Writing Love: Screenwriting Tricks for Authors II
Date: 2000-01-01 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Writing; Non Fiction; Crafts
Description: A revised and expanded second volume of award-winning author and screenwriter Alexandra Sokoloff's Screenwriting Tricks For Authors workbook, with a special emphasis on writing love.Screenwriting is a compressed and dynamic storytelling form and the techniques of screenwriting are easily adaptable to novel writing. You can jump-start your plot and bring your characters and scenes vibrantly alive on the page - by watching your favorite movies and learning from the storytelling tricks of great filmmakers.With this workbook you'll learn how to use techniques of film writing such as:- the High Con

WRITING LOVE

(Screenwriting Tricks for Authors, II)

by

Alexandra Sokoloff

Kindle Edition

Copyright 2011 by Alexandra Sokoloff

All rights reserved.

Cover design by Elaine Sokoloff

For more information about the author, please visit http://alexandrasokoloff.com

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Introduction

PART ONE: STORY STRUCTURE

1. The Master List

2. What's Your Premise?

3. First, You Need an Idea

4. What KIND of Story is It?

5. The Three-Act, Eight-Sequence Structure

6. The Index Card Method

7. Story Elements Checklist

8. Elements of Act One

9. Plan, Central Question, Central Story Action

10. What’s the Plan?

11. Hero/ine, Protagonist, Main Character

12. Hero and Heroine, Lover and Loved One

13. What Makes a Great Villain?

14. Elements of Act Two

15. Elements of Act Two, Part 2

16. Elements of Act Three

17. Top Ten Endings

18. What Makes a Great Climax?

19. Act Climaxes Overview and Examples

20. Expanding on the Key Story Elements

21. Expanded Story Elements Checklist

22. Love Story Elements

23. Fairy Tale Structure

24. Meta Structure

25. "High Concept" and “The Big Book”

26. The Rule of Three

27. Voice

28. First Chapters

29. Theme and Thematic Image Systems

30. Visual Storytelling

31. Creating Suspense

32. Plants and Payoffs

33. Character Introductions

34. Using Character Clusters

35. Your First Draft is Always Going to Suck

36. Top Ten Things I Know About Editing

37. A Process for Writing

PART TWO: STORY BREAKDOWNS

38. The Breakdowns

39. Leap Year

40. While You Were Sleeping

41. Notting Hill

42. Four Weddings and a Funeral

43. The Proposal

44. New in Town

45. Groundhog Day

46. Sense and Sensibility

47. Romancing the Stone

48. Sea of Love

PART THREE: THE BUSINESS

49. Life is a Pitch Meeting

50. How Do I Get a Literary Agent? Or Do I?

51. Internet Resources for Writers

52. So You Want to Know About Screenwriting

53. Recommended Reading

Figure 1: Story Grid

Books By Alexandra Sokoloff

About the Author

Acknowledgments

Introduction

Let me be very clear right up front. This is not a book on writing romance.

This book is a greatly expanded follow-up to Screenwriting Tricks For Authors, a manual that teaches authors how to steal — I mean use — screenwriting and filmmaking techniques to help them write better, more appealing books (and have more fun doing it!). Writing Love contains all of the general story structure material from the first book, and uses examples from all genres to illustrate these story structure principles.

But for this book I have also added a specific focus on the key story elements and structure tricks used in writing love (including love subplots), and the ten story breakdowns in this book are all romantic comedy, romantic adventure, period romance and romantic suspense. So yes, this book should be extremely useful for romance writers (who tend to get a lot out of my workshops anyway), but it’s organized in a way that I hope will be useful to writers of all genres.

Why Film Structure?

Well, let’s face it. Book agents and editors and the whole publishing business in general have been corrupted —I mean, influenced – by Hollywood. The blockbuster mentality is rampant. Even though the bottom line is always a great book, publishing houses increasingly want big ideas; fast, visceral, visual plots; and a big, high concept hook for marketing. And if you’re e-publishing, it’s even more important to make sure your book stands out from the crowd.

But the good news is, that means authors can give themselves an edge by stealing —using — some of these film techniques to make their stories more immediately appealing and easily marketable — and by the way, to create better, more engaging books. I’ve found the film techniques I’ve learned and use as a screenwriter are invaluable in my own novel writing, and I believe — no, actually I know — that any novelist, from aspiring to multi-published, can benefit from these screenwriting tricks of the trade.

A novelist who samples this book will probably be wondering why I spend the bulk of my time analyzing films when I’m talking primarily to authors. Good question.

The thing is, film is such a compressed and concise medium that it’s like seeing an X-ray of a story. In film you have two hours, really a little less, to tell the story. It’s a very stripped-down form that has enormous emotional power. Plus we’ve usually seen more of these movies than we’ve read specific books, so they’re a more universal form of reference for discussion.

It’s often easier to see the mechanics of structure in a film than in a novel.

And even beyond that, studying movies is fun, and fun is something writers just don’t let themselves have enough of. If you train yourself to watch for some of these structural elements, then every time you go to the movies or watch something on television, you’re actually honing your craft (even on a date or while spending quality time with your loved ones!), and after a while you won’t even notice you’re doing it.

When the work is play, you’ve got the best of all possible worlds.

Why Love?

It’s been a year and a half since I wrote Screenwriting Tricks for Authors, and I had been working on a general revision of that book to incorporate all of the new discoveries I’ve been making from writing my own novels, from teaching workshops, and from interfacing with my students and blog readers about their story problems and discoveries. One of the things I most wanted to do, at my readers’ requests, was include more examples from love stories and comedies. I admit it, I’m a thriller writer, and I delve in paranormal, supernatural mystery and sometimes horror, and my teaching examples can run toward the — well, “dark” is a good word, but “homicidal” often fits.

Then as I was reviewing a lot of romantic comedies and romantic suspense for great and teachable examples of key story elements and storytelling techniques, it dawned on me how much more useful it would be to let the first workbook stand as is and move forward by concentrating the new material in this book, and each subsequent book, on just one genre at a time.

I’ve included all the general information on the Three-Act, Eight-Sequence Structure from the first book, and I’ve expanded on the key story elements, so this book will also work just fine as a general introduction to all the story principles I cover in my workshops.

But in this book, we’re also going to look at some particular storytelling tricks of writing love, with ten full story breakdowns of popular and classic romance films.

One powerfully effective technique of developing stronger stories that I am always trying to demonstrate to writers is the idea of working with a Master List, that is, a Top Ten list of their own favorite stories in their specific genre. So it made sense for me to organize this new book by making my own list of ten love stories and analyzing those in-depth, looking closely at how these films handle key elements, both of general storytelling and those elements specific to love stories. (I’ve focused the breakdowns mostly on romantic comedy rather than darker subgenres like urban fantasy, although I do include a romantic suspense and romantic adventure, and a romantic fantasy. I’ll have to save paranormal thrillers and urban fantasy for another book.)

As I worked my way through the list I was finding patterns and elements of love stories that I’d never been consciously aware of before, but after my third or fourth story breakdown I realized how very common certain elements are to love stories of all kinds, and how helpful it is to know and name those elements every time you start out to write a love story — or love subplot.

It’s my hope that you will have the same breakthroughs and discoveries of your own, about whatever genre you work in, as we work through the stories and elements in this book.

So let’s get started, with a general story structure review.

PART ONE: Story Structure

1. The Master List

There are four pillars to these techniques we’re going to be working with:

1. Basic film story structure: the Three-Act, Eight-Sequence structure.

USC Film School teaches it, the screenwriting story structure gurus teach it, all film execs and producers are aware of it even if it’s only in a vague way, and even screenwriters who claim not to follow this structure pattern (and I could name names!) do it to some extent or another. Now you’re going to learn it.

2. The concept of story patterns, types, or kinds.

Along with breaking down basic story structure that is applicable to all genres, we’re going to start looking at the dozens — well, more like hundreds — of story patterns that exist within that basic structure, such as the Chosen One story, the Three-Brother or Three-Sister structure, the Road Trip, False Identity, Reluctant Witness, Fish Out Of Water, the Magical Day … The list is as long as your imagination. I’m not exaggerating when I say this may be the most important concept you ever learn about story structure.

3. Story elements and structures specific to romance and love stories.

Throughout the book I’ll be identifying key story elements and story patterns common to romance, and using examples from popular and classic movies to illustrate these elements.

4. Your own personalized story structure notebook.

In addition to teaching that general Three-Act, Eight-Sequence structure, and analyzing specific story patterns and specific techniques of writing love stories, this book will help you create your own, personalized story structure and genre manual, using novels and films that are specific to the story and genre you’re working on — and more importantly, that have had the maximum emotional and intellectual effect on you.

It’s very simple: in order to write stories like the ones that move you, you need to look at the specific stories that affect you and figure out what those authors and filmmakers are doing to get the effect they do. So you are going to be making a lot of lists: lists of your favorite movies, lists of your favorite hero/ines, lists of your favorite endings.

Every genre has its own structural patterns and its own tricks; screenwriter Ryan Rowe says it perfectly: “Every genre has its own game that it’s playing with the audience.”

For example: With a mystery, the game is “Whodunit?” You are going to toy with a reader or audience’s expectations and lead them down all kinds of false paths with red herrings so that they are constantly in the shoes of the hero/ine, trying to figure the puzzle out.

But with a romantic comedy or classic romance, there’s no mystery involved. We know 99.99% of the time the hero and heroine are going to end up together. The game in that genre is often to show, through the hero and heroine, how we are almost always our own worst enemies in love, and how we throw up all kinds of obstacles in our own paths to keep ourselves from getting what we want.

So if you’re writing a story like Roman Holiday, it’s not going to help you much to study Apocalypse Now. A story that ends with a fallen hero/ine is not going to have the same story shape as one that ends with a transcended hero/ine (although if both kinds of films end up on your list of favorite stories, you might find one is the other in reverse. That’s why you need to make your own lists!)

Once you start looking at the games that genres play, you will also start to understand the games that you most love, and that you want to play with your readers and audience.

I’m primarily a thriller writer and my personal favorite game when I’m watching or writing thrillers is: “Is it supernatural or is it psychological?” I love to walk the line between the real and unreal, so I am constantly creating story situations in which there are multiple plausible explanations for the weird stuff that’s going on, including mental illness, drug-induced hallucinations, and outright fraud. That’s why my master list for any thriller novel or script I write will almost always include The Haunting of Hill House and The Shining, both classic books (and films) that walk the line between the supernatural and the psychological.

And I’ve found that when I write love stories (as in the paranormal series I’ve been doing) or love subplots in my thrillers, I am looking for magical elements as well: the working of synchronicity or fate, the influence of a magical day, and lots of fairy tale elements — all of which are story elements you see working in Sleepless In Seattle, Next Stop Wonderland, Groundhog Day, Notting Hill, and Four Weddings and a Funeral, just to name a few examples.

But what works for me structurally is not necessarily going to do it for you. That’s why my primary goal here is to teach you how to do this for yourself.

If you take the time to list, study and analyze the books and films that have had the greatest impact on you personally, or that are structurally similar to the story you’re writing, or both, that’s when you really start to master your craft. Making the lists and analyzing those stories will help you brainstorm your own, unique versions of scenes and meta-structures that work in the stories on your master list; it will help you figure out how your particular story will work. And doing this analysis will embed story structure in your head so that constructing a story becomes a fun and natural process for you.

Another great benefit of making the master list is that it helps you “brand” yourself as an author. Agents, editors, publishing houses, publicists, sales reps, bookstores, reviewers, Amazon, media interviewers, librarians, and most importantly, your readers — all of these people want to be able to categorize you and your books. You need to be able to tell all of these people exactly what it is you write, and why it’s unique. That’s part of your job as a professional author.

So the first order of business is to make your master list.

And I encourage you to splurge on a nice big beautiful notebook to work in. We poor writers live so much in our heads it’s important to give ourselves toys and rewards to make the work feel less like work, and also to cut down on the drinking.

ASSIGNMENT: Go to an office or stationery store or shop online and find yourself a wonderful notebook to work in.

ASSIGNMENT: List ten books and films that are similar to your own story in structure and/or genre (at least five movies and three books if you’re writing a book, mostly movies if you’re writing a script).

Or if you’re trying to decide on the right project to work on, then make a list of ten books and films that you wish you had written.

I might as well let you know that you’re also going to be making lists of:

• 10 great hero/ines

• 10 great villains

• 10 best endings

So if you’re one of those efficient types I’ve heard talk of, and want to get started on those while you’re brainstorming, it’s always interesting to see how much crossover there is on these lists.

Remember, this list isn’t written in stone! You can change anything you like on it at any time. And honestly, when you’re first doing these lists, it’s often most useful to write the first ten films and books that come to mind, regardless of genre. Doing it fast and without thinking about it too consciously might show you something you never realized about what you’re writing.

ANALYZING YOUR LIST

Now that you’ve got your list, and a brand-new notebook to keep it in, let’s take a look at what you’ve come up with. Here’s my love story list:

• Four Weddings and a Funeral

• Next Stop Wonderland

• Notorious

• Bridget Jones’ Diary

• Notting Hill

• When Harry Met Sally

• Philadelphia Story

• Rebecca

• Bringing Up Baby

• Much Ado About Nothing

• Casablanca

• Sleepless in Seattle

• Lost in Translation

(That’s a list of more than ten, just to demonstrate that the list is whatever you want it to be.)

Now, that’s a list of romantic comedy, which is more along the lines of typical romance, which demands a happily-ever-after ending; classic romance, Casablanca and Rebecca; and subplot romance, like Notorious. As I explained, I’m not delving into urban fantasy and paranormal this time.

Four Weddings and a Funeral and Philadelphia Story are probably my favorites of that list.

Four Weddings appeals to me on a very personal level because writer Richard Curtis, as is his wont, is not just exploring love relationships between two people, or several sets of two people, but also the group love dynamic of a posse of friends. In fact, in that movie, the group dynamic is one of the factors keeping the hero, Charlie (Hugh Grant) from settling down to marry — and has kept every single one of the others single, except for the one truly married couple in the group, the gay couple who can’t legally marry. (Wonderful, scathing truth there).

That group dynamic has always resonated deeply with me, and I imagine it struck a chord for a lot of people. Also, in terms of high concept, the film is great because most of us have experienced that totally exhausting year that every single person you know gets married and your entire social calendar revolves around weddings. I certainly could relate to Hugh Grant burying his head under a pillow as yet another embossed linen envelope arrived in the mail.

But the real beauty of Four Weddings is the underlying theme that there is something magical about a wedding that opens the door to love, not just for the couple involved, but potentially for everyone who attends. The structure of the film is a round-robin, where at each wedding at least two people find the loves of their lives, and we see one of those weddings next, or the preparation for a wedding, or at least the deepening of the relationship with a promise of marriage. This is something I think most of us would like to believe about weddings: that there is an encompassing magic there, a kairos, that invites something life-changing. That story truly delivered on that theme.

When Harry Met Sally is an enduring romantic comedy, not just because of the great chemistry between Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan and the charming documentary clips of elderly couples talking about how they met and fell in love, but because it explores a strong theme: Can a man and woman ever really be friends? And we experience the great treat of watching Billy and Meg first become friends and then fall in love.

Next Stop Wonderland and Sleepless in Seattle are examples of the theme of the soul mate — that there is someone out there who is destined for you, and that the Universe will guide you to that person. Next Stop Wonderland shows two people whose paths cross over and over again, with all kinds of attendant signs that these two people are supposed to be together — but they don’t meet until the last few seconds of the movie. Sleepless in Seattle explores the same kind of fatedness, and similarly keeps the hero and heroine apart until the end of the movie. I admit, this kind of thing just turns me inside out. I would love to believe that there is one person who is all that, and that all of life is conspiring to help you find that person.

Lost in Translation is a bittersweet variation on the soul mate theme: Bill Murray and Scarlett Johansson are two married people (married to other people!) in spiritual crisis who meet each other in a posh hotel in Japan. They are drawn to each other despite their marriages and the big age difference between them, and we feel a simultaneous HOPE and FEAR that they will get together. We want it at the same time we sense it’s wrong. But the story is really about — to me — the concept that we may have lived multiple past lives, with multiple lovers, and sometimes in the midst of a crisis, one of those soul mates will show up to guide you through the dark woods … but not necessarily stay with you. In the Final Battle (the film’s climax), Bill does not sleep with Scarlett, and they part ways, but their lives have been transformed by each other nonetheless.

Notting Hill is an interesting story because there’s no one person who’s the antagonist (even though Alec Baldwin does a charming turn as the rival, the movie star boyfriend). The real obstacle to Hugh Grant’s and Julia Roberts’ relationship is her fame, and each sequence explores a different aspect of that celebrity and how it keeps the couple apart.

Philadelphia Story has a very sophisticated underlying premise: Cary Grant knows that Katharine Hepburn will never be able to love him fully until she steps off her pedestal and has a roll in the mud. It’s only after she abandons herself and sleeps with Jimmy Stewart (oh, come on, you know they did!), that she is fully human to love Cary.

A lot of the stories on your own list will probably be in one particular genre: thriller, horror, mystery, romance, paranormal, historical, science fiction, fantasy, women’s fiction, YA (Young Adult, which has all its own subgenres). And odds are that genre is what you write.

(If you’re not clear on what your genre is, I suggest you take your master list to the library or your local independent bookstore and ask your librarian or bookseller what genre those books and films fall into. These people are a writer’s best friends; please use them, and be grateful!)

But there will also always be a few stories on your list that have nothing to do with your dominant genre, some complete surprises, and those wild cards are sometimes the most useful for you to analyze structurally. Always trust something that pops into your head as belonging on your list. The list tells you who you are as a writer. What you are really listing are your secret thematic preferences. You can learn volumes from these lists if you are willing to go deep.

Every time I teach a story structure class it’s always fascinating for me to hear people’s lists, one after another, because it gives me such an insight into the particular uniqueness of the stories each of those writers is working toward telling.

You need to create your list, and break those stories down to see why they have such an impact on you — because that's the kind of impact that you want to have on your readers. my list isn't going to do that for you. Our tastes and writing and themes and turn-ons are too different, even if they're very similar.

There’s another thing that my list says about me. Quite a few stories on that list are fairy tales of some sort, and the fairy tale structure is one I use over and over in my own writing. But instead of launching right into fairy tale structure (and confusing everyone completely!), I want to give that discussion its own chapter later, after we finish talking about basic structure.

And the first thing you need to understand about structure is the concept of PREMISE.

2. What’s Your Premise?

I am always at one author event or another, which always entails doing the chat thing with people in the bar or whatever pre-dinner cocktail party, and I am always finding myself in basically the same conversation with some aspiring author who has just finished a book. The conversation goes like this:

Me: “What’s your book about?”

Aspiring Author: “Oh, I can’t really describe it in a few sentences— there’s just so much going on in it.”

WRONG ANSWER.

The time to know what your book is about is before you start it, and you damn well better know what it’s about by the time it’s finished and people, like, oh, you know, agents and editors, are asking you what it’s about.

And here’s another tip. When people ask you what your book is about, the answer is not “War” or “Family” or “Betrayal,” even though your book might be about one or all of those things. Those words don’t distinguish your book from any of the millions of books about those subjects.

When people ask you what your book is about, what they are really asking is: “What’s the premise?” In other words, “What’s the story line in one easily understandable sentence?”

That one sentence is also referred to as a “logline” or “one line” (in Hollywood), or “the elevator pitch” (in publishing), or “the TV Guide pitch.” It all means the same thing.

That sentence should give you a sense of the entire story: the character of the protagonist, the character of the antagonist, the conflict, the setting, the tone, the stakes, the genre.

If you’re writing a comedy, that one-line premise should be funny in itself, and also suggest a whole series of comic situations.

If you’re writing suspense, then the danger and fear factor should be clear in the premise, and again, the situation should suggest a whole series of scary situations and danger on multiple levels.

And — it should make whoever hears it want to read the book or see the movie. Preferably immediately. It should make the person you tell it to light up and say: “Ooh, that sounds great!” and “Where do I buy it?”

And if you pitch your premise to another writer and they say, “I could really kill you,” you know you’ve hit the jackpot.

Writing a premise sentence is a bit of an art, but it’s a critical art for authors, and screenwriters, and playwrights. You need to do this well to sell a book, to pitch a movie, to apply for a grant. You will need to do it well when your agent, and your publicist, and the sales department of your publishing house, and the reference librarian, or that Amazon Kindle uploading screen asks you for a one-sentence book description, or jacket copy, or ad copy. You will use that sentence over and over and over again in radio and TV interviews, on panels, and in bookstores (over and over and over again) when potential readers ask you, “So what’s your book about?” and you have about one minute to get them hooked enough to buy the book.

And even before all that, the premise is the map of your book when you’re writing it.

So what are some examples of premise lines?

Name these books/movies:

• When a great white shark starts attacking beachgoers in a coastal town during high tourist season, a water-phobic sheriff must assemble a team to hunt it down before it kills again.

• A young female FBI trainee must barter personal information with an imprisoned psychopathic genius in order to catch a serial killer who is capturing and killing young women for their skins.

• A treasure-hunting archeologist races over the globe to find the legendary Lost Ark of the Covenant before Hitler’s minions can acquire and use it to supernaturally power the Nazi army.

Are those perfectly stated premises? No. But you do get what each story is, right? Notice how all of these premises contain:

– A defined protagonist

– A powerful antagonist

– A sense of the setting, conflict and stakes

– A sense of how the action will play out

Another interesting thing about these premises is that in all three, the protagonists are up against forces that seem much bigger than the protagonist.

Let’s try some love premises:

• A commitment-phobic Englishman falls in love with a beautiful, elusive American during a year in which all the people around him seem to be marrying and finding their mates at a round robin of four weddings — and a funeral.

• A lonely widower and a lonely journalist who live on opposite sides of the country fall in love with each other without ever having met.

• A man and a woman debate the theory that a man and a woman can never really be friends over a period of years in which they become best friends, and then fall in love.

Note that I have not described any of those stories as “This Blockbuster Movie meets That Blockbuster Movie.”

This is a very common mistake that authors make. There is no faster way to make an agent’s, or editor’s, or producer’s, or director’s eyes glaze over than to pitch your book as “It’s When Harry Met Sally meets Jaws!!!!”

Remember that this “method” of pitching was immortalized in The Player, a movie that is a satire of Hollywood. The famous pitch: “It’s Out of Africa meets Pretty Woman!!!” was a joke.

That is not to say it is not done. In fact, the Kirkus review of The Harrowing included the line: “Poltergeist meets The Breakfast Club,” and you better believe my publisher jumped on that and put it on the cover of the paperback. This is a literal description of my book, and I bless Kirkus every day for saying it.

But I, the author, am not allowed to say that. It’s cheating. It’s a joke. You can say it as shorthand to your agent, or to your friends, and your agent can say it that way to your editor.

But I would never pitch it that way myself. It’s just too risky. It’s not the way to sell your book to someone you don’t know. The risk, bluntly, is coming off as an amateur. With your own pitch, you need to be detailed and you need to be specific.

Here’s my premise line for The Harrowing:

Five troubled college students left alone on their isolated campus over the long Thanksgiving break confront their own demons and a mysterious presence — that may or may not be real.

I wrote that sentence to quickly convey all the elements I want to get across about this book.

Who’s the story about? Five college kids, and “alone” and “troubled” characterize them in a couple of words. Not only are they alone and troubled, they have personal demons. What’s the setting? An isolated college campus, and it’s Thanksgiving: fall, going on winter. Bleak, spooky. Plus, if it’s Thanksgiving, why are they on campus instead of home with their families?

Who’s the antagonist? A mysterious presence. What’s the conflict? It’s inner and outer; it will be the kids against themselves, and also against this mysterious presence. What are the stakes? Well, not so clear, but there’s a sense of danger involved with any mysterious presence.

And there are a lot of clues to the genre: it sounds like something supernatural is going on, but there’s also a sense that it’s psychological, because the kids are troubled and this presence may or may not be real, so there’s a mystery there. There’s a sense of danger, too, possibly on several levels.

The best way to learn how to write a good premise line is to practice. I encourage you to take the master list of films and books you’ve made and for each story, write a one-sentence premise that contains all these story elements: protagonist, antagonist, conflict, stakes, setting, atmosphere and genre.

If you need a lot of examples all at once, pick up a copy of the TV Guide, or click through the descriptions of movies on your TiVo or DVR. Those aren’t usually the best written premises, but they do get the point across, and it will get you thinking about stories in brief.

But the very best thing you can do is to spend some time writing out the premises for your master list. Not only is it great practice for crafting premise lines, but it will give you a terrific sense of the elements that you want to see in a story, and quite possibly a good sense of the story patterns that you most enjoy.

ASSIGNMENT: Write out premise lines for each story on your master list, and for your own Work In Progress (WIP).

Do it now, and add those to your fabulous new notebook.

I don’t want to overload anyone on this difficult concept up front, but if you’re comfortable with the idea of premise, you might want to go to Chapter 25 now and continue reading on the High Concept Premise.

And if you don’t have a premise line yet, that’s just fine; the next chapter is about finding that perfect idea.

3. First, You Need An Idea

Generating the initial idea is a part of the writing process that people rarely spend enough time on, and it is crucial if you want to develop a riveting book, even more crucial if you have any hope of earning money as a writer. You are going to spend two years of your life, minimum, on this book of yours (and that's truly a minimum). So even if you do have a great idea already, or if you’re launching into a second draft, I think the thought processes laid out in this chapter are an important step to work through. It’s really useful to allow yourself to do free-form brainstorming, to see what themes and characters are rolling around in your head that might just help you with the new project. Don't you think you better be sure this is the right book to write before you start?

And if you don’t have that great idea yet, this is the way to uncover it.

When people ask authors, “Where do you get your ideas?” authors tend to clam up or worse, get sarcastic — because the only real answer to that is, “Where don’t I get ideas?” or even more to the point, “How do I turn these ideas off?”

The thing is, “Where do you get your ideas?” is not the real question these people are asking. The real question is “How do you go from an idea to a coherent story line that holds up — and holds a reader’s interest - for 400 pages of a book?” Or more concisely: “How do you come up with your PREMISES?”

We all have story ideas all the time. Even non-writers, and non-aspiring writers — I truly mean, everyone – has story ideas all the time. Those story ideas are called daydreams, or fantasies, or often “Porn starring me and Edward Cullen, or me and Stringer Bell,” (or maybe both. Wrap your mind around that one for a second … )

But you see what I mean.We all create stories in our own heads all the time, minimal as some of our plot lines may be. So I bet you have dozens of ideas, hundreds. The real question is: “What’s a good story idea?”

I see two essential ingredients:

a) What idea gets you excited enough to spend a year or two or more of your life completely immersed in it?

and
b) Gets other people excited enough about it to buy it and read it and even maybe possibly make it into a movie or TV series with an amusement park ride spinoff and a Guess clothing line based on the story?

Just a) is fine if you only want to write for yourself.

But both a) and b) are essential if you want to be a professional writer.

I’m all about learning by making lists. Because let’s face it – we have to trick ourselves into writing, every single day, and what could be simpler and more non-threatening than making a list? Anything to avoid the actual rest of it!

So here are two lists to do to get those ideas flowing, and then we can start to narrow it all down to the best one.

List # 1: Make a list of all your story ideas.

Yes, you read that right. All of them.

This is a great exercise because it gets your subconscious churning and invites it to choose what it truly wants to be working on. Your subconscious knows way more than you do about writing. None of us can do the kind of deep work that writing is all on our own. And with a little help from the Universe you could find yourself writing the next Harry Potter or Twilight.

Also this exercise gives you an overall idea of what your THEMES are as a writer (and very likely the themes you have as a person). I absolutely believe that writers only have about six or seven themes that they’re dealing with over and over and over again. It’s my experience that your writing improves exponentially when you become more aware of the themes that you’re working with.

You may be amazed, looking over this list that you’ve generated, how much overlap there is in theme (and in central characters, hero/ines and villains, and dynamics between characters, and tone of endings).

You may even find that two of your story ideas, or a premise line plus a character from a totally different premise line, might combine to form a bigger, more exciting idea.

But in any case, you should have a much better idea at the end of the exercise of what turns you on as a writer, and what would sustain you emotionally over the long process of writing a novel.

Then just let that percolate for a while. Give yourself a little time for the right idea to take hold of you. You’ll know what that feels like; it’s a little like falling in love.

List # 2: The Master List

The other list we’ve already talked about: that list of your ten favorite movies and books in the genre that you’re writing, or if you don’t have a premise yet, ten movies and books that you wish you had written.

It’s good to compare and contrast your idea list with this ideal list.

This list of ten (or more, if you want – ten is just a minimum!) – is going to be enormously helpful to you in structuring and outlining your own novel.

These exercises can easily take a week of straight writing. Read this whole book through first, see some movies, do the breakdowns, work the process however you want to do it – but no matter how you approach it, I hope you come back and try the suggestions in this chapter. It’s a hundred percent worth doing.

4. What KIND of Story is It?

Now that you have an idea, or a lot of them, it’s time to narrow it down a little to just one premise, and be clear about it. Many people struggle mightily with premise. In those initial stages of writing, when your story seems like a hurricane of characters, scene ideas, visual images, and snippets of dialogue, it is so hard to nail precisely what it is that is going to bind the whole wonderful mess together. Believe me, I know.

So before we move on to general overall structure, I want to briefly introduce you to an idea that may help you nail your premise down. It’s actually one of the most important things you will ever learn about structuring a book, or movie, or play: the idea of story patterns or types. You can call it anything you want, but I always think of it as:

What KIND of story is it?

While everything I’m going to talk about concerning general story structure is going to be useful for you, I really think that the best thing that you can do to help yourself with story structure is to look at and compare in depth 5-10 (ten being best!) stories – films, novels, and plays – that are similar in kind (or structural pattern) to yours. Because different kinds of stories have different and very specific structural arcs, and those structures have their own unique and essential elements which are incredibly useful to be aware of so you can use them for yourself.

The KIND of story a story is does not always have anything to do with genre. Let me use a couple of recent movie examples to illustrate this.

– What genre would you call Inception? Something like a sci-fi thriller, right? It’s futuristic, it uses dream technology, it has thriller elements and action. But what really drives Inception is that it’s a caper story (you could also say a heist, or reverse heist), like The Sting, Ocean’s 11, Armageddon, The Hot Rock, and Topkapi. The structure of Inception is a professional dream burglar gathering a team of professionals to pull off a big job, then training for and executing that job. That’s the action of the story. And that’s what made Inception stand out: it crosses a caper story with a sci-fi thriller.

– The Hangover is a guy comedy. But the structure of the story is a traditional mystery: the groom has gone missing during a wild blackout night of a bachelor party, and his friends have to follow the clues to piece together what happened that night and get the groom back (before the wedding!). The action of the story is unraveling that mystery to find the groom. So if you’re writing a story like The Hangover, you want to be looking at how mysteries are put together just as much as you want to be learning from comedies.

– Leap Year is a romantic comedy, but the structure of the story is a road trip: the action of the story is a journey across Ireland. And if you’re writing a road trip story you can learn a lot from taking a look at road trip stories in all genres: Planes, Trains and Automobiles, It Happened One Night, Thelma and Louise, even Natural Born Killers.

So while it’s important to know the general, Three-Act, Eight-Sequence structure, and it’s important to know the patterns of the particular genre you’re writing in, it’s sometimes even more useful to identify the KIND of story you’re writing within that genre.

Once you know the kind of story you’re writing, you can look at examples of that particular story pattern and get a sense of the structural elements and tricks common to that story pattern – the key scenes a reader wants and expects to see in these stories. A Mistaken Identity story, for example, will almost always have threat of discovery, a confidante who knows the score, numerous tests of the hero/ine’s story, scenes of trapping the hero/ine into the role, scenes of the role starting to backfire, and of course, a big unmasking scene, usually at the climax of Act III. Identifying these expected scenes and taking a look at how other storytellers have handled them is a great way of brainstorming unique and fun scenes of your own (See Tootsie, While You Were Sleeping, Roman Holiday).

So what are these story types?

The late and much-missed Blake Snyder said that all film stories break down into just ten patterns that he outlined in his Save The Cat! books. Dramatist Georges Polti claimed there are Thirty-Six Dramatic Situations and outlined those in his classic book.

I think those books on the subject are truly useful; as I say often, I think you should read everything. But I believe you also have to get much more specific than ten plots or even thirty-six.

(I also think it’s plainly lazy to use someone else’s analysis of a story pattern instead of identifying your own. Relying on anyone else’s analysis, and that for sure includes mine, is not going to make you the writer you want to be.)

Personally, I think there are hundreds of story types and kinds.

In a workshop I taught recently, there was a reluctant witness story, a wartime romance story, an ensemble mystery plot, a mentor plot, a heroine in disguise plot, a high school sleuth story. And others.

Each of those stories has a story pattern that you could force into one of ten general overall patterns – I guess – but they also have unique qualities that would get completely lost in such a generalization. And all of those stories could also be categorized in other ways besides “reluctant witness” or “hero in disguise”.

Harry Potter, for example, is what you could call a King Arthur story – the Chosen One coming into his or her own (also see Star Wars, The Matrix…) but it is told as a traditional mystery, with clues and red herrings and the three kids playing detectives (high school sleuth). It’s also got strong fairy tale elements. So if you’re writing a story that combines those three (and more) types of stories, looking at examples of any of those types of stories is going to help you brainstorm and structure your own story.

If you find you’re writing a “reluctant witness” story, whether it’s a detective story, a sci-fi setting, a period piece, or a romance, it’s extremely useful to look at other stories you like that fall into that “reluctant witness” category – like Witness, The Man Who Knew Too Much, Conspiracy Theory, Someone To Watch Over Me, Collateral.

If you’re writing a mentor plot, you could take a look at The Princess Diaries, Silence of the Lambs, Searching for Bobby Fischer, An Officer and a Gentleman, Dirty Dancing – all stories in completely different genres with strong mentor plot lines, with vastly different mentor types.

A Mysterious Stranger or Traveling Angel story has a very specific plotline, too: a “fixer” character comes into the life of a main character, or characters, and turns it upside down – for the good. And the main character, not the Mysterious Stranger, is the one with the character arc (look at Mary Poppins, Shane, Nanny McPhee, and Lee Child's Jack Reacher books).

A Cinderella story, well, where do you even start? Pretty Woman, Cinderella, of course, Arthur, Rebecca, Suspicion, Maid in Manhattan, Slumdog Millionaire, Notting Hill, My Fair Lady, Funny Girl.

A deal with the devil story: The Firm, Silence of the Lambs, Damn Yankees, The Little Mermaid, Rosemary’s Baby, The Picture of Dorian Gray, Devil’s Advocate.

And you might violently disagree with some of my examples, or have a completely different designation for what kind of story some of the above are …

But that is exactly my point. You have to create your own definitions of types of stories, and find your own examples to help you learn what works in those stories. All of writing is about creating your own rules and believing in them.

So this is what I'm trying to say. Identifying genres is not enough. Knowing how general story structure works is not enough. What’s the kind of story you’re writing – by your own definition?

When you start to get specific about that, that’s when your writing starts to get truly interesting.

And when you look at great examples of the type of story you're writing, you'll find yourself coming up with your own, specific story elements checklist, that goes much farther than a general story elements checklist ever could.

Here are just a few dozen examples to get you started brainstorming types of stories:

• Caper/Heist/Con (Inception, Topkapi, Ocean’s 11, Armageddon)

• Mythic Journey or Hero’s Journey (The Wizard of Oz, Lord of the Rings, Star Wars)

• Mentor story (Karate Kid, Good Will Hunting, Dirty Dancing, Silence of The Lambs, An Officer and a Gentleman, The King’s Speech)

• Mystery (too many to list!)

• Cinderella story (Notting Hill, Slumdog Millionaire, Pretty Woman, Titanic)

• The Soul Journey (Eat Pray Love, The Razor’s Edge, Lost Horizon)

• MacGuffin story (“MacGuffin” was Hitchcock’s term for the object or person that everyone in the story wants and is usually racing or fighting to get, like the Ark of the Covenant in Raiders of the Lost Ark, the Maltese Falcon in The Maltese Falcon, the treasure map and the emerald in Romancing the Stone)

• Mistaken Identity or False Identity (Tootsie, While You Were Sleeping, Sommersby, Beloved, Roman Holiday, You’ve Got Mail)

• The Wrong Man (Hitchcock loved to do this type of thriller, with an innocent falsely accused, or set up: The Wrong Man, North by Northwest)

• Forbidden Love (Lost in Translation, Butterfield 8, Casablanca, Sea of Love, Someone to Watch Over Me, Water for Elephants, Roman Holiday)

• Mysterious Stranger or Traveling Angel (Mary Poppins, Shane, the Reacher books, Mrs. Doubtfire, Nanny McPhee)

• Three Brothers (The Godfather, The Deerhunter, Mystic River)

• Reluctant Witness (Witness, Conspiracy Theory, Someone to Watch Over Me)

• Wartime Romance (Casablanca, From Here to Eternity, Gone with the Wind)

• High School Sleuth (Brick, Twilight, Harry Potter stories)

• Trapped (Die Hard, The Poseidon Adventure)

• The Wrong Brother – or Wrong Sister (While You Were Sleeping, Holiday)

• Road Trip (Leap Year; Natural Born Killers; Planes, Trains and Automobiles; It Happened One Night; Thelma and Louise, French Kiss)

• Fairy Tale (there are dozens of sub-genres here, including Cinderella, the Animal Groom, The Three Brothers, The Journey To Find The Lost Loved One, etc.)

• Epic (Gone with the Wind, Gladiator, Kingdom of Heaven, Troy)

• Monster in the House (Alien, The Exorcist, Paranormal Activity, The Haunting)

• The Roommate from Hell (or best friend from hell, first date from hell, neighbor from hell: Fatal Attraction, Morningside Heights, Single White Female, The Roommate)

• Rashomon (Rashomon)

• Redemption (Groundhog Day, Jaws)

• Hero Falls (Chinatown, The Godfather, The Shining)

• Alternate Reality (It’s a Wonderful Life, Groundhog Day, Back to the Future)

A variation of this is “The Road Not Taken” story (Sliding Doors, Family Man)

• Chase/On the Run (The Fugitive, Thelma And Louise, Natural Born Killers)

• Lovers Handcuffed Together (Leap Year, What Happens in Vegas, The Proposal)

• Enemies Handcuffed Together (The Defiant Ones)

• Gaslight (Gaslight, So Evil My Love, Let’s Scare Jessica to Death)

• Alien Attack (Signs, The Day the World Ended, Invasion of the Body Snatchers)

• Slasher (or Ten Little Indians, which was the play and film that started off that genre)

• Changeling Child (Rosemary’s Baby, The Exorcist, The Orphan, Harry Potter)

• Man Against Nature (Jaws, Twister)

• Fish Out of Water (The Proposal, New in Town)

• Ensemble Mystery Plot (Murder on The Orient Express, The Last of Laura, The Spiral Staircase)

• Ensemble Romance (Four Weddings and a Funeral)

• Impostor (While You Were Sleeping, Tootsie)

• The Therapeutic Journey (Good Will Hunting, The Sixth Sense, The King’s Speech)

• Unreliable Narrator (The Usual Suspects, Fallen, The Sixth Sense)

• A Man’s Gotta Do What A Man’s Gotta Do (Jaws, High Noon)

• Descent Into Madness (Apocalypse Now, The Shining, Black Swan, Sunset Boulevard)

And that doesn’t even scratch the surface! Are you starting to get the idea? Have you even already thought of a few of your own that I haven’t listed?

Why not start a section in your notebook to collect all the story types you’re going to be looking out for from now on? Create your own names for them – just like I did above. There’s no right or wrong, here. And the story types you notice are the ones you’re likely to be attracted to in your own writing.

ASSIGNMENT: Take your master list and think through each story. What KINDS of stories are working in each one? There will almost always be more than one kind of story working, but try to identify at least one for each at first.

ASSIGNMENT: Take at look at your own WIP or premise. What KIND of story is that? Do you know? That would be a good thing to figure out, right?

5. The Three-Act, Eight-Sequence Structure

Okay! Now that we have our own master lists and premises, and a hint of the vast variety of story patterns that are available to us out there to use, we are going to step back and talk about basic filmic structure. No matter what KIND of story you’re writing, and no matter what genre it is, it’s almost certainly going to follow this basic storytelling structure, so we need to be clear about that right away.

Movies almost always follow a three-act structure. That means that a 110-page script (and that’s 110 minutes of screen time – a script page is equal to one minute of film time) is broken into an Act One of roughly 30 pages or 30 minutes, an Act Two of roughly 60 pages or 60 minutes, and an Act Three of roughly 20 pages or 20 minutes, because as everyone knows, the climax of a story speeds up and condenses action. If you’re structuring a book, you use the same proportions. In a 400-page book, Act One is about 100 pages (p. 1-100), Act Two is 200 pages (p. 100-300), and Act Three is 100 pages (p. 300-400).

WHY THE THREE-ACT STRUCTURE?

So what is this Three-Act Structure, anyway, and why should you care?

If you know anything about theater you already know this, but I’m sad to have to admit this is not the case for most people these days. So here’s a little – very short! – practical history, that I hope will really drive home the concept of Act Climaxes we are going to be working with.

Three-Act dramatic structure comes from theater, which was around waaaaayy before novels, film, and television; the golden age of Greek theater was, oh, 500-300 B.C., and in this period was developed the dramatic structure on which plays, novels, film and television are based.

Dramatists would be the first to point out that three-act structure is really the natural structure of a story, period, and has been employed since cavemen came back from the hunt and insisted on recounting their huge life-threatening adventures out there to the cavewomen (who naturally had great adventures of their own during the day, but were wise enough to understand even back in those cave days that there are some things men just don’t need to know).

It is often said that the essence of dramatic structure is:

“Get the hero up a tree. Throw rocks at him. Get him down.”

That’s three acts right there. A little simplistic for my taste, but it does give a basic rhythm: Introduce a main character and a problem, intensify the problem, then solve it.

Another bare-bones structure summation that you hear a lot is:

Someone wants something very badly and is having trouble getting it (but eventually does, or doesn’t).

Again, three parts: a heroine with a desire, opposition to the desire, and eventual triumph (or failure).

That basic three-part rhythm of storytelling was set into a standard form by the classical Greek playwrights and is still largely the same today, not just in plays, but in all dramatic media.

Now, wait a minute, you may be saying. Shakespeare’s plays have five acts.

Well, yes, good call! But if you look at Elizabethan plays, their Acts I and II constitute what we’ve been talking about as Act I, their Acts III and IV comprise our Act II, and Act V is Act III (shorter than the others, which the third act almost always is).

Plays were the form of storytelling for thousands of years, because most of the populace of any country couldn’t read, and there was no television yet. So, until the invention of the Gutenberg press, which made the printed word available cheaply (that was 1436, and yes, there was moveable type in China in 1041, but it wasn’t used for mass production and didn’t have the world impact that the Gutenberg press did), plays were the entertainment of the populace (music and sports are different media). The novel wasn’t even invented until – well, that’s up for debate, but anywhere from 1007 to 1740: you can Google “Candidates for the world’s first novel” and decide for yourself.

So because they were the reigning form of dramatic entertainment for thousands of years, plays have had an indelible influence on all of the dramatic media. And what’s important to understand about the structure of plays is that they’re based on how long human beings can reasonably sit in one place without getting bored, restless, hungry, thirsty, and just numb in the posterior – and walking out on the show.

Right?

Same with movies. Admit it – anything over two hours and you’re going to start checking the time on your cell phone.

So plays built in the concept of intermissions, so that people could have breaks and go out and refresh themselves, and sponsors could hawk their wares and make money off the show. Commercials have history, too.

But the tricky thing about intermissions is that once people are out in the lobby drinking and flirting and smoking and doing what they do on a Saturday night, their natural tendency is to want to keep drinking and flirting and all those things that drinking and flirting hopefully lead to.

So it was absolutely crucial for the playwright to end that first act and second act, before each intermission, with something so great and enticing that the audience would come right back into the theater when the lobby lights blink, and not just go carousing into the night.

And that’s how the cliffhanger was born. The “curtain scene,” or just “curtain,” had to be so explosive – such a startling revelation or reversal, such a dramatic shift in the power dynamics of the characters – that the audience would want to come back in to the theater after intermission to find out what happens.

That curtain scene is alive and well today as act climaxes. In movies it’s not quite so evident because the film doesn’t actually stop for a break at the act climax, but that rhythm is definitely there. In network television, you do have an obvious curtain and an intermission, called a “commercial,” and woe betide you if you want to work for television and don’t understand the concept of a cliffhanger before the act break, or “act out.” (I am not a TV writer, and this is not a TV writing book, and I’m being horribly simplistic, but the actual timing of these breaks varies according to where the commercials are set, and Internet delivery of shows changes that drastically. For further information, TVwriter.com is a great resource for aspiring TV writers.)

Now, when you’re reading a book, you can take your intermission any time, and you do. But as an author, you still have to lure your reader back to your book. And readers unconsciously expect act climaxes, because they’re so accustomed to having them in movies, TV, and, yes, books. My point here is: why not understand the concept of the curtain/climax and possibly use the tricks that have kept audiences coming back into the theater, and back from commercial breaks, for thousands of years?

So I implore you: see a good play once in a while. No one does cliffhangers and reversals and revelations better than the great playwrights. Shakespeare, obviously, but any good playwright understands how to do this. For example, I find Lillian Hellman’s curtains just breathtaking; check out The Little Foxes and Another Part of the Forest to see how the whole power dynamics of a ruthless family can turn on a dime, and you can’t wait to get back into the theater to find out WHAT HAPPENS NEXT.

And that is what we’re after, right?

ASSIGNMENT: Start being on the lookout for great climaxes (or curtains or cliffhangers) – theatrical, filmic, and novelistic. In a film, you will be looking at your timer or clock at about 30 minutes, 60 minutes, and 90 minutes to find the act breaks and Midpoint climax, then the final climax at about 110 minutes; in a 400-page novel the climaxes will be around page 100, page 200, page 300, and page 380 or so. Make a page specifically for this in your notebook and add to it, so you’ll have those examples right at your fingertips whenever you need them

THE THREE-ACT, EIGHT-SEQUENCE STRUCTURE

So hopefully we now have somewhat of a grasp on the three acts.

But the real secret of film writing and filmmaking, that we are going to steal for our novel writing, is that most movies are a Three-Act, Eight-Sequence structure. Yes, most movies can be broken up into 8 discrete 12-15-minute sequences, each of which has a beginning, middle and end.

I swear.

The eight-sequence structure evolved from the early days of film when movies were divided into reels (those big physical film reels), each holding ten to twelve minutes of film (movies were also shorter, proportionately!). The projectionist had to manually change each reel as it finished. Well, you’ve probably been in a movie theater when the movie suddenly stopped playing in the middle of a crucial scene. What happens? Near-rioting, that’s what. You never want to interrupt your audience’s, or reader’s, experience of a continuous dream. So early screenwriters incorporated this rhythm of changing reels into their writing, developing sequences with their own beginning, middle, and end, that lasted exactly the length of a reel, and ending with a climactic scene, a startling action, revelation, or question that gave the audience something to wonder about during that beat of reel changing. It’s a cliffhanger kind of effect: give the audience a reason to want to know WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?

If you read older film scripts you can see the sequences numbered right there on the page. And in some older movies you can see a moment of black between sequences.

And modern films still follow that same storytelling rhythm of eight sequences. We are so unconsciously used to that rhythm of storytelling that we actually expect it, because we’ve experienced it in so many films over the course of our lifetimes.

So my point is, again: why fight that rhythm when we can make it work for us?

The eight-sequence structure actually translates beautifully to novel structuring, although you might end up with a few more sequences in the end – a book can be as long as we want it to be (allowing for publisher specifications, of course), so we can have more sequences and longer acts. But I want to get you familiar with the eight-sequence structure in film first, because it’s just a lot easier to see, initially, than it is in a book, and then we’ll go on to talk about the application to novels. As you start to look for sequences in the novels you read, you will start to see how they work there, too.

If you’re new to story breakdowns and analysis, then you’ll probably want to go straight to the Story Breakdowns section of this workbook (Part Two) and watch several, or all, of those movies, following along with my notes, before you try to analyze a movie on your own. But if you want to jump right in with your own breakdowns and analyses, this is how it works:

ASSIGNMENT: Take a film from your master list, preferably the one that is most similar in structure to your own WIP, and screen it, watching the time clock on your DVD player. At about 15 minutes into the film, there will be some sort of climax – an action scene, a revelation, a twist, a big SETPIECE (see the section on Setpiece Scenes, in Chapter 30). It probably won’t be as big as the climax that comes 30 minutes into the film, which would be the Act One climax, but it will be an identifiable climax that will spin the action into the next sequence.)

Proceed through the movie, stopping to identify the beginning, middle, and end of each sequence, approximately every 15 minutes. Also make note of the bigger climaxes or turning points: Act One Climax at 30 minutes, the Midpoint Climax at 60 minutes, Act Two Climax at 90 minutes, and Act Three Climax at whenever the movie ends.

NOTE: You can also say that a movie is really four acts, breaking the long Act Two into two separate acts. It would make more sense, really, to call it a Four-Act Structure, but it’s hard to fight several thousand years of “The Three-Act Structure.” For the purposes of this book, I break Act Two into two halves, Act II, Part 1, and Act II, Part 2.

In many movies, a sequence will take place all in the same location then move to another location after the climax of the sequence. The protagonist will generally be following just one line of action in a sequence, and then when s/he gets that vital bit of information in the climax of a sequence, s/he’ll move on to a completely different line of action, based on the new information. You can also often recognize a sequence change by a big shift from night to day, or day to night, or a time lapse. A good exercise is to title each sequence as you watch and analyze a movie; that gives you a great overall picture of the progression of action.

Also be aware that in big, sprawling movies like Gone with the Wind, and Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, sequences may be longer or there may be a few extras. It’s a formula and it doesn’t always precisely fit, but as you work through your master list of films, unless you are a surrealist at heart, you will be shocked and amazed at how many movies precisely fit this eight-sequence format. When you’re working with as rigid a form as a two-hour movie, on the insane schedule that is film production, this kind of mathematical precision is kind of a lifesaver.

My advice is that you eventually watch and analyze all ten of your master list movies (and books). But one at a time.

Then once you’ve watched a movie for basic overall structure, you should go back and watch it again and this time fill in the structure grid that I’m going to talk about in the next chapter, THE INDEX CARD METHOD.

And every time you see a movie now, for the rest of your life, look for the sequences and act climaxes. You’ll see – it becomes a game, that is also one of the best writing practices you can practice.

6. The Index Card Method

This is the number one structuring tool of most screenwriters I know.

Get yourself a pack of index cards. You can also use Post-Its, and the truly OCD among us use colored Post-Its to identify various subplots by color, but I find having to make those kinds of decisions just fritzes my brain. I like cards because they’re more durable and I can spread them out on the floor for me to crawl around and for the cats to walk over; it somehow feels less like work that way. Everyone has their own method –experiment and find what works best for you.

Now, get a corkboard or a sheet of cardboard big enough to lay out your index cards in either four vertical columns of 10-15 cards, or eight vertical columns of 5-8 cards, depending on whether you want to see your story laid out in four acts or eight sequences. A tri-fold board, like the ones kids use for science projects, is ideal: it’s already divided perfectly into four right-sized columns. You can get them at Office Depot or Staples for just a few bucks.

You can draw lines on the board to make a grid of spaces the size of index cards if you’re very neat (I’m not!) – or just draw four columns and a horizontal line across the middle to make eight rectangles to structure your space. Write Act One at the top of the first column, Act Two: 1 at the top of the second (or third if you’re doing eight columns), Act Two: 2 at the top of the third (or fifth), Act Three at the top of the fourth (or seventh).

Then write a card saying Act One Climax and pin it at the bottom of column one, Midpoint Climax at the bottom of column two, Act Two Climax at the bottom of column three, and Climax at the very end. If you already know what those scenes are, then write a short description of them on the appropriate cards. These are scenes that you know you must have in your story, in those places – whether or not you know what they are right now.

And now also label the beginning and end of where eight sequences will go. (In other words, you’re dividing your board into eight sections – either four long columns with two sections each, or eight shorter columns, whatever feels right to you.).

Look at Figure 1 at the end of this book for an example.

Now you have your structure grid in front of you.

What you will start to do now is brainstorm scenes, and that you do with the index cards.

A movie has about 40 to 60 scenes (a drama more like 40, an action movie more like 60). So take 40 or 60 cards, and all you do at first is write down all the scenes you know about your story, a very short description of each scene, one per card. This is the fun part, like putting together a jigsaw puzzle. You don’t have to put the cards in order yet, but if you know where they go, or approximately where they go, you can just pin them on your corkboard in approximately the right place. You can always move them around. And just like with a puzzle, once you have some scenes in place, you will naturally start to build other scenes around them.

You can also make cards for all of the Story Elements in the checklist from Chapter 7, and cards for the Love Story Elements from Chapter 22 that you might be able to use in your story. You don’t even have to know what happens in those scenes, you can just make vague and general cards like: HEROINE REVEALS HER GHOST and HERO AND HEROINE FORCED TO SHARE A BED. This is about brainstorming. The details will come. (I’m a firm believer that just asking the questions will prompt your creative brain to leap into overdrive and come up with the right scenes. Our minds and souls long to be creative, they just need us to stop stalling and get our asses in gear.)

I love the cards because they are such an overview. You can stick a bunch of vaguely related scenes together in a clump, rearrange one or two, and suddenly see a perfect progression of an entire sequence. You can throw away cards that aren’t working, or make several cards with the same scene and try them in different parts of your story board to see where that scene might fit best.

You will find it is often shockingly fast and simple to structure a whole story this way.

And this eight-sequence structure translates easily to novels. Now, if you’re structuring a novel this way, you may be doubling or tripling the scene count, but for me, the chapter count remains exactly the same: forty to sixty chapters to a book. And you might have an extra sequence or two per act, but I think that in most cases you’ll find that the number of sequences is not out of proportion to this formula. With a book, you can have anything from 250 pages to 1000 (well, you can go to 1000 only if you’re a mega-bestseller!), so the length of a sequence and the number of sequences is more variable. But an average book these days is between 300 and 400 pages, and since the recession, publishers are actually asking their authors to keep their books on the short side, to save production costs, so why not shoot for that to begin with?

I write books of between 350 – 400 pages (print pages), and I find my sequences are about 50 pages, getting shorter as I near the end. But I might also have three sequences of around 30 pages in an act that is 100 pages long. You have more leeway in a novel, but the structure remains pretty much the same.

In the next chapters we’ll talk about various obligatory scenes that you can plug into this formula to make the structuring go even more quickly: scenes that you’ll find in nearly all stories, like opening image, closing image, introduction of hero/ine, inner and outer desire, stating the theme (as early in the story as possible), call to adventure/inciting incident, introduction of allies, love interest, mentor, opponent, hero/ine’s and opponent’s plans, plants and reveals, setpieces, training sequence, dark night of the soul, sex at sixty, hero/ine’s arc, moral decision, etc.

There are separate chapters coming up for Act One, Act Two, Part 1, Act Two, Part 2, and Act Three, that detail the different elements of each act, but I thought it would be useful for you all to have just a basic list that you can use when you’re watching a film or doing the index cards for your own story, so I’ll put that list as the next chapter, for easy reference.

And for those of you who are reeling in horror at the idea of a formula … relax. It’s just a way of analyzing dramatic structure. No matter how you create a story yourself, chances are it will organically follow this flow. Think of the human body: human beings (with very few exceptions) have the exact same skeleton underneath all the complicated flesh and muscles and nerves and coloring and neurons and emotions and essences that make up a human being. No two alike … and yet a skeleton is a skeleton; it’s the foundation of a human being.

And structure is the foundation of a story.

ASSIGNMENTS: Make two blank structure grids, one for the movie you have chosen from your master list to analyze, and one for your WIP. You can just do a structure grid on a piece of paper for the movie you’ve chosen to analyze, but I recommend you also do a large corkboard or cardboard/trifold structure grid for your WIP. You can fill out one structure grid while you watch the movie you’ve chosen.

Get a pack of index cards and write down all the scenes you know about your story, and where possible, pin them onto your WIP structure grid in approximately the place they will occur. Play with those cards every day until you have a whole story mapped out.

If you are already well into your first draft, then by all means, keep writing forward, too – I don’t want you to stop your momentum. Use whatever is useful about what I’m talking about here, but also keep moving.

And if you have a completed draft and are starting a revision, a structure grid is a perfect tool to help you identify weak spots and build on what you have for a rewrite. Put your story on cards and watch how quickly you start to rearrange things that aren’t working!

Now, let me be clear. When you’re brainstorming with your index cards and you suddenly have a full-blown idea for a scene, or your characters start talking to you, then of course you should drop everything and write out the scene, see where it goes. always write when you have a hot flash. I mean – you know what I mean. Write when you’re hot.

In your initial brainstorming you may be working on four piles of material, or tracks, at once:

1. The index cards you’re brainstorming and arranging on your structure grid.

2. A notebook of random scenes, dialogue, character descriptions that are coming to you as you’re outlining, and that you can start to put in chronological order as this notebook gets bigger.

3. An expanded on-paper (or in Word) story outline that you’re compiling as you order your index cards on the structure grid.

4. A collage book of visual images that you’re pulling from magazines that give you the characters, the locations, the colors and moods of your story. (see Chapter 30, Visual Storytelling, for more about this. In fact, I strongly suggest you read the chapter on Visual Storytelling sooner rather than later.)

And at that the beginning of a project you will probably be going back and forth between all of those tracks as you build your story. Really this is my favorite part of the writing process: building the world. Which is probably part of why I stay so long on it myself. But by the time I start my first draft I have so much of the story already that it’s not anywhere near the intimidating experience it would be if I hadn’t done all that prep work.

At some point (and a deadline has a lot to do with exactly when this point comes!), I feel I know the shape of the story well enough to start that first draft. Because I come from theater, I think of my first draft as a blocking draft. When you direct a play, the first rehearsals are for blocking – which means simply getting the actors up on their feet and moving them through the play on the stage so everyone can see and feel and understand the whole shape of it. That’s what a first draft is to me, and when I start to write a first draft I just bash through it from beginning to end. It’s the most grueling part of writing, and takes the longest, but writing the whole thing out, even in the sketchiest way, from start to finish, is the best way I know to actually guarantee that I will finish a book or a script.

Everything after that initial draft is frosting; it’s seven million times easier to rewrite than to get something onto a blank page.

Then I do layer after layer after layer: different drafts for suspense, for character; sensory drafts, emotional drafts, each concentrating on a different aspect that I want to hone in the story, until the clock runs out and I have to turn the whole thing in.

But that’s my process. You have to find your own. If outlining is cramping your style, then you’re probably a “pantser” – not my favorite word, but common book jargon for a person who writes best by the seat of her pants. And if you’re a pantser, the methods I’ve been talking about have probably already made you so uncomfortable that I can’t believe you’re still here!

Still, I don’t think it hurts to read about these things. I maintain that pantsers have an intuitive knowledge of story structure – we all do, really, from having read so many books and having seen so many movies. I feel more comfortable with this rather left-brained and concrete process because I write intricate plots with twists and subplots I have to work out in advance, and also because I simply wouldn’t ever work as a screenwriter if I weren’t able to walk into a conference room and tell the executives and producers and director the entire story, beginning to end. It’s part of the job.

But maybe what you need to do is just ignore every bit of what I’ve just said, do a first draft completely by the seat of your pants, and then take a look at how you might be able to use some of these concepts to improve your book in your rewriting process.

I can’t say this enough: WHATEVER WORKS. Literally. Whatever. If it’s getting the job done, you’re golden.

A NOTE ON OVERDOING IT

Is there a danger of overdoing this structure and analysis work?

Can you overwork your outline, or try to do just too damn much – like trying to force every single one of these concepts in? Or spend so much time on outlining and reworking your structure that you never get to the actual writing?

Yes, of course you can. Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder is almost always a problem for creative people. You have to be fairly obsessed to succeed at anything, and obsession feeds on itself. There’s a point at which obsessive outlining, or obsessive anything, can become counterproductive. You have to know that tendency in yourself and stop yourself when you feel yourself becoming hung up.

The bottom line of all this method is just one thing: teach yourself how to write the kinds of stories that you love, that work for you, by analyzing the books and films that turn you on, and figuring out what those storytellers are doing to create the effects they do.

That’s really the main thing I’m trying to show you here, and then I’m throwing in a lot of general structure information and technique that I’ve learned from theater and film and novel writing. Because for me, it all helps.

ASSIGNMENT: As a writer, it’s important to know yourself, and understand what works best for you. So I urge you to spend some time pondering, and writing on, this question: Are you a plotter or pantser? What are your process quirks?

7. Story Elements Checklist

STORY ELEMENTS CHECKLIST FOR GENERATING INDEX CARDS

ACT ONE

• Opening image

• Meet the hero or heroine

• Hero/ine’s inner and outer desire

• Hero/ine’s problem

• Hero/ine’s ghost or wound

• Hero/ine’s arc

(And yes, in a love story with an equal hero and heroine, each character must have all of the previous five elements!)

• Inciting Incident/Call to Adventure

• Meet the antagonist (and/or introduce a mystery, which is what you do when you’re going to keep your antagonist hidden to reveal at the end)

• State the theme: What’s the story about?

• Allies

• Mentor (possibly. May not have one or may be revealed later in the story)

• Love interest

• Plants/Reveals (or: Set ups and Payoffs)

• Hope/Fear (and Stakes)

• Time Clock (possibly. May not have one or may be revealed later in the story)

• Sequence One climax

• Central Question/Central Story Action (and possibly Plan, though that might come early in Act II)

• Act One Climax

ACT TWO, PART ONE

• Crossing the Threshold/ Into the Special World (may occur in Act One)

• Threshold Guardian/Guardian at the Gate (possibly)

• Hero/ine’s Plan

• Antagonist’s Plan

• Picking up new Allies

• Bonding with Allies and Love Interest

• The Promise of the Genre

• Assembling the Team (in some stories)

• Training Sequence (in some stories)

• Series of Tests

• Attacks by the Antagonist (whether or not the Hero/ine recognizes these as coming from the antagonist)

• In a detective story, Questioning Witnesses, Lining Up and Eliminating Suspects, Following Clues.

THE MIDPOINT

• Completely changes the game

• Locks the hero/ine into a situation or action

• Can be a huge revelation

• Can be a huge defeat

• Can be a “now it’s personal” loss

• Can be sex at 60 – the lovers finally get together, only to open up a whole new world of problems

ACT TWO, PART TWO

• Recalibrating – after the shock or defeat of the game-changer in the midpoint, the hero/ine must Revamp the Plan and try a New Mode of Attack.

• Escalating Actions/Obsessive Drive

• Hard Choices and Crossing the Line (immoral actions by the main character to get what s/he wants)

• Loss of Key Allies (possibly because of the hero/ine’s obsessive actions, possibly through death or injury by the antagonist)

• A Ticking Clock (can happen anywhere in the story)

• Reversals and Revelations/Twists.

• The Long Dark Night of the Soul and/or Visit to Death (also known as: All Is Lost)

• In a romance, The Lover Makes a Stand

THE SECOND ACT CLIMAX

• Often can be a final revelation before the end game: the knowledge of who the opponent really is

• Answers the Central Question

ACT THREE

The third act is basically the Final Battle and Resolution. It can often be one continuous sequence – the chase and confrontation, or confrontation and chase. There may be a final preparation for battle, or it might be done on the fly. Either here or in the last part of the second act the hero will make a new, FINAL PLAN, based on the new information and revelations of the second act.

The essence of a third act is the final showdown between protagonist and antagonist. It is often divided into two sequences:

1. Getting there (Storming the Castle)

2. The final battle itself

• Thematic Location – often a visual and literal representation of the Hero/ine’s Greatest Nightmare

• The protagonist’s character change

• The antagonist’s character change (if any)

• Possibly ally/allies’ character changes and/or gaining of desire

• Possibly a huge final reversal or reveal (twist), or even a whole series of payoffs that you’ve been saving (as in Back to the Future and It’s a Wonderful Life)

• RESOLUTION: A glimpse into the New Way of Life that the hero/ine will be living after this whole ordeal and all s/he’s learned from it.

• Closing Image

8. Elements of Act One

So, now that we’ve talked about the index card method, and basic filmic structure and how it might be applied to novels, the natural question is: What actually goes into a first act?

The first act of a movie (first 30 script pages/30 minutes) or book (first 100 pages, approximately) is the SET UP. By the end of the first act you’re going to be introduced to all the major players of the story, the themes, the location, the visual image system, the conflicts, and especially the main conflict.

When you’re making up index cards, you can immediately make up several cards that will go in your first act column. You may or may not know what some of those scenes look like already, but either way, you know they’re all going to be there:

• Opening Image

• Meet the Hero or Heroine

• The Ordinary World

• Hero/ine’s Inner and Outer Desire

• Hero/ine’s Problem

• Hero/ine’s Ghost or Wound

• Hero/ine’s Arc

(And yes, in a love story with an equal hero and heroine, each character must have all of the previous five elements!)

• Inciting Incident/ Call to Adventure

• Meet the Antagonist (and/or introduce a Mystery, which is what you do when you’re going to keep your antagonist hidden to reveal at the end)

• State the Theme/ What’s the story about?

• Sequence One Climax

• Introduce Allies

• Introduce Mentor (possibly)

• Introduce Love Interest

• Plants/Reveals (or: Set ups and Payoffs)

• Hope/Fear (and Stakes)

• Time Clock (possibly. May not have one and may be revealed later in the story)

• Central Question/Central Story Action

• Hero/ine’s Plan

• Act One Climax

Yeah, it’s a lot! And these are elements that are present in all genres; we haven’t even gotten to the specific love story elements yet.

That’s why first acts are often the most revised and rewritten sections of the story. It’s also why it’s often the section most in need of cutting and condensing. The answer is usually combining scenes. Every element on that list (except optional elements like the mentor and the ticking clock) has to be present, but they all have to be introduced within such a limited time frame (and page frame) that you simply have to make each scene work on multiple levels.

Let’s break these things down. I’ll do a quick overview here, but we’re going to go in-depth into some of these elements later on.

OPENING IMAGE

In a film, you have an opening image by default, whether you plan to or not. It’s the first thing you see in the film. But good filmmakers will use that opening image to establish all kinds of things about the film – mood, tone, location, and especially theme. Think of the opening image of Witness: the serene and isolated calm of wind over a wheat field. It’s the world of the Amish, the non-violent, unhurried world into which city violence will soon be introduced. It’s a great contrast with the next images to come: the chaos and noise of the city. This is a great opening image because it also suggests the climax, which takes place in the grain silo; one of the villains is killed by the spill of grain.

The opening image of Notting Hill is actually a montage of movie star Anna Scott’s career: newspaper headlines, magazine spreads, photo shoots, paparazzi tailing her at premieres and the Oscars. This montage sets up this story’s unusual antagonist; it’s Anna’s fame that is the constant opposition to Will and Anna’s love in this Cinderella story.

The opening image of New in Town is the frozen tundra of New Ulm, Minnesota (in December!), an arctic wasteland compared to the heroine’s Miami home. Of course this sets up the Special World into which fish-out-of water Lucy will be thrust. But the film also uses the images of snow and ice to represent Lucy’s frozen emotions, which will thaw and then melt during the course of this romantic comedy.

Well, what I’m suggesting is that we novelists can steal this idea of opening image to write much more powerful opening pages. We’ll be talking more about that soon.

MEETING THE HERO/INE

Of course you’re going to devise an interesting, clever and evocative introduction to your main character. (And there’s a whole chapter on Character Introductions coming up.) But there are a whole lot of structural details that you need to get across about your hero/ine from the very beginning. You have to know your character’s INNER AND OUTER DESIRES and how they conflict.

I go into the idea of inner and outer desires in depth in an upcoming chapter, so for now I’ll just say that it’s usually true that the external desire will be a selfish want – something the protagonist wants for him or herself; and the inner need will be unselfish – something the protagonist comes to want for other people. This is a useful guideline to follow because it clearly shows character growth. But in love stories, there’s usually a more general sense that a hero/ine’s outer desire is for a person (and usually the wrong person!) but their inner desire is to be a better and more complete person, something that s/he is usually best able to accomplish through making a true partnership with the love interest.

Closely entwined with the inner/outer desire lines is the ARC of the character (since you are devising the end of your story at the same time as you’re planning the beginning, right?). The arc of the character is what the character learns during the course of the story, and how s/he changes because of it. It could be said that the arc of a character is almost always about the character realizing that s/he’s been obsessed with an outer goal or desire, when what s/he really needs to be whole, fulfilled, and lovable is _________ (fill in the blank). On top of that, a character will progress, for example: from shy and repressed to a capable and respected leader, from selfish to altruistic, from pathological liar to a seeker of truth. And the bigger the change, the more impact the story will have, as long as you keep it believable.

So it’s essential to know where you want your character to end up, and then work backward to create a number of personal obstacles and external problems that are keeping that character from being everything s/he can be.

THE HERO/INE’S IMMEDIATE PROBLEM

This can mean the Hero/ine’s inner need, but there is often, but not always, one immediately apparent problem that the hero/ine needs to solve, and quickly (such as the threat of deportation in The Proposal). This can be the INCITING INCIDENT, but is not always. Some stories don’t have this kind of external problem; the problems come later, when, for example, the hero tries to pursue the love interest and is in some way blocked from doing so.

THE ANTAGONIST

The antagonist, opponent, villain deserves his/her own chapter. For now I’ll just say, either you’ll be introducing the antagonist in the first act, or you’ll be introducing a mystery or problem or crisis that has been set in motion by the antagonist.

But – it must be said immediately that in many love stories the main antagonist is actually the lover. This is not necessarily so; sometimes there is an obvious outside opponent, or several. When the lover is the main opponent, what you generally see is a DOUBLE REVERSAL: both the protagonist and antagonist change, with significant character arcs, so that they can ultimately be together happily.

ALLIES

Also in the first act, you’ll probably set up most of the hero/ine’s allies: the sidekick, the co-worker, the roommate, the best friend, the love interest, the brother or sister. Allies can also be introduced in other acts of the story.

MENTOR

Not all stories have mentors, and the mentor might not be introduced until sometime in the second act.

LOVE INTEREST

This character generally plays a dual role: the love interest can also be the antagonist (as you find in most love stories), an ally, or a mentor.

INCITING INCIDENT/CALL TO ADVENTURE (also called INCITING EVENT)

This is the event that starts the story and forces the hero/ine to react.

In The Proposal, the Canadian heroine Margaret is threatened with deportation because her visa has expired – a pressing EXTERNAL PROBLEM that forces her to react, and quickly (so she pressures her assistant to marry her to keep her legally in the country).

In Sense and Sensibility, the Dashwood women, including sisters Elinor and Marianne, lose their home and all they have when their father dies and the house and estate go to their half-brother according to the law of primogeniture.

