Plotting by Expectation vs. Result: On Robert McKee and Albert Camus

This is Robert McKee’s STORY, first published in 1997. Many of you have read it. Though I do not agree with every idea McKee offers in this book, I have generally considered McKee superior to his competition in one particular area. This would be his approach to plotting. While most other “gurus” seem to treat plotting as a simple linear activity, putting scenes down one at a time, brick by brick, piece by piece, inevitably moving the story towards certain pre-set structural guideposts, McKee envisions plot as the interplay between character psychology and the reality of the character’s world. To McKee, plot is all about expectation versus result.

 

In an explanation similar to the one I use in Screenwriting Down to the Atoms, McKee’s protagonist begins his or her story intent to reach a far-off story goal. To reach this goal, the protagonist must start with a series of small, conservative steps that he or she believes will influence the outside world in such a way that will allow him/her to get closer to what he/she needs. In the character’s mind, these steps have every reason to succeed. However, things do not go as the protagonist plans. Rather than bend to the protagonist’s will, the outside world resists in an unexpected way. To hear it in McKee’s own words:

“The moment he takes this action, the objective realm of his inner life, personal relationships, or extra-personal world, or a combination of these, react in a way that’s more powerful or different than he expected. This reaction from his world blocks his desire, thwarting him and bending him further from his desire than he was before he took this action. Rather than evoking cooperation from his world, his action provokes forces of antagonism that open up the gap between his subjective expectation and the objective result...”

The outside world refuses to fall in line with the character’s personal expectations. According to McKee, whenever this happens there opens up what he calls the GAP. A metaphorical chasm splits open between the character and the result he or she wished to achieve. “On one side is the world as we expect it to be, on the other is reality as it actually is.” So to McKee, story conflict is all about thwarted desires and the characters’ inevitable reactions.

When the protagonist encounters this gap--this metaphorical canyon that separates him or her from a necessary desire--the protagonist faces a choice. He or she can quit out of disappointment or frustration, or the protagonist can choose to alter his/her approach with a new set of actions the protagonist believes will overcome the gap and allow him/her to continue. So the protagonist, armed with the wisdom acquired from the defeat of the previous set of expectations, chooses a new course of action. With these new actions come a new set of expectations. The protagonist is certain that this time the world will conform to his or her desire and success will follow. However, the world once again does not react as the protagonist wishes. Expectations again clash with result, creating another gap. The protagonist must rise above again, and find way to get around this new gap so he or she may continue the character’s quest. But the world continues to reacts in a negative, hostile way, opening up gaps again and again. Using this pattern, McKee offers this diagram to illustrate the course of a plot:

In this way, McKee’s approach to plot seems to emulate the “Fool’s Journey” structure commonly found in folktales where a naïve young man leaves home for the first time to encounter a series of unexpected troubles and opportunities. These force the fool to become stronger and wiser, eventually allowing him to find success by understanding the world for what it is, not what he originally thought it to be.

If, as I propose, this approach to plotting is indeed better-suited to great dramatic stories than those taught by McKee’s predecessors, one must consider why. It is my assertion that plotting from an expectation/result frame of mind creates more engaging, more authentic stories because it is far closer to the way which we experience conflict our own lives. I realized this by noting right away the parallels between McKee’s approach to story and the ideas of a very different author writing on a very different and far more significant subject.

This is Albert Camus (1913-1960). Camus was the author of such esteemed works of 20^th century fiction as The Stranger, The Plague, and The Fall. (The Fall is a mind-blowing piece of literature if read correctly. I highly recommend it.)

Camus was also a philosopher. Once considered a strong proponent of Existentialism, Camus grew dissatisfied with that school of thought and pursued a philosophy of his own, eventually known as Absurdism. (Do not let the name fool you. Here, “absurd” does not mean “silly.” In fact, the absurd is a very serious matter.) Published in his book The Myth of Sisyphus, Camus’s views on the nature of the universe and the condition of the human beings who must live within it, simplified for the purposes of this article, are as follows:

1. Human beings possess an undeniable instinct to seek out systems of order and meaning in the universe. They want to believe that things happen for a reason and that the world makes sense. Because of this desire, people construct systems of belief that place humanity at the center of the universe. We then create expectations based off of those beliefs and assume that reality will conform to our systems of order.
2. Unfortunately, these expectations usually turn out to be little more than wishful thinking. The universe does not obey our rules. It is cold and indifferent, at times random and chaotic. It cares as little for individual human beings as an elephant would fleas on its back. Like the elephant, the world can shake us off at any time it pleases without even recognizing our existence. Humans are therefore at the mercy of the chaos of the universe, despite all their efforts to believe they are not.
3. The most soul-shattering moments of a person’s life arise when events force the individual to face this contradiction head-on. The unexpected medical diagnosis, the sudden disaster, the abrupt death of a loved one causes one to wonder whether the systems of order and meaning they have put their faith in might be a lie. The dissonance between one’s ordered and meaningful expectations of the universe and its actual cold and indifferent results causes a disturbing abyss to open up in the individual’s psyche which Camus calls the ABSURD.
4. With expectations shattered, human beings can react to the absurd in one of three ways. 1. Despair (which often ends in suicide). 2. A Leap of Faith (in which one continues to trust in a system of meaning despite the lack of objective evidence to support it). 3. Acceptance (by accepting a more accurate view of reality, the person abandons harmful illusions and comes to recognize what possibilities actually exist which might allow happiness and success within reality’s bounds.)

Here we see that McKee’s views on plot development mirror Camus’s views on human existence. Human beings, both real and story-based, take actions after goals they believe will bring happiness or success. However, much like an ant crawling its way across the kitchen floor, they have no way of truly understanding the true scale and magnitude of the world around them. They can only proceed based on personal expectations conceived by way of their very limited views. However, more often than not, these expectations are short-sighted or false. The world does not react in the way they wish, and instead of yielding the way, it throws roadblocks in their path. When expectations are denied, people have three options: a. quit, b. keep their faith, lower their heads, and try to plow through the resistance, or c. learn from the experience, adopt a new perspective, and then find a new course of actions more likely to succeed.

I do have one major issue with McKee’s approach, however. His discussion on the subject leans far more to the metaphysical than the practical. He does little to create a systematic method by which writers can apply these concepts directly to their own scripts in a way that will provide effective narrative drive and structure. This is why I teach the concept of story sequences. As frequent readers of this blog know, I consider the Story Spine to be the unifying element of all successful storytelling. In long-form stories such as feature-length films, the Story Spine must be structured by means of story sequences. You can read a brief overview of story sequences in this article or a far more detailed explanation in Chapter 5 of Screenwriting Down to the Atoms. By replacing “expectation/result” and “the gap” with the concepts of sequence spines, obstacles, and turning points, the story sequence method maintains the spirit of McKee’s argument while executing it through a dramatic, easy to execute structure that has found success in great films for decades.

"Atoms" FREE on Amazon for this weekend only (Super secret! Tell no one!)

Just kidding. Tell everyone you want. I have chosen to dub this coming Saturday and Sunday "Atomic Weekend." This Saturday June 8, Screenwriting Down to the Atoms will be available for download in eBook form its 270-page entirety for FREE on Amazon.com. The following Sunday June 9, it will be available for only 99 cents. If you have not yet given yourself the chance to get a copy of Atoms, with its fresh ideas and unique approaches to the craft of cinematic storytelling, there will never be a better time than this weekend.

Follow this Amazon link to get Screenwriting Down to the Atoms right now.

Don't own a Kindle? No problem. There are a number of free e-reader programs that allow you to read Kindle books on any laptop. Mobipocket is one of the most popular.

If you like what you read, but not the eyestrain while reading it, paperback copies are currently available at an Amazon price of only $12.59 (that's discounted from $17.99!)

Reality and the Cinematic Narrative

Hugo Münsterberg: Maverick psychologist

and lord of the umlaut.

Ninety-seven years ago, German-American psychologist Hugo Münsterberg published what would be one of the first analytical studies of the emerging art of cinema, “The Film: A Psychological Study.” Though movies in Münsterberg’s time (1916) were still quite primitive, Münsterberg arrives at a very bold conclusion while comparing drama written for the stage to that intended for the screen: The further away an art form’s methods of expression are from the realities of the physical world (time, space, and concrete physicality), the more potential it has to impact the viewer’s mental world, (the realms of thought, memory, and emotion). Movies construct completely artificial worlds that present drama through a discourse inconsistent with the rules of physical existence. Cinema tells its stories through peculiar qualities not found in the theatre – or any of the other arts for that matter. Though these qualities run counter to the experiences of life as we know it, they work to give the audience the illusion of a heightened un-reality which requires and elicits much greater mental and emotional involvement. A wise screenwriter will not only be aware of these peculiar qualities, but makes use of them to absorb the audience into their fictional worlds and create the most emotionally stimulating experience.

Belief & Plausibility

For a large part, films create their heightened state of un-reality automatically by way of the physical properties of cinema. In theater, a paradox exists where the physical presence of dramatic actions and performers makes the drama feel less real to an audience. In theater, the backdrop and performers stand in the same plane of existence as the audience. The audience could reach out and touch them if they wish. However, this causes the audience to remain fully aware of the story’s artificiality. They know the stage is not really 19^th century London, only a depiction of it. They know the persons on the stage are not really Sherlock Holmes or Jack the Ripper, but only performers making pretend. To become mentally involved in the drama, and audience must “suspend their disbelief” in the drama’s artificiality. The physical presence of the stage prevents the theatrical audience from ever accomplishing this in full. They can only choose to play along with the story, but never fully surrender to its reality.

This is not so with cinema. Though a film presents its drama through far more artificial means than the theatre (an incongruent series of highly-manipulated two-dimensional images rather than the presence of flesh-and-blood human beings) cinema has the ability to immerse its audience in a world that not only looks like 19^th century London, but leads the audience to temporarily accept the illusion that it is indeed 19^th century London, even though the audience knows it is impossible to travel to such a time. Such immersion encourages the audience to no longer see the actors as mere imitators of Holmes or the Ripper, but as the real McCoy themselves. Thus, when well-handled, the physical properties of cinematic discourse cause the audience to fully suspend their disbelief and accept the illusion.

Once this illusion has been formed, the storyteller’s job is to simply avoid screwing things up by breaking the illusion. Anything that should sabotage the fantasy by pointing out its artificiality will pull the audience out of the un-reality and cause them to cease their mental participation. I do not mean that a cinematic story cannot contain things the audience knows cannot exist in reality, such as the fantastic, the supernatural, or the unreal. In fact, such things are what the cinema is more successful than any other art at portraying. What I mean is that a cinematic story’s characters and events must maintain the illusion of reality by following an internal logic that parallels the logic found in the real world. A film’s artificial world continues to feel real when its events follow the same logic by which events occur in real life. The cinematic story is not enslaved to the possible, but to what is plausibile.

Aristotle wrote “Plausible impossibilities are preferable to implausible possibilities.” This means anything can happen in a story as long as events make reasonable sense based upon what has occurred before them. Any way the story world is different from the real world must be established at the story’s beginning. Anything not established as different will be expected to behave by the normal rules of reality. The established concepts then become the story’s “rules.” If a story should break its own established rules, if an event should occur without reasonable explanation, if a person should suddenly behave out of character or act without understandable motivation, the viewer becomes suddenly aware that he or she is watching a poorly-constructed lie. Like a dreamer becoming conscious of the fact that he or she is asleep, viewers will snap out of the illusion, re-engage their disbelief, and refuse continued participation.

Point of View

In the theatre, the audience's point of view never changes. No matter what occurs on stage, the viewer can only observe the action from the angle of his or her particular seat in the audience. The space separating seat from stage distances the viewer emotionally from the story’s action. Events can only be perceived through the eyes of an uninvolved observer, like a voyeur spying into the story’s world through a keyhole.

Cinema, on the other hand, has the ability to put the audience right in the middle of the action. The viewer is allowed to experience story action as a controlled stream of consciousness, created by the constant refocusing of the viewer’s perspective (through camera and editing) to deliberately-chosen points of view. Point of view does not only have the effect of immersing the audience into the story’s reality, but also shapes and informs the perception of that reality. Its skilled use not only allows the audience to become mentally involved in the story’s events, but feel an emotional bond to the story’s characters, since point of view also allows the audience to see events in ways which are as close as possible to the characters’ own perspective. The audience sees this world as the character sees it, forging a connection between the two in a manner impossible to achieve in the theatre.

Though a scene’s visual points of view are ultimately chosen by the director and editor, screenwriters should not write scenes as if they were sitting in a theatre audience casually transcribing the events on stage. Point of view is the writer’s responsibility as well. Have some conception as to the scene’s point of view before writing begins. A writer should communicate the action of a scene in a way that leads the reader’s imagination the same way camera and editing lead the eye. Good writing does not explicitly express how a scene should be shot, but will to imply shots through well-chosen language to indicate where the dramatic focus should lie. All of a scene’s contents are not equal. What in the scene demands the audience's attention? What is important to communicate? The character’s reactions and emotions? The physical action being performed? A dirty spot on the wall? Construct the scene to connote when and how actions will be perceived.

Time & Space

In theatre, the action of a scene is beholden to the natural rules of time and space. The location cannot abruptly change, and time must move forward at its standard pace. Cinema, on the other hand, has no such limitations. It can go from place to place as it pleases. Time can leap forward or backward at will. Time can also freeze, slow down, or move in reverse. A savvy screenwriter knows how to use the freedom of time and space to deliver drama in its most effective and mentally stimulating form.

Hitchcock famously said, “Drama is life with the dull bits cut out.” So cut them out! Give the audience only the most essential, most dramatic, most emotionally-evocative slices of time with none of the dead space in between. In this regard, the work of the screenwriter is much like that of the film editor. In real life, time unspools in one long seamless thread, capturing every moment, meaningful or insignificant, like frames preserved onto an endless reel of celluloid. In life as in art, few things have meaning in isolation. The meaning of events can often only be acquired in relation to other events. Unfortunately, it is difficult to identify the true significance of an individual real-life event as it occurs since its causal relationships to other events is diluted or completely washed away by the tedious slow-drip of time and the clutter of minutia separating them. The realities of linear time thus cause events in life to often seem isolated rather than connected to a whole.

The cinematic storyteller has been given the power to overcome this. The storyteller takes the hypothetical spool of time which exists in a fictional story world and surgically removes all portions except those which serve authorial intentions. All excess is removed until only moments of significance remain. The storyteller then transposes the order of events so that they occur in an explicitly chosen succession (this remains true whether the storyteller chooses to obey temporal linearity or not). Due to this manipulation, the audience is able to see clear connections between the story’s events, and thus a sense of constantly-developing meaning between them.

This time-editing refers not only to the storyteller’s removal of unimportant events between scenes, but the whittling away of all unnecessary moments within the scenes themselves. The old saw is that scenes should “start late, end early.” Taking this advice ensures that each scene contains only meaningful moments that move the story forward without unnecessary filler slowing things down. Cinematic worlds are time-accelerated worlds that contain only moments which have dramatic significance. This time-acceleration keeps the viewer mentally involved. He or she must pay attention or be left behind. At the same time, the viewer becomes creatively involved as he or she is expected to use cognitive imagination to fill in the gaps and form mental connections between events. Accelerated time creates heightened awareness, which leads to greater mental and emotional involvement on the part of the viewer.

Structure

As the cinematic form flouts reality’s physical rules, it must invent its own rules to keep its internal microcosm from collapsing. The theatre remains somewhat stable in its discourse by being grounded in the here and now. The cinema, on the other hand, with the unreality of its discourse, has no choice but to replace the rules of reality with the rules of narrative. With narrative structure, the viewer receives a stable, yet still plausible, illusion of reality that will actually function at a higher level than the world in which we live.

As stated in my book Screenwriting Down to the Atoms, stories are not reflections of reality. They are analogues of reality. Stories are pleasurable because they present worlds which function in ways we wish our world would operate. One reason life can be so frustrating is that real life lacks structure. Events in life seem to occur randomly. Problems invade without provocation. Actions taken often fail to produce results. Things seem to move in multiple directions at once – or not move at all – leaving us anxious and confused over whether life has any purpose or goal. Stories, in contrast, present worlds where everything happens for a reason. Every event is connected and designed to lead to a logical end. Stories comfort audiences with worlds where everything has order and meaning.

This cannot be accomplished without narrative structure. On this subject, Münsterberg likens the work of a screenwriter to that of a composer. No matter how bold or innovative a composer may be, each melody must still obey some sort of internal structure to unify the piece, or else the music becomes chaotic and aesthetically displeasing. Like the structure of music, narrative structure provides a rhythm and flow that gives a sensation of order and control to its events.

As Münsterberg also points out, cinematic structure begins with a simple of unity of action. Like a musical work, a cinematic narrative is isolated and self-contained. It has a beginning and an end. Everything in between must follow a single linear thread that grows and develops as time progresses, orientated around the singular premise established at the story’s beginning. Unlike how events occur in real life, the course of a narrative should be free of any distracting elements which do not relate to the premise. Unrelated material will damage a story’s unity the way the inclusion of random errant notes would weaken a musical piece. By focusing the narrative upon one tightly-structured line of action, the storyteller leads the audience to find meaning and emotional fulfillment in events that would be impossible in the distracting chaos of real life.

Conclusion

If anything should be taken away from all of this, it is that a good cinematic story does not provide the audience with reality. Rather, it uses its abilities to defy reality to create a heightened illusion of existence with the capacity to trigger viewer thoughts, emotions, and imaginations, absorbing the viewer in a world where they are mental participants rather than uninvolved observers. This is the magic of cinema. This is what allows its stories more emotional impact than any other dramatic form. This is what the cinematic storyteller must use his or her skills to do.

(Bonus Article) IRON MAN: A Hybrid Mantle

Related articles: The Taking on the Mantle Story Type, Part I: The Crisis of Conscience;  The Taking on the Mantle Story Type, Part II: The Crisis of Character

As I was planning my previous two articles on the Taking on the Mantle story type, I originally wanted to use the 2008 blockbuster Iron Man as one of my examples for the Crisis of Character subtype. However, when the time came to break my study films down and find their hidden connections, Iron Man gave me a lot of trouble. On the outside, it seemed to fit into the Crisis of Character mold alongside other films like as Rushmore and As Good as it Gets. We have the deeply-flawed Tony Stark with his antisocial behavior. Stark begins the story thriving in a pleasant, selfish niche, a niche that is soon torn up by the roots when he is kidnapped by militants. Iron Man also contains the trinity of essential Crisis of Character players; the Flawed Protagonist (Stark), the Character of Attraction (Pepper Potts), and the Character of Disapproval (Lt. Col. Rhodes).

However, outside of this, Iron Man refuses to conform to the clear pattern found in my other study films: It has an outside antagonist, Obadiah Stane (Jeff Bridges). The story sequences did not seem to occur at the appropriate times. Tony Stark feels the urge to change as a person far too soon. And the Characters of Attraction and Disapproval did not have nearly as much influence upon the plot as they are typically expected. I know “gurus” are unusually good at shoehorning existing films into their vague models, but if I tried this, it would all be BS.

At first, I was going to blow it off by saying “Well, it’s a comic book movie. That genre just needs this type of stuff.” Then, looking closer into Iron Man’s plot, I realized something. I had seen its pattern before. Actually, I am embarrassed that I did not recognize it right away. While the film’s setup and character relationships follow the conceits of the Crisis of Character subtype, its plot follows the second subtype, the Crisis of Conscience. Iron Man is a hybrid of both Taking on the Mantle subtypes.

Though Stark has a deeply-flawed personality that prevents meaningful human relationships by pushing people away (Crisis of Character), he is also a character of latent morality who begins his story willfully aligned with a morally ambiguous industry (weapons manufacture) headed by a Force of Darkness character (Obadiah Stane). This second description is a hallmark of a Crisis of Conscience story, as seen in films such as On the Waterfront and Casablanca.

While no one can deny that Iron Man’s story “works” on an audience level, the fact that the film’s story type is six of one and a half-dozen of the other accounts for all the little rocky structural moments I have always felt while watching the film. The film must always compromise one of its formulas for the sake of the other.

Take another look at my previous article on the Crisis of Conscience subtype to observe its form.

While Iron Man’s first act conforms to the structure of a Crisis of Character -- starting with its Protagonist in a comfortable niche which is then pulled up by its roots by outside events -- it also, to a weaker degree, follows the requirements of a Crisis of Conscience first act. Stark is first sent by the Force of Darkness character on a minor mission (to sell the Jericho missile to the US military). This minor mission is necessary to establish the Protagonist’s loyalty to the unethical business he aligns himself with. In true Crisis of Conscience form, the Protagonist is then given a bigger, far more important mission by the Force of Darkness (however, via proxy through the sub-antagonist) – to build a Jericho missile for the militant group The Five Rings. (This sequence provides the film with the first bump in its structural road. Since we do not know until much later that the Five Rings are in league with Obadiah, this sequence feels disconnected from rest of the film to follow and leaves the audience confused over who the real villain of this film might be.)

From this point on, the plot of Iron Man sticks almost exclusively to the Crisis of Conscience form.

Because of the “mission” Stark was given at his inciting incident, he begins his second act in a state of moral dilemma. Should he play it safe and continue towing the company line (continue creating weapons that bring death and destruction), or should he follow a newfound moral urge to break away and do what is right? Unfortunately, Iron Man lacks a key component of the Crisis of Conscience formula that usually helps establish and develop this dilemma. There is no Outside Relationship Character. The Outside Relationship Character is the Crisis of Conscience’s most essential supporting character. He or she is a force of goodness who asks the Protagonist for help, thus becoming the magnet that slowly draws the Protagonist away from the Force of Darkness and onto a righteous path. Iron Man briefly features a character who seems to fill this role, Dr. Yinsin (the man trapped with Stark in the militant’s cave). However, Yinsin dies at the end of the first act. For the rest of the film, instead of a physical character urging the Protagonist towards goodness and justice, Stark is left with simply an abstract feeling that he should “do what is right.” Though admirable, this ambiguous impulse leaves Stark’s motivations a bit hazy for much of the film.

In trues Crisis of Conscience form, Stark’s moral dilemma grows throughout Act 2A. The Force of Darkness notices this change of behavior and warns the Protagonist against it. Just like in On the Waterfront, Casablanca, and Michael Clayton, the Protagonist stays more or less on the fence until the Force of Darkness commits an act so morally reprehensible that the Protagonist can no longer turn a blind eye. Obadiah openly admits to supplying the Five Rings with the weapons they have used for their massacres, as well as who knows what other kinds of evildoers.

At the Midpoint, Stark takes his first decisive action against the Force of Darkness by suiting up as Iron Man and defeating the Five Rings. Then, just like Johnny Friendly in Waterfront or Karen Crowder in Michael Clayton, Obadiah comes to realizes that Stark is now a legitimate threat and must be quickly eliminated.

The Force of Evil tries to destroy the Protagonist at the end of Act 2B. The Protagonist survives. The Protagonist launches himself into Act 3 knowing there is only one right thing to do: fully abandon his old ways and absolutely destroy the Force of Darkness. This is a textbook Crisis of Conscience ending. However, the storytellers managed to execute its action in a way that still manages to come full circle and also fulfill the third act needs of the Crisis of Character: a big selfless action that proves the Protagonist has changed as a person, finally winning over the hearts of both the Character of Attraction and the Character of Disapproval.

This hybridization has both advantages and drawbacks. On the upside, it allows the kind of intense action the comic book genre requires. While Crisis of Character stories focuses mostly upon an internal conflict and personal character growth (in other words, stuff that is not very visually thrilling), the Crisis Conscience is all about taking decisive physical action for what is good and right. On the downside, this form downgrades two characters very important to Stark’s transformation, Pepper Potts and Col. Rhodes, into mere supporting roles. Their relationships with Stark become minor subplots backing up the big action, rather than the main causes of plot developments.

This hybridization can also be seen to a smaller degree in a film discussed in my previous article: Liar, Liar. Fletcher Reede (Jim Carrey) begins the story aligned with a morally ambiguous law film, working underneath a Force of Darkness-like boss. Fletcher is ordered to win a case, a case where it is quite clear that the firm is defending the wrong side. This creates a moral dilemma in Fletcher, eventually leading him to reject the firm. However, once again hybridization has its drawbacks. Liar, Liar’s plot is basically split in two. Throughout the film, the audience remains confused over what the story is really all about: The court case? Or Fletcher’s relationship with his son?

The "Taking on the Mantle" Story Type, Part II: The Crisis of Character

Related articles: The 20 Common Patterns of Plot Progression; The "Taking on the Mantle" Story Type, Part I: The Crisis of Conscience

 
This month’s article took much longer to put together than I expected.

Last month, we broke down the second subtype of the Taking on the Mantle story type, the Crisis of Conscience. (See the article on the 20 Common Patterns of Plot if you have not already. Otherwise, this article will be pretty difficult to understand.) This month, we double back and analyze the first subtype, the Crisis of Character. Despite how common the Crisis of Character subtype first appeared to be when I began my research, its patterns proved quite difficult to spot and nail down. I found that a true Crisis of Character story pattern was not as common as I believed. A number of films I thought to be a Crisis of Character actually belong to its sister type, the Crisis of Conscience (Schindler’s List, Thank-you for Smoking). Some films appeared to fit the subtype upon first glance, but closer analysis revealed details that proved they do not to belong to the Taking on the Mantle category at all (For instance, two John Hughes comedies, Uncle Buck and Home Alone.) However, despite the difficulties, I am proud to say I have cracked the code, and rather than horde this hard-won knowledge, I am going to share it with all of you.

Our study films for this article:

Rushmore

Shrek

As Good as it Gets

Liar, Liar

First, let’s review. A film with the Taking on the Mantle story type contains a plot in which:

The protagonist starts as an antihero – someone who is capable of being a hero, yet is unwilling due to selfishness or some other personal flaw. Events invade the protagonist's life to force him or her to take on the role of a hero. Though the protagonist may face a large threat from a force of antagonism, the protagonist's biggest obstacle is his or her own resistance to personal change. Development occurs when story events force the protagonist to change his or her behavior bit by bit from self-centered to heroic in order to reach the main story goal.

The Taking on the Mantle story type can be divided into two distinct sub-types: The Crisis of Character, and the Crisis of Conscience.

As covered last month, in a Crisis of Conscience (Casablanca, On the Waterfront, Michael Clayton), the Protagonist is a person of latent morality who begins the story aligned with an immoral or ethically dubious Force of Darkness. Events invade the Protagonist’s life that cause him or her to question his or her loyalty to this Force. The Protagonist eventually turns on the Force of Darkness, and defeats it.

The Crisis of Character subtype is quite different. Its Protagonist is a person who begins the story with a deeply-flawed personality. This flaw causes him or her to behave in an antisocial or socially irresponsible manner. Events invade the Protagonist’s life that cause him or her to realize the damage this behavior causes him/herself, and more importantly, others. Eventually, the Protagonist must decide to change the very nature of his or her being for the sake of forging stronger, healthier connections with his or her fellow human beings.

THE MAJOR PLAYERS

The Crisis of Character subtype revolves around the relationships between three essential characters: a Flawed Protagonist, a Character of Attraction, and a Character of Disapproval.

The Flawed Protagonist

Though the Protagonist may be a person of various attractive traits, his behavior is dominated by a major personality flaw. In fact, this flaw has become so pervasive it has come to be the essence of his being. (Since all four protagonists of our study films are male, I will refer to the Protagonist as “he” for the rest of the article for the sake of simpler grammar.) This flaw has built a wall around the Protagonist, socially isolating him from all meaningful contact with other human beings. Though this wall may serve to protect the Protagonist from the outside world and preserve his self-image, it prevents the fulfillment of any emotional needs. Though there may be characters who wish to get closer to the Protagonist, they choose not to, since dealing with the Protagonist’s flawed, self-indulgent personality gives them far more grief than they wish to put up with.

In our study films: Max Fisher (Jason Schwartzman) of Rushmore is about as impressive a young man as you might find. However, he is narcissistic and a borderline-sociopath, making him psychologically incapable of forming any true friendships. Shrek is an antisocial grump who would rather live in total isolation than put up with the difficulties that come from dealing with other persons. Melvin Udall (Jack Nicholson) of As Good as it Gets is an extremely talented author, but he is also a total misanthrope. He protects his obsessive-compulsive lifestyle by gleefully pushing every person away with rude and offensive behavior. Fletcher Reede (Jim Carrey) in Liar, Liar has had great success in his law career, but only because he has zero compulsion against manipulating everyone he meets with dishonesty.

The Character of Attraction

The Character of Attraction is a person with whom the Protagonist, for one reason or another, desires to have a closer, more intimate relationship. This is Miss Cross (Olivia Williams) in Rushmore, Princess Fiona in Shrek, Carol the waitress (Helen Hunt) in As Good as it Gets, and Fletcher’s son Max (that freakin’ kid) in Liar, Liar. Though this character may share the Protagonist’s feelings of attraction to one degree or another, he or she is hip to the Protagonist’s BS. The Character of Attraction

does not wish to get closer to the Protagonist because he or she knows the Protagonist’s flaw makes him too difficult or unpleasant to deal with. Even Fletcher’s son Max, though he may love his father with all his heart, is reluctant to trust Fletcher because he knows his father will constantly let him down. A majority of the story’s focus follows the Protagonist’s attempts to “win over” the Character of Attraction. Thus, this character’s story function is to provide the Protagonist with a tangible motivation to change as a person.

The Character of Disapproval

The Protagonist’s second essential relationship comes from a character loosely linked to the Protagonist through family (Fletcher’s ex-wife Audrey (Maura Tierney) in Liar), duty (see upcoming bonus article on Iron Man), proximity (Simon (Greg Kinnear) in As Good), or a tenuous friendship (Donkey in Shrek and Mr. Blume (Bill Murray) in Rushmore). Though the Character of Disapproval may admire the Protagonist for his

positive traits (if he has any) and hope for a healthy relationship between the two of them, this character openly disapproves of the Protagonist’s flawed behavior and is not afraid to say so. However, unlike the Character of Attraction, the Protagonist does not really give half a damn what the Character of Disapproval thinks. The Character of Disapproval is someone the Protagonist could really take or leave. Throughout the story, the relationship between these characters wavers from friendly to openly antagonistic. The function of the Character of Disapproval is to provide the Protagonist with the constant criticism necessary to slowly move him towards change.

The Antagonist, or Lack Thereof

Though Crisis of Character stories may contain characters who are openly antagonistic or threaten the Protagonist (such as Lord Farquaad in Shrek, or Fletcher’s boss Miranda in Liar), these characters are not the stories’ real antagonists. In a true Crisis of Character, protagonist and antagonist are one and the same person. Rather than being undermined by an outside force, the Protagonist is his own worst enemy. The Protagonist’s personality seems to have two sides: a side that enjoys being flawed and antisocial and wishes to remain that way; and a side that wishes to abandon the flaw and reach out to other persons. This splits the Protagonist like a Dr. Jeckyll & Mr. Hyde. Every time the Protagonist’s good side tries to make progress, the bad side pops up to sabotage everything. For instance, whenever Melvin Udall manages to make any progress with Carol, he is then stupid enough to give in to his old ways and say something offensive. Whenever Shrek gets closer to another person, he feels the compulsion to once again push them away. Just as most films feature a Protagonist and Antagonist who openly wish to destroy one another, so does a Crisis of Character – only this battle takes place completely within the main character’s self.

THE COURSE OF THE PLOT

Shrek is supposed to be a fairy tale. And as a fairy tale, it provides a simple allegory to understand more complicated stories of the same type. Shrek is an ogre. So are Max Fisher, Melvin Udall, and Fletcher Reede (figuratively, of course). Ogres are crude, disagreeable beasts who have no place in polite society. However, Shrek enjoys being an ogre. His disagreeable nature has given him a comfortable, albeit isolated, life. Unfortunately, this self-insulated life is invaded by an event that turns everything upside down. In order to get life back to how he knew it, Shrek is forced to journey outside his life of habit, interact with other persons, and perform tasks for others that he would never do under normal circumstances. 

Only then, something changes in Shrek. By performing these tasks, Shrek comes to realize there is something that feels good about interacting with people, even better than the insulating comfort he felt in isolation. Only this new impulse runs counter to Shrek’s orgeous nature, prompting an internal conflict. Shrek succumbs to his old ways, but only misery follows. In the end, Shrek abandons his ogreous nature for a new one which is willing to embrace others with open arms. By achieving true relationships with others, Shrek finds happiness.

The Setup: A Comfortable Niche

The Protagonist begins the story living within a comfortable, self-created little world. The Protagonist is happy in this world. In fact, he thrives in it – not in spite of his flaw, but because of the flaw. Max Fisher’s narcissism has made a private universe out of Rushmore Academy, a universe where he is king. Melvin Udall’s rejection of humanity has allowed him to insulate himself in a private world where he can embrace his obsessive-compulsive disorder rather than deal with its effects on others. Fletcher Reede’s compulsion to lie has given him a successful law career. In fact, he is one big case away from a promotion to partner. Because this niche is so comfortable, the Protagonist believes his flaw to be a good thing. He sees no need to change, no matter what others may tell him. Only one thing is missing: genuine relationships with other people.

The Inciting Incident to the End of the 1^st Act: Uprooting the Niche

As with any inciting incident, the Protagonist’s life is invaded by an event that disrupts the status quo. But unlike most inciting incidents, the Protagonist is not simply confronted by a threat or a challenge, but by something or a combination of things that completely tear up his comfortable niche by the roots. Max Fisher is expelled from Rushmore Academy. Shrek’s swamp is invaded by banished fairy tale creatures under an order by Lord Farquaad. This uprooting may happen all at once at the inciting incident, or it may happen through a combination of events: one at the inciting incident and another at the end of the first act, with a number of minor disruptions in between. Fletcher Reede’s niche is first disrupted when Max’s birthday wish makes him unable to perform his job and life his life as he is used to. The disruption of Fletcher’s status quo is made total when Audrey tells Fletcher she is moving away and taking Max with her. Melvin’s uprooting begins small when he is forced to take care of Simon’s dog – that is, care for another living creature while having regular contact with the gay neighbor the homophobic Melvin wants nothing to do with. This is already a lot to handle for someone as OCD-ridden as Melvin. But Melvin’s precious life of habit is further torn apart when Carol, the only person in the world whose company Melvin enjoys, is no longer available to wait on him during his daily visit to the cafe. Melvin feels as if his universe is crashing down around him. By the end of the first act, the Protagonist feels lost, confused, and angry as everything he seemed to enjoy in the past has been destroyed.

Act 2A

The Protagonist desperately wants his comfortable niche back again. But to do this, the Protagonist must do the unthinkable: reach out to other human beings. The Protagonist asks the Character of Attraction and/or the Character of Disapproval for assistance. Melvin visits to Carol’s home to demand that she come back to work. Fletcher begs Audrey to change her mind. Max Fisher recruits Mr. Blume to help him speak with Miss Cross. Unfortunately, these other characters do not trust the Protagonist. After all, the Protagonist’s motives remain selfish, and the wall created by the Protagonist’s flaw remains as strong as ever. This failed interaction causes the Protagonist to, possibly for the first time, realize the effects his flawed behavior have on other people. Words alone are not going to reverse the Protagonist’s situation. He needs to take action.

So, the Protagonist takes an action or begins a course of actions in relation to the Character of Attraction he would have never even considered previously in an attempt to restore the status quo. As a side effect, this action forges a stronger bond between the characters. Melvin pays for a private doctor to take care of Carol’s son so Carol will not have to miss work. Max Fisher tries to make an honest go at his new public school with the help of Mr. Blume and Miss Cross as his tutor. Fletcher reaches out to his son in the hopes that the son will reverse his birthday wish. Though some of these actions, such as Melvin’s, may seem altruistic on their surface, they remain selfishly-motivated. All Melvin cares about is getting Carol to wait on him at the restaurant again.

Unfortunately, though these actions may yield a short-term benefit, things do not turn out exactly as the Protagonist expects. This is because the Protagonist’s flaw has kept him from understanding or predicting how other characters may react. Carol wants to reject Melvin’s gift because she believes Melvin wants something sexual out of the deal. Fletcher fails at his attempt to reverse his son’s wish because Max does not want his father to lie again. Max Fisher finds that, instead of drawing Miss Cross closer to him, he has actually driven her into the arms of Mr. Blume.

The Protagonist feels rejected. To his surprise, his stone heart breaks. Through the pain of this emotion, the Protagonist realizes there may be something better in life than his selfish little niche. The Character of Attraction’s rejection causes the Protagonist to realize just how important the Character of Attraction is to him. The Protagonist then changes gears. He realizes that his only course to happiness will come by winning over the Character of Attraction to create a permanent and satisfying relationship between to two of them.

The Protagonist then launches a new mission to do just that. However, this mission is still ill-conceived, since the Protagonist still relies on his flawed behavior to get him through it. Melvin agrees to take Simon on a road trip so he can invite Carol along in the hope of growing closer to her. Only Melvin does himself no favors by how he talks to Simon and Carol on the trip. In Liar, Audrey gives Fletcher an ultimatum he must meet to avoid losing Max. But to fulfill this ultimatum, Fletcher must first get through his court case on time, something he struggles with due to his continued impulse to manipulate every situation through dishonesty. Max Fisher’s mission is the most ill-conceived of all. Max plans to “win Miss Cross back” through the narcissistic destruction of anything that stands in the way of what he sees as their love. This, of course, only pushes Miss Cross further away.

Sooner or later, the Protagonist realizes that the only way to succeed at this mission is by fighting against his flaw and embracing its opposite. The only way happiness will come is by trying to become a better person. These new efforts meet success. Fletcher wins his court case through honest means. Max Fisher and Melvin both find their way to a first kiss with Miss Cross and Carol.

Only this success is short-lived. Immediately after the victory, the Protagonist sabotages himself with an action that seems to ruin any future chance of the Protagonist and Character of Attraction sealing their relationship. Melvin says something so stupid and offensive that Carol never wants to see him again. Miss Cross discovers the duplicity that set up their intimate moment and throws Max out of her house. Fletcher is put in jail for contempt of court, making him unable to stop Audrey from taking Max away. It seems the Protagonist has failed.

Act 3

With the Character of Attraction seemingly out of the picture, the Protagonist has no one else to turn to but the Character of Disapproval. The two reconcile their differences and become honest friends. The Character of Disapproval then encourages the Protagonist to do whatever it takes, no matter how crazy, to win the Character of Attraction back. (Note that in Liar, Liar it is illogical from a story perspective for Fletcher to reconcile with the Character of Disapproval at this point. Since Audrey is the one taking Max away, there would be no more third act if they reconciled here. To get around this, the film achieves this plot point by way of a proxy character: Fletcher’s secretary Greta, a lesser supporting character who has intermittently served as a secondary Character of Disapproval.)

The Protagonist takes one giant final action to prove to the Character of Attraction, and the world in general, how much he or she really means to him. This action must show the lengths the Protagonist is willing to go in order to be worthy of the Character of Attraction’s love. Melvin appears on Carol’s doorstep in the middle of the night to confess his love. Fletcher stops Max and Audrey’s plane from taking off just so he can see Max again. Shrek disrupts Princess Fiona’s wedding to Lord Farquaad. Max stages a big event that atones for not only his wrongs to Miss Cross, but everyone who has been the victim of his narcissism in the past.

By proving himself in such a dramatic fashion, the Protagonist fully and finally abandons the protective wall he has built around himself through his flaw. He is now willing to be vulnerable and emotionally available to the people around him. With such a show, the Character of Attraction has no choice but to give in – maybe not in the way the Protagonist originally wished way back in the first act – but in a way that suggests the Protagonist has achieved happiness and satisfaction, and will continue to do so in the future. This was only possible through a full and total change in character. The Protagonist has abandoned the clothing of a flawed ogre and taken on the mantle of a hero.

The HISTORY of scribbler, PART ONE (Fifth Anniversay Link-stravaganza!)

The end of this month will mark five full years since I began scribbler (originally titled “Uncelebrity” until circumstances inspired a change in format). Since that time, I have constructed over seventy articles detailing my exploration of the dark and hidden corners of screencraft. What began as a loose pile of gripes from a lowly script reader grew into a new method of approach to the cinematic narrative, ultimately leading to the publication of my first comprehensive guide on the subject Screenwriting Down to the Atoms. Today, scribbler remains the only* screenwriting blog on the web dedicated to “Progressive Theory,” with articles that push at the limits of how the craft is taught and understood by challenging old ideas, developing new models, and unearthing discoveries never previously considered.

(*the only one that I know of. And trust me, I have looked. If anyone knows of another, please send me the link. I would love to read it.)

However, one of the difficulties that comes from teaching through a blog is that blogs are by nature a very random method of communication. Like most blogs, scribbler’s monthly articles have little rhyme of reason to their choice of topic other than whatever happened to be on my mind at the time. Some topics are crucial to an understanding of the craft, while others are more trivial. Some are very well-written, while others are a bit rushed. Some articles are difficult to get anything out of unless you first read everything that has preceded it on the subject; articles which are usually buried deep in the blog’s archives. So unless one is willing to go all the way back to the first article and read them all in the order they were posted, it is hard to get the most out of this thing.

So, in recognition of my five-year anniversary I have chosen a selection of what I consider my most useful articles, grouped by subject matter below. I admit I am a little embarrassed by the number of typos and redundancies in some of my early stuff. I was never an English Major and scribbler has never been the most professionally-edited blog on the planet. Luckily, I have gotten better with time. (When I wrote Screenwriting Down to the Atoms, I edited the original manuscript six times to keep it from being blog-sloppy.) Also, some ideas proposed in my early articles turned out to be a bit primitive. Most of the original concepts have been further developed and expanded upon.

Enough self-abasement. Enjoy the articles listed below. Scribble on!

Story Structure

It’s the SPINE, STUPID! (Oct 2009)

The SPINE Expansion Pack: Part I (Oct 2009)

The SPINE Expansion Pack: Part II (Oct 2009)

Plotting by Story Sequences: Quick and Dirty (Jan 2013)

Either Your Script has a GOD, or it Doesn’t: Know the Difference (Aug 2009)

Reconsidering the 3-Act Label (Feb 2012)

Inciting Incident Ignorance (Nov 2011)

I’ve Created a Monster! (The Workings of Acts 2A & 2B) (Feb 2012)

All is NOT Lost (The End of 2nd Act Turning Point) (Sept 2011)

Story Development

STARTING YOUR SCRIPT: The SCRIPTMONK Method (Jan 2011)

Story Time, Story Time! Hooray, it’s Story Time! (Oct 2010)

Things I Learned from DIE HARD: Part II (Dec 2009)

Character

HOW TO WRITE A STORY: A Character-First Understanding (Aug 2010)

Motivationally Speaking (Apr 2011)

Finding Your Character Arc (Sept 2009)

F@#% THE CAT! (Aug 2010)

The Perfect Stranger Syndrome (Mar 2009)

Things I Learned from DIE HARD: Part I (Nov 2009)

Things I Learned from DIE HARD: Part III (Jan 2010)

The 9 Character Alignments (Nov 2011)

Conflict

So What is this “Conflict” Anyway? – Part I: The Theory (Sept 2010)

So What is this “Conflict” Anyway? – Part II: The Practice (Sept 2010)

Forced Decisions (and the lack of free will) (Mar 2011)

Writing the Scene

The “SCENE”: What it is, What it actually does (Dec 2010)

Don’t Pick it Up if You’re Not Going to Use it (May 2010)

The “Atoms of Information” Theory

The Atoms of Cinema (Feb 2009)

Practical Application of the Atoms of Cinema, Part 1 (Apr 2009)

Practical Application of the Atoms of Cinema, Part 2 (Apr 2009)

Practical Application of the Atoms of Cinema, Part 3 (Jun 2009)

Cinematic Algebra, or Things I Learned from DIE HARD: Part IV (Feb 2010)

Story Types

The 20 Common Patterns of Plot (Jun 2011)

The 2(1) Patterns of Plot, Revisted (Jul 2012)

Leone vs. Leone: A Comparison in the Reconciled Rivals Story Type (Oct 2012)

"Sideways" and the Healing Narrative (Dec 2012)

The Taking on the Mantle Story Type – Part I: Crisis of Conscience (Mar 2013)

Theme

Theme & Plot, Theme & Character (Jun 2012)

Dialogue & Description

Getting the Most Out of Your Dialogue (Dec 2008)

Joe Montana and the Art of Good Dialogue (Jul 2009)

How to be a Screenplay Sniper: A Tony Gilroy Guide (Apr 2010)

I H8 VAGUE (Mar 2011)

Rewriting

Understanding Script Feedback: Part 1 (Jun 2009)

Understanding Script Feedback: Part 2 (Jun 2009)

Understanding Script Feedback: Part 3 (Jun 2009)

THIS, is a FOOTBALL!: Rewriting from Scratch (Apr 2012)

Writing Comedy

Laughing at Pain: A Serious Guide to Comedy (Nov 2010)

Comedy Behaving Badly (Dec 2008)

Stop Sucking!

The 10 Worst Ways Your Script Can Suck (Oct 2008)

On Tortoises & Hares (Sept 2012)