. If an animator needs to draw an action, let's say make Bugs Bunny jump straight up in the air and land again, and this action needs to last for twenty frames (twenty individual drawings), the animator does not simply start with frame 1, then move on to frame 2, 3, 4... Instead, animators start by first drawing the two extremes of action. That would be Frame 1 of Bugs standing still before starting his jumping motion, and frame 20, when Bugs hits the ground again. They then draw the midpoint drawing, the drawing that is smack dab in the middle of the action. This would be frame 10, where Bugs Bunny is at the height of his leap. We now have three drawings: 1, 10, & 20. Now, the animator draws the “in-betweens,” the two frames that exist right at the middle points between the drawings we already have, meaning frames 5 & 15. This gives us five completed drawings. With that done, the animator does the in-betweens again for the frames that exist squarely between 1, 5, 10, 15, & 20, until we have nine drawings completed: frames 1, 3, 5, 8, 10, 13, 15, 18, 20. This process continues until all twenty frames are finished.

When beating out your major turning points, start by establishing your extremes: the Inciting Incident and the Main Climax – the points where the story begins and ends. Then, fill in the plot's remaining Major Dramatic Turning Points: the End of 1st Act Turning Point, the Mid-2nd Act Turning Point,  and End of 2nd Act Turning Point, (we are using 3-Act structure after all). Now, do some in-betweening. What major event needs to occur to get your protagonist from the inciting incident to the End of 1st Act Turning Point? From the End of 1st Act Turning Point to the Mid-2nd TP, and then to the End of 2nd Act TP? From the End of 2nd Act TP to the Main Climax? When that is done, in-between again, until your story contains all necessary turning point events to construct a full 3-Act structure. A first act will usually have 2-3 turning points, including the inciting incident and end of first act turning point. The second act usually have 5-7, including the mid-second and end of second act turning point. The third act will have another 2-3, including the climax.

(EDITOR'S NOTE: In retrospect, I am uncertain whether I can still fully endorse this strategy. If you find it works well for you, then carry on. In more recent years, I have found a method of story construction based upon the structural interactions between the Story Spine, Character Arc, and Thematic Argument to be both more accurate and more effective. This method may be found in my book Screenwriting & The Unified Theory of Narrative, Part I: The Unified Narrative Structure. -- MWS 3/31/20)

7. FILL IN THE GAPS WITH ACTION

See those gaps between your turning points? Those are called scene sequences. Scene sequences are made up of (duh) a series of related scenes. In each sequence, the protagonist has an immediate sequence goal he or she pursues to get him or her one step closer to the Main Story Goal. The object of the sequence goal is usually set up by whatever game-changing event occurred at the previous turning point. The pursuit of this sequence goal moves the story forward, sending the protagonist further down the Path of Action until he or she runs smack-dab into the next game-changing turning point.

Here is where you finally beat out your movie scene by scene. You must come up with actions and objectives to move your characters from one turning point to the next. First, understand what immediate goal the character will pursue in each sequence. Consider what actions the character might choose at this moment to continue the pursuit of his or her main Story Goal, given the obstacle or complication encountered at the previous turning point. What could be the character's new immediate objective and how should the character go after it? Think about your antagonist or force of antagonism. Where is he/she at this point in the pursuit of his or her goal? What might the antagonist conceivably do at this point in reaction to the choices the protagonist has made?

8. REVIEW YOUR OUTLINE

By now, you should have something close to a completed outline. Review it thoroughly. Make sure it works. There should be no holes, everything should make sense, the story should have flow and movement, and the structure should be strong and secure. Go back to make changes if things aren't shaping up as they should be. It doesn't have to be perfect at this point. This outline is just for a first draft. But make it as strong as possible before moving on to writing the actual script. It is far easier to spot mistakes and make changes at this point than when wading the 120+ pages of wood pulp that will be your finished draft.

The "SCENE": What it is, What it actually does

Many beginning writers are afflicted with a chronic condition known as “scene-itis.” Years of impassively viewing movies have led them to mistakenly believe that a film is nothing more than a collection on scenes. This misbelief is often compounded once they get their first look at a shooting script, with each of its scenes chopped-up and cut off by INT.'s and EXT.'s and then brought to a close by a CUT TO: at the end. Writers stricken with scene-itis come to believe that the scene is the basic unit of the cinematic story, that scenes are self-contained, and all one has to do to create a great screenplay is to string a collection of great scenes end to end in a somewhat related fashion. The scripts created by these writers often do have great scenes, but the story itself doesn't hold together. This is all because these writers have failed to see the forest because of all of the trees. A cinematic story comes not from a collection of scenes, but rather from a firmly established Story Spine and the actions the characters are willing to take to achieve the objectives contains within that Spine. The scenes themselves are just the physical times and places where these actions are performed.

The idea of writing a screenplay in scenes comes from far more pragmatic concerns than creative ones. Scenes originated in their archaic form in the theater, where the opening and closing of the curtain was necessary for the stage crew to change the location and lighting or to indicate the passage of time. Therefore, the limitations of the stage demanded that the story be separated into clearly defined chunks of action. Modern editing eliminated the curtain as a story device, however the notion of writing in sectioned-off scenes continued for the sake of the complex procedures of film production.

For the sake of efficiency, movies are shot out of sequence, and the need to keep track of what part of the script should be shot when and where created the use of “sluglines.” The writer him or herself has no real need for the INT/EXT. LOCATION – DAY/NIGHT gobble-de-gook that junks up the top of every scene. The slugline is only there so production staff can easily a break down a script to schedule the production in the most logical and efficient manner. But, if a writer would ignore these artificial barriers that bookend a script's scenes and look at the cinematic story as a whole, the writer will see that the story is not merely a series of self-contained segments laid end-to-end, but is rather one continuous flowing line of action that starts in the very beginning, and continues its development unbroken all the way to the story's end, moving like a river from its source to the sea with no barriers in between. The “start” and “stop” of a scene is merely an illusion. People use terms such as story “line”, or story “thread” to refer to the fact that the scene itself is just a small section of a constantly developing current that began long before the scene's start and continues long after the scene is over.

To create a story which achieves this constant flow, a writer must always remember one simple rule: A story must ALWAYS be MOVING FORWARD. By moving forward, I mean it must always be developing, growing, evolving. And in order to do this, every scene must cause some sort of CHANGE in the story situation. The characters’ situation must be somehow different at the end of the scene from what it was at its beginning. Circumstances have been altered, whether this change be big or small, for better or for worse. If a scene does not alter the situation, it does not advance the story and therefore should not belong in the script. Nothing happens. The scene keeps the story stagnant, damming the flow of the narrative river, and accomplishes nothing but to slow things down.

We may call the story-altering change that occurs in each scene that scene's FUNCTION. The function is the reason the scene exists in the story. It is what the writer needs to accomplish in order to advance the narrative and move the characters on to the next scene. In essence, the function creates the next scene. The change that occurs in one scene sets up the actions that need to be performed in the following scene, in a cause-and-effect manner. To put it as simply as possible, a scene’s task is to create moments of change that progressively push the narrative toward its eventual completion.

But how does a screenwriter do this? How can he or she make scenes perform their necessary story-advancing functions without seeming contrived or artificial? The writer might just have the characters go straight after what need to get done, or have events conveniently fall into their laps so the story can move on. But the audience will neither buy nor enjoy this.

Here lies a paradox of our artform. Storytelling is the art of creating dramatic contrivances. Everything in a movie's world is fake and manipulated. Characters do what they do because the storytellers makes them do it. Things happen because a storyteller is intentionally pulling the plot’s strings. You, the storyteller-god have every person's fates mapped out before hand, and create the events that get them there. Of course, the audience implicitly understands that the story's world is artificial and contrived, but they do not want to believe this! And they certainly do not want to see it. Movies are intended to create the illusion of reality, and the audience wants to hold on to the illusion. And, like the Great and Powerful Oz, the audience will not believe in your spectacular illusion if they can see you pulling levers and pressing buttons just behind a curtain.

The only way to make scenes achieve their function without seeming contrived is through character actions based on rational wants and needs – and the logical outcomes of the means and methods used to pursue of these wants and needs. Through such character action, the functional outcomes of each scene become, as Aristotle would put it, “necessary and probable.” In short, the scene accomplishes what it needs to accomplish narratively through an indirect approach – by way of characters in conflict.

If the writer has created characters with well thought-out spines, every character will have some sort of overall objective or story goal. Achieving this overall goal requires many smaller, more discrete actions. Thus in each scene, the character will have something he or she wants or needs to accomplish in relation to that overall goal. In other words, each character will have a particular scene goal, a smaller objective that will somehow benefit their personal cause.

However, different characters have different goals. This means characters may want opposing, if not completely contradictory things. This creates conflict within the scene. There may also be forces at play which reside outside of the control of the characters: the pouring rain, the unexpected explosion of a roadside bomb, the intrusion of a third character. Through these three conflicting elements; the scene goal of Character A, the scene goal of Character B, and any forces outside their control, that the writer creates the dramatic events which will result in a moment of change and thus accomplish the scene's function.

Sometimes the change occurs by one character winning the scene's conflict and getting what he or she wants. Character A defeats Character B, or B defeats A, and moves the story forward by claiming their desired objective. However, more often then not, the moment of change issues from some unforeseen third outcome – an unexpected result of the character conflict. Let's say we have a scene where Character A confronts Character B. Character A's scene goal is to force some vital information out of Character B. Character B's scene goal is to keep the information a secret. The two come into conflict. As a result, a scuffle breaks out. A pistol falls from B’s pocket and shoots Character A by accident. The shooting is the CHANGE that advances the story (the scene's function). Character A is now dead. The story situation has been irrevocably altered. Now, neither character expected this outcome at the top of the scene. Neither character wanted this outcome. Nevertheless, the moment of change came a result of their scene conflict, achieving the scene's function. The characters’ scene goals and the conflict caused by them were merely the means by which this moment of change became necessary and probable.

Let’s look at a few simple scenes from the beginning of Star Wars to illustrate how characters’ scene goals work to bring about the moments of change necessary to move the story forward- not through direct achievement, but through indirect consequence:

C3P0 and R2D2, two droids owned by the Rebel Alliance, have become stranded on the desert planet Tatooine. R2 is secretly carrying vital military secrets. The are then captured by Jawas, a band of nomadic merchant creatures. In our first scene, Luke Skywalker's Uncle Owen meets with the Jawas to purchase some droids for work on his farm. Owen's scene goal is to get some quality droids at a fair price. He selects C3P0 as one of his purchases. C3P0 does not wish to be separated from his companion R2D2. So, C3P0's scene goal is to convince Luke to get Uncle Owen to buy R2 as well. Although both characters achieve their individual goals in this scene, the important story-advancing change comes about as an indirect consequence of those goals: Both rebel droids are now the property of the Skywalker family. Owen and Luke do not know that these are rebel droids, nor are they trying to protect them. However, individual scene goals create this new circumstance through indirect consequence.

In the following scene, Luke is tasked with cleaning the new droids. Luke has other plans, so his scene goal is to finish the job as quick as possible. In his haste, Luke inadvertently triggers R2 to play back part of a message Princess Leia recorded for an Obi-Wan Kenobi. Luke never intended to do this. It was in indirect consequence. However, this action achieves the scene's function: to give Luke a reason (and desire) to seek out Obi-Wan. The scene ends with Luke being called to dinner.

At dinner, Luke asks his uncle and aunt for permission to leave home so he may join the rebellion. Uncle Owen flat out refuses. Though Luke fails to reach his scene goal, the scene's function is still achieved through indirect consequence: Luke becomes even more motivated to leave home. Also, as part of Owen's argument against Luke’s departure, he aids the scene's function when he mentions that Obi-Wan knew Luke’s father. This has the indirect result of giving Luke a second reason to seek out Obi-Wan Kenobi.

CONCLUSION

In a screenplay, the purpose of an individual scene is to create a moment of change which develops the story further down its spine toward the resolution.

How this works:

Characters enter a certain time and place with certain desires. They go after these desires using necessary and probable action. This causes the characters to come into conflict with other characters with contradictory desires. Through the heat of this conflict, and CHANGE occurs that alters the story's situation. This is the dramatic structure of a scene.

Laughing at Pain: a serious guide to comedy

(Related article: Comedy Behaving Badly)

When it comes to writing for film and television, there are dramatic writers and there are comedy writers. Execs like to categorize writers as either one or the other under the impression that it is impossible for a single writer to do both. If an established dramatic writer pitches his new pants-wetting comedy, the exec tends to look at him with the same absurdity as a fish trying to fly.

However, writing comedy and writing drama turn out to be shockingly close to the same thing.

Drama and comedy are both forms of story, so they both obey the same dramatic rules of storytelling.

They are both cinematic narratives, so both must follow the same guidelines of structure, character, and communication with the audience. Both are powered by conflict. Both center around a human being dealing with a problem, pursuing a goal in order to overcome that problem.

The real difference between comedy and drama turns out to be so whisper-thin that it comes down to a single element. Any tear-jerker can be turned hilarious, and any hijink-filled comedy turned serious with the simple addition or removal of the element that splits the modes in two.

This element is EXAGGERATION.

Comedy is nothing more than real life exaggerated. What we find funny in movies and TV is little more than the worries, annoyances, confusions, fears, and anxieties we see and experience every day, exaggerated to a point where they become absurd, and therefore laughable. Audiences laugh at characters in situations that they themselves would dread to be in. Characters face danger, embarrassment, degradation. Played without exaggeration, the audience would feel fear, pity, or discomfort for the characters. But with the exaggeration, the same audience feels free to point and laugh.

Human society invented comedy for a psychological reason. Comedy takes what we dread and fear, what makes us angry and frustrated, and lets us to release that pent-up anxiety by allowing us to mock the very things that cause it. This is comedy's social function. We need it to stay sane. Dramas sympathize with an audience's problems by giving them characters to whom they can relate. Comedy helps an audience forget its problems by belittling those problems into insignificance.

This is why it is said that the best jokes are wrapped around a grain of truth. Comedy IS truth. It has just been inflated to grotesque proportions. Look at the television mega-hit The Office. The show instantly connected with audiences because anyone who has ever worked in an office could recognize moments from their own work life reflected in the actions and behaviors of the show's characters. They have all experienced incompetent superiors, annoying coworkers, days of drudgery, and the constant urge do anything other then work. It is funny because it is true. However, I will bet anything that not a single viewer has ever had work experiences that reach the level of absurdity found in this television sitcom. The program gets its humor from reality, but reality exaggerated. While not so humorous in their own lives, exaggeration allows the audience to receive the pleasure of mocking the things that bother them day in and day out.

This may be a simple concept, but you would be surprised to find how many burgeoning screenwriters are ignorant of it. I have read so many spec screenplays that are supposed to be comedies, but are NOT FUNNY - all because the writers fail to exaggerate their situations to a sufficient degree. They half-step their humor, deliver underserved situations, and are afraid to PUSH IT to the absurd. As a result, these scripts only get a smiles when they should get laughs, a chuckle when the audience should be rolling on the floor. These scripts fail to be comedies. The best they manage to be is weak drama.

One general, and somewhat ironic, rule about narrative comedy is that most humor comes from viewing situations that are extremely unhumorous to the characters experiencing them. This phenomena can be explained with two principles.

1. COMEDY COMES FROM CONFLICT

What a coincidence! Drama also comes from conflict. Conflict is what makes a story interesting. Nothing is more boring than two people getting along perfectly. And nothing is less funny.

Characters are rarely having a good time in comedy. They are quite often miserable. This is because unlike the work of stand-up comedians (and literary humorists who write directly to the audience), narrative comedy on film and television is not “first person” comedy, but rather “third person.”

In first person comedy, Person A is intentionally trying to make Person B laugh. However in film and television, neither Person A nor Person B (the characters on screen) find their interaction amusing. They are usually angry, confused, upset, aggravated, even frightened with each other. But, to a third person watching them (the audience), their interaction can be very funny. Most comedy comes from an audience observing characters react to FRUSTRATION. And the only way to create this frustration is through conflict.

However, the type of conflict that causes humor in a scene is different than the dramatic conflict that powers the action of a story. Comedies, like any other genre, still follow the same rules of storytelling. Every scene moves forward through characters with contradictory goals who inevitably come into conflict with each other. However, in comedies, there tends to be a second side-conflict at play in each scene with the sole purpose of creating humor.

The most common of these comedic side-conflicts is Conflict of Personalities. This formula for humor has been a writer's staple for centuries. Simply take two or more characters with greatly incompatible personalities and put them into a situation where they are forced to interact. Then, watch as they drive each other nuts. The classic formula is the straight man/funny man routine. Or the smart guy/dumb guy. Or the snob & the slob. But really, any slight discrepancy between two personalities can be exploited for comedy. Take a look at the HBO series Curb Your Enthusiasm. Larry David portrays someone with a personality so bizarre that he can't help but conflict with every person he meets. No matter what type of person he encounters, he invariably ends up in some sort of comedic argument.

Again, the difference between this and the normal character conflict found in non-comedic movies is the level of exaggeration in the behavior of the two parties. The divide between the two personalities is usually so wide they seem to be on different planets. In drama, the conflict would simply feel frustrating. In comedy, the other person is so unreasonable, it makes the character want to tear their hair out.

Another person-to-person conflict is Conflict of Understanding. Two characters are interacting, but they clearly do not understand each other. Abbot & Costello's “Who's on First?” is a perfect example. “Wacky misunderstandings” have been a staple of sitcoms since television's invention. The comedic frustration come when one character is certain they understand what's going on, only to have the situation contradict that certainty in a confusing manner.

Another common type is Conflict between Expectation & Result; more commonly known as situational irony. A wife answers the door naked, expecting to surprise her husband. Only she herself is surprised to find her mother-in-law. The disparity between a character's expectation and the result is a common way to advance a story's plot, but when used comically it can create a great amount of comic frustration when the discrepancy is so exaggerated that it results in humiliation or ridiculous failure.

Conflict with Environment is the source of most physical comedy. Slipping on banana peels, falling down stairs, the suitcase that won't close, the bird that poops on your head. The character is merely trying to make his or her way through an environment without incident, but finds frustration when something in that environment refuses to cooperate. The more exaggerated the resistance, the more comedic it can be.

More sophistication forms of conflict-based comedy come not from conflicts between characters and other things within the story, but from a conflict between the elements of the story and the audience- namely, the audience's knowledge and understanding. This creates a state of irony.

Sometimes this conflict comes from knowledge which the audience possesses, but the character remains oblivious to. For example, the character Inspector Clouseau is an idiot. The audience knows that he is an idiot, but Clouseau mistakenly believes he's a genius, causing him to say and do stupid things the audience knows could have been avoided. The audience knows that John Candy and Steve Martin in Planes, Tranes, & Automobiles are going the wrong way on the interstate, but the characters don't know that, putting both the characters and audience on a collision course for wackiness.

Satire is the most difficult and advanced method of comedy because it is based on a somewhat abstract conflict created by a disparity between the knowledge or ideas the audience has brought with them to the story, and those of the warped story world they see on screen. Stanley Kubrick's Doctor Strangelove is a comedy about nuclear war. Based on preexisting knowledge, the audience knows that nuclear war is something that should be taken seriously, but comedic irony comes when they witness the characters reacting to it like buffoons. Terry Gilliam's Brazil presents a world with rules, ideas, and values that the audience, with their preexisting knowledge of reality, should find absurd. However, instead of agreeing with the audience, the characters behave as if this absurdity is not only normal, but completely rational. What the audience finds silly, the characters take seriously. Conversely, in Strangelove, what the audience finds serious, the characters treat as silly.

2. COMEDY = MISFORTUNE + DISTANCE

“Tragedy is when I cut my finger. Comedy is when you fall down a manhole and die.” -- Mel Brooks

(Well, maybe not die, so to speak. But, we will get to that.)

So, most comedy is the result of the audience laughing at characters in a state of frustration. But that is far from the worst of our comedic cruelty. How many thousands of times have we watched characters flee for their lives, hang off the edge of buildings, get bludgeoned with frying pans, get humiliated in front of a roomful of people, or have their soul crushed by the person they love- only to find ourselves laughing at their misfortune?

Is it sick of us? Not really. It all depends on how the action is presented. The difference between the comedic and tragic is a matter of personal perspective.

Have you ever fallen on your face in front of a group of friends and gotten laughed at? It wasn't very funny for you, was it? But from their perspective it was (as long as you weren't hurt).

Charlie Chaplin said, “Life is a tragedy in the close-up, a comedy in the wide.” Take a look at some comedies on film and TV and try to find any with a style that depends heavily on tight close-ups. Most comedies have a shooting style dominated by long takes of wide master shots. Tight close-ups are a tool of dramatic filmmakers. Dramatic filmmakers want an audience to empathize with characters. They want the audience to feel the emotions the characters feel. So, they design an intimate experience, where the audience sees the story from as close to the character's own eyes as possible. A comedic shooting style, on the other hand, has been intentionally developed to emotionally distance the audience from the action. Comedic audiences are placed in a withdrawn perspective that, as a result, gives the audience permission to laugh.

Try to remember an unfortunate incident in your past that hurt very much at the time you experienced it (because you were close to it and the pain still very fresh), but now, you can look back on it and laugh. You can laugh now because you have distance from the pain. We can find humor in misfortune as long as we are not currently close enough to it to experience the pain ourselves. Comedy in film & television can work in very much the same way.

Imagine a scene of a young man who is about to reveal to his crush that he loves her. Only he screws it up monumentally. He ends up humiliated, disgraced, and seems to have ruined any future chances with the girl. At this moment, the character on screen in miserable. This is worst moment of his life. Now, if an audience member has recently suffered a similar situation, he or she would NOT find this scene funny, because it relates to pain that the viewer is still very close to. However, the rest of the audience can find the humor in the character's misery, because most of us have suffered a similar humiliation, an incident that we now have enough distance from to laugh at it. Likewise, if a character is in a state of fear and does something incredibly stupid out of panic, while it is no joking matter for the character, we can all laugh because we can all relate to a time when we did something stupid out of panic.

It is not callous to laugh at characters suffering misfortune. It is actually another form of audience sympathy that draws us closer to the characters. We laugh at their misfortune because we can look back on our own lives and relate our own experiences to it. The characters are just like us. From our distanced perspective we remember how we survived our misfortune, so it is okay laugh since we can be certain the character will end up alright as well.

The only rule to follow is, “Nobody really gets hurt.” Whatever misfortune occurs on screen, it should be presented in a way that makes clear that the character will eventually get over it. Even if a character falls down a manhole and ends up in a body cast, it should be obvious that the character is not in any real pain, and the character will eventually heal with nothing really harmed except maybe the character's pride. Imagine how gruesome the Three Stooges would be if Larry, Moe, and Curly were not so immune to pain!

When this rule is not followed, when the pain becomes too real, it removes the distance the audience has from the material. The pain is now right in their laps and they are forced to acknowledge it- they are once again too close to it and will not be able to find it funny.

CONCLUSION

Since the invention of dramatic storytelling, people have tended to separate stories into two distinct groups: those that make us laugh, and those that make us cry. But when it comes to storytellers and their craft, comedy and drama are merely two sides of the same coin. Both follow the basic rules of storytelling. Both are fueled by conflict. They both seek to create a world relateable to our own, populated by characters who face problems that threaten them with danger, heartbreak, and misfortune. The only difference comes from the story's level of exaggeration, and from what perspective the storyteller chooses to present misfortunes and annoyances to the audience. There is a thin line between laughter and tears. One that a master storyteller can manipulate at will.

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