In Leap Year, Anna’s very long-term boyfriend gives her earrings instead of the engagement ring she was expecting, and Anna decides to fly to Ireland to propose to him on Leap Day, when any man proposed to by a woman is traditionally required to accept.

In It’s Complicated, Meryl Streep has ex-sex with her ex-husband Alec Baldwin at their son’s graduation, and the two are back into an affair, even though he has remarried.

In Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, an owl delivers Harry’s invitation to Hogwart’s School. (The Call to Adventure is very often a literal phone call, summons, knock on the door, or mailed invitation.)

Each of these incidents propels the hero/ine into action. S/he must make a decision – to take the job, accept the task, or answer the call. This is not an optional step for you, the writer – it is a crucial part of every story.

Joseph Campbell and Christopher Vogler detail another step here: THE REFUSAL OF THE CALL. The hero/ine is often (not always!) reluctant to take that step into adventure and at first says no to the job. When you think about it, it’s human nature to resist change, so a little reluctance on the part of the hero/ine can bring some psychological truth to your story, as well as dramatic tension.

Also note that the INCITING INCIDENT and CALL TO ADVENTURE may be the same scene, or they can be two separate scenes. But we’ll talk more about that later.

HOPE/FEAR (and STAKES)

Just as good storytellers will be sure to make it perfectly clear what the main character’s inner and outer desires are, these storytellers will also be very clear about what we HOPE and FEAR for the main character. Generally what we hope for the character is the same as her or his INNER NEED. In It’s a Wonderful Life, we HOPE George Bailey will keep defying villainous Mr. Potter and continue building houses and doing good for people in the town. We FEAR Potter will drive George and his family into ruin (and George possibly to suicide). Our FEAR for the character should be the absolute worst-case scenario: in a drama, mystery or thriller, we’re talking madness, suicide, death, ruin. In a comedy or romance the stakes are more likely the loss of love – but that means you have to make that love and the potential loss of it meaningful.

Our awareness of the stakes may grow along with the main character’s growing awareness, but in most stories there are clues to the bigger picture right from the beginning. And I need to point out that what we HOPE and FEAR for the main character is often quite different from what the character hopes and fears for herself: because we are able to see what or who she really needs.

STATEMENT OF THEME

A reader or audience will get restless if they don’t have a good idea of what the story is within the first five (I’d even say three) minutes of a movie, or the first twenty pages of a book. Sometimes it’s enough to have just a sense of the central conflict. But often good storytellers will make it perfectly clear what the theme of the story is, and very early on in the story. In the first act of It’s a Wonderful Life, George is impatient to leave pokey little Bedford Falls and go out in the world to “do big things.” George’s father tells him that in their own small way, he feels they are doing big things at the Building and Loan; they’re satisfying one of the most basic needs of human beings by helping them own their own homes. This is a lovely statement of the theme of the movie: that it’s the ordinary, seemingly mundane acts that we do every day that add up to a heroic life.

In Sea of Love, the filmmakers set up protagonist Frank’s obsession with his ex-wife right from the start – which mirrors the killer’s obsessive love for his ex-wife that is driving him to murder. It’s a major theme of the story and we get it right up front.

FIRST ACT CLIMAX and CENTRAL QUESTION/CENTRAL STORY ACTION

We talked about sequence and act climaxes in the chapter on the Three-Act Structure – that an act climax will have a reversal, revelation, and often a setpiece and/or change of location that spins the story into the next act. What we didn’t talk about is the idea of the Central Question of the story.

I will be didactic here and say that by the end of the first act you must have given your reader or audience everything they need to know about what the story is going to be about: what kind of story it is, who the hero/ine and antagonist (or mystery) are, and what the main conflict is going to be. It’s useful to think of the story as posing a Central Question:

– New in Town: Will corporate executive Lucy be able to streamline the struggling factory and get that promotion?

– Leap Year: Will Anna get across Ireland to Dublin in time to propose to her boyfriend on Leap Day?

– The Proposal: Will Margaret and Andrew be able to fake a marriage convincingly enough to prevent Margaret from being deported?

It’s the question on which the entire action of the story hinges, and it’s usually answered definitively at the climax of the second act (and usually with a twist), so we’ll talk more about it in the chapter on Act Two.

PLAN

The Central Story Action is directly related to the protagonist’s PLAN to get what s/he wants, or thinks she wants. (Although sometimes the Central Story Action and Plan are more the protagonist’s reaction to the antagonist’s Plan.)

Plan, Central Question and Central Story action are usually set up in the first act, but they are the crux of the second act, and maybe the most important key elements to understand about your story, so I’m going to give them a couple of chapters of their own, coming right up.

ACT ONE CLIMAX

The climax of an act is very, very often a SETPIECE SCENE: there’s a dazzling, thematic location, an action or suspense sequence, an intricate set, a crowd scene, even a musical number (as in The Wizard of Oz and, more surprisingly, Jaws). This is a hugely important concept for you to understand, and I talk more about setpieces in Chapter 30, Visual Storytelling.

But let’s cover the basics right now. There are multiple definitions of a setpiece. It can be a huge action scene like, well, anything in The Dark Knight or Inception, that takes weeks to shoot and costs millions, requiring multiple sets, special effects and car crashes … or a meticulously planned suspense scene with multiple cuts that takes place all in – a shower, for instance, in Psycho.

If you start watching movies specifically to pick out the setpiece scenes, you’ll notice an interesting thing. They’re almost always used as act or sequence climaxes. They are tent poles holding the structure of the movie up … or jewels in the necklace of the plotline. The scenes featured in the trailers to entice people to see the movie. The scenes everyone talks about after the credits roll.

Harry Potter walking through that brick wall into Diagon Alley in the first Harry Potter. Folding up Paris and the zero gravity fight in the hotel corridor in Inception. The goofy intergalactic bar in Star Wars. Munchkinland, the Scarecrow’s cornfield, the dark forest, the poppy field, the Emerald City, the witch’s castle in The Wizard of Oz. These things often cost millions to shoot in a film, but we authors have unlimited budgets (our imaginations!) to create spectacular locations and visuals and action scenes. Even a party scene or a night out in a club can be as lush and beautiful (or edgy and exciting) as you dream it can be. Any filmmaker would kill for the freedom to do what we can do with setpieces, so please, be grateful and take full advantage!

Actually, this might just be a good time to stop, take a breath, and watch some movies, to see all of these techniques we’re talking about in action (and pay particular attention to setpieces!). Again, only use any of these techniques that appeal to you or that you think will help.

ASSIGNMENT: In this workbook I’ve included full story breakdowns and analyses of ten different romance movies.

If you really want to see how the Elements of Act One function, get hold of three of those movies, and watch the first act of one of the films, looking for the elements I’ve discussed here. Then read my Act One breakdown for that film, and watch the first act again. Do that with three movies in a row, and you will be super-prepared to start analyzing the films on your own list.

And I’m sure you realize this, but I’m going to say it anyway. The reason that I’m having you break down several movies of your choice for the story elements is to make it easier for you to identify these same story elements in your own story.

9. Plan, Central Question, Central Story Action

“I don’t care what the plan is as long as we have one.”

– Kevin Bacon in Tremors

These interrelated key story elements are so important I’m going to give them a couple of chapters of their own before we go on.

You always hear that “Drama is conflict,” but when you think about it –what the hell does that mean, practically?

It’s actually much more true, and specific, to say that drama is the constant clashing of a hero/ine’s PLAN and an antagonist’s, or several antagonists’, PLANS.

In the first act of a story, the hero/ine is introduced, and that hero/ine either has or quickly develops a DESIRE. She might have a PROBLEM that needs to be solved, or someone or something she WANTS, or a bad situation that she needs to get out of, pronto.

Her reaction to that problem or situation is to formulate a PLAN, even if that plan is vague or even completely subconscious. But somewhere in there, there is a plan, and storytelling is usually easier if you have the hero/ine or someone else (maybe you, the author) state that plan clearly, so the audience or reader knows exactly what the expectation is.

And the protagonist’s plan (and the corresponding plan of the antagonist’s) actually drives the entire action of the second act. Stating the plan tells us what the CENTRAL ACTION of the story will be. So it’s critical to set up the plan by the end of Act One, or at the very beginning of Act Two, at the latest.

Let’s look at some examples of how plans work.

I’m going to start, improbably, with the actioner 2012, even though I thought it was a pretty terrible movie overall.

Now, I’m sure in a theater this movie delivered on its primary objective, which was a rollercoaster ride as only Hollywood special effects can provide. Whether we like it or not, there is obviously a massive worldwide audience for movies that are primarily about delivering pure sensation. Story isn’t important, nor, apparently, is basic logic. As long as people keep buying enough tickets to these movies to make them profitable, it’s the business of Hollywood to keep churning them out.

But in 2012, even in that rollercoaster ride of special effects and sensations, there was a clear central PLAN for an audience to hook into, a plan that drove the story. Without that plan, 2012 really would have been nothing but a chaos of special effects.

If you’ve seen this movie (and I know some of you have … ), there is a point in the first act where a truly over-the-top Woody Harrelson as an Art Bell-like conspiracy pirate radio commentator rants to protagonist John Cusack about having a map that shows the location of “spaceships” that the government is stocking to abandon planet when the prophesied end of the world commences.

Although Cusack doesn’t believe it at the time, this is the PLANT (sort of camouflaged by the fact that Woody is a nutjob), that gives the audience the idea of what the PLAN OF ACTION will be: Cusack will have to go back for the map in the midst of all the cataclysm, then somehow get his family to these “spaceships” in order for all of them to survive the end of the world.

The PLAN is reiterated, in dialogue, when Cusack gets back to his family and tells his ex-wife basically exactly what I just said above: “We’re going to go back to the nutjob with the map so that we can get to those spaceships and get off the planet before it collapses.”

And lo and behold, that’s exactly what happens; it’s not only Cusack’s PLAN, but the central action of the story, that can be summed up as a CENTRAL QUESTION: Will Cusack be able to get his family to the spaceships before the world ends?

Or put another way, the CENTRAL STORY ACTION is John Cusack getting his family to the spaceships before the world ends.

(Note the ticking clock, there, as well. And as if the end of the world weren’t enough, the movie also starts a literal “Twenty-nine minutes to the end of the world!” ticking computer clock at, yes, 29 minutes before the end of the movie. I must point out here that ticking clocks are dangerous because of the huge cliché factor. We all need to study structure to know what not to do, as well.)

And all this happens about the end of Act I. Remember that I said that it’s essential to have laid out the CENTRAL QUESTION and CENTRAL STORY ACTION by the end of Act I? But also at this point – or possibly just after the climax of Act I, in the very beginning of Act II – we need to know what the PLAN is. PLAN and CENTRAL QUESTION are integrally related, and I keep looking for ways to talk about it because this is such an important concept to master.

A reader/audience really needs to know what the overall PLAN is, even if they only get it in a subconscious way. Otherwise they are left floundering, wondering where the hell all of this is going.

In 2012, even in the midst of all the buildings crumbling and crevasses opening and fires booming and planes crashing, we understand on some level what is going on:

– What does the protagonist want? (OUTER DESIRE) To save his family.

– How is he going to do it? (PLAN) By getting the map from the nutjob and getting his family to the secret spaceships (that aren’t really spaceships).

– What’s standing in his way? (FORCES OF OPPOSITION) About a million natural disasters as the planet caves in, an evil politician who has put a billion dollar price tag on tickets for the spaceship, a Russian Mafioso who keeps being in the same place at the same time as Cusack, and sometimes ends up helping, and sometimes ends up hurting. (Was I the only one queased out by the way all the Russian characters were killed off, leaving only the most obnoxious kids on the planet?)

Here’s another example, from a much better movie:

At the end of the first sequence of Raiders of the Lost Ark (which is arguably two sequences in itself, first the action sequence in the cave in South America, then the university sequence back in the US), Indy has just finished teaching his archeology class when his mentor, Marcus, comes to meet him with a couple of government agents who have a job for him (CALL TO ADVENTURE). The agents explain that Hitler has become obsessed with collecting occult artifacts from all over the world, and is currently trying to find the legendary Lost Ark of the Covenant, which is rumored to make any army in possession of it invincible in battle.

So there’s the MACGUFFIN, the object that everyone wants, and the STAKES: if Hitler’s minions (THE ANTAGONISTS) get this Ark before Indy does, the Nazi army will be invincible.

And then Indy explains his PLAN to find the Ark: his old mentor, Abner Ravenwood, was an expert on the Ark and had an ancient Egyptian medallion on which was inscribed the instructions for using the medallion to find the hidden location of the Ark.

So after hearing the plan, we understand the entire OVERALL ACTION of the story: Indy is going to find Abner (his mentor) to get the medallion, then use the medallion to find the Ark before Hitler’s minions can get it.

And even though there are lots of twists along the way, that’s really it: the basic action of the story.

Generally, PLAN and CENTRAL STORY ACTION are really the same thing – the Central Action of the story is carrying out the specific Plan. And the CENTRAL QUESTION of the story is – “Will the Plan succeed?”

Again, the PLAN, CENTRAL QUESTION and CENTRAL STORY ACTION are almost always set up – and spelled out – by the end of the first act, although the specifics of the Plan may be spelled out right after the Act I Climax at the very beginning of Act II.

Can it be later? Well, anything’s possible, but the sooner a reader or audience understands the overall thrust of the story action, the sooner they can relax and let the story take them where it’s going to go. So much of storytelling is about you, the author, reassuring your reader or audience that you know what you’re doing, so they can sit back and let you drive.

If you haven’t done this yet, take a favorite movie or book (or two or three) and identify the PLAN, CENTRAL STORY ACTION and CENTRAL QUESTION and them in a few sentences. Like this:

– In Philadelphia Story, Cary Grant’s PLAN is to break up Katharine Hepburn’s wedding by sending in a photographer and journalist from a tabloid, which he knows will agitate her and her whole family to the point of explosion. (So the CENTRAL ACTION of the story is using the journalists to break up the wedding, and the CENTRAL QUESTION is: Will he be able to break up the wedding?)

– In Inception, the PLAN is for the team of dream burglars to go into a corporate heir’s dreams to plant the idea of breaking up his father’s corporation. (So the CENTRAL ACTION is going into the corporate heir’s dream and planting the idea, and the CENTRAL QUESTION is: Will they succeed?)

– In Sense and Sensibility, the PLAN is for Marianne and Elinor to secure the family’s fortune and their own happiness by marrying well. (How are they going to do that? By the period’s equivalent of dating – which is the CENTRAL ACTION. Yes, dating is a PLAN! The CENTRAL QUESTION is: Will the sisters succeed in marrying well?)

– In The Proposal, Margaret’s PLAN is to learn enough about Andrew over the four-day weekend with his family to pass the INS marriage test so she won’t be deported. (The CENTRAL ACTION is going to Alaska to meet Andrew’s family and pretending to be married while they learn enough about each other to pass the test. The CENTRAL QUESTION is: Will they be able to successfully fake the marriage?

Now, try it with your own story!

– What does the protagonist WANT?

– How does s/he PLAN to do it?

– What and who is standing in his or her way?

For example, in my latest thriller, Book of Shadows, here's the Act One set up: the protagonist, homicide detective Adam Garrett, is called on to investigate the murder of a college girl, which looks like a Satanic killing. Garrett and his partner make a quick arrest of a classmate of the girl's, a troubled Goth musician. But Garrett is not convinced of the boy's guilt, and when a practicing witch from nearby Salem insists the boy is innocent and there have been other murders, he is compelled to investigate further.

So Garrett’s PLAN and the CENTRAL ACTION of the story is to use the witch and her specialized knowledge of magical practices to investigate the murder on his own, all the while knowing that she is using him for her own purposes and may well be involved in the killing. The CENTRAL QUESTION is: will they catch the killer before s/he kills again – and/or kills Garrett (if the witch turns out to be the killer)?

– What does the protagonist WANT?To catch the killer before s/he kills again.

– How does he PLAN to do it? By using the witch and her specialized knowledge of magical practices to investigate further.

– What’s standing in his way? His own department, the killer, and possibly the witch herself. And if the witch is right … possibly even a demon.

It’s important to note that the Plan and Central Action of the story are not always driven by the protagonist. Usually, yes. But in The Matrix, it’s Neo’s mentor Morpheus who has the overall PLAN, which drives the central action right up until the end of the second act. The Plan is to recruit and train Neo, whom Morpheus believes is “The One” prophesied to destroy the Matrix. So that’s the action we see unfolding: Morpheus recruiting, deprogramming and training Neo, who is admittedly very cute, but essentially just following Morpheus’s orders for two thirds of the movie.

Does this weaken the structure of that film? Not at all. Morpheus drives the action until that crucial point, the Act Two Climax, when he is abducted by the agents of the Matrix, at which point Neo steps into his greatness and becomes “The One” by taking over the action and making a new plan: to rescue Morpheus by sacrificing himself.

It is a terrific way to show a huge character arc: Neo stepping into his destiny. And I would add that this is a common structural pattern for mythic journey stories – in Lord of the Rings, it's Gandalf who has the PLAN and drives the reluctant Frodo in the central story action until Frodo finally takes over the action himself.

Here’s another example. In the very funny romantic comedy It’s Complicated, Meryl Streep’s character Jane is the protagonist, but she doesn’t drive the action or have any particular plan of her own. It’s her ex-husband Jake (Alec Baldwin), who seduces her and at the end of the first act, proposes (in an extremely persuasive speech) that they continue this affair as a perfect solution to both their love troubles – it will fulfill their sexual and intimacy needs without disrupting the rest of their lives.

Jane decides at that point to go along with Jake’s plan (saying, “I forgot what a good lawyer you are”). In terms of action, she is essentially passive, letting the two men in her life court her (which results in bigger and bigger comic entanglements), but that makes for a more pronounced and satisfying character arc when she finally takes a stand and breaks off the affair with Jake for good, so she can finally move on with her life.

I would venture to guess that most of us know what it’s like to be swept up in a ripping good love entanglement, and can sympathize with Jane’s desire just to go with the passion of it without having to make any pesky practical decisions. It’s a perfectly fine – and natural – structure for a romantic comedy, as long as at that key juncture, the protagonist has the realization and balls – or ovaries – to take control of her own life again and make a stand for what she truly wants.

I give you these last two examples – hopefully – to show how helpful it can be to study the specific structure of stories that are similar to your own. As you can see from the above, the general writing rule that the protagonist drives the action may not apply to what you’re writing – and you might want to make a different choice that will better serve your own story. And that goes for any general writing rule.

ASSIGNMENT QUESTIONS: Have you identified the CENTRAL ACTION of your story? At what point in your book does the reader have a clear idea of the protagonist’s PLAN? Is it stated aloud? Can you make it clearer than it is?

10. What’s The Plan?

Now, if the hero/ine were able to carry out the plan without a hitch, it wouldn’t make for very good drama, right? So once you’ve got your initial plan, you need to be constantly blocking that plan, either with your antagonist, or the hero/ine’s own inner conflict, or outside forces beyond her or his control.

I’d like to demonstrate how this is done by following a plan through a classic movie. Not a love story, I’m afraid, but instructive nonetheless, and there are plenty of love story examples in the Breakdowns section.

When in Jaws, Sheriff Brody is confronted with the problem of a great white shark eating people in his backyard (ocean), his initial PLAN is to close the beach to swimmers. He throws together some handmade “Beaches Closed” signs and sticks them in the sand. Problem solved, right?

Yeah, right.

If that initial plan had actually worked, Jaws wouldn’t have made a hundred zillion dollars worldwide, not to mention cinematic history. The whole point of drama (including romance and comedy) is that the hero/ine’s plan is constantly being thwarted: by the main antagonist, by any number of secondary and tertiary opponents, by the love interest, by the weather, or by the hero/ine him or herself (because you know we’re all our own worst enemies!).

So almost always, the initial plan fails. Or if it seems to succeed, it’s only to trick us for a moment — before we realize how wretchedly the plan has failed. That weak initial effort is because it’s human nature to expend the least effort possible to get what we want. We only take greater and more desperate measures if we are forced to. And a hero/ine being forced to take greater and more desperate measures is one of the cornerstones of dramatic action.

Now, in Jaws, the primary antagonist is the shark. The shark’s PLAN is to eat. Not just people, but whatever. (Interestingly, that plan seems to evolve … )

Brody’s initial PLAN of closing the beaches might actually have solved his problem with the shark, because without a steady supply of food, the beast probably would have moved on to another beach with a better food supply.

But Brody’s initial PLAN brings out a secondary antagonist: the town fathers, led by the mayor (and with a nice performance by co-screenwriter Carl Gottleib as the newspaper editor). They don’t want the beaches closed, because the summer months, particularly the Fourth of July weekend, represent 70 percent (or something like that) of the town’s yearly income. The officials’ PLAN is to keep the beaches open, a direct conflict. So the town fathers obliquely threaten new sheriff Brody with the loss of his job if he closes the beaches, and Brody capitulates.

This proves disastrous and tragic, when the very next day (as Brody watches the water from the beach, as if that’s going to prevent a shark attack) another swimmer, a little boy, is killed by the shark, practicing its PLAN.

The town fathers hold a town meeting and decide on a new PLAN: they will close the beaches for twenty-four hours. Brody disagrees, but is overruled. Eccentric ship’s captain Quint offers his services to kill the shark —for ten grand. The town fathers are unwilling to pay.

In response, Brody develops a new PLAN, one we see often in stories: he contacts an expert from afar, oceanographer Matt Hooper, a shark specialist, to come in and give expert advice.

Meanwhile a new antagonist, the mother of the slain little boy, announces a PLAN of her own: she offers a bounty for any fisherman who kills the shark who killed her son.

The bounty brings on a regatta of fishermen from up and down the eastern seaboard. One of these crews captures a tiger shark, which the mayor is quick to declare is the killer shark. Case closed, problem solved, and the beaches can be reopened. Hooper is adamant that the shark is far too small to have caused the damage done to the first victim, and wants to cut the shark open to prove it. The mayor refuses, and is equally adamant that there is no more need for Hooper. We see that Brody secretly agrees with Hooper, but wants to believe that the nightmare is over. However, when the dead boy’s mother slaps Brody and accuses him of causing her son’s death (by not closing the beaches), Brody agrees to investigate further with Hooper (PLAN) and they cut the shark open themselves to check for body parts. Of course, it’s the wrong shark.

Brody’s revised PLAN is to talk the mayor into closing the beaches, but the mayor refuses again, and goes on with his plan to reopen the beaches (and highly publicize the capture of the “killer” shark).

The beaches reopen for 4th of July and the town fathers’ failsafe PLAN is to post the Coast Guard out in the ocean to watch, just in case. While everyone is distracted by a false shark scare, the real shark glides into a supposedly secure cove where Brody’s own son is swimming, and eats a boater and nearly kills Brody’s son. (And the timing is so diabolical that it almost seems the shark has a new PLAN of its own: to taunt Brody.)

At that point the mayor’s PLAN changes: he writes a check for Quint and gives it to Brody, to hire Captain Quint to kill the shark. But that’s not enough for Brody, now. He needs to go out on the boat with Quint and Hooper himself, despite his fear of the water, to make sure this shark gets dead (NEW PLAN).

This happens at the story’s MIDPOINT, and it’s a radical revamp of Brody’s initial plan (which always included avoiding going in the water himself, at all cost). And it’s very often the case that at the midpoint of a story, the initial PLAN is completely shattered.

And yet, Brody is still not ultimately committed. For the next half of the second act, he allows first Quint and then Hooper to take the lead on the shark hunt. Quint’s PLAN is to shoot harpoons connected to floating barrels into the shark and force it to the surface, where they can harpoon it to death. But the shark proves far stronger than anyone expected, and keeps submerging, even with barrel after barrel attached to its hide.

And now a truly interesting thing happens. The shark, supposedly a dumb beast, starts to do crafty things like hide under the boat so the men think they’ve lost it. It seems to have a new, intelligent PLAN of its own. And when the men’s defenses are down, the shark suddenly batters into the ship and breaks a hole in the hull, causing the boat to take on alarming quantities of water, and making the men vulnerable to attack.

Brody’s PLAN at that point is to radio for help and get the hell off the boat. But in the midst of the chaos, Quint suddenly turns into an opponent himself by smashing the radio — he intends to kill this shark himself.

Hooper takes over now and proposes a new PLAN: he wants to go down in a shark cage to fire a poison dart gun at the shark. But the shark attacks the cage, and then as the boat continues to sink, the shark leaps half onto the deck and eats Quint.

Brody is now on his own against the shark, and in one last, desperate Hail Mary PLAN (the most exciting kind in a climax), he shoves an oxygen tank into the shark’s jaws and then fires at the shark until the tank explodes, and the shark goes up in bloody bits. As almost always, it is only that last ditch plan, in which the hero/ine faces the antagonist completely on his or her own, that saves the day.

I hope this little exercise gives you an idea of how it can be really enlightening and useful to focus on and track just the plans of all the main characters in a story and how they clash and conflict, especially how they FAIL. Because every time a plan fails, it requires a recalibration and a new action, which builds tension, suspense, emotional commitment, and excitement.

If you find your own plot sagging, especially in that long middle section, try identifying and tracking the various plans of your characters. It might be just what you need to pull your story into new and much more exciting alignment.

And here’s a hint: you may find it useful to put those huge failures of the plan at your Midpoint, and at the Act Two Climax — the Dark Night of the Soul/All Is Lost scene. Every time your hero/ine loses big, it makes the reader wonder WHAT HAPPENS NEXT, and that’s what we’re after, here. You want your reader to be as desperate as your hero/ine is to win.

ASSIGNMENT: Those of you who already have your book outlined or a first draft may well want to take some time to track the opposing PLANS throughout your story.

(Those of you who are still just outlining may not want to jump into this until we’ve gotten farther with story elements.)

11. Hero/ine, Protagonist, Main Character

Instead of going straight on to Elements of Act Two, I’m going to do a few chapters on character, namely, the two characters who make up the heart, soul, and skeleton of your story: the hero/ine and the villain (aka the protagonist and antagonist). The underlying tension of any story is the continual clash between the hero/ine and the villain; essentially, they are your story.

But if you are already happily into your index cards, and want to skip ahead to Elements of Act Two and keep going, absolutely, do it!

First, a disclaimer. While I am perfectly comfortable expounding about how to structure a story, I am not so comfortable talking about how to create character.

I think — I’m pretty positive, really — that most writers have characters in their heads from a very early age. Maybe all people do, because that’s what fantasy is, and we all daydream about being other people, or superfantastic versions of ourselves. So in a way we’re all creating character all the time.

And I think we all have our own processes for creating character, especially our main characters, who may very well be some version of ourselves … or who may arrive breaking down some door in your mind and demanding to be written about. Some people dream characters whole. All of that is fantastic. I would never in any way want to get in the way of whatever someone else’s process is — and I think the only real rule there for writing is: “Whatever works.” And I mean, anything.

To be perfectly honest, creating character is not a very explicable process, for me. I think what I do is create a space for them: a situation, a theme, the beginnings of a story —– and then pray like hell that the characters will show up to inhabit it. Which, thank God, they always do. And then from there they do most of the work.

In other words, it’s magic — or possibly my friend, author J.D. Rhoades, is right; it’s mental illness —and I don’t know how to explain magic or mental illness. Quite possibly I don’t want to know.

The fact is, if you’ve gotten so far as to be actually writing a book or script, chances are you have a main character already, either in mind, or very developed. So whatever that is, and however you got there, I don’t want to interfere with that!

But besides being a person who may already be more real to you than most of the people you know, a protagonist, or hero/ine, or main character, is also a function in a story. And knowing the classic components of a protagonist can help you focus your story, and also broaden and deepen the qualities you already know about your character.

I do think there are things that are teachable about creating character. My best general advice is always: take an acting class. Take a lot of them. Read books on acting and creating character: Michael Shurtleff’s excellent Audition, which is about so much more than auditioning, Stanislavski’s acting series, Michael Chekhov’s acting books. Watch The Actor’s Studio. Learn how to develop and play characters yourself, even on a basic level, and it will translate to your writing.

But beyond that, I’d like to suggest that you can develop a great protagonist — or any other character you create — through the same process that I’ve been advocating for creating the structure of your story.

Make a list.

ASSIGNMENT: Who or what are your top ten hero/ines? And I don’t mean make a list for the ages, or for popular consumption, I mean for you. Again, mix it up, books and films.

You don’t have to think too hard about it, either, when you’re listing. It might be more useful to do the list fast and see what comes up, because that non-thinking list will be more relevant to your present project, or a brewing project. These lists are never written in stone, either — you can make a whole different list tomorrow.

Breaking it down, analyzing the specifics, is like doing scales on the piano, or doing dance technique exercises at the barre. It gives you the foundation and the strength and coordination for the magic of art to happen.

My favorite heroes and heroines, off the top of my head:

• George Bailey in It’s a Wonderful Life

• Hamlet

• Alicia in Notorious

• Clarice Starling in Silence of the Lambs

• Meg Murry in A Wrinkle in Time

• Alice in Alice in Wonderland

• Elizabeth Bennett in Pride and Prejudice (and her modern-day counterpart, Bridget Jones)

• Eve in The Lady Eve

• Jane Tennison in Prime Suspect

• Beatrice in Much Ado About Nothing

Well, let’s take a look at that list, then. Almost all women, right? Not too hard to see where that’s coming from. Some of these people I identify with. Some I just want to take the journey with. Hamlet, I’ve always had a wicked crush on, and you know, the soliloquies.

George Bailey because he’s a true hero. I think Indiana Jones and James Bond are hot and all, but that’s just not heroism to me. Heroism is about real life, and fighting real life evil, which is why George Bailey and Clarice Starling are on the list.

The women on the list have a lot in common: they’re razor sharp, often battling sexism in their fields or simply in the eras in which they live, and they’re fiercely independent, not easy to relate to or tame. Some of them have big wounds. A number of them are fighting evil, in human form or something bigger than human.

I also have a couple of very young female protagonists on that list: Meg Murry and Alice. And I enjoy writing from a young adult perspective, so that makes sense.

But for me, one of the most telling entries on my list is Alice, because I find myself writing that particular story pattern over and over and over again, whether it’s with a female protagonist or male. I love Alice because she’s such a rational little girl who falls into a big adventure with completely surreal characters all around her, and goes through trippy, inexplicable experiences. I grew up in Berkeley and that was pretty much my sense of life, and I don’t think I’ve ever grown out of that.

It really is interesting to me that I constantly put my own main characters into that same kind of journey that Alice goes on; they have to make sense of a world and people who are wildly eccentric and sometimes magical.

Now that you have your own list, take some time to analyze it the way I just did mine. Then let’s take a look at some of the classic components of a protagonist, and see if you can identify these characteristics in your own favorite protagonists.

INNER AND OUTER DESIRE

The first thing any acting student learns in terms of creating a character and building a scene is to ask the question: “What do I WANT?” — in every scene, and in the story overall. When I was directing plays (in one of my multiple past lives) and a scene was just lying dead on the stage, I could always get the actors to breathe life into it by getting them to clarify what they wanted in the scene and simply playing that want.
This is something that starts in the writing, obviously, and should always be on the author’s mind, too: Who wants what in the scene, and how do those desires conflict? Who WINS in the scene?

But even before all that, one of the most important steps of creating a story, from the very beginning, is identifying the protagonist’s overall DESIRE and NEED in the story. You also hear this called “internal” and “external” desire, and “want” and “deep need,” but it’s all the same thing. A strong main character will want something immediately, like to get that promotion, or to have sex with the love interest. But there’s something underneath that surface want that is really driving the character, and in good characters, almost always, those inner and outer desires are in conflict. In fact, that conflict creates much of the dramatic tension and interest in the story.

Also, the character will know that s/he wants that outer desire, but will probably have very little idea that what she really needs is the inner desire. But — we, the reader or audience, are usually aware of what the hero/ine really needs, and we know it much sooner than the hero/ine knows her or himself. And letting the reader/audience know more than the character does is one of the best tricks available to us as writers to engage the reader/audience in the story.

So you, the writer, have to know your character’s inner and outer desires and how they conflict.

Now, in a love story, we often see a heroine who thinks she wants one man, when what she really needs is that other, better one, right? But hopefully it’s a little deeper than that: the reason one man is good for her and the other is not is that one will force her to grow into her best self, and the other will just let her carry on with her same old stuff. That’s somewhat more dramatically fulfilling, anyway, and it’s the most common pattern I know of inner and outer desire in romance — and love subplots, too. To put it in general terms: the hero/ine’s inner desire is to be a better and more complete person, something that s/he is usually best able to accomplish through making a true partnership with the love interest.

But I would hope that you’d go even deeper than that. And it’s often useful to look at other genres to see how great storytellers accomplish this.

One of the great examples of inner and outer desire in conflict is in the George Bailey character in It’s a Wonderful Life. From the very beginning George wants to see the world, to do big things, design big buildings: all very male, external, explosive goals. But his deep need is to become a good man and community leader like his father, who does big things and fights big battles — but on a microcosmic level, in their tiny, “boring” little community of Bedford Falls, which George can’t wait to escape.

But every choice George actually makes in the story defers his external need to escape, and ties him closer to the community that he becomes the moral leader of, as he takes on his late father’s role and battles the town’s would-be dictator, Mr. Potter. George does not take on that role happily; he fights it every single step of the way, and resents it a good bit of the time. But it’s that conflict which makes George a great character that we empathize with: it’s a story of how an ordinary man becomes a true hero.

In Lost in Translation, there’s a great conflict between the inner and outer desires of the characters, Bob and Charlotte. They’re both in floundering marriages, and while staying at the same hotel in Tokyo they form an instant bond with each other. Every encounter takes them closer to infidelity; the external desire is desire for each other. But really these two have a soul connection; they are both in spiritual crisis, and each recognizes the other as the soul mate who will help them find their ways out of the dark.

CHARACTER ARC

To recap: closely entwined with the inner/outer desire lines is the ARC of the character (since you are devising the end of your story at the same time as you’re planning the beginning). The arc of the character is what the character learns during the course of the story, and how s/he changes because of it. It could be said that the arc of a character is almost always about the character realizing that s/he’s been obsessed with an outer goal or desire, when what she really needs to be whole, fulfilled, and lovable is ________ (fill in the blank). On top of that, a character will go from shy and repressed to a capable and respected leader, from selfish to altruistic, from pathological liar to a seeker of truth … and the bigger the change, the more impact the story will have, as long as you keep it believable.

So it’s essential to know where you want your character to end up, and then work backward to create a number of personal obstacles and external problems that are keeping that character from being everything s/he can be.

Again, in love stories, that completeness usually comes through a true union with the loved one.

CHARACTER ARC PATTERNS

For any story you write, there are certain big arcs that most characters fall into. One is a hero/ine who starts the story in emotional trouble, if not actual physical trouble (generally brought on by the emotional problem!), who takes the journey of the story, is forced to confront her or his deficiencies, overcomes them, and triumphs — to win a goal that was probably not the goal s/he started out with, but is clearly what s/he really needed all along. (This is the most common character arc.)

A second pattern is an innocent hero/ine who triumphs over evil and opposition and wins her/his goal through sheer goodness (The Wizard of Oz and Slumdog Millionaire are good examples). The heroine and hero in those stories don’t have huge character arcs (although both characters gain in personal strength); the lesson for us (the reader or audience) is a more general one of how virtue and passion and doing the right thing are rewarded (and hopefully we the reader or audience are inspired by the story to be virtuous ourselves).

A third pattern, though, is a hero who fails or falls. The Godfather shows the moral fall of Michael Corleone (even as he rises in societal stature). Chinatown depicts the fall of Jake Gittes, despite his sincere and determined attempts to do the right thing. While Michael Corleone makes the choices he makes deliberately (although the pressure of family history weighs heavily), Jake is a pawn, up against the greater forces of a malevolent universe. The only thing Jake learns in Chinatown is that his best efforts are useless; he should have learned his lesson long ago that the only way to survive and not do damage is to do “as little as possible.”

It’s helpful to start taking note of often-seen character arc patterns: a child who becomes an adult (Spirited Away, Roman Holiday), a citizen who becomes a leader (It’s a Wonderful Life, Mr. Deeds Goes to Washington), a commoner who ascends to royalty (Princess Diaries, Harry Potter), a broken person who becomes whole (Groundhog Day), a selfish person who becomes altruistic (A Christmas Carol), a person who lives in illusion who finally sees the truth (The Matrix), a criminal or sinner who becomes a leader (or saint!) (Becket).

CHARACTER ARC AND SERIES CHARACTERS

In terms of character arc, series hero/ines are a different animal than standalone hero/ines. One theory of this is that readers who are devoted to a series character really just want to see the same person, over and over again.

I think it’s a little more complicated than that. I think a lot of classic series characters, especially series detectives — and of course Ian Fleming’s James Bond and his sexier modern incarnation, Lee Child’s Jack Reacher, spring immediately to mind — are really examples of the “Mysterious Stranger” or “Knight Errant” or “Traveling Angel” archetype, and Mysterious Stranger stories have their own story structure. Mary Poppins is the classic Mysterious Stranger; she pops in (get it?), fixes the family, and pops out, while she remains “Practically Perfect in Every Way.” Shane is a great film with a Mysterious Stranger structure, although Shane is a much more wounded Stranger than Mary Poppins: he’s very imperfect, unable to change, and therefore unable to integrate into society in the end — but he does fix the town’s problem and the wound in the family that temporarily takes him in. James Bond and Jack Reacher are also perfect characters in their ways (although, from a female point of view, perfectly infuriating). We don’t really want them to change.

The trick to the Mysterious Stranger structure is that it’s the other characters that have the big character arcs in the story (although in some Mysterious Stranger stories, the Stranger does have an arc as well. Emma Thompson had some fun with that — as the screenwriter and actress — in the film Nanny McPhee, based on the books by Christianna Brand). And of course not all series detectives are perfect Mysterious Strangers, either; I myself am partial to the flawed ones, like Tess Gerritsen’s surly Jane Rizzoli.

This all goes to emphasize one of the main underlying points of this book: different genres have very different story structures, and you need to study and understand the classic tricks and expectations of your own genre. That’s why I so adamantly advocate creating your own, personalized story structure workbook. It goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway, that if you think you might be writing a Mysterious Stranger story, then you should make a list of Mysterious Stranger stories and take a look at the patterns of those stories and what other storytellers have done with them. It will give you no end of interesting ideas to play with for your own story.

THE HERO/INE’S GHOST OR WOUND

A classic pattern of drama is that the hero/ine has a wound from the past — a traumatic event, a lost love, the death of a friend, alcoholism or another addiction, the loss of faith — that continues to haunt her or him in the present, and which s/he will be forced to confront in living color in the course of the story, generally in the climax of the story. In light romances this wound tends to be not as life-threatening as the ghost or wound can be in a thriller: in Notting Hill, for example, Hugh Grant’s wife left him “for a man who looked just like Harrison Ford”; in The Proposal, Margaret’s parents died when she was sixteen, and she’s had to fend for herself ever since; In While You Were Sleeping, Lucy’s father has recently died after of a long illness, and Lucy falls hard for a man who looks very much like her father.

This recreation and reliving of a past trauma is a staple of drama for a reason: a lot of psychologists would say that that's the human condition, the "repetition compulsion," Freud called it: we all unconsciously seek out people, events and situations that duplicate our core trauma(s), in the hope of eventually triumphing over the situation that so wounded us.

In some stories, the wound or ghost is more akin to a family curse. In The Godfather, Michael Corleone is unable to escape the long shadow of his family business, and his particularly powerful father.

I must caution you that it’s very easy to slip into clichés, where ghosts and back stories are concerned. The young father who has recently lost his wife and feels unable to find love, the cop whose partner was killed in front of him in the line of duty, the FBI agent whose brother or sister was abducted and murdered by a serial killer. They say all the great stories have already been told, but those have been told just a few too many times for my taste. I’m sure you can come up with a few pet peeve clichés of your own.

CHARACTER INTRODUCTION

Of course you’re going to devise an interesting, clever and evocative introduction to your main character (and every other important character). This is so important I’ve included a whole chapter on it.

ILLUMINATING A MAIN CHARACTER THROUGH SUPPORTING CHARACTERS

The characters you surround your main character with will tell us a lot about your main character.

In real life, our families, friends and significant others say volumes about who we are as people, through the choices that we’ve made and also the things that we had no choice about. It’s exactly the same in books and films: the characters that surround your hero/ine should be characters in their own right, but they also reflect a lot about your hero/ine. Let’s look at just a few examples:

THE ANTAGONIST

The person whom the protagonist is fighting is often a dark mirror of the protagonist; in many stories we see that it wouldn’t take much for the hero/ine to become the antagonist, metaphorically speaking. The hero/ine and the antagonist often want the same thing, whether it’s an actual object, like the lost Ark of the Covenant; or the Maltese Falcon; or money; or a power, like control of a town (It’s a Wonderful Life) or a country (The Lion in Winter), or a family (Another Part of the Forest); or a person: a child (Kramer vs. Kramer), or a lover (five billion romantic comedies). And sometimes the only thing that distinguishes the protagonist from the antagonist is what methods they’re willing to use to get what they want; the hero/ine, we hope, is moral about it (though crossing the line is almost an inevitable part of any story), and the antagonist is willing to lie, cheat, hurt or kill for it.

In a love story often the lover is the antagonist, and serves as a mirror in a slightly less dark, but no less disconcerting way.

ALLIES

The sidekick, the roommate, the best friend, the love interest, the brother or sister — all of these can illuminate different sides of the protagonist.

MENTOR

The annoying — I mean, amazing — thing about a good mentor is that they know the protagonist better than the protagonist knows her or himself. From Glinda to Yoda to Hannibal Lecter, the mentor often represents the hero/ine’s higher power or superego, sometimes both, and always holds the key to the life lesson the hero/ine most needs to learn. And another great thing about a mentor character is that they’re allowed to be on the nose and say exactly what it is that the hero/ine needs and wants, and why they’re too screwed up to ever get it (unless of course they do exactly as the mentor tells them to!).

LOVE INTEREST

This character generally plays a dual role: the love interest can also be the antagonist (in most love stories), an ally, or a mentor. The object of desire is very often the opposite of the hero/ine — and thus represents all the qualities that the hero/ine needs to become whole.

THE EXTERNAL WORLD REFLECTS THE INNER STATE OF THE MAIN CHARACTER

The first visuals we get of a character: where she is, what the weather is like, what she's wearing, what her relationship is to her surroundings, the general atmosphere and look of her external environment — all serve to give us a picture of what's going on inside her head — and all are great ways to introduce us to deep character. Just the place that she's in can be thematic.

In New in Town, the frozen, wintry wasteland of New Ulm is a visual metaphor for heroine Lucy’s frozen emotions. In Romancing the Stone, in the opening book sequence, we literally see Joan Wilder’s fantasy life: the woman she wants to be, the man she wants to have, and the wilderness adventure she wants to live.

Think you can’t do that in novels? Think again. Ask yourself how you would introduce your main character if your story were a movie, and then describe how that scene looks on paper:

In The Harrowing, I introduce my lonely, troubled college girl heroine Robin in a classroom with an unnervingly violent storm outside. She is surrounded by people but completely isolated, in her own head, and dressed all in black, and the phrases that jump out at her from the professor's lecture are ominous, even irrational. I think we get a good sense that this girl is in psychological trouble and should definitely not be left alone on campus to fend for herself, which is exactly what is about to happen.

In The Price, I introduce Boston District Attorney Will Sullivan sitting alone in a freezing, silent chapel tucked away in a back corridor of a hospital. He's dressed in an expensive power suit, but he is helpless and desperate and alone; trying to pray but completely unable to. But he also is carrying a live bunny rabbit in his suit, sneaking it into the hospital as a present for his daughter. I think — hope! — all of those visuals combine to give us a layered sense of who this man is from the very beginning of the book, and make us want to find out more about him, and even maybe go on this difficult journey with him.

Now, in novels, I realize that we have more time to get to know a character, and the knowledge we gain about a character is more cumulative than in film. I think when we read a novel the main character very often is a role that we take on ourselves, and we live the character more than observe them. That's what having access to a character's internal thoughts does for us.

And obviously if a book is in first person, those first few sentences from the character to the reader are especially crucial, because that’s the character talking to us. So character voice, in first person, is as important as the visual. But the visual is key, and very often neglected by novelists who are used to relying on internal dialogue. The collage book I will talk about in Chapter 30 can really help you detail your main character.

ARCHETYPES AND YOUR MAIN CHARACTER

I am not going to get into advice like writing out a thirty-page biography on your character. If that’s what you do to create character, you’re probably already doing it. Personally, I always do a timeline based on the character’s age so I can see what was going on in his or her society and world when s/he was at various stages of life. But one thing I’ve found invaluable to me in understanding and creating character is archetype (read your Carl Jung, Joseph Campbell and Christopher Vogler!), and I particularly respond to Greek archetypes. One of the most useful books I’ve ever read on character, and I mean ever, is Jungian psychologist Jean Shinoda Bolen’s books Goddesses in Everywoman and Gods in Everyman: both fascinating analyses of how the Greek gods and goddesses are still alive and well in our own modern personalities. Start reading and you’ll see instantly how applicable these books are to creating character.

I also recommend the book Shadow Syndromes, by John J. Ratey, which breaks down how personality disorders like schizophrenia, sadistic personality disorder, bipolar disorder, obsessive compulsive disorder, etc., can manifest in ordinary personalities in a more subtle form. This is just as useful for creating comic characters as it is for creating psychopaths. And of course Myers-Briggs tests are always helpful in honing in on character; other writers swear by the Enneagram or that old standard, astrology.

Again — whatever works, is gold!

ASSIGNMENT: Choose a protagonist from your list that you particularly respond to and watch that film or read that book, making note of the specific techniques the storyteller uses to bring that character to life.

CHARACTER TROPES

It’s also really useful to be aware of character clichés, so that you don’t unknowingly fall into the trap of using a character so time-worn that you will invite ridicule. Here’s just a partial list of clichés — character types so overused that they’ve been inducted into the cliché hall of fame (take a look at websites like TVTropes.com).

Chosen One, Cinderella, Mysterious Stranger/Traveling Angel, Knight Errant, Boy Next Door, Girl Next Door, Femme Fatale, Seer/Sibyl, Christ Figure, The Fool, The Third Son, The Third Daughter, Whiz Kid, Final Girl, Absent-Minded Scientist. Byronic Hero, Bad Boy, Bad Girl, Gentleman Thief, Reluctant Hero, Sinner Who Becomes a Saint. Supervillain, Shapeshifter, Trickster, Dark Lord, Evil Twin, Pissed-Off Brother (or Sister), Black Widow, Mad Scientist, Perverted Old Man, Mystery Villain, Witch, Crone, Evil Clown, Evil Wizard, Absent-minded Professor, Expert From Afar, Magician, Divine Fool, Wise Child, Seer/Sybil, Religious Nut, Hooker With A Heart Of Gold, Too Dumb To Live, Mary Sue, Manic Pixie, Martial Arts Master, Jedi Mentor, Cannon Fodder, Blonde, Ingénue, Jailbait, Jewish Mother, Magical Negro, Dark Lady, Clown, Crone, Fairy Godmother, Monster-In-Law, Pompous Ass, Nerd, Supernatural Ally, Wise Old Woman/Man, Snooty Clerk or Waiter, Devoted Domestic.

Even if you’ve never heard of some of those types, you get instantly what they are, right? That’s because we’ve all seen them a million times before. Now, that doesn’t mean you can’t use these character types, not at all! It’s just a warning that you would do well to be aware that a particular character has been epically overused, and figure out how to deepen or twist the stereotype in some way.

12. Hero and Heroine, Lover and Loved One

In love stories, and especially in the books we call romance, there’s a significant structural difference from any other genre that we need to talk about right away. In romance, the Hero and Heroine of the story are generally more equal characters than we ever see in any other genre. Sometimes one character has a slight edge over the other as the POV (Point Of View) character, and sometimes the story really will belong to one character and the other acts as a love interest. But often you see pretty much a dual protagonist, two characters working together (usually reluctantly at first) against some kind of outer antagonist — or — you will see equal characters who are each other’s antagonist, who both have to undergo major character arcs (which you could call a DOUBLE REVERSAL) in order to come together as a couple.

Which of those dynamics you want to portray in your story is one of the most important decisions you will make in writing your own love story. You may find the dynamic changes as you’re writing your first draft, which is perfectly fine — all part of the process! Just get the story down on paper, and see what you’ve got and how you want to hone the relationship in your second draft.

If you are writing a dual protagonist, or protagonist/antagonist love story, then you’re going to have to detail all the essential building blocks of character for both characters: Inner and Outer Desire, Ghost/Wound, Ordinary World and Character Arc.

And beyond that, there’s an overall character dynamic I very often see in love stories that I think is helpful to be aware of.

There’s a saying you may have heard — that in a relationship there is always a lover and a loved one. One loves, and the other lets himself/herself be loved. Whether that’s actually true in life, I’m not sure I want to know; one would hope these things would be somewhat equal! But I know this Lover/Loved One dynamic tends to be the case in romantic comedy, and it’s a useful model for writing all kinds of romance and love subplots.

In most stories, for a large part of the story, there’s an imbalance between the hero and heroine, or hero/hero, or heroine/heroine … the two lovers, whatever gender and orientation they may be (I’m not going to get into the subgenre of ménages, sorry — maybe next book!).

At first, what this looks like is that there’s a Pursuer and a Pursued — but the pursuer might not be the one who loves most deeply. The pursuit might be ego-based, or to win a bet, or obviously, just sexual conquest — any number of things.

Now, the two characters might equally hate each other at first: as in What Happens in Vegas, You’ve Got Mail, Leap Year. But pretty quickly in most romantic comedies, one of the characters becomes more interested in the other, and becomes the pursuer.

Also note that the protagonist can be either the pursuer or the pursued. In Notting Hill, protagonist Hugh Grant is the pursuer (in that diffident English way, of course ... ). In It’s Complicated, protagonist Meryl Streep is the pursued.

In When Harry Met Sally, Harry is the pursuer. In You’ve Got Mail, Tom Hanks is the pursuer. In Philadelphia Story, Katharine Hepburn is the pursued (arguably in these three films there is a dual protagonist; the hero/heroine characters are about as equal as characters ever get in a story).

Hmm, do we see a pattern here? Male pursues, female is pursued. Maybe biology really is destiny. No, wait — in Bridget Jones’ Diary, protagonist Bridget is the pursuer. In Bringing Up Baby, Katharine Hepburn is the pursuer (but not the protagonist). And I’m sure you can think of a lot of other examples.

But the pursuer is not the same as the Lover, necessarily. In Notting Hill, Hugh is both the pursuer and the lover (he is definitely the one who feels most deeply in the tentative dance going on between him and Julia Roberts). In It’s Complicated, Alec Baldwin is very much the pursuer, Meryl Streep is the pursued, and Steve Martin is the lover (also a pursuer, but overwhelmed by Alec Baldwin’s intense pursuit. But in this trio, Steve Martin is most clear about who and what he wants.).

In When Harry Met Sally, Harry is the pursuer, but not the lover. At a certain point, it’s Sally who realizes that she wants more than friendship. She becomes the lover.

In Philadelphia Story, Cary Grant is the pursuer and also the lover, but interestingly, he’s coming from much more of a position of strength than the lover usually comes from; from the beginning, he has no intention of compromising.

Knowing these dynamics can help you keep your story on track, and also comes in handy at the end of Act II, heading into the Final Battle of Act III, where we’ll see that the Lover almost always Makes A Stand and forces the waffling Loved One to make a choice. But we’ll get into that later.

ASSIGNMENT: Take a look at the dynamics of your own WIP. Who’s the Lover, and who’s the Loved One? Who’s the Pursuer and who’s the Pursued? Do those roles switch at some point?

13. What Makes A Great Villain?

If you’re writing a love story, you may not have a villain at all. As we just discussed, your hero might be your heroine’s main antagonist, or vice-versa.

But lots of romance subgenres (paranormal, romantic suspense, urban fantasy) have classic villains, so while we’re on character, I’m now going to talk about great villains and how one might — might — go about creating them. Again, keeping in mind that whatever process works for you is always the best bet!

Sometimes, if you’re lucky, a villain will just come to you whole, right? I’ve dreamed a few. I love that, when your subconscious does the work for you.

Sometimes you have a real, heinous person in mind, either a criminal you’ve read about who sparks such an outrage in your soul that you have to create him on paper just to destroy him the way he needs to be destroyed. Sometimes it’s a heinous person you really know; in the novella I recently finished, I took great pleasure in detailing all the banal viciousness of a producer I know and then smashing his brainless head in.

But other villains I’ve written have been more conscious creations, have grown out of the specific situation of a story. So, while allowing for the pure magic of it — it’s not purely magic, is it?

I’d like to suggest that you can develop a great villain — or any other character you create — through the same process that I’ve been advocating for creating the structure of your story.

Make a list.

Who or what are your top ten villains? And I don’t mean make a list for the ages, or for popular consumption — I mean for you. What is it about these particular characters that makes them so delicious, or terrifying, or both? What turns you on in a villain? What particular qualities are you responding to?

Again, try not to think about it too hard — just give yourself a minute or two to do the list fast and see what comes up. You can add to it later.

My favorite villains, off the top of my head:

• Rumpelstiltskin.

• Dracula.

• Hannibal Lecter.

• Atia of the Julii in the HBO series Rome.

• Mary Hanes in Lillian Hellman’s The Children’s Hour.

• Norman Bates in Psycho.

• “Julian” in Brad Anderson’s Session 9.

• Bob Sugar in Jerry Maguire.

• Stringer Bell in The Wire.

• Al Swearengen in Deadwood.

Now, I can look at that list and already identify a lot of patterns going on. I like my villains sexy, perverted, bizarre, insane, diabolical, and preferably a combination of all of the above.

But now it’s time to go deeper. What is it about each of those villains that really works for me?

• Rumpelstiltskin. The twisted dwarf is an archetype I particularly respond to. In Jungian psychology, the dwarf, or perverted little old man, is a strong recurring archetypal figure for women who have been sexually abused or have sexual trauma issues. I haven’t been, but with all my near-misses with predators, I can relate to that analysis. And studying Jungian and other world archetypes is great fodder for brainstorming interesting villains.

• Dracula. The sex thing, obviously. Vampires are supposedly about addiction issues, too. I can relate to that. Jungian therapist Marion Woodman has written some hugely intriguing books about these archetypes; see Recommended Reading at the end of this book.

• Hannibal Lecter. The devil archetype, my absolute favorite. Thomas Harris created a monster for the ages by turning a serial killer into a mythic archetype (although, for my money, he should have stopped with Silence of the Lambs). But what really does me about Lecter is the magician/mentor aspect of him. Here’s this evil, psychotic genius — who sees something in Clarice that makes at least part of him want to mentor her, even protect her. More than that, he understands her, better than any other living soul. That to me is the ultimate seductiveness of the devil: that he gets you, right down to the core of your being. There’s no greater intimacy, and that’s a lot of what I was exploring when I wrote The Price.

• Atia of the Julii in the brilliant HBO series Rome, created by Bruno Heller. Gorgeous, sensual, ruthless schemer, played by one of my favorite British actresses, Polly Walker. Her relationships with her son and daughter are completely perverted and I love it. I understand her, because living in such a patriarchal society would twist any intelligent woman, and I love seeing her win.

• Mary Hanes in Lillian Hellman’s The Children’s Hour: one of the most chilling portraits of a sociopathic child that I’ve ever seen. The final scene with the grandmother taking responsibility for her is particularly haunting. I love stories about evil children. I have to admit, I find small children frightening. They are ruthless, narcissistic, and irrational; they operate according to some inexplicable set of rules that they are constantly making up as they go along. And they wield enormous power, totally out of proportion to their actual physical strength and stature. Is that not the definition of a villain?

• Norman Bates in Robert Bloch’s/Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho. The concept of multiple personality fascinates me even though it’s been done so badly in fiction and film so many times that I’m not sure I would ever attempt such a character myself. But you feel such poignant sympathy for Norman even as you fear “Mother;” it’s a terrible portrait of an imprisoned soul.

• “Julian” in Brad Anderson’s Session 9. Is he a demon? A fragment of personality in a multiple personality patient which has assumed autonomy? It’s, well, mind-blowing, to try to wrap your brain around. And the slippery inexplicableness of evil is a theme that draws me again and again.

• Bob Sugar in Cameron Crowe’s Jerry Maguire — the blond, blandly sociopathic agent. Not hard to see why I respond to that! But I love Sugar as an example of an effective comedic villain. He’s pitch-perfect — there are hundreds just like him in Hollywood, soulless, narcissistic, casually malevolent. But he also makes a perfect foil for Jerry because he is a mirror image of Jerry: this is what Jerry is on his way to becoming before his attack of conscience in the opening scenes — the thing we don’t want him to become. A villain’s story function is often to be the dark mirror of the protagonist, and Sugar is a stellar example.

• Stringer Bell in David Simon’s The Wire. Oh, all right, that’s pure sex. No, also I love the reversal that Stringer is trying to get out of the drug lord business — that he’s taking business school classes, investing in real estate — and it’s the far greater sociopathy of the politicians and city developers that destroys him in the end. As with Atia, this is a man who has been forced toward villainy by the ruthless inequities of society.

• Al Swearengen in Deadwood. Also pure sex; I’ve had a crush on Ian McShane forever. But there again, the devil archetype: a powerful, brilliant, sexual, violent man who has his own occasional staggering moments of morality and transcendence, the kind of man that draws women like moths to the flame. As with Lecter and Clarice, there’s a Beauty and the Beast undercurrent here: the monster that we just might be able to tame. I will never forgive creator David Milch for ending that series before Swearengen could have his way with Mrs. Garret — and she with him.

Okay, do you see how that starts to work? I truly believe that taking the time to analyze what you love and respond to in a villain in the stories you love will get your subconscious working on crafting that perfect villain for your story. So much of creativity is the desire to get it right. Make your wishes specific, and magic will start to happen.

ASSIGNMENT: You know this by now! Make a list. Who are the top ten (or more) villains that really do it for you, and why?

So now that you have your list, are you seeing some patterns and themes there? For example, if you make a list that is 80% female sociopaths, then you’ve got a pretty good indication that that’s one of your personal themes as an author. Not as a person, of course (!), but as an author. When you’re able to identify these things in your work, and the work you aspire to do, it’s defining a personal theme that can become your brand as an author, and a major selling point for your books — not to mention that when you’re writing about something that really pushes your buttons (for whatever reason) your stories tend to come alive.

Were all the villains on your list human villains? Remember, an opponent in a story can be multiple, animal, environmental, historical, societal, or internal as well as just the classic single bad guy. Let’s look at some variations.

VILLAIN AS THEMATIC ARGUMENT

Villains have a lot to do with theme. In fact, you could say that they are an entire half of a story’s theme. Again, I don’t want to disrupt anyone’s magical unconscious process of creating character, but I don’t think it hurts to think in meta-terms.

A story is very often a thematic argument between a hero/ine and an antagonist. (Remember Thesis-Antithesis-Synthesis?) On a basic level, the hero/ine represents one vision of how to live, and the antagonist another. Very often the antagonist also presents a dark vision of what the hero/ine could become, or is on his way to becoming, and it’s through battle with the antagonist that the hero/ine is able to change.

(This might not be the kind of story you’re writing! That’s fine. That’s why I keep hammering the idea that you need to do your own analyses of films and books that you yourself respond to and see what’s really going on in the stories that particularly work for you.)

The original Star Wars trilogy was certainly about a hero who was in grave danger of becoming his opponent — who has to overcome the opponent in himself.

But in The Wizard of Oz, Dorothy doesn’t have the slightest danger of becoming the Wicked Witch of the West. Dorothy is good, through and through. The meta question in that battle between the two is: Can innocent good triumph over such an established, powerful, magical evil? It doesn’t seem possible at all, when you think of it (Dorothy even refers to herself as “Dorothy, the small and meek”). And yet this is one of the continual transcendences of human life — that good does win over evil, time and time again.

There are other types of thematic battles that go on in stories; you’ve heard of all of these before: Wo/man against Nature (Jaws, The Birds), Wo/man against Machine (The Terminator), Wo/man against Monster (Alien), Wo/man against The System (Network, The Verdict, Sense and Sensibility). And if you see a lot of stories with one of those themes on your lists, you will probably want to take a look at the classics which have explored those themes.

MULTIPLE LEVELS OF ANTAGONISM

In a lot of stories, too, the battle is occurring on several different levels. There will be a particular antagonist that the hero/ine is fighting, but the real opponent is bigger. In Silence of the Lambs, Clarice is not just fighting Mr. Gumb; she’s fighting evil in a larger sense. In It’s a Wonderful Life, George Bailey is not just fighting Mr. Potter but a whole way of life that is anti-community, that destroys community and individuality.

Michael Connelly’s Harry Bosch books are particularly good about portraying multiple levels of antagonism. L.A.P.D. Detective Bosch may be pursuing a certain suspect, but there are always larger forces at work that create not just the particular crime that sets the case in motion but often a whole ripple of accompanying casualties. These forces can be a family dynamic in which everyone is to some extent guilty, the sins of the police department itself, racism, sometimes all of the above. And if that weren’t enough, Harry often is engaged in a painful internal struggle over whether even with all his best efforts, he might be doing more harm than good. That is a ton of conflict, there, and it says a lot about why the series is so beloved and enduring.

You can see a different, more concrete example of multiple forces of antagonism in Romancing the Stone: we have the comic kidnappers, Ira and Ralph, the much more dangerous villain Zolo, and of course the antagonism with love interest Jack. In Raiders of the Lost Ark, Indy is facing multiple antagonists, too: Belloq, Major Toht, and Colonel Dietrich as individual opponents, plus the Nazi army in general, and Hitler by implication. There’s also the possibly supernatural power of the Ark.

John Truby, in his story structure workshops and his excellent book The Anatomy of Story, talks about creating a four-point opposition, and the Ralph/Ira/Zolo/Jack and Belloq/Toht/Dietrich/Hitler antagonisms are two good examples of how that works.

PSYCHOLOGICAL VS. MYTHIC

You will hear very often about how important it is to create a realistic psychology of a villain. I don’t disagree; nothing makes me toss a book faster than seeing a serial killer who is cleverly characterized with an artistic or poetic bent. Doesn’t happen in real life. Of course, a killer like Buffalo Bill doesn’t happen in real life, either, and The Silence of the Lambs is one of my all-time favorite books. So why does that book work for me when so many others just make me groan and throw things?

This is my theory, at least for the villains I love: The psychology is not as important as the theme. I don’t care how realistic a killer is as long as s/he makes metaphorical sense.

Thomas Harris’s Francis Dolarhyde, from Red Dragon, is a masterpiece of archetypal imagery. There’s a lot of very well-researched police and criminal procedure in that book, but what really gets me about that character is how Harris has created a monster, both more and less than human, by blending the factual with the archetypal. Baby Francis is born with a cleft palate and is described as looking like a baby bat. He has a fetish for biting (true of many serial killers, but used very specifically here). He kills on a moon cycle (true of many serial killers as well), also bringing to mind supernatural monsters like the werewolf. He uses his Grandmother’s fake teeth (vampire). And he thinks he is turning into a dragon. He is also a large man and very pale. Not entirely realistic, these things, but they work for me because of the metaphor.

But too much detail can work against you. I mean, did you really want to know that Lecter was an aristocrat and got turned into a cannibalistic killer because he saw his little sister eaten by German soldiers? Too much information! It ruined the character for me. I just pretend to forget it.

THE ESSENCE OF A VILLAIN

I think it’s critical to be conscious of, not just the detailed psychology, but the ESSENCE of the villain you’re creating. Take a page from the Lecter that I love, in Silence:

“First principles, Clarice. Simplicity. Read Marcus Aurelius. Of each particular thing, ask: What is it, in itself; what is its nature ... ? ”

In The Price, I knew I had to create a villain who knows that every human being has a price, and exactly what that price is.

In The Unseen, I had the challenge of creating a poltergeist — when no one has ever been able to definitively explain what a poltergeist is: the projected repressed emotions of an adolescent, a ghost, an extra-dimensional entity, a fraud? The solution that grew out of that conundrum was that a poltergeist is many things, and I was able to detail a confluence of events and people which brought the power of the poltergeist out in full force — many subtle and unsubtle layers of attack.

And another thing: defining the nature of the antagonist will often help you define your other characters.

THE HERO/VILLAIN MIRROR

Going back to the dark mirror aspect of the antagonist and protagonist — when you’re aware of this dynamic, it can really help you to create a symbiotic and thematic relationship between the hero/ine and the antagonist. The antagonist can actually help you detail and deepen your hero/ine. In The Harrowing, when I had hit upon a villain whose essence was anti-life, I made my heroine suicidal in the beginning. The villain is able to prey on her because her own life force is weak in the beginning — and it makes her character arc bigger to go from a depressed child who is ready to throw her life away to a young woman who fights for her own life and those of her friends. Also, Robin and the antagonist are both isolated, discarded, broken, killingly envious and angry, just to name a few similarities. And the antagonist is able to play on her weaknesses because he understands them so intimately.

In The Price, I also wanted a very intimate relationship between my hero and the villain. My whole theory of the devil is that he has the enormous power he does because he understands people’s individual souls. So the devil knows your most secret desire and your most shameful weakness. That gives him power, and also accounts for his seductiveness; no one will ever know you like the devil can. That omniscient nature of my villain made me have to understand the essence of each of the other characters in the story.

In Jaws, Sheriff Brody is designed as a man who is about the least likely person to face off with this shark: a city cop, newcomer to the island, born and raised in Manhattan, and afraid of the water. All the odds are stacked against him. Now, this works on that “everyone loves an underdog” level, but I would also suggest that the nature of the shark dictated the character of Sheriff Brody in the writing and the filming of that story … there is a conscious design going on there.

So be aware of the essential nature of your villain, and it may help you detail your hero/ine — and other characters as well.

I could easily go on about all this for another chapter at least, but let me just end with two things. A villain is often essentially a shape-shifter, who plays multiple roles in a story: lover, mentor, ally. I strongly encourage everyone to read Christopher Vogler’s The Writer’s Journey, based on Joseph Campbell’s classic and much more intricate The Hero With a Thousand Faces, if you’re up for more of a challenge. Vogler does a great job of defining the different story roles of various characters in classic mythic structure.

And my friend and Murderati blogmate, author Allison Brennan, makes the excellent suggestion that you be just as aware of the villain’s journey as the hero’s. A favorite story question of the late author/producer Stephen Cannell was “What’s the bad guy up to?”, and I agree with both Allison and Mr. Cannell. If you don’t know that at each point of your story, you’re probably not doing the story justice.

ASSIGNMENT: Spend some time pondering, and writing on, the question: Do you prefer your villains psychologically detailed or more mythic?

THE FORCES OF ANTAGONISM

Okay, so if you’re writing romantic suspense or urban fantasy, the above exercises were probably really useful for you. Those are romance sub-genres that tend to have the same kind of clear human (or demonic!) villain that other genres like action, thriller and fantasy do.

But in a romantic comedy, or a softer romance, you might not have such a forceful and obvious external villain. Sometimes you do: In The Proposal, the INS agent is a great external villain, who delights in detailing the penalties for faking a marriage. In fact, his warnings are so dire that we don’t even have to see him again until late in Act II; his presence hangs over the weekend like a thundercloud. In New in Town, the plant foreman serves as an obvious antagonist at first, but as the heroine’s perceptions change, she realizes the real enemy is the all-male board of executives of her own company.

And maybe you’re not writing that kind of villain at all. Maybe your hero is the heroine’s antagonist, and vice-versa. In that case, the hero’s and heroine’s INTERNAL OPPOSITION are a big part of what’s getting in the way of the romance (which is almost always the case even if there is a strong external villain as well).

And often in romance there’s a non-human external villain:

In Sense and Sensibility, greedy, narcissistic Fanny and her weak-willed husband John are funny and hateable human villains. But the real villain of the story, and of every Austen story, is primogeniture: the British laws of inheritance that kept the rich superrich, the poor practically or literally indentured as servants to the rich, and women enslaved to men, for centuries.

In Notting Hill, it’s movie icon Anna Scott’s fame and celebrity that is the opponent to the love story, and that non-human antagonist is dramatized perfectly throughout the film.

In Four Weddings and a Funeral, Charlie’s group of friends, loving and supportive though they are, are actually standing in the way of his breaking off from the group and forming a lasting relationship of his own.

ASSIGNMENT: Brainstorm a list of examples of multiple forces of antagonism and non-human antagonists.

14. Elements of Act Two, Part 1

Finally, we’ve gotten through all the set up! On to Act Two!

Act Two is summed up by the greats such as, like, you know, Aristotle — as “Rising Tension” or “Progressive Complications.” Or in the classic screenwriting formula: Act One is “Get the Hero Up a Tree,” and Act Two is “Throw Rocks at Him.” (And for the impatient out there, I’ll reveal that Act Three is “Get Him Down.”)

All true enough, but a tad vague for my taste.

Here’s the thing. The first half of Act Two, which we will call Act II, Part 1 (30-60 minutes in a film, pages 100-200 in a book), is the most variable of all the acts. I can give you very specific story elements, even give them to you in a relative order, for every other part of a story, but Act II:1 can be maddening. That is, I think, because what happens in Act II:1 is totally dependent on what KIND of story you’re telling. Is it a mystery, a fairy tale, a reluctant witness story, a mistaken identity story, a mythic journey, an epic, a forbidden love story, a Chosen One story, a magical day story, several of the above, or something else entirely?

Each one of those story types has its own particular structure and story elements besides the general key story structure elements we’ve been talking about, and Act II:1 is where you most often see those specific story elements come into play. We will see this at work when we get into the movie breakdowns, later, but I’d really like to get through this overview of the Three-Act, Eight-Sequence Structure first, so I’m just going to keep on going through the general story structure elements, all the way to the end of Act Three.

Here are the general story elements that you will usually find in Act II, Part 1, no matter what genre or story pattern you’re working with.

The beginning of the second act of a book or film (30 minutes or 30 script pages into a film, 100 or so pages into a book) — can often be summed up as INTO THE SPECIAL WORLD or CROSSING THE THRESHOLD.

We’ve met the hero/ine in their ORDINARY WORLD, and we know something’s missing for them, even if they’re not quite sure what, themselves. They’ve received a CALL TO ADVENTURE, and may have resisted it. But now it’s time for them to leave their comfort zone and go off into the SPECIAL WORLD to go after their heart’s desire.

This step might come in the first act, or somewhat later in the second act, but it’s generally the end or beginning of a sequence: landing in Alaska in The Proposal; flying down to Cartagena in Romancing the Stone; flying to Rio in Notorious; landing in wintry New Ulm in New in Town. As you can see from those examples, it’s often the beginning of an actual, physical journey, but the Special World can be much closer to home than that. In Meet the Parents it’s the in-laws’ house; in While You Were Sleeping it’s the warm, noisy, rambling Callaghan house; in Four Weddings and a Funeral it’s a wedding (really, a whole season of weddings!). Entering the Special World is a huge moment and deserves special weight.

Dorothy opening the door of her black and white house and stepping into Technicolor Oz is one of the most famous and graphic filmic examples … Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole is a famous literary example. The passageway to the special world might be particularly unique, like the wardrobe in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe; that between-the-numbers subway platform in the Harry Potter series; Alice again, going Through the Looking Glass; the cyclone in The Wizard of Oz; the blue pill (or was it the red pill?) in The Matrix; the tesseract in A Wrinkle in Time; the umbrella Mary Poppins uses to travel with (and indeed, you can just study the Mary Poppins books for all kinds of great examples of passageways between worlds). You may not be writing a fantasy, but it’s still useful to look at more colorful examples of the INTO THE SPECIAL WORLD moment to inspire you to capture that feeling of an adventure beginning, even in a much more realistic story.

There is often a character who serves the archetypal function of a THRESHOLD GUARDIAN or GUARDIAN AT THE GATE, who gives the hero/ine trouble or a warning at this moment of entry; it’s a much-used but often powerfully effective suspense technique that always gets the pulse racing just a little faster, which is pretty much the point of suspense. At the very least a guardian at the gate will give the hero/ine conflict in a scene.

(While we’re on the subject, I highly recommend (again) Christopher Vogler’s The Writer’s Journey and John Truby’s Anatomy of Story for brilliant in-depth discussions on archetypal characters such as the Herald, Mentor, Shapeshifter, Threshold Guardian, and Trickster/Fool.)

If this has not already happened in Act One, the very early in the second act, the Hero/ine must formulate and state the PLAN. To review: we know the hero/ine’s GOAL or OUTER DESIRE by now (or if we don’t, we need to hear it, specifically). And now we need to know how the hero/ine intends to go about getting that goal. It needs to be spelled out in no uncertain terms. “Dorothy’s PLAN is to journey to the Emerald City to ask the mysterious Wizard of Oz to send her home to Kansas.” “Margaret and Andrew’s PLAN is to pretend they’re married and learn everything they can about each other during the weekend with Andrew’s family so they can pass the INS marriage test on Monday.” “Anna’s PLAN is to pay Declan to get her across Ireland to Dublin in time for her to propose to her boyfriend on Leap Day.”

Notice in the above examples that when I spell out the PLAN, I am also summing up the CENTRAL ACTION of each story: journey to Oz, pretend to be married, get across Ireland. This is so key to storytelling I wish I could somehow physically implant it in the brain of everyone who reads this book. Writers so often have no idea what the Central Action of their story is, or the Plan, and it’s the lack of these two things that is almost always where a story falls flat.

As we’ve already discussed, it’s human nature to expend the least amount of energy to get what we want. So the hero/ine’s Plan will change, constantly — as s/he first takes the absolute minimal steps to achieve her or his goal, and that minimal effort inevitably fails. So then, often reluctantly, the hero/ine has to ESCALATE (or CHANGE) THE PLAN.

Also throughout the second act, the antagonist has his or her own goal and plan, which is in direct conflict or competition with the hero/ine’s goal. We may actually see the forces of evil plotting their plots (John Grisham does this brilliantly in The Firm), or we may only see the effect of the antagonist’s plot in the continual thwarting of the hero/ine’s plans. Both techniques are effective.

This continual opposition of the protagonist’s and antagonist’s plans is the main underlying structure of the second act.

(I’m giving that its own, bold line to make sure it sinks in.)

The hero/ine’s plans should almost always be stated (although something might be held back even from the reader/audience, as in The Maltese Falcon and Casablanca — that Bogey was a sly one). The antagonist’s plans might be clearly stated or kept hidden — but the effect of his/her/their plotting should be evident. It’s good storytelling if we, the reader or audience, are able to look back on the story at the end and understand how the hero/ine’s failures were a direct result of the antagonist’s scheming.

Another important storytelling and suspense technique (and I mean suspense as it plays out in any genre, not just thrillers) is KEEPING THE HERO/INE AND ANTAGONIST IN CLOSE PROXIMITY. Think of it as a chess game: the players are in a very small, confined space, and always passing within inches of each other, whether or not they’re aware of it. They should cross paths often, even if it’s not until the end until the hero/ine and the audience understand that the antagonist has been there in the shadows all along. In Romancing the Stone, a romantic comedy/adventure, you see protagonist Joan Wilder, and villain Zolo, and comic villains Ralph and Ira, all passing within spitting distance of each other, constantly. It’s a great suspense technique in itself. In While You Were Sleeping, Lucy is always running into her apparent antagonist, Peter’s brother Jack, at the hospital, as both of them are constantly visiting Peter.

Act II:1 is also where you really need to deliver on THE PROMISE OF THE PREMISE. That is, if you’re writing a fantasy, you need to give us scenes that give us the experience of wonder and magic. If you’re writing a comedy, you better be making us laugh. If you’re writing any kind of romance, here’s where we want to see and feel the hero and heroine falling in love, even if from the outside it looks more like the two of them are trying to kill each other. Think of the EXPERIENCE you want your reader or audience to have, and make sure you’re creating that experience; it’s one of your primary jobs as a writer.

The hero/ine’s ALLIES will be introduced in the second act, if they haven’t already been introduced in Act I. One of the great pleasures of Act II, Part 1 is experiencing the BONDING between the hero/ine and the allies, the team, the mentor or the love interest — or all of the above.

In fact, there is often an entire sequence you could call ASSEMBLING THE TEAM which comes early in the second act. The hero/ine has a task and needs a group of specialists to get it done. Action movies, spy movies and caper movies very often have this step and it often lasts a whole sequence. Think of Armageddon, The Sting, Mission Impossible (I mean the great TV series, of course), The Dirty Dozen, Star Wars. But you also see the team being assembled in fantasies like The Wizard of Oz and Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone and Lord of the Rings. One of the delights of a sequence like this is that you see a bunch of highly skilled pros in top form — or alternately, a bunch of unlikely amateurs, losers that you root for because they’re so perfectly pathetic. I had fun with this in The Harrowing; even if you’re not writing an action or caper story, which I definitely wasn’t in that book, if you’ve got an ensemble cast of characters, the techniques of an Assembling the Team sequence can be hugely helpful. The inevitable clash of personalities, the constant divaness and one-upmanship, and the reluctant bonding, make for some great scenes; it’s a lively and compelling storytelling technique that you can see at its best in Four Weddings and a Funeral (in fact almost all of the films of Richard Curtis have stellar ensembles).

There is also often a TRAINING SEQUENCE in the first half of the second act. In a mentor movie, this is a pretty obligatory sequence. Think of Karate Kid, and that priceless Meeting the Mentor/Training sequence that introduces Yoda in The Empire Strikes Back.

There’s often a SERIES OF TESTS designed by the mentor (look at An Officer and a Gentleman and Silence of the Lambs). It could be the antagonist who is putting the heroine through tests (there’s a great sequence of this in While You Were Sleeping). And when there is no mentor, it may be life itself that seems to be designing the tests and challenges (well, and doesn’t life do exactly that?). Look at how Fate slyly intervenes in Groundhog Day, and in a more subtle way, in French Kiss.

Another inevitable element of the training sequence, and common to Act II:1 in general, is PLANTS AND PAYOFFS. For example, we learn that the hero/ine (and/or other members of the team) has a certain weakness in battle. That weakness will naturally have to be tested in the final battle. Yoda continually gets angry with Luke for not trusting the Force … so in his final battle with Vader, Luke’s only chance of survival is putting his entire fate in the hands of the Force he’s not sure he believes in. It’s a lovely moment of spiritual transcendence.

Very often in the second act we will see a battle before the final battle in which the hero/ine fails because of this weakness, so the suspense is even greater when s/he goes into the final battle in the third act. An absolutely beautiful example of this is in Dirty Dancing. In rehearsal after rehearsal, Baby can never, ever keep her balance in that flashy dance lift. She and Johnny attempt the lift in an early dance performance, Baby chickens out, and they cover the flub in an endearingly comic way. But in that final performance number she nails the lift, and it’s a great moment for her as a character and for the audience, quite literally uplifting.

Of course you’ll want to weave Plants and Payoffs all through the story. You can often develop these in rewrites, and it’s a good idea to do one read-through just looking for places to plant and payoff. One of the most classic examples of a plant is Indy freaking out about the snake on the plane in the first few minutes of Raiders of the Lost Ark The plant is cleverly hidden because we think it’s just a comic moment: this big, bad hero just survived a maze of lethal booby traps and an entire tribe of warriors trying to kill him, and then he wimps out about a little old snake. But the real payoff comes way later when Sallah slides the stone slab off the entrance to the tomb and Indy shines the light down into the pit — to reveal a live mass of thousands of coiling snakes. It’s so much later in the film that we’ve completely forgotten that Indy has a pathological fear of snakes — but that’s what makes it all so funny. (Of course, it’s also a suspense builder in this case: the descent into the tomb is that much more scary because we’re feeling Indy’s revulsion.)

I very strongly encourage novelists to start watching movies for Plants and Payoffs (and I’ve included a whole section on the technique, Chapter 32). Other names for this technique are Setup/Reveal or simply FORESHADOWING (which can be a bit different, more subtle). Woody Allen’s film, Vicky Cristina Barcelona, does this beautifully with the long buildup to the entrance of Maria Elena, the Penelope Cruz character. Penelope completely delivers on her introduction and I knew she was a shoo-in for an Oscar nomination for that one. (In fact, she won.)

The Training Sequence can also involve a “Gathering the Tools” or “Gadget” Sequence. The wild gadgets and makeup were a huge part of the appeal of Mission Impossible (original TV series) and spoofed to hysterical success in Get Smart (original TV series), and these days, CSI uses the same technique to massive popular effect.

In a love story or romantic comedy, the Training Sequence or Tools Sequence is often a Shopping Sequence or a Workout Sequence or a Makeover Sequence, or a combination of all of the above. The heroine, with the help of a mentor or ally, undergoes a transformation through acquiring the most important of tools: the right clothes and shoes and hairstyle. It’s worked since Cinderella, whose personal shopper/fairy godmother considerately made house calls. See the original Arthur for the world’s loveliest example — can I have John Gielgud for my fairy godmother, please? But there are practically infinite examples: Miss Congeniality, Clueless, Maid to Order, My Fair Lady, New in Town, The Princess Diaries — we love this scene. Use it!

And the fairy tale version of Gathering the Tools is a really useful structure to look at. Remember all those tales in which the hero or heroine was innocently kind to horrible old hags or helpless animals (or even apple trees), and those creatures and old ladies gave them gifts that turned out to be magical at just the right moment? Plant/Payoff and moral lesson at the same time.

I’d also like to point out that if you happen to have both an Assembling the Team and a Training sequence in your second act, that can add up to a whole fourth of your story right there! Awesome! You’re halfway through already!

In a thriller or romantic suspense or urban fantasy or mystery — or in a fantasy like Harry Potter or The Wizard of Oz — there will be continual ATTACKS ON THE HERO/INE by the antagonist and/or forces of opposition. These will often start subtly and then increase in severity and danger. In a lighter romance these attacks can come from the antagonistic love interest, as in While You Were Sleeping, or the rival for the love interest’s hand (Made of Honor).

In a detective story, which is often also the structure of romantic suspense, paranormals, and urban fantasy, Act Two, Part One often consists very specifically of INTERVIEWING WITNESSES, FOLLOWING CLUES and LINING UP THE SUSPECTS, very often interspersed with ACTION SEQUENCES and ATTACKS ON THE HERO/INE. You will want to weave in RED HERRINGS and FALSE LEADS. And there’s another convention of the genre you’ll want to look at, which is THE DETECTIVE VOICING HIS/HER THEORY. Mysteries are by nature convoluted, because there are so many possible explanations for what’s going on, so don’t be afraid to have your detective or amateur sleuth just say what s/he’s thinking aloud. Your reader or audience will be grateful.

If you are using mystery elements, you will definitely want to break down several classics to see how these elements and sequences are handled. Murder on the Orient Express, Silence of the Lambs, Sea of Love, and Chinatown are great examples to analyze.

Also in the second act of many genres, you may be setting a TICKING CLOCK, which I’ll talk more about in an upcoming chapter on suspense techniques. Note that a clock can be set at any time in a story, not just in Act II.

And you’ll also want to be continually working the dynamic of HOPE and FEAR: you want to be clear about what your audience/reader hopes for your character and fears for your character, as I talked about in Elements of Act One.

A screenwriting trick that I strongly encourage novelists to look at is the filmmakers’ habit of STATING THE HOPE/FEAR AND STAKES, right out loud.

In The Proposal, the INS agent states the penalty for falsifying a marriage: Margaret will be deported, but Andrew faces a $250,000 fine and up to five years in prison. Yikes.

In Sense and Sensibility, numerous parallels are made between Marianne and Colonel Brandon’s tragic love, who ended up basically a prostitute who died in the poorhouse. Talk about fear and stakes! Very realistic for the period.

The writers often just have the characters say flat out what we’re supposed to be afraid of. Spell it out. It works.

All of the first half of the second act is leading up to the MIDPOINT. This is one of the most important scenes or sequences in any story — a huge shift in the dynamics of the story.

It’s so important that I will let you take a breath now and start fresh on a new chapter to talk about it.

15. Elements of Act Two, Part 2 MIDPOINT

All of the first half of the second act — that’s p. 30-60 in a script, p. 100 to p. 200 in a 400-page book — is leading up to the MIDPOINT. So the Midpoint occurs at about one hour into a movie, and at about page 200 in a book.

The Midpoint is one of the most important scenes or sequences in any book or film: a major shift in the dynamics of the story. Something huge will be revealed; something goes disastrously wrong; someone close to the hero/ine dies, intensifying her or his commitment (What I call the “Now it’s personal” scene … imagine Clint Eastwood or Bruce Willis growling the line). Often the whole emotional dynamic between characters changes with what Hollywood calls “Sex at Sixty” (that’s 60 minutes, not sixty years!).

The Midpoint is also often called the MOMENT OF COMMITMENT or the POINT OF NO RETURN or NO TURNING BACK: the hero/ine commits irrevocably to the action.

Often a TICKING CLOCK is introduced at the Midpoint, as we will discuss further in the chapter on Creating Suspense (Chapter 31). A clock is a great way to speed up the action and increase the urgency of your story.

The Midpoint can also be a huge defeat, which requires a recalculation and NEW PLAN of attack. It’s a game-changer, and it locks the hero/ine even more inevitably into the story.

In Sense and Sensibility, the Midpoint is the emotionally wrenching scene in which Lucy Steele reveals to Elinor that she has been secretly engaged to Edward Ferrars for five years. We are so committed to Edward and Elinor’s love that we are as devastated as Elinor is, and just as shocked that Edward would have lied to her. The Midpoint is even more wrenching because Elinor’s sister Marianne has also just been abandoned by her love interest. It’s a double-punch to the gut.

In Notting Hill, Julia Roberts has asked Hugh Grant up to her hotel suite for the first time, and Hugh walks in to find that Julia’s movie star boyfriend, Alec Baldwin, whom Hugh knew nothing about, is already there with her. We know that Hugh’s GHOST is that his ex-wife left him for a man who looked just like Harrison Ford (Alec is pretty close!), and to add to this blow, Alec mistakes Hugh for a room-service waiter and tips him, asking him to clean up while he takes Julia into the bedroom. Total emotional annihilation.

In a romance, the Midpoint is very often sexual or emotional. But the Midpoint can often be one of the most memorable visual SETPIECES of the story, just to further drive its importance home.

Note that the Midpoint is not necessarily just one scene; it can be a double punch as I just pointed out about Sense and Sensibility, and it can also be a progression of scenes and revelations that include a climactic scene, a complete change of location, a major revelation, a major reversal, a cliffhanger — all or any combination of the above.

One of the great Midpoints in theater and film is in My Fair Lady. Talk about a double punch! There is not one iconic song at the Midpoint curtain, but two: first “The Rain in Spain,” in which Eliza finally starts to speak with perfect diction, and Professor Higgins, the Colonel, and Eliza celebrate with wild and joyous dancing: a moment of triumph. Then when the housekeeper takes Eliza upstairs to put her to bed, Higgins privately tells the Colonel that she’s ready: they can test her out in public. He intends to take her to an Embassy ball and pass her off as a lady to win his bet with the Colonel, which Eliza knows nothing about. Meanwhile upstairs, giddy with happiness, Eliza sings “I Could Have Danced All Night,” and we realize she has fallen in love with the Professor.

Not just two of the greatest songs of the musical theater in a row, but all of this SETUP, big HOPE, FEAR, and STAKES. Eliza is in love with Higgins and he’s just using her for a bet. There’s a huge TEST coming up at this ball, and we saw excitable Eliza fail miserably in her first public test at the Ascot races. There’s a penalty of prison for impersonating a lady, so there are not just the emotional stakes of a possible broken heart, but possible prison time.

Do you think anyone was not going to come back into the theater to see what happens at that ball?

Asking a big question like that is a great technique to use at the Midpoint.

A totally different, but equally famous example: in Jaws, the Midpoint climax is actually a whole sequence long: a highly suspenseful setpiece in which the city officials have refused to shut down the beaches, so Sheriff Brody is out there on the beach keeping watch (as if that’s going to prevent a shark attack!), the Coast Guard is patrolling the ocean — and, almost as if it’s aware of the whole plan, the shark swims into an unguarded harbor, where it attacks and swallows a man and for a horrifying moment we think that it has also killed Brody’s son (really it’s only frightened him into near-paralysis). It’s a huge climax and adrenaline rush, but it’s not over yet. Because now the mayor writes the check to hire Quint to hunt down the shark, and since Brody’s family has been threatened (“Now it’s PERSONAL”), Brody decides to go out with Quint and Hooper on the boat — and there’s also a huge change in location as we see that little boat headed out to the open sea.

But a Midpoint doesn’t have to be a huge action scene. Another interesting and tonally very different Midpoint happens in Raiders of the Lost Ark. I’m sure some people would dispute me on this one (and people argue about the exact midpoint of movies all the time), but I would say the Midpoint is the scene that occurs exactly 60 minutes into the film, in which, having determined that the Nazis are digging in the wrong place in the archeological site, Indy goes down into that chamber with the pendant and a staff of the proper height, and uses the crystal in the pendant to pinpoint the exact location of the Ark.

This scene is quiet, and involves only one person, but it’s mystically powerful — note the use of light and the religious quality of the music … and Indy is decked out in robes almost like, well, Moses. Staff and all. Indy stands like God over the miniature of the temple city, and the beam of light comes through the crystal like light from heaven. It’s all a foreshadowing of the final climax, in which God intervenes in much the same way. Very effective, with lots of subliminal manipulation going on. And of course, at the end of the scene, Indy has the information he needs to retrieve the Ark. I would also point out that the Midpoint is often some kind of mirror image of the final climax; it’s an interesting device to use, and you may find yourself using it without even being aware of it.

(I will concede that in Raiders, you could call the Midpoint a two-parter: Indy’s discovery that Marion is still alive is a big twist. But personally I think that scene is part of the next sequence).

It really pays to start taking note of the Midpoints of films and books. If you find that your story is sagging in the middle, the first thing you should look at is your Midpoint scene.

I know this and I still sometimes forget it. When I turned in my poltergeist novel, The Unseen, I knew that I was missing something in the middle, even though there was a very clear change in location and focus at the Midpoint: it’s the point at which my characters actually move into the supposedly haunted house and begin their experiment.

But there was still something missing in the scene right before, the close of the first half, and my editor had the same feeling, without really knowing what was needed, although it had something to do with the motivation of the heroine — the reason she would put herself in that kind of danger. So I looked at the scene before the characters moved in to the house, and lo and behold: what I was missing was “Sex at Sixty.” It’s my heroine’s desire for one of the other characters that makes her commit to the investigation, and I wasn’t making that desire line clear enough.

The Midpoint often LOCKS THE HERO/INE INTO A COURSE OF ACTION, or sometimes, physically locks the hero/ine into a location.

A great recent example is Inception: at the Midpoint, there’s a gun battle in which one of the allies, Saito (who hired the team to break into this dream) is badly wounded, and the team discovers that they can’t get out of the dream while Saito is unconscious. They’re stuck, perhaps forever, which forces them to devise a new PLAN.

There’s a not-so recent movie called Ghost Ship, about a salvage crew investigating a derelict ocean liner which has mysteriously appeared out in the middle of the Bering Strait, after being lost without a trace for forty years. At the Midpoint, the salvage crew’s own boat mysteriously catches on fire and sinks (taking one of the crew with it), forcing the entire crew to board the haunted ocean liner. They are physically locked into the situation, now, and their original PLAN — to tow the ocean liner back to shore — must change; they now have to repair the ocean liner and sail her out of the Strait. This development also solves the perennial problem of haunted house — or haunted ship — stories: “Why don’t the characters just leave?”

It’s a great Midpoint scene for all of the above reasons, plus it’s a great visual and action setpiece: the explosion of the salvage boat, the rescue (and loss) of crew members, and the suspense of who will get out of the water and onto the ocean liner alive.

RECALIBRATING THE PLAN

The game-changing action of the Midpoint will very often cause the hero/ine to have to recalibrate the PLAN.

In Sense and Sensibility, the PLAN was for Elinor and Marianne to marry well (hopefully for love), and secure their family’s future. At the Midpoint, their initial hopes for marriage are crushed, and immediately afterward the Mentor character, Mrs. Jennings, proposes a NEW PLAN: to take the sisters to London for “the Season,” where she is sure she can marry them off.

In While You Were Sleeping, Lucy’s PLAN is to continue pretending to be Peter’s fiancée to keep his family happy while he’s in the coma (partly to keep his grandmother from having a heart attack). At the Midpoint, Peter wakes from the coma, and now Lucy plans to confess the ruse to the family (but it’s complicated … )

As always, however the hero/ine decides to change the plan, it’s useful to state it aloud, along with stating how the stakes have been raised.

ESCALATING ACTIONS/ OBSESSIVE DRIVE

Now the actions your hero/ine takes toward his or her goal will become larger and increasingly obsessive. Small actions have not cut it, and there may also have been a big failure at the Midpoint, so it’s time for desperate measures.

In fact, I’ve noticed that in a lot of stories, the hero/ine tends to be winning throughout Act II, part 1, but after the Midpoint, in Act II, part 2, the hero/ine suddenly starts to lose, and lose big.

Losing leads to escalating actions by the hero/ine, and these escalating actions will often lead to HARD CHOICES and CROSSING THE LINE: The hero/ine actually starts doing things that are against character, self-destructive, or downright immoral. You see Bill Murray start to self-destruct and lash out at everyone around him in Act II:2 of Groundhog Dayafter Andie MacDowell rejects him (and rejects him again, and again, and again!) at the Midpoint.

And often the hero/ine will LOSE SUPPORT FROM KEY ALLIES when s/he begins to cross the line.

ESCALATING ACTIONS/ATTACKS BY ANTAGONIST

In Act II:2, the antagonist is escalating his or her actions as well — because of course, s/he hasn’t won yet, either, and is getting frustrated, and probably tired. The attacks are more brutal, and often more lethal. In suspense, very often the most intense action sequences happen during this third quarter, and this is another place that the hero/ine’s ally or allies may be killed. In a romantic comedy, this is where everything starts to spiral out of control (Tootsie is a great example, as we see Michael’s double life start to run him ragged).

THE LONG DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL (ALL IS LOST)

This third quarter of your story is almost certainly going to contain a scene or sequence which since the ancient Greeks has been called THE LONG DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL, also known as ALL IS LOST, or APPARENT DEFEAT, or THE BLACK MOMENT, or VISIT TO DEATH (which may also be a separate scene). The detective is thrown off the case, the crucial lawsuit is dismissed, a key witness is killed, an ally walks out. In The Wizard of Oz it’s when Dorothy is locked in the witch’s tower with that huge red hourglass. The hero/ine metaphorically dies in this scene, and often it’s because a loved one has actually died.

Yet like the phoenix rising from the ashes, the hero/ine also formulates one last desperate plan, or figures out the missing piece of the puzzle, and comes out of the long dark night even more determined to win.

In lighter romance, the All Is Lost Scene is very, very often a scene I call THE LOVER MAKES A STAND. In this scene the Lover, the one who loves most deeply, basically says to the Loved One: “I’m not going to take your bullshit any more. Make up your mind. Either commit to me or don’t, but if you don’t, I’m out of here.”

In It’s Complicated, Steve Martin tells Meryl Streep that she’s not done with Alec yet, and Steve doesn’t want to see her while she’s still emotionally involved with him. In Notting Hill, Hugh Grant tells Julia Roberts in the bookstore that between her “foul temper” and his far less experienced heart, he doesn’t think he would recover from being discarded again, and turns down her offer to date. In When Harry Met Sally, Sally refuses Harry’s offer to go to the New Year’s party as a friendly date: “I’m not your consolation prize, Harry.”

In all of the above scenes, the Lover’s Stand forces the Loved One to step up and commit just as deeply as the Lover is committed. But it seems that very, very, very often, it’s one character, the Lover, who has to force the issue.

Also in romance, the All Is Lost moment is often the scene in which the WRONG PERSON PROPOSES (or the hero/ine proposes to the wrong person!) and All Is Lost because the hero/ine, for whatever reason, foolishly accepts.

This scene is usually very near the climax of the second act (either right before it or right after it) because it’s such a boost of energy to go from losing everything to gaining that key piece of knowledge that will power the hero/ine through the final confrontation to the end. In fact, the All Is Lost Moment is so big it often serves as the Act II Climax (page 90 of a script, page 300 or so of a novel).

But the Act Two Climax can also be a final revelation before the end game.

In suspense, it’s a very common storytelling device that the hero/ine’s main ally is revealed to be an enemy, or the main enemy, and it also often happens that the hero/ine’s enemy is revealed to be more of a friend than we ever suspected. (A classic example of this is Chief Renault in Casablanca, who not only covers for Rick’s murder of the Nazi Strasser, but junks his post to go fight the Nazis with Rick.) This device can work just as well in romance, as we see in New in Town, when Lucy realizes her real antagonists are the executives of her own company, who are about to close the factory that Lucy has come to love. This is quickly followed by a great revelation that Lucy might be able to save the factory, and all the workers’ jobs, by using her ally Blanche’s secret tapioca recipe. And shortly after that, her biggest antagonist, the factory foreman, becomes her biggest ally in revamping the factory.

The second act climax is another place that you might start a TICKING CLOCK (although a clock can begin at virtually any time in a story).

Also usually at the climax of Act Two, the CENTRAL QUESTION of the story, that was asked in the first act, is answered. And here’s an interesting structural paradigm to consider. In a lot of stories, the answer is often: No.

In The Proposal, the Central Question is: “Will Margaret and Andrew be able to successfully fake a marriage and pass the INS test on Monday?” But at the Act II Climax, as Margaret prepares to walk down the aisle in front of Andrew’s family, she realizes she can’t go through with it. Andrew deserves more than a fake marriage. She confesses the ruse, apologizes to the family, and walks out on the wedding to surrender herself to the INS. The answer to the Central Question is, “No.”

This is a good example of how the hero/ine is often pursuing the wrong goal, and has to give up on what s/he thought she wanted in order to get what she truly needs. If you put that moment at the Act Two Climax, it plays as a TWIST, which is always a great thing in storytelling.

There’s one more general point I’d like to make about Act II, Part 2. In shorter films and stories, this is the section that is most often shortened and compressed. There’s a big buildup in Act II, Part 1, and then after the Midpoint reversal, a quick slide into chaos and an All Is Lost moment in Act II, Part 2. And very often romances are shorter stories than other genres, and from what I’ve seen, it definitely holds true that Act II:2 is the section that is most often shortened.

Just something to keep in mind!

And now on to Act Three — the FINAL BATTLE and RESOLUTION.

16. Elements of Act Three

As a reminder: the third act is generally the final twenty to thirty minutes in a film, or the last 70 to 100 pages in a 400-page novel. The final quarter, and the shortest quarter.

I’m going to start by being very general, here; we’ll get more specific about romance in the next chapter.

Act Three is basically just two things: the FINAL BATTLE and RESOLUTION. It can often be one continuous sequence: the chase and confrontation, or confrontation and chase. There may be a final preparation for battle, or it might be done on the fly.

(Remember, the “battle” may be entirely internal. In a love story, the FINAL BATTLE is often a proposal!)

But the third act so often falls apart or disappoints, don’t you think? We all seem to be somewhat afraid of it; that is, unless it’s all there in our heads to begin with and we can just — “Speed we to our climax,” as Shakespeare said.

Even then, a third act is a lot of pressure, even when it basically just boils down to this:

The essence of a third act is the final showdown between protagonist and antagonist.

Sometimes that’s all there is to it: one final battle between the protagonist and antagonist. (And again, in a love story, the antagonist is often the lover.)

By the end of the second act, pretty much everything has been set up that we need to know — particularly who the antagonist is, which sometimes we haven’t known, or have been wrong about, until it’s revealed at the second act climax.

In a suspense story with a real villain, we also very often have gotten a sobering or terrifying glimpse of the TRUE NATURE OF THE ANTAGONIST; a great example of that kind of “nature of the opponent” scene is in Chinatown, in that scene in which Jake is slapping Evelyn around and he learns the truth about her father. Of course, sometimes, or maybe often, there is one final reveal about the antagonist that is saved till the very end or nearly the end, as in The Usual Suspects and The Empire Strikes Back and Psycho.

In a romance, the heroine might realize that her opponents are really her allies, and her allies really her opponents (New in Town). Or she might just realize that she’s been after the wrong guy (While You Were Sleeping, 27 Dresses, Leap Year, Philadelphia Story, French Kiss). Of course, usually we, the reader or audience, have known this all along.

There is often a new, FINAL PLAN that the hero/ine makes that takes into account the new information and revelations. As always with a plan, it’s good to spell it out.

There’s a locational aspect to the third act: the final battle will often take place in a completely different setting than the rest of the film or novel. In fact, half of the third act can be, and often is, just getting to the site of the final showdown. One of the most memorable examples of this in movie history is the “storming the castle” scene in The Wizard of Oz, where, led by an escaped Toto, the Scarecrow, Tin Man and Cowardly Lion scale the cliff, scope out the vast armies of the witch (“Yo Ee O”) and tussle with three stragglers to steal their uniforms and march in through the drawbridge of the castle with the rest of the army (an example of a PLAN BY ALLIES). A sequence like this, and the similar ones in Star Wars and The Empire Strikes Back, can have a lot of the elements we discussed about the first half of the first act: a plan, assembling the team, assembling tools and disguises, training or rehearsal. You see a truncated version of this in Notting Hill, when all of Will’s friends pile into the car to help him catch Anna before she leaves.

And of course speed is often a factor — there’s a ticking clock, so our hero/ine has to race to get there in time to — save the innocent victim from the killer, rescue his or her kidnapped child from the kidnapper, stop the loved one from getting on that plane to Bermuda …

NO. DO NOT WRITE THAT LAST ONE.

Most clichéd ending ever. Throw in the hero/ine getting stuck in a cab in Manhattan rush hour traffic and you really are risking audiences vomiting in the aisles, or readers, beside their chairs. This is in fact the most despised romantic comedy cliché on every single “Romantic Comedy Clichés” website out there.

But when you think about it, the first two examples — saving the innocent victim, rescuing the kidnapped child — are equally clichéd. Sometimes there’s a fine line between clichéd and archetypal. You have to find how to elevate — or deepen — the clichéd to something archetypal.

For example, one of the most common third act structural patterns involves infiltrating the antagonist’s hideout, or castle, or lair, and confronting the antagonist on his or her own turf. Think of The Wizard of Oz, Star Wars, Silence of the Lambs — the witch’s castle, the Imperial Starship, Buffalo Bill’s house.

Notice that this pattern naturally divides itself into two separate and self-contained sequences:

1. Getting in (which of course will be spelled out in a PLAN), and

2. The confrontation itself.

Also, putting the final showdown on the villain’s turf means the villain has home-court advantage. The hero/ine has the extra burden of being a fish out of water in unfamiliar territory (mixing a metaphor to make it painfully clear).

In a romance, the Final Battle is often the hero/ine finally overcoming those internal blocks and making a DECLARATION or PROPOSAL to the loved one. And I’ve noticed that a lot of romances do the declaration in a one-two punch, two separate scenes: the recalcitrant lover makes his or her declaration, even does some groveling, apparently to no avail, and only in a later, final scene does the loved one show up with a declaration of his or her own.

Now, the archetypal final battle setting for a romantic comedy film is an actual wedding (if you’ll look at the breakdowns sections, five out of ten of the stories have an Act Two Climax, a Final Battle Climax, or a Resolution at a wedding — even if the wedding is completely disrupted or an uncompleted ceremony).

I have romance writer friends who assure me that this is not the case in most romance; that the story can end with a declaration of love or a proposal, but not an actual wedding. Maybe Hollywood likes weddings because they’re easy setpiece!

Wedding? No wedding? Again, make your Top Ten list and look at what your favorite writers do.

One of my favorite romantic comedies of all time, The Philadelphia Story, uses a classic technique to keep that final wedding sequence sparkling: every single one of that large ensemble of characters has her or his own wickedly delightful resolution. Everyone has their moment to shine, and insanely precocious little sister Dinah pretty nearly steals the show (from Katharine Hepburn, Jimmy Stewart, and Cary Grant!!) with her last line: “I did it. I did it all.”

(This is a good lesson for any ensemble story, no matter what genre — all the characters should constantly be competing for the spotlight, just as in any good theater troupe. Make your characters divas and scene-stealers and let them top each other.)

You see a completely different kind of final battle in It’s a Wonderful Life. This is not the classic, “hero confronts villain on villain’s home turf” third act. In fact, Potter is nowhere around in the final confrontation, is he? There’s no showdown, even though we desperately want one.

But the point of that story is that George Bailey has been fighting Potter all along.

There is no big glorious heroic showdown to be had, here, because it’s all the little grueling day-to-day, crazymaking battles that George has had with Potter all his life that have made the difference. And the genius of that film is that it shows in vivid and disturbing detail what would have happened if George had not had that whole lifetime of battles, against Potter and for the town. In the end, George makes the choice to live to fight another day, and is rewarded with the joy of seeing his town restored.

This is the best example I know, ever, of a final battle that is thematic — and yet the impact is emotional and visceral. It’s not an intellectual treatise; you live that ending along with George, but also come away with the sense of what true heroism is.

And the wonderful final battle in The King’s Speech was just Colin Firth facing a microphone and delivering a nine-minute radio broadcast. But we’ve seen him fail this time and time again in SET UPS because of his speech impediment; and this time the STAKES couldn’t be higher: it’s his first radio broadcast as King, and he has to convince his already war-weary country to support a war against Hitler.

So again, in case you haven’t gotten the message yet — when you sit down to craft your own third act, try looking at the great third acts of movies and books that are similar to your own story, and see what those authors and filmmakers did to bring out the thematic depth and emotional impact of their stories.

ASSIGNMENT: If you haven’t done it already, stop now, and make your personal list of favorite endings, movies and books, and write down specifically, in detail, what it is about those endings that really does it for you.

17. Top Ten Endings

Do you have your list? If not, then do it: The ten most satisfying romance/love story endings you can think of. Non-romance endings are fine, too.

In this chapter, I don’t just want to discuss what makes a great love story ending; I want to do it in a way that will demonstrate one of the key principles I’ve been talking about that you can use to solve story problems — any story problem.

To craft a story ending that is satisfying to you, you need to look at the story endings that are satisfying to you.

Here’s my love story ending list:

• Bridget Jones’ Diary (book and movie)

• Sense and Sensibility (movie)

• Philadelphia Story

• Notting Hill

• Four Weddings and a Funeral

• When Harry Met Sally

• Much Ado About Nothing (play and films)

• Romancing the Stone

• Lost in Translation

Now that I have a list to work with, let’s take a look at the endings and the specific techniques being used that work so well for me there. Obviously, the endings wouldn’t work if the whole stories hadn’t been wonderful to begin with, but these are some endings that really make me feel the joy and exhilaration and completion and sexiness of love.

• Bridget Jones’ Diary

The kiss. That’s Colin Firth, there — need I say more? It’s a great screen kiss, but also, that is total vicarious pleasure in getting arguably the most attractive man on the planet.

The dialogue helps:

BRIDGET (breathless): Wait a minute … good boys don’t kiss like that.

DARCY: Oh yes they fucking do.

But the real pleasure of the movie for me is that, through Bridget, I get to have that man.

And it’s the same in the novel. The pleasure is getting Mark Darcy. There’s no final kiss on the page: what he says is —– “Come here, Miss Jones, and I’ll give you ‘pardon for’.” And she narrates: “Then he took me upstairs and did things to me that from now on will make me spontaneously combust every time I see a reindeer sweater.”

Sexy and very British; in its way, it works just as well for me — almost — as kissing Colin Firth.

So lesson to be learned here? Make your reader want the love interest as much as your hero/ine does. Or cast Colin Firth.

• Notting Hill

No final kiss at the climax here (very British of them!) — but I love that Hugh has to repeat his ruse as a journalist (PAYING OFF A SETUP, repeating an action or joke, very important technique in many great endings), and that Julia declares herself in front of the press, finally overcoming her fear of that antagonist (CHARACTER ARC, and heroine overcoming her GREATEST NIGHTMARE — another satisfying technique).

And the montage of TV clips in the end is great because it repeats the montage of TV clips from the beginning (COMING FULL CIRCLE), and we see Hugh now inside
the clips, living the fairy tale red carpet life (with full-on British trepidation). And the capper: seeing the two of them, pregnant, on that bench in the garden (another SET UP and PAYOFF). It’s the inscription on the bench that makes it so wonderful: “For June, who loved this garden, from Joseph, who always sat beside her.” It tells us that these two will spend their lives together.

• Sense and Sensibility

The film ends with a wedding at the local church: Marianne and Colonel Brandon come out of the church, newly married, and we see an already married and joyously happy Elinor and Edward in the procession.

A wedding is the traditional end to a romantic comedy, and Ang Lee avoids cliché by cutting right to the wedding procession and with the wonderful images of this closing scene. Also traditionally, he and writer Emma Thompson wrap up all the supporting players in this final scene: showing villains Fanny and John scrambling for the wedding coins, and giving us a last glimpse of comic subplot characters Hugh Laurie and his wife Charlotte. It’s very theatrical and satisfying.

And then we see Willoughby watching from the top of the heath. We always want to see the COMEUPPANCE of an unfaithful lover, but it’s also sad: his life has been ruined, by his own actions but also by the inflexibility of society.

Marianne gets into a fine carriage to drive away with Brandon, who throws gold coins into the crowd: a fantastic closing image of abundance. The money of course is thematic, but it’s not mere money we’re seeing there, it’s happiness.

• Four Weddings and a Funeral

I can’t say that the last scene with Hugh Grant and Andie MacDowell is a classic (although I like her line, “I just stopped by to make sure you weren’t busy killing yourself or anything.”) but the closing credits sequence makes up for it, as we get a series of wedding photos of all the supporting characters on their future wedding days, with lots of fun visual jokes and payoffs throughout.

Lesson here: it’s a total joy to see secondary characters and allies get their desires at the end, too. This film made us love each one of the ensemble and want them to be happy; the photos of the wedding days of each are a rapturous payoff. Of course being able to enhance that feel-good feeling with Elton John singing “Going to the Chapel” really helps, but the point is, you as a writer need to be able to create that emotion on the page. Why not start collecting book endings that achieve it, for inspiration?

• Much Ado About Nothing

My favorite of Shakespeare’s romantic comedies, and the end works for me every time, whether on stage or in one of the several great film adaptations, including Kenneth Branagh’s with Emma Thompson, and the TV film of the Joseph Papp production starring Sam Waterston. I love that this perfectly matched, searingly intelligent couple finally melt to each other, and I love the dialogue at the masquerade ball as they try to deny their love up until the very end:

BENEDICK

Which is Beatrice?

BEATRICE

[Unmasking] I answer to that name. What is your will?

BENEDICK

Do not you love me?

BEATRICE

Why, no; no more than reason.

BENEDICK

Why, then your uncle and the prince and Claudio

Have been deceived; they swore you did.

BEATRICE

Do not you love me?

BENEDICK

Troth, no; no more than reason.

BEATRICE

Why, then my cousin Margaret and Ursula

Are much deceived; for they did swear you did.

BENEDICK

They swore that you were almost sick for me.

BEATRICE

They swore that you were well-nigh dead for me.

BENEDICK

'Tis no such matter. Then you do not love me?

BEATRICE

No, truly, but in friendly recompense.

LEONATO

Come, cousin, I am sure you love the gentleman.

CLAUDIO

And I'll be sworn upon't that he loves her;

For here's a paper written in his hand,

A halting sonnet of his own pure brain,

Fashion'd to Beatrice.

HERO

And here's another

Writ in my cousin's hand, stolen from her pocket,

Containing her affection unto Benedick.

BENEDICK

A miracle! here's our own hands against our hearts.

Come, I will have thee; but, by this light, I take thee for pity.

BEATRICE

I would not deny you; but, by this good day, I yield
upon great persuasion; and partly to save your life,
for I was told you were in a consumption.

BENEDICK

Peace! I will stop your mouth.

Kissing her

I especially love this repeated exchange:

BEATRICE

Do not you love me?

BENEDICK

Troth, no; no more than reason.

Such a great double entendre, and one of the most romantic lines of dialogue I know.

Great dialogue, then, and wordplay are the lesson to learn here; but even with that dialogue there’s no way this final scene would have meant so much if they hadn’t been through so much agony, previously; Beatrice especially. Her monologue of tears and rage when her cousin Hero is slandered by her supposed love interest is one of the most wrenching scenes in the history of theater.

• When Harry Met Sally

What I love about this one is also dialogue — Harry’s line: “When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with someone, you want the rest of your life to start right now.” A climactic scene in a love story often involves a little groveling by the recalcitrant lover, and with this line Harry makes up for a multitude of sins.

• Philadelphia Story

I just talked about what does me about this one: every single one of that large ensemble of characters has her or his own wonderful resolution and moment to shine. You see this technique in Four Weddings and a Funeral and Sense and Sensibility as well; it’s a theatrical tradition, like the cast taking final bows, that’s deeply satisfying. Compound the happiness, is what I say!

• Romancing the Stone

One of the greatest images of a NEW WAY OF LIFE ever put on film: the yacht parked in the Manhattan street outside Joan Wilder’s building, Jack standing on deck waiting for her, with those alligator boots on. It’s a complete PAYOFF of his and her DESIRE lines (and the alligator boots are a great light touch that keeps it all from being too sugary), and a clear indication of what their life is going to be like from now on. Would this have worked as well if that yacht were in a harbor? No way. It’s the extravagance and quirkiness of the gesture that makes it so grandly romantic. It never ceases to spike my endorphins, and that’s what these endings are all about.

• Lost in Translation

No, this isn’t a classic HEA (Happily Ever After), but to me it’s even more satisfying. I didn’t really want Charlotte and Bob to get together; she’s twenty-three and he’s in his fifties. Ick. But by the end of this film I do completely believe that these characters were lovers or loved ones in a past life, and that they have just saved each other at a time of mutual crisis through this brief and intense encounter. They’re alive again, and each knows what the other means to him/her. And it makes me cry … remember, CATHARSIS is the essence of drama.

18. What Makes a Great Climax?

I wanted to talk just a little more about endings from different genres and general principles of creating a great ending.

I was watching “The Making of Jaws” recently. I swear, DVD bonus features are the best thing that ever happened for writers and film students. It’s film school in a box.

Peter Benchley, the author of the book and co-screenwriter, was talking about the ending of the film. He said that from the beginning of production, Spielberg had been ragging on him about the ending; he said it was too much of a downer. For one thing, the visual wasn’t right. If you’ll recall the book, once Sheriff Brody has killed the shark (not by blowing it up), the creature spirals slowly down to the bottom of the sea.

Spielberg found that emotionally unsatisfying. He wanted something bigger, something exciting, something that would have audiences on their feet and cheering. He proposed the oxygen tank: that Brody would first shove a tank of compressed air into the shark’s mouth, and then fire at it until he hit the tank and the shark went up in a gigantic explosion. Benchley argued that it was completely absurd; no one would ever believe that could happen. Spielberg countered that he had taken the audience on the journey all this time — we were with the characters every step of the way. The audience would trust him if he did it right.

And it is a wildly implausible scene, but you go with it. That shark has just eaten Quint, whom we have also implausibly come to love (through the male bonding and then that incredible revelation of his experience being one of the crew of the wrecked Navy cruiser Indianapolis that were eaten one by one by sharks). And when Brody, clinging to the mast of the almost entirely submerged boat, aims one last time and hits that shark, and it explodes in water, flesh and blood — it is an amazing CATHARSIS.

Topped only by the sudden surfacing of the beloved Richard Dreyfuss character, who has, after all, survived (in the book he died — but was far less of a good guy). The effect is pure elation.

Spielberg paid that movie off with an emotional exhilaration rarely experienced in a story. Those characters earned that ending, and the audience did, too, for surviving the whole brutal experience with them. Brilliant filmmaker that he is, Spielberg understood that. The emotion had to be there, or he would have failed his audience.

This is a good lesson, I think: above all, in an ending, the reader/audience has to CARE. A good ending has an emotional payoff, and it has to be proportionate to what the character and the reader/audience has experienced.

It’s a Wonderful Life is another terrific example of emotional exhilaration in the end. Once George Bailey has seen what would have happened to his little town if he had never been born, and he decides he wants to live and realizes he is alive again, the pleasures just keep coming and coming and coming. It is as much a relief for us as for George, to see him running through town, seeing all his old friends and familiar places restored. And then to see the whole town gathering at his house to help him, one character after another appearing to lend money, Violet deciding to stay in town, his old friend wiring him a promise of as much money as he needs. The whole thing makes the audience glad to be alive, too. We feel, as George does, that the little things we do every day do count.

So while you’re struggling to pull together everything you’re trying to make happen in an ending, remember to step back and identify what you want your reader or audience to FEEL.

Another important component in an ending is a sense of inevitability: that it was always going to come down to this. Sheriff Brody does everything he can possibly do to avoid being on the water with that shark. He’s afraid of the water, he’s a city-bred cop, he’s an outsider in the town; in short, he’s the least likely person to be able to deal with this gigantic creature of the sea. Knowing himself to be completely unqualified, he enlists not one but two vastly different “experts from afar,” the oceanographer Hooper and the crusty sea captain Quint, to handle it for him. But deep down we know from the start, almost because of his fear and his unsuitability for the task, that in the final battle it will be Sheriff Brody, alone, mano a mano with that shark. And he kills it with his own particular skill set: he’s a cop, and one thing he knows is guns. It’s unlikely as hell, but we buy it, because in crisis we all resort to what we know.

And it’s always a huge emotional payoff when a reluctant hero steps up to the plate.

It may seem completely obvious to say so, but no matter how many allies accompany the hero/ine into the final battle, the ultimate confrontation is almost always between the hero/ine and the main antagonist, alone. By all means let the allies have their own personal battles and resolutions within the battle; that can really build the suspense and excitement of a climactic sequence. But don’t take that final victory out of the hands of your hero/ine or the story will fall flat.

That is not to say that the hero/ine’s allies can’t be with her in the climax; two good examples of this are The Wizard of Oz and The Corpse Bride. The heroine is the one who has the ultimate confrontation with the antagonist, but she is surrounded by her allies. This visual makes a strong thematic point that we are never alone when we have friends. (Or maybe, s/he who has the most friends, wins.) Similarly, in the end of It’s a Wonderful Life, even though George has already made the climactic decision on his own (he wants to live), in the final scene George’s financial problem is solved by the gathering of the entire town at his house: all of his family and friends and neighbors have taken up a collection to pay off his debt.

There is very often a moment in the climax when the hero/ine will realize that s/he and the antagonist are mirror images of each other. And/or the antagonist may provide a revelation at the moment of confrontation that nearly destroys the hero/ine … yet ultimately makes him or her stronger. (Think “I am your father” in The Empire Strikes Back.)

The battle is also a chance to PAY OFF ALL YOUR SETUPS AND PLANTS. Very often you will have set up a weakness for your hero/ine. That weakness that has caused him or her to fail repeatedly in previous tests, and in the battle the hero/ine’s great weakness will be tested.

PLACE is a hugely important element of a climax. Great stories usually, if not almost always, end in a location that has thematic and symbolic meaning. Here, once again, creating a visual and THEMATIC IMAGE SYSTEM for your story will serve you well, as will thinking in terms of SETPIECES (as we’ve talked about before). Obviously the climax should be the biggest setpiece sequence of all. In Silence of the Lambs, Clarice must go down into the labyrinth to battle the monster and save the captured princess. In Romancing the Stone, Joan must confront the brutal villain alone in a stone fortress with hungry alligators waiting in a pit below. In Jaws, the Sheriff must confront the shark on his own and at sea (and on a sinking boat!). In The Wizard of Oz, Dorothy confronts the witch in her own castle. In Raiders of the Lost Ark, Indy must infiltrate the Nazi bunker.

And yes, there’s a pattern, here: the hero/ine very often has to battle the villain/opponent on his/her own turf.

But also, the climax will have an extra, excruciating power if the hero/ine is forced to go into the place s/he most fears, the physical representation of his or her GREATEST NIGHTMARE, or horrific past trauma. Jake finds himself back in Chinatown. Clarice is trapped in a basement with a lamb (Catherine) screaming. George Bailey doesn’t even know what his greatest nightmare is until he sees what his little town would look like if Potter had control of it. Jimmy Stewart finds himself up on a rooftop again at the end of Vertigo.

A great, emotionally effective technique within battle is to have the hero/ine LOSE THE BATTLE TO WIN THE WAR. An Officer and a Gentleman does this beautifully in the final obstacle course scene, in which the arrogant Zack Mayo, who has always been out for himself, sacrifices his own chance to graduate first in his class to help a classmate over the wall, thus overcoming his own flaw of selfishness and demonstrating himself to be true officer material.

Another technique to make a bigger, more satisfying climax is to have the ALLIES GET THEIR DESIRES, TOO, as in The Wizard of Ozand Four Weddings and a Funeral.

And a particularly effective emotional technique is to GIVE THE ANTAGONIST A CHARACTER CHANGE, too, in the end of the story. Kramer vs. Kramer did this exceptionally well, with the mother seeing that her husband has become a great father and deciding to allow him custody of their son, even though the courts have granted custody to her. It’s a far greater win than if the father had simply beaten her in court. Everyone has changed for the better (a DOUBLE REVERSAL).

Because CHANGE may just be the most effective and emotionally satisfying ending of all. Nothing beats having both Rick and Captain Renault rise above their cynical and selfish instincts and go off together to fight for a greater good. So bringing it back to the beginning: one of the most important things you can design when setting up your protagonist is where s/he starts in the beginning, and how much s/he has changed in the end.

ELEVATE YOUR ENDING

Think about the endings of films and books — of all genres, now, not just romance — that stay with you. What is that extra something they have that makes them stand out from all the hundreds and thousands of stories out there?

As a storyteller, the best thing you can do for your own writing technique is to make that list and analyze why the endings that have the greatest impact on you have that impact. What is/are the storyteller/s doing to create that effect?

When you start to analyze stories you love, you will find that there are very specific techniques that filmmakers and novelists are using to create the effect that that story is having on you. That’s why it’s called “art.”

Now, you’re not going to be able to pull a meaningful ending out of a hat if the whole rest of your story has one-dimensional characters and no thematic relevance. But there are concrete ways you can broaden and deepen your own ending to have lasting impact or even lasting relevance. So I’d like to look at some endings that have made that kind of impact on me, and I hope you’ll take the cue and analyze some of your favorite endings for your own edification (and notebook!).

And I must say up front that this next part is full of spoilers, so if you don’t want to know the endings before you see or read some of these stories, you’ve been warned.

For me I think the number one technique to create a great ending is:

MAKE IT UNIVERSAL

Easy to say, you say! Yeah, I know. But let’s take a look.

My favorite movie of maybe the last five years, Slumdog Millionaire, does a beautiful and very simple thing in the third act that makes the movie much bigger in scope.

The story has set up that the “slumdog” (boy from the Mumbai slums) hero, Jamal, is on a quiz show that is the most popular show in all of India: “Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?” In several scenes, the characters talk about the show briefly — that it represents the dream of every Indian: escape. As the story moves into the third act, Jamal has advanced on the show to a half-million rupee pot, larger than anyone has ever won on the show, and the film shows shots of crowds of people watching the show in the streets; the whole country has become involved in Jamal’s story. More than that, Jamal’s story has become the story of every Indian — of India herself. This is made very poignantly clear when Jamal and his handlers are fighting through the crowd to get to the studio for the final round and an old Indian woman grabs his arm and says “Do it for all of us. Win it all.”

This is one of those archetypal moments that has amazing impact because it is played perfectly. In this moment, the woman is like a fairy godmother, or a deva spirit: in every culture, elderly women and men are magically capable of bestowing blessings (and curses!). That’s a bit of luck that we trust, in that moment. The gods are on Jamal’s side. It also blatantly tells us that Jamal is doing this for all of India, for all the Indian people. You know how I keep saying that you should not be afraid to SPELL THINGS OUT? This is a terrific example of how spelling things out can make your theme universal.

So really very simply, the author, screenwriter and director have used some crowd shots, a few lines of dialogue about the popularity of the quiz show, and one very, very short scene in the middle of a crowd to bring enormous thematic meaning to the third act. It would certainly not have the impact it does if the whole rest of the film weren’t as stellar as it is, but still, these are very calculated manipulative moments to create an effect — that works brilliantly.

There are many, many techniques at work here in that film’s ending:

• Making your main character Everyman.

• Giving your main character a blessing from the gods in the form of a fairy tale figure.

• Expanding the stage of the story — those crowd shots, seeing that people are watching the show all over the country.

• Spelling out the thematic point you are trying to make! (And this usually comes from a minor character, if you start to notice this.)

This film is also a particularly good example of using stakes and suspense in the third act. (There’s a whole chapter on Creating Suspense, Chapter 31, that is good to reread when you’re tackling Act Three, since all of those techniques are doubly applicable to third acts.)

The stakes have become excruciating by this point in the story. Not only is Jamal in an all-or nothing situation as far as the quiz show money is concerned, but also he feels that appearing on the quiz show is the only way to find his true love again. (But I still think the biggest stake is the need to win this one for the Indian people.) And there’s the suspense of will he win or will he lose, and will his love escape her Mafioso sugar daddy (sorry, I was not a fan of this subplot). And the suspense of “Will she get to the phone in time … ?”

This movie is also a good example of bringing all the subplots to a climax at the same time to create an explosive ending: the quiz show, the brother deciding to be a good guy in the end, the escape of the lover …

The ending also uses a technique to create a real high of exhilaration: it ends with a musical number that lets you float out of the theater in sheer joy. I can’t exactly describe an equivalent to a rousing musical number that you can put on the page in a novel, although great dialogue helps — but the point is, a good story will throw every trick in the book at the reader or audience to create an emotional effect.

GIVE YOUR HERO/INE A BIG CHARACTER ARC

This is something you must set up from the beginning of your story, as we discussed in Elements of Act One.

And I will say up front: a huge character arc is not necessary for a great story. In Slumdog Millionaire, Jamal’s character doesn’t really change. He is innocent, joyful, irrepressible, pure of heart, and relentless in the beginning of the story, as a little boy, and he is essentially the same lovely person as a man. That’s why we love him. He is constant and true.

But most stories show a character who is in deep emotional trouble at the beginning of the story, and the entire story is about the hero/ine recognizing that s/he’s in trouble and having the courage to change: from coward to hero, from unloving to generous, from closed-off to open-hearted.

If you start to watch for this, you’ll see that generally the big character change hinges on the difference between the hero/ine’s INNER and OUTER DESIRE, as we also talked about in Elements of Act One.

Very, very often the hero/ine’s big character change is realizing her outer desire is not important at all, and might even be the thing that has been holding her back in life, and she gives that up to pursue her inner desire, or true need.

For me personally, it’s a very satisfying thing to see a selfish character change throughout the course of the story until at the climax s/he performs a heroic and unselfish act. The great example of all time, of course, is Casablanca, in which Rick, who “sticks his neck out for no one,” takes a huge risk and gives up his own true love for the greater cause of winning the war. Same effect when mercenary loner Han Solo comes back to help Luke Skywalker in the final battle of Star Wars.

Scrooge is another classic example: the events of the story take him believably from miser to great benefactor, who “kept Christmas in his heart every day.”

I’ve said it before, but I also thought it was a beautiful and believable character change when Zack Mayo in An Officer and a Gentleman gives up his chance at being first in his class to help his classmate complete the obstacle course, thus turning into a real officer before our eyes.

This sense of big contrast and big change makes for a dramatic and emotionally satisfying ending.

I know in romance the HEA (Happily Ever After) ending rules, but some of you picking up this book may not be writing a happy ending, so for you I will point out that the dramatic change in your story may be for the worse. That can be just as powerful. In the end of The Godfather, Michael Corleone ends up powerful, but damned; he has become his father — which even his own father didn’t want to happen. Michael goes from the least likely of the family to take over the business to the anointed heir to his father’s kingdom. It’s a terrible tragedy from a moral point of view, and yet there’s a sense of inevitability about all of it that makes it perversely satisfying — because Michael is the smartest son, the fairy tale archetype of the youngest and weakest third brother, the one whom we identify with and want to succeed. It’s just that this particular success is doomed, or rather, damned.

Another dark example: Pan’s Labyrinth has one of the most powerful endings I’ve experienced in a long time. It is very dark, very true to the reality of this anti-war story. The heroine wins — she completes her tasks and saves her baby brother with a heroic act — but she sacrifices her own life to do it. In the last moments, we see her in her fantasy world, being welcomed back as a princess by her dead mother and father, as king and queen, and we see the underworld kingdom restored to glory by the spilling of her blood (rather than the spilling of her brother’s blood). But then we cut back to reality, and she’s dead, killed by her evil stepfather. The film delivers its anti-war message effectively precisely because the girl dies, which is realistic in context, but we also feel that the death did tip the balance of good and evil toward the good, in that moment. It’s a satisfying ending in its truth and beauty, much more so than a happy ending would be.

SUBPLOTS can be used very effectively to deepen the effect of your ending. As I’ve said before, in great stories like The Wizard of Oz and The Philadelphia Story and Four Weddings and a Funeral every subplot character has his or her own resolution, which gives those endings broader scope.

Think of Silence of the Lambs, one of the very few thrillers out there which creates a victim we truly care for and don’t want to die. In a very few strokes, Harris in the book, and Demme, Tally and actress Brooke Smith in the film, create a ballsy, feisty fighter who is engineering her own escape even at the bottom of a killing pit. In a two-second shot, a few sentences on a page, Catherine’s loving relationship with her cat is set up before she is kidnapped. Then on the brink of a horrible death, Catherine uses that facility with animals to capture “Precious,” the killer’s little dog, to buy her escape (thus driving the killer into a bigger frenzy). It’s a breathtaking line of suspense, because we know how unwilling Catherine is to hurt that little dog, which has become a character in its own right. (Lesson: infuse every character, every moment, with all the life you can cram into it.) And of course the payoff makes Catherine’s survival even more sweet; she won’t let anyone take the dog away from her when she is being taken to the ambulance.

And the intricacy of detail about the killer’s lair, and the fairy tale resonance of this evil troll keeping a girl in a pit, give that third act a lot of its primal power.

I know, I know, a lot of dark examples. Okay, here’s a lighter one, one of the happiest and most satisfying endings in an adventure/comedy that I know: Back to the Future. This is a great example of how careful PLANTS can pay off big when you pay them off in the end. In the beginning, we see high school student Marty McFly in a life that, well, sucks. His family lives in a run-down house, his sweet but cowering father won’t stand up to the bully he works for, the parents’ marriage is faltering. In the inciting incident, Marty is transported back to the past by mistake, and is confronted with a fantastic twist on the classic time-travel dilemma: he is influencing his future (present) with every move he makes in the past — and not for the better. In fact, since his high-school age mother has fallen in love with him, he’s in danger of never existing at all, and must get his mother together with his father so he can be born. Brilliant.

All Marty wants to do is get his parents back together and then get back to the future before he does too much damage. Mission accomplished, he returns … to find that every move he made in the past did influence his future — and much for the better. The house he returns to is huge and gorgeous, his parents are hip and happy, and the bully works for his father. It’s a wonderfully exhilarating ending, surprising and delightful, and it works because every single moment was set up in the beginning.

This ending owes a lot to It’s a Wonderful Life and Groundhog Day (which itself owes a lot to It’s a Wonderful Life). All three are terrific examples of how you can use the external environment of the main character to illustrate character change and make your theme resonate in the third act … and for years to come.

To give a completely different example, suppose you’re writing a farce. I would never dare, myself, but if I did, I would go straight to Fawlty Towers to figure out how to do it (and if you haven’t seen this genius TV series of John Cleese’s, I envy you the treat you’re in for). Every story in this series shows the quintessentially British Basil Fawlty go from rigid control to total breakdown of order. It is the vast chasm between Basil’s idea of what his life should be and the reality that he creates for himself over and over again that will have you screaming with laughter.

Another very technical lesson to take from Fawlty Towers — and from any screwball comedy or farce — is speed in climax. Just as in other forms of climax, the action speeds up in the end, to create that exhilaration of being out of control, which is the sensation I most love about a great comedy.

The TICKING CLOCK is often used to speed up the action, especially in thrillers. In Alien there’s a literal countdown over the intercom as Ripley races to get to the shuttle before the whole ship explodes. But I’ll warn again that the ticking clock is also dangerous to use because it has been done so badly so many times, especially in romantic comedies where the storytellers far too often impose an artificial clock. (“I have to get to the airport before she leaves! Oh no …. traffic!!! I must get out of the taxi and run!”) Slumdog Millionaire unfortunately succumbed to that cliché and I swear it nearly ruined that otherwise perfect film for me.

So just as with all of these techniques I’m talking about, the first step is just to notice when an ending of a book or film really works for you. Enjoy it without thinking the first time … but then go back and figure out how and why it worked. Take things apart, and the act of analyzing will help you build a toolbox that you’ll start to use to powerful effect in your own writing.

19. Act Climaxes Overview and Examples

Now we’ve had a basic overview of what happens in each act. And if you haven’t done it already, I really suggest that you take a break now and:

– Choose some movies (I always suggest three) from the Breakdowns section and watch one at a time, following along with my breakdowns, or even better, going act by act, stopping at the end of each act to identify the key story elements, and then comparing your notes and observations with mine.

If that seems overwhelming, try this incredibly useful exercise instead:

– Watch a few movies just identifying the eight sequences (every fifteen minutes or so), and act breaks, paying particular attention to the ACT CLIMAXES.

Breaking down a movie into its three (or four) acts and identifying the Act Climaxes (plot points, turning points, act breaks, curtain scenes, whatever you want to call them) is a short-cut method of analysis that will get you used to recognizing that basic storytelling rhythm. I swear, taking this exercise seriously will improve your writing to no end, and it’s worth starting from the very beginning with this exercise to lock that structure into your mind for the rest of time.

First, a quick review of what each Act Climax does:

Remember, in general, the climax of an act is very, very, very often a SETPIECE SCENE — there’s a dazzling, thematic location, an action or suspense sequence, an intricate set, a crowd scene, even a musical number (as in The Wizard of Oz and, more surprisingly, Jaws). Act climaxes also tend to be GENRE-SPECIFIC: meaning if it’s a romantic comedy, the climax should be both funny and sexy, if it’s romantic suspense, it should be both suspenseful and sexy, if it’s an action thriller, there’s probably going to be a car chase or a murder, and so on.

Also an act climax is often more a climactic sequence than a single scene, which is why it sometimes feels hard to pinpoint the exact climax. And sometimes it’s just subjective! These are guidelines, not laws. When you look at and do these analyses, the important thing for your own writing is to identify what you feel the climaxes are and why you think those are pivotal scenes.

Now, specifically:

ACT ONE CLIMAX

• 30 minutes into a 2-hour movie, 100 pages into a 400-page book. Adjust proportions according to length of book.

• We have all the information and have met all the characters we need to know what the story is going to be about.

• The Central Question is set up, and often is set up by the action of the act climax itself. We know the hero/ine’s Plan to get what s/he wants (but sometimes the Plan is stated early in Act II).

• Often propels the hero/ine Across the Threshold and Into The Special World. (Look for a location change, a journey begun).

• May start a TICKING CLOCK (this is early, but it can happen here).

MIDPOINT CLIMAX

• 60 minutes into a 2-hour movie, 200 pages into a 400-page book.

• Is a major shift in the dynamics of the story. Something huge will be revealed; something goes disastrously wrong; someone close to the hero/ine dies, intensifying her or his commitment.

• Can also be a huge defeat, which requires a recalculation and a new plan of attack.

• Completely changes the game.

• Locks the hero/ine into a situation or action.

• Is a point of no return.

• Can be a “Now it’s personal” loss.

• Can be sex at 60: the lovers finally get together, only to open up a whole new world of problems.

• May start a TICKING CLOCK.

• The Midpoint is not necessarily just one scene; it can be a progression of scenes and revelations that include a climactic scene, a complete change of location, a major revelation, a major reversal — all or any combination of the above.

ACT TWO CLIMAX

• 90 minutes into a 2-hour film, 300 pages into a 400-page book.

• Often can be a final revelation before the end game: the knowledge of who the opponent really is.

• Often comes immediately after the “All is Lost” or “Long Dark Night of the Soul” scene — or may itself be the "All is Lost" scene.

• Answers the Central Question (often in the negative).

• Propels us into the final battle.

• May start a TICKING CLOCK.

ACT THREE CLIMAX

• Near the very end of the story.

• Is the final battle.

• Hero/ine is often forced to confront his or her greatest nightmare.

• Takes place in a thematic Location — often a visual and literal representation of the Hero/ine’s Greatest Nightmare (even if it’s a wedding gone bad!).

• We see the protagonist’s character change.

• We may see the antagonist’s character change (if any).

• We may see ally/allies’ character changes and/or gaining of desire.

• There is possibly a huge final reversal or reveal (twist), or even a whole series of payoffs that you’ve been saving (as in Back to the Future and It’s a Wonderful Life).

• In a romance, is often a Declaration of Love and/or a Proposal.

EXAMPLES

Below I’ve identified the Act Climaxes (plot points, turning points, act breaks, curtain scenes) of several of the movies we’re going to talk about in this book:

All times are approximate — I'm a Pisces.

New in Town

Written by Ken Rance, C. Jay Cox

ACT I CLIMAX:

(37 min.) After being humiliated by the workers at the factory she is trying to turn around, protagonist Lucy tries to leave town on the next plane, but a big blizzard cancels the flights. As she tries to drive back into town, she runs off the road into a snowbank, and is rescued by the hero/antagonist, Ted.

MIDPOINT CLIMAX:

(57 min.) After Lucy helps Ted’s daughter dress up for a school dance, Lucy and Ted open up to each other about old wounds, then make out on the couch (and of course are caught in the act by his daughter).

ACT TWO CLIMAX:

(1 hr. 11 min.) A series of ALL IS LOST moments: Lucy’s bosses close the factory, Lucy is excoriated by her main ally Blanche, and then by her love interest, Ted. At home, Lucy tries to drown her sorrows by scarfing down Blanche’s tapioca pudding … then gets a big idea. REVELATION THAT LEADS TO FINAL BATTLE.

CLIMAX:

(1 hr. 26 min.) Lucy comes back to the factor to announce that she’s put together a team of investors who will back the workers in buying the factory themselves, with Lucy serving as CEO.

Sea of Love

Written by Richard Price

ACT I CLIMAX:

(30 min.) At his new partner’s daughter’s wedding, Frank comes up with a PLAN to catch the killer: they will place a personal ad and draw her out.

MIDPOINT CLIMAX:

(58 min.) The first sex scene between Frank and Helen, and it’s a great example of how you can make sex a setpiece scene. First both Frank and Helen nearly scare each other to death with the gun Frank thinks he sees in Helen’s purse, his reaction to it, and her reaction to his reaction. Then Helen is dominant, forcing Frank against the wall in a role reversal that is both erotic and unnerving, because it puts him in the same position as we’ve seen the murder victims in. Then after sex, she calls someone while Frank sleeps, putting us in the position of knowing more than he does and making us afraid for him.

ACT II CLIMAX:

(1 hr. 31 min.) Frank is at Helen’s apartment, begging her to come home with him after a fight … and then he finds the personals ads with all three ads placed by the murder victims circled, making him sure she’s the killer. He leaves in a hurry and she watches him from the window.

CLIMAX:

(1 hr. 38 min.) In his apartment, Frank accuses Helen of being the killer and she flees, terrified by his rage. Then Frank is attacked by the real killer, Helen’s ex-husband, but is able to kill him with a trophy he has hidden under his bed.

The Proposal

Written by Peter Chiarelli

ACT I CLIMAX:

(27 min. ) … is a proposal: Margaret’s assistant Andrew makes her get down on her knees on a crowded sidewalk to propose to him.

MIDPOINT:

(57 min.) The GETTING TO KNOW YOU scene. In the bedroom they are being forced to share, Margaret and Andrew bond over an obscure song.

ACT TWO CLIMAX:

(1 hr. 30 min.) Margaret stops her own wedding to say she can’t go through with it — Andrew deserves better than a false marriage. And she walks out to surrender herself to the INS agent.

CLIMAX:

(1 hr. 42 min.) Andrew catches Margaret in the office as she’s packing to leave and proposes to her, overcoming her fears.

Sense and Sensibility

Written by Emma Thompson, from the novel by Jane Austen

ACT I CLIMAX:

(45 min. into a 2 hr. 15 min. movie) Marianne is dramatically rescued on a rainy moor by dashing Willoughby. But Elinor has doubts …

MIDPOINT:

(1 hr. 11 min.) Lucy Steele reveals to Elinor that she is secretly engaged to Edward. Elinor — and we — are devastated.

ACT II CLIMAX:

(1 hr. 49 min.) Elinor tells Edward about Col. Brandon’s offer of a parish. Edward and Elinor are both clearly torn up that Edward will marry Lucy, but neither does anything to change that (ALL IS LOST).

CLIMAX:

(2 hr. 12 min.) Edward returns to the cottage to say he has not married Lucy, his brother has. He proposes to Elinor, and we immediately CUT TO the joyful wedding of Brandon and Marianne — Edward and Elinor are in the procession, already married.

And I wanted to throw in a description of the climaxes from Raiders of the Lost Ark to show you just how much can be done with these key scenes.

Raiders of the Lost Ark

Story by George Lucas and Philip Kaufman, written by Lawrence Kasdan

ACT ONE CLIMAX:

(30 min.) The great Nepalese bar scene. A total setpiece scene: the visuals of that snowy mountain and the tiny bar, the drinking contest that Marion wins, the fight between Indy and Marion with its emotional back story and sexual chemistry, the entrance of Toht and his heavies, who are ready to torture Marion for the medallion, the re-entrance of Indy and the huge, fiery fight, which ends in the escape of Indy and Marion with the medallion and Marion’s capper line: “I’m your goddamn partner!”

Everything you could ever want in a setpiece sequence, visuals, action, sex, emotion: and all we need to know to understand what the story is going to be has been laid out.

MIDPOINT:

(60 min.) Having determined that the Nazis are digging in the wrong place in the archeological site, Indy goes down into the Well of Souls with the medallion and a staff of the proper height, and in a mystically powerful scene, uses the crystal in the pendant to pinpoint the exact location of the Ark.

ACT TWO CLIMAX:

(1 hr. 15 min.) After the big setpiece/action scene of crashing through the wall in the Well of Souls to escape the snakes, Indy and Marion run for a plane on the airfield to escape, and Indy has to fight that gigantic mechanic, and simultaneously race to stop the plane, with Marion on it, from blowing up from the spilled gas (reliving his nightmare — losing her again). He saves Marion just before the plane blows up. And the capper: Indy learns the Nazis have put the Ark on a truck to take to Cairo. Cut to Indy on a horse, charging after them.

CLIMAX:

Of course, the climax is the opening of the Ark and the brutal deaths of all the Nazis who look at it. This is a unique climax in that the protagonist does virtually nothing but save his own and Marion’s lives; there’s no battle involved; they’re tied up all the way through the action. It’s a classic deus ex machina as God steps in (metaphorically) to take the Ark back.

But there are such pyrotechnics going on, and such emotional satisfaction in seeing the Nazis dispatched, that I never hear anyone complaining that Indy doesn’t participate.

And here’s a bit more expanded Sequence breakdown.

You’ve Got Mail

Written by Nora Ephron and Delia Ephron, based on the play Parfumerie, by Miklos Laszlo

You’ve Got Mail is a good romantic comedy to look at structurally if you are writing a love story in which the hero and heroine are completely equal characters; it’s almost a toss-up as to who is the actual protagonist, here.

For me it’s Tom Hanks, simply because he has a bigger character arc to experience, but he also drives the love story and he clearly takes control of the movie in the last thirty minutes. But the point of view, I think, is more Meg Ryan’s, and the Ephrons give her some crucial scenes that usually belong to the protagonist.

(For the record, their character names are Joe Fox and Kathleen Kelly, but somehow I just keep calling them Tom and Meg.)

ACT ONE

SEQUENCE ONE

I think it’s interesting that the Inciting Event or Call To Adventure of YGM actually happens before the movie starts: Meg and Tom have already met online, in a chat room, and are well into their emotional infidelity, I mean, internet romance, when the movie opens.

Another fairly unique thing about the movie is that the opening image and the Into The Special World, or Crossing the Threshold scene, are combined. This is the earliest I’ve ever seen an “Into the Special World” scene, although now that I think about it, the opening image often is our first glimpse at a Special World (Raiders of the Lost Ark, Witness, Bladerunner, Star Trek, Arachnophobia). What we see as the opening image is — of course — a computer screen, and the animation of an unseen user clicking through icons to sign on to the internet, which turns into animated graphics of the skyline of Manhattan, zeroing in on one graphic of a specific building on the West Side (which this movie really is a love poem to), which dissolves into the real building, which is Meg’s home.

We meet both characters on opposite sides of this computer connection, and see the premise in action right away: while Tom and Meg are completely infatuated with each other online, in real life Tom is the corporate suit who is threatening Meg’s charming independent children’s bookstore (called The Shop Around The Corner, a nice nod to the Ernst Lubitsch-directed/Samson Raphaelson-written film which was the first adaptation of the play on which this film is based).

It’s easy to see Tom’s problem and NEED/INNER DESIRE right away: while he is a terrific guy online, in his real life he is a corporate asshole (as much as Tom Hanks is ever really an asshole), who doesn’t care that his mega-volume bookstore is putting all the independent bookstores in the neighborhood out of business (even before the store opens!). Meg has an immediate external problem: the mega-volume bookstore is going to be her bookstore’s direct competition, but she doesn’t really have an internal character flaw that needs to change — except, of course, for that online infidelity thing, which isn’t taken seriously as a problem by this movie. (But really, doesn’t anyone else see that as a little problematic?)

The CLIMAX OF SEQUENCE 1 is the office scene with Tom and his father and grandfather, where the men revel in the fact that they’re putting indie bookstores out of business. (15 min. 22 seconds.)

SEQUENCE TWO

In Sequence Two, Tom and Meg continue to exchange emails while Meg’s bookstore staff worries about the impending opening of Fox Books. Meg writes her online “Friend” about having doubts about her work (which sets up somewhat of a character arc).

The ACT ONE CLIMAX takes place at the end of a montage in which Tom spends a day with his four-year old brother and nine-year old aunt (Tom’s father and grandfather both have penchants for younger women). In this montage we clearly see Tom’s INNER DESIRE: he wants children and a real family, and obviously has a heart full of love to lavish on — someone.

And lo and behold, his young — relatives — drag him into Meg’s shop to hear “the storybook lady” (this I believe would count as the Hero Entering the Special World), and we see Tom fall for Meg (CALL TO ADVENTURE) as she reads to a group of children (they are right for each other; they want the same things: books and family). This is a love story, so the climax of the act is “boy meets girl” (in real life this time) — but at the same time, he realizes, as we do, that the huge obstacle to their relationship is that she will hate him when she finds out that he is her megastore competition. (However, he still has no idea that Meg is his online infatuation.)

So of course, he CONCEALS HIS IDENTITY (one of the most classic elements of romantic comedy), in a scene in which he is ALMOST DISCOVERED several times, as his young brother almost spills the beans, repeatedly.

Also, this Act I Climax escalates the romance in a very concrete way: the online romance becomes real-life — on Tom’s side, anyway. (Act I ends at about 29 minutes.)

ACT TWO

SEQUENCE THREE

In Sequence Three, the megastore opens and immediately cuts into Meg’s bookstore’s business. Meg and her significant other, Frank, attend a party, and Tom and his significant other, Patricia, are also there. Meg learns that Tom is the owner of Fox Books and confronts him over the canapés. They have an extended fight which ends with them both dragging their significant others out of the party. Later that night, they both sneak out of bed to go online to write about the incident to each other. Off-line they keep seeing each other around the neighborhood, and try to avoid each other, but then Tom rescues Meg when she has no cash in a grocery store line.

The CLIMAX OF SEQUENCE 3 you could say is the dueling Thanksgiving party scenes (the hero and heroine singing with their extended families; they’re on parallel tracks that show they are right for each other). But I’d say it’s the scene after, in which we and Meg realize that her shop really is failing. This is a good example of the dual climax pattern you often see in a romantic comedy, in which you’ll have a scene that shows the hero and heroine are meant to be, and then undercut it with a scene of what is keeping them apart.

SEQUENCE FOUR

Now there’s another escalation to the online romance: Meg emails Tom that she needs help, she needs advice, and Tom IMs her for the first time. And he gives her the advice to “go to the mattresses.” This is another classic romantic comedy trope that goes with FALSE IDENTITY: one lover playing the CONFIDANT to the loved one while the loved one obliviously babbles on about the lover to himself — and in this case counseling her on how to destroy him. Subsequently the negative media attention Meg brings to Tom and his store makes Tom resent and dislike her. But even with all the publicity, the shop’s revenue continues to go down.

The MIDPOINT CLIMAX comes when a despondent Meg asks her anonymous online “Friend” to meet her. In the big reveal, Tom (through his ALLY, an extremely underdeveloped character, here) looks through the café window and realizes the woman he has fallen in love with online is Meg, his enemy. (58 minutes.) Tom tells his ally he’s just going home, not meeting her, but then in a twist turns around and goes back into the shop and pretends that he’s just run into her by accident — as himself. (FALSE IDENTITY again.)

SEQUENCE FIVE

…is first the very long scene of Tom and Meg getting to know each other — and fighting again — in the “chance” meeting in the café, then a scene of Meg’s staff speculating why her online friend stood her up, and then an email exchange in which Meg writes to her online friend expressing her disappointment that he didn’t show up to their date, and then Tom’s response, which climaxes as he finds himself unable to lie to her, and promises that although he can’t tell her what happened right then, he will tell her eventually. (1 hour 17 minutes.)

SEQUENCE SIX

Meg resigns herself to closing the shop and makes preparations to do so. A lot of tearjerking going on in this sequence, but remember, one of the promises of the premise of a story like this is that it will make you cry.

There is a double climax at the end of Act Two: first, Tom gets stuck in the elevator of his apartment with his girlfriend, and as other people in the elevator get serious about how they are going to change their lives if they ever get out of the elevator alive, Tom has an epiphany about how shallow his girlfriend is. He moves out on her that night, as soon as they are freed.

And then, ALL IS LOST: Meg has to close the shop. In voice-over, she writes to her “friend” telling him her heart is breaking, while in the empty shop she visualizes her mother playing with her, as she closes the door for the last time. (Her DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL.) (ACT TWO CLIMAX — 1 hour 30 minutes.)

ACT THREE

SEQUENCE SEVEN

Here is where I think structurally the movie wobbles a little. The filmmakers give Meg the moment of defeat, and it’s a very powerful one. But really Tom is the protagonist, and he needs to be the one affected in this way — at least in that when Meg emails her “friend” about closing the shop, Tom should think he has lost her for good, because he’s caused her such pain. Boy Loses Girl.

At least, that’s what is missing for me, emotionally and structurally.

Somehow that doesn’t come across, even when Tom sees Meg visiting the children’s section of his own store and she cries as she directs a customer to a book that the hapless superstore clerk has never heard of. I get Meg’s pain, there, but there’s not enough effect on Tom.

But now Tom has another revelation when his father separates from his current girlfriend and comes to stay with Tom on his boat. Tom clearly doesn’t want to be like his father, and when his father says. “Come on, has anyone ever ‘filled your heart with joy’?” Tom has the realization that Meg has. So he starts his FINAL PLAN to win her: he is going to court her as himself, and make her fall in love with him.

SEQUENCE 7 CLIMAX

Tom visits Meg when she’s sick; they have chemistry and we see her think of him romantically for the first time (well, since their initial meeting). (1 hour 45 minutes)

SEQUENCE EIGHT

….is the battle — a love battle — because Tom really is fighting to win her: by being charming, and by being her friend, while he disparages her online relationship and tries to get her to detach herself from that fantasy. He has that great speech just before she goes off to meet his online persona: “Ever wonder what it would have been like if I’d just met you and I hadn’t been your competition, and just asked you to a movie, or to coffee … for as long as we both shall live?” (I’m paraphrasing, but something like that — it’s very well-written and played.)

And in the final, final scene, the ACT THREE CLIMAX, he arranges for her to meet his online persona in the 121st Street Garden — and shows up as himself. Meg starts to cry and tells him, “I wanted it to be you. I wanted it to be you so badly,” before they finally kiss (1 hour 55 minutes).

Which for me redeems the whole movie, although I could have done without the swelling “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” but I’ve heard from others that they find it a weak ending. And some people really hate it. The sticking point seems to be that Tom never really atones for putting Meg out of business, much less has any kind of character revelation that would make him help her stay in business; it’s just “business as usual” for him. While I think Tom Hanks as an actor has the decency and charisma to make the character likeable, the character as written is a turn-off for a lot of people I’ve heard from.

So you get this film as a short sequence breakdown instead of one of the long ones!

20. Expanding On The Key Story Elements

There’s a saying in Hollywood that “If you have six great scenes, you have a movie.” Well, very often these six great scenes are off that list I gave you of the Key Story Elements. It makes sense, doesn’t it? Scenes like The Call To Adventure and Crossing the Threshold are magical moments: they change the world of the main character for all time, and as storytellers we want our readers or audiences to experience that profound, soul-shattering change right along with the character. These are numinous events, and we crave scenes that are worthy of them. That’s why I think it’s useful to study the more blatant examples — the way these scenes are depicted in fantasies like Harry Potter and The Wizard of Oz — so you get the full-on, literally magical experience of a Call To Adventure or Crossing the Threshold scene first, and then start looking for more subtle variations in less fantastical stories.

One of the main points I’ll be trying to make in this chapter is: just as filmmakers consciously design some of these key story scenes for maximum emotional and visual impact, we as novelists can be doing the same thing on the page for our readers — making the most of critical scenes such as ESTABLISHING THE HERO/INE’S GHOST, THE CALL TO ADVENTURE, CROSSING THE THRESHOLD, ESTABLISHING THE PLAN, and so on.

So now I want to look more closely at a few of those key story elements (and that’s key to all genres) and detail some examples of how filmmakers create these beats as setpiece scenes. And of course, these key scenes are very often used as act climaxes or sequence climaxes — we’ll talk about which elements are generally used as which act climaxes.

OPENING IMAGE

As I said earlier, in a film you have an opening image by default, whether you put any planning into it or not. It’s the first thing you see in the film. But good filmmakers will very consciously design that opening image to establish all kinds of things about the story: mood, tone, location, and especially theme. There can be more than just one image or shot at work, too; sometimes it’s more like a whole opening scene.

The opening image of Romancing the Stone is a small, stuffy cabin — which quickly opens up to a classic, gorgeous Western landscape of magnificent buttes in a desert setting; the heroine of the opening scene is a voluptuous buckskin-clad heroine straight from the old bodice-rippers. It’s adventure and romance, which the voice-over narration also establishes as comic and tongue-in-cheek. It’s a great miniature of the whole story — this is protagonist Joan Wilder’s fantasy, which quickly becomes her not-so-appealing reality.

The opening image(s) of Notting Hill is a montage of movie star Anna Scott’s career: newspaper headlines, magazine spreads, photo shoots, paparazzi tailing her at premieres and the Oscars. This montage sets up this story’s unusual antagonist; it’s Anna’s fame that is the constant opposition to Will and Anna’s love, and the storytellers make that fame concrete and vivid in these images.

The opening image of New in Town is a frozen, wintry landscape, symbolizing the heroine’s frozen emotions, and then the first scene shows a group of three women scrapbooking and talking about the fate of the new plant manager, a scene that brings to mind the three Norns, or Fates, of Scandinavian myth.

Well, novelists, instead of (or in addition to) killing yourselves trying to concoct a great first line which will just as likely annoy a reader into throwing your book against the wall as make them keep reading, how about giving some thought to what your opening scene looks like? It takes a lot of the pressure off that first page anxiety — because you're focused on conveying a powerful image that will intrigue and entice the reader into the book.

What do we see? How does it make us feel? How might it even be a miniature code of what the whole story is about?

Take a look at a few of the films on your master list and see what they do with the opening image. Again, bear in mind that the opening image may be more of an opening scene — and the key image may not be the very first thing we see. For example, in Casino, the film starts with DeNiro walking out to his car, with narration over. Then as he gets in, the car explodes in flame — and the credits sequence begins, the visual underneath which is a long, long take on a cut-out of a man falling slowly through flame: a descent into hell. That falling through flame, with the blinking neon of the casino all around, would be the opening image, what Scorsese has chosen to fix in the audience’s mind — it is exactly what the story is about.

One of my favorite opening images/sequences is the credits scene of The Shining. I don’t think there’s a creepier opening to be found anywhere in film. It’s all aerial camerawork of those vast, foreboding mountains as that tiny little car drives up, up, up toward what turns out to be the Overlook Hotel. It’s vertiginous, it’s ominous, it emphasizes the utter isolation of the hotel and the circumstances, and somehow, through the music and the visuals and the constant movement, Kubrick establishes a sense of huge, vast, and malevolent natural forces. As a thriller writer (or whatever you want to call me), I am constantly looking for ways to convey all those things — that experience — on the page. Mo Hayder’s The Treatment is one of my favorite recent examples … when she focuses on a murder of crows strutting on the grass of a crime scene, evil just rolls off the page, and you start to wonder if you really want to keep reading the book. (It’s worth every shudder, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Here’s another great film technique to be aware of: The opening image will sometimes —often — set up a location that will return in the final battle scene or in the resolution scene of the story — only at the end there will be a big visual contrast to show how much the hero/ine has changed. A fantastic recent example of this is in the truly lovely animated film How to Train Your Dragon. It opens with a long aerial swoop down into the Viking village. It’s dark, torchlit, forbidding … and then smashes into the opening attack by dragons, a scene of chaos and violence. And we hear young protagonist Hiccup’s wry narration over it.

In the RESOLUTION, we see the same aerial swoop into the village, but now it’s daylight, sunshine, flowers — and instead of attacking, the dragons are flying with their new — well, not owners, but partners: the same Vikings who were fighting them in the beginning. And Hiccup’s wry final narration is the same as his opening narration, with only a few key words changed. The whole village has been transformed by Hiccup’s personal journey; it’s a magnificent visual of not just character arc, but also of the change in philosophy of the whole Viking society.

Now, look, I’m not at all saying that an opening scene has to be visual to work. I had a student in a workshop recently who opened her romantic comedy with a series of dueling press releases. It was hilarious and perfect for her very funny book. As authors we have the luxury of not having to convey things purely visually. I’m just saying, if you’re struggling with an opening, this could be a technique that might help you pull it all together. It works wonders for me. And thinking of the opening visually instantly solves the problem that I’ve become increasingly aware of in the opening chapters of newer writers: they fail to set up the visual in any way, which leaves the reader floundering to figure out where the hell they are. Not an auspicious way to begin, let me tell you.

As human beings, we are primarily visual creatures (and no, I don’t just mean men. All of us.). So? Use it.

ASSIGNMENT: Make a list. Visual or not visual — what are some of your favorite book and movie openings of all time?

ASSIGNMENT: Now look at your own opening pages. Are they visual? Do we know where we are? Can you make that location, and the things we see in it, thematically meaningful?

ORDINARY WORLD AND SPECIAL WORLD

Here’s a trick of detailing and revealing your protagonist, and of world-building as well.

It’s really effective to put some serious creative thought into detailing the Hero/ine’s Ordinary World and the — hopefully! — contrasting Special World that the Hero/ine will be entering, inhabiting, exploring, journeying through, or maybe even fleeing, during the course of your story.

Drama loves CONTRAST, and this is one of the easiest ways I know of to provide it, as well as of revealing character, developing character arc, and working the themes of your story.

I always think it’s useful to look first at the Ordinary World and Special World as depicted in fantasies like Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings and The Wizard of Oz to see this dynamic at work in more blatant examples, then try your hand at recognizing the more subtle variations.

Naturally, you can’t have a more blatant contrast than the Ordinary World of Dorothy’s black and white Kansas and the Technicolor lusciousness of Oz. And look at the first Harry Potter to see Harry’s tiny, cramped bedroom under the stairs in his aunt and uncle’s bourgeois house — and that first shot of the identical Muggle houses and identical Muggle cars lined up on that perfectly flat Muggle street — as opposed to the magical, colorful eccentricity of Diagon Alley and the torch-lit boat trip across the lake to the towering mythical castle of Hogwart’s.

But to get a little more real, Romancing the Stone also depicts a beautiful contrast between the Ordinary World and Special World. Joan Wilder’s little Manhattan apartment is practically her whole world, but the Call To Adventure first thrusts her into the colorful, expansive wilds of Cartagena, and then into the even wilder (pun intended) jungles of Columbia. Going from big city to wilderness and villages, from one country to another country, is always an easy way to develop contrast; you see this in the small romantic comedy Leap Year, where the uptight heroine goes from big city Boston to the tiny village/county of Dingle, Ireland (one of my favorite special worlds, rapturously beautiful), and in The Proposal, where again, an uptight executive heroine goes from Manhattan to the mind-blowingly gorgeous, relative wilderness of Alaska.

Weather is also an easy contrast, as we see in the romantic comedy New in Town. The Ordinary World for corporate executive Lucy is Miami: beach and sun and high fashion and palm trees. Her Call To Adventure (a major job opportunity) thrusts her into the frozen wasteland of New Ulm, a very small, provincial, and decidedly unfashionable town in Minnesota. But thematically, it’s really the heroine who’s frozen, and it’s that frozen little town that finally thaws her.

Good storytellers will find all kinds of ways to make the Ordinary World and Special Worlds both contrasting and thematic. Notting Hill contrasts shots of Julia Roberts’ glamorous Hollywood life — red carpet premieres and photo shoots and film sets — with the funky London neighborhood of Notting Hill, which with its pushcart vendors and cobblestone streets looks more like an Elizabethan village than a major cosmopolitan city. The filmmakers chose to emphasize the bohemian and eccentric and insular qualities of Notting Hill to give it that contrast to the Hollywood life, and to underscore the Cinderella theme of this fairy tale romance (the commoner falls in love with the princess). Just the visual difference between their worlds sets up a big subliminal opposition to this love story working out, and it also pushes all those fairy tale buttons. And I personally love stories that create fairy tale settings and themes in a realistic setting.

Actually anyone writing a romance — or writing in any genre, really! — should look at this film for how the filmmakers use visual detail in the sets to depict character. As authors we have an unlimited budget — our imaginations — to do this kind of production design in our books.

Here are some less fantastical examples to look at to hone your perception:

– What are the Ordinary World and the Special World in The Hangover?

– What are the Ordinary World and Special World in Meet the Parents?

– What are the Ordinary World and Special World in How to Train Your Dragon? (Okay, it’s fantastical, but this is a great one to look at for contrast.)

– What are the Ordinary World and Special World in Sense and Sensibility?

– What are the Ordinary World and Special World in Jaws?

ASSIGNMENT: Make a list. What are some of your favorite examples of stories which use this Ordinary World/Special World contrast to great effect?

ASSIGNMENT: How are you depicting your hero/ine’s Ordinary World and Special World to bring out character, character arc, and the themes of your story?

HEROINE’S INNER AND OUTER DESIRE

Here's another key story element that I wanted to explore visually.

I've said before that it's important to state your hero/ine’s outer desire aloud — either by the character saying it or someone close to them (or better yet, someone in opposition to them) stating it for them.

Well, what I really mean is, you need to make inner and outer desire crystal clear. And that is often better accomplished visually than in words. You don’t actually have to have the hero say he wants the heroine, if you describe how his world stops at the moment that he meets her (as we see done so well in Notting Hill).

Funny Girl is a great example of making the desire of the heroine concrete and visual (musicals so often do this brilliantly, in song and in visuals). Early in the story, Barbra Streisand as Fanny Brice is fired from the chorus line of a vaudeville show because she’s a terrible dancer and, well, not exactly cover girl material. She tries to convince the producer to rehire her in a song (“I’m the Greatest Star”) but gets thrown out of the theater anyway. Out in the alley, she makes a decision and storms back in to try again, still singing — only to find the theater empty. Then, alone out on stage, she has that moment – that I’m sure every actor and singer and dancer in the history of the world has had — that moment of being alone on an empty stage with the entire vast history and awesome power of the theater around you. She is speechless, silenced … and then finishes the song with a power and passion we haven’t seen in her yet. We see, unequivocally, that she is a star.

Her desire is being voiced in the song, but the visuals give it the emotional power — and truth. This is her drive; this is what she would kill for.

Think you can’t put that on the page? Come on, I know I could. And I think it’s instructive to look at musicals for the way they depict unadulterated longing. That’s the kind of emotion we want to get on the page, right? Try using that as inspiration.

It’s also interesting to look at the scene where Fanny first meets Nick Arnstein, and is instantly smitten. It’s clearly love … but to me, not quite the moment that her first solo on stage is. And the whole story is about how those two desires — for stardom and for love — are in conflict. I think the film is a great example of visualizing both the inner and outer desires.

Let’s look at Raging Bull. (I say that smiling a bit; I’m sure a lot of you have avoided this film. I did too, for the longest time, but it’s a love story.) Jake LaMotta’s OUTER DESIRE is clear — he states it flat out, and he and all his entourage are working toward it. He wants to be a champion boxer.

But the moment he meets Vickie, we see a new DESIRE begin, and it’s quickly apparent that that new desire is going to conflict with his stated desire. He wants this woman, and Scorsese films Jake’s view of her so beautifully: she sits at the edge of a swimming pool, blond and pale, with the sun and the water caressing her … the film goes into slightly slow motion as she moves her legs in the water. It’s a terrific depiction of the thunderbolt of love, and the beginning of obsession; time stops for the hero when he sees the loved one.

(That slow motion technique is used to wryly comic effect to introduce the teenage love interest, Astrid, in the animated fantasy, How to Train Your Dragon. Not only does the world go into slow-mo when protagonist Hiccup first introduces Astrid in narration in the film, but also the backdrop to her is an explosion of flame, and the expression on Hiccup’s face is downright starry.)

I want to note that the establishing of OUTER DESIRE is such a big moment that it’s often used as the SEQUENCE ONE CLIMAX, as it is in Raging Bull and Funny Girl (the song gets her hired by the musical director at the theater). The hero/ine’s desire is important to establish early on, so using it as the Act One Climax (the end of Sequence Two) would in most cases be a bit late. But there are always exceptions!

Here’s another hint: it’s helpful to muse on how you might use any or all of the six senses to externalize INNER AND OUTER DESIRE. In It’s a Wonderful Life, the sound of a train whistle is like a knife in George Bailey’s heart, reminding him of the places he’s never been able to go. As we all know, scent can be the most powerfully evocative of all senses … why not use it to externalize your own hero/ine’s desire?

Sometimes a story will take a whole scene to establish the desire line. The action thriller Collateral uses this whole-scene technique to establish Jamie Foxx’s outer desire (two of his desires, in fact): when Jada Pinkett Smith gets into his cab for a short ride, their wonderful, sparkling, chemistry-laced dialogue not only reveals to us his dream of running a limo company (OUTER DESIRE), but also shows him developing a powerful new Inner and Outer Desire: He wants her (OUTER DESIRE), but more than that: he wants to be a man worthy of her (INNER DESIRE). Which is so often the case in a love story or love subplot: the true desire is to become worthy of the loved one. And the way Jamie can become a man worthy of Jada is to stop dreaming about the limo company and do it — take action.

Remember that in a love story, the moment of seeing the loved one for the first time does not just begin the inner — or sometimes outer! — desire, but it’s often also the INCITING INCIDENT and/or CALL TO ADVENTURE of the story. So next, let’s look at that critical story element.

ASSIGNMENT: Brainstorm — or be on the lookout for — examples of how filmmakers and authors externalize the main character's INNER AND OUTER DESIRE.

INCITING INCIDENT/CALL TO ADVENTURE

The INCITING INCIDENT is basically the action that starts the story. The corpse hits the floor and begins a murder investigation, the hero gets his first glimpse of the love interest in a love story, a boy receives an invitation to a school for wizards in a fantasy.

I would like to emphasize, for new writers, that SOMETHING HAS TO HAPPEN, IMMEDIATELY, that gives us an idea of WHAT YOUR STORY IS ABOUT.

You can do this to some extent by setting mood, tone, genre, hope and fear, and an immediate external problem, but I also strongly suggest that you get to your INCITING INCIDENT as soon as possible. Especially if you are a new writer, you cannot afford to hold this back. It can make or break your submission, so find a way to get it into the first few pages or at the very least, strongly hint at it.

This beat is also often called the CALL TO ADVENTURE (from Joseph Campbell’s Hero with a Thousand Faces, summarized by Christopher Vogler in The Writer’s Journey), and that's the phrase I actually prefer; it's just more — more.

But I’ve been watching a lot of classic movies lately (God bless Turner Classic Movies!), and the more I look at this story beat, the more I’ve realized that while the Inciting Incident and Call To Adventure are often the same scene, they are just as often two completely different scenes. And it’s useful to be aware of when and how they’re different, so you can bring out the particular qualities of each scene, and know when to combine them and when to separate them.

In Jaws, the inciting incident is immediate, occurring on the first pages of the book and in the first seconds of the movie: the shark swims into the Amityville harbor and attacks and kills a swimmer. The protagonist, Sheriff Brody, is not present for the inciting incident; he’s not even aware of it. The next morning, he gets a phone call reporting a missing person, possible drowning, and he goes off to investigate, not having any idea what he’s about to get into. It’s a very small moment, played over the ordinary sounds of a family kitchen in the morning.

But we’ve already seen the big setpiece inciting incident and we know what he’s in for.

However, I don’t think that Inciting Incident is the actual Call To Adventure. I think that comes at the climax of Act One, when the bereaved mother of a little boy who was killed in the second shark attack walks out on the pier in front of all the townspeople and slaps Sheriff Brody, accusing him of killing her son (because he didn’t close the beaches after the first shark attack). And this is one of the best examples I know of an emotional setpiece: the camera just holds on the mother’s ravaged face as she goes on for what feels like forever, telling Brody that her son would be alive if he’d done the right thing to begin with. And as she stands there against the sun and sky, the black veil she is wearing whips around her face in the wind … she looks like the Angel of Death, or an ancient Fate, or a Fury. It’s a moment with mythic resonance, in which Brody is called to right this wrong himself, to redeem himself for this unwitting and tragic mistake. Now that is a real Call — not just to adventure, but to redemption.

It’s one of the most haunting scenes of the movie — and I find it really interesting that Spielberg uses it as his Act Climax instead of another shark attack.

The Inciting Incident of a love story is very often meeting the love interest. In Notting Hill, Hugh Grant hovers in the aisles of his little bookshop, realizing that the customer who just walked in is the movie star Anna Scott (Julia Roberts). In a prolonged moment, he watches her as she browses, but he’s not just gawking at a celebrity. It’s a classic depiction of how time seems to stop when the Beloved walks into our lives, and we get to experience that moment with him.

In Raiders of the Lost Ark, the Inciting Incident and Call To Adventure are the same scene, and a whole lot of other things are going on in the scene as well — it’s one of my favorite Calls To Adventure for all the layers of it.

Professor Indiana Jones is called out of his archeology class by his mentor Marcus, who also serves as a HERALD here, too, summoning Indy to a meeting with a pair of government agents who will deliver the actual Call To Adventure. It’s worth noting as a technique that having this double layer to the Call — first a Herald appearing to say to the hero/ine, “There’s someone here with a job for you,” and then escorting the hero/ine to a different location where another set of messengers delivers the call, builds up the importance of the moment and the mission.

And the location of this next scene, where the government agents (U.S. Army Intelligence) explain the mission, is very significant here. This scene could have been set just in an office. Instead, the filmmakers make it a setpiece all on its own by putting it in a huge, elegant, high-ceilinged auditorium with stained glass windows, creating a cathedral-like ambiance. The setting gives us a feeling of the import of this mission. And since the Call is one of the most exciting and crucial moments of any story, why not give it a setting to create an extra layer of excitement and significance?

We learn from the government guys that a Nazi telegraph has been intercepted and Hitler’s men are looking for Indy’s old mentor, Abner Ravenwood. Indy and Marcus interpret the telegraph: The Nazis have discovered an archeological site where supposedly the Lost Ark of the Covenant has been buried for millennia, and they think Ravenwood can help them pinpoint the exact location of the Ark.

Hitler has been sending teams of Nazis out all over the globe collecting occult artifacts (this is historically true). Ominously, the legend of this particular artifact, the Ark, is that it will make any army who bears it invincible.

These are the really huge STAKES of this story, and our FEAR: If Hitler gets the Ark, it will make the German army invincible. World domination = not good.

So we also get a glimpse of what Indy is up against: his real OPPONENT is the ultimate bad guy: Hitler and the whole German army.

And our HOPE is that Indy finds the Ark before Hitler does.

This is also a good example of an EXPLAINING THE MYTHOLOGY scene. You often see these when the mission is convoluted, or fantastical — such as in horror movies, sci-fi, fantasy — and the scene often includes the hero explaining the rules to an outsider. Here, it’s Indy and Marcus explaining the history of the Ark to the government guys. And they also explain that the Nazis want to find Ravenwood because he has a medallion that can be used to pinpoint the exact location of the Ark (Indy draws all this on a blackboard, a SET UP for when we see him do for real it at the Midpoint). So we also get the whole PLAN of the movie in this scene, and we understand the medallion is the MACGUFFIN that all the different players are going to be chasing after.

There is also a big SET UP and FORESHADOWING with the illustrations of the Ark bringing down the wrath of God on a blasphemous army; it’s a sketch of exactly what happens in the final scene.

However, although Indy knows the mythology of the Ark, he quickly adds, “If you believe all that stuff” — indicating that he himself does not believe it. This is an action-adventure film; there isn’t a huge CHARACTER ARC here, but this is what it is: Indy starts out scoffing at the supernatural and mystical and ends up barely saving his life and Marion’s precisely by believing in the power of the Ark and showing reverence. (The secondary character arc has to do with reconciling romantically with Marion, although in the trilogy that doesn’t last long. There is also even a reference to this GHOST when Indy says, with some shame — that he and Ravenwood had “a sort of falling-out.”)

Also, adding to the THEME of world religions, there are several Judeo-Christian references in the University scene: the auditorium that looks like a church, with the stained glass windows, the leather-bound text that looks like a Bible, the references to the story of Moses and the Israelites and the Lost Ark of the Covenant and the wrath of God. Marcus’s voice echoes in the auditorium like the voice of a priest.

The tag line of the scene is Marcus saying: “An army carrying the Ark before it was said to be invincible,” leaving us a moment to think about that most important point as the scene changes.

All of that, about a dozen key story elements — in one scene! It’s really a miracle of compression. But it’s also a technique to note: you can add to the power of a scene by layering several key story elements into one encounter.

Hmm. I look at those three examples I just detailed above, all chosen because they were the first Call To Adventure scenes that came immediately to my mind, and I realize that even though they’re very different stories and styles, what those scenes all have in common for me is a sense of mystical, or even mythical, importance. That’s certainly my preference as a writer and reader, but I also think that there should be something mystical and mythical about any Call To Adventure scene. It’s the scene that summons the hero/ine to the journey, and invites us, the reader or audience, to come along. Shouldn’t that be magical?

I’ve also just realized that in my own current WIP, and the book I just finished, and also in my last thriller, Book of Shadows, the protagonist’s Call To Adventure in the crime story is simultaneous with meeting the love interest. I didn’t do that in previous books, and the Inciting Incidents and Calls To Adventure in my other books are separate scenes. I wonder if I’m getting more efficient at storytelling — or if possibly my stories are getting more twisted! But I look at what I’m doing now and I know it’s right that those two story elements occur together; it says something thematically that I definitely wanted to say, although I wasn’t really thinking about it at the time I wrote those scenes.

All of which I think illustrates the point that I’m trying to make in this chapter: that taking the time to analyze a particular story element by looking at examples that really do it for you can take your own writing to a whole other level.

ASSIGNMENT: You guessed it — make a list of your favorite or memorable Inciting Incidents and/or Calls To Adventure from your favorite movies and books.

CROSSING THE THRESHOLD/INTO THE SPECIAL WORLD

We’ve already talked about how establishing the Ordinary World externalizes a lot of essential information about the hero/ine. Now it’s time to take her/him out of that old, familiar comfort zone and plunge them into the adventure. And this is one of the most magical moments of storytelling; perhaps the most important one to get right.

Because it’s so big, this scene very often comes as the Act I Climax, although it can be as early as the Sequence 1 Climax. Once in a while it comes early in Act II, right after the Act I Climax. And once in a great while it doesn’t happen until the Midpoint, as in Jaws, when Brody and his team of Hooper and Quint finally head out (in that too-small boat) to open water to hunt down the shark.

It’s not uncommon to have several crossings of thresholds, as the hero/ine goes deeper and deeper into the Special World. This is always an effective technique to make us feel we’re really going on an adventure.

In Groundhog Day: the obvious Into The Special World scene is very early in the story, under the opening credits, in fact — when, after the opening scene in the newsroom, TV weatherman Phil Connors, his producer Rita, and cameraman Larry drive out of Pittsburgh, over a bridge (an archetypal symbol of crossing a threshold), and into the snowy mountains of Pennsylvania. Out of the city, into a small mountain town. This kind of contrast underscores the feeling of newness and adventure we want to experience in an Into The Special World transition.

But there’s a second, more subtle Crossing The Threshold, when Phil wakes up in the morning to a replay of the day he just spent. The filmmakers cue this moment with the shot of the clock alarm clicking over to 6 a.m., while “I Got You, Babe” plays on the radio. It’s a big visual that will repeat and repeat and repeat. The numbers on the clock are like a door, and they usher Phil into the real Special World: a time loop where every day is Groundhog Day and there’s no escaping Punxsutawney, PA.

The first Harry Potter is a great example of the many-threshold technique. As I discussed earlier, there is often a special BRIDGE or PASSAGEWAY into the special world, and in Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone you first see Harry enter the new world of London, then Hagrid magically rearranges the bricks in a stone wall and ushers Harry into the very new world of Diagon Ally, then Harry has to figure out the trick of Platform 9 ¾ (passing through a solid brick column on his own), then the train, the Hogwart’s Express, conveys the “first years” out of the city into the wilderness, then finally the kids are ferried across the dark lake (looking very much like the River Styx) in small torch-lit boats to get to the majestic castle of Hogwart’s.

Other famous passageways are the cyclone in The Wizard of Oz (and Dorothy stepping over the threshold into Technicolor Oz is certainly the most famous depiction of that moment in film history!), the red pill in The Matrix, the chalk sidewalk paintings in Mary Poppins, the wardrobe in The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe, the tesseract in A Wrinkle in Time.

But entering the Special World moment doesn’t have to be a supernatural experience — just significant! In While You Were Sleeping, the warm, bright Callaghan house is a special world to lonely Lucy, who wishes for a family of her own. When she gets out of the taxi and sees the big house covered in Christmas lights, you can see her longing to belong there on her face. And then she is confronted by a Threshold Guardian on the porch: the family friend who suspects she is lying about who she is.

Joseph Campbell talked about the idea of the Threshold Guardian: a character (or sometimes an animal or creature!) who tries to turn the hero/ine back at the gate. It’s a great way of giving the Crossing The Threshold moment extra resonance.

Another trick is to use symbols we all have in our heads. Bridges, doors, gates, freeway on-ramps or off-ramps: these are all symbols that are used constantly by filmmakers and authors to create the sense of Crossing The Threshold. And it’s very effective to have this sequence be a descent: Clarice descends multiple staircases and passes through seven gates to get to Lecter down there in that dungeon — a great, ominous Crossing The Threshold scene, that takes us down into the subterranean realms of the unconscious along with her.

But you can get really creative with the images you use. In the thriller Collateral, cab driver Jamie Foxx heads out onto the freeways of Los Angeles to start his night shift (it’s late afternoon), and he drives seemingly head-on into a huge, wall-sized Mexican mural that actually is sort of iconic, if you know downtown L.A: a painting of a desert canyon with a vaquero (cowboy) on a white horse, and a black bull. The mural is unfinished, and the vaquero has no head. And for a moment, it really does look like Jaime Foxx is driving right into that landscape. It’s surreal, and mythic, and it totally sets up the action that is to come. It’s a very short moment, but it gives me chills every time.

Start looking for this moment in films you see and books you read. It really is one of the pure joys of storytelling.

ASSIGNMENT: What is the Into The Special World moment, or scene (s), in your WIP? Are you giving that moment the magical resonance it deserves?

21. Expanded Story Elements Checklist

Last chapter I gave you some examples of how storytellers expand on key scenes. Now here’s a whole Expanded Story Elements Checklist with questions to help you brainstorm and expand on your own key scenes and moments (and also to help you analyze stories you’re reading or watching).

STORY ELEMENTS CHECKLIST

ELEMENTS OF ACT ONE:

• In a 2-hour movie, Act One starts at the beginning and climaxes at about 30 minutes.

• In a 400-page book, Act One starts at the beginning and climaxes at about 100 pages. Adjust proportionately depending on the length of the story.

• First, identify the separate SEQUENCES of this act. At what time or on what page do they start, and when/where do they climax?

In a movie, there will usually be two approximately 15-minute long sequences, Sequence 1 and Sequence 2, and the climax of Sequence 2 will be the Act I Climax, at about 30 minutes into the movie. But if the movie is longer or shorter, the sequences will be longer or shorter to match, or there might be three sequences or even (rarely) four in Act I. There may also be a short PROLOGUE.

In a book, you have more leeway with number and length of sequences; there may be three or four in one Act, and they may vary more in length: 40 pages, 20 pages, 30 pages. But generally in a 400-page book, the Act One Climax will still be around p. 100.

• OPENING IMAGE/OPENING SCENE

Describe the OPENING IMAGE and/or opening scene of the story.

What mood, tone and genre does it set up? What kinds of experiences does it hint at or promise? (Look at colors, music, pace, visuals, location, dialogue, symbols, etc.).

Does the opening image or scene mirror the closing image or scene? (It’s not mandatory, but it’s a useful technique, often used.) How are the two different? What does that say thematically?

• What’s the MOOD, TONE, GENRE(s) the story sets up from the beginning? How does it do that?

• VISUAL AND THEMATIC IMAGE SYSTEMS

(See Chapter 29, Visual Storytelling). Have you made your word lists yet? Are you clipping images from magazines? How are characters stating the themes?

• THE ORDINARY WORLD/THE SPECIAL WORLD

What does the ORDINARY WORLD look and feel like? How does it differ in look and atmosphere from THE SPECIAL WORLD? How might you build more CONTRAST between the two?

• MEET THE HERO OR HEROINE

How do we know this is the main character? Why do we like him or her? Why do we relate to him or her? What is the moment that we start rooting for this person? Why do we care?

• HERO/INE’S INNER AND OUTER DESIRE

What does the Hero/ine say s/he wants? Or what do we sense that s/he wants, even if s/he doesn't say it or seem to be aware of it? Is what s/he says s/he wants different from what we think she needs? How does what s/he thinks s/he wants turn out to be wrong? When does s/he realize that?

• HERO/INE’S PROBLEM

(This is usually an immediate external problem, not an overall need. In some stories this is much more apparent than others. Not all stories start with an external problem.)

• HERO/INE’S GHOST OR WOUND

What is haunting them from the past? How do we see and know that?

• HERO/INE’S CHARACTER ARC

Look at the beginning and the end to see how much the hero/ine changes over the course of the story. How do the storytellers depict that change? How do you depict that change in your own story?

• INCITING INCIDENT/CALL TO ADVENTURE

(This can be the same scene or two different scenes.)

Identify both the Inciting Incident and Call To Adventure. How do you make this/these moments or sequence (s) significant?

• REFUSAL OF THE CALL

Is the hero/ine reluctant to take on this task or adventure? How do we see that reluctance?

• MEET THE ANTAGONIST (and/or introduce a Mystery, which is what you do when you’re going to keep your antagonist hidden to reveal at the end).

How do we know this is the antagonist? Does this person or people want the same thing as the hero/ine, or is this person preventing the hero/ine from getting what s/he wants? How is the antagonist introduced?

• OTHER FORCES OF OPPOSITION

Who and what else is standing in the hero/ine’s way?

• THEME/WHAT’S THE STORY ABOUT?

There are usually multiple themes working in any story, and usually they will be stated aloud.

• INTRODUCE ALLIES

How is each ally introduced? What are their desires and needs in the story? What will their character arcs be?

• INTRODUCE MENTOR (may or may not have one)

What are the qualities of this mentor? How is this person a good teacher (or a bad teacher) for the hero/ine?

• INTRODUCE LOVE INTEREST (may or may not have one)

What makes us know from the beginning that this person is The One? What is their ghost/wound, their inner and outer desire, their character arc? Why is the protagonist right for them?

• ENTERING THE SPECIAL WORLD/CROSSING THE THRESHOLD

What is the Special World? How is it different from the ordinary world? How do you make entering this world a significant moment?

This scene is often at a sequence climax or the Act One Climax. Sometimes there are a whole series of thresholds to be crossed.

• THRESHOLD GUARDIAN

Is there someone standing on the threshold preventing the hero/ine from entering, or someone issuing a warning? Or an animal or some other force?

• SEQUENCE ONE CLIMAX

In a 2-hour movie, look for this about 15 minutes in. In a book, anywhere from 20 to 50 pages in. How do the storytellers make this moment significant? What is the change that lets you know that this sequence is over and Sequence 2 is starting? How do you handle your own Sequence One Climax?

(Each sequence in a book will have some sort of climax, as well, although the sequences are not as uniform in length and number as they tend to be in films. Look for a revelation, a location change, a big event, a setpiece.)

• PLANTS/REVEALS or SET UPS/PAYOFFS

It’s good to do a pass through your own story just looking at the plants and payoffs you’ve already established, but also looking for moments that might play more significantly if you planted them earlier, or potential payoffs from plants you didn’t realize you had.

• HOPE/FEAR and STAKES

What does the main character hope and fear for him or herself? What do we, the reader or audience, hope and fear for them? What is at stake? How is that spelled out or externalized?

• PLAN

What does the hero/ine say they want to do, or what do we understand they intend to do? The plan usually starts small, with a minimum effort, and gradually we see the plan changing. It’s extremely useful to track the plan from the beginning to end of the story.

• CENTRAL QUESTION, CENTRAL STORY ACTION

Does a character state this aloud? When do we realize that this is the main question and action of the story?

• ACT ONE CLIMAX

In a 2-hour movie, look for this about 30 minutes in. In a 400-page book, about 100 pages in.

How do the storytellers, or you, the storyteller, make this moment significant? What is the change that lets us know that this act is over and Act II is starting?

And possibly you will have (these can also be in Act Two or may not be present):

* ASSEMBLING THE TEAM

* GATHERING THE TOOLS

* TRAINING SEQUENCE

And also possibly (you may not have these or they may be revealed later in the story):

* MACGUFFIN

* TICKING CLOCK

• And always – IDENTIFY SETPIECES.

What key moments might you expand into setpiece scenes?

ELEMENTS OF ACT TWO, PART 1

• In a 2-hour movie, Act II, Part 1 starts at about 30 minutes, and ends at about 60 minutes.

• In a 400-page book Act II, Part 1 starts at about p. 100 and climaxes at about p. 200.

• Identify the separate SEQUENCES of this act.

Where do they start, and where do they climax? In a movie, usually there will be two 15-minute long sequences, Sequence 3 and Sequence 4, and the climax of Sequence 4 will be the MIDPOINT, at about one hour into the movie. But if the movie is longer or shorter, the sequences will be longer or shorter to match, or there might be three sequences or even four in Act II, Part 1.

And a book may have several more sequences of more variable length in this section, but the MIDPOINT will still be at about p. 200 in a 400-page book.

• Act II, Part 1 is the most variable section of the four sections of a story. I have noticed it also tends to be the most genre-specific. It doesn’t have the very clear, generic essential elements that Act I and Act III do —except in the case of mysteries and certain kinds of team action stories, which generally have a more standard structure in this section.

IF THE STORY IS A MYSTERY, this section will almost always have these elements:

• QUESTIONING WITNESSES

• LINING UP AND ELIMINATING SUSPECTS

• FOLLOWING CLUES

• RED HERRINGS AND FALSE TRAILS

• THE DETECTIVE VOICING HER/HIS THEORY

IF THE FILM IS A TEAM ACTION STORY, A WAR STORY, A HEIST OR CAPER MOVIE (like Ocean’s 11, The Seven Samurai, The Dirty Dozen, Armageddon and Inception) then this section will usually have these elements:

• GATHERING THE TEAM

• TRAINING SEQUENCE

• GATHERING THE TOOLS

• BONDING AND RIVALRIES BETWEEN TEAM MEMBERS

• SETTING UP TEAM MEMBERS’ STRENGTHS AND WEAKNESSES that will be tested in battle later.

There may also be

• A MACGUFFIN

• A TICKING CLOCK

But if the story is not a mystery or a team action story, the first half of Act II will often have some of the above elements anyway, and all stories will generally have these next elements in Act II, part 1 (not in any particular order):

• CROSSING THE THRESHOLD/ENTERING THE SPECIAL WORLD

(This scene may already have happened in Act One, but it often happens right at the end of Act One or right at the beginning of Act Two.) How do the storytellers make this moment important? Is there a special PASSAGEWAY between the worlds?

• THRESHOLD GUARDIAN (maybe)

There is very often a character who tries to prevent the hero/ine from entering the SPECIAL WORLD, or who gives them a warning about danger.

• HERO/INE’S PLAN

What is the hero/ine’s PLAN?

The plan may have been stated in Act I, but here is where we see the hero/ine start to act on the plan, and often s/he will have to keep changing the plan as early attempts fail.

• THE ANTAGONIST’S PLAN

Same as for the hero/ine: the plan may have started in Act I, but here is where we see the villain really working the plan, and often s/he will have to keep changing the plan as early attempts fail. Even if the villain is being kept secret, we will see the effects of the villain's plan on the hero/ine.

• ATTACKS AND COUNTERATTACKS

How do we see the antagonist attacking the hero/ine?

Whether or not the hero/ine realizes who is attacking her or him, the antagonist (s) will be nearby and constantly attacking the hero/ine. How does the hero/ine fight back?

• SERIES OF TESTS

How do we see the hero/ine being tested?

In a mentor story, the mentor will often be designing these tests, and there may be a training sequence or training scenes as well. Sometimes (as in The Godfather) no one is really designing the tests, but the hero/ine keeps running up against obstacles to what they want and s/he have to overcome those obstacles, and with each win they become stronger. And sometimes it seems to be fate or some higher power that is testing the hero/ine.

The hero/ine usually wins a lot in Act II:1 (and then starts to lose throughout Act II:2), but that’s not necessarily true. In Jaws, Sheriff Brody doesn’t get a win until the big defeat of the Midpoint, when he is finally able to force the mayor to sign a check and hire Quint to kill the shark.

• BONDING WITH ALLIES — LOVE SCENES

This is one of the great pleasures of any story: seeing the hero/ine make lifelong friends or fall in love. Besides the more obvious romantic scenes, the love scenes can be between a boy and his dragon, as in How to Train Your Dragon; or between teammates, as in Harry Potter and Jaws; or a man and his father or a woman and her mother (some of the most successful books and movies, like The Godfather, How to Train Your Dragon, Terms of Endearment, and Steel Magnolias show these dynamics). What are the scenes that make us feel the glow of love or joy of friendship?

Or in darker stories, instead of bonding scenes, the storytellers may show the hero/ine pulling away from people and becoming more and more alienated, as in The Godfather, Taxi Driver, The Shining, Casino.

In a love story, there is always a specific scene that you might call THE DANCE, where we see for the first time that the two lovers are perfect for each other. (This is often some witty exchange of dialogue when the two seem to be finishing each other’s sentences, or maybe they end up forced to sing karaoke together and bring down the house … ) You see this Dance scene in buddy comedies, and buddy action movies as well.

• GENRE SCENES (action, horror, suspense, sex, emotion, adventure, violence)

Make sure you’re delivering on your genre!

• Act II, Part 1 is the section of a story that will really deliver on THE PROMISE OF THE PREMISE.

What is the EXPERIENCE that you hope and expect to get from this story? Is it the glow and sexiness of falling in love, or the adrenaline rush of supernatural horror, or the intellectual pleasure of solving a mystery, or the vicarious triumph of kicking the ass of a hated enemy in hand-to-hand combat?

Here are some examples:

– In The Godfather, we get the EXPERIENCE of Michael gaining in power as he steps into the family business. There’s a vicarious thrill in seeing him win these battles.

– In Jaws, we EXPERIENCE the terror of what it’s like to be in a small beach town under attack by a monster of the sea.

– In How to Train Your Dragon, we get the EXPERIENCE and wonder of discovering all these cool and endearing qualities about dragons, including and especially the EXPERIENCE of flying. We also get to EXPERIENCE outcast and loser Hiccup suddenly winning big in the training ring.

– In Harry Potter, we get the EXPERIENCE of going to a school for wizards and learning and practicing magic (including flying).

(I want to note that for those of you working with horror stories, it’s very important to identify WHAT IS THE HORROR, exactly? What are we so scared of, in this story? How do the storytellers give us the experience of that horror?)

Ask yourself what EXPERIENCE you want your audience or reader to have in your own story, then look for the scenes that deliver on that promise in Act II, Part 1. Well, do they? If not, how can you enhance that experience?

And another big but important generalization I can make about Act II, Part 1, is that this is often where the specific structure of the KIND of story you’re writing (or viewing) kicks in.

Act II, Part 1 builds to the MIDPOINT CLIMAX — which in movies is usually a big SETPIECE scene, where the filmmakers really show off their expertise with a special effects sequence (as in How to Train Your Dragon and Harry Potter), or a big action scene (Jaws), or in breathtaking psychological cat-and-mouse dialogue (in Silence of the Lambs). It might be a sex scene or a comedy scene or both in a romantic comedy. Whatever the Midpoint is, it is most likely going to be specific to the promise of the genre.

THE MIDPOINT

• Completely changes the game

• Locks the hero/ine into a situation or action

• Is a point of no return

• Can be a huge revelation

• Can be a huge defeat

• Can be a huge win

• Can be a “Now it’s personal” loss

• Can be sex at 60 — the lovers finally get together, only to open up a whole new world of problems

ELEMENTS OF ACT TWO, PART 2

In a 2-hour movie this section starts at about 60 minutes, and ends at about 90 minutes.

In a 400-page book, this section starts at about p. 200 and ends around p. 300.

• First, identify the separate SEQUENCES of this act.

In a movie, usually there will be two 15-minute long sequences, Sequence 5 and Sequence 6, and the climax of Sequence 6 will be the ACT TWO CLIMAX, at about 90 minutes into the movie. But if the movie is longer or shorter than 2 hours, the sequences will be longer or shorter to match, or there might be three sequences or even four in Act II, Part 2, and in a shorter movie this section is often condensed into just one sequence or two very short sequences.

A book may have two, three, or even four sequences in this section, and the page count can vary.

Act II, Part 2 will almost always have these elements:

• RECALIBRATING

After the shock or defeat of the game-changer in the midpoint, the hero/ine must REVAMP THE PLAN and try a NEW MODE OF ATTACK.

What’s the new plan?

• STAKES

A good story will always be clear about the stakes. Characters often state the stakes aloud. How have the stakes been changed by the Midpoint? Do we have new hopes or fears about what the protagonist will do and what will happen to him or her?

• ESCALATING ACTIONS/OBSESSIVE DRIVE

Little actions by the hero/ine to get what s/he wants have not worked, so the actions become bigger and usually more desperate.

Do we see a new level of commitment in the hero/ine? How are the hero/ine’s actions becoming more desperate?

• HERO/INE STARTS TO LOSE

Again, while the hero/ine is generally (but not always!) winning in Act II:1, s/he generally begins to lose in Act II:2. Often this is where everything starts to unravel and spiral out of control. However, if the hero/ine has been losing throughout Act II:1, then s/he will probably start to win in Act II:2.

• INCREASED ATTACKS BY ANTAGONIST

Just as the hero/ine is becoming more desperate to get what s/he wants, the antagonist also has failed to get what s/he wants and becomes more desperate and takes riskier actions.

• HARD CHOICES AND CROSSING THE LINE

(IMMORAL ACTIONS by the main character to get what s/he wants.)

Do we see the hero/ine crossing the line and doing immoral things to get what s/he wants?

• LOSS OF KEY ALLIES

Possibly because of the hero/ine’s obsessive or immoral actions, possibly through death or injury by the antagonist.

Do any allies walk out on the hero/ine or get killed or injured?

• A TICKING CLOCK (can happen anywhere in the story, or there may not be one.)

• REVERSALS AND REVELATIONS/TWISTS

Here is where a lot of plants are paying off as twists.

• THE LONG DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL and/or VISIT TO DEATH (also known as: ALL IS LOST)

There is always a moment in a story where the hero/ine seems to have lost everything, and it is almost always right before the Second Act Climax, or it is the Second Act Climax.

What is the All Is Lost scene?

In a romance or romantic comedy, the All Is Lost moment is often a THE LOVER MAKES A STAND scene, where s/he tells the loved one: “Enough of this bullshit waffling; either commit to me or don’t, but if you don’t, I’m out of here.” This can be the hero/ine or the love interest making this stand.

THE SECOND ACT CLIMAX

• Often will be a final revelation before the end game: the knowledge of who the opponent really is, that will propel the hero/ine into the FINAL BATTLE.

• Often will be another devastating loss, the ALL IS LOST scene. In a mythic structure or Chosen One story or mentor story, this is almost always where the mentor dies or is otherwise taken out of the action, so the hero/ine must go into the final battle alone (and emotionally devastated).

• Answers the Central Question — and often the answer is “no” — so that the hero/ine again must come up with a whole new plan.

• Often is a SETPIECE.

ELEMENTS OF ACT THREE

The third act is basically the Final Battle and Resolution. It can often be one continuous sequence —the chase and confrontation, or confrontation and chase. There may be a final preparation for battle, or it might be done on the fly. Either here or in the last part of the second act the hero will make a new, FINAL PLAN, based on the new information and revelations of the second act.

The essence of a third act is the final showdown between protagonist and antagonist. It is often divided into two sequences:

1. Getting there (Storming the Castle): Sequence 7.

2. The final battle itself: Sequence 8.

• In addition to the FINAL PLAN, there may be another GATHERING OF THE TEAM scene, and a brief TRAINING SEQUENCE.

• There may well be DEFEATS OF SECONDARY OPPONENTS

Each one of the secondary opponents should be given a satisfying end or comeuppance. (This may also happen earlier, in Act II:2).

• THEMATIC LOCATION

This is often a visual and literal representation of the Hero/ine’s Greatest Nightmare.

• THE PROTAGONIST’S CHARACTER CHANGE

• THE ANTAGONIST’S CHARACTER CHANGE (if any)

• Possibly ALLY/ALLIES’ CHARACTER CHANGE and/or GAINING OF DESIRE(s)

• Possibly a huge FINAL REVERSAL OR REVEAL (twist), or even a whole series of PAYOFFS that you’ve been saving (as in Back to the Future and It’s a Wonderful Life).

• RESOLUTION: A glimpse into the NEW WAY OF LIFE that the hero/ine will be living after this whole ordeal and all s/he’s learned from it.

• Possibly a sense of coming FULL CIRCLE

Returning to the opening image or scene and is a great way to show how much things have changed, or how the hero/ine has changed inside, which makes her or him deal with the same place and situation in a whole different way.

• CLOSING IMAGE

Remember that this is a basic, general list. There are story elements specific to the genre you’re writing in and also to whatever KIND of story you're writing, and the best way to get familiar with what those are is to do the story breakdowns on three (at least) movies or books that are similar to the kind of story you're writing. (See: Chapter 4)

What KIND Of Story Is It?)

Next, we tackle key and common Love Story Elements.

22. Love Story Elements

Now that we have a good sense of overall act structure and the key story elements common to all stories, let’s get specific about love story elements.

The following are some scenes and setups that are very typical in romance and romantic comedy. I’ve tried to focus mostly on plot points or premises instead of just gags or bits — that is, these are actual story elements that can help you build a story, if you use them wisely. And these elements will often overlap with the key story elements we’ve been discussing: that is, the CALL TO ADVENTURE in a love story might be a case of FATE INTERVENES; THE PLAN might be to PRETEND WE’RE MARRIED; THE HERO/INE’S GHOST might show up at the MIDPOINT and radically shift the dynamics of the story, and so on.

Now, any of these love story elements can be done badly and devolve into the worst kind of cliché. The point of knowing the common elements is to be aware they’ve been done before and find your own unique ways of using them, if you’re going to use them.

I’m not going to waste time on the clichés for which there probably is no hope, ever, but here’s my own partial list of those clunkers, which I’m sure you can add to:

– The hardboiled career woman who needs thawing

– The heroine working as a book or magazine editor (Really? Another one?)

– The heroine loosening up in a drunk scene (and recently, promptly vomiting on the —– hero’s shoes)

– The hero/ine spilling something on the love interest (truly vomit-inducing, usually a pathetic version of meet cute)

– The African-American or gay best friend who has no other purpose in life but to support the hero/ine (and of course, show how wonderfully open-minded they are)

– The climactic race to the airport to stop the loved one from leaving

I’m already nauseous just making that much of a list, but you get the point. Let’s go on to some common elements that are much used, but still useful, used wisely.

MEET CUTE

Okay, I lied. There’s nothing useful about this one. Please, please don’t do it. Instead, why not try thinking about what it really is to meet The One — to see someone for the first time who might just change your entire destiny. Go into your own life, and the lives of everyone around you, and really ask yourself what that moment is. You can dress it up with comedy, that’s totally fine, but find something real and meaningful about it. Otherwise, why even bother?

THE INCITING INCIDENT/CALL TO ADVENTURE

In a love story, while the INCITING INCIDENT that starts off the story action may be a job offer, a wedding invitation, a misbooked hotel room, or any other inciting incident common to any genre, the actual CALL TO ADVENTURE in a love story is very, very often that first look at the beloved. This is why so often that first look seems on the surface to be HATE AT FIRST SIGHT — it’s a variation on the RELUCTANT HERO/INE (or REFUSAL OF THE CALL). When we meet that true love, there’s often as much or more fear and panic involved as joy and relief. Life is never going to be the same.

LOVE INTEREST INTRODUCED AS COMPLETE IDIOT

An example of MISAPPREHENSION, which is a form of MISTAKEN IDENTITY. Bridget Jones’ Diary, New in Town.

THE HERO/INE’S GHOST

In a love story, the Ghost or Wound is most often related to love and attachment, obviously: the heroine’s parents died when she was a child (The Proposal), the hero’s father has had a succession of failed marriages (Made of Honor, You’ve Got Mail), the heroine’s father was always chasing rainbows, impoverishing the family (Leap Year).

The ghost often comes out deep into the story, in a confessional scene in which the hero/ine reveals to the love interest WHY I’M LIKE THIS (often at the MIDPOINT), but it’s generally better storytelling to dramatize it: In You’ve Got Mail, when Tom Hanks’ father leaves his much younger wife and moves in with Tom in his temporary crash pad (boat), Tom realizes he doesn’t want to be like his father and that he loves Meg (which in this story is THE ACT TWO CLIMAX/REVELATION into the FINAL BATTLE).

HANDCUFF THE COUPLE TOGETHER

In Romancing the Stone, Joan needs Jack to take her out of the jungle and back to Cartagena; Jack needs Joan’s money because he’s just lost all the rare birds he was smuggling. In The Proposal, Margaret needs Andrew to pretend he’s married to her so she won’t be deported and she threatens him with career annihilation if he refuses; Andrew agrees to do it if Margaret promotes him and publishes a book he loves. In Leap Year, Anna needs Declan to take her to Dublin, Declan needs Anna’s money to save his pub from foreclosure. In What Happens in Vegas, a judge orders Cameron Diaz and Aston Kutcher to remain married for six months if they want to split the three million dollar casino payoff they won together. (This story beat is also often an

OFFER S/HE CAN’T REFUSE.)

A common variation on Handcuffing The Couple Together is:

FATE (OR THE WEATHER) INTERVENES

It’s amazing how often romantic comedy uses this device. Fate, very often in the form of the weather, prevents the hero/ine from leaving town (New in Town, Groundhog Day), or deposits them on the opposite side of the country from where they are supposed to be (Leap Year), so that the hero/ine can meet his or her true love.

This is especially well done in Groundhog Day, as I will talk about at length — I swear, those clouds are scheming.

THE OFFER S/HE CAN’T REFUSE

A plot point that usually comes early in the first act: the hero/ine is locked into a situation because their boss or family or a judge gives them an ultimatum — eg. in The Proposal, if Margaret does not fake a marriage with Andrew, she will be deported. See New in Town, Leap Year, What Happens in Vegas.

MISTAKEN IDENTITY OR FALSE IDENTITY

False identity was a staple for Shakespeare’s comedies, and is still widely used in romantic comedy, sometimes as a scene or sequence (pretending to be a sister or a fiancée), sometimes as the whole premise of the story: While You Were Sleeping, Tootsie.

GETTING TO KNOW YOU

I don’t have to explain this one, do I? It’s the first time the hero and heroine let down their respective guards and start to spill personal information. It’s very often done very badly, as an information dump.

COUPLE FORCED TO PRETEND THEY’RE MARRIED

A staple of romantic comedy; it can be a scene, as in Leap Year where Anna and Declan must pretend to be married in order to get a room for the night at a B & B owned by religiously conservative proprietors, or it can be the whole premise of the story: whether it’s to get an inheritance or some other large chunk of money (What Happens in Vegas), or get a green card (The Proposal, Green Card).

LET’S PRETEND WE’RE MARRIED

A different kind of scene, more spontaneous — in which the couple find themselves digging in a garden or working well together in a kitchen (Leap Year), or one of them talks the other off an emotional ledge (Sally gently calming Harry down after he explodes in front of their best friends in When Harry Met Sally), and we get a glimpse of the well-matched couple they would be.

TICKING CLOCK

A staple of all genres, often used very unconvincingly, so be careful. Some good examples: In Leap Year, Anna needs to get to Dublin by Leap Day to propose to her reluctant boyfriend. In The Proposal, Margaret and Andrew have four days to get to know each other well enough to convincingly pass themselves off as married to a suspicious INS agent. At the climax of When Harry Met Sally, Harry is desperate to get to a New Year’s Eve party in time to kiss Sally at the stroke of midnight, something he utterly failed to do the year before.

THE BET

Can be a scene, or a whole premise, in which the hero/ine bets friends that s/he — usually he — can bed or dump a lover in a certain timeframe (How to Lose A Guy in Ten Days). Or some other bet that leads to a romantic entanglement (Pygmalion, My Fair Lady).

EX-SEX

Sometimes the second time is the charm. Or not. Sweet Home Alabama, It’s Complicated.

THE MAGICAL DAY (YEAR, PLACE, HOUR)

The idea that there is a magical day, or hour, or place, that will lead magically to true love and/or marriage. Leap Year has a heroine racing across Ireland in order to propose to her reluctant boyfriend on Leap Day, when traditionally men are obliged to accept any proposal they receive. Four Weddings and a Funeral plays with the idea that a wedding is a magical moment in time in which not only the bridal couple but anyone in attendance can find true love.

WHY THEM?

This is appallingly lacking in most love stories: some indicator of why we’re supposed to want this couple to get together to begin with. I know, love is a hard thing to define, but please, give us something! Some common explanations:

– Opposites attract (Leap Year, Groundhog Day)

– A shared passion (New in Town)

– In a class by themselves (Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn in Philadelphia Story)

– They bring out each other’s best selves (Sense and Sensibility)

– They make each other laugh

– They understand and support each other’s most cherished dreams (While You Were Sleeping, Sense and Sensibility)

I’m sure you can think of lots of others. In fact, why not spend a minute now and:

ASSIGNMENT: Write out your reasons WHY THEM? for the lovers in your WIP.

THE DANCE

One of the most crucial scenes in any romance or romantic subplot, and one that goes a long way toward explaining WHY THEM? The Dance is a scene in which we see that two people are perfect for each other: they have the same rhythm, they work around each other’s flaws, they have the same passion, they complete each other. One of my favorites is the beautiful scene in Sense and Sensibility in which Edward and Elinor coax Elinor’s younger sister Margaret out from where she has been hiding under the library table by pretending ignorance of the source of the Nile. We see that Edward and Elinor are perfectly matched: both intelligent, witty, sensitive, kind, and off-the-wall. They are at their most charming when they’re together, and we are totally committed to the relationship by the end of the short scene. So much more meaningful than “Meet Cute”!

FALLING IN LOVE WITH THE FAMILY

It’s very common to have a scene or sequence where we see the hero/ine falling in love with the loved one’s entire family (While You Were Sleeping, The ProposalA variation of this is FALLING IN LOVE WITH THE HERO/INE’S FRIENDS (Notting Hill).

OOPS, WRONG BROTHER! (or WRONG SISTER!)

You know this one: the hero/ine thinks s/he’s happily engaged until — uh oh — s/he meets the loved one’s brother or sister (While You Were Sleeping, Holiday).

WRONG MAN/WRONG WOMAN

Not to be confused with Hitchcock’s “Wrong Man” story, about an innocent falsely accused (or set up). What I mean here is, in a story where the hero/ine is dating or engaged to the wrong person, there are going to be scenes that demonstrate clearly that this is the WRONG MAN, or WRONG WOMAN. I would venture to say these scenes are going to happen in virtually every love story in which there is a rival for the hero/ine’s love interest’s love.

GHOSTS OF GIRLFRIENDS/BOYFRIENDS PAST

Obviously, having an old flame around makes for conflict and sometimes dramatic suspense in a love story, but it also often makes for good comedy. Four Weddings and a Funeral has not just one, but two great examples of this scene: at one wedding dinner, Hugh Grant is seated at a table with four of his exes, comically dramatizing his problem of chronic serial monogamy. Then later his love interest Andie McDowell has a great monologue about her exes, all thirty-three of them.

THE AWFUL TRUTH

The hero or love interest scathes the heroine, or vice-versa, and knowingly or unknowingly hits the nail squarely on the head about what the hero/ine’s problem is. (While You Were Sleeping, and there are several good zingers in Leap Year.)

PRATFALLS

This is of course a visual, but I’m including it for the screenwriters (and some authors do it wonderfully on the page — Helen Fielding being a good example). Since the early screwball comedies, romantic comedy heroines have been falling over. This can be tiresome, but good physical comedians/comediennes can make it sublime — Lucille Ball, Katharine Hepburn, and Meg Ryan perfected the art.

THE REVOLVING DOOR

Another staple of physical comedy, but it’s one you can use on the page. The wrong person shows up at the wrong time and the hero/ine is forced to hide someone in the closet, under the bed, on the windowsill, etc. Another component of this is more people keep showing up to complicate the deception. This is a variation on:

WRONG PLACE, WRONG TIME

Another staple of comedy. In Four Weddings and a Funeral: Charlie gets caught in the bridal suite just as the bridal couple decide to consummate their new marriage.

THE CATCHPHRASE or TAGLINE

While real-life lovers often play word games, the catchphrase is a dangerous thing, not often pulled off. “You had me at hello” from Jerry Maguire is one of the best. The Proposal doesn’t do too badly with “We’re just two people who weren’t supposed to fall in love, but did.” Try a making a Top Ten list for inspiration!

THE RIDDLE

Sometimes the love interest asks a thematic question that the hero/ine finally comes to understand, usually at the climax of the story — an interesting fairy tale touch (Leap Year).

GOSH, S/HE’D MAKE A GREAT PARENT! (or THE YEARNING FOR A FAMILY)

It’s very typical to show the hero/ine looking longingly after children or show the hero/ine noticing how good the hero/ine is with kids: Aston Kutcher coaching Little League in What Happens in Vegas, Meg Ryan reading aloud to preschoolers in You’ve Got Mail. A much funnier scene — Dustin Hoffman as Dorothy being run ragged by Jessica Lange’s baby daughter in Tootsie.

THE MAKEOVER

This can be a terrible cliché, so be careful. For an example of how to do this right, look at Romancing the Stone, which has a wonderful time taking Joan Wilder’s expensive but mousy wardrobe and shredding it until she’s dressed in a good approximation of her romantic alter-ego Angelina’s buckskins and bodices. And Miss Congeniality, Princess Diaries,The Devil Wears Prada, and Clueless have fun with this scene. More subtly, New in Town and The Proposal realistically depict their heroines’ wardrobes changing from executive stiffness to a more practical and appealing softness.

COUPLE FORCED TO KISS

It’s kind of amazing to me how often a romantic comedy will have a scene like this. Forced to kiss? How do writers come up with these things? (We’ll see it in Leap Year, The Proposal, While You Were Sleeping.)

COUPLE FORCED TO SHARE A BED

Look at that! This hotel room only has one bed! (Leap Year, French Kiss, The Proposal.)

THE CABIN IN THE WOODS

The couple is forced to stay overnight in an isolated place. There’s a nice variation on this one in Romancing the Stone, where the “cabin” is the wreck of an airplane that crashed in the jungle — carrying a cargo of marijuana. Which Jack promptly uses to build a fire …

SEX AT SIXTY

All of the above often leads to this — that’s sex at 60 minutes in a movie, or the Midpoint, meaning it’s around page 200 in a 400-page book. This is common to find in all genres, even more common in romantic comedy. Yes, it can be almost sex at sixty. If there is actual sex at sixty, it usually crashes the relationship immediately.

THE CONFESSION SCENE

This is different from the DECLARATION below. The confession is where the hero or heroine or both open up about their childhood, ghosts, fears, hopes — their INNER DESIRES as opposed to their OUTER DESIRES. It often occurs at the MIDPOINT.

YOU’RE THE ONLY ONE WHO UNDERSTANDS

Often during the confession scene, the hero and heroine will express a long-held, secret dream (Jack’s is to own a boat in Romancing the Stone. Another Jack’s is to start his own business in While You Were Sleeping. In Sense and Sensibility, Edward’s is to be the vicar of a small parsonage) and the loved one totally gets it and supports it, when no one else (usually the hero’s family) ever has. I don’t think it’s accidental that I’ve listed a bunch of male secret dreams that the heroines support; women have a long history of being better supporters that way.

This beat is separate from:

ONLY YOU

The scene where the hero and heroine bond over some song or piece of poetry or dog or combination of foods that only the loved one could ever understand. (This kind of improbably works in The Proposal.)

GET THE COUPLE TO SOMEONE ELSE’S WEDDING

Many romances have a scene or whole sequence at someone else’s wedding — throwing the hero and/or heroine right into that crucible to show their reactions to the whole idea in general. Not just romantic comedies, but romantic suspense will do this; see Sea of Love.

CINDERELLA GOES TO THE BALL

Another version of going to a wedding, and usually involves a MAKEOVER. The original Arthur does this well, with John Gielgud as the world’s most charming (in a deadpan way) fairy godmother.

INTERRUPTING THE WEDDING

This is usually done by mistake, for comic effect (and it’s often not funny at all, be careful). But sometimes it’s a deliberate act, as in:

I’M GOING TO BREAK UP THAT WEDDING IF IT’S THE LAST THING I DO

Can be one scene, but it can also be the whole premise of the story, as in Philadelphia Story and My Best Friend’s Wedding, or Made of Honor.

“IF ANYONE KNOWS OF ANY REASON … ”

Speaking of interrupting weddings — very often once the couple is at someone else’s wedding, some kind of disturbance will occur just at this critical juncture in the ceremony. Often it turns into a plot point (in the climax of Four Weddings and a Funeral).

THE PROMISE or DEATHBED PROMISE scene, or DYING WORDS scene.

In Four Weddings and a Funeral, one of the last things Gareth says to his circle of friends before he dies of a heart attack is: “I want to see you all married. Go forth and find husbands and wives.” Of course Hugh Grant takes that to heart …

THE LOVER MAKES A STAND

This scene seems almost always to come in the very last part of Act II:2, but sometimes in Act III. Basically, it’s the crux of Sequence Six or Sequence Seven. In this scene the Lover, the one who loves most deeply, says to the Loved One, “I’m not going to take your bullshit any more. Make up your mind. Either commit to me or don’t, but if you don’t, I’m out of here.” It’s often the ALL IS LOST MOMENT.

It’s Complicated: Steve Martin tells Meryl Streep that she’s not done with Alec yet, and he doesn’t want to see her while she’s still emotionally involved with him. Notting Hill: Hugh Grant tells Julia Roberts in the bookstore that between her “foul temper” and his far more inexperienced heart, he doesn’t think he would recover from being discarded again, and turns down her offer to date. When Harry Met Sally: Sally refuses Harry’s offer to go to the New Year’s party as a friendly date because “I’m not your consolation prize, Harry.”

In all of the above scenes, the Lover’s Stand forces the Loved One to step up and commit just as deeply as the Lover is committed. But it seems that very, very, very often, it’s one character, the Lover, who has to force the issue. And that finally leads to another scene:

THE DECLARATION

Yes, it’s essential to have a well-written declaration of love, it’s one of the biggest payoffs of the genre. I suggest you make a Top Ten List of your favorites for inspiration: try Julia Roberts’ “I’m just a girl standing in front of a boy” in Notting Hill; Hugh Grant stammering through “I think I love you” in Four Weddings and a Funeral; Dustin Hoffman in Tootsie: “I was a better man with you as a woman than I ever was with a woman as a man;” Billy Crystal in When Harry Met Sally: “When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with someone, you want the rest of your life to start right now;” Tom Cruise in Jerry Maguire: “You complete me.”

In a love story, the declaration very often is the FINAL BATTLE. And, oh, right —– it’s very often a PROPOSAL.

It is also often a public declaration, in front of as many people can be crowded into the scene. But that’s become so much of a cliché I would really suggest avoiding it, if at all possible.

And remember, if the lover has behaved particularly badly, the audience or reader probably wants to see a little GROVELING.

THE KISS

I don’t really need to explain this one, do I? Well, let me just say: in love stories there are usually two key kisses: one someplace around the MIDPOINT, or at the Midpoint, where the couple have a first kiss and both suddenly realize, usually separately, that they’re in deep trouble (THE KISS THAT CHANGES EVERYTHING). This is often the COUPLE FORCED TO KISS scene.

Then the very end of the movie or book, or the Act III climax, is the prolonged, never coming up for air, make the audience or reader really feel it kiss. Unfortunately in lesser stories this often substitutes for a real ending.

NEW WAY OF LIFE

This is truly an essential beat to get right in a romance, and nothing beats Romancing the Stone for this moment — wouldn’t anyone want the life Joan and Jack are sailing off to? And somehow it’s much more delicious because the yacht is not on the ocean, but parked on that Manhattan street. It’s the ultimate romantic gesture by a bad boy with a wicked sense of humor.

I also love seeing Hugh Grant shyly hitting the red carpet in Notting Hill, and the flip side of their life, the payoff of the two sprawled on that inscribed garden bench.

But yes, sometimes a kiss will do it, too, especially if it’s Colin Firth doing the kissing, as in Bridget Jones’ Diary.

Now as you may have guessed, I’ve made up a lot of those names for the above scenes. You’re perfectly welcome to call those scenes, moments and setups something else entirely, and hopefully you’ll be adding lots of observations of your own to the list.

In the story breakdowns section of this book, I’ve gone through ten romances of different types and pointed out examples of all of the above and more, so you can watch the films and see these elements at work (and see how incredibly common, sometimes even critical, they are to all romance subgenres). And again — find even more of your own! I don’t know of any better or more fun way to brainstorm on your own WIP.

23. Fairy Tale Structure

One thing I’ve learned about myself as a writer — partly by making lists! — is that my favorite stories of all are fairy tales and myths, which are often interchangeable. I highly recommend — yet again! — Vogler’s The Writer’s Journey and Truby’s The Anatomy of Story for superb discussions of the particulars of mythic structure.

But when I respond deeply to a movie or book, no matter how realistic and modern it seems on the surface, chances are it’s going to have a fairy tale structure.

Silence of the Lambs, Red Dragon, The Exorcist, The Godfather, A Wrinkle in Time, Star Wars, The Treatment (Mo Hayder) — every single one of them is a fairy tale. And fairy tales have their own structural rules that just work for me.

Let’s look at some examples.

Pan’s Labyrinth has a blatant fairy tale structure, and, as in so many fairy tales, the heroine is told by her mentor and ally the faun that she must perform three tasks to save the underworld kingdom and reclaim her place as the princess of that world (and thus escape her horrifying reality in 1944 Spain).

The three-task structure is so useful and successful because it tells the audience exactly what they’re in for. Audiences (and readers — but especially audiences) need to know that things will come to an end eventually, otherwise they get restless and worried that they will never get out of that theater. I’m not kidding. And a reader, particularly a promiscuous reader like me, will bail on a book if it doesn’t seem to be escalating and progressing at a good clip. But with a three-task structure, the audience is, at least subconsciously, mentally ticking off each task as it is completed, and that gives a satisfying sense of progress toward a resolution. Plus once you’ve set a three-task structure, you can then play with expectation, as Del Toro did in Pan’s Labyrinth, and have the heroine fail at one of the tasks, say, the second task, and provide a great moment of defeat, a huge reversal and surprise, that in this case was completely emotionally wrenching because of the heroine’s very dire real-life situation.

Another classic fairy tale structure is the three-brother or three-sister structure. You know, as in The White Cat, or The Boy Who Had to Learn Fear, or Cinderella. In this structure, there is one task that is the goal, and we watch all three siblings attempt it, but it’s always the youngest and ostensibly weakest sibling that gets it right.

Another Rule Of Three fairy tale structure deals with the three magical allies. The Wizard of Oz has this — Scarecrow, Tin Man, Lion; the animated classic Sleeping Beauty — fairy godmothers Flora, Fauna and Meriwether; A Wrinkle in Time — the “witches”: Mrs. Whatsit, Mrs. Who, Mrs Which; Star Wars — R2D2, C3P0, Han Solo (Okay, there are four if you count Chewbacca, but he’s so joined at the hip to Han that they’re really one entity); and Harry Potter — Dumbledore, McGonagall and Hagrid are Harry’s magical mentors; and Harry, Hermione and Ron form another triumvirate of their own.

Magical allies give gifts, and they provide substructure for stories by each having their moment or moments of aiding the hero/ine.

You do not have to be writing a fantasy to use any of these structural techniques. They all can work just as well in the most grittily realistic story. Just look at The Godfather, the most classic modern example I know of the three-brother structure. There’s the old king, the Godfather; the two older brothers, Sonny, with his lethal temper, and Fredo, with his weak womanizing; and the youngest brother, Michael, who is the outsider in the family: college-educated, Americanized, kept apart from the family business, and thought of as the weakest. And throughout the story we see this unlikely younger brother ascend to his father’s throne (even though it’s about the last thing we want).

You can see the three-brother structure working loosely in Mystic River, with the three friends who are all cursed by a horrific childhood event that inextricably binds their fates together. Lehane even uses a fairy tale analogy in the tale: “The Boy Who Was Captured By Wolves,” and the fairy-tale resonances in that book and film contribute to its haunting power.

The Deerhunter is another three-brother structure, which opens with another fairy tale story element: a curse. The whole first sequence is a wedding, complete with unwanted guest (the Green Beret who won't talk to the three friends about Vietnam), and at the height of the merrymaking the bride and groom drink from the same cup, which is supposed to bring a lifetime of happiness if they don’t spill a drop. Unbeknownst to the couple or the guests, they spill wine on the bride’s gown, thus bringing on the (metaphorical) curse for all three friends.

The Deerhunter also utilizes another classic structure technique, also common in fairy tales: The Promise. In the first act, when the friends are on the mountain, hunting, on their last day before three of them are shipped off to Vietnam, Nick asks Michael to make sure that he doesn't leave him over in Vietnam. Even if he dies, he wants to return home. "Promise me, Mike," he says. "You gotta promise me you won't leave me over there."

You know when you get a promise scene that the story is going to be about that friend keeping the promise. It's an anchor to the action of the story — one of those spell-it-out moments that lets an audience subconsciously relax, because they understand what the story is going to be about — and they know the writer knows what the story is about, too. That's a comfortable feeling. You have to let your audience/reader know that you know what your story is about.

The point is, if you really look closely at stories on your list, you might just find a similar meta-structure at work that will help you shape your own story. Try it!

Here’s a list of more fairy tale elements:

• There is often a “Once Upon A Time” beginning. This can be subtle, as in Notting Hill. Hugh Grant’s narrative has nothing to do with once upon a time, but the fact that there is narration at all evokes storytelling. While You Were Sleeping begins the same way.

• The story very, very often concerns the family.

• The story often concerns royalty or a form of royalty (Catherine Martin’s mother is a Senator in Silence of the Lambs, Don Corleone is a Mafia king in The Godfather, The Princess Diaries and Roman Holiday have actual royals).

• Usually most of the action takes place in a single setting, like a castle, instead of on a road trip as you see in the mythic structure or Hero’s Journey structure. But that’s not always the case: fairy tales like The Maiden Tsar and Eros and Psyche and East of The Sun, West Of The Moon (the last two are older versions of Beauty And the Beast) are fairy tales involving journeys.

• There is often some kind of family curse or other curse (The Godfather: the long shadow of the family business is like a curse on Michael Corleone. Spirited Away: the girl’s parents are turned into pigs and she must indenture herself to a witch to save them. The Deerhunter: the bridal couple spills wine on the bride’s dress, an unlucky omen).

• There is often an animal bride or bridegroom or lover (Spirited Away, Twilight and all its sequels, The Little Mermaid, Splash).

• The Changeling Child (Rosemary’s Baby, The Exorcist, Devil’s Advocate, Harry Potter)

• A bargain (Rosemary’s Baby)

• Weddings feature prominently (The Godfather, The Deerhunter)

• Witches (Rosemary’s Baby, The Little Mermaid, Spirited Away)

• Shapeshifters

• Disguise

• Wise old man and/or wise old woman

• Animal helpers

• Wanting a baby very badly and usually doing something immoral to get one (Rapunzel, Rosemary’s Baby)

• A deal with the devil (Silence of the Lambs, Devil’s Advocate, The Little Mermaid, Rosemary’s Baby)

• Tasks to be performed (very often a set of three specific tasks).

• The sins of the fathers (and mothers) come to rest on the children (Nightmare on Elm Street, The Godfather).

• Servitude of the hero/ine, usually to a witch (Spirited Away, Baba Yaga stories. We see modern versions of this in The Proposal and The Devil Wears Prada).

• Three witches or three ogres or three trolls.

• Kindness to strangers/creatures/old women/monsters/animals/trees is rewarded, usually by magical objects that prove useful later. (Spirited Away, Silence of the Lambs — remember how Clarice’s courtesy wins Lecter over?) Rudeness to any of the above is punished severely.

• Lots of mirrors

• Twin pairings

• Step-parents and step-siblings are usually bad news (Harry Potter, Cinderella, The Maiden Tsar, Sense and Sensibility)

• Being cursed with blindness (Rosemary’s Baby)

• Magical objects

• Omens and portents

• Charms

• Wishes

• Promises (The Deerhunter)

• Dying Words (Four Weddings and a Funeral, Sense and Sensibility)

• Magical days or magical hours (Leap Year, Four Weddings and a Funeral, When Harry Met Sally, Groundhog Day)

• Comas (While You Were Sleeping, Rosemary’s Baby, Sleeping Beauty)

• Abduction (Silence of the Lambs, Mystic River)

• Three Brothers (The Godfather, Mystic River, The Deerhunter)

• Three Sisters (Cinderella)

• Three Fairy Godmothers (The Secret Life of Bees, Sleeping Beauty, New in Town)

• In fact, The Rule Of Three is rampant in fairy tales — not just three brothers or three sisters, but three tasks, three witches, three wishes, three magical allies.

• Sevens are also important, and sometimes thirteens.

• Marriage is often the goal.

24. Meta Structure

There are other kinds of meta structures besides fairy tale structure and mythic structure, so I wanted to spend a chapter talking about meta structure. That’s my own term for it, by the way; I don’t know if there is some definitive official term for what I’m talking about. Aristotle called it energia, and John Truby (in his superb book on structure, The Anatomy of Story) calls it the “story designing principle,” but this is what it is:

Sometimes there is just a perfect way to tell a story.

This is partly luck in premise, but some of it can be engineered, if you train yourself to look for meta structure.

Here are some examples:

Four Weddings and a Funeral

Sleepless in Seattle

Groundhog Day

It’s a Wonderful Life

Four Christmases

Slumdog Millionaire

Rashomon

Murder on the Orient Express

Eat, Pray, Love

Seven

I don’t know if people can see what I’m getting at just by looking at that list, but don’t worry, I’m about to explain each one.

Now, all of those movies are “high concept,” but those premises also go beyond high concept.

Four Weddings and a Funeral tells you exactly what the story is going to be, right? The meta structure of that story is seeing the same group of old friends on the days of four different weddings and one funeral day, on which they mourn one of their own.

Groundhog Day: A man repeats the same day of his life over and over and over again until he gets it right.

It’s a Wonderful Life: shows a man’s entire life in vignettes, and then shows the cumulative effect of his life and deeds by depicting his home town as it would have been had he never lived.

In much the same way, Back to the Future shows a kid whose life is not what anyone would call great accidentally transported back to the past, and his actions in the past completely transform the circumstances of his life when he gets back to the future.

Four Christmases (which I haven’t seen but got the meta structure of it instantly) depicts a young couple forced to attend the Christmas celebration of each one of their divorced parents, which teaches them what they want for themselves in marriage and love.

Slumdog Millionaire: shows how every major event of a poor Indian boy’s life has enabled him to correctly answer the questions on a multi-million dollar game show.

Sleepless in Seattle: shows two people who are meant for each other falling in love, even though they live on opposite sides of the country and never meet until the last scene of the film.

Murder on the Orient Express: is a murder mystery in which the twelve passengers on a stalled train act as a jury to try, convict, and execute a heinous criminal, and Detective Hercule Poirot acts as both detective and judge, who first solves the baffling, contradictory crime and then decides that the killing was just.

Rashomon: We see a highway robbery, rape, and murder replayed from the vastly different points of view of each of the three participants.

Eat, Pray, Love: Details a woman’s spiritual journey through three different countries in which she relearns the basics of life and happiness: eating (in Italy), praying (in India), and loving (in Bali).

Seven: Two police detectives pursue a killer who murders victims he deems guilty of the seven deadly sins.

Okay, so each of these premises tells you exactly how to tell that story, right? Each story almost has to be told the way that it is told.

Your story might not have a meta structure like that. Many classic movies and books do not have this kind of meta structure: Raiders of the Lost Ark, Jaws — they’re great, high concept stories, but I don’t think you can say that there’s a meta structure operating in those stories the way there is in the other stories I’ve listed.

I’m bringing up the point to get you to start looking for meta structure, because when you add this narrative tool to your ever-expanding toolbox (hmm, that sounds intriguingly dirty, doesn’t it?), you may just hit on the perfect meta structure for your own story.

25. What is “High Concept”?

Here is one of the biggest lessons an author can take from Hollywood — the HIGH-CONCEPT PREMISE.

A friend of mine did a workshop a couple of months ago on the High Concept Premise. We ended up talking before the workshop about high concept in books and movies, and also about the even more elusive concept of the Big Book.

I was interested to hear that when she polled a number of editors to ask them how they would define a Big Book, while everyone said that the Big Book is what everyone is always looking for, no one could give her a specific answer about what exactly it is! Or even try. A Big Book is the one all the editors get excited about because they think they can make a ton of money with it. But what is that?

I’m used to people being vague about what High Concept is. And yes, it’s an “I know it when I see it” kind of thing: the idea that is so good that it is painfully obvious, only no one else has thought of it until now.

And as my friend and I were talking, I realized that a Big Book is slightly different from a High Concept book. They are often, but not necessarily, interchangeable terms.

But let’s start with High Concept. This is a Hollywood term. And very often, it is what editors mean when they talk about a Big Book.

If you can tell your story in one line and everyone who hears it can see exactly what the movie or book is — and a majority of people who hear it will be interested in seeing it or reading it — that’s high concept.

Here’s another way of looking at it: the potential of the setup is obvious. A movie like Meet the Parents instantly conjures all kinds of disaster scenarios, right? Because we’ve all (mostly) been in the situation before, and we know the extreme perils.

I would also add, not as an afterthought — with a high-concept premise, the moneymaking potential is obvious.

Here’s another indicator. When you get the reaction “Wow, I wish I’d thought of that!” or even better, “I’m going to have to kill you,” you’ve got a high-concept premise.

Screenwriter/producer Terry Rossio calls it “Mental Real Estate”: a topic or subject that is in a majority of people’s heads already, and his essay “Mental Real Estate” on Wordplayer.com is a must-read on the subject. (Then take some time — got a few years? — and explore the rest of the site. It’s a free mini-film school by two of the best in the business: Terry Rossio and Ted Elliott).

While we’re on the subject of Ted and Terry, and the concept of mental real estate: just think for a minute about one of their movies, Pirates of the Caribbean. Who hasn’t been on that Disney ride? All the studio had to do to advertise it was slap that skull and crossbones on a one-sheet (movie poster), and people were sold. The studio was counting on our collective racial memory of the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disneyland to get us in to see the movie, and it worked.

But okay, let’s break it down, specifically. What makes stories high concept? One or more of these things:

• They’re topical: they hit a nerve in society at the right time: Fatal Attraction for AIDS, Jurassic Park for cloning, Disclosure for sexual harassment (only reversing the sexes in that book and movie was utter sexist bullshit), Eat, Pray, Love for exploring a woman’s inner and outer quest for meaning and love.

• They are about a subject that we all have in our heads already (The Passion, The Da Vinci Code, Four Christmases, Jurassic Park, Pirates of the Caribbean)

• They exploit a primal fear (Jaws, Jurassic Park) or spiritual fear (The Exorcist).

• They are about a situation that we all (or almost all) have experienced (Meet the Parents, Blind Date, Four Christmases, The Hangover).

• They are controversial and/or sacrilegious enough to generate press (Da Vinci Code, The Last Temptation, Jesus Christ Superstar).

• They generate water-cooler talk (Fatal Attraction, Indecent Proposal).

• They have a big twist (The Usual Suspects, The Sixth Sense, The Crying Game, Presumed Innocent, Ruthless People).

Let’s take a look at some high-concept ideas:

Jurassic Park — A group of scientists and the grandchildren of an inventor tour a remote island where the inventor has cloned dinosaurs to create a Jurassic amusement park — and then have to fight for their lives when the dinosaur containment system breaks down.

What kid has not had that obsession with dinosaurs? And who of us has not had the nightmare thought of how terrifying it would be to be face to face with one of those things live? Throw in the very topical subject of cloning (they get dinosaur DNA from a prehistoric fly trapped in amber) and the promise of amusement-park thrills, and who isn’t going to read that book and/or see that movie?

Fatal Attraction— A happily married man has a one-night stand and then his family is stalked by the psychotic co-worker he hooked up with.

This film hit a huge number of people in the — uh, gut — because even people who have never had an affair almost certainly have had moments of thinking about it. Also the film came out when AIDS was truly a plague, with no effective treatment in sight, and suddenly a one-night stand could literally be fatal. It’s easy to see the potential for some really frightening situations there, as the innocent family of the guilty father is terrorized, and of course we all like to see a good moral comeuppance.

Indecent Proposal — A young, broke couple on vacation in Vegas are offered a million dollars by a wealthy man for one night of sex with the wife.

This is a great example of the “What would you do?” premise. It’s a question that generated all kinds of what the media calls “water cooler discussion,” and made it a must-see movie at the time. Would you have sex with a stranger for a million dollars? Would you let someone you love do it?

Harry Potter — A boarding school for wizards? You don't even have to say any more about it. Except that — what kid doesn’t think that they're a crown prince/ss, wizard or witch trapped in a Muggle family? Also, can you say "amusement park ride" and "action figures"? Cereal, candy, Halloween costumes ... by the way, did you see the Eat Pray Love clothing line, wines, and storage containers at Cost Plus? The spinoff cookbooks? I'm just saying ... the marketing potential is obvious.

Are you starting to get the hang of it?

But with movies, the high concept premise has a couple of incredibly practical considerations. It suggests a built-in marketing campaign — and it is such a good idea that you could shoot it on a low budget and still have a movie that people would go see. That doesn’t mean anyone’s going to shoot it on a low budget, because we are after all talking about Hollywood. But you could shoot it on a low budget. It is the idea that is golden. (Think of Paranormal Activity, Blair Witch Project, Open Water, The Last Exorcism — all low or ultra-low budget movies that made mints because the ideas were so compelling and the movies were well enough done to sustain the idea).

A Big Book, however, is almost the opposite. It’s Big. Epic. The Harry Potter series, The Historian, The Passage, The Da Vinci Code, The Hunger Games — these all scream big budget. Huge setpiece scenes, international or otherworld locations, huge casts, historical figures. They have been or will be made into movies because they are bestsellers and also incredibly cinematic (not to mention, in a few cases, great books), but without that bestseller thing they are concepts that would give any studio head pause, because of the budget considerations. But in a book, we have no budget constraints. We can do the international scope and build a whole other world. And once that book has proven itself in the book world, Hollywood is more than glad to sweep it up for film or TV production.

So what can we do to start generating more high concept/Big Book ideas for ourselves?

One of the best classes I ever took on screenwriting was solely on premise. Every week we had to come up with three loglines for movie ideas and stand up and read them aloud to the class. We each put a dollar into a pot and the class voted on the best premise of the night, and the winner got the pot. It was highly motivating; I made my first "screenwriting" money that way and I learned worlds about what a premise should be.

Whether you’re a screenwriter or novelist, I highly recommend you try the same exercise: make yourself come up with three story ideas a week, and try to make some of them high concept. You'll be training yourself to think in terms of big story ideas. You don’t have to sell out. I’m always telling the stories I want to tell, about the people I want to write about. When The Price was optioned by Sony, the executives pitched it to the studio as:

The devil is walking around the halls of a Boston hospital making deals with the patients and their families.

And there’s a “What would you do?” built in:

“What would you give to save the life of a loved one?”

There’s no reason not to think in more universal terms and be open to subject matter, locations, themes, topics, that might strike a chord in a bigger audience.

The reality is, these days agents and editors and publishers are looking for books that have those unique, universal, high-concept premises, and the attendant potential for a TV or movie sale. And if you’re venturing into the Wild West of indie publishing, high concept is a great way to make your book stand out from the horde.

Open your mind to the possibility of high concept, and see what happens. You may be surprised.

ASSIGNMENT: Make a list of ten high concept premises (that I haven’t already discussed here!). Try to define what about them makes them high concept for you.

ASSIGNMENT: Make a commitment to come up with at least three premises a week. Try them out on your friends and family. Which ones make their eyes light up? Why aren’t you writing those stories?

ASSIGNMENT: Look at your own premise line. Is there a way to tie it into a subject or theme, or holiday or setting, that will make it more universal and appealing?

26. The Rule of Three

Since those last few chapters were basically on structure, before I move on to more non-structural topics, I thought I’d better cover this basic rule of drama: The Rule Of Three.

Hmm, how to define this …

Well. It’s a rule of comedy that anything is funnier in threes. It’s a rule of learning that it takes three repetitions to assimilate a thought. The Three-Act Structure — it’s based on a rhythm of three: Setup, Complications, and Resolution.

Three main characters. Three questions. Three wishes. “Third time’s the charm.” “Three strikes, you’re out.” “Ready, aim, fire.” “Lights, camera, action.” “And a one, and a two, and a three.”

As a species, we seem to love threes.

What this three thing comes from, I can’t say. Personally I suspect it’s cosmic. Really. Let’s face it: the Triple Goddess: Maiden, Mother, Crone … Father, Mother, Son … Father, Son, Holy Mother … Father, Son, Holy Ghost, three Fates, three Furies, three Sybils, three Wise Men, three Graces, three witches … All the spiritual heavyweights come in threes.

It’s also a basic principle of the Fairy Tale Structure. The three-brother structure, or three-sister structure, the three-task structure, three activities, three key questions, three fairy godmothers, three supernatural helpers, three magical gifts …

The id-ego-superego structure is a basic principle of Freudian psychology.

Think about it.

– How many times have you seen a movie or read a book in which you see a character attempt things three times … fail the first two times, and then succeed on the third try?

– How many times have you seen a character cluster of three?

– How many times have you seen the three-in-a-row pattern of a joke?

It’s a rule of advertising, of rhetoric, of politics: “I came, I saw, I conquered.” “Faith, hope and charity.” “Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” “Of the people, by the people, for the people.” “Location, location, location.”

Call it religion, call it astrology, call it numerology … however, whyever — this pattern of three is somehow intrinsically satisfying to us as human beings.

It’s often this pattern: Same, Same, Different.

In the Three-Brother or Three-Sister Structure, it’s Fail, Fail, Succeed. In The Godfather, we see older brothers Sonny and Fredo are not up to the task of running the Corleone family, but unlikely youngest brother Michael is. In Jaws, we see scientist Hooper and ship’s captain Quint go up against the shark, but in the climax, very unlikely Sheriff Brody actually kills the beast. In Cinderella, the two eldest stepsisters fail utterly with the Prince, then youngest stepsister Cinderella wins the crown. Sorry, I mean prince.

Think about character names: Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Hagrid. Flora, Fauna, and Meriwether. Do you see that change in rhythm? Same, same, different. Serious, serious, joke.

So it is essential for you, writers, to be aware of the existence of the Rule Of Three so you can start being alert to its use in storytelling. You will find it in act structure, in dialogue, in character clusters, in critical events — it is rampant, ubiquitous, and shamelessly used in storytelling of every genre.

The ancient Greeks had it down, and named it, of course, as was their wont: in rhetoric it was called a Tricolon, a sentence with three parallel words or phrases. I’m not going to test anyone on this, but I think it’s important to understand how very long this rhythm has been in use (we’re talking 400 BC, if not earlier!). The Greeks delineated two types of tricolon: the ascending tricolon (tricolon crescens) and the descending tricolon (tricolon diminuens). In the ascending tricolon, the words increase with each pause; and in descending tricolon, the words lessen in length after every break.

Are your eyes glazing over? Well, take another look at these examples:

Ascending Tricolon: Flora, Fauna, and Meriwether.

Descending Tricolon: Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Hagrid.

I don’t know about you, but that to me is fascinating. I can’t tell you that J.K. Rowling designed those character names consciously as a descending tricolon — but a descending tricolon is what that is, there, and I’d say it’s done pretty well for her. My point is: why on earth would anyone not want to at least be aware of a rhythm which has worked on audiences for thousands of years?

Start looking for threes in the movies and TV you watch and the books you read (and the commercials, and the political speeches, and the news articles … ). You will be staggered at how often this principle is applied in storytelling — and in life.

27. Voice

I accidentally agreed to read some first chapter submissions for a conference recently. This is not something I ordinarily do because I’m so much more comfortable teaching plotting and structure — and rewriting! — than I am teaching more basic writing writing, which I tend to believe can only be self-taught. I know how to write because I spent however many dozens of years journaling, starting at age four: my mother is a teacher and insisted that my siblings and I write every day. First a sentence, then a paragraph, then a page. Let me tell you — it worked. That’s not something you can recreate in a workshop, any more than you can teach someone to play the piano in a workshop or teach someone to dance or paint in a workshop. The authors I know are writers; they may just have gotten around to writing a first book, but inevitably, in whatever way, they have been writers for dozens of years.

So anyway, I am reading these first chapters, and realizing that I am absolutely right: I cannot teach these people to write. Some of them can write already, and some of them can’t. I can make suggestions to all of them to improve what they have handed in to me. And actually the suggestions would pretty much be along the same lines to all of them. But the ones who can write will take my suggestions and end up with better first chapters — or they’ll ignore me completely and their chapters will still be good, possibly better than they would be if they tried to rewrite them.

And the ones who can’t write can take those suggestions and incorporate them until the cows come home and — I’m afraid — they are still never going to have chapters that would be of any interest to any agent or editor.

These are not terrible writers I’m talking about, either. The writing is not uneducated, or laughable. That’s sort of what makes this kind of thing so painful to see.

And it occurs to me that this is mainly what editors are talking about when they talk about VOICE. I think there’s some confusion on this issue because a lot of times when people talk about voice they’re talking about how a character narrates a story — especially those first-person narrations. If they’re clever and witty and self-deprecating or use a lot of hip words, then a lot of people call that “voice.” I also hear “voice” used to describe an author’s unique storytelling — I mean the author’s character, or persona, as it comes through the story.

But there’s a more important voice that makes a book, and I mean literally makes a book. And that is the way an author puts a bunch of images, actions, thoughts, emotions and sensations into an order, in words, that puts a reader into the action and makes a reader have the exact experience that the characters are having — just like being inside a dream or a movie.

That is the real and completely elusive magic of storytelling: that an author can make all those disparate elements play as an engaging, unbroken whole that literally becomes more important to the reader than their own consciousness. Because it’s true, isn’t it? When we read, we give up our own consciousness, our ego-awareness, to the book, to the story.

I don’t know if this makes any sense at all, but to me, voice is like the unspoken narrative that makes a dream seem to make sense at the time that you dream it. It gives the action cohesion.

Okay, here's another analogy. For a time, I was a theater director, mostly musical theater, and I've sat through many an audition. This is always an excruciatingly tense thing in the first couple of seconds of a song, because you do not know if the person in front of you is actually going to be able to sing or not. You are bracing yourself — physically bracing yourself, for the very real possibility that this person will not be able to pull off a song at all, which is actually very sad and painful.

Most of us now get to have this special experience with televised American Idol tryouts, right?

And when that person starts the song, and they really can sing, there is first a relief, and then a relaxation, a giving over into that person's hands, because you know they're not going to drop you. You can commit to that song, that performance, because of the singer's confidence. They're going to do the work and make it not seem like work, and carry you along with them.

Same with writing. The first page, the first chapter, has to convey that confidence in storytelling that will make the reader relax and give themselves over to you. They are putting themselves in your hands. But the thing that makes them have that trust is VOICE.

I would not exactly say that all published authors have this skill, or gift … not as far as I’m concerned. But they obviously have that gift enough to make other people (agents, editors, readers) give their consciousness up to those stories. And most of the time, annoying as I find these authors, I would have to reluctantly concede that they have at least that much skill, compared to writers who haven’t mastered that skill.

I’ve taught enough now to know that some things about writing can be taught successfully, so I find this question of voice very interesting, and, like most unknowns — scary.

Is there a way to teach it, I wonder? Or is it like perfect pitch: you can fine-tune it, but if you don’t have it, you don’t?

Now, there were obvious, easily definable problems with some of these unpublished first chapters I’m talking about. I think a first chapter carries the whole weight of the book with it. It has to convey mood, tone, genre, foreshadowing, stakes, urgency, main character need and desire, setting, theme (especially, especially, especially theme) and the absolute sense that this is a journey that we want to take. And a dozen other things beyond that. (Note that I didn't mention "a great first line." I am not one of the cult of the first line.)

And a first chapter doesn’t have to be explosive or perfect to convey those things, either. If an author has written a book worth reading, the first chapter will communicate that (partly because if it hasn’t, the author will have rewritten the chapter or started over with a new chapter that introduces the book convincingly).

So I can tell these writers that they need to be conveying mood, tone, genre, foreshadowing, stakes, urgency, main character need and desire, setting, THEME, etc., in their first chapters. And I can make very concrete suggestions about how to bring those things out.

The problem is, I don’t think that’s going to do a thing to improve the VOICE of a book.

(And I have to say as an aside, I think contests put far, far, far too much emphasis on endlessly rewriting the first three chapters when there’s no book there to begin with.)

Maybe the only advice to give people who haven’t discovered their voice is: keep writing. Write whole books. And find a critique group that will let you read your work aloud, where it becomes immediately evident if voice is there or not.

Except that even in that situation, if a writer doesn’t have voice, it often doesn’t seem evident to them at all.

Sigh.

But here’s an exercise I hope will help.

ASSIGNMENT: Make a list of ten books (books this time, not films) with first chapters that you love. Now read the first few pages of each, or the whole chapter, and figure out what it is that makes you love those openings so much. Is it the emotion, the characterization, the imagery, the dialogue, the sense of an unseen narrator? What are you drawn in by? What is it about the VOICE that you love?

28. First Chapters

I’d like to continue my rant from the last chapter and go on to discuss first chapters in general.

There is no question that reading a bunch of — well, anything — in a row gives you a good idea of what to do and not to do in executing that particular thing. And I maintain I can’t teach anyone to write, but I sure can point out the problems I see over and over and over again. So here’s a brief list of common, and very fixable, problems I see with first chapters.

1. Inexperienced writers almost inevitably START THEIR STORIES IN THE WRONG PLACE.

Now, please, please remember — I am not talking about first drafts, here. As far as I’m concerned, all a first draft has to do is get to “The End.” It doesn’t have to be polished. It doesn’t have to make sense to anyone but you. Screenwriter and novelist Derek Haas (Wanted, 3:10 To Yuma) refers to his first pass of a story as “the vomit draft.”

Exactly.

In my current WIP, I am writing scenes out of order in a way I never have in my entire writing life. So what? I’m switching POVs in a way I never have before and I need to write some things out of order because I have no idea what the best order is. I’m writing scenes I know will be in there somewhere and I’ll figure it out in the second draft, or the third, or the fourth.

So it’s fine to write those 20 or 50 extra pages in the beginning, no problem. Just get it all out — you’ll make sense of it later. (For more on this, see Chapter 36, Your First Draft Is Always Going To Suck. )

But — when you’ve gotten to the end, if you are a newer writer, I suspect you will probably want to start your story 20, 30, even 50 pages later than you did. And this is partly why:

For some reason newer writers think they have to tell the whole back story in the first ten pages. Back story is not story. You will lose every potential agent, editor, and future reader in the known universe. So —

2. NEVER MIND THE FUCKING BACK STORY!!!!!

With almost no exceptions, you should start your book with an actual scene, in which your main character (or villain, if that’s who you start with, that’s fine too) is in the middle of ACTION. You should put that scene down on the page as if the reader is watching a movie — or more precisely, caught up in a movie. The reader should not just be watching the action, but feeling the sweat, smelling the salt air, feeling the roiling of their stomach as they step into whatever unknown.

We don’t need to know who this person is, yet. Let them keep secrets. Make the reader wonder; curiosity is a big hook. What we need to do is get inside the character’s skin.

So here are two tips:

3. IDENTIFY THE SENSATION AND EXPERIENCE YOU WANT TO EVOKE IN YOUR READER — AND THEN MAKE SURE YOU’RE EVOKING IT.

I cannot possibly stress this enough. We read novels to have an EXPERIENCE. Make yourself a list of your favorite books and identify what EXPERIENCE those books give you. Sex, terror, absolute power, the crazy wonderfulness of falling in love? What is the particular rollercoaster that that book (or movie) is? Identify that in your favorite stories and be specific. Then do the same for your own story. Are you getting that — and I mean all of that — into your first chapter? Your first three chapters? If not, you have work to do. And you know what? That goes just as much for me, and all of us. In spades. GIVE US THE EXPERIENCE.

4. Make sure you’re using ALL SIX SENSES. A great exercise is to make sure that every three pages you’ve covered specific details of what you want the reader to see, hear, feel, taste, smell, and sense. All six categories, every three pages. (Sounds too by the numbers? Try it. Now admit it — isn't that better? Aren't you just more there?)

5. SHOW, DON’T TELL.

This is one of those notes that always annoys me until I have to read fifteen pages of “telling.” Then I realize it’s the essence of storytelling. If your character has a conflict with her brother, then let’s see the two of them fighting — don’t give us a family history and Freudian analysis. Action, action, action.

6. DETAIL THE INTERNAL DRIVES OF YOUR CHARACTER AND SET THE GENRE.

You don’t need to detail the family tree or when they moved to whatever house they’re living in or their great love for their first dog.

What we need to know instead is: their DESIRE and WHAT IS BLOCKING THEM. We need to feel HOPE AND FEAR for them. We need to get a sense of the GENRE, a strong sense of MOOD and TONE, and a hint of THEME.

And —

7. SOMETHING HAS TO HAPPEN, IMMEDIATELY, that gives us an idea of WHAT THE STORY IS ABOUT.

You can do this to some extent by setting mood, tone, genre, hope and fear, and an immediate external problem — but also I mean you should get to your INCITING INCIDENT and CALL TO ADVENTURE as soon as possible. Especially if you are a new writer, you cannot afford to hold this back. It can make or break your submission, so find a way to get it into the first few pages or at the very least, strongly hint at it.

And if you disagree with me, awesome! But if you do think everything I’ve just said is wrong, then at the very least, make your own list. If you didn’t do this last chapter, do it now. List ten first chapters, by your own favorite authors, that just turn you inside out. And take a look at what those storytellers are doing in those chapters. Break it down. Really look at it from every angle. What is it exactly that makes you commit in a few pages, a few sentences, a few words, to those authors and those stories?

(I just reread The Firm for the dozenth time or so and that first chapter still just knocks me out every time. Perfect thriller opening. The Shining, The Treatment, Rosemary’s Baby, The Godfather!! With some books I’ve typed out the whole first chapter for myself to see exactly how every word and sentence is working to make me react the way I do. It works!)

And then – meaning once you’re finished with your first draft and have celebrated mightily – look at your own first chapter and be ruthless with yourself. Are you doing whatever it is that they are doing that you love so much? Are you? Really?

Or is there something that you might do… just a little more like – that.

That’s all I’m saying.

29. Thematic Image Systems

I really hate trying to define theme, but here goes.

Theme is what the story is about. On a deeper level than the plot details. The big meaning. Usually a moral meaning.

Hmm. See why I don’t want to define it? What in the world does that mean?

Well, how about defining by example?

Okay, I’ve heard, often, “Huck Finn is about the inhumanity of racism.”

I don't know about you, but that doesn’t tell me much about the story.

I’ve also heard a lot that the theme of Romeo and Juliet is “Great love defies even death.” Except that – in the end, they’re dead, right? So how exactly is the love defying death? Risking death and losing, maybe. Inspiring people to be better people because of their deaths, maybe.

How about this? “A man is never truly alone who has friends” is a great statement of the theme of It’s a Wonderful Life. (And stated overtly in the end of that movie.)

The trouble is, I personally think it’s closer to the soul of that movie to say: “It’s the little, ordinary actions we do every day that add up to true heroism.”

So defining theme has always seemed like a slippery process to me. Different people can pull vastly different interpretations of the theme of a story from the same story. And even if you can cleverly distill the meaning of a story into one sentence… admit it, you’re not really covering everything that the story is about, are you?

I think it’s more useful to think of theme as layers of meaning. To think of theme not as one sentence, but a whole set of morals and lessons and ruminations and propositions.

And that’s where it gets really fun to start working with theme: when it’s not just some pedantic sentence, but a whole world of interrelated meanings, that resonate on levels that you’re not even aware of, sometimes, but that stay with you and bring you back to certain stories over and over and over again.

(Think of some of the dreams you have, where there will be double and triple puns, visual and verbal. And by the way, if you’re a writer, and you’re not keeping a dream journal, you’re working too hard. Why not let your subconscious do the work?).

There are all kinds of ways to work theme into a story. The most obvious is the PLOT. Every plot is also a statement of theme.

It’s a Wonderful Life is a great, great example of plot reflecting theme. George Bailey’s desire in the beginning of the film is to be a hero, to do big, important things. Throughout the story, that desire seems to be thwarted at every turn by the ordinariness of his life. And yet, every single encounter George Bailey has is an example of a small, ordinary goodness, a right choice that George makes, that in the end, when we and he see the town as it would have been if he had never existed, lets us understand that it is those little things that make for true heroism.

Presumed Innocent is an interesting book for plot reflecting theme. I love how that book (and the very good film made of it) depicts the horrifying randomness of the legal system: that justice can turn on the assignment of a judge, on the outcome of a political race, on the loyalties of a witness – or on the very, very clever defendant himself. To me it’s a brilliant exploration of what justice really is, or isn’t, or can never be.

And here's a brilliant example of a plot TWIST conveying theme: with Lecter’s escape, The Silence of the Lambs drives home the point that we can win a battle with evil, but never the entire war.

DIALOGUE is another way to reflect theme.

A great example to look at is The Matrix. The Matrix is all about waking up, about what reality is, and about protagonist Neo as the potential savior of the world, which has been enslaved by a virtual reality program. And about escaping. And about going down the rabbit hole.

In Sequence 1 of The Matrix, the scene in which we first meet Neo, writers Larry & Andy Wachowski throw in all of those thematic references:

We first see Neo asleep at his computer. He’s been running a search on a man named Morpheus. The words 'Wake up, Neo” appear on his screen and he wakes up. The computer then tells him that: 'The Matrix has you...' and to 'Follow the white rabbit...'

Neo presses the 'esc' key to try to figure out what’s going on.

Then when the next characters come in, wanting a disc Neo has hacked for them, look at the lines that Choi says:

“Hallelujah. You're my savior, man. My own personal Jesus Christ,” and “This never happened, you don't exist,” and “You need to unplug, man” – all references to the themes of the movie. And Neo himself asks, “You ever have that feeling where you don't know if you're awake or still dreaming?”

All of that in maybe a four-minute scene, and it blatantly spells out the entire story. And yet it works on the surface level as well; an audience isn’t stopping to think, "Oh, there’s a theme, and there’s a theme, and yet another theme."

(If there’s anything I learned from screenwriting it’s that you can JUST SAY IT. And it generally works better if you just do.)

Another great example of working a thematic image system, in this case entirely visually, is the first scene of Raiders of the Lost Ark.

The very first encounter and shock moment comes less than two minutes into the film, when one of the guides in Indy’s search party chops through undergrowth to reveal a huge, demonic statue. The terrified guide runs away, screaming. It’s a thematic reference to the awesome power of the gods (and a setup of Indy’s CHARACTER ARC: he begins the movie without fear of the supernatural; by the end he understands that there are things he will never understand, awesome forces that need to be respected).

The entrance to the cave is temple-like, part of the thematic image system of world religions and mysticism.

Inside the cave, Indy pushes through a veil of cobwebs. At first, this just looks cool and spooky – but maybe it’s also symbolic of piercing the veil between reality and the supernatural or divine.

Beyond the chasm, Indy and the guide pass by a gold Aztec calendar (or something like one!) at the entrance of the cave: another visual representation of world religions, which will be presented in various ways throughout the film. The calendar is also part of the ongoing theme of mysticism and the supernatural; note the eerie music.

And finally, the inner chamber and the altar with the gold idol, another religious image. Indy susses out another booby trap: the stepping stones. If you step in the wrong place, poisoned darts fly.

Just as Indy makes it out of the cave, there’s the reversal and defeat that the natives are right there with bows and arrows … and Belloq steps up to take the idol away from him. When Belloq holds the idol up, all the natives bow down to it, externalizing the theme of the power of the gods and the necessity for reverence.

As I hope those examples from Raiders illustrate, a hugely effective and important way to convey theme is through VISUAL STORYTELLING. But this is such a big topic I’m going to handle it in the next chapter.

30. Visual Storytelling

This is in my opinion the best part of writing.

One thing all that screenwriting has been really good for is helping me develop a strong visual writing style. I love it when readers tell me, “I can see every scene you write.” But actually, visual storytelling is a lot more than just putting a movie into your readers’ heads as they’re reading your book. Visual storytelling actually presents themes that elevate a story and make it resonate in a reader’s consciousness – and subconscious – long after they close the book.

My obsession with visual storytelling started way before I started writing scripts. Production design is a crucial element of theater, too, and we had a brilliant head of design in the theater department at Berkeley, Henry May, so I got spoiled early on with mind-bending, thematic sets that gave a whole other dimensionality to the plays I saw in my formative years. A good production designer will make every single thing you look at on stage – color scheme, props, sets, costuming, shapes, textures – contribute to your deeper understanding of the play’s story, characters and themes.

That was a lesson that served me well when I started screenwriting. And then working as a screenwriter opened up whole new worlds of visual storytelling.

So what can we as authors learn from screenwriting about writing visually?

A lot.

Let’s start with establishing shots and master shots, setpiece scenes, and visual image systems.

ESTABLISHING SHOTS AND MASTER SHOTS

Something I’ve noticed about beginning writers’ writing is that they almost always fail to set up a chapter visually. Actually a lot of published authors have this problem, too. I find this extremely annoying and frustrating. After all, human beings process the world visually before using any other sense, so why wouldn’t we as authors want to instantly establish where we are and what we’re looking at and how that makes us feel, right up front, in every chapter? If you don’t, your reader is going to be uncomfortable and disoriented until you finally give her some idea of where she is.

That’s why it’s useful to think in terms of ESTABLISHING SHOTS and MASTER SHOTS.

An ESTABLISHING SHOT, in film – you guessed it – establishes the location. A shot of the Eiffel Tower lets us know we’re in Paris, a shot of the Sphinx tells us we’re in Egypt. An exterior shot of an office tower followed by people working inside an office lets us know we’re inside that building.

A MASTER SHOT is an angle on a scene that shows all of the players of the scene in the specific location – like looking at a stage and seeing the entire set and all the actors on it. You get all the information about the scene in one shot.

But an establishing shot is more than just information about where the action takes place. It can, and should, convey emotion, suspense, theme – any number of things about the action about to transpire or the character walking into the scene.

Every time I start a chapter or a scene, I think first about the establishing shot and the master shot. I look at the upcoming action from a long enough angle to see everything there is to see about the scene. Where am I and what am I looking at? I might not describe it outright for a paragraph or two but if I don’t, there’s a damn good reason that I didn’t start with it, and I don’t keep the reader waiting long before I give them the visual. And when I do give the visual, I think about what it says thematically and emotionally about the scene. Is it a confined space because my heroine feels trapped? Then I make sure to convey that claustrophobic sense. Are the colors of everything muted and leached because of my hero’s depression? Is every tree on the street bursting with bloom and fragrance because my lovers have finally reunited? (Yeah, I’m being on the nose, but my feeling is, be over the top at first to make sure the emotion is there … you can always tone it down later.)

SETPIECE SCENES

This is a fabulous lesson to take from filmmaking.

There are multiple definitions of a setpiece. Depending on who you talk to, the term “Setpiece” comes from the idea that these scenes take place on huge, elaborate sets –– or they’re called setpieces because they are the few scenes in a movie that are “set” – nobody’s going to cut them or decide not to shoot them because they’re what the studio considers the hook of the movie.

A setpiece can be a huge action scene that takes weeks to shoot and costs millions, requiring multiple sets, special effects and car crashes … or the sinking of the Titanic … or a meticulously planned suspense scene with multiple cuts that takes place all in – a shower, for instance, in Psycho. A setpiece can be all dialogue and acting, too: what’s the scene that everyone remembers from When Harry Met Sally? Setpieces are usually genre-specific, delivering the promise of whatever genre the story is, and that orgasm scene is so simple, just great writing and great acting, but it’s funny and sexy and startling, a perfect romantic comedy setpiece.

If you start watching movies specifically to pick out the setpiece scenes, you’ll notice an interesting thing. They’re almost always used as act or sequence climaxes. They are tentpoles holding the structure of the movie up… or jewels in the necklace of the plotline. The scenes featured in the trailers to entice people to see the movie. The scenes everyone talks about after the credits roll.

That elaborate, booby-trapped cave in the first scene of Raiders of the Lost Ark. (In fact you can look at Raiders and see that every single sequence contains a wonderful setpiece: the Nepalese bar, the suspension bridge, the Map Room, the Well Of Souls…) Harry Potter walking through Diagon Alley, and then going into Gringott’s Bank (a setpiece within a setpiece!). The biplane chasing Cary Grant through the cornfield in North By Northwest. The goofy intergalactic bar in Star Wars. Munchkinland, the Scarecrow’s cornfield, the dark forest, the poppy field, the Emerald City, the witch’s castle in The Wizard of Oz. The dungeon – I mean prison – in Silence of the Lambs.

A really great setpiece scene is a lot more than just dazzling. In Romancing the Stone, the Act One climax is a long setpiece, almost a sequence in itself, which manages to combine all the different genres that the film is crossing into one twisty, exciting rollercoaster. First, the setting is the gorgeous mountains of Columbia, breathtaking views (VISUAL SPECTACLE) that we see for the first time out the window of the bus that Joan thought was taking her to the city of Cartagena. Inside the bus (packed with natives and animals), Joan wakes up and looks around her and realizes she is not anywhere near Cartagena (COMEDY and JEOPARDY).

As Joan frantically tries to communicate with the bus driver (COMEDY), the driver rounds a blind curve and crashes into a Jeep that’s broken down in the road, which releases hundreds of brilliantly colored tropical birds (SPECTACLE) which were caged in the back of the Jeep. All of the Columbians pile out of the bus and promptly start walking down the road, leaving Joan alone with Zolo, the villain, who has been riding the bus disguised as a businessman (SUSPENSE AND JEOPARDY). Zolo pulls a knife and comes after Joan to get the treasure map… then a figure appears in silhouette at the top of the ridge: an exact image of hero Jesse from Joan’s books (ROMANCE). The man starts firing on Zolo and a gun battle ensues (ACTION), while Joan scrambles under the bus for cover (COMEDY). Zolo is driven off by the gunfire, and commandeers the tiny car driven by secondary villain Ralph, and here we learn that Zolo is a Colonel in the military (COMEDY, TWIST, RAISING STAKES).

Meanwhile back at the bus, Joan’s rescuer, Jack, is devastated and distraught about the loss of his birds, which he was smuggling, while Joan only cares about getting to Cartagena. Reluctantly they realize they need each other: Joan needs a guide through the jungle to Cartagena, and Jack needs the money Joan will pay him for the job (PLAN). And then finally, the scene caps with a ROMANCE moment: meek little Joan actually starts to bargain with Jack to bring the price of his services down, and we see Jack finds that attractive (CHEMISTRY, THE DANCE, and CHARACTER GROWTH).

The scene throws in everything but the kitchen sink, and delivers on every single one of its genres, which makes it a wonderful, unforgettable setpiece ride.

VISUAL IMAGE SYSTEMS

In film, every movie has a production designer: one artist (and these people are genius level, let me tell you) who is responsible, in consultation with the director and with the help of sometimes a whole army of production artists) for the entire look of the film – every color, costume, prop, set choice.

With a book, guess who’s the production designer?

You are.

If you watch Sea of Love (which I’ve analyzed in the Breakdowns section), you’ll see how the storytellers work the sea images and the love images throughout the film. The film is often shot in blue tones and against backdrops of wide panes of glass, with moving shadows – all creating an undersea or aquarium effect, especially in the suspense scenes. The story explores themes of love, including obsessive love, and addiction – sex addiction and alcoholism. There are repeating visuals of bottles, glasses, drinking, nudity, erotic art, porno theaters, hookers, etc.

The film also uses color to create emotion and thematic meaning: red for passion and attraction (in clothing, flowers, fruits and vegetables), and white for innocence, truth and new love (again in clothing, bedclothes, dishware). Al Pacino as the protagonist starts wearing the soft leopard-print slippers his lover gives him to reflect that he is discovering his sensual and animal side.

It’s great to look at the Harry Potter books and films together; the stories are so crammed full of visual imagery it would take a book this long to go into it all. The books play with all the classic symbols of witches, wizards and magic: owls, cats, gnomes, newts, feathers, wands, crystals, ghosts, shapeshifters, snakes, frogs, rats, brooms (I don’t really have to keep going, do I?). But Rowling also uses recurring images very specifically – and numerology as well. Twos are ambiguous and problematic, a classic symbol of duality, with good and evil unintegrated and opposing. You see this in the character clusters of Harry and his rotten cousin, Dudley; Harry and Draco Malfoy; Harry and Voldemort (who are linked by the feathers in their wands, only two of a kind in existence, produced by the same phoenix, another recurring image). In the first book and film, Voldemort lives as a tumor on the back of Professor Quirrell’s head (creating a Janus two-face). Even the cake that Hagrid brings Harry for his birthday is cracked in the shape of the yin/yang symbol.

Threes, on the other hand, are good: there’s the triumvirate of Harry, Ron, and Hermione; and the other powerhouse three of Dumbledore, McGonagall and Hagrid. Even the seemingly threatening three-headed dog turns out to be a guard dog named Fluffy who is in the service of Dumbledore and Hagrid.

Some authors are natural production designers. In The Secret Life of Bees Sue Monk Kidd builds a wonderful, intricate thematic image system based on fairy tale symbols and tropes and representations of the goddess and femininity. The young protagonist runs away from her abusive father after breaking her African-American housekeeper out of custody, and the two of them are taken in by a group of three African-American women who keep bees and practice worship of the Black Madonna. This is total fairy tale stuff: the girl and her companion, the three fairy godmothers who raise her to true womanhood in the wilderness (relatively). But the three fairy godmothers are also representations of the Triple Goddess; bees are the classic symbol of the goddess; there are lots of references to flowering and queens, Mary and the Black Madonna, as the girl discovers the strength of her own femininity and femininity in general. There is also a strong theme of love transcending and healing the wounds of racism. It’s a great book to study for superb use of image systems.

Look at the fun Darren Aronofsky and his designers have with black and white in the film Black Swan: note when the heroine wears white, when she starts wearing white and black, when shades of gray are used (as with the company director), who else wears black and when. Look at The Wizard of Oz (just the brilliant contrast of the black and white world of Kansas and the Technicolor world of Oz says volumes). Look at what Barbara Kingsolver does in Prodigal Summer, where images of fecundity and the, well, prodigiousness of nature overflow off the pages, revealing characters and conflicts and themes. Look at what Robert Towne and Roman Polanski do with water in Chinatown and also, try watching that movie sometime with Oedipus in mind … the very specific parallels will blow you away. Take a look at Groundhog Day, which constantly provides groundhog images, images of stopped or handless clocks (and that malevolent clock radio), an ice image of the eye of God, anthropomorphic weather.

It’s always useful to start with blatant use of symbolism and visual imagery, as in some of the examples above, to get the hang of how storytellers use these visual techniques, and then start looking for more subtle usages. But if you prefer your stories more bare instead of dripping with imagery, well, great! It’s all about what works for you.

So how do you create a visual/thematic image system in your books?

Well, start by becoming more conscious of what image systems authors are working with in books and films that you love. Some readers/writers don’t care at all about visual image systems. That’s fine – whatever floats your boat. Me, with rare exceptions, I’ll toss a book within twenty pages if I don’t think the author knows what s/he’s doing visually.

What I do when I start a project, along with outlining, is to keep a list of thematic words (in my notebook!) that convey what my story is about, to me. For The Harrowing, it was words like: creation, chaos, abyss, fire, forsaken, shattered, shattering, portal, door, gateway, vessel, empty, void, rage, fury, cast off, forgotten, abandoned, alone, rejected, neglected, shards, discarded … I did pages and pages of words like that.

For The Price: bargain, price, deal, winter, ice, buried, dormant, resurrection, apple, temptation, tree, garden, labyrinth, Sleeping Beauty, castle, queen, princess, prince, king, wish, grant, deal, contract, task, hell, purgatory, descent, mirror, spiral …

Some words I’ll have from the very beginning because they’re part of my own thematic DNA. But as the word lists grow, so does my understanding of the inherent themes of each particular story.

Do you see how that might start to work? Not only do you get a sense of how the story can look to convey your themes, but you also have a growing list of specific words that you can work with in your prose so that you’re constantly hitting those themes on different levels.

At the same time that I’m doing my word lists, I start a collage book, and try to spend some time every week flipping through magazines and pulling photos that resonate with my story. I find Vogue, the Italian fashion mags, Vanity Fair, Premiere, Rolling Stone and of course, National Geographic, particularly good for me. I tape those photos together in a blank artists’ sketchbook (I use tape so I can move the photos around when I feel like it. If you’re more – well, if you’re neater than I am, you can also use plastic sleeves in a three-ring binder). Other people do collages on their computers with Photoshop. I am not one of those people, myself; I need to touch things. But it’s another way of growing an image system. And it doesn’t feel like writing so you think you’re getting away with something.

Also, know your world myths and fairy tales! Why make up your own back story and characters when you can tap into universally powerful archetypes? Chris Nolan was blatantly working the myth of Ariadne, Theseus and the Minotaur in the labyrinth in Inception (a little too on-the nose to me to actually call the character Ariadne; we get it, okay? But overall, it was good stuff).

Remember, there’s no new story under the sun, so being conscious of your antecedents can help you bring out the archetypal power of the characters and themes you’re working with.

ASSIGNMENT: What are some of your favorite setpieces and symbolic images, literary or filmic, recent or classic?

ASSIGNMENT: Make a list of books and films which to you have particularly striking visual and thematic image systems. What are some of your favorite images to work with?

ASSIGNMENT: Start your own thematic word list for your WIP.

ASSIGNMENT: Start your collage book.

31. Creating Suspense

If you’re writing romantic suspense or paranormal or urban fantasy, I don’t have to tell you how important this is. But suspense is a key element of all storytelling, no matter what genre you’re writing in, and any writer can learn a lot from studying tricks of suspense used by the more nail-biting genres.

This is the first thing I tell people who ask me about suspense (which I’m sure will come as a surprise to no one by now):

You have to study, analyze and teach yourself to write the kind of suspense you want to create.

Because there are all kinds of suspense. Many thrillers are based on action and adrenaline: the experience the author wants to create and the reader wants to experience is that roller-coaster feeling. I myself am not big on that kind of suspense. I love a good adrenaline rush in a book (in fact, I pretty much require them, repeatedly). But pure action scenes generally bore me senseless, and big guns and machines and explosions and car chases make my eyes glaze over. What I’m looking for in a book is the sensual – okay, sexual – thrill of going into the unknown. How it feels to know that there’s something there in the dark with you that’s not necessarily rational, and not necessarily human. It’s a slower, more erotic kind of thrill, that you find in The Turn of the Screw and The Haunting of Hill House and The Shining.

So although I can learn some hugely valuable techniques from spy thrillers and giant actioners, studying only that kind of book for what I want to do is probably not going to get me where I want to go.

There’s also the classic mystery thrill of having to figure a puzzle out. There is a great pleasure in using your mind to unlock a particularly well-crafted puzzle. I love to add that element to my stories, too, so that even though the characters are dealing with the unknown, there is still a logical way to solve the underlying puzzle.

So to create suspense, the first thing you have to identify is what kind of suspense you want to create. Most stories use all three kinds of suspense I just talked about (and others – really I’m just scratching the surface), but there will be one particular kind that dominates.

A useful thing to do is – and I’m sure you can guess this by now – make yourself a master list of ten books and films that are not just in your own genre, but that all create the particular kind of suspense experience that you’re looking to create yourself. There are specific tricks that every author or screenwriter uses to create suspense, and looking at ten stories in a row will get you identifying those tricks. If you’re reading a particularly good book, you get so caught up in it that you don’t see the wheels and gears – and that’s good. So read it to the end … but then go back and reread to really look at the machinery of it.

What tricks am I talking about? Well, let’s see.

To my mind, the most basic and important suspense technique is ASK A CENTRAL QUESTION with your story.

Of course, every good story is inherently a suspense story, because every story is predicated on the storyteller creating the desire in the reader or audience to find out WHAT HAPPENS? (And if you’re writing with an element of mystery/thriller/suspense, that genre has a built-in suspense element by its very nature – the question: “Who done it?” Or in my case, “What done it?”)

The very first place that a book creates suspense is on the meta-level: in the premise, that one line description of what the story is. That story line (flap copy, back jacket text) is what makes a reader pick up a book and say, “Yeah! I want to know what happens!”

• Silence of the Lambs: A young female FBI trainee must barter personal information with an imprisoned psychopathic genius in order to catch a serial killer who is capturing and killing young women for their skins.

• Jaws: When a great white shark starts attacking beachgoers in a coastal town during high tourist season, a water-phobic Sheriff must assemble a team to hunt it down before it kills again.

• Raiders of the Lost Ark: A treasure-hunting archeologist races over the globe to find the legendary Lost Ark of the Covenant before Hitler’s minions can acquire and use it to supernaturally power the Nazi army.

Any one of the above can also be phrased as a question: “Will Clarice get Lecter to help her catch Buffalo Bill before he kills Catherine?” “Will Sheriff Brody’s team kill the shark before it kills again?” “Will Indy find the Ark before Hitler can get it?” to isolate the Central Question of the story.

Now, there’s a whole hell of a lot of suspense in those story questions – unlike in, say, What Happens in Vegas. Does anyone going into that movie think for one single solitary second that Cameron Diaz is not going to end up with Ashton Kutcher? No suspense in that premise at all, and there were not enough obstacles in the story to ever put the outcome in question.

But look how these romance premises manage to convey a sense of suspense:

• The Proposal: When a high-powered book editor is threatened with deportation, she pressures her ambitious assistant to fake a marriage with her to keep her in the country, and the “couple” has four days to learn enough about each other to pass their INS interview.

• Romancing the Stone: When her sister is kidnapped, a mousy romance author must journey across Columbia to ransom the sister with a treasure map while being pursued by the kidnappers, the villainous Columbian Minister of Antiquities, and her own hunky guide, all of whom want the emerald the map leads to.

• Sea of Love: A lonely, cynical homicide detective goes undercover in the Manhattan singles scene to catch a serial killer who is killing men s/he meets through a personals ad, only to jeopardize his case and his life when he falls in love with his main suspect.

Any one of these can also be phrased as a question to isolate the Central Question of the story: “Will Margaret and Andrew learn enough about each other to successfully fake a marriage at their INS interview on Monday?” “Will Joan be able to survive her pursuers and rescue her sister (and find true love along the way)?” “Will the cop catch the killer and find love, or will he be her next victim?”

Now, being clear about the CENTRAL QUESTION is a suspense technique on the meta-level. Once you’ve created a story that has the elements of suspense built into the overall structure, you have to start working suspense on the scene level, moment-by-moment. And here are some tricks to do that.

TELL US THE STAKES

A good story makes the stakes clear from the beginning of the story.

In Raiders of the Lost Ark, the government agent who comes to hire Indy to find the Ark of the Covenant says that Hitler is after it, and Indy and his colleague, the archeological experts, tell us the legend that the army which has the Ark is invincible. That’s really, really bad. Huge stakes. And it is spelled out with crystal clarity, in dialogue, with accompanying visuals of ancient text, in the first fifteen minutes of the movie.

In Act One of The Proposal, the INS agent (the antagonist) clearly states the stakes: if he catches Margaret and Andrew lying about this so-called engagement, Margaret will be deported (meaning she will lose her beloved job) and Andrew will face a fine of $250,000 and up to five years in Federal prison. Yike.

In Romancing the Stone, very soon in the story we see villainous Zolo kill the janitor of Joan’s building, and we hear that Joan’s sister’s husband has also been brutally murdered, so we know right away that the stakes are life and death; Joan and her sister can die.

It might even be the number one rule of suspense: You need to tell your reader what they’re supposed to be afraid of. Not just scene by scene, but in the entire story, overall. You need to let the reader know what the hero/ine, or another character, is in for – or the whole world is in for – if the hero/ine doesn’t do something about it.

And if that’s the number one rule, then the photo finish number two rule is: You have to make the reader CARE. Because if the reader doesn’t care about the characters, then they have no personal stake in the stakes.

(Ah, we’re back to character again. Well, okay, make a list of characters you care about and take a look at the techniques the storytellers used to create a character that readers will care about!)

Especially in romance, where the stakes are very often not life and death, but more likely the loss of love, then you, the author, must make us feel and believe that the loss of love will be devastating to both the hero and heroine, as Sense and Sensibility and Notting Hill and yes, Sea of Love, do very convincingly.

But here’s one technique of creating sympathy for your protagonist that also goes to creating suspense:

STACK THE ODDS AGAINST YOUR PROTAGONIST.

It’s just ingrained in us to love an underdog.

In Romancing the Stone, when we first meet Joan, she is so meek and so inside her own fantasy world that she’s barely capable of walking down a New York street or even buying her own Kleenex. No one would look at her and expect that she’d be able to survive a set of kidnappers, a gang of drug runners, a sadistic general and his paramilitary forces, and the wilds of Columbia. Joan is clearly the underdog, which makes her growth and eventual triumph that much more delicious.

In Raiders, Indy is up against Hitler (through his minions). Indy is awfully heroic and expert and, well, hot – but he’s still the underdog in this particular fight.

A lot of suspense stories use children, women, or characters with a handicap to stack the odds against the hero. Okay, it sounds manipulative, but suspense is manipulation. And just because a technique is manipulative doesn’t make it any less effective when it’s done well: Think of Wait Until Dark (blind protagonist), Rear Window (wheelchair-bound protagonist), The Sixth Sense (I swear I went to that movie just to make sure that little boy made it out okay), The Shining.

But the odds don’t have to be earth-shattering. In While You Were Sleeping, sweet protagonist Lucy doesn’t seem up to the relentless investigation antagonist Jack is going to put her through; it looks pretty certain that he will find out she’s not who she’s pretending to be. And in Notting Hill, no matter how cute Hugh Grant is, there are a lot of convincing odds against his relationship with Julia Roberts, including her salary, her handlers, and her own temper and self-centeredness.

SET A TICKING CLOCK

Another suspense technique that can be built in on the premise level is the TICKING CLOCK. Building a clock into the story creates an overall sense of urgency.

We’re used to seeing ticking clocks in thrillers and action stories: In Silence of the Lambs, we are told the killer holds his victims for three days before he kills them, so we know Clarice has only three days to find Catherine Martin before Buffalo Bill kills her.

But a clock can be used just as effectively in romance, and it doesn’t have to be about imminent death, either. The Proposal has a very believable ticking clock: Margaret and Andrew have four days to learn enough about each other to fake a marriage at their scheduled INS interview. In Leap Year, Anna needs to get across Ireland in two days so she can propose to her boyfriend on Leap Day, when by Irish custom a man is traditionally required to accept.

Again, a ticking clock is manipulative, and you can make an argument that it’s a less effective technique these days because it’s been overused, but that just means you have to be more clever about it.

DO A DEDICATED SUSPENSE PASS.

After I’ve written that first agonizing bash-through draft of a book or script, and probably a second or third draft just to make it readable, I will at some point do a dedicated pass just to amp up the suspense, and I highly recommend trying it, because it’s amazing how many great ideas you will come up with for suspense scenes if you are going through your story just focused on how to inject and layer in suspense.

Unlike the suspense techniques I’ve discussed so far, which are more structural in nature, you don’t have to get all of the following ones into your first draft; in fact it’s probably more effective to use techniques like this after the structure of your story is solid. A lot of these tricks are rewriting techniques to keep in mind for your suspense pass.

KEEP THE READER OR AUDIENCE OFF-BALANCE.

This is a huge overall suspense technique and there are many ways to achieve it.

Ask a question that you leave hanging. “But why does that mild-mannered librarian have duct tape in the back of his car?” “But why won’t his stepmother let him go in that back room?” It will remain in the audience’s or reader’s mind and chafe. That sense of discomfort is a crucial element of suspense.

Another variation of this is: Let a character, or many of them, lie. And then don’t have any other character call them on it. Let the reader notice the lie, let it bother them, and leave it hanging.

USE PLANTS – like showing a gun (or a bowl of tapioca!) early on. Audiences and readers subliminally know that you wouldn’t be showing that gun if it wasn’t going to be used, so you set them up to expect and fear violence.

Any TWIST OR SURPRISE will off-balance the reader/audience. Set them up to expect one thing and give them something from left field.

LOWER THE READER’S/AUDIENCE’S DEFENSES.

A classic suspense trick is to use water or sex or a combination of the two to get the audience or reader to unconsciously relax so you can really dial them up with the attack that’s coming. We’ve all seen this a million times, so much so that it’s often now played for comedy when a character gets into the shower or bathtub in a horror movie. But again, if you do it with a little imagination, it does work for a reason. A great example is in the first Alien, where Harry Dean Stanton is off on his own, searching for the alien, and stops under a broken water pipe to wash off his face. He takes his time (and so do the filmmakers) enjoying the water… we feel the heat of the steamy tunnel, and the cool of the water ourselves. It’s as hard to resist as a neck massage, and our defenses go down. Same with a sex scene. This is a big example of why sensory detail, and sensual detail, is so hugely important in creating suspense.

And I might as well mention that it’s equally effective to lower an audience/reader’s defenses by using an animal to manipulate emotions. For whatever reason, people are more likely to fear for an animal’s safety or well-being than they are likely to get concerned about a human being. This trick can backfire if it’s too obviously manipulative, or if you go too far and actually hurt the animal, but I can’t not mention it, because it works.

USE FALSE SCARES.

One of the rules of comedy is: “Always go for the joke.” Well, likewise, one of the rules of suspense is: “Always go for the scare.”

How many times have we seen a bunch of birds fly up in a hero’s face (Sea of Love) or a cat drop off a refrigerator (Romancing the Stone. And in The Terminator it was an iguana!), freaking the heroine and audience out with a false scare? Well, while you do run the risk of cliché or outright stupidity, false scares are a staple of suspense for a reason, and if your story has gone too long without suspense, I suggest you try putting in a false scare, mainly for this reason: very often brainstorming on a false scare will give you an idea for a real, organic, scare.

LAYER JEOPARDY INTO A SCENE.

This is something I usually do in my dedicated suspense pass when I see a scene that’s just flat or too expositional. Say I have a character that needs to get some information out of a library, or from someone at an office, or in a hospital. I can have the character simply ask the appropriate personnel for help, but there’s not much suspense in that. How much better is it to have the character have to break in somewhere, or sneak in, to get that file or that book? Suddenly you have stakes, suspense, jeopardy – in a scene that could have been just standard exposition.

It’s a very simple trick, but hugely effective, and you’ll find that once you start brainstorming about why that particular file is locked up and what the danger is to the heroine if she’s caught while sneaking in to get it, the scene will come alive and possibly give a whole new layer of meaning to the story.

Again, go for the scare!

Often in romantic comedy the jeopardy is about discovery of a different sort: the hero/ine is pretending to be someone they’re not and the author will put her or him into all kinds of situations in which we and they fear they’ll be found out. We see this in The Proposal, Roman Holiday, Tootsie, While You Were Sleeping and Notting Hill, just to name a few!

LET THE READER/AUDIENCE IN ON SOMETHING THE MAIN CHARACTER DOESN’T KNOW.

You’ve seen and probably used this yourself this a million times: a film cuts away to the antagonist coming back to the house or hotel room when the hero/ine is searching it. But always be looking for interesting variations on this technique.

USE INNER MONOLOGUE.

The easiest way to make a reader feel unease is to let her or him in on the character’s unease. Let her imagine a shadowy stalker behind her (whether it’s there or not). Take the time to put your character through the physical sensations of fear, and let the reader experience the physical sensations of fear with her.

USE PREMONITIONS.

A variation on inner monologue, but very effective, when a character has a premonition of danger to come.

Pet Sematary has a great example of a premonition, when early in the book the father is carrying his son up the stairs and has a moment of sheer, unfocused, primal terror. (It’s also important in a book or film like that to warn the audience or reader that this is not going to end happily, otherwise they will feel ripped off when things go to such dark places in the end. Pan’s Labyrinth did this well in the beginning, too; you’re prepared for the girl to die, even though you forget the beginning.)

Let’s face it, most of us do have moments like this once in a while, and premonitions are realistic in the context of a thriller because danger heightens all our senses and makes us more perceptive to clues around us. I very, very strongly recommend that every suspense writer read Gavin de Becker’s The Gift of Fear. It’s a non-fiction book by security consultant to the stars de Becker which provides fascinating accounts of ordinary people’s lifesaving perceptions. Unmissable.

END EACH CHAPTER WITH A CLIFFHANGER.

This may be as simple as asking a question that is set up but not answered, but you should strive to make every one of your chapters or scenes end with some sort of cliffhanger that makes that reader have to turn the page. Please don’t make every cliffhanger life-and-death, that’s way over the top. Just a simple question can be enough to compel the reader to keep reading.

If you find your chapters are not ending with cliffhangers, then you may be breaking the chapter or scene at the wrong moment. Go back through the chapter and see if there’s some other logical break that will create the suspense you’re looking for: break when the doorbell rings, but without revealing who’s behind the door, so that the reader will turn the page to find out who’s at the door. It really can be that simple.

Another way to amp up the urgency and make the reader want to turn the page is to have the character voice a question, either silently or aloud, that s/he really wants the answer to. If the character wants it, the reader or audience will likely want it, too.

STATE WHAT THE CHARACTER IS LOOKING FOR.

The Lost Ark of the Covenant, the treasure map, the Maltese Falcon, the emerald, the file, the book. And state it often. If there’s not a specific object, have the character repeatedly ask the question that s/he wants the answer to. It may not be suspense, exactly, but it builds emotion by creating impatience and urgency and a desire in the audience to get the answer, and when the character finally finds the – whatever – the reader or audience will be just as excited as the character.

Suspense is emotional manipulation, so manipulating any emotion will increase the suspense of your story.

DO AN EMOTIONAL PASS

In fact, besides doing a suspense pass, I also find it hugely useful in the later stages of revision to do an EMOTIONAL PASS, in which I read a script or a manuscript putting myself into the frame of mind of the reader, and just thinking of what I want the reader/audience to be experiencing in every scene.

DO A SENSORY PASS

And while we’re on the subject of passes, I also highly recommend doing a SENSORY PASS, in which you go scene by scene to layer in all six senses – what it looks, smells, sounds, feels, tastes like – as well as what your characters sense is there, even when there’s no physical evidence for it.

TAKE AN ACTING CLASS

I think one of the best things a writer can do to learn how to write suspense is to take some acting classes. Learning to experience a story from inside one of the characters – literally, inside that character’s body – will make you much more proficient at creating a physical, sensual experience for your readers.

ROMANCE-SPECIFIC SUSPENSE

Okay, I called it that because if I said “romantic suspense” you would think I was talking about that subgenre! But what I mean is, there are specific suspense conventions for love stories, which we will see much more of in the Breakdowns.

CONCEALMENT OF IDENTITY is a staple in some love subgenres, so if you’re telling that kind of story, you want to be working the FEAR OF DISCOVERY, which can play out either dramatically or comedically (as in scenes like THE REVOLVING DOOR, TESTING, WRONG PLACE WRONG TIME).

Personally I like love stories that provide a LEGITIMATE RIVAL to the hero or heroine’s love interest. In a lot of love stories the hero/ine is hooked up with someone so wrong for them there is not one second of suspense about who s/he’ll really end up with. I find that annoying. Look at Sense and Sensibility, though – not only is Willoughby a potentially good match for Marianne, but the casting of Alan Rickman as Colonel Brandon gives the character an ambiguous edge that keeps us in suspense about who is really the right man for her. And then after Elinor discovers Edward’s huge deception, there are scenes that make Brandon look like a potential lover for her. It keeps everything in suspense about who will end up with whom.

TRUSTWORTHINESS is a huge issue in a lot of romance; some storytellers will create scene after scene of what looks like lying or betrayal on the part of the lover to create serious doubt in the reader/audience’ mind about whether a couple will end up together.

And of course, a lot of the suspense of romance is: WHEN ARE THEY GOING TO DO IT? You have to build the sexual tension to the point that your reader or audience is just as starved for the touch, the kiss, the consummation, as the characters are. INTERRUPTING A KISS or embrace is sadistic, but it works. And don’t forget the JUST SAY SOMETHING, STUPID moment. We’ve all been there.

ASSIGNMENT: Make – what else? – a list of your top ten movies specifically for suspense. From this list, what can you deduce about your favorite kind(s) of suspense?

ASSIGNMENT: Why not start a section in your personal story structure workbook just for your notes on the suspense tricks you’re going to be looking for from now on?

32. Plants and Payoffs

I very strongly encourage novelists to start watching movies for Plants and Payoffs. This is a delicious storytelling trick that filmmakers are particularly aware of and deft at. It’s all a big seductive game to play with your audience, and an audience eats it up.

Other names for this technique are Setup/Reveal, Plant/Reveal, Setup/Payoff, and sometimes FORESHADOWING (which can be a bit different, more subtle, and often more sad).

On the most basic level, a plant is showing the gun in the first act if you’re going to use it in the third act. But plants can be much more than that, and serve many different story functions.

We already discussed the classic plant of Indy freaking out about the snake on the plane in the first few minutes of Raiders of the Lost Ark. Any film of Spielberg’s is going to be filled with plants and payoffs, so you can’t go wrong having a Spielberg marathon to get familiar with the technique. In E.T., E.T. heals the potted marigolds early on, and then we see the marigolds slowly dying as E.T. gets sick. Then in the ALL IS LOST or VISIT TO DEATH scene, when E.T. has died, and his body has been locked up in refrigerated capsule, the marigolds start to bloom again and we realize E.T. is alive in there. Of course the reading of the “Clap if you believe in fairies” scene of Peter Pan is a plant for the resurrection of E.T., too.

Another textbook example of brilliant use of plants and payoffs is Back to the Future. Pretty much everything we see in the entire first sequence is a setup for a perfectly exhilarating reveal at the end. And it’s the same with the first sequence of Groundhog Day: every bit of the first sequence sets up the day that Bill Murray will repeat over and over and over again.

Plants are often used to set up a weakness of the hero/ine that will be tested, usually in the final battle. Very often in the second act we will see a battle before the final battle in which the hero/ine fails because of this weakness, so the suspense is even greater when s/he goes into the final battle in the third act. I’ve mentioned both of these examples before: In the training sequence of The Empire Strikes Back, Yoda continually gets angry with Luke for not trusting the Force … and in his final battle with Vader, Luke’s only chance of survival is putting his entire fate in the hands of the Force he’s not sure he believes in. It’s not just a victory in battle, but a true character change as well.

And in the film Dirty Dancing, in rehearsal after rehearsal, Baby can never, ever keep her balance in that flashy dance lift, then in that final performance number she nails the lift. And on the way to that big payoff, there’s a kind of suspense every time they dance: “Will they get the lift this time?”

Plants can be used on a very small level, to create suspense or comic effect: for example, in The Terminator, we see early on that Sarah Connor has a pet iguana that is always getting loose, and later that iguana provides a big scare at a crucial moment when it drops onto Bess Motta’s head in the kitchen at night.

Woody Allen’s film Vicky Cristina Barcelona uses a number of plants in the long buildup to the intro of Maria Elena, the Penelope Cruz character. The build up and plants work for both suspense and comic effect, and Penelope completely delivers on her introduction. And I want to point out that this build of anticipation is a great way to create a larger-than-life character.

But plants can be used in a much bigger way to convey theme as well. In Witness, we see the Amish community working together to build a barn; their whole way of life is community. We’ve also seen their absolute commitment to non-violence. And we see both these themes and values in action at the powerful climax, when the whole community surrounds the bad guy, and without lifting a hand against him, keeps him subdued, unable to kill Harrison Ford in the end.

Also plants can help define a subplot, as in New in Town, in which the heorine’s ally Blanche’s super-secret tapioca recipe is played as a joke to show the quaintness of Blanche and of the town of New Ulm. But then that tapioca is the surprise element that saves the factory (it’s a dairy production plant) in Act Three. Blanche is our favorite character and she gets a big, delightful payoff in the end when she gets her first royalty check for the tapioca recipe.

A classic example of a more intricate plant/payoff is (are) the letters of transit in Casablanca (here serving a dual function as MACGUFFIN: the object that everyone wants). The thief Ugarte has stolen letters of transit signed by Charles DeGaulle which will allow two people safe passage out of Casablanca. (Let’s just overlook the plot hole, there, that the Nazis aren’t about to let anyone do anything they don’t want them to do. The letters work for the purposes of the movie.) Ugarte is killed for the letters, but has stashed them with Rick for safekeeping. Those letters of transit are what Ilsa desperately wants in order to get her husband safely out of Casablanca, and Rick first toys with her about them, then wants to use them for himself and Ilsa, and finally uses them to get Ilsa and her husband out.

But Casablanca has an even more classic plant/payoff: the line “Round up the usual suspects,” a gambit Captain Renault uses in the climax to save the day.

The story goes that the screenwriters, the Epstein brothers, were banging their heads against the wall trying to figure out a believable way to get Rick off the hook for the murder of Nazi Colonel Strasser at the end, and then one day they were driving over Mulholland to a meeting and both turned to each other in the same moment and exclaimed, “Round up the usual suspects!!!!”

This story illustrates an important point: plants and payoffs are often painstakingly engineered, and deliberately woven into the plotline for maximum effect. Once you’ve written your first draft, you can start looking for what your subconscious has already set up, and engineer the payoffs, or reverse-engineer a setup to make a payoff play.

I want to take a look at the way a particular setup and payoff is used in the movie Jerry Maguire, by the brilliant Cameron Crowe.

Sports agent Jerry has a crisis moment early in the movie that starts his journey toward wholeness: he visits a client in the hospital after the jock has had his fourth concussion on the field (football, I think … ), and the client’s young son confronts Jerry and says someone has to make his dad stop playing. Jerry blows him off with a platitude and the kid bursts into tears and tells Jerry to fuck himself.

That incident makes Jerry realize he hates himself and his life, and inspires him to write a mission statement about how agents should really be acting, which gets him fired and starts his journey.

Jerry is left with only one C-list client, Rod, who decides to be loyal and stick with him. And early on Rod and his wife make the decision not to accept a lowball contract renewal so they can hold out for a real contract, which they are trusting Jerry to get for them. Jerry is worried and tells them that this is a huge risk to Rod, because if he gets injured there will be no insurance. So injury is set up as a big FEAR for Jerry, Rod, his wife, and us, the audience.

We are vividly reminded of this fear when Rod signs a football for a man in a wheelchair: it’s a visual representation of what could happen to him.

And then in the climactic game, what happens? Rod takes a huge hit and is knocked out – while he is still not under contract. It’s our greatest fear made manifest, and plays for maximum emotional impact because it has been set up and spelled out so clearly, all along.

And the twist is, that injury and Rod’s recovery on the field, and his bonding with the stadium audience in that moment, is what gets him the contract he’s been looking for all along.

This is a great example of how plants not only can pay off for emotional effect, but can become an integral part of the structure of a story.

Again, plants and payoffs are often developed in rewrites, and it’s a good idea to do one read-through just looking for places to plant and payoff.

33. Character Introductions

Character introductions are painstakingly developed by screenwriters because the making of a movie (at least in the past) almost always hinges on attachments: that is, attracting a star big enough to “open” the movie (meaning, bring in enough box office on the opening weekend to earn back production costs).

When you have an actor like that, the studio will finance the movie.

(Okay, now we could go into the fact that lately studios are less and less willing to rely on stars to open movies and why, but this isn’t a chapter on film financing, it’s a chapter on creating character.)

And since the character introduction is the first thing an actor will read in the script, and may be the one thing that makes him or her decide to keep reading, that character introduction may be your one shot at the actor who will make your film … or consign it to that grim warehouse (one of many grim warehouses) where scripts with no attachments end up.

Actors don’t always read the whole script. I am absolutely sure that all your favorite actors do. And there are actors who convince great directors to sign onto scripts that they love. There are actors who love a script so much that they produce it themselves, without even taking a role in it, to get it made.

Still, and I know you may find this hard to believe, some actors only flip through the script reading all their own lines, and make the determination of whether or not they will play a part just from that.

And so no matter how brilliant the rest of your script is, an irresistible character introduction may be your one shot at getting an actor who can get your movie made.

But what does all this have to do with writing novels, you ask?

Well, what I’m saying is that even for novelists, it doesn’t hurt to think of character in terms of casting. I know some of you design characters (in novels as well as scripts) with actors in mind. I certainly do. You may start writing a scene imagining a certain actor playing the role of the character you have in mind, and use that actor’s voice. I do this, not all the time, but fairly often. I can feel myself writing for an actor, and imagining an actor saying the lines – but then always, at a certain point, the character just takes over. Everything I do with character until that point is just treading water until the real character shows up.

Then I forget all about actors and creating and designing; I’m really just following the character around taking dictation.

But until that magical point, imagining an actor, and writing for that actor, can be a real help in attracting that mysterious being called character.

(I would be worried about sounding completely psychotic at this point except that I’m talking to a bunch of writers and I KNOW YOU KNOW WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT.)

So, if you’re willing to buy into this metaphor I’m working on, that characters are much like actors, and you have to design parts that will attract them to your story and convince them to take on the role …

A really good way to do this is to create an irresistible CHARACTER INTRODUCTION.

Let’s take a look at some great ones.

• Dustin Hoffman on stage playing a tomato in Tootsie (and then the equally classic introduction of “Dorothy,” struggling to walk down a crowded NY street in high heels and power suit).

Hoffman as a tomato tells us everything about his character, both his desires and problems: we see the passion he has for acting, the fact that he’s not exactly living up to his potential, and how extremely intractable he is – at this point basically unemployable. It’s also a sly little joke that he’s playing a “tomato”: a derogatory word for a woman.

• Jimmy Stewart as George Bailey in It’s a Wonderful Life: “Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope, nope, nope. I want a big one.” And freeze frame on that handspan … fabulous, funny, sexy introduction. (That big, huh? Mmm.)

This intro also tells us something about George Bailey’s outer desire line: he wants to do big things, build big things, everything big. In fact, the story will be about how all the little things George does in his life will add up to something more than simply big, but truly enormous.

• Mary Poppins floating down from the sky holding on to that umbrella.

• Katharine Hepburn in Philadelphia Story gets two wonderful character introductions, first in the prologue montage that shows her ushering Cary Grant to the door and shoving his golf clubs out with him, then breaking one over her knee (and then his wonderful comeback: pushing her down like a paper doll). Then again in real time, in the present: she throws open the window shutters on a gorgeous day and exclaims, “Good going, God!”

Watching Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone is superb for studying this character technique. Every major character has a fantastic character introduction.

• Dumbledore: an elderly, medieval-looking wizard walks regally down a modern street, using some flashlight-like device to kind of vacuum the lights from the streetlamps into this tool.

• McGonagall: A cat on a porch meows at Dumbledore, then the shadow of the moving cat turns into the shadow of a witch in pointed hat, and McGonagall glides regally into frame.

• Hagrid: first appears as a glowing light in the sky, a very conscious reference to Glinda’s magical appearance in the glowing bubble in The Wizard of Oz (and Hagrid will be the fairy godmother to Harry). Then the Wizard of Oz reference has a humorous twist – Hagrid descends not in a shimmering bubble, but on a Harley.

But the introduction of Hagrid is more than comic; it tells us a lot about the character. First, the debate that Dumbledore and McGonagall have over whether Hagrid should have been trusted with the baby tells us a lot about this character we’re about to meet. And then when we see Hagrid carrying the baby, this hulking giant is as tender as a mother.

• Harry Potter: we see him first as a baby in swaddling clothes, left on a doorstep (like every fairy tale changeling and also Moses in the bulrushes, the child who grows up to be the leader of his people), while the witch and the wizard talk about how important he’s going to be, then the scar on the baby’s forehead is match cut to the scar on 11-year old Harry’s forehead to pass time and introduce Harry again.

Again, note that this introduction of Harry tells us a lot about this character, by pure exposition and also by using the visual, archetypal references to Moses – and, let’s face it, the baby Jesus with the three kings (wizards and witch).

• Olivander, the wand master: John Hurt slides into frame on a ladder, slyly glowing as only John Hurt can glow.

• Nearly Headless Nick: pops his head right through the dinner table.

And a character introduction doesn’t have to be just a moment, either. As I’ve said, one of the best character introductions I’ve seen in a long time was the long build-up of Maria Elena, the Penelope Cruz character in Vicky Cristina Barcelona. With all of that anticipation and build-up, an actor is going to pull out all the stops when she finally blazes onto the screen, and Penelope totally did. That role was written to demand an Oscar-worthy performance, and she delivered.

Of course, having actors like all of the above has more than a little to do with the power of those introductions; obviously we’re talking about screen royalty here.

But those introductions were also specifically designed to be worthy of those stars.

So add character introductions to your list of things to watch for when you look at movies and read books. Note the great ones. The more you become aware of how other storytellers handle this, the better you will be at writing them yourself, for your own characters.

ASSIGNMENT: Create a section in your notebook, and write out and begin looking for your favorite examples of character introductions.

34. Using Character Clusters

I’ve noticed that the allies — or enemies — of a protagonist often fall into a combination that I call a CHARACTER CLUSTER – and when you become aware of these clusters, you might find you can use them to your own advantage.

The Freudian Model: One type of character cluster you see a lot is a hero/ine with two sidekicks, one of whom is all superego, one of whom is all id: like Harry Potter balanced between hyper-academic, hyper-rational Hermione, and more earthy, appetite-driven Ron. Then there’s Luke Skywalker balanced between spiritual mentor Obi-Wan and appetite-driven warrior Han. And James Kirk balanced between hyper-intellectual Spock and hyper-emotional Bones. As you can see from those examples, this is a very effective cluster; the hero/ine acts much as the ego does to balance between the two extremes of thought and action, and this superego-ego-id cluster feels familiar and right to us because that Freudian model is so ingrained in our consciousness.

You could say that Jake’s agency operatives in Chinatown are id and superego characters, but in that case I think those two function more as Jake’s good and bad angels, two very different sides of his character. But maybe that’s a difference that’s apparent only to me!

Another interesting cluster uses a more Jungian model. In The Wizard of Oz Dorothy has to deal with external representations of her anima (inner woman) and animus (inner man) in the forms of Glinda and the Wizard. And Miss Gulch/the Wicked Witch is an extreme form of the destructive anima. In Sense and Sensibility you see extreme forms of the destructive animus (in the form of the passive male relative John Dashwood) and destructive anima (in the form of his bitch-on-wheels wife Fanny). This pair makes a great villainous team I think partly because they are such archetypally warped forms of the animus/anima. A reader or viewer may not know anything about Jung but will still be able to recognize these characters.

Sense and Sensibility contains another character cluster: the polar opposite model. In this story we have two sisters: one all sense, and the other all sensibility (passion). Each one needs to assimilate the qualities of her sister to be a truly balanced woman, wife, and human being, and we see those arcs play out in the story.

Another kind of character cluster is the Three-Brother or Three-Sister cluster. It’s used brilliantly in The Godfather, which modernizes the fairytale story of the dying old king with three sons, one of whom will take over the kingdom. The whole question of a story like this is “Which brother will win?” And of course, the youngest and least likely brother is the one who prevails.

Jaws uses a three-brother structure: Sheriff Brody goes out on that boat to hunt down the shark with Hooper, the oceanographer, and Quint, the ship’s captain, but in the end it’s Brody, the least likely to prevail on the water, who faces down and kills the shark after the other two have failed. (You also have the contrast of Hooper, the intellectual scientist, and Quint, the crazy ship's captain – a kind of superego/id pairing again).

And Cinderella is the iconic example of a three-sister structure; again, the youngest sister prevails.

But you also see the three sisters show up as three female villains that operate almost as one person – as in Heathers and Mean Girls. And you can see three evil brothers at work in The Matrix in the form of that triple agent.

Then there’s the Motley Crew cluster: the team of vastly different oddball characters that gets assembled to perform a certain task in caper, heist, and war movies like The Magnificent Seven, Ocean’s 11, Armageddon, and Inception, with variations in movies like The Goonies, Holes and The Breakfast Club.

The Three Supernatural Allies is another classic character cluster, seen in Harry Potter (Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Hagrid), and Sleeping Beauty (Flora, Fauna and Meriwether), and A Wrinkle in Time (Mrs. Whatsit, Mrs. Who, and Mrs. Which), and more ominously in Macbeth (the three witches) and the Pre-Cogs in Minority Report.

In The Matrix we see another kind of trinity: Morpheus, Trinity and Neo: a modern version of the pre-Christian Father/Mother/Son trinity that patriarchal Christianity de-feminized into Father/Son/Holy Ghost. The Matrix is full of references to all kinds of world religions, and the character trinity is part of that story’s thematic image system.

The Wizard of Oz uses a three-ally cluster in a different way: the three allies, Scarecrow, Tin Man and Lion, represent three specific character traits – brains, heart and courage – that Dorothy must assimilate into herself during this inner journey in order to be able to face Miss Gulch/the Wicked Witch as a strong, confident woman instead of a scared little girl.

Harry Potter uses a Janus type of character cluster constantly: not only are Harry and Voldemort two sides of the same coin, but also that two-sidedness is carried out in pairing after pairing in that series: Harry and his useless cousin Dudley, Harry and Draco, Snape and Quirrell – and in imagery, too: the Janus head of Quirrell with Voldemort as a bizarre tumor on the back of his head; the idea that Harry and Voldemort have wands made from the only two feathers that a particular phoenix ever produced.

There’s also the Family Cluster: Jane Austen created several wonderful families. There’s the family in Poltergeist, The Royal Tenenbaums, the Banks family in Mary Poppins …

Hopefully that’s enough examples to start making sense! Can you think of other kinds of character clusters? I'm sure we could all name dozens if we just started to think about it.

35. Your First Draft Is Always Going to Suck

It’s an interesting thing about blogging and social networks like Twitter and Facebook – they’ve made us able to get a glimpse of hundreds, thousands, of people’s lives on a moment-by-moment basis. I don’t have a lot of time (well, more to the point, I have no time at all) to read other blogs; I can barely keep up with posting to Murderati and my own blog. But I do click through on people’s signature lines sometimes to see what they’re up to; it’s an extension of my natural writerly voyeurism.

And a certain pattern has emerged with the not-yet-published writers I spy on.

It goes something like this: “My current WIP is stalled, so I’ve been working on a short story.” “I’ve gotten nothing done on my WIP this week.” “I have reached the halfway point and have no idea where to go from here.” “I had a great idea for a new book this week and I’ve been wondering if I should just give up on my WIP and start on this much more excellent idea.”

Do you start to see what I’m seeing? People are getting about midway through a book, and then losing interest, or have no idea where to go from where they currently are, or realize that a different idea is superior to what they’re working on and panic that they’re wasting their time with the project they’re working on. Hysteria ensues.

So I wanted to take a chapter to say this, because it really can’t be said often enough.

Your first draft is always going to suck.

And I mean, the process and the draft. Both. It all sucks. I’ve been a professional writer for almost all of my adult life and I’ve never written anything that I didn’t hit the wall on, at one point or another. There is always a day, week, month, when I will lose all interest in the project I’m working on. I will realize it was insanity to think that I could ever write the fucking thing to begin with, or that anyone in their right mind would ever be interested in it, much less pay me for it. I will be sure that I would rather clean houses (not my own house, you understand, but other people’s) than ever have to look at the story again.

And that stage can last for a good long time. Even to the end of the book, and beyond, for months, in which I will torture my significant other for week after week with my daily rants about how I will never be able to make the thing make any sense at all and will simply have to give back the advance money.

And I am not the only one. Not by a long shot. It’s an occupational hazard that most of the people I know are writers, and I would say, based on anecdotal evidence, that this is by far the majority experience – even though there are a few people (or so they say) who revise as they’re going along and when they type “The End” they actually mean it. Hah. I have no idea what that could possibly feel like.

Even though you will inevitably end up writing on projects that should be abandoned, you cannot afford to abandon any project. You must finish what you start, no matter how you feel about it. If that project never goes anywhere, that’s tough, I feel your pain. But it happens to all of us. You do not know in the middle of the anguish and despair that is writing if you are going to be able to pull it off or not. The only way you will ever be able to pull it off is to get in the unwavering, completely non-negotiable habit of JUST DOING IT.

Your only hope is to keep going. Sit down in the chair and keep cranking out your non-negotiable minimum number of daily pages, or words, in order, until you get to the end.

This is the way writing gets done.

Some of those pages will be decent, some of them will be unendurable. All of them will be fixable, even if fixing them means throwing them away. But you must get to the end, even if what you’re writing seems to make no sense at all.

You have to finish.

I’ve had a couple of weeks in which my page marker has not moved past the number 198 because I keep deleting. Nothing I write makes any sense. I don’t have enough characters, I’m not giving the characters I have enough time in these scenes, I have no conception of yacht terminology and am spending hours of my days researching only to find I’m more confused about how things work on a boat than when I started.

I have Hit. The. Wall.

Yeah, yeah, cue World’s Smallest Violin.

Because – so what?

It always happens. I’m not special.

At some point you will come to hate what you're writing. That's normal. That pretty much describes the process of writing. That never gets better. But you must get over this and FINISH. Get to the end, and everything gets better from there, I promise. You will learn how to write in layers, and not care so much that your first draft sucks. Everyone's first draft sucks. It's what you do from there that counts.

That is not to say you can't set aside a special, pretty notebook and take fifteen minutes a day after you've done your minimum pages on the main project, and brainstorm on that other one. I'm a big fan of multitasking.

But working on that project is your reward for keeping moving on your main project.

Finish what you start. I’m sorry to be the one to break it to you, but it’s your only hope.

36. Top Ten Things I Know About Editing

Whoever said “Writing is rewriting” was oh-so-right. But now that you have, as we discussed last chapter, bashed through to the end of your opus, and have that dreaded first draft done …

Ah, now comes the fun part. At least, I think so! No matter how hard the subsequent drafts may be, nothing is ever as hard as that sucky first draft.

Before I started writing novels, I worked as a theater director, a Hollywood story analyst, and a screenwriter. All of those jobs have given me some pretty useful perspectives on editing. So I’ve put the best things I know into one of those ever-popular Top Ten lists, that will hopefully help you launch into the rewriting process (after a good long break, that is; you deserve one for finishing!).

1. Cut, cut, cut.

When you first start writing, you are reluctant to cut anything. Believe me, I remember. But the truth is, beginning writers very, very, very often duplicate scenes, and characters, too. And dialogue, oh man, do inexperienced writers duplicate dialogue! The same things happen over and over again, are said over and over again. It will be less painful for you to cut if you learn to look for and start to recognize when you’re duplicating scenes, actions, characters and dialogue. Those are the obvious places to cut and combine.

Some very wise writer (unfortunately I have no idea who) said, “If it occurs to you to cut, do so.” This seems harsh and scary, I know. Often I’ll flag something in a manuscript as “Could cut,” and leave it in my draft for several passes until I finally bite the bullet and get rid of it. So, you know, that’s fine. Allow yourself to consider cutting something, first. No commitment! Then if you do, great. But once you’ve considered cutting, you almost always will, eventually.

2. Read your book aloud. All of it. Cover to cover.

The best thing I know to do to edit a book – or script – is read it aloud. The whole thing. I know, this takes several days, and you will lose your voice. Get some good cough drops. But there is no better way to find errors – spelling, grammar, continuity, and rhythmic errors. Try it, you’ll be amazed.

3. Find a great critique group.

This is easier said than done, but you need a group, or a series of beta readers, who will commit themselves to making your work the best it can be, just as you commit the same to their work. Most editors don’t edit the way they used to and publishing houses expect their authors to find friends to do that kind of intensive editing. Really. And for indie publishing? Seven million times more important.

4. Do several passes.

Finish your first draft, no matter how rough it is. Then give yourself a break – a week is good, two weeks is better, three weeks is better than that – as time permits. Then read, cut, polish, put in notes. Repeat. And repeat again. Always give yourself time off between reads if you can. The closer your book is to done, the more uncomfortable the unwieldy sections will seem to you, and you will be more and more okay with getting rid of them. Read on for the specific kinds of passes I recommend doing.

5. Whatever your genre is, do a dedicated pass focusing on that crucial genre element.

For a thriller: thrills and suspense. For a mystery: clues and misdirection and suspense. For a comedy: a comedic pass. For a romance: a sex pass. Or “emotional” pass, if you must call it that. For horror … well, you get it.

I write suspense. So after I’ve written that first agonizing bash-through draft of a book or script, and probably a second or third draft just to make it readable, I will at some point do a dedicated pass just to amp up the suspense, and I highly recommend trying it, because it’s amazing how many great ideas you will come up with for suspense scenes (or comic scenes, or romantic scenes) if you are going through your story just focused on how to inject and layer in suspense, or horror, or comedy, or romance. It’s your job to deliver the genre you’re writing in. It’s worth a dedicated pass to make sure you’re giving your readers what they’re buying the book for.

6. Know your Three-Act Structure.

If something in your story is sagging, it is amazing how quickly you can pull your narrative into line by looking at the scene or sequence you have around page 100 (or whatever page is ¼ way through the book), page 200, (or whatever page is ½ way through the book), page 300 (or whatever page is ¾ through the book) and your climax. Each of those scenes should be huge, pivotal, devastating, game-changing scenes or sequences (even if it’s just emotional devastation). Those four points are the tent poles of your story. Go back and reread all the chapters on structure. Go back and do another story grid, and see if all your climaxes are doing what they’re supposed to do.

7. Do a dedicated DESIRE LINE pass.

– in which you ask yourself for every scene, “What does this character WANT? Who is opposing her/him in this scene? Who WINS in the scene? What will they do now?”

8. Do a dedicated EMOTIONAL pass.

– in which you ask yourself in every chapter, every scene, “What do I want my readers to FEEL in this moment?”

9. Do a dedicated SENSORY pass.

– in which you make sure you’re covering what you want the reader to see, hear, feel, taste, smell, and sense.

10. Go back through your story grid and check for all the story elements we’ve discussed in this book.

And maybe I should have done this the Letterman way and made this last one number one, because you may well want to do this step right away, after you come back from your time off from your first draft, right after you’ve done your first read-through of that draft. Your story will most likely have deviated from your initial outline and story grid, maybe even substantially, so do a new story grid. Putting your story back up on the grid will help you find duplicate scenes, sagging sequences, missing story elements, and help you focus and tighten your story in your rewrite. And if after that rewrite, you feel you need to do another grid for the next rewrite, go right ahead!

This is the same checklist you’ll find in Chapter Six, but here it is again, just for convenience:

STORY ELEMENTS CHECKLIST FOR GENERATING INDEX CARDS

ACT ONE

• Opening image

• Meet the hero or heroine

• Hero/ine’s inner and outer desire

• Hero/ine’s arc

• Hero/ine’s ghost or wound

• Inciting Incident/Call to Adventure

• Meet the antagonist (and/or introduce a mystery, which is what you do when you’re going to keep your antagonist hidden to reveal at the end)

• State the theme/What’s the story about?

• Allies

• Mentor (possibly. May not have one or may be revealed later in the story).

• Love interest

• Plants/Reveals (or: Set Ups and Payoffs)

• Hope/Fear (and Stakes)

• Time Clock (possibly. May not have one or may be revealed later in the story)

• Sequence One climax

• Central Question

• Act One climax

ACT TWO, PART TWO

• Crossing the Threshold/ Into the Special World (may occur in Act One)

• Threshold Guardian/Guardian at the Gate (possibly)

• Hero/ine’s Plan

• Antagonist’s Plan

• Training Sequence

• Series of Tests

• Picking up new Allies

• Assembling the Team

• Attacks by the Antagonist (whether or not the Hero/ine recognizes these as coming from the antagonist)

• In a detective story, Questioning Witnesses, Lining Up and Eliminating Suspects, Following Clues.

THE MIDPOINT

• Completely changes the game

• Locks the hero/ine into a situation or action

• Can be a huge revelation

• Can be a huge defeat

• Can be a “now it’s personal” loss

• Can be sex at 60 – the lovers finally get together, only to open up a whole new world of problems

ACT TWO, PART TWO

• Recalibrating – After the shock or defeat of the game-changer in the midpoint, the hero/ine must Revamp The Plan and try a New Mode of Attack.

• Escalating Actions/ Obsessive Drive

• Hard Choices and Crossing the Line (immoral actions by the main character to get what s/he wants)

• Loss of Key Allies (possibly because of the hero/ine’s obsessive actions, possibly through death or injury by the antagonist).

• A Ticking Clock (can happen anywhere in the story)

• Reversals and Revelations/Twists

• The Long Dark Night of the Soul and/or Visit to Death (also known as: All Is Lost)

THE SECOND ACT CLIMAX

• Often can be a final revelation before the end game: the knowledge of who the opponent really is

• Answers the Central Question

ACT THREE

The third act is basically the Final Battle and Resolution. It can often be one continuous sequence: the chase and confrontation, or confrontation and chase. There may be a final preparation for battle, or it might be done on the fly. Either here or in the last part of the second act the hero will make a new FINAL PLAN based on the new information and revelations of the second act.

The essence of a third act is the final showdown between protagonist and antagonist. It is often divided into two sequences:

1. Getting there (Storming the Castle)

2. The final battle itself

• Thematic Location – often a visual and literal representation of the Hero/ine’s Greatest Nightmare

• The protagonist’s character change

• The antagonist’s character change (if any)

• Possibly ally/allies’ character changes and/or gaining of desire

• Possibly a huge final reversal or reveal (twist), or even a whole series of payoffs that you’ve been saving (as in Back to the Future and It’s a Wonderful Life)

• RESOLUTION: A glimpse into the New Way of Life that the hero/ine will be living after this whole ordeal and all s/he’s learned from it.

• Closing Image

37. A Process For Writing

Here is an outline of steps that I’ve compiled for my workshops that suggests an orderly process of writing. Each step will point to a chapter or chapters that detail that step.

1. Before you start a project, even if you already have a great idea that you’re committed to, it really helps to allow yourself to do free-form brainstorming, to see what themes and characters are rolling around in your head that might just help you with the new project. And if you don’t have that great idea yet, this is the way to uncover it.

– Chapter 3: First, You Need An Idea

2. Take a stab at writing the premise. You may not know what it is exactly, yet – that’s fine!

– Chapter 2: What’s Your Premise?

3. See if you can identify what KIND of story it is. Again, you may not know this at early stages – don’t worry about it! Just ask the question of yourself, and keep alert for the answers. And remember, most stories have several different kinds of stories working in them.

– Chapter 4: What KIND of Story Is It?

4. Make a Master List of movies and books in the genre of your new project, and that are structurally similar to your project (the same KIND or type of story).

– Chapter 1: The Master List

5. Pick at least three of those stories that are MOST SIMILAR to your own story and watch them, doing a detailed story breakdown, identifying the key Story Elements, Acts, Sequences, Climaxes, etc. I really urge you to put some thought into which movies will be of the most use to your own story and not just do breakdowns for the sake of doing them – that’s fun, and instructive, but it’s not the point.

– Chapter 5: The Three-Act, Eight Sequence Structure

– Chapter 7: Story Elements Checklist

6. At the same time, start generating index cards for your own story. Write every scene that you know or imagine in the story on index cards and stick them on a structure grid if you have a vague idea where that scene goes. Write cards for the climaxes and story elements even if you don’t know specifically what they are, yet. Allow yourself to be inspired by the movies you’re watching; let the movies show you what scenes are missing in your own story.

– Chapter 6: The Index Card Method

– Chapter 7: Story Elements Checklist

– Chapter 22: Love Story Elements

7. Do word lists of visual and thematic elements for your story to start building your image systems. Start a collage book or online clip file of images if that appeals to you.

– Chapter 29: Thematic Image Systems

– Chapter 30: Visual Storytelling

8. Work back and forth between the index cards and your growing on-paper or in-file outline of the story. Write whole scenes out when you are inspired. Flesh out the acts by reviewing the elements of each act:

– Chapter 8: Elements of Act One

– Chapter 14: Elements of Act Two, Part 1

– Chapter 15: Elements of Act Two, Part 2

– Chapter 16: Elements of Act Three

– Chapter 18: What Makes A Great Climax?

– Chapter 17: Top Ten Endings

9. As you continue to work the index cards, your sequences and act climaxes will become clearer to you. These will also probably change during the writing process – that’s fine! The goal of the cards and the initial outline is a road map to help your subconscious out when you’re doing that endless slog of a first draft.

10. As you find out more about your story, write the premise again, and make sure you have identified and understand the Plan and Central Story Action.

– Chapter 9: Plan, Central Question, Central Story Action

– Chapter 10: What's the Plan?

11. When you’re ready to start writing from the beginning, then write. Set a writing schedule and stick to it – you can sacrifice one hour of TV or playing on Facebook a night. Professional authors are people who understand that TV and social networking are the biggest waste of writing time on the planet. Do you want to veg, or do you want to create? The choice is yours.

12. Keep moving forward; DO NOT go back and endlessly revise your first chapters. You may end up throwing them out anyway. Just move forward. If you’re stuck on a scene, write down vaguely what might happen in it or where it might happen as a place marker and move on to a scene you know better. The first draft can be just a sketch – the important thing is to get it all down, from beginning to end. Then you can start to layer in all the other stuff.

13. Remember that the first draft is always going to suck.

– Chapter 36: Your First Draft Is Always Going To Suck

14. You can always watch movies and do breakdowns to inspire you and break you through a block.

15. When you reach THE END, celebrate! Most people never get anywhere near that far in their whole lives. Take several weeks off for perspective, no matter how much you want to jump back into it.

16. Then when your brain is clear, do a read-through as suggested here to see what the story is that you wrote (as opposed to what you thought you were writing). Then start the rewriting process. Definitely do a re-carding of the whole story – it will have changed!

– Chapter 37: Top Ten Things I Know About Editing

17. When You’re Stuck, Make a List.

To reiterate this one most essential trick: I am pretty sure there is no story problem that cannot be solved by stopping the hair-pulling and gnashing of teeth, breathing a bit, and then sitting calmly down to make a list of examples of the way great storytellers (your favorite storytellers) have dealt with the particular problem that you are tearing your hair out and grinding your teeth over.

Can’t figure out a great opening? List your Top Ten favorite or most striking opening images.

Your villain isn’t villainous enough? Make a Top Ten Villains list, and take some time to really break down why those bad boys, or girls, turn YOU on.

Your story isn’t hot enough? Have some real fun and list your Top Ten Steamiest Sex scenes – and/or best kisses. (Warning: try to have some loved one close at hand for later … better yet, make a night of it – rent the movies and ... analyze ... those particular scenes together. Don’t you just love research?)

Not enough suspense? List and re-read and re-watch your Top Ten Most Thrilling Suspense Scenes.

Top Ten Character Introductions. Top Ten Climaxes (of whatever kind you’re looking for). Top Ten Heroes and Heroines. Top Ten Inciting Incidents. Top Ten Calls to Adventure. Top Ten Crossing the Threshold/Into the Special World scenes. Top Ten Image Systems.

Make the lists. You’ll be unstuck and on to a whole new level of writing before you know it.

PART TWO: Story Breakdowns

38. The Breakdowns

You may think this is an odd list of stories to include – and I’d be the first one to agree with you! Several of these films are among my favorites of all time; others I find fairly forgettable, but quite useful as teaching examples. My own personal list would run more toward the dark side (I know, shocking!), which was not my purpose here, and I wanted to include some films like The Proposal, New in Town, and While You Were Sleeping because they are always student favorites in my more romance-oriented workshops and there’s a good chance a lot of you will be familiar with them already.

Most of all, I wanted to hit a wide range of story patterns, or KINDS of stories, that are very common in romance. I’ve included, among other patterns, a couple of examples of ensemble stories, a romantic suspense that I think is a rare example of doing both the love story and the suspense right, a couple of Magical Day stories, several examples of Handcuffing The Couple Together, a False Identity (or Impostor) story, several stories with strong Fairy Tale elements, a Road Trip romance, a classic period romance, a romantic comedy action-adventure, a few stories with interesting non-human antagonists, one that is a really solid example of forcing the couple to work together for a common goal, and a comic time-loop fantasy.

As I said in the beginning, I’m saving paranormal and urban fantasy for another book.

If you’re new to this kind of structure analysis, I suggest that you choose three of the following movies to work with that seem similar in genre and story pattern to your own WIP, and watch those movies, following along with my breakdowns. After three movies you should be able to branch out to films on your own list, and start to find patterns on your own that will help you with your own story. But you can learn a lot about story from watching any film; there’s no right or wrong, here! Start with the films that you’re most drawn to, and see what happens.

Throughout the breakdowns, I point out Key Story Elements in CAPS.

39. Leap Year

Written by Simon Beaufoy, Harry Elfont, Deborah Kaplan

Directed by Anand Tucker

Starring Amy Adams and Matthew Goode

2010

Running time 100 minutes

I’m including this one not because I think it’s a great movie – it’s not (although there is a pretty nice Midpoint kiss, and it gets points for being shot in Ireland, with Irishmen). It just hits so many typical romance points that it’s kind of a Cliff’s Notes version of a romantic comedy, and it also combines several story patterns (KIND of story, I mean) that are useful for our love story vocabulary: we have a typical pairing of an uptight, overcontrolling city woman thrown together with a rugged, rustic man in a fantasy vacation setting, but it’s also a road trip movie, a couple-handcuffed-together movie, and a magical day movie (The idea that there is a day, or hour, or place, that will lead magically to true love and/or marriage).

It’s also, I hope, a good reminder that it takes more than hitting all the beats to create a great story. But since it actually hits most of those elements, let’s start with it.

ACT ONE

SEQUENCE ONE

OPENING IMAGE: shot of Anna’s feet in stilt heels ($600 shoes) clicking over pavement and fallen leaves. (Not the most original of opening images, but it is setting up the idea of a journey and foreshadowing that Anna will be doing a lot of walking in those heels.) Under the credits there is a montage showing that perfectionist Anna micromanages everything, from polishing the bar while she waits for a drink, to getting a dress tailored and forcing the tailor to take the dress up and down an eighth of an inch. Her first line is “I have everything under control.”

We then see Anna and her boyfriend Jeremy being interviewed by the board of a luxury Boston apartment building that they’ve both always wanted to live in. We learn he’s a cardiologist (some overt symbolism, there) and that she stages apartments for realtors. When they walk out of the building they’re both talking on their Blackberries. Not too difficult to figure out where there’s room for growth, here. (Setting up HEROINE’S CHARACTER ARC, and all of this is showing the heroine in her ORDINARY WORLD.)

Obviously this is one of those stories in which it’s clear the initial couple is not meant for each other. (And how Hollywood loves these “executive woman forced to fend for herself without her Smartphone” stories … )

Jeremy drops a hint that he’s planning a surprise for dinner, and then at the tailor’s Anna’s best friend says she saw Jeremy coming out of a famous jewelry store with a “little red bag.” We see Anna really wants to be engaged. OUTER DESIRE: she wants to marry Jeremy.

Anna meets her Irish father in a bar, and he’s thrilled that she’s going to be married. When he hears Jeremy is going to Dublin the next day for a cardiology convention he tells Anna she could always join him there and propose to him on Leap Day, just like her grandmother did with her grandfather back in the auld country. This is a story element I call THE FAMILY LEGEND; it’s usually a love story, passed down by the generations. The scene also introduces the concept of the MAGICAL DAY, which is also a TICKING CLOCK that will run throughout the movie. In Ireland, if a woman proposes to a man on Leap Day, the man has to accept.

Anna goes to her elegant dinner with Jeremy and he very unromantically gives her a jewelry box – with earrings inside, rather than the engagement ring she was expecting. Anna is clearly devastated but pretends to be happy. Jeremy shows her a photo of a damaged heart on his cell phone (very overt symbolism) and tells her he has to leave to assist in surgery then will go straight to the airport. (I’ll call this the COULD IT BE ANY MORE OBVIOUS THAT HE’S NO GOOD FOR YOU? scene.)

Alone in bed at home, Anna hears her father’s words about Leap Day in her head, then gets up and Googles it. It really is a tradition in Ireland. She starts packing a suitcase. (9:54 minutes)

So we already know the HEROINE’S OUTER DESIRE – she wants to marry Jeremy – and her PLAN: She’s going to go to Dublin and propose to him on Leap Day when he has to say yes.

Cut to the plane. Anna tells the priest in the seat beside her the plan to propose to her boyfriend on Leap Day. The priest looks skeptical (and he should know, right?). The plane hits a storm and extreme turbulence and is forced to land in Wales. (This is a very common trope in romantic comedy: the Fates seem to intervene in the form of the weather, forcing the hero/ine onto a path she hadn’t planned for. Another example is New in Town; a much better example is Groundhog Day. ) (11:40 minutes)

The Cardiff airport is jammed and there are no flights out that day. Anna next tries the ferry; it’s also shut down because of the storm, so she hires a fishing boat. The water is so rough they’re forced to land in Dingle (the opposite side of Ireland from Dublin). Clearly the Fates are not in favor of this match, but that’s not about to stop Anna. (Let’s face it – how often do we get all the signs that we’re in the wrong relationship and just barrel right on?)

Anna walks from the beach into the village with her Vuitton suitcase and teetering heels. (Can I just say that I personally don’t ever need to see that scene/shot again in my entire life? Enough already. After Romancing the Stone, if you’re not going to undercut this cliché with something as fun as Jack chopping Joan Wilder’s heels off with a machete, just forget it.)

I’d say that beautiful shot of Ireland is INTO THE SPECIAL WORLD.

14:07 minutes

SEQUENCE TWO

Anna makes it into the village at sunset, and heads for the pub. (The Tavern of course is the traditional jumping-off point for a journey story; see Star Wars, Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter #1, Romancing the Stone.)

There are all older Irish men in the pub, except for the ruggedly handsome bartender, Declan. Anna learns there hasn’t been a taxi or train from Dingle to Dublin for 20 years or more. She asks the bartender about a taxi; he gives her a number, which she calls from the payphone, only to realize she’s talking to him on another phone – he’s the taxi driver. However, he says he loathes Dublin (“City of wastrels and cheats”) and wouldn’t drive her there for 500 Euro. (HATE AT FIRST SIGHT.) She decides to stay in town and deal with her situation in the morning. It turns out Declan owns the pub, which is also the only hotel in town. (KEEP THE HERO AND HEROINE IN CLOSE PROXIMITY.)

So, yes, from here on we have a fairly equal heroine and hero story, but technically Anna is the protagonist and Declan is the antagonist; the lover is usually the antagonist, or at least a main antagonist, in a love story. Remember, Anna wants to marry Jeremy, and Declan does nothing but stand in her way.

In the tiny room upstairs, Anna moves the bed to plug her phone in, destroying the room in the process and then shorting out the electricity in the hotel and subsequently the whole village. Declan comes up (GET THE HERO INTO THE HEROINE’S BEDROOM) and they yell at each other. He snatches away a personal photo she’s found of him with a beautiful blonde woman and another man. (Hint of his GHOST – we can pretty well guess what happened there.) (21 min.)

It’s a lovely dawn in the village. Anna calls Jeremy to tell him she’s in Ireland, and he’s excited that she came. Anna sees Declan haggling with a man outside and overhears that he needs 1000 Euros to save his pub from foreclosure. (So driving Anna to Dublin becomes THE OFFER HE CAN’T REFUSE.)

Declan comes into Anna’s room while she’s dressing (GET THE HERO AND/OR HEROINE NAKED) and offers to drive her to Dublin for 500 Euros, plus 100 for the room and damages. Anna agrees, if only to get him out of her room.

The two pile into Declan’s microscopic car (the too-small car seems to be a staple of romantic comedy) – after Declan mocks the fact that Anna’s boyfriend gave her a suitcase. (Love interest tells THE AWFUL TRUTH.) They’re on the road at 25 min.

Anna tells Declan she’s going to propose to her boyfriend on Leap Day and Declan says it’s the stupidest thing he’s ever heard – clearly if the bf had wanted to marry her he’d already have asked. (Love interest tells THE AWFUL TRUTH.) Enraged, Anna throws Declan’s food and cassette tape out the window. Declan stops the car to retrieve the tape and they fight in the road; Anna accuses Declan of being a bitter, lonely cynic (Heroine tells THE AWFUL TRUTH).

While they’ve been fighting, a herd of cows has blocked the car. Anna successfully moves them but then leans on the car to try to scrape cow dung off her heels and the car rolls down the hill and lands in a lake.

ACT I CLIMAX (30:12)

ACT TWO, PART 1

SEQUENCE THREE

Now Anna and Declan are on foot and furious with each other. Anna stops a van driven by three smarmy lads on their way to Dublin; she thinks she’s been saved, but instead they take off with her suitcase.

More walking – Anna falling behind in her heels. (Can I just say – please … ) She finally arrives at a remote tavern and finds Declan inside drinking. He tells her he’ll call a tow truck and they’ll be on their way again, but she says she’s making other arrangements. Then she sees the three suitcase thieves in a back room, laughing over her lingerie. She demands her things back and they turn threatening. Declan breaks it up and a brawl starts – Declan knocking one of the thieves out while Anna fells another with a kick to the balls. (WORKING TOGETHER.) Declan chases the other off and Anna admits, “That was impressive.” (The “MY MAN” scene – heroine sees hero is capable of protecting her and starts to thaw. Also it’s the “MY WOMAN” scene – hero suddenly wants to protect heroine when she is threatened.) The tavern keeper throws them both out.

The two find the train station – and learn they have 2 ½ hours until the next train to Dublin. Declan suggests they take the “fifteen minute” walk up to a nearby castle. HERO’s (or OPPONENT’S) PLAN: to keep Anna from getting to Dublin in time to propose on the magic day.

On the way up to the castle, Declan asks Anna a question: If her high-class apartment were on fire, what would be the one thing she saved? She can’t answer and feels uncomfortable about it – and then he won’t answer when she turns the question on him. (THE RIDDLE.) In the castle ruins Declan tells her the story of the place – a Celtic beauty was promised to a much older warlord, but on the eve of her betrothal she fell in love with a handsome young warrior and they fled together, and were helped by villagers all over Ireland until they came to the spot of that castle and consummated their love. (I’m sure I’ve seen this before – a story that becomes THE PERSONAL MYTHOLOGY of the hero and heroine. Lots of fairy tale elements going on in this scene.) Anna accuses Declan of telling the story to hit on her, which he vehemently denies. Then they hear the train whistle. Anna runs – and then slides – down the muddy hill in the rain, but of course, misses the train.

SEQUENCE FOUR

Naturally there are no more trains that day, so the stationmaster takes Anna and Declan back to his B & B, where they’re immediately FORCED TO PRETEND THEY’RE MARRIED so that their conservative hosts will allow them to stay. Asked their married name, they simultaneously answer "Brady" and "O'Callaghan," quickly amending that to "O'Brady-Callaghan" (PLANT).

The proprietress takes them up to a small room with one bed. (LOOK AT THAT! ONLY ONE BED!) When Anna says she is not going to share, they flip a coin for it, and Declan wins with the oldest trick in the book: “Heads I win, tails you lose.” Anna showers without realizing he can see everything through the curtain. (GET THE HEROINE NAKED.) She finally figures out the coin scam and storms out to claim the bed: “Cheater forfeits.” The proprietress comes up to announce tripe for dinner and Anna quickly volunteers Declan to cook, instead. She leaves the room, first getting a glimpse of him in a towel, which makes her run into the doorjamb. (GET THE HERO NAKED, CHEMISTRY.)

Anna and Declan dig vegetables in the garden (LET’S PRETEND WE’RE MARRIED). When Anna obsesses over carrot size, Declan tells her to “Have a little faith. It’s dinner. It will all work out.” Anna says that’s what her father always said – and all that means to her is foreclosures on Christmas and having had to work two jobs since she was sixteen years old, just to get by. (The HEROINE’S GHOST and the WHY I’M LIKE THIS confession.) Declan says he’s sorry – sincerely: “A father is someone you’re supposed to depend on.” (BUILDING SYMPATHY and GOSH, WOULDN’T HE MAKE A GOOD PARENT?)

In the kitchen, Anna and Declan start to enjoy themselves, cooking together (THE DANCE), drinking a little wine. At dinner the hosts and their equally long-married Italian guests insist that the secret to a long marriage is to kiss every time like it’s the first time and the last. The two older couples demonstrate and then insist that Anna and Declan kiss. (FORCING THE COUPLE TO KISS.) They do reluctantly, but are overcome by the moment. (CHEMISTRY, THE KISS THAT CHANGES EVERYTHING.) (56 min.)

In their room, Declan tries to sleep in the shower but comes out begging for mercy, and she allows him into the bed. Neither can sleep. (HERO AND HEROINE FORCED TO SHARE A BED.)

MIPOINT – (not quite) SEX AT SIXTY (60 min.)

ACT TWO, PART 2

SEQUENCE FIVE

In the morning Declan wakes with his arm around Anna – and carefully removes it. Downstairs, Anna calls Jeremy right away (The WHAT WAS I THINKING? scene). He tells her they got the apartment. Anna is ambivalently enthusiastic; Declan eavesdrops, troubled. (The OH SHIT – I’M GOING TO LOSE HER scene.)

Anna learns there are no trains that day (Sunday) and asks the landlord if she can pay him to drive her to Dublin; but the wife has already taken the car to go to Mass – in Dublin – and will be gone all day. Declan obviously enjoys the development. (1 hr. 02 min.)

Anna and Declan hit the road again, walking. They’re overtaken by a hailstorm and take refuge in a church – interrupting a wedding. (This is of course the GET THE HERO AND HEROINE TO SOMEONE ELSE’S WEDDING scene. We are somehow spared the “GOSH, WOULDN’T WE MAKE GOOD PARENTS?” beat, here.)

The priest invites them to stay, and they join the reception. Declan is clearly uncomfortable and leaves during the bride’s speech. Anna comes outside to find him and learns that he was engaged once, but that’s all he’ll say. He turns scathing (“This is Ireland, honey. Have a drink and shut up.”) and she leaves. When he comes back to the festivities, he apologizes by saying he isn’t good at weddings then asks her to dance. It’s a traditional song and Anna gets into the dance with one of the locals – but then her shoe flies off and wounds the bride. Humiliated, Anna gets completely hammered, and Declan finds her on the shore of the lake in the moonlight, where she drunkenly tells him that he’s a beast, but it’s all a cover for his pain – he has a thorn in his beastie paw. (HEROINE TELLS THE AWFUL TRUTH.) The gorgeous backdrop of silvery moonlight on the blue lake creates a SETPIECE that makes us anticipate that this is the moment for these two … Anna leans in to kiss him … but vomits on his shoes instead. (Again, have seen this one a little too often … ) He picks her up and carries her off the shore. (1.12)

SEQUENCE SIX

Anna wakes up in daylight to find she’s lying on Declan’s lap on a bus stop bench. He’s still asleep. She covers him and leaves. Declan wakes as a bus takes off, and stares off after it, devastated. (OH SHIT, I’VE LOST HER.) Anna steps out of the news shop with coffees and sees his reaction. She hands him a coffee and jokes that he can take it off her bill, then tells him there’s another bus in 20 minutes and reminds him she’s paying him to take her to Dublin.

She sleeps on his shoulder on the bus; Declan is awake, thinking. (1.15)

They arrive in Dublin and walk toward Jeremy’s hotel. They stop on a bridge in a beautiful park and Anna says, “She’s here, isn’t she.” (Meaning the blonde in the photo.) Declan admits that he was in love with the blonde; he and she and his best friend built up the pub together, then she fell for his friend. (GHOST.) He only regrets that she still has his mother’s Claddagh ring. (TALISMAN and FAMILY HEIRLOOM). Anna says he should get it back.

At the hotel, Anna gets money from an ATM and tries to pay Declan, but he says – “Just give me back the bob we flipped for the bed and call it even.” (HERO’S ARC, a little.) She does – and they’re about to say more – when Jeremy appears. (The JUST SAY SOMETHING, STUPID scene). Jeremy asks if she tipped Declan and then gets down on one knee and proposes to Anna. (THE WRONG PROPOSAL.) When Anna looks around, Declan has disappeared. (ALL IS LOST.) Jeremy prods Anna: “There are cameras, Sweetie.” Indeed, people in the hotel lobby are watching and waiting for her answer. With cameras. Anna says yes.

ACT TWO CLIMAX (1.21)

ACT THREE

SEQUENCE SEVEN

Anna flies home to Boston with Jeremy. Declan waits in a Dublin bar, where he meets his ex-fiancée. (1.23)

(Now the I’M GOING TO FORGET ALL ABOUT HIM/HER montage.)

In a MONTAGE, we see Declan hold a fundraiser to save the pub; friends and villagers all contribute and the two old men from the first scenes kick in the last money to stave off the foreclosure.

At Anna and Jeremy’s engagement/housewarming party, Anna realizes how shallow her best friend is, just before Jeremy admits to their friends that he proposed to Anna so they would get the apartment. Anna stands in the sterile, spotless kitchen looking out over a staid party of people in suits. She takes a long look at the fire alarm on the wall.

Suddenly the party is in chaos as the fire alarm goes off. (FINAL BATTLE.) Anna watches as Jeremy grabs all the electronics and tells her to grab any valuables. (PAYOFF TO DECLAN’S RIDDLE – HEROINE’S REVELATION). Jeremy looks up and Anna is gone. (1.26)

SEQUENCE EIGHT

CUT TO – Dingle, where Declan supervises a crew in the kitchen of the packed pub. A waiter comes in and says that a customer is complaining about the chicken being dry. (PAYOFF to an earlier line of Anna’s in the B&B dinner scene.)

Declan goes out front – to find Anna, who tells him in front of the crowded room that she’s come back to propose that they not make plans together and see what happens. (HEROINE’S CHARACTER ARC, and also a trope I particularly loathe – THE DECLARATION IN FRONT OF AN AUDIENCE scene.) Declan smiles, then walks away from her. Anna runs out, devastated. (APPARENT DEFEAT.) She goes out to the cliffs to look at the sea, then hears Declan behind her: “Mrs. O’Brady-Callaghan, where do you think you’re going?” He says he rejects her proposal. He wants to make plans with her. He takes out his mother’s Claddagh ring, and gets down on a knee for THE PROPOSAL. She says yes, and they kiss, against the backdrop of the cliffs and the setting sun (variation on the gorgeous backdrop at the lake).

In the last scene, the two are in the repaired car. (FULL CIRCLE.) Anna throws the map book in the back and says, “Just drive.” (CHARACTER ARC.) The car starts off with a "Just Married" sign in the back window. (NEW WAY OF LIFE.)

40. While You Were Sleeping

Written by Daniel G. Sullivan and Frederic Lebow

Directed by Jon Turteltaub

Starring Sandra Bullock, Bill Pullman and Peter Gallagher

1995

Running time 103 minutes

I’ve noticed that While You Were Sleeping is a favorite of people who take my workshops, and I wanted to include it as an example of two common love story patterns: Mistaken Identity (or False Identity, or The Impostor), and the Wrong Brother story (you know this one: it’s really the fiancé/fiancée’s brother – or sister – that the hero/ine should be marrying). My favorite Wrong Sister story is Holiday, and there’s a nice twist on the Wrong Sister in 27 Dresses. That is, I like the sister twist in 27 Dresses, not the movie.

Now, for my money, Tootsie is a far superior False Identity story in every way, and if you’re writing False Identity, that’s definitely one you should look at for genius ways of handling the specific elements of this kind of story. But Tootsie is also a farce, a comedy, and a character study of an unlikable male protagonist undergoing a huge thematic character change – and it’s more of an example of those stories than it is a love story, even though the love plot is great. Most romance writers are not tackling farce or straight-up comedy, and I suspect most people who will be reading this book will not be, and so it made sense to me to break down how While You Were Sleeping uses the same elements of Mistaken Identity in a lighter romance.

While You Were Sleeping is a good example of the love interest being the actual antagonist; the hero is determined to expose that the heroine is lying, but falls in love with her in the process. And the story manages to create a modern fairy tale version of Sleeping Beauty, in its way – how many love stories do you know about people in comas?

ACT ONE

SEQUENCE ONE

OPENING IMAGE: train tracks from the POV of the train; the El to be exact; this is Chicago. Then we see shots of the city under the credits, while one of the great feel-good love songs of all time plays: “Everlasting Love.” (2:24)

Lucy speaks in VO about her childhood while we see nostalgic shots of her as a very young girl with her father. (Narration gives a story that “Once Upon A Time” fairy tale feeling.) She loved that he took her places, even though they never went very far, and she most loved to hear about when he first knew he was in love with her mother, who died when Lucy was very young. He always said it was when her mother “gave him the world” – even though it was only a lighted globe (PLANT and FAMILY LEGEND).

Cut to Lucy as an adult; she’s a token taker for the El. She’s lonely and wistful, instantly likeable. We see her get an instant crush on PETER, a handsome executive commuter – who looks very much like her father. (OUTER DESIRE: for Peter.) (4:28)

Next we see Lucy in her little apartment, trying to get a Christmas tree in through the window while she talks aloud to her watching cat (ORDINARY WORLD.) The tree falls – through her landlord’s window – and we meet the landlord, Joe, and his appalling ex-con son Joe Jr.

Outside of work Lucy’s boss tries to talk her into working on Christmas Day. Lucy reluctantly agrees, but of course we know something wonderful is going to happen, because Christmas is a MAGICAL DAY. (7:37)

Lucy decorates her Christmas tree, alone.

Christmas Day at the Transit Authority is very slow. Lucy watches a happy family exit a train (her INNER DESIRE, LONGING FOR A FAMILY), and right after that Peter comes through the gate, wishing her Merry Christmas. While Lucy is berating herself aloud for not speaking to him, Peter is attacked on the platform by two muggers, who push him onto the tracks. (INCITING INCIDENT/CALL TO ADVENTURE.)

Lucy runs out of the booth, calling for help, but there’s no one but her in the station, so she jumps onto the tracks to try to revive Peter. As an express train approaches, she rolls with him to safety. (10 min.)

In the hospital, Lucy tries to go to Peter’s side, but a doctor says “Family only.” Lucy stands outside the glass doors and murmurs, “I was going to marry him.” A nurse overhears and assumes she’s the fiancée. (A staple of comedy: MISAPPREHENSION.)

The nurse takes her in to Peter’s room, and then tells a cop who’s come to take a report on the incident that Lucy is the fiancée.

When Peter’s large family, the Callaghans (Peter’s father, mother, grandmother, younger sister and family friend Saul) pour into the room, the nurse tells them Lucy is the fiancée. The family is in shock. Shy Lucy tries to explain, but the mother is overwhelmed by emotion and happiness, and the grandmother seems about to have a heart attack from all the excitement and Lucy is afraid to agitate her further. So Lucy is TRAPPED INTO THE ROLE, a common complication in Mistaken Identity stories. The doctor tells the family that Peter is in a coma, but thinks that he will recover. (A coma of course is a fairy tale element … )

Outside in the hall, Lucy confides in the nurse that she’s not the fiancée, she was only talking to herself. The nurse scolds her. (It’s common in this type of story to have a CONFIDANTE character who knows the score; this story has several.)

When Lucy goes back in to the family, the Callaghan’s friend Saul tells her he thinks she saved the grandmother’s life, and Lucy feels even more locked into her lie. The family presses her for details about how she met Peter, and Lucy starts to answer, warming to her own story. (It’s an element unique to Mistaken Identity Stories that the lie takes on a life of its own, eventually becoming one of the main OPPONENTS.)

SEQUENCE ONE CLIMAX (16 min.)

SEQUENCE TWO:

At night Lucy goes home, where Joe Jr. informs her he has Ice Capades tickets and assumes she’ll be delighted to go with him. (Externalizing Lucy’s FEAR: that this is all her life will ever be, and that this is the only man she can ever hope to have.)

Late that night she goes back to the hospital and talks to Peter, confessing her lie, and telling him she doesn’t know what to do. She doesn’t realize that Saul is outside, listening. (Every Mistaken Identity story needs a THREAT OF EXPOSURE – a character who may spill the beans at any time. So for a time Saul is the apparent OPPONENT.) Lucy confides more and more to unconscious Peter (CONFESSING TO A SLEEPING OR UNCONSCIOUS LOVED ONE), saying “I’ve never met anyone I could laugh with.” PLANT, and INNER DESIRE. (20 min.)

Lucy wakes up at Peter’s bedside as the family comes in again. They insist she come over for a belated Christmas dinner that night, but she declines. As she leaves, an orderly gives her a box of Peter’s things, and then she runs into a colleague of Peter’s, who explains to her some details we don’t hear about some kind of accident (PLANT).

Lucy tells her boss the situation (another CONFIDANT) and he advises that she go along with the deception. He warns her that the grandmother could really die of the shock if Lucy confesses, and the family will be so happy when Peter wakes up that they won’t care that Lucy lied. (FURTHER LOCKED INTO THE LIE.) (22 min.)

At home Lucy sits down to a lonely dinner, then looks at the family’s phone number.

Lucy arrives in a taxi at a large, beautifully lit house. This is the SPECIAL WORLD – the happy, boisterous, comfortable house of the Callaghan family – which is the externalization of Lucy’s INNER DESIRE.

Saul stops her on the porch – he wants to talk to her (acting as an OPPONENT and a THRESHOLD GUARDIAN, literally blocking her way). He probes her about her background, clearly concerned about her motivations. She confides that her father died two years ago after a long illness; she had to drop out of school and take the job at the Transit Authority. Saul understands how that would shake a person’s world and identity. He tells her how the Callaghans took him in as a member of the family, and says he would never want to see them hurt. Lucy says she would never want them hurt, either. Saul believes her, and they go in together. (TEST OF THE HEROINE. Also Saul serves as a sort of MIRROR character here.)

The family draws Lucy into all their holiday activities: photos by the tree, presents, even a stocking with her name on it hung with the others. We see Lucy FALLING IN LOVE WITH THE FAMILY. (29 min.)

In a gleaming, empty condo, a phone rings and an answering machine picks up; we hear Peter’s real girlfriend Ashley say she’s been thinking it over and, “What the hey, I’ll marry you.” (Another OPPONENT and THREAT OF EXPOSURE –– the real fiancée.)

In the morning, Lucy is still at the Callaghan house, sleeping on the couch. Peter’s brother Jack comes in quietly; he’s been away on a job for the Callaghan family business: estate sales. Younger sister Mary greets him and tells him not to wake Lucy. On the couch, Lucy looks worried.

Lucy dresses and tries to leave quietly but runs into Jack on the stairs. He seems suspicious of her; it’s pretty clear to us and to Lucy that this guy is going to be a problem for her. As Lucy dodges out the door, he says, “Welcome to the family.” (The MAIN ANTAGONIST, finally showing up.).

ACT ONE CLIMAX

ACT TWO, PART 1

SEQUENCE THREE

The family goes to church and Jack tries to probe his father about Lucy. (ANTAGONIST’S PLAN – to investigate this woman.) There’s also a SET UP that he’s not happy working for the family business (HERO/ANTAGONIST’S INNER DESIRE). (33 min.)

At home, Lucy goes through Peter’s things and is concerned to find a bag with a can of cat food. She sneaks out of her building, trying to avoid Joe Jr., who is working on his car outside. Jack arrives a moment later, and tells Joe Jr. he’s looking for Lucy. Joe Jr. boasts that he’s dating her (MISAPPREHENSION and MIRRORING Lucy’s lie), confirming Jack’s suspicions that something’s not right about Lucy. (MIRRORING like that is a staple of romantic comedy and especially of IMPOSTOR stories.)

Lucy rushes to Peter’s condo, a high rise that is spotless, modern, and high tech – not at all like the comfortable Callaghan home that Lucy has been so taken with. (First sign that it’s THE WRONG BROTHER.) Jack comes in and Lucy accidentally hits him with the swinging door (PHYSICAL COMEDY). Jack is now completely disbelieving that she has any relationship with his brother, and keeps TESTING her. He’s shocked that she knows about a cat he never knew about, and that when the phone rings it’s actually for her: the hospital, asking her to donate blood. We see Lucy feeling pretty triumphant that she’s pulling off her role. (This is part of the fun of a Mistaken Identity story – we get to experience the thrill of pulling it off with the hero/ine, passing the tests. So as I said about Act II:1, this sequence is delivering THE PROMISE OF THE PREMISE.) Jack tells her he’ll go to the hospital with her, and Lucy wins again in the garage when she correctly identifies Peter’s car (by using the remote).

At the hospital, Jack continues to quiz her in front of the family, and when his father asks why he’s grilling her, Jack says he met her real boyfriend. Lucy denies it, but now the family wonders. The grandmother says Lucy can prove her relationship with Peter if she feels like it, and Lucy suddenly comes out with the fact that Peter only has one testicle (PAYOFF of the work colleague’s accident story). The family is shocked, but satisfied, and Lucy passes another TEST.

Back at Lucy’s place, Joe Jr. is mad that Lucy “stood him up.” While they are arguing, Saul shows up and Lucy makes Joe Jr. hide in the closet (another staple of comedy – trying to conceal people in closets, under beds, on the window sill … creating FEAR OF DISCOVERY). Saul tells Lucy he knows the truth about her, and Lucy is mortified, ready to tell the family everything. But Saul says, “Don’t tell them. They have Peter back because of you – they need you and you need them.” (OPPONENT TURNING INTO ALLY. This is a REVERSAL, but it’s not much of one here because we already saw that Saul is very sympathetic toward Lucy.)

As soon as Saul leaves Jack shows up and Lucy has to shove Joe Jr. back in the closet (you could call this the REVOLVING DOOR scene – also a staple of comedy and farce). Jack has come to deliver a present from his parents: a piece of furniture. As Joe Jr. starts to pound on the closet door, Lucy walks Jack out the door, saying she’ll go with him to take the gift to Peter’s place. (45 minutes.)

SEQUENCE FOUR

(The next scenes are the GETTING TO KNOW YOU sequence.) When Jack opens the back of the truck, Lucy sees a handmade rocking chair and loves it. The present is actually a love seat, not the rocker, but then Jack admits he made the rocker. Lucy says he could make a fortune selling them, and Jack says he’d love to, but it’s not so easy. He confesses he’s trapped in the family business – the only son left of “Callaghan and Sons” since Peter went to law school. (HERO CONFESSES HIS DREAM, HEROINE SUPPORTS HIM.)

They move the sofa up to Peter’s condo together (WORKING TOGETHER), and start to warm to each other. There’s a SUSPENSE beat here when the doorman doesn’t know Lucy – but we find out he’s new, so it passes.

Up in Peter’s condo, Jack and Lucy break a vase, spilling blue water on the white carpet, and put the sofa over the stain (CONSPIRACY).

When they go back out to the truck, it’s been blocked in by other cars, and they have to walk back to Lucy’s. As they walk over a bridge (SYMBOL of change) Jack is asking all kinds of questions about her; Lucy talks about her dad and her dream of going to Florence (HEROINE CONFESSES HER DREAM, HERO SUPPORTS HER). And throughout, Jack makes her laugh (WRONG BROTHER). Back at her building, the front yard is iced over and they fall all over each other getting across it (PHYSICAL CONTACT AND CHEMISTRY). As Lucy goes upstairs, Joe Jr. confronts her again, saying, “It’s me or him.” Lucy replies, “Him.” Inside her apartment Lucy watches Jack from her window as he walks away. (53 min.)

The next day she tells her boss that she’s “having an affair”: she really likes Jack, but she can’t tell him the truth; he’ll never speak to her again.

At the same time, Jack is at Peter’s bedside, playing cards with him (playing both hands). He says, “I was never envious of anything you had until now.” (TALKING TO A SLEEPING OR UNCONSCIOUS LOVED ONE.) He proposes they draw high cards for Lucy – and loses (SUSPENSE). (55 min.)

At a family dinner, the Callaghans engage in one of those surreal family conversations where three unrelated threads are going at once. As the conversation becomes increasingly absurd, Lucy and Jack laugh about it with each other (BONDING). When Lucy leaves, she and Jack end up under the mistletoe at the door, and – you guessed it – the family FORCES THE COUPLE TO KISS. (58 min.)

Little sister Mary comes by the token booth and Lucy’s co-worker learns she’s ‘engaged.’ The co-worker asks if Lucy’s pregnant or something, and when Lucy sarcastically replies, “Right, I’m pregnant,” Mary believes her (MISAPPREHENSION).

Another shot of the phone machine in Peter’s empty apartment; it’s Ashley calling again, wondering why he hasn’t returned her calls. (INCREASING THREAT OF DISCOVERY.) (59 min.)

The Callaghans are gathering for New Year’s Eve; Mary comes in and announces Lucy is pregnant.

Lucy is at home; Joe Jr. comes by with a horseshoe wreath for her. But really, he knows it’s “that other guy” she likes. Lucy hugs him to console him, and Jack watches them from the bottom of the stairs, stewing. (MISAPPREHENSION.)

When Lucy leaves the house, she sees Jack hovering by the truck. He insists on driving her to her co-worker’s New Year’s Eve party, where he confronts her in front of all her coworkers about being pregnant. (1.02) She denies it and storms out with Jack following. He apologizes for the mistake, but then wants to know what’s up with her and Joe Jr. He accuses her of “leaning” when she hugged Joe Jr., and demonstrates that leaning implies desire (CHEMISTRY, THE ALMOST-KISS). Joe Jr. interrupts and asks Lucy if she needs help – since Jack seems to be “leaning.” Lucy and Jack are amused, but then Jack blows the moment by implying that Lucy isn’t Peter’s type, which Lucy takes as an insult and leaves him. (THE AWFUL TRUTH.)

He follows her back to her place, where she laces him down for not having a conversation with his father about the family business and he counters that her own father wouldn’t be too happy with the life she’s leading as a token taker (More AWFUL TRUTH, on both sides).

Outside, people start to cheer for the New Year. Lucy slams the door on Jack. No kiss for them.

But in the hospital, as the nurses start to cheer the New Year, Peter suddenly wakes up (the MAGICAL HOUR).

This is the MIDPOINT – obviously, a real game-changer, which is going to bring a whole new dynamic and complications to the situation.

ACT TWO, PART 2

SEQUENCE FIVE

The hospital calls the family and Lucy. Peter is groggy, but he recognizes his family just fine – and doesn’t recognize Lucy at all. The family assumes he has amnesia, and the doctor gives credence to the idea, explaining the syndrome of lacunar amnesia, the loss of memory about one specific event. Lucy tells Saul privately she needs to confess, but he says he’ll tell the family, and Peter, for her. (1:10)

Jack drives Lucy home; both obviously have roiling emotions. Lucy tells him “Things are going to be different, now, but I want you to know that you’ve become a really good friend.” (WRONG BROTHER.) Jack apologizes for saying she’s not Peter’s type. (One of those scenes that I call JUST SAY SOMETHING, STUPID. Of course, neither one of them does.) (1.13)

SEQUENCE SIX

Jack brings his father donuts in the morning and tells him he’s been selling his own furniture for a while now. (CHARACTER ARC, inspired by heroine. THEY’RE GOOD FOR EACH OTHER.) His father at first seems horrified that Jack doesn’t want the family business, but actually turns out to be totally fine with Jack’s choice.

At the hospital, Peter is going through every event of his life; he remembers everything perfectly, except for anything about Lucy. Saul comes in to talk to him; he calls him a putz, and asks him to open his heart and give Lucy just two minutes, to see if he can see what the whole rest of the family can see about her. (ALLY TRIES TO HELP BUT JUST COMPLICATES THINGS FURTHER.) (1.19)

Lucy brings Peter back his things, and we see Peter really trying to give her a chance. (1.21)

Ashley, a blonde, um, dynamo, shows up at Peter’s apartment; the doorman doesn’t know her and won’t let her in.

Jack comes to visit Peter. Peter now thinks Lucy is terrific; he says he’s reborn. Jack listens aghast as Peter confesses a litany of sins (he’s never been faithful to a woman, he faked the rescue of some squirrels as a kid). Jack monologues about what he loves about Lucy; Peter doesn’t know what he’s talking about. (WRONG BROTHER.)

Meanwhile Lucy meets Saul outside the hospital and learns Saul hasn’t told Peter the truth; she “fires” him and storms into the hospital to tell Peter herself, and unknowingly rides up in the elevator with Ashley, but goes to the wrong floor; Peter’s room has been moved. (NEAR-MISS.)

Ashley storms into Peter’s room, furious that he’s engaged. He says he’s turned over a new leaf. As soon as Ashley’s gone, Lucy comes in, and Peter proposes. (THE WRONG PROPOSAL.) (1.27)

Jack goes to see Lucy; he passes Joe Jr. on the stairs, who has a new girlfriend. Lucy is making her own wedding dress (there’s always a WEDDING DRESS SCENE!). Jack has brought her a snow globe of Florence (PAYOFF and MIRRORING the FAMILY LEGEND of Lucy’s mother giving her father the globe). He tells her Peter’s very lucky. As Jack leaves, Lucy asks him if he can give her any reason she shouldn’t marry his brother (DOES ANYONE KNOW OF ANY REASON?), but Jack says he can’t. (JUST SAY SOMETHING, STUPID and ALL IS LOST.) 1.30

Lucy gives her boss a wedding invitation – it’s for tomorrow. Her boss is shocked, but a distraught Lucy says Jack didn’t want her.

ACT TWO CLIMAX

ACT THREE

SEQUENCE SEVEN

The wedding takes place at the hospital chapel. Jack stands up with Peter, who’s still hooked to an IV. Lucy comes up the aisle – but as soon as she reaches the altar she immediately says she objects to the wedding. (IF ANYONE KNOWS OF ANY REASON.) Jack says he objects, too. Lucy turns to the family and says she’s in love with their son – the other son. She confesses everything: “I didn’t want to tell you the truth because I fell in love with all of you.” (THE CONFESSION and FINAL BATTLE. And THE UNMASKING is always a key scene in MISTAKEN IDENTITY, and it’s usually the Act Three Climax.)

Ashley storms in to object, too – since she is actually engaged to Peter. And then Ashley’s husband shows up (a nice TWIST). While the Callaghan family turns on Peter for proposing to a married woman, Lucy slips out. (1:36)

SEQUENCE EIGHT

At home, Lucy takes her Christmas decorations down, again by herself (A FAKEOUT FULL CIRCLE). There’s a knock at the door, but it’s not Jack, it’s Joe Jr. He’s sorry things didn’t work out for her and the guy … then he breaks down himself; it didn’t work out with his girl, either. Lucy hugs him.

Lucy is in the token booth; we learn from her co-worker it’s her last day at work (CHARACTER ARC – inspired by the hero.). Suddenly someone puts an engagement ring in the token slot. Lucy looks up to see Jack and the whole family outside. She lets him in to the booth, and they kiss.

The kiss dissolves to them now kissing on the back deck of a train, with a JUST MARRIED sign. In V.O. we hear from Lucy that they’re on their way to Florence for their honeymoon; she says you could say Jack gave her the world. (CATCH PHRASE, FULL CIRCLE, NEW WAY OF LIFE.)

41. Notting Hill

Written by Richard Curtis

Directed by Roger Michell

Starring Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant

1999

Running Time 124 minutes

Here’s another modern fairy tale. I love this story, not just because I’m a huge Hugh Grant and Richard Curtis and Roger Michell fan, but because it very deftly portrays an unusual antagonist: it’s mega-star Anna’s fame that threatens this couple’s love. Throughout the film the filmmakers create obstacles and whole setpiece scenes playing out different variations on how fame is constantly getting in the way. It’s a very good model for writers who are using a societal antagonist instead of a human one.

It’s also a joy because of Richard Curtis’s truly funny and witty dialogue, something sadly lacking in most modern romantic comedies, especially, I’m afraid, American ones.

KIND OF STORY: Cinderella story, societal antagonist story, fairy tale.

ACT ONE

SEQUENCE ONE

OPENING IMAGE: is actually an opening montage of movie icon Anna Scott’s megastardom; newspaper headlines, magazine spreads, photo shoots, paparazzi tailing her at premieres and the Oscars. This of course is going to be the antagonist. It also sets up a FULL CIRCLE framing device.

It also sets up the Cinderella theme: Anna is a princess, Hollywood royalty, and Will – is a pauper.

Then we meet diffidently charming Will Thacker, who introduces himself via voiceover as he walks through his funky London neighborhood of Notting Hill, which with its cobblestones and pushcart market and eclectic populace gives a village flavor – Will the commoner’s ORDINARY WORLD. (Cinderella THEME, and beginning with narration is a way of creating a “Once Upon A Time” fairy tale feel.) We see a quick shot to introduce the chef, one of Will’s circle of friends, his ALLIES (all struggling if not failing in one way or another – to further set up a HUGE CONTRAST with Anna’s success).

Will himself owns a floundering independent bookshop specializing in travel books. Since his divorce Will has been sharing his flat with a daft and rather appalling Welshman, Spike (Will refers to it as a “strange half life”). The flat is just across the street from the bookstore – Will’s world really is just a few blocks square, while Anna is a globetrotter (CONTRAST and THEME). We learn Will’s wife left him for a man who looked exactly like Harrison Ford. (Hero’s GHOST/WOUND, and a good SETUP.) We also see a bus with Anna’s face painted on it as an advertisement for her new film (and we will get these visual reminders of her fame throughout the film). (6:04)

Will meets Anna when she enters his shop to buy a book on Turkey. This is a great example of an INCITING INCIDENT/CALL TO ADVENTURE that is MEETING THE BELOVED; the way Will watches Anna conveys the way it actually feels to set eyes on the person who will change your life forever.

Anna refuses Will’s book suggestions and does not crack a smile despite his quite funny attempts to talk her out of the glossy picture book she wants. From the beginning Will is the PURSUER, and his first OBSTACLE here is that Anna is so used to people falling over themselves to talk to her that it takes a lot to melt her frozen façade. She’s finally amused by Will’s confrontation with a shoplifting customer (WHAT SHE SEES IN HIM), but when she walks out the door Will has no expectation of seeing her again – it’s just a surreal, fairy tale moment that he’s not even willing to share with his employee. But when Will runs out to buy orange juice to “celebrate” the encounter, he collides with Anna in the street and spills juice all over her white blouse. (This is a terrible cliché; I hope you guys avoid it.) He offers his house across the road for Anna to change. She reluctantly goes with him.

While Anna changes Will attempts to tidy up the kitchen. I think this is interesting business because Will suddenly sees that his living situation is possibly not the most mature arrangement; he has essentially been hiding, preventing himself from finding love.

When Anna comes down in a very sexy cutoff top, he offers her bizarre combinations of food, all of which she refuses, amused. One great dynamic of this film which brings out a lot of chemistry between Anna and Will is that Anna makes Will work so hard to win her, and he does. She very clearly enjoys his humor and sits back letting him knock himself out trying to make her smile – and he just as clearly enjoys performing for her and winning those smiles. Men love making women laugh, so this is a very natural dynamic. (And there’s an interesting MIRROR of this dynamic portrayed in a scene from one of Anna’s films that Will watches in the next scene.)

It’s also a nice symbolic visual that Will plays this whole scene with an orange juice stain over his heart: he’s wearing his huge heart on his chest. Will tells Anna it was a pleasure meeting her: “Surreal – but nice.” (A CATCH PHRASE that will repeat. Catch phrases are a staple of romance – like “Love means never having to say you’re sorry” and “You had me at hello” – but to me they more often than not feel forced and sticky. I’ll leave you to decide for yourself on this one.) Anna leaves – but returns immediately for a package she’s forgotten, and to Will’s great surprise, kisses him … before Spike interrupts and she leaves again. (17 min.)

(Spike throughout acts as an opponent to this relationship – not intentionally, but simply by being himself. Until, of course, the last few scenes, where he turns around and saves the day. This is a wildly bizarre comic character that works beautifully in the film – great performance by Rhys Ifans.)

SEQUENCE TWO

Will watches an Anna Scott movie with Spike; Will is clearly smitten. (This is a good example of how the PLAN can be quite simple at first: Will thinks he has no chance of being with Anna so he gets near to her the only way he can – by watching her movies!)¬

At the shop, Will sees a bus pass by with Anna’s huge image on it. (EXTERNALIZING HERO’S DESIRE and also the ANTAGONIST of fame.)

Days later, Will asks Spike if he’s had any messages. Spike suddenly recalls "some American girl called Anna” calling. Spike remembers Anna is at the Ritz under the name "Flintstone" – she uses the names of cartoon characters as a password. Will calls and after Anna scathes him for “playing it cool,” she invites him to visit.

Will finds her suite overrun with press and he is forced to pretend he is a journalist. (CROSSING THE THRESHOLD/INTO THE SPECIAL WORLD, and there are numerous THRESHOLD GUARDIANS. Also NUMEROUS TESTS OF HERO, ANTAGONIST PRESENTS AN OBSTACLE, and MISTAKEN IDENTITY/FALSE IDENTITY – and it’s a great SETPIECE.) Will impulsively claims to write for Horse and Hound and then must improvise wildly around that choice. He has a few moments with Anna in which she apologizes for “the kissing thing.” When her press agent comes in Will bumbles his way through an interview. In a private moment, he speaks with Anna again and there’s chemistry, he’s nearly able to kiss her, but they’re interrupted again. Will works up the courage to ask her out, and she says she’s busy. Then Will has to run the press gauntlet, interviewing the rest of the cast of Anna's new film. But his improvisation evidently has charmed Anna – she calls him back to say she’s cancelled her other plans.

Will immediately remembers he’s expected at his sister Honey’s birthday dinner, but Anna says it sounds nice and wants to go.

ACT ONE CLIMAX – a SETPIECE, very genre-specific: it’s comic and moves the romance along as Will’s antics win Anna over. Lots of nice thematic touches throughout – like that he’s brought a small bouquet and the suite is already full of huge flower arrangements.

(34 min.)

ACT TWO, PART 1

SEQUENCE THREE

The sequence begins at Will’s best friends’ Max and Bella's house. We see Max and Bella alone first, preparing for Honey’s birthday dinner, tentatively excited that Will is bringing a girl. (Sequence of MEETING THE ALLIES.) Will shows up with Anna, and Will’s friends are giddy over their famous guest, but Anna quickly feels at home and is clearly touched by the closeness of the friendships. (A variation on FALLING IN LOVE WITH THE FAMILY, here – it’s FALLING IN LOVE WITH THE FRIENDS.) As almost always in a Richard Curtis film, all of the friends are wonderfully drawn and the ensemble dynamic is both believable and genuinely funny. When the friends compete for the last brownie (to be awarded to the most pathetic of them) – Anna jumps in and with a light touch, confides her fears of growing old in a profession that worships the young. (CONFESSION scene, handled very nicely here – her real FEAR.) (44 min.)

After they leave the house, Will asks Anna if she’d like to come back to his place. She says, “Too complicated.” (SET UP.) Instead she asks him if he’s busy the next night. He’s surprised: “I thought you were leaving tomorrow,” and she answers, “I was,” without explaining. They go walking, Anna teasing Will about embarrassing facts his friends have dropped. Will tells the story of how paraplegic Bella was injured, and we see his sorrow – and Anna’s – over his friends’ inability to have children. Anna impulsively climbs the fence of a private London square (this is nice fairy tale imagery, and another INTO THE SPECIAL WORLD and MAGICAL PLACE moment). Will awkwardly follows, barely avoiding castration on the spiked fence, and once he’s inside, Anna kisses him. They have a romantic walk (SETPIECE), and find a bench with the memorial inscription: “For June, who loved this garden, from Joseph, who always sat beside her.” (SET UP.) Anna says, “Some people do spend their lives together,” and asks Will to come sit with her. (50 min.)

SEQUENCE FOUR

Anna and Will continue to see each other in a series of comic scenes. They go to the cinema and to dinner, where they overhear a group of men crudely commenting on Anna Scott’s fuckability, unaware that she is at the next table. Will confronts the group to defend her but it’s Anna who has the last word.

Afterward, Anna invites Will to her hotel room. He goes up only to find her movie star boyfriend, whom Will knew nothing about, has turned up to see her (an uncredited cameo by Alec Baldwin, a close match to Harrison Ford, which externalizes Will’s GHOST). Anna seems at least partly pleased to see Alec, and makes no move to explain her relationship with Will, so Will pretends to be a room-service waiter (FALSE IDENTITY) and Alec obliviously humiliates him, asking him to clean up and tipping him. Anna is horrified but still says nothing, and Will leaves, devastated (on a bus with Anna’s face on the back.)

MIDPOINT: obviously a big, painful failure for the hero. It’s an effective technique for a love story to make the midpoint defeat be about the hero/ine’s ghost; if you think about it, that big failed love or marriage is one of just about anyone’s biggest obstacles on the road to love.

(57.51)

ACT TWO, PART 2

SEQUENCE FIVE

There’s a SAD MONTAGE here – Will going home, then sitting in a theater watching Anna’s new movie alone.

Spike urges him to talk about it, which predictably goes nowhere.

Then Will’s friends try to cheer him up in a restaurant; they all knew Anna had a boyfriend from the papers, and Max tells him it was never going to work out: Anna’s a goddess, and everyone knows what happens to commoners who fall for the gods. Buggered, basically. (THEME.)

Bella and Max invite Will over for a series of blind dates. It’s a comic montage (using the RULE OF THREE) that ends with a date who turns out to be just lovely in every way – and yet Will can’t forget Anna. He tells Bella and Max they don’t realize how lucky they are: not many people ever find their kind of love (his FEAR), and we learn Will was dating Bella before she fell in love with Max (another GHOST). He watches Max carry Bella upstairs (EXTERNALIZATION OF WILL’S INNER DESIRE – not for Bella, but for that kind of love), then spends the night on their couch. (1.05)

When Will goes home he walks by a newsstand without noticing the headlines are all obscene – about Anna.

Anna turns up on his doorstep the next morning. A tabloid has gotten hold of nude photos she did long ago when she was a starving actress, and there’s film of the shoot as well that looks like a porn film. It’s all over the papers and the news. Anna is devastated and tells Will she came to him because she didn’t know where else to turn. Will tells her, “We’ll sort it out.”

She takes a bath to calm down and Spike walks in on her, holding a magazine with her photos (another moment of media and reality merging).

Over breakfast she apologizes to Will for “last time.” She’s broken up with the boyfriend now, and has thought about Will … but “any time I try anything normal with anyone normal” it doesn’t seem to work out. (Her FEAR about the relationship – and ours.)

So begins the LET’S PRETEND WE’RE MARRIED sequence; Will helps her learn her lines for a new movie, another stupid actioner – and Will tells her he’d like to see her do Henry James (SET UP). They read together, eat ice cream together, joke together, and then retire – Anna to Will’s bedroom, Will to toss and turn on the couch. He hears footsteps on the stairs – sits up anticipating Anna – then gets an unpleasant shock when Spike comes in instead. Then Anna comes down herself (of course, Will at first thinks she’s Spike and tells her to bugger off), and they KISS, and make love. SEQUENCE FIVE CLIMAX (1.19)

SEQUENCE SIX

In the morning, Will and Anna are happy, bonded, bantering in bed; she brings him breakfast. She asks if she can stay longer and he says “Stay forever.” (1:20) Then there’s a ring at the door. Will answers it and is stunned to see a legion of reporters and photographers massed in the street outside. (ANTAGONIST PERSONIFIED, and it’s a very nasty personification.) Spike’s done it again – he let it slip that Anna was there when he was drinking at the pub the night before. Anna throws a tantrum, unjustly blaming Will for the betrayal, and calls her handlers to pick her up. Will tries to calm her, saying that in the grand scheme of things this really means nothing, but she says he doesn’t get it; every time she makes the news, the media will dig this story out. (ANTAGONIST at work again.) She says she’ll regret this for the rest of her life, again breaking Will’s heart before she disappears into the mob.

ACT TWO CLIMAX (1.29)

And to drive home the DARKEST MOMENT, there is a sad montage of Will walking down Portobello Road by himself as the seasons change. (Big TIME PASSAGE, and a visually gorgeous filmic SETPIECE.)

ACT THREE

SEQUENCE SEVEN

A year later now. Will is in his shop – his sister Honey comes by with Spike to give Will Anna’s agent’s number. “Now you can ring her any time you like,” she says excitedly. Will sadly throws the number away when they leave.

The friends gather at the chef’s restaurant to mourn its closing. Bernie announces he has been fired. Then Honey announces that she’s decided to get engaged to a “slightly odd looking bloke … with brilliant prospects.” As the others chatter, she tells Spike quietly – “It’s you.” He beams at her, “Groovy.” (SUBPLOT PAYOFF.) Then Will apologizes for being so gloomy and announces his intentions to be impressively happy. Later as everyone is drunk, Max, who doesn’t buy that Will is over Anna, tells him she’s back in town, filming on Hampstead Heath. (1.34)

Will approaches the set of the film: a Henry James adaptation. (PAYOFF – and showing Anna’s GROWTH; Will has influenced her career for the better.) Anna sees him, and asks him to wait, telling him, “There are things to be said.” She invites him to watch as they film the final scenes. He listens via the sound system while Anna is between scenes and overhears her telling her co-star that Will is “No one” – just some guy she met a while ago. “It’s a bit awkward, really,” she says. “I don’t know what he’s doing here.” Devastated again, Will leaves the set. (1.39)

The next day, Anna comes to the bookshop, explaining that the actor she was talking to is the biggest gossip in London; she wasn’t going to actually tell the truth about her life. She’s hoping to start fresh and see if Will could like her again (of course this scene takes place in the shop where they first met – a FULL CIRCLE image – and it’s also the DECLARATION scene, with some GROVELING). But Will turns her down, saying that between her foul temper and his far less experienced heart he doesn’t think he could survive another devastation (THE AWFUL TRUTH). They live in different worlds. Anna says that the fame doesn’t really mean anything; at the bottom of it she’s “just a girl standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her.” (Great declaration line, but as Julia and Hugh are obviously well into their thirties, a little precious). Will doesn’t respond and Anna realizes he really means “No.” She exits, devastated, leaving behind a present: an original Chagall, The Bride, that she had seen a print of in Will's home. (PAYOFF, and the visual in the painting of course underscores the emotion of the moment.) (1.46) (ALL IS LOST.)

SEQUENCE EIGHT

Will meets his friends, who are gathered in the chef friend’s now-closed restaurant. The gang tries hard – but not convincingly – to be supportive of his decision to reject Anna until Spike arrives and calls him a "daft prick." Will realizes he’s right. (OPPONENT BECOMES ALLY.)

The group piles into Max’s car and races across London to Anna’s hotel to catch her – only to find she’s at another hotel at a press conference. Back into the car – where Spike saves the day by directing them through a snarled traffic circle. (I loathe these “race across the city in traffic” scenes, but at least this one was done a bit tongue-in-cheek.)

They reach Anna's press conference just at the end and Will stands up for one last question (repeating the interview format of the Act One Climax). In the form of an interview question, he apologizes for being a “daft prick” and asks Anna if she might reconsider. (DECLARATION and GROVELING.) Anna announces to the assembled reporters that she will be staying in London “indefinitely.” The reporters realize the subtext and turn to start snapping photos of Will.

This is a good backdrop for the FINAL BATTLE: the couple are forced (well, kind of) to make their declarations in public, which actually means something here because Anna has never been willing to do that before (CHARACTER ARC), and diffident Will must step into the limelight – permanently.

CLIMAX

RESOLUTION: The last scene dissolves to a montage of Anna and Will’s wedding – all the friends happy, a royal setting, then Anna and Will arriving in a limo to walk the red carpet at a premiere, Will being shy and gorgeous in an unaccustomed tux. (Another FULL CIRCLE image and the other side of his NEW WAY OF LIFE, and media and reality merging.) The montage concludes with a shot of Will and a pregnant Anna on the inscribed park bench in the garden in Notting Hill. (Another FULL CIRCLE image, and the NEW WAY OF LIFE.)

2 hrs.

42. Four Weddings and a Funeral

Written by Richard Curtis

Directed by Mike Newell

Starring Hugh Grant and Andie MacDowell

1994

Running time 1 hour 58 minutes.

More Richard Curtis, but what can I say? He’s the best out there.

Four Weddings and a Funeral is a charming and perfect example of an ensemble romantic comedy with a main love plot between one couple but strong and emotionally engaging subplots between very sympathetic supporting characters.

It’s also a story type that you could call a Ronde – from the play La Ronde by Arthur Schnizler and the film version of the same: a merry-go-round of a story that builds on its relationships from one vignette to another (the four weddings and funeral of the title). A truly delightful meta-structure, if you can pull it off. Four Weddings most assuredly did pull it off, so well that this romance is one of the best examples I know of a high concept love story.

It’s also a wonderful example of a “magical day” story: thematically, it proposes that a great number of people meet their future spouses at weddings (one character says this straight out, two others allude to it). And it is a wonderful notion, that there is a numinousness about a wedding that opens doors to love – not just for the bridal couple, but for everyone in attendance.

and – it’s genuinely funny, something that almost never happens in romantic “comedy” these days.

OPENING IMAGE: The title card is in the form of a formal engraved wedding invitation, with sprays of white orchids. The wedding invitation image will repeat, as the introduction to each segment of the story and also to denote time passages; very useful device.

INTRODUCTION TO HERO: In bed, Charlie is, well, asleep. And apparently accustomed to sleeping through his alarm – slight problem, there.

Writer Richard Curtis uses a very effective trick of comedy here in characterizing Charlie: he gives the character a BIG FLAW. In this case, it’s Charlie’s lateness. He’s late to everything; it’s the whole joke of the first sequence, and a running joke throughout the film (His ally Fiona’s first words to him are: “There’s a sort of greatness to your lateness.”). But it’s not just good comedy; there are a couple of interesting themes at work. First, Charlie is metaphorically asleep, and needs to wake up to his own situation, which he ultimately does. He’s always late because he’s not engaging fully in life, and his timing with love interest Carrie is always off, mostly because he is unable, or unwilling, to seize the moment. There’s some Sleeping Beauty imagery and theme in there as well; every love story is a fairy tale in some way.

Another interesting thing about this film is that we never see Charlie at work, nor does he ever even say what he does for a living. Carrie never asks. We get a slight hint that he’s a journalist when he jokes that he’s “writing a piece on pubs that have ‘boat’ in the name,” and we also hear that Carrie works for, or used to work for, Vogue magazine, so they’re in the same business, but that’s all we ever learn. This is very British (and totally un-American!) – the lack of emphasis on what a person does for a living.

As Charlie sleeps on, we get a montage introducing the ALLIES (in this case, it’s more like an ENSEMBLE) in rapid, but detailed succession.

In what is revealed to be a mansion, TOM jumps out of bed at the first sound of the alarm and dresses eagerly and enthusiastically in an expensive tux. In another room, his sister FIONA tests various black dresses in front of a standing mirror and is unsatisfied with all. (A trick of comedy: make the CONTRAST between characters as big as you can.)

Elsewhere, in a small flat, portly and irrepressible GARETH cooks a mind-bogglingly high-cholesterol breakfast (PLANT); his younger and sweetly elegant lover MATTHEW tenderly wipes egg off Gareth’s beard. (Also, see the CONTRAST here.)

Gareth and Matthew wait on the street with DAVID, Charlie’s deaf and very hot younger brother, all of them in formal dress. Tom’s Jeep pulls up and the friends pile in.

Charlie finally wakes and looks at the time. He runs into the next room to wake his roommate, SCARLETT (a manic pixie girl type, who throughout is as big a CONTRAST to aristocratic Fiona as you could imagine). The dialogue of the next scene, as they race to dress and then race to get to the wedding, is one of my favorites of film history, consisting entirely of variations on the word “Fuck.” (What can I say? I can relate.)

They arrive at the church just in time for the wedding of Angus and Laura. (And in this story, I’d say the concept of “Wedding” itself, externalized by each wedding we are going to attend, is the SPECIAL WORLD). CARRIE, the love interest, also enters late, in a huge hat, and Charlie makes a crack about hating people being late (YOUR MATE IS YOUR MIRROR). Charlie is actually best man (as the hero or heroine often is in love stories), and as the ceremony begins he realizes he’s forgotten the rings. He signals to Matthew for help, but all of the friends are ringless (THEME), except for Scarlett. When the big moment comes, Charlie hands over her garish dime store rings. Luckily, the bride and groom are amused.

The ceremony has some classic bad wedding moments: a folksinging couple crooning “Can’t Smile Without You” (during which Gareth mimes blowing his head off – a FORESHADOWING of his death), and a wildly pompous speaker. It’s funny because we’ve all been there. (11 min.)

The reception begins and more characters are introduced: a NOVICE PRIEST, whom Fiona tortures with a running commentary about sex, and SERENA, a lovely young English rose of a girl who becomes instantly infatuated with David. She asks Matthew about him and learns David is deaf. (SET UP FOR NEXT WEDDING.)

Then, as so often happens in a love story, the INCITING INCIDENT is Charlie really seeing Carrie for the first time on the lawn. Charlie asks Fiona about Carrie, (“Slut,” she sums up) and then Charlie “accidentally” encounters Carrie while carrying an extra glass of champagne which he has clearly picked up in order to strike up a conversation with her. But Charlie flubs the encounter by talking indiscreetly to another guest about a woman who turns out to be the guest’s new wife, and Carrie quickly disappears.

END SEQUENCE ONE (16 min.)

SEQUENCE TWO

At dinner, Charlie gives a very funny, ribald best man’s speech in which he satirizes his own propensity for faux-pas; in the audience, Carrie is charmed. (WHAT SHE SEES IN HIM.) But then Charlie closes by saying that he’s “as ever in awe of anyone who can make this awesome commitment — I know I couldn’t do it.” Carrie frowns, clearly taking this for the truth it is.

This is an overt statement of the HERO’S PROBLEM: he is unable to commit to a long-term relationship (and later his latest ex calls him a “serial monogamist”). SETTING UP CHARACTER ARC and the MAIN OBSTACLE to the love story, which is internal — Charlie’s lack of commitment.

After dinner, wild dancing to bad music commences, and another subplot develops: bridesmaid LYDIA is morose because she was promised sex if she served as a bridesmaid, but “there hasn’t been so much as a tongue in sight.” Tom’s friend BERNARD offers himself; Lydia says she’s not that desperate.

Tom tells Charlie that the friends are all coming over to the family castle to spend the night. Charlie’s all for it, but as he’s leaving, Carrie comes up to him to compliment his speech, and asks him where he’s staying. Charlie says he was at a pub called the “Drunken Boatman,” but now he’s staying with friends (failing to pick up on Carrie’s clue that she’s at the Boatman: his lack of consciousness in action). Carrie finally says flatly, “Too bad — I’m at the Boatman.” And Charlie’s unable to think fast enough to keep her from leaving. (JUST SAY SOMETHING, STUPID.)

(This is another FORCE OF OPPOSITION: Charlie’s circle of friends, an intensely bonded surrogate family, is standing in the way of his breaking off on his own to marry. It’s not at all a malicious or overt opposition, but in practical fact, that’s what’s happening. It’s a typical situation for singles in their 20’s and early 30’s, beautifully depicted in this story.)

As the friends leave the party, we see Bernard and Lydia passionately making out in a corner (SET UP FOR NEXT WEDDING). (25 min.)

Piled into the Jeep, the friends are drunkenly singing “Stand By Your Man” when Charlie asks Tom to stop the car; he’s decided to stay at the Boatman after all. (HERO TAKES A TENATIVE STAND against the opposition.) Charlie walks into the mist on a tree-lined road, which is a moment you could also call INTO THE SPECIAL WORLD; the setting and visual says that he’s decided to take another path — toward true love.

Back at The Drunken Boatman, he’s delighted to find Carrie in the pub’s lounge, but she disappears (behind the couch) when an obnoxious wedding guest comes back looking for her. Carrie sneaks away while Charlie allows himself to be trapped by the boor (HERO’S PROBLEM again), but Carrie gets the porter to summon him upstairs.

Carrie continues to take the lead, inviting Charlie into her room, then practicing wedding kisses on him (LET’S PRETEND WE’RE MARRIED) until they fall into bed. (33 min.)

The act ends in the morning, when Charlie wakes to find Carrie packed and leaving. She asks him when he’s going to announce the engagement, and he’s clearly freaked, until he realizes she’s joking. Sort of. She laughs it off, but adds, “I think we both missed a great opportunity, here,” before she leaves. (LOVE INTEREST’S DESIRE: to be passionately married, and she thinks Charlie might be the one. I’d also say this is the real CALL TO ADVENTURE, which our reluctant hero REFUSES.)

ACT ONE CLIMAX.

While I wouldn’t say that this film is a stellar example of WHY THEM? (meaning why two people are perfect for each other), it is clear from this scene that Carrie cuts to the chase while Charlie is the king of waffling, evasion, procrastination and, yes, lateness. She’s not going to put up with waffling — she knows what she wants and goes for it, and when Charlie isn’t ready or willing to engage (literally), she moves on.

ACT TWO, PART 1

SEQUENCE THREE

Three months later, a wedding invitation announces BERNARD AND LYDIA. (The wedding invitation device is a great way of handling time passage.) So the ronde begins, and we see the subplots begun in the first wedding progressing all through this second one.

Again, Charlie and Scarlett are late, this time trying to dress as they run through city streets to the church. Scarlett is a bridesmaid and unaware that her dress is wide open in the back, to bright blue panties, as she glides down the aisle after the bride.

The novice priest from the first wedding is now performing this one — his first — and makes a mess of it, to the delight of Charlie’s friends, and also the bride and groom. (41 min.)

The reception is at an elegant hotel. Charlie is thrilled to find Carrie there, then devastated to learn she is engaged, to much older Scottish lord (politician) HAMISH. (A fairy tale element there the RIVAL is quasi-royalty.) Matthew finds Charlie alone and brooding; he’s wondering what’s wrong with him that he’s not married yet. Matthew comforts him that he’s probably not met the right girl, but Charlie is beginning to see that the problem might be with him. (CHARACTER GROWTH.) (This sequence climax illustrates that it’s effective to alternate emotional climaxes with more obvious setpiece climaxes from sequence to sequence.)

SEQUENCE FOUR

The wedding and action continue with the wedding dinner, where Charlie is horrified to realize he’s been seated at a table with four ex-girlfriends, who promptly begin mocking and castigating him. (This is a great GHOSTS OF GIRLFRIENDS PAST scene, but I’d also call this a good comic example of EXTERNALIZING HERO’S GHOST, or at least his karma. Another ghost/wound is hinted at in this sequence, when we learn in passing that Charlie and David’s father is dead.)

At another table, Gareth and Matthew are having a terrific time with Carrie (FALLING IN LOVE WITH THE FRIENDS), and at another, Fiona confesses to an older woman that she’s in love, but the man she loves doesn’t love her (PLANT, and an lovely externalization of FEAR for Fiona — that if she doesn’t change, open up somehow, she’ll end up elderly and alone). Tom gives a disastrous best man speech. (And here’s a FEAR for Tom: who could ever love him? Curtis is so very, very good at making us care for his ensemble characters — so take note of this particular technique: we must both HOPE and FEAR something specific for each subplot character, as well as for the main characters. If you are specific, the emotional payoffs at the end will be that much more joyous, as they are in this film. I’d also like to point out how effective it is to externalize our fears for a number of characters in a row in the same scene, as is done here; I think it makes the point more strongly that all of these characters are in some way in trouble, and that their group friendship may be part of the problem — THEME.)

As the dancing begins, Serena (the lovely girl from the last wedding) works up the courage to go talk to David — in sign, which she’s been practicing since the last wedding. He asks her to dance, and we can see the two falling for each other. (LOVE SUBPLOT ADVANCING.) (50 min.)

Charlie escapes his dinner companions and goes upstairs to be alone. He finds an open suite and watches from the window as Carrie leaves with Hamish. Then the wedding from hell gets even worse for him as the bridal couple sneaks into the suite for a roll in the hay, and Charlie is forced to listen as he hides in the dumbwaiter. (WRONG PLACE, WRONG TIME. Also note how effective it is to characterize minor characters with one clear through line — in Bernard and Lydia’s case it’s sex). Downstairs at the reception, Scarlett is under a table chatting with a flower girl, who seems to have better luck with boys than Scarlett. (Our FEAR for Scarlett: she will end up alone because she chooses men who don’t take her seriously and just want to “bonk” her and leave her.)

Charlie’s finally able to escape the suite — only to be accosted by his latest ex, HENRIETTA, who bursts into tears at the sight of him and accuses him of being a serial monogamist (HERO’S PROBLEM).

As Charlie is fleeing, he runs into Carrie, who has come back. She asks him to see her back to her hotel, where of course they end up in bed, again.

In the morning it’s Charlie who dresses and leaves; Carrie doesn’t stop him. We get the sense he is very conflicted, if not ashamed, of sleeping with an engaged woman.

MIDPOINT: 58 min. (SEX AT SIXTY — but it doesn’t help.)

ACT TWO, PART 2

SEQUENCE FIVE

One month later, now, and Scarlett brings Charlie tea and his mail in bed. There’s another invitation: Carrie and Hamish. (I like that this scene happens with Charlie in bed: symbolically, he’s still asleep. You snooze, you lose.)

Charlie takes the gift list and goes to shop for Carrie’s wedding. The gifts are wildly beyond his price range (driving home the feeling that Carrie is out of his league), and to rub salt in the wound, the snooty clerk is scathing. Then Carrie shows up, is delighted to see him, and asks him if he’ll come along and help her with something.

At a bridal shop, Carrie models wedding dresses for Charlie in a montage. (LET’S PRETEND WE’RE GETTING MARRIED. Also — THE WEDDING DRESS SCENE.) Afterward, they have coffee, where in response to Charlie’s questions, Carrie gives a laundry list of her exes (GHOSTS OF BOYFRIENDS PAST) — all 33 of them. Charlie was number 32, whom she describes as “lovely.”

Charlie realizes he’s late for an appointment with his brother, who is going to kill him. He takes Carrie with him as an excuse. David is delighted to meet Carrie and carries on a very improper conversation about her with Charlie, in sign (which is a SET UP for the climax). When Carrie leaves, Charlie runs after her and babbles out an incoherent declaration of love: “In the words of David Cassidy, ‘I think I love you.’” (THE CONFESSION.) Carrie says, “That was very romantic,” but when she asks him what exactly he’s saying, Charlie is unable to be more concrete (HERO’S PROBLEM and JUST SAY SOMETHING, STUPID). Carrie kisses him gently and walks away, again. (1.10)

SEQUENCE SIX

One month later …

Clouds and rain and melancholy music (FORESHADOWING) over gorgeous shots of Scotland, where the friends are attending CARRIE AND HAMISH’S wedding.

Charlie arrives late, of course, and enters the church just at that “If anyone knows of any reason these two should not be wed” moment (IF ANYONE KNOWS OF ANY REASON), and leans against the wall, where instead of speaking up with his reason, he mutters, “Fuckadoodledoo.” (JUST SAY SOMETHING, STUPID)

At the reception, in a castle (FAIRY TALE), there is Scottish dancing, which delights Gareth. But then he gathers the friends together and says it’s begun to concern him that none of them are married (THEME). He charges them to “Go forth and find husbands and wives.” (A PROMISE SCENE, also the DYING WORDS scene.) The friends toast, “To true love.” (THEME.)

Tom goes out determinedly and unknowingly hits on the Vicar’s wife. Scarlett strikes up a conversation with a Texan twice her size, and the two hit it off (HOPE for Scarlett). Charlie sees Henrietta, who has a new boyfriend and is in surprisingly good form.

While Charlie watches the bride and groom dance, Fiona comes up behind him and asks, “You really like this girl, don’t you?” Charlie confesses he loves Carrie — then Fiona confesses she loves Charlie; she has for years. Charlie is mortified, and sad, which makes the moment even more poignant. Fiona says, “There’s nothing to be done.”

Carrie gives a speech in which she says, “And to the person who offered himself up if this thing with Hamish doesn’t work out — I’ll keep you posted.” (TRUTH TOLD FLAT OUT AS A JOKE.) Then during the groom’s speech, Gareth has a heart attack. The friends carry him into a side room, where he dies before Matthew can get to him. (1.23)

ALL IS LOST — Charlie loses his love and one of his best friends (and a father figure, which activates his GHOST) in practically the same moment.

The grieving friends attend Gareth’s packed funeral (VISIT TO DEATH) where a heartbroken Matthew quotes Auden (EMOTIONALLY WRENCHING — it’s good to be aware how often a good love story makes the audience/reader cry). Afterward, Charlie and Tom walk by the beach, and Charlie realizes aloud that all this time their friends have been proudly single, they were somehow oblivious to the fact that Gareth and Matthew had actually been married, all along. He says that if he can’t have what they had, he shouldn’t be married, anyway (THEME — true love). Tom muses that he never believed in the thunderbolt like Charlie does; he’s always just hoped that he would someday meet a nice girl and settle down to be happy. (Our HOPE for Tom.) Charlie takes this to heart, saying, “Maybe you’re right — maybe waiting for one true love gets you nowhere.”

ACT TWO CLIMAX

FADE OUT — then —

ACT THREE

SEQUENCE SEVEN

Charlie wakes up to dozens of clocks — and Tom sleeping in bed with him, just to be sure. It’s ten months later, and this time the wedding invitation reads CHARLES AND … but the bride’s name is covered by a rose.

The unseen bride dresses in a hotel as the friends pick Charlie up and convince him he’s late again — a prank so that they can have a last drink together at Gareth’s grave before the wedding. Fiona proposes a toast: “To Duckface,” which is what Fiona calls Henrietta.We finally see Henrietta is the bride — and as usual, a little scarily intense. (WRONG WOMAN.)

Charlie has a moment alone in the huge and somehow foreboding church, then Fiona comes up behind him. She’s dressed colorfully for the first time; she tells Charlie that from now on she’s going to “wear all the colors of the rainbow and find a bloke who fancies me for a change.” (FIONA’S CHARACTER ARC — and it’s a relief, and also a bit of a nice lesson, for the unlucky in love.) As the guests start to arrive, Scarlett (dressed in a tux to be an usher) sees her Texan and jumps into his arms; he tells her he won’t go back to Texas without her. (PAYOFF FOR SCARLETT.) And Tom gets hit by the thunderbolt as he escorts a lovely girl to her seat — she’s actually a distant cousin, and as instantly, shyly smitten as he is. (PAYOFF FOR TOM.)

Charlie is greeting guests in the back of the church, when Carrie suddenly comes in at the last moment, looking wan. She tells him she and Hamish have split up. Charlie is completely thrown. They agree that their timing has been a disaster. Charlie takes Carrie down the aisle (MOCK WEDDING) to a seat.

SEQUENCE EIGHT

Charlie asks best man Matthew for a moment to himself, then goes into a side chapel and starts to swear, “Bugger …bugger … bugger.” There’s a wicked moment where the priest steps in and asks if he can help. Then Matthew comes in wanting to know what the holdup is. Charlie asks him what he thinks about marriage, and Matthew says tightly “I think it’s good — if you love the person with your whole heart.” (VOICE OF CONSCIENCE.) Then David rushes in wanting to know what’s wrong. Charlie confesses he’s just seen Carrie, who is separated. David signs that he has three options — then can only name two: “Go through with it or go out there and call the whole thing off.”

Charlie straightens and goes out to go through with it (going into FINAL BATTLE — the priest even says, “Ready to go out and face the enemy?”). (1. 46)

Henrietta comes down the aisle to an ominous rendition of the Bride March. But in the middle of the ceremony, at that “If anyone knows of any just cause” moment, there is a knocking on a pew. David stands and signs to Charlie that he’s thought of a third option, and asks Charlie to translate. He signs that he thinks the groom is having second thoughts. He thinks the groom loves someone else. And when the priest demands, “Do you, Charles?” Charlie admits, “I do.” Henrietta punches Charlie, knocking him to the floor. (While we’ve seen this climax a million times before, the storytellers elevate the scene from total cliché by using David and putting the conversation in sign language — with the brothers’ humor interspersed, even in the urgency of the moment. I love Serena’s reactions to the conversation behind David.)

(RESOLUTION) At Charlie and Scarlett’s apartment, the friends gather, trying to be upbeat and failing utterly (“I think that may have been an unforgivable thing you’ve just done,” says Fiona.). But Tom says it’s for the best, and Fiona finally, for the first time in the film, tells him he’s right. (SUBPLOT ARC.)

Then there’s a knock at the door. Charlie goes, expecting Henrietta, but it’s Carrie, just checking to see that he’s not killing himself. Charlie follows her out into the pouring rain and says that in the church he realized that for the first time he totally and utterly loved one person — and that was her. Then he asks “Will you maybe agree not to marry me — for the rest of your life?” (THE PROPOSAL.) And Carrie says, “I will,” under a thunderbolt.

NEW WAY OF LIFE: The film ends with a great MONTAGE of all the friends at their future weddings — including Fiona with Prince Charles; Matthew with an elegant new love, both in tuxes; and Charlie and Carrie not at a wedding, but with a baby. (PAYOFFS FOR EVERY SUBPLOT, and the audience floats out of the theater to the tune of “Going To The Chapel.”)

43. The Proposal

Written by Peter Chiarelli

Directed by Anne Fletcher

Starring Sandra Bullock and Ryan Reynolds

2009

107 minutes.

Here’s a favorite of many of my workshop students.

This story takes a typical romantic comedy device: the FORCED TO PRETEND THEY’RE MARRIED scene, and keeps it up for the whole movie. (As does What Happens in Vegas).

It’s also an IMPOSTOR/FALSE IDENTITY story, and a fish out of water story, taking an uptight executive out of Manhattan and into the relative wilderness of Alaska. This is a storyline that falls into what I personally call the “Hollywood Executive Fantasy” category — as does Devil Wears Prada, Sweet Home Alabama, New in Town, Leap Year, etc., etc., etc. That is, executives with no sense of real life will make some poor screenwriter — or more usually series of screenwriters — spin out the executive’s wet dream, whether it’s having a hot affair with the young assistant, as in The Proposal, or walking out on a sadistic boss, as in Prada, or finding down home love and a more relaxed lifestyle with an alpha Southern male, as in Sweet Home Alabama, or a rugged Irish male, as in Leap Year, or … you get the picture.

The Proposal is actually a better movie than a lot of this type, but you can see the executive fantasy influence all over it.

The story is slightly more from the heroine’s POV, but the hero and heroine are fairly equal.

ACT ONE

SEQUENCE ONE

OPENING IMAGE: POV of riding on a bike path through a forest, which turns out to be a video of a bike path (PLANT). Publishing editor-in-chief Margaret is multi-tasking: riding her home exercise bike and reading a manuscript at the same time.

By contrast, her harried assistant Andrew is in bed, oversleeping. Cut back and forth between Margaret and Andrew as Andrew wakes up and runs for work, stopping for two coffees, then running on, while Margaret walks to work having a phone conversation in which she calmly persuades a reclusive author to appear on “Oprah.”

In the office, Andrew runs into a coworker and spills coffee on himself. He negotiates with the coworker for his shirt, and quickly changes. It turns out he’s been drinking Margaret’s favorite flavor of coffee to have a backup, just in case of a spill like that (sets up CHARACTER ARC: he’s resourceful but subservient).

Everyone snaps to attention as Margaret walks in — because Andrew is alerting people by email: “The witch is on her broom.” We see everyone at the company loathes and fears Margaret. Sets up a big CHARACTER ARC: there are obvious personal problems here. We know what she needs, but is she too hardened to change?

Andrew runs through her list of calls, including one from her immigration lawyer. She tells Andrew to postpone the meeting. He asks if she’s read a manuscript he recommended; she rejected it after two pages. He tries to talk about it but she walks out. This is a PLANT — and Andrew’s OUTER DESIRE: to become a successful editor, partly by publishing this specific book that he believes in.

Margaret goes to another editor’s office (Bob) and fires him because he didn’t get the Oprah gig for their writer. He follows her out and explodes, telling THE AWFUL TRUTH: “You’re a poisonous bitch. You have no semblance of a life so you torture the rest of us.” He warns her she’ll regret this. (SET UP)

Margaret calmly tells Andrew they’ll be working that weekend, which means he has to cancel a weekend with his family: his grandmother’s 90th birthday. (Nothing Hollywood about this dynamic! Generally I thought this movie was well done, but it doesn’t ring true to me that someone who is as self-assured as Andrew turns out to be, almost immediately, would be as subservient as we see him in these first few scenes. I do like the rhythm between Margaret and Andrew that’s there from the start: he anticipates her every need; she in turn reads him very well, knows every time he’s lying to her.)

The big bosses call Margaret in and tell her she’s being deported; her visa application has been denied because of paperwork she didn’t fill out on time. She’ll have to leave the country for at least a year, and she can’t work for an American company in the meantime, so they’ve replaced her with Bob (the guy she just fired). INCITING INCIDENT and HEROINE’S IMMEDIATE PROBLEM — which gives rise to her OUTER DESIRE: to stay in NY at her job and continue her course of world — or company — domination.

Andrew interrupts the meeting with a message: he uses the words “Mary” and “engaged” and we see Margaret gets an idea. (PLAYING WITH DOUBLE ENTENDRES, with the audience in a position of knowing more than the unsuspecting character using those words, a standard technique of comedy) She claims that she and Andrew have fallen in love and are engaged, which takes care of the deportation problem. She says they’re “Two people who weren’t meant to fall in love, but did.” (CATCH PHRASE)

The boss says — “Just make it legal.” (13 min.)

Back in Margaret’s office, Andrew says he’s not going to do it. Margaret calmly threatens him: “If you don’t your dreams are dead. Bob would fire you in a second. Like it or not, your wagon is hitched to mine.” This is THE OFFER HE CAN’T REFUSE — very typical storytelling: you lock the hero/ine into the story by tempting them with their secret desire or threatening them with dire consequences — in this case, both. It spells out the STAKES or part of them.

SEQUENCE TWO

Andrew reluctantly goes down to the INS with Margaret to file a “Fiancée Visa.” The agent comes in to the office where they are waiting and launches into the key question, “Are you both committing fraud to keep Margaret in the country?” He got a phone tip from Bob. (PAYOFF) When the “couple” protest that it’s real, he tells them what they’re going to have to do to prove it: they’ll go through exhaustive interviews alone, to see if they know all the things couples know about each other. He’ll investigate their phone and computer records and every aspect of their lives. And he tells Andrew that when he proves it’s fraud, Margaret will only be deported, while Andrew faces a $250,000 fine and up to five years in Federal prison (STAKES). We see Andrew get an idea (REPEATING THE MOMENT we saw with Margaret, which ties them together visually). He uses Margaret’s line: “We’re just two people who weren’t supposed to fall in love but we did,” then goes on, laying out his own demands for Margaret: “We couldn’t tell anyone because of my big promotion. To editor.” Margaret is impressed with his improvising and tells the agent they’re going to tell Andrew’s parents of the engagement that weekend at Gammy Annie’s 90th birthday party. The agent says they’re to be back on Monday for their interviews, when he intends to nail them to the wall (STAKES, TICKING CLOCK).

(The agent is of course the MAIN ANTAGONIST: although we won’t see him again until the end of Act II, this threat looms large enough that we don’t actually have to see him.)

As the couple leaves the building, Margaret’s already on her cell phone. Andrew walks on, saying he’s not going to go through with it (REFUSAL OF THE CALL). Margaret agrees to make him editor immediately; he adds, “And publish my book.” He also dictates the print run. She has to agree (THE OFFER SHE CAN’T REFUSE). We’re already starting to see Andrew’s CHARACTER ARC — or really, his true colors — he’s not going to put up with Margaret’s shit any more. He’s taking the upper hand, and we like it; the power struggle between them is the fun of this film, well-acted by Bullock and Reynolds. Andrew then insists that Margaret “propose nicely,” including getting down on her knees in the street. She somehow manages to kneel in her tight skirt and force out a proposal. (TURNABOUT: a staple of comedy.)

I’d say that’s the CLIMAX OF ACT ONE, and a great scene — I wasn’t sure I was going to like this movie until then.

ACT TWO, PART 1

SEQUENCE THREE

So the PLAN is that they will go to Alaska for his grandmother's 90th birthday and announce their engagement — but again, Andrew insists it has to be when and how he decides. The plan is cemented on the plane ride, when Andrew says the good news is that he already knows everything about her — the bad news is that she knows nothing about him. This is actually I think a good plan and set up for a romantic comedy: by going with Andrew to this family event, Margaret actually has a good chance of knowing enough about him to pull off the INS interview, and vice-versa. (This conversation also PLANTS the fact that Margaret has a tattoo.)

The CENTRAL STORY ACTION is going to Alaska to get to know Andrew and the family, in order to carry off the fake marriage.

And the CENTRAL QUESTION is established: Will Margaret and Andrew be able to successfully fake a marriage?

There’s also a clear TICKING CLOCK: the interview will be on Monday, four days away.

At 30 min., Margaret and Andrew get off the plane in Sitka. (INTO THE SPECIAL WORLD — the gorgeousness of Alaska, and she’s definitely off her own turf.) Andrew's mother and grandmother, Annie, meet them at the plane. (Margaret's ALLIES, though she definitely doesn’t think of them that way. Annie is also going to act as a MENTOR for Margaret.) We get a hint of longtime trouble in the relationship between Andrew and his father when the father does not come to the airport to meet them (Andrew’s GHOST), and we get a glimpse of Margaret's INNER DESIRE: to be loved, to be part of a family. But at the moment, she is extremely uncomfortable with the hugs and physical contact.

As they drive through the town, Margaret sees Andrew’s family name on almost every business — he’s royalty in this town, and Margaret is no one. (REVEALING THE HERO, and REVERSING ROLES, again.)

At the dock, they have to transfer from the car to a speedboat (they’ve transferred from a jet to a puddle jumper to a car and now to a boat: CROSSING MULTIPLE THRESHOLDS INTO THE SPECIAL WORLD). Andrew leaves Margaret to get her own luggage (I love Betty White’s line: “That girl comes with a lot of baggage.”) and treats her like a wayward pet as she climbs down a ladder to the dock. There’s a SETUP that Margaret can’t swim. Andrew steps into command in this scene; it’s clear he’s actually up for handling Margaret (a nice performance by Reynolds).

The speedboat arrives at a private island, and we get the first look at the mansion that is Andrew’s family home. (You could also call this the ACT ONE CLIMAX, and I wouldn’t argue with you — it’s a little like seeing Hogwarts for the first time. Not as fun a scene as the proposal on the street, but it’s a big revelation and a SETPIECE, with all the scenery and then finally the house.)

Inside the mansion there’s a party going on — just 50 or 60 of the Paxtons’ closest friends, including Andrew’s ex-girlfriend, pretty, wholesome Gertie (RIVAL). There’s definite tension between Andrew and his father, who immediately starts in on him to quit playing around with the books and start attending to his responsibilities (another ANTAGONIST). The conversation with his father spurs Andrew to announce his engagement.

Andrew's FATHER WOUND and INNER DESIRE: To make his own way and to be valued for who he really is; to break free from his father’s influence.

Everyone wants to hear about how Andrew proposed. Andrew evades, saying Margaret loves telling the story; she retaliates by painting him as ridiculously sensitive. He starts interrupting and they improvise a story, each adding a little bit to the lie. This mutual spinning of the proposal story is THE DANCE — the scene where we actually see that they could be a good couple.

Then the family insists on a kiss (FORCE THE COUPLE TO KISS), and of course the chemistry unnerves both of them. (37 min.)

Andrew’s mother puts the couple together in one bedroom (ONLY ONE BED!) and Annie gives them a "babymaker” blanket for fertility. Typical romantic comedy device – HANDCUFF THE SPARRING COUPLE TOGETHER. In this case, put them in the same bedroom for the entire weekend. There’s also a PLANT: there’s a fluffy new puppy which is not allowed outside because of the eagles.

Andrew beds down on the floor. Margaret comes out in lingerie, the only nightwear she packed, warning him not to look. Of course, he looks. (40 min.)

SEQUENCE FOUR

Next morning, a shot of gorgeous clouds at dawn. Margaret’s phone rings at this ungodly hour and a groaning Andrew is able to tell her exactly where to find it (a very MARRIED MOMENT). Margaret goes outside to talk; it’s the big reclusive writer, who’s having cold feet about Oprah. The puppy follows Margaret outside and an eagle grabs him and starts to fly off. (PAYOFF.) Margaret gives chase and rescues the puppy, but then when the eagle dives for her cell phone, she holds the dog up for the eagle to take. Watching from the house, the mother and Annie think Margaret’s bonding with the puppy, but Andrew understands what’s happening and goes outside to rescue the dog. Then he makes Margaret fake a hug for his watching family while they continue to fight (a common comedy gag: the dialogue doesn’t match what you’re seeing). (I thought there was nice chemistry between Bullock and Reynolds throughout, something ridiculously rare in rom coms. If you can’t act chemistry, you’re not an actor.)

The mother and grandmother take Margaret off to town for a day with the girls.

Andrew’s father summons him and apologizes, but he still wants Andrew to quit playing around and come home to take over the business. Andrew refuses to accept the apology. His life makes him happy. (FATHER WOUND — his GHOST — and a good scene to explain Andrew’s insistence on making his own career despite his circumstances.)

Annie and the mother take Margaret to a bar to see an appalling male stripper. Margaret resists the physicality. (This should have been a great scene to warm Margaret up, but as played I found it icky. For once, we get to see a male stripper in film and it feels like more of a sexual assault than anything erotic.)

Margaret escapes and goes out to the deck, where Gertie comes out to chat. We learn Gertie and Andrew were engaged, but they wanted different lives. It seems like Gertie still has feelings for Andrew, whom she calls “the best.” (She’s clearly the RIVAL, now.)

The women come home and find Andrew furiously chopping at a wooden canoe. His mother obviously understands what happened and goes in to confront the father. Margaret overhears as the mother laments that she only gets to see her son every three years — she fears they’re going to end up alone. (MIRRORS Margaret’s unexpressed fear.)

Margaret goes to take a shower, then finds there are no towels. As she’s trying to evade the puppy to get to the linen closet, Andrew comes back to the room. He's still furious, listening to music on his earbuds, so doesn’t know she’s there, and strips off his sweaty clothes on the balcony. When he storms inside, they run into each other, falling to the floor. (Obviously — GET THE HERO AND HEROINE NAKED, PHYSICAL CONTACT.) Both are turned on — and Andrew gets a glimpse of that tattoo.

That night is the REVELATIONS/GETTING TO KNOW YOU sequence. In bed and on the floor, both are wired and can’t sleep. Margaret asks about his father. He cuts her off. She suddenly starts spilling random personal information. “I like the Psychic Network. I took disco lessons in sixth grade. First concert was Rob Base and DJ EZ Rock. I haven’t slept with a man in a year and a half. The tattoo is swallows — I got them when I was sixteen after my parents died.” (Her GHOST.) (59 min.)

Andrew pretends not to know who the band is so he can hear her sing their one-hit wonder “It Takes Two,” which makes him smile. He tells her, “You’re a very beautiful woman.” Then he starts singing the song and makes her laugh.

This song moment — I’d call this the ONLY YOU scene, as in “Only you would love that song (book, place, line of poetry, amusement park ride — whatever) — as much as I do.” You often see this scene used to show the two people are meant for each other. In this case the song is so off the wall you almost buy it.

MIDPOINT CLIMAX

ACT TWO, PART 2

SEQUENCE FIVE

Margaret wakes in the morning … and puts on lip gloss and pinches her cheeks before Andrew wakes up. Then there’s a knock at the door — Andrew’s mom calling “Room service.” Andrew gets in bed with Margaret fast and they try to lean on each other convincingly.

The whole family comes in: the parents want them to get married there tomorrow so Annie can be a part of it. Annie uses the death card to pressure them: “It would be a dream come true to see you married. Before I’m dead.” (THE RUSE STARTS TO BACKFIRE.)

The family leaves and Andrew is freaking out; they’re all going to be crushed when they learn the truth. Margaret rubs his shoulders to calm him, then brings him breakfast and coffee. (LET’S PRETEND WE’RE MARRIED.) She’s in silk lingerie and he gets flustered. Then she gets flustered and quickly leaves. (1.06)

Margaret takes a bike and rides through the woods, on what looks like the same path that is on the video (PAYOFF, and setting a certain MYSTICISM). She comes across Annie doing a native spiritual ceremony, giving thanks to Mother Earth. (Annie is a true goddess figure, which is great to see in a movie — it doesn’t happen all that often.)

Annie makes Margaret dance, and Margaret loosens up, starts shaking it, singing a hip hop song. (CHARACTER ARC.) Andrew comes across them and is very amused. He tells Margaret her new cell phone has arrived in town — does she want to go with him to pick it up? (1.10)

At the General Store, Margaret has to escape the stripper, Ramon, while Andrew picks up her phone. She has thirty-seven messages and has to get to a computer. Andrew leaves her at an out-of-date Internet café, and waits outside. Gertie comes by with schoolchildren (GOSH, WOULDN’T SHE MAKE A GREAT MOM?). From the window, Margaret sees them talking. (1.14)

On the street, Margaret tries to ask Andrew about him and Gertie, but Mom and Annie interrupt, taking Margaret away to fit her with Annie’s wedding dress. (WEDDING DRESS SCENE). Mom tears up when Margaret says she and Andrew could come visit, then Annie gives Margaret a necklace (the FAMILY HEIRLOOM scene), and tells her the family story behind it — calling Margaret the strong woman her own mother was. (FAMILY MYTHOLOGY.) Margaret becomes emotional. She’s FALLING IN LOVE WITH THE FAMILY, which totally hits her INNER NEED.

Margaret joins Andrew in the speedboat and suddenly takes off, driving crazily, yelling hysterically that she forgot what it was like to have a family love you and want to see you and give you things (RUSE IS BACKFIRING). She says Annie will have a heart attack when she finds out they’re lying (SETUP). Andrew grabs the wheel and Margaret falls overboard, which Andrew doesn’t notice at first. Then he spins around and saves her, hauls her out of the water. He holds her, trying to warm her. It’s totally manufacturing drama here, but I liked how throughout these two acted very much like a real couple. (1.21)

As they arrive back at the house, the father is waiting and grim, wanting to see them. He takes them into the barn, where the INS agent is waiting, smugly. (TWO ANTAGONISTS JOIN FORCES, upping the forces of opposition.) The agent says the father has negotiated a deal in their behalf: If Andrew makes a statement admitting the marriage is a sham, he’s off the hook, but she’s going back to Canada. Margaret tries to speak but Andrew insists they’re in love and engaged. The agent says he’ll see them at the wedding. (1.24)

In their room, Margaret asks Andrew if he’s sure about this. Andrew isn’t. Annie takes him off to sleep alone before the wedding; in their separate beds, neither is able to sleep.

SEQUENCE SIX

The next day, a crowd is gathered in the barn (SETPIECE here — they really make the barn look lovely). Margaret comes down the aisle and sees Gertie in the audience. Ramon, the stripper, is the minister (which I thought was just moronic). At the altar, Margaret turns to the crowd and CONFESSES that the marriage is fake and tells everyone that she blackmailed Andrew to marry her in order to get a visa to stay at her publishing job. “It’s not easy to ruin someone’s life once you find out how wonderful they are.”

ALL IS LOST — but also a CHARACTER ARC: a selfless sacrifice and a demonstration of true love. She leaves with the INS agent to catch a flight home. (1.30)

So the CENTRAL QUESTION is answered: No, Margaret and Andrew do not succeed in carrying off a fake marriage. (A nice statement thematically — they can’t fake it.)

ACT TWO CLIMAX.

ACT THREE

SEQUENCE SEVEN

Andrew goes up to the bedroom to find Margaret already gone, her wedding dress on the bed, along with the manuscript of the book he wants to publish and a note in which she admits it’s special. She writes how wonderful he's been for three years and that she will buy the book before she leaves for Canada. Andrew rages about this to Gertie, who has come up to check on him. “She makes me crazy,” he says, and she answers, “Are you just going to let her go?” (SUBLOT RESOLUTION — it’s weak, but this potential opponent turns out to be an ally.)

Andrew decides to go after Margaret. But as he’s leaving the party for the airport, his father tries to prevent him and they fight. Suddenly, Annie starts to have a heart attack and the family has to rush her to the hospital on a small plane. In the plane, Annie makes the father and Andrew promise on her deathbed to get along, in what sounds like a wedding ceremony (MOCK WEDDING). When they agree, she says, “The spirits can take me now.” But of course it’s a fakeout — she’s not dying. She tells the pilot to fly them to the airport.

Andrew tries to get his buddy at the airport to delay Margaret's plane departure, but he's already cleared her, so the plane takes off and Andrew is stuck in Alaska. On the plane, the INS agent gloats to Margaret that he always gets his man. She has 24 hours to leave the country. (A new TICKING CLOCK.) (1.37)

SEQUENCE EIGHT

Back in NY, Margaret is cleaning out her office. (FULL CIRCLE location.) Her former subordinates are all watching surreptitiously. Andrew comes in and confronts her in a well-written FINAL BATTLE DECLARATION:

“Three days ago I loathed you. Things changed — when we kissed. And when you told me about your tattoo, and when you checked me out when we were naked. But I didn’t know how I really felt until I was standing alone in a barn, wifeless. The woman I loved was about to be kicked out of the country. Marry me, Margaret, because I’d like to date you.”

Margaret says, “Trust me — you don’t really want to be with me. I’m alone for a reason. I’m comfortable alone. It would be easier to forget everything that happened.”

Andrew admits it would be easier, and Margaret admits she’s scared. He is too. He kisses her. (1.42), and a co-worker shouts, “Show her who’s boss!”

(I liked this scene for Margaret’s admission that she’s scared; that’s when I actually realized that the age difference was supposed to be an issue — but it’s never mentioned and in reality there’s not much of one.)

EPILOGUE: They’re at the INS interview, and the agent says, “One wrong answer and I’m going to take you down.” Then the credits roll over a montage of interviews with Margaret, Andrew, Annie and Ramon, with increasingly bizarre questions.

44. New in Town

Written by Ken Rance, C. Jay Cox

Directed by Jonas Elmer

Starring Renee Zellweger and Harry Connick Jr.

2009

Running time 97 minutes

This one’s very similar to The Proposal, but I wanted to include it anyway, partly because it can be instructive to look at how they’re similar: good similarities and bad similarities.

It’s also an example of a very common and useful romance structure, in which a heroine and hero who initially hate each other are forced to work together on a project toward a common goal, and end up falling in love in the process. In this case the project is turning a small-town factory around. It’s also a fish-out-of-water story, and an “uptight woman executive melts” story.

ACT ONE

SEQUENCE ONE

OPENING IMAGE: Bleak, desolate, frozen countryside. It doesn’t look survivable.

This starts us right off with a THEMATIC IMAGE SYSTEM: the film uses the images of ice and snow to externalize the heroine’s frozen emotions.

Then we cut to inside a comfortable, typically Middle-American home where we see close shots of women’s hands scrapbooking — cheerful, quaint, homey visuals. (These represent the people and values which are going to thaw the heroine.)

Three women (including important ALLY and MENTOR Blanche) are scrapbooking while two men veg on a sofa wearing huge Viking helmets and long braids while they watch a Vikings game. It’s an interesting choice to show the townspeople before the heroine; how these people are presented establishes a certain quirkiness about the movie.

A fourth woman, a realtor, joins, saying she was late getting a house ready for the new plant manager. As they continue “scrapping,” the women discuss the unhappy fates of all previous plant managers.

So this is a FEAR being set up that the heroine will fail — although it’s presented in a comic way. I also like to call this a PLACE YOUR BETS moment: The question is raised: Will this new manager finally get it together? And the audience is subliminally invited to place their bets. It’s a great way to involve your reader or audience.

Also this scene is a PLANT of the scrapbooking and of Blanche’s super-secret Tapioca recipe. And I may be imposing my own thematic image system on this, but I think this scene plays a little as a fairy godmother or Fates scene, with the women discussing the heroine’s fate and a visual image of crafting that is like the three Norns spinning. I mean, there are even Vikings in there!

Then as Blanche says, “God bless our new plant manager — whoever he is,” we cut to:

Heroine Lucy jogging on a Miami beach, past palm trees. (REVERSAL — “he” is a “she”.) (2:50) She lives in a sleek and spotless apartment on the ocean, wears a power suit, big sunglasses, hair like cut glass, and red stilettos, and drives a convertible. In other words, her ORDINARY WORLD is set up as the complete opposite of the SPECIAL WORLD she’ll be going into — every contrast is exaggerated.

We see Lucy in a business meeting in a conference room of all men. (Which gives me instant sympathy for her and makes me understand why she’s so brittle.) Her company is looking for someone to oversee the introduction of a new line of health bars at a food processing plant in Minnesota, which also needs to be downsized by 50 percent to increase productivity. Lucy at first nonchalantly suggests the plant should just be shut down (setting up CHARACTER ARC), but when no one else steps up, Lucy volunteers resentfully (RELUCTANT HEROINE), then gets pressured into flying out that weekend — it’s going to be an on-site job. Her OUTER DESIRE is clear: she wants to be a VP, working her way up to CEO, and if she turns the plant around, she’ll be on her way.

So already we know the PLAN and CENTRAL QUESTION: Lucy PLANS to downsize the plant and get her promotion to VP. Will she succeed? (5:00)

Lucy deplanes into the airport terminal where everyone is dressed for the Arctic, while Lucy is in stilettos, a short skirt and a clingy sweater, a total fish out of water. She starts outside with a towering cart of luggage — and when the air hits her, she screams. (I can relate — I never have enough clothes on for the weather.)

A sign in the snow says: Welcome to New Ulm. Lucy drives in a rental car onto small town Main Street. (INTO THE SPECIAL WORLD.) Everything is frozen. (CONTRAST.) At the realtor’s office she meets Blanche, who is to be her assistant, and Trudy the realtor. Blanche drives with Lucy to her new house; Blanche’s attempts at conversation about scrapbooking and Jesus fail utterly. Not a great beginning. They meet the realtor at the house, which has plastic-covered furniture and flowered wallpaper. CONTRAST: as far from Lucy’s world as it can get. (12:30)

Blanche insists that Lucy come over for supper; Lucy shows up late after having driven down every wrong path in town. Blanche and her husband remark nervously on how cold she looks. She meets Blanche’s family – drinking beer on the sofa in front of the TV, and what she thinks is a family friend, TED (INTRODUCTION OF LOVE INTEREST/ANTAGONIST/HERO). She points out he has beer dripping down his chin.

This is a common convention in romantic comedy – introduce the love interest as a complete moron. (Think of that reindeer sweater Mark Darcy is wearing in the first scene in Bridget Jones’ Diary, for example.) This is also an example of MISTAKEN IDENTITY, as we will see.

Then when Lucy steps into the bathroom to freshen up she sees Ted’s reaction to her was because she’s showing nippleage from the cold. She yells for her jacket. (15:30)

At dinner, Lucy and Ted argue about everything, from the music he doesn’t allow his 13-year old tomboy daughter Bobbie to listen to, to his conviction that all corporate executives are robber barons. It’s instant antagonism (HATE AT FIRST SIGHT) but this is also THE DANCE: the scene or sequence where we see how alike the potential lovers are and why they are perfect for each other. In this case, they’re both making valid societal points, and it’s clear they can learn from each other. I’d also say it’s the CALL TO ADVENTURE — which as I’ve said, is very often the first spark with the love interest (though neither of them see it that way), which also has to do with the fate of the factory, which will become their shared goal. All in all, well done.

SEQUENCE ONE CLIMAX (18:30)

SEQUENCE TWO

Lucy meets with the workers of the New Ulm plant, to announce: “the initialization of Rocket Bars, to capitalize on a new demographic.” The workers are hostile to her, fearing loss of jobs. INTRODUCTION OF OPPONENT: the company foreman, Stu, who is actually an OPPONENT/ALLY — he starts as her main opponent and turns into a main ally. As she changes, he changes, too, and they learn from each other — a technique known as DOUBLE REVERSAL. This is always a satisfying arc that deepens a story. All of the plant workers are Lucy’s opponent/allies; in the end her main OPPONENTS turn out to be her own company. This change in perception follows and underscores her own CHARACTER ARC. (21:50)

Lucy sees Ted waiting outside her office and assumes that Blanche is trying to set her up with him. (MISAPPREHENSION.) She stiffly explains to Blanche how hard she's working to be a woman and a VP (EXTERNAL DESIRE) and that she expects her personal life to be left out of work. (THEME — the whole story is going to be about integrating her personal life with work.) Blanche tells her Ted is actually the union rep. REVEAL of the MISTAKEN IDENTITY SET UP. We understand Blanche has been trying to help.

Blanche eavesdrops while Lucy and Ted fight in the inner office. Another not-so-great beginning.

Lucy talks with her boss on the phone, telling him everything is under control. The boss wants 50% of the workers terminated and Lucy starts making a list. She puts Blanche’s name second on the list (PLANT). (26:00)

Lucy argues with employees about reconfiguring the plant. Stu the foreman tricks Lucy into giving employees a day off for “Gopher Day.” (ATTACK BY OPPONENT/ALLY.)

In a café, Lucy has a run-in with a local waitress, Flo, who calls her “lame ass stupid” for believing there's a Gopher Day, and tells her to go back home. (ANOTHER ATTACK BY ANOTHER OPPONENT. Also a PLANT.)

Lucy goes to the local bar to confront Foreman Stu and other employees about “Gopher Day.” She tries to dialogue with them, but they turn her speech into a drinking game. (ANOTHER ATTACK BY OPPONENTS.) (30:05)

Stu calls another day off from work because the lake is frozen over: he calls it Ice Day. Lucy is furious, and drives out to the lake to fire him.

Ted shows up at Lucy’s house to tell her she can't fire the foreman, and that there actually is an Ice Day. She shuts the door in his face.

At the factory, the employees tell Lucy every single machine has broken down at the same time — obviously passive resistance. ANOTHER ATTACK BY OPPONENTS. (33:00)

Lucy has had it and packs her bags to leave. (APPARENT DEFEAT.)

She arrives at the airport to find all flights canceled due to a blizzard — another very common element in Romantic Comedy: FATE INTERVENES to keep her there. And fate very often intervenes in the form of the weather (Groundhog Day, Leap Year).

Lucy tries to drive back to her house in the raging blizzard. She swerves to miss a cow and crashes her car into a snowbank. She runs her bra up the car’s radio antenna as a distress flag and keeps herself warm by drinking in the back seat. Ted comes along in his truck and rescues her. He takes her home — she’s so drunk she falls over the porch railing.

ACT ONE CLIMAX (39 minutes)

This really is a climatic sequence, rather than a single scene, which you frequently see happening instead of just one climactic scene: the machines breaking down, Lucy giving up to go home, the flights being canceled, the accident, and her rescue in the snow, which is a genre-specific comic scene of her getting drunk in the car and a genre-specific romantic moment of being rescued by her opponent. The piling-up of things going wrong gives a lot of energy to the end of the act; it’s a great technique to use.

ACT TWO: PART 1

SEQUENCE THREE

Lucy wakes up with a massive hangover, still wearing her boots in bed. (So obviously Ted carried her up last night.) Out the window, she sees a tow truck delivering her car to the driveway. (A change from night to day, and especially waking up, is often used to indicate a sequence change or act break.)

Blanche’s quilting circle comes over with a car quilt for Lucy that has emergency phone numbers sewn into it. They tell her she really could have died, and hint around that she might have a crush on Ted. (PICKING UP NEW ALLIES. It’s common in stories, and true to life, that the women bond with the fish-out-of-water heroine before the men do. Also again, I feel like these women are acting like the Fates, nudging Lucy in the right direction.) (41:15)

At a hockey meet, Lucy tries to apologize to Ted and thank him, but is interrupted by his daughter, Bobbie and walks away, flustered. (I think in this big reaction we see Lucy’s INNER DESIRE — for a family. It’s another very common romance device to bring kids into the mix to EXTERNALIZE THE LONGING FOR A FAMILY).

In her office, Lucy gives Blanche a Christmas bonus of cash. Blanche gives her a scrapbook with some photos of her time in New Ulm, a big bowl of homemade tapioca and a hug, and tells her Jesus loves her. (Again, working the THEME that business can and should be personal.) (42:04)

The scrapbook is a PLANT — and a talisman. It is working on Lucy’s heart, changing her. Also the storytellers are keeping the tapioca in front of us, a continuing SETUP.

Lucy is home alone at night drinking wine when the doorbell rings — it’s Blanche, inviting her out. The entire town is walking past, singing “Oh Come All Ye Faithful.” They gather around a lit Christmas tree, candles in hands. Blanche gives Lucy her own candle, and for the first time Lucy smiles. (A nice MENTOR/FAIRY GODMOTHER moment). Then she sees Ted singing, and her smile heats up. She's starting to melt — the snow is a visual metaphor for her own frozen emotions, the flame of the candle shows she is warming to her situation and the people around her. SETPIECE, and CLIMAX of Sequence 3.

Here the screen goes black for a second, a literal, visual curtain to SEQUENCE 3. (45:40)

SEQUENCE FOUR

Lucy meets with Ted in her office. They’re much more aware of each other (CHEMISTRY). She apologizes officially, and he tells her there’s nothing to apologize for, she handled herself just fine. Also he thought the bra on the antenna was a brilliant touch. (Love story progressing.) (47:44)

A softer, more natural-looking Lucy goes to Blanche’s house to return the tapioca bowl, and walks into a swirl of crafting: the women are making valentines. (MAGICAL DAY, and the fairy godmothers at work again. Perhaps they’re crafting a plot, because Ted shows up in a panic: his daughter Bobbie has just gotten a disastrous perm. Lucy takes off with Bobbie to fix her. (More BONDING WITH ALLIES, and you have the HOPE that Lucy, Ted and Bobbie will become a family.) (50:00)

Lucy takes tomboy Bobbie to the beauty salon and buys her her first pair of heels. (MAKEOVER SCENE — a nice variation on it with the heroine playing the fairy godmother and mentor. EXPERIMENTING WITH BEING A MOTHER, and Bobbie is a kind of MIRROR of Lucy: the girl who plays with the boys.)

Lucy shows off a newly beautiful and feminine Bobbie to Ted. (We see the hero’s INNER NEED for a lover and mother for his child.) Ted threatens Bobbie’s date to make sure he doesn’t step out of line, then as the kids leave, he collapses, afraid he’s having a stroke from the stress. (53:20)

The GETTING TO KNOW YOU/SHARING THE BACKSTORIES SCENE. Lucy and Ted get comfortable on the sofa. Lucy reveals her father was a factory janitor who pressed her to get an education and always told her she could run a plant like the one he worked in (REVELATIONS, and her apparently superficial OUTER DESIRE is shown to have an honest motivation — and we HOPE that for her). Ted tells her how his wife died of cancer; they moved to New Ulm to get her the best treatment and now he doesn't want to move his daughter away from her friends. Lucy tears up and leans forward to kiss him, then he takes over. (Almost SEX AT SIXTY.)

The MIDPOINT climaxes as Bobbie comes home and there’s a comic reversal of the adults being caught making out. (58:07)

This sequence has been building Lucy’s internal opposition to her own work plan: this deepening love interest. Will this big change she's undergoing in her character mean she won't be able to do what she needs to do (i.e. make the hard choices) to turn the plant around? It’s clear her INNER AND OUTER DESIRES are in CONFLICT.

It's not the strongest Midpoint in the world (just like this isn't the best movie in the world) — but it does set up the opposition, I think. Lucy veers off onto a course of action that is going to derail her original plan. But we’re getting glimmers of a much better life for her.

ACT TWO, PART 2

SEQUENCE FIVE

At the plant, everything is running smoothly and Lucy is smiling.

Our HOPE: that she can turn the factory around and be a good person and have the love interest and the family she longs for.

In her office, Lucy tries to whisper into the phone to her boss about the layoffs, but Blanche is eavesdropping. Ted calls and asks her out for Saturday morning, saying “Wear something you can get dirty.”

Cut to the woods, where Lucy learns Ted’s taking her hunting for crows. Not what she expected. (1 hr.)

As the day progresses, nature calls, but Lucy gets hung up in the old pair of coveralls Ted has loaned her. Ted tries to free her, ends up cutting her pants open, and discovers she's wearing a thong (she thought he’d said “Wear something dirty.”) While trying to balance, she falls over, taking the gun with her. And it goes off ….

Cut to Lucy and Bobbie in the hospital while a Doctor removes buckshot from Ted’s behind. “The lead story on the news is my ass,” he says. (1.04)

Back at the plant, when Lucy walks in, all the workers turn and wiggle their rears at Lucy — all decorated with bulls eyes. She laughs with them (which is actually a nice payoff for a sequence I generally found pretty embarrassing). (CHARACTER ARC, GATHERING ALLIES.) Lucy’s now dressed in a blouse and pants and boots, looking like a new woman (she’s moving into her real role at the factory, subtly finding her father’s values again).

Lucy shows up at Ted’s house with a cake she baked, because “That's what people seem to do around here.”

On the phone in her office, Lucy talks with Miami. They’ve decided to shut down the plant, and Lucy will have to go back to face the office in person. NOW IT’S PERSONAL — and now the heroine’s values are going to be tested.

Blanche discovers the termination sheet in Lucy’s desk with her name at the top. PAYOFF of that PLANT — and we know how deeply the heroine will regret this (good use of the viewer knowing more than the characters). (1.07)

Back in Miami, Lucy argues with the board full of company men against eliminating the New Ulm plant and all those jobs. Her boss cuts her off. (RECOGNITION OF TRUE OPPONENT.) (1.08)

Back in New Ulm, Lucy is confronted by Blanche, who has told everyone that the plant is going to close, because they needed to know. Lucy promises to try to do something, saying, “You can’t just eliminate people’s lives like that.” Blanche tells her “Sure you can. It happens every day.” She leaves tapioca behind as she leaves, saying “It doesn’t mean we’re friends or anything.” (LOSS OF KEY ALLY.) (1.10)

Lucy tries to talk to Ted, who says "We have nothing to say." (LOSS OF LOVER.)

This is often a very effective technique: make the ALL IS LOST moment a SERIES of losses — the domino effect.

At home, Lucy slumps at the kitchen table, dejectedly bingeing on tapioca. She puts the bowl back in the fridge, pauses for a moment, looking at the tapioca on the refrigerator shelf. (This is actually a great example of a reversal/revelation coming in the midst of that All Is Lost despair.) (1.11)

(NEW REVELATION — NEW PLAN, PAYOFF OF PLANT, and ACT TWO CLIMAX.)

ACT THREE

SEQUENCE SEVEN

Lucy finds Blanche in the office packing to leave. Lucy says, “Let’s talk tapioca.” (1.12)

Lucy and Blanche product test the tapioca at a mall; it’s a hit. (1.13)

Lucy goes to talk to Stu (who she finds is a tenant of his ex-wife, waitress Flo. PAYOFF.) She tells him, “If we can produce the tapioca and test market this new product in four weeks, we can convince corporate it’s viable.” Stu says it can’t be done, and he doesn’t want to get everyone’s hopes up just to crash them again. (FALSE DEFEAT.) (1.16)

At the plant, Lucy tells the workers her plan to revamp the old yogurt production equipment to produce the tapioca. She says it may fail, but she’s betting her career on it, too. Stu comes in and rallies the workers into supporting the plan. (OPPONENT BECOMES ALLY.) (1.18)

One night Lucy, Stu, and other workers are wrestling with an old machine, trying to adapt it, then Ted shows up to try to help. It turns into a tapioca fight, which turns into a MONTAGE. Blanche swears the cooks to secrecy; the machine starts to work, then the line starts to work, and then we see the product in stores. (1.20)

Corporate calls Lucy in her office; then a line of corporate cars show up. (FALSE SCARE.) The bosses are pissed, but the sales have been off the charts.

Lucy talks to the workers again: the bosses want to ramp up production and ship nationally. As the workers cheer, her boss tells her she’s the newest VP, and they’ll expect her in Miami next week. (You could call this typical scene THE HOLLOW VICTORY.) (1.21)

At Lucy’s sendoff party, Ted tells her everyone will miss her, especially him. (SAY SOMETHING, STUPID. Of course, neither does.) (1.22)

Lucy flies home and walks into her sleek apartment, where she stands alone at the windows … while back at Blanche’s house Ted silently eats with the gathered family. (1.23)

At the New Ulm bar, Stu tells Ted the plant’s being sold, product line and all. He thinks Lucy’s sold them out. (1.25)

Lucy comes back to the plant, in stilettos and a power suit again (FULL CIRCLE) and announces that she’s assembled a group of investors to back the workers in buying the plant, product line and all. The plant will be entirely owner-operated, with Lucy as CEO. Ted interrupts her to protest, but then stands in front of her and asks, “Are you prepared to deal with the union on this?” and the two KISS, while the workers cheer. (1.30)

Blanche scrapbooks with the women (FULL CIRCLE), gets a delivery from UPS. It’s tapioca royalties: a check for quarter of a million dollars. Blanche faints. (Great SUBPLOT PAYOFF.)

Under credits we see Lucy’s relationship with Ted documented in a scrapbook. (NEW WAY OF LIFE.) (1.37)

45. Groundhog Day

Written by Danny Rubin and Harold Ramis

Directed by Harold Ramis

Starring Bill Murray and Andie MacDowell

1993

Running time 101 min.

Okay, I’m including Groundhog Day because it’s one of my favorite film love stories, with a rare protagonist: an unlikable one who goes through a major character arc because of the crucible of love (and with a little help from the weather gods). Along with being a time loop story, an alternate reality story, and a high-concept comedy, it’s a great example of a male redemption story which also manages to hit all the right love story beats while at the same time completely satirizing those love story beats. In fact, I’m pretty certain that Ramis or Rubin, or both, made themselves a list of romantic comedy tropes and set out to mock every one of them, starting with the concept of the MAGICAL DAY — in this case, the least likely magical day you can imagine. Who ever would associate Groundhog Day with love?

It’s an anti-chick-flick story which nonetheless charms the chicks, all of which I think makes it a useful wild card in our lineup.

ACT ONE

SEQUENCE ONE

OPENING IMAGE: This is one of my favorite, sly opening images of all time. It’s a shot of very fast moving clouds in a blue sky, with some sort of carnival music underneath. Now, this is a natural image for the story, which is about a weatherman. But I think there’s a lot more going on with this image. Those are very active clouds. I would even say they’re scheming. Yes, I’m from Berkeley and this may be some overanthropomorphizing on my part (or possibly some sort of flashback) — but I honestly think I’m on to something here. I think the filmmakers are deliberately making the weather an antagonist — and mentor — for the protagonist, who has some pretty severe need of character change. Call it weather, call it the weather gods, call it fate — but think about it. There’s no obvious human antagonist in this story. Instead, there is some kind of supernatural force working here to effect the change in surly protagonist Phil Connors.

And the shot to me also recalls the opening image of It’s a Wonderful Life, to which this film obviously owes much. In IAWL, the opening scene consists of snow falling heavily on small town Bedford Falls, with voice-over prayers for someone named George Bailey, which drift gradually upward until we fix on clusters of stars in a night sky. Two of the constellations start to talk about how this is George’s critical night — and we understand there is going to be some heavenly intercession in whatever this George Bailey’s crisis is.

And intercession is exactly what happens with Phil in Groundhog Day, in a more subtle but very effective way.

CUT TO: A news studio, with weatherman Phil Connors doing his shtick in front of a blue screen (basically waving his arms around, a nice visual depiction of the meaninglessness of his job). However, despite his sarcasm and his obvious disdain for what he does — and disdain for his coworkers, too — Phil has star quality (it’s Bill Murray, after all) and he is more than providing the show that the job calls for.

HERO’S OUTER DESIRE: Phil wants out of Pittsburg and onto a major network. One of his first off-camera lines of dialogue is that a major network is interested in him. Yes, have the hero STATE WHAT HE WANTS.

We learn right away that Phil is en route to one of his most despised shoots — up to tiny Punxsutawney to report on the annual Groundhog Day festival (the INCITING INCIDENT — he’s sent off on a job). Going with him are long-suffering cameraman Larry and wholesome, optimistic producer Rita, whom we see first on camera, trying to figure out how the blue screen works. There’s a long close up on Phil’s face as he watches her — it looks like he thinks this woman is a moron. At least, that’s what we would expect him to be thinking. Actually, this is his real CALL TO ADVENTURE (so often in a love story the CALL is seeing the beloved for the first time). And much later in the story Phil confesses to a sleeping Rita what he was actually thinking when he looked at her — it’s a wonderful PLANT.

So they’re off on the road; under the credits we see shots of the big city (relatively), Pittsburgh, then the van drives over a bridge and into snow-dusted mountains with small towns. (INTO THE SPECIAL WORLD. Remember that bridges are overt symbols of transition and change.) The song: “I’m Your Weatherman.”

In the van, Phil mocks both the festival and impossibly upbeat Rita mercilessly, but still does it with enough Bill Murray charm that we see Rita is amused, and attracted. (Right off the bat we get the DANCE scene — they play well together and Rita is unflapped by Phil’s volleys; she’s able to keep his humor from descending into outright meanness. But meanness is definitely a danger; Phil desperately needs redeeming.)

The crew arrives on Main Street, Punxsutawney, which if you ask me looks exactly like Bedford Falls. Rita has booked Phil into a nice B&B while she and Larry are staying in a cheap hotel. She tells him to “Get some sleep.”

Lights out, and then up on the clock alarm by Phil’s bed (this clock will play a huge role) — clicking over to 6 a.m. for the first time in the film as “I Got You, Babe,” plays. (I have to think this is the Fates having a laugh; they certainly have “got” Phil. But of course, it’s also a love song … ) The whole following sequence — every comic bit, line of dialogue, action and character in it — is the master sequence for all the variations on it that are to come.

• Phil washes up at the sink to the obnoxious patter of the radio jockeys talking about Groundhog Day.

• Phil is scathing to a cheery overweight guest in the upstairs hall.

• Downstairs, Phil mocks the even more cheery proprietress of the B&B.

• On the street, Phil joins the townspeople heading toward Gobbler’s Knob.

• Phil pretends he has no money for the elderly panhandler on a street corner.

• Ned Ryerson, a high school non-friend of Phil’s, recognizes him and tries to sell him life insurance.

• Phil steps in an icy pothole while trying to escape from Ned.

• Phil walks through the throngs of Groundhog Day festival-goers at the Knob (as the band plays “The Pennsylvania Polka”) to join Rita and Larry. Phil does the TV commentary on the groundhog festival: groundhog “Phil” is removed from his cave, consults with town fathers, and sees his shadow. Six more weeks of winter (FORESHADOWING).

• Phil insists on leaving town immediately.

• On the road, the crew hits a roadblock — cars are being turned back because of a big blizzard. (HERO LOCKED INTO THE SITUATION.)

(This is a trope in romantic comedy — the Fates seem to intervene in the form of the weather, forcing the hero or heroine onto a path s/he hadn’t planned for, as we see in New in Town and Leap Year. Groundhog Day takes this and many other romantic comedy clichés and mocks them at the same time as it gets all the mileage it can out of the romance of the situations — which is a big reason the story appealed equally to male and female audiences. Note that the same slightly surreal music from the opening shot is playing under this scene — it’s the Fates stepping in, I’m telling you! I’d also call this the ANTAGONIST’S PLAN. It’s just delicious that the weather has turned into Phil’s opponent. And Phil knows it, as he rails at the roadblock cop: “I make the weather.” (Uh, oh — this is DEFYING THE GODS, if I’m not mistaken. It’s never good when mortals do that …)

• Back in the B&B, Phil can’t find transportation or even a phone line out of town.

• In his room he tries to shower and is assaulted by icy water; the pipes are frozen.

• He goes to bed. (18:30)

SEQUENCE TWO

And in the morning, Phil wakes up — to the exact same clock shot, the exact same song, the exact same radio patter. Phil assumes the repetition is a studio gaffe: they’ve put in yesterday’s tape by mistake. (A great rational response to a bizarre situation.) But when he looks out the window there’s very little snow on the ground, and people seem to be headed toward Gobbler’s Knob in droves, just as they did yesterday.

Out in the hallway he runs into the same portly guest, who asks him the same cheery questions. Phil starts to get uneasy then attacks the guest, demanding to know what’s going on.

In the breakfast room, a dazed Phil is nicer to the proprietress just from shock.

He is increasingly distressed as he goes to Gobbler’s Knob (meeting Ned again, stepping in the icy pothole) and finds the festivities occurring in the same order. His newscast is considerably less sarcastic, and Rita wonders.

By now sure that the blizzard is coming and he’s trapped, Phil doesn’t leave in the van with Larry and Rita. At the B&B he again phones a travel agent and tries to get out of town some other way; when the travel agent suggests he try again tomorrow, Phil rails, “What if there is no tomorrow? There wasn’t today.” A nice bit of comic dialogue that also clearly states Phil’s FEAR. (SPELL IT OUT.)

Before he goes to sleep he breaks a pencil and sets it on the bed table. (TESTING THE RULES.) (25:44)

Phil wakes for the third time to the same song, the same radio banter. The pencil is intact, reconstituted.

Phil speeds through the same sequence of events, then at Gobbler’s Knob tells Rita he’s not going to do the show; he’s already done it twice already, and something is terribly wrong. Rita insists he do the show, they’ll talk after. (27:30)

At the diner, Phil tells Rita “I’m reliving the day over and over. I need help.”

Rita thinks he needs a doctor. (So this is the minor, initial PLAN.) Note the stopped clocks on the wall behind Phil, and the bumper sticker that says “The Spirit” behind Rita. In fact, the Tip Top café logo outside on the building is a clock — with no hands.

Rita and Larry take Phil to a doctor. The CAT scan is clean; the doctor suggests a shrink. Phil visits a very young psychologist who has no idea what to do with his problem but suggests they meet again tomorrow.

Phil gets drunk in a bowling alley with two locals. He asks them: “What if you woke up in the same place every day and every day was just the same and there was nothing you could do about it?” The men seem to feel that’s life, in a nutshell. (THEME.) As they leave the bar, the two men are way too drunk to drive, so Phil gets into the driver’s seat of the car and then suddenly takes off, asking, “What if there were no consequences?” One of the drunks answers, “We could do whatever we wanted.” And Phil says, “Exactly.” He races through the town, picking up a police tail, drives on the railroad tracks, barely missing a train, and crashes into a giant groundhog cutout in a parking lot. The sequence ends with the jail cell door closing on Phil … (35 min).

ACT ONE CLIMAX (A comic car chase, crash, SETPIECE.)

ACT TWO, PART 1

SEQUENCE THREE

… and Phil wakes up in the B&B bed, to the same clock, the same song. This time he is elated, though. Downstairs, he asks the proprietress if the cops have been by looking for him, and when she says no, he kisses her. He announces “I’m not going to live by their rules anymore!” We see immediately his PLAN is to take every advantage of his new situation (and we’re already looking forward to what Bill Murray is going to do with this). (37 min.)

At the diner, Rita watches in disgust as Phil eats a huge spread of various full breakfasts and pastries, and then lights up a cigarette. She quotes Sir Walter Scott, “The Wretch” at him. Phil laughs: “You think I’m egocentric?” Rita replies, “I know you’re egocentric. It’s your defining characteristic.” (THE AWFUL TRUTH, and sets up CHARACTER ARC.) On the way out, Phil stops to talk to an attractive woman diner (Nancy) and asks a series of questions about where she went to high school and her English teacher’s name. We sense what’s coming.

Then next day, Phil finds Nancy at Gobbler’s Knob and pretends to recognize her from high school. She doesn’t know him but is convinced by the details he knows, and impressed that he’s a TV weatherman, and is happy to meet him later.

That night Phil makes out with Nancy in his room, but keeps calling her Rita.

Phil continues to take advantage of his situation; in a montage he uses his foreknowledge of events to steal money from a bank truck, buy a classic car, and seduce more women.

SEQUENCE FOUR

Now Phil turns his attention to Rita. He sabotages the van so he can get Rita for a whole day, and in a series of scenes, he takes several days — or maybe weeks — in a row to learn a great deal about her and refine his seduction story, feigning that her favorite drink is also his, that he wants the same lifestyle that she does, even learning to quote French poetry. (This is a wonderfully comic takeoff on the standard GETTING TO KNOW YOU scene and apparent cosmic synchronicities of romantic comedy — it’s all a complete game to Phil.) (43 min.)

Rita is suspicious of his attention (proving she’s the right person for him) but over a series of dates (actually, the same date) she starts to warm to him. Finally they have a genuinely beautiful night, with a spontaneous snowball fight and some real chemistry, even dancing in a gazebo.

Phil manages to charm Rita up to his room (54 min.), but there he becomes too aware of the rapidly ticking clock and comes on too strong. Rita is suddenly certain this has all been some kind of setup, and slaps him.

The next night Phil runs through the same sequence, trying to recreate the same magic, which of course he can’t; he becomes increasingly manic and desperate (with a hilarious takeoff on the GOSH, WOULDN’T WE MAKE GOOD PARENTS trope of romantic comedy) and Rita slaps him again. Cut to a montage of slaps.

Phil finally walks home in the dark, past a lineup of ice sculptures of human-sized groundhogs (EXTERNALIZING HIS OPPONENT — or what he is coming to think of as his opponent. Also groundhog Phil is Phil’s DOPPELGANGER).

This is the MIDPOINT — a big, big defeat. 58 min.

ACT TWO, PART 2

SEQUENCE FIVE

In the next days we see Phil starting to crack. He gives increasingly offensive newscasts on the festival. The alarm clock looms larger and larger and Phil destroys it again and again. (Great EXTERNALIZATION OF OPPONENT.) He’s given up.

Rita is clearly concerned about him, sensing an emotional break. Phil in fact becomes convinced that this is all Phil the groundhog’s doing and kidnaps the other Phil (after bidding Rita an emotional goodbye: “Remember that we once had one beautiful night together.”). After a police chase, Phil drives into a quarry and drives the car off a cliff; it explodes, killing both Phils. But the next morning Phil wakes in bed again, whole. (1.05)

SEQUENCE SIX

There follows a series of suicide attempts, none of which take. (A whole VISIT TO DEATH montage!) A devastated Rita identifies Phil at the morgue; Larry is delighted to comfort her. (1:06)

In the diner, Phil desperately tries to talk to Rita again. He takes her around the diner and tells her everything about everyone in it, and everything that’s going to happen. Then he tells her everything he knows about her. Then he writes down exactly what Larry is about to come in and say, which Larry does. Rita finally believes him. She says she’s going to spend the rest of the day with him as an objective witness to see what happens. (1.10)

Back in Phil’s room, they bond while tossing cards into a hat on the bed. Phil is a master at it — he’s spent the last six months learning how. Rita asks, “This is how you spend eternity?” (A nice nudge toward Phil’s eventual revelation.) Phil says the worst part is that tomorrow she’ll wake up and not remember any of this and treat him like he’s a jerk again. Rita says he’s not a jerk, but Phil admits “I am a jerk.” (CHARACTER GROWTH.) Rita says the situation might not be so bad: “Sometimes I wish I had a thousand lifetimes. Maybe it’s not a curse.” She snuggles up to him at midnight — then hits him when he doesn’t disappear. He says it doesn’t happen until 6 a.m. (even Phil’s MAGICAL HOUR is warped) — and asks her to stay. Platonically.

Phil reads poetry to Rita in bed as she falls asleep. Then he confesses to her that he thinks she’s wonderful. “I’ve never seen anyone that’s as nice to people as you are. The first time I saw you something happened to me … I knew that I wanted to hold you as hard as I could. I don’t deserve someone like you, but if I ever could, I swear I would love you for the rest of my life.” (CONFESSION TO SLEEPING LOVED ONE.)

An interesting image here — the ice on the window looks like the eye of God, watching.

But at 6 a.m. the song plays, and Phil wakes up in bed, alone. (1:15)

ACT TWO CLIMAX

ACT THREE

SEQUENCE SEVEN

But something has changed, after all: it’s Phil. He goes through the next day only doing good for others. (Essentially, being as nice to people as Rita is.) He brings coffee and pastries to Larry and Rita at the shoot, and suggests a new camera position — but only if Larry agrees.

Phil reads by himself in the diner and finds he’s enjoying himself. He signs up for piano lessons. He learns ice sculpting. When he runs into Ned on the street, he pretends to be in love with him, and Ned flees. Then one night he finds the homeless man passed out on the street. He takes him to the hospital and refuses to accept it when the old man dies. In the next days he feeds the homeless man all day long, but he always still dies (another VISIT TO DEATH and revelation — it’s not overtly stated, but Phil’s next actions show that he’s changed again; he’s feeling his own mortality, which sparks a drive to do good deeds).

SEQUENCE SEVEN CLIMAX (1:22)

SEQUENCE EIGHT

(I think this whole next sequence counts as the FINAL BATTLE.)

The next morning at the Knob, Phil does a groundhog report so eloquent that all the other stations turn their cameras on him. Rita is so impressed she wants to have coffee with him, but he turns her down, saying he has “errands” to do.

Phil rushes through the town doing good deeds: saving a kid who falls from a tree, changing a tire for three elderly ladies, performing the Heimlich Maneuver on a man choking in a restaurant. And this obviously isn’t the first time …

That night there’s a big charity party. Larry tries to hit on Nancy, then Rita comes in, looking for Phil. Phil is the man of the hour, playing smoking hot boogie with the band while all the townspeople dance. When he sees Rita, he plays a romantic flourish, and then comes down to dance with her. As they dance, townspeople come up to thank him for all he’s done. Rita is stunned … then wants to know exactly what’s going on. Phil wants to tell her, but they’re interrupted as Phil is pulled up onto the stage for the charity auction. Rita outbids all the other women bidders to get Phil alone. As they leave, Ned comes up, bursting with happiness because Phil has just bought every insurance policy available. (This is giving all the supporting players their final bows, an important element in romantic comedy.) (1.33)

In the park, Phil sculpts a beautiful ice carving of Rita. She’s overwhelmed. He tells her, “No matter what happens tomorrow or for the rest of my life, I’m happy now because I love you.” (CHARACTER ARC) They kiss, and it begins to snow. (CLIMAX — and A BLESSING FROM THE WEATHER, I think!)

CUT TO: 6 a.m. Phil wakes to “I Got You Babe” … and then the radio guys go on to argue about the song, a completely different patter. Phil realizes Rita is beside him. (1.35) A dazed Phil asks her “Why are you here?” and Rita says, “I bought you. I own you.”

Phil goes to the window and sees the town blanketed in snow; the time loop has been broken. He gets back in bed and kisses Rita, and as they begin to make love, we see, faintly, the eye of God in the window again.

RESOLUTION AND NEW WAY OF LIFE: Phil and Rita come out of the B&B to a sparkling white day. Phil says, “It’s so beautiful! Let’s live here!” They kiss again, and Phil amends, “We’ll rent first.” The arch of the gateway in front of them looks like a bridal arch, and Phil lifts Rita over the fence like a bride as they go out into the world.

Of course, there’s a CUT TO those clouds for the credits, and a great song, “It’s Almost Like Being In Love.” (Which starts, “What a day this has been … ”)

(1.41)

46. Sense and Sensibility

Screenplay by Emma Thompson

From the novel by Jane Austen

Directed by Ang Lee

Starring Emma Thompson, Hugh Grant, Alan Rickman and Kate Winslet

1995

Running time 136 minutes

Ah, now this is a love story: a classic book and a perfect adaptation. There’s real emotion, real chemistry, fun comedy, real hope and fear all the way through; the story puts us through the emotional wringer, plunging us to the depths and lifting us back up to the heights. Get out the Kleenex and let’s see what we can learn from this gem.

I am going to start with some general notes first — some things I suggest you look for as you’re watching this film — particularly in terms of THEME, HOPE, FEAR and STAKES.

Some writers who take my workshops and read my blog complain about the films I use for examples of story elements and structure. I’m particularly apt to use Thomas Harris’s Red Dragon and The Silence of the Lambs — to the horror of some romance writers who wouldn’t be caught dead (sorry, I’ll stop now) reading those books. But I always try to get writers to understand that they can learn just as much from stories outside their own genre, because the elements of story — and suspense — are the same no matter how many bodies are or are not falling or how many creatures are or are not lurking in the basement.

Personally, I find serious horror in Sense and Sensibility (and any Austen book), and it’s not a horror of romance, either. I am, however, horrified at the Netflix description of the film as “Austen’s classic tale of 19th century etiquette.” This story is more about monsters in the basement than it is about etiquette.

Actually, it is about an evil much bigger than a monster in the basement, and if you ask me, the fact that that monster is lurking under the romance and comedy is what makes this story a masterpiece.

ACT ONE

Just wanted to note for the filmmakers among you that the credits sequence is just titles on black, with period music underneath. This is a technique often used with period films, I think used deliberately to slow the audience down and put them squarely in another time. Music is a pure time machine from — or to — the period it was written; it works on us in a way that no visual or dialogue ever could.

PROLOGUE

I would say that the first short sequence (4 min.) is a prologue — and a hugely important one.

The film opens at the deathbed of Mr. Dashwood, the father of our not-yet-seen heroines. Mr. Dashwood has called in John Dashwood, his son from a previous marriage, to whom Mr. Dashwood’s entire fortune and houses will pass under the law of primogeniture, which bars women from inheriting property and keeps both the patriarchy and the aristocracy intact by mandating that family fortunes pass undivided to the eldest son of a family, with only minimal livings carved out for any remaining male children.

Before he dies, Dashwood extracts a promise from John that he will take care of the present Mrs. Dashwood and her three daughters, Elinor, Marianne, and Margaret, who by this law of primogeniture are only allowed to inherit 500 pounds. (THE DEATHBED PROMISE, in this case, promptly broken.)

John’s original intention is to give the Dashwood women, his stepmother and stepsisters, an additional 3000 pounds so they can live comfortably on the interest, but in the course of a carriage ride up to Norland Park, where John and his wife will take over the Dashwood house, John’s harridan of a wife, Fanny, whittles weak-willed John’s gift down to nothing at all: “Twenty pounds here and there should be ample. What would four women need with more than 500 pounds?”

(Also in this carriage ride, John also voices the FEAR that Marianne will lose her bloom and end up a spinster like Elinor.)

This series of scenes is a beautiful — and outwardly funny — dramatization of greed in action, and Fanny makes a detestable villain. But more importantly, the scenes introduce the real villain of the story, and every Austen story: primogeniture, which kept the rich superrich, the poor practically or literally indentured as servants to the rich, and women enslaved to men, for centuries.

Stylistically, Jane Austen was writing comedies, but the stories are built on social outrage, and I believe it’s that canny blend that made and keeps these books classics.

So the death of Mr. Dashwood, and the Dashwood women’s subsequent disinheritance, is the INCITING INCIDENT. (4:30)

One more note as you’re watching this film: pay special attention to how the storytellers use weather to create mood and emotion, and also pay attention to the set decoration: the paintings on the walls behind the characters constantly comment — often hilariously — on the story and themes.

SEQUENCE ONE:

The whole next sequence is very filmic, played at first almost as a montage, with fast cuts between extremely short scenes. We are introduced to the extremely sympathetic Dashwood women: Mrs. Dashwood, Elinor, Marianne and 11-year old Margaret, as they are reduced to guests in their own house in the midst of their deep grief over the loss of their husband and father. While Fanny steamrolls through the house claiming everything in it as her own, the Dashwood women scramble to find other living arrangements on their tiny inheritance.

These are great character introductions to Elinor and Marianne, Emma Thompson and Kate Winslet. The filmmakers deftly find comedy even in this tragic situation, eg. Elinor’s first line to Marianne as Marianne plays the world’s most doleful dirge on the pianoforte: “Would you play something else, dearest? Maman has been weeping all morning.”

I see this movie as having a dual protagonist, even though Elinor is clearly the more dominant one and the point of view character. But Austen, and Thompson in the adaptation, are using the sisters to demonstrate a theme: literally, sense and sensibility. At the beginning of the story the sisters are out of balance: Elinor is all sense and Marianne all sensibility (passion). By the end of the story (and partly through the crucible of love), they have each gained some of what the other has, to make both of them more fully realized women.

This is what you could call a “character cluster,” like the three-brother or three-sister structure you often see, especially in stories with a fairy tale structure like the Harry Potter books/films. If you’re thinking about writing a dual protagonist, this is an excellent example to study.

Note also the restatement of THEME when Margaret asks Elinor why John and Fanny are coming to take over Norwood when they already have a house of their own. Elinor tells Margaret, “Houses go from father to son. It's the law.” That extra emphasis on how this is the law makes it very clear what the problem is, and keeps this societal FORCE OF ANTAGONISM very present in the story.

Now, enter Edward Ferrars, Fanny’s intelligent but very reserved brother, Hugh Grant at his diffidently charming best. (The scenes become longer here.) Edward’s formal bow, and the Dashwood women’s polite curtseys in return, become a RUNNING GAG in the film (a running gag is a staple of comedy). Each time the action stops as Edward does his best at this bow, but there’s something always just a little off about the timing.

Marianne wants to hate him, especially because Fanny has kicked Margaret out of her own room to give her brother the best view in the house, but Edward has already noticed the offense and quietly moved himself to a guest room.

Edward instantly understands the pain of the Dashwoods’ circumstances, bonds with and draws out youngest daughter Margaret, and falls hard — albeit reservedly — for kindred soul Elinor. In a beautiful scene in the library, Edward and Elinor coax Margaret out from where she has been hiding under a table by pretending ignorance of the source of the Nile, and we see that Edward and Elinor are perfectly, beautifully matched: intelligent, witty, sensitive, kind, and off-the-wall. They are at their most charming when they’re together. This is a common and I think crucial scene in any romance or romantic subplot —THE DANCE — where we see that two people are perfect for each other. So much more meaningful than “meet cute”!

And this scene gives us our great HOPE for Elinor: that she has found the great love of her life and they will make a true, encompassing marriage. It’s also, I would say, her CALL TO ADVENTURE (separate from the INCITING INCIDENT) — meeting her true love.

But there’s more to this than love. In her circumstances, Elinor’s life and her family’s lives depend on her making a good marriage, because women are prohibited from earning an income. A happy marriage to a well-off man is the dream, the best possible outcome — but the stakes couldn’t be higher, and Elinor’s situation is more than tenuous; she has not the slightest power over her future except to marry. So this is the unstated but clear PLAN: to marry for love and secure the family’s future. (15 min.)

We see the couple’s feelings deepen when Edward catches Elinor crying as she listens to Marianne play their father’s favorite song on the piano. He gives her his handkerchief (which becomes what Joseph Campbell calls a TALISMAN: a significant object for a character, like Luke Skywalker’s light saber and Harry Potter’s — well, lots of things, but the cloak of invisibility, the Nimbus 2000, etc.).

The ANTAGONISTS, Fanny and Mrs. Ferrars (Fanny and Edward’s mother), immediately go about preventing this match. (Mrs. Ferrars is never physically present, only offstage, but very present in the form of the threat of disinheriting Edward if he makes an “unworthy marriage.”) (18 min.)

The Dashwood women receive an offer of a cottage in Devonshire for minimal rent from Mrs. Dashwood’s wealthy cousin, Sir John, but Mrs. Dashwood has seen the “attachment” forming between Elinor and Edward and tells Marianne that they will put off the move. (Look at the painting of a man on the wall right behind Mrs. Dashwood as we see her thinking this over: it’s almost like a comic book bubble showing her thoughts. This is the PLAN — to give Elinor opportunity to engage with Edward, to make a happy marriage but also secure the family fortune.)

You could say that there is one long sequence here at Norwood (from 4:30 to 26 minutes), but you could also say it’s two sequences. This is where I would say it breaks, at 19 minutes.

SEQUENCE TWO

Edward and Elinor spend more time together and continue to fall in love; this is accomplished in an amazingly short amount of film time.

The horseback riding scene is especially interesting thematically: Elinor states plainly "We (women) have no choice of any occupation whatsoever. You will inherit your fortune, we cannot even earn ours." But we also see that Edward is constrained by the threat of complete disinheritance if he does not make a career and a marriage that his mother approves of. The scene also shows that these two can talk honestly of deep issues.

We also see another antagonist to the match: Marianne, who thinks that Edward is not passionate enough for Elinor, and that Elinor’s feelings are too tepid to be real love.

When Marianne asks Elinor how she feels about Edward, Elinor says that she greatly esteems him. Marianne chides her for being so dispassionate. (Settting up ELINOR’S CHARACTER ARC: Elinor is not completely honest about her feelings, which will get her into trouble down the road.)

In another scene, Marianne asks their mother: "Can he love her? To love is to burn, to be on fire." Marianne just comes right out and says what she believes, and this sets up Marianne’s CHARACTER ARC. There’s also some FORESHADOWING and FEAR for Marianne here when her mother replies that Marianne’s passionate role models Juliet and Heloise made “rather bad ends.”

But despite her objections, Marianne says she will support her sister’s wishes with her whole heart.

Meanwhile evil Fanny actively works to thwart the relationship by telling Mrs. Dashwood that their mother has made it clear she will disinherit Edward should he marry beneath his station. (22 min)

It’s a devastating move because we are already so invested in Elinor and Edward’s love — and oh, do we hate Fanny. There are also two PLANTS here: that Edward will in fact be disinherited, and that he is too much of a gentleman ever to go back on a promise, which will become very significant later.

At dinner, Mrs. Dashwood announces they will leave immediately for her cousin's estate. (NEW PLAN.)

The next day Edward finds Elinor in the stable, saying goodbye to her horse, which the family cannot afford to keep. (Horses are a classic symbol of perverse sexuality, so this is a sly hint of Edward’s youthful romantic liaison that we will learn about — not here, but eventually.) Edward says that he must speak to Elinor, which we and Elinor think will be a marriage proposal. Instead Edward tells a rambling story of his early education under the tutelage of Mr. Pratt (PLANT), and before he can get to the point, Fanny races in telling him their mother needs him immediately back at the family home. Edward obeys Fanny (JUST SAY SOMETHING, STUPID!), and the Dashwoods move from their home to a cottage on the estate of Mrs. Dashwood’s wealthy cousin, without a marriage proposal from Edward to Elinor. (26 min.)

CLIMAX SEQUENCE TWO

(As I said, you could call that all one long sequence.)

SEQUENCE THREE: (27 min. to 45 min.)

This sequence sets up Marianne’s story, as the first sequence, or two sequences, set up Elinor’s.

The Dashwoods arrive at Barton Cottage, their new, much smaller home (but I’d still take it any day!) with gorgeous shots of the Devonshire countryside. (CROSSING THE THRESHOLD and INTO THE SPECIAL WORLD.)

They are heartily welcomed by the crass, noisy, but warm-hearted Sir John and his mother-in-law, wealthy Mrs. Jennings, surrounded by their pack of dogs (dogs are a classic symbol of the id and instincts, here run rampant). These are ALLIES, and Mrs. Jennings is also the MENTOR/FAIRY GODMOTHER. There’s a great moment when Margaret says later that she likes Mrs. Jennings because “She talks about things. We never talk about things.”

They settle into their new life: Elinor struggles to make ends meet for the family and secretly pines for Edward (though she tells her mother that it’s more sensible to be practical about the barriers to Edward marrying a woman without a dowry. Again, Elinor’s character WEAKNESS — she’s practical against the wishes of her own heart.)

Fiery Marianne catches the eye of Sir John’s good friend, the county’s most eligible bachelor, wealthy and cultured Colonel Brandon (a completely dreamy Alan Rickman). (Just a quick aside — look at the paintings of dogs behind Sir John and Mrs. Jennings in this scene as they tease Elinor.) Marianne scorns Brandon’s attentions, dismissing him as too old (he’s 35 in the book). Brandon is a perfect gentleman (and like Edward, very charming and attentive to young Margaret, a CLUE). Elinor likes him, but is not immediately won over. And Alan Rickman is great casting, here; he so often plays villains that there’s an ambiguity about his performance which keeps us in suspense about whether or not he’s a good man, and right for Marianne — after all, marrying for money often leads to tragedy.

Elinor asks Mrs. Jennings about Brandon and Mrs. Jennings tells Elinor that Brandon has a tragic past: as a youth he fell in love with his father's young ward, and the family broke up the lovers by sending Brandon away to the military and turning the girl out of the house. She was “passed from man to man” and when Brandon returned from the West Indies he searched for her and found her dying in a poorhouse.

This is our FEAR for Marianne, and it’s a big one. In Austen’s time “ruin” for women meant prostitution and the attendant poverty and syphilis – the worst possible life.

Mrs. Jennings’ unsubtle matchmaking turns Marianne away from Brandon. Instead she falls hard for the young, handsome and dashing Willoughby, whom she meets in a stormy romantic scene on a moor right out of Wuthering Heights (SETPIECE). Willoughby also seems very well-fixed financially (set to inherit an older relative’s nearby estate) and outspokenly shares Marianne’s passion for poetry and music. Mrs. Dashwood and Margaret are instantly charmed; Marianne is openly adoring. Elinor, though, has doubts …

CLIMAX OF ACT ONE – (45 minutes into a 2-hour, 15-minute film)

There’s HOPE but also FEAR, here — I felt Willoughby was a bit over the top in a way that might backfire badly — might even lead to her “ruin.” Plus — this guy over Alan Rickman? I think not. Still, what I love about this casting and characterization is that he seems a good match for Marianne; it’s a legitimate romantic dilemma, and keeps us in SUSPENSE about which is the right man for her.

ACT II, PART 1

SEQUENCE FOUR

Willoughby and Marianne begin a very unrestrained courtship, including going on reckless carriage rides with no chaperone, which worries Elinor, but Marianne says if she had more shallow feelings, she could conceal them as Elinor does. (Working the THEME of SENSE AND SENSIBILITY)

Brandon comes to invite the Dashwoods to a picnic; Marianne will not say yes until Brandon invites Willoughby as well, when he comes to pick up Marianne for another carriage ride. After she leaves, Brandon tells Elinor that Marianne is completely unspoiled. Elinor confesses that she’d prefer that her sister become acquainted with the ways of the world. Brandon becomes quite agitated and counters that he once knew someone like Marianne and when she become acquainted with the ways of the world, she was ruined. (Our FEAR for Marianne.)

THEME: We see that Brandon’s life has also been devastated by this romance which his parents would not allow — because of, of course, money.

At the picnic, a messenger comes with a letter for Brandon and he takes off immediately for London, clearly very troubled (PLANT). Willoughby entertains the Dashwood women by making fun of Brandon’s stiffness; even Elinor has to laugh. (A great scene to keep up the suspense about which man is right for Marianne.)

Willoughby asks to speak to Marianne alone the next day, and the entire Dashwood family assumes he is going to propose. But when the family returns from church, expecting to find Marianne engaged, Marianne is weeping and refuses to tell the family what happened. Willoughby leaves abruptly, saying that he doesn't know when he'll return. Mrs. Dashwood tries to think the best of Willoughby, but Elinor knows something is wrong, Willoughby is acting guilty. At the end of the scene, all the Dashwood women go to their rooms in tears except for Elinor, who sits on the stairs drinking tea as sobbing comes from every door around her. (A nice comic moment; Lee is always so aware of his genre.)

SEQUENCE FIVE

Mrs. Jennings' daughter Charlotte arrives from London with a young friend named Lucy Steele. This is also the beginning of an excellent comic subplot with Mrs. Jennings’ twit of a daughter and her bitter husband, Hugh Laurie in a wonderful performance — and a great character arc, as his true colors come out later. It’s not just comedic; it’s another variation on the theme of how marrying for money destroys lives, men’s as well as women’s.

Lucy tells Elinor that she's been eager to meet her, she’s heard so much about her. While the ladies are playing cards, Lucy pulls Elinor aside and swears her to secrecy as she confides that she's been secretly engaged to Edward Ferrars for five years. (PAYOFF of Edward’s interrupted story in the stable.) Lucy makes Elinor promise not to tell a soul, but she wanted Elinor to know because Edward thinks of Elinor as a sister. Lucy is obviously (to the audience) trying to get rid of Elinor, her competition, but Elinor is shattered (remember the SETUP that Edward is too honorable to ever go back on a promise of engagement). This is a huge REVELATION which completes this DOUBLE MIDPOINT – devastation for both sisters, but particularly for Elinor.

As Elinor reels from this blow, Mrs. Jennings invites Marianne, Elinor and Lucy to London with her to London for “the season” with the intent to marry them off. (This is RECALIBRATION: a NEW PLAN.) Marianne is thrilled because she'll be able to contact Willoughby. (PLAN and HOPE.)

(1 HR. 11 MINUTES – eleven extra minutes in the first half, but that’s proportionate for a 2 hr. 15-minute movie.)

ACT TWO, PART 2

SEQUENCE SIX

Now there’s a huge location change to London, a whole new arena (it’s common to change locations radically at the Midpoint). This is the mentor/fairy godmother, Mrs. Jennings, doing her best to get the young women married, and in Austen’s time “the season” was designed precisely for this purpose; it’s actually quite a practical plan.

The women arrive in London and Marianne immediately sends letters to Willoughby at all hours of the day and night (with building comic reactions from the butler). Willoughby does not answer her. Mrs. Jennings assures Marianne that the good weather has kept many of the men in the country; they’ll be back in London soon enough. (This mentor really knows the intricacies of the hunt, so to speak …)

Colonel Brandon comes to visit and asks Elinor confidentially if things are set between Marianne and Willoughby. Elinor says she's sure they have feelings for each other. Brandon looks crushed, but says he hopes Willoughby will “endeavor to deserve her” and he will speak no further. We by now have enormous sympathy for Brandon. (Note the painting of a martyred saint behind him on the wall in this scene.)

Mrs. Jennings takes the young women to a ball (SETPIECE and PLAN), where Elinor meets and dances with Edward’s foppish brother Robert (creating FEAR that Elinor will end up with him, but also HOPE when Robert seems quite taken with Lucy). Marianne spots Willoughby across the room. She calls his name and runs to him; he doesn’t look happy to see her. She asks him why he didn't write back or visit and he coldly leaves her to join a group of aristocrats. One beautiful woman, Miss Grey, who is clearly involved with Willoughby (and who we learn has an inheritance of 50,000 pounds) looks down her nose at Marianne and her clothes (which are in color and cut a poorer version of Miss Grey’s). Marianne nearly faints from the humiliation and shock, and Elinor and Mrs. Jennings have to help her out of the room.

That night a distraught Marianne writes another letter. In the morning, an envelope arrives; Willoughby has sent back the lock of her hair and all her letters, apologizing for any misapprehension, but claiming he has no special feelings for her and announcing he's engaged. Elinor is furious; Marianne defends him to Elinor, saying that they weren't ever engaged. (CHARACTER GROWTH FOR MARIANNE), but Elinor says he and Marianne may not have been engaged, but he made them all believe that he loved her. Elinor is able to express her rage when Marianne is hurt (some CHARACTER GROWTH), but not for herself.

SEQUENCE SEVEN

Brandon visits Elinor, having heard the entire story. He tells Elinor that the unfortunate girl he loved as a young man bore another man’s child before she died. (A staple of period romance: THE SECRET CHILD.) Brandon placed the child, Beth, with a family in the country and supported her as his ward (THE SECRET WARD), but she disappeared eight months ago. The day he left the picnic it was because Beth had been found, pregnant, after having been seduced and abandoned — by Willoughby. Because of this revelation, Willoughby’s elderly relative is disinheriting him, which explains why he is now marrying for money. But Brandon tells Elinor he believes Willoughby’s feelings for Marianne were real. (More THEME — of the devastation caused by society’s strict insistence on marrying only to increase the family fortune. Also again, Brandon brings up very clearly the fear of what will happen to Marianne.) Elinor asks if Brandon will escort them home. (New PLAN.)

Elinor tells Marianne of all Brandon has said. Marianne is again terribly wounded, but tells Elinor she was right to tell her of Willoughby’s history.

Lucy comes to visit Elinor again, still trying to maintain her hold on Edward even though she’s been flirting with Robert. Suddenly Edward is announced (THE REVOLVING DOOR), and enters the room, starting to speak to Elinor before he realizes that Lucy is there, too. Edward’s GREATEST NIGHTMARE come to life, as well as a nightmare for Elinor – an excruciating scene emotionally, but played for comedy as well. A brilliant example of subtext, too. The storytellers are putting us and the characters through every EMOTIONAL WRINGER they can throw at us.

After Edward is gone, Marianne ends the scene with a sharp observation to Elinor, “If I were Edward I would think that you did not care for me at all.” (THE AWFUL TRUTH. Marianne makes a great point.)

Now we cut to an unfamiliar house, where we see Lucy is staying with Fanny. The two have become quite close, but when Lucy reveals her secret engagement to Edward, Fanny attacks her physically and drags her out of the house. (Great DEFEAT OF TWO OPPONENTS. We always need to see the villains get their COMEUPPANCE.)

Before they leave, Marianne and Elinor learn that Lucy has been thrown out of Fanny's house because of her engagement to Edward, which he's promised to honor even though he's been disinherited and left with no money. (THEME — more devastation wreaked by the opponent.) The whole situation does put Edward in a terrible bind that’s not of his own making; he’s willing to do the right thing, but at a terrible cost.

Marianne is upset that Elinor never confided in her about Edward’s engagement to Lucy, and asks Elinor where her heart is. Elinor breaks slightly, assuring Marianne that if she hadn't been sworn to secrecy she could have provided proof enough of her broken heart. (CHARACTER ARC — Elinor’s emotions are thawing.) (1.45)

Colonel Brandon again visits Elinor and asks her if she will relay a message to Edward that he wants to offer Edward a job at the parish on his estate to enable him to marry right away. Elinor fights her emotions, saying that Brandon should tell Edward himself, but Brandon insists that it would be best coming from her. On the surface, it seems like just one more stake in Elinor’s heart, but when Brandon says, “I feel certain this is the right course of action,” we get the sense he’s trying to get Elinor and Edward together again. It’s a subtle moment, beautifully played by Alan Rickman. I love the brother/sister relationship between Brandon and Elinor; they are becoming family before our eyes. On the other hand, if we didn’t know the story, we might think Brandon and Elinor might end up together (SUSPENSE …)

Elinor summons Edward and tells him of Brandon’s offer. It’s clear they're both torn up about his engagement. Edward is sure Elinor must hate him, but Elinor insists that she can't hate him for keeping his promises. (A running THEME of broken promises and kept promises. Again, note the paintings behind each of them in this scene.) It seems to me that Edward believes Elinor and Brandon are becoming attached, a MISAPPREHENSION which keeps him from revealing his true feelings, although they come through loud and clear. (JUST SAY SOMETHING, STUPID!) This hero and heroine definitely have the same character flaw! (YOUR MATE IS YOUR MIRROR.)

ALL IS LOST, and a five-Kleenex scene.

CLIMAX Act II, Part 2

ACT THREE

SEQUENCE EIGHT

The two sisters start the long journey home in Mrs. Jennings’ daughter Charlotte’s carriage. Brandon follows on horseback; he will escort them home from Charlotte's house. Charlotte chatters on about Lucy and Edward — excruciating for Elinor and Marianne (and for Charlotte’s long-suffering husband, more wonderfulness from Hugh Laurie).

The party arrives at Charlotte’s magnificent estate — it certainly makes sense that Hugh Laurie would marry for that!

Marianne looks worse and worse; a great performance by Winslet of real heartbreak. Anyone who has experienced this kind of grief over love knows that it does feel like dying, and the physical and mental stress makes you very vulnerable to illness.

Marianne goes for a walk under threatening skies. (PAYOFF TO THE PLANT: “You always say it’s not going to rain and it always does.”) In fact it starts to storm, but she makes her way to the top of a hill where she can see Willoughby's house. The storm gets worse and Brandon goes out to search for her. Back at the estate, Hugh Laurie is surprisingly kind to Elinor, perceptive to what is driving Marianne, and willing to put himself out for both sisters. We get a sense of the man he could have been if he hadn’t married badly, for money. (THEME.)

Brandon returns, carrying a pale and faint Marianne — a visual echo of how she met Willoughby, but much more realistic, as Brandon collapses to his knees from the strain of carrying her so far. It’s very powerful to repeat an image like that — it works on deep, subconscious levels.

Marianne is put to bed very ill. Charlotte, her husband and their baby must leave the house because Marianne is infectious, but Brandon stays and paces the floors as he worries over Marianne. He asks Elinor to give him something to do or he’ll go mad; she asks him to bring their mother.

The doctor bleeds Marianne — there’s a shocking close-up of her blood being carried away in a white china bowl, which digs into us emotionally. And of course bleeding was an absolutely useless procedure; the situation is dire. The doctor tells Elinor to prepare herself.

In a wrenching DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL, Elinor begs Marianne not to leave her. The look on Elinor’s face when she huddles by her sister’s bed is haunting, a fantastic performance, and the whole room feels like a crypt. It’s a beautiful depiction of a VISIT TO DEATH and another turning point for Elinor — her façade cracking and her emotion and desperation spilling out.

(Note that the DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL is in Act III of this story instead of at the end of Act II, which proves that almost all of these story elements are moveable depending on the needs of your own story.)

Then there’s the big contrast of sun and birds chirping in the morning as Elinor wakes by Marianne's bedside. The doctor feels Marianne's forehead and smiles. There is the sound of a carriage in the distance as Mrs. Dashwood arrives with Brandon. Elinor runs to meet her mother to say Marianne is out of danger.

As Elinor and Mrs. Dashwood embrace Marianne in her bed, Brandon quietly backs out of the room to leave the family alone, but Marianne says his name and thanks him. The look on Brandon’s face is utterly captivating.

SEQUENCE NINE

Spring has arrived; at the Dashwood cottage, Margaret plays in her new tree house and Brandon reads to Marianne, in one of the most romantic scenes I have ever seen on film — the perfect poem for the moment, thematically. We see that Brandon and Marianne share a real passion for music and art. Brandon is going away, and Marianne asks him not to be away long.

Elinor and Marianne walk on the heath; Marianne shows Elinor where she fell and met Willoughby. Elinor tells her that Willoughby will always regret her. Marianne also has regrets; her own conduct, which she compares with what it should have been: Elinor's. (MARIANNE’S CHARACTER ARC).

In the next scene, as the Dashwood women read and study at the table, one of the servants tells them he spoke to the new Mrs. Ferrars in town. Elinor leaves the table to be alone. FAULTY INFORMATION – a staple of comedy and romance! It sets up huge fresh devastation for Elinor so the next scene will be even more powerfully joyful; it’s that rollercoaster ride that we live for in these stories.

A few days later, a man arrives on horseback. The Dashwood women are expecting Brandon, but it’s Edward, arriving amidst beautiful shots of spring: new buds on the trees, flowers, new hope. The Dashwood women awkwardly congratulate him on his marriage (Lee milks the MISAPPREHENSION here) and finally Edward understands and tells the Dashwood women that he's not the one Lucy married. After he was disowned he could not have held her to her obligation; she has married Edward's younger brother Robert instead. (Again, some very funny business with the porcelain figurines on the mantle: a man and a woman separated by a sheep. These things aren’t accidental.)

Elinor suddenly bursts into uncontrollable tears (CHARACTER ARC). The other Dashwood women rush out, leaving Edward and Elinor alone, and Edward tells her that from the beginning his heart has been, and will always be, hers.

As Marianne and Mrs. Dashwood pace anxiously in the garden, Margaret climbs up to her treehouse and reports on what’s going on inside: Edward is getting down on his knees. The women are beside themselves with happiness.

ACT III CLIMAX

The film ends with a wedding at the local church: Marianne and Brandon come out of the chapel, and we see an already married and joyously happy Elinor and Edward in the procession.

A wedding is the traditional end to a romantic comedy, and Ang Lee avoids cliché by cutting right to the wedding procession and with the wonderful images of this closing scene. Also traditionally, he wraps up all the supporting players in this final scene: showing Fanny and John scrambling for the wedding coins, and giving us a last glimpse of Hugh Laurie and Charlotte. It’s very theatrical and satisfying.

And then we see Willoughby on horseback, watching alone from the top of the heath. COMEUPPANCE — but it’s sad: his life has been ruined — by his own actions but also by the inflexibility of society.

Marianne gets into a magnificent carriage to drive away with Brandon, who throws gold coins into the crowd — a fantastic closing image of abundance. The money of course is thematic, but it’s not mere money we’re seeing there, it’s happiness.

I find that there’s a subtle poignancy about the end. It seems to me that Brandon and Marianne will have a much more restrained passion between them than Elinor and Edward will have. Brandon and Marianne burned themselves out on their first, reckless loves, and their marriage will actually be more sedate than Edward’s and Elinor’s — these two apparently restrained people have actually shown themselves to be very capable of deep intimacy and exploration with each other. A fantastic role reversal, an amazing end to a perfect film.

2 hrs. 15 minutes.

47. Romancing the Stone

Screenplay by Diane Thomas

Directed by Robert Zemekis

Starring Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner

1984

Running time 106 minutes

RTS is a romantic comedy/adventure. As you watch it, notice how masterfully the movie delivers on the promises of the genre and premise: a major delight of the movie is in seeing the transformation of Joan, the meek little romance author, into a strong, confident, adventurous woman. There are moments and scenes of romance and chemistry all the way through, and several action/suspense scenes, plus several comedy scenes, in every sequence. If you’re writing cross-genre, like romantic comedy/adventure, it’s really helpful to watch cross-genre films and note each comic, action, and romantic beat and exactly how often they come, because you should be hitting those beats just as often in yours.

RTS is an especially good example; it’s funny, it’s high energy, and it’s perfectly cast with actors who know exactly what the audience is looking for and how to give it to them.

The KIND of story is a journey story (road trip, only mostly on foot) and a MacGuffin story: everyone wants the map and the treasure it leads to, and the action is several sets of people pursuing that MacGuffin.

ACT ONE

SEQUENCE ONE

OPENING IMAGE:

The movie opens with a story within a story: Joan is writing the climax of her latest romance novel, Angelina’s Revenge. She narrates in voice-over an archetypal Western bodice-ripper — the climactic scene in a dim frontier cabin, with a bodice-ripped heroine packing a well-placed knife killing the evil bastard who “Murdered my father, raped and murdered my sister, shot my dog and stole my Bible.” We are instantly engaged in the story because it opens on an action scene with obvious jeopardy; it sets the comic tone, and treats us to some beautiful Southwestern scenery. And it introduces us to Joan’s alter-ego – the sensual and intrepid Angelina, and her heart’s desire: the shadowy, hunky Jesse. It’s a complete externalization of the HEROINE’S INNER and OUTER DESIRE — she wants to be that woman and have that man. (4 min.)

As Jesse and Angelina ride off into the desert, we dissolve to Joan in her office, typing “The End” and sobbing her eyes out. Joan is, to put it bluntly, a mess. This is a fine CHARACTER INTRODUCTION and a great example of how you can use a character’s environment to tell us all we need to know about the character, pretty much instantly: we see her book collages on the wall, her book cover posters and awards, the state of her apartment, the obsessive (and apparently ineffective) Post-It notes, the sad state of her refrigerator (a hard boiled egg, dozens of vitamin bottles, and cat food). Also, she’s still in her pajamas. Not that any of us would recognize this state of affairs. (HEROINE IN ORDINARY WORLD.) All of this is seen under the CREDITS. Nowadays no one has a credits sequence like this — the credits almost always go at the end of the movie, because, apparently, modern audiences are too impatient to sit through them. (5:22)

We see Joan’s social life in a nutshell as she celebrates the completion of her book with her cat, Romeo. In a word, pathetic. And there’s another very obvious statement of her DESIRE: she toasts to the book poster, the shadowy silhouette of “Jesse,” and actually says: “Whoever you are.” (7:43)

JEOPARDY: a different kind of shadowy man in sadistic-looking leather gloves (yes, they do look sadistic) makes a call from a phone booth. The call wakes Joan up — the caller says nothing. This is the first sight we get of the ANTAGONIST: Zolo. He has a copy of one of Joan’s books with her author photo on the back, so we know he’s after Joan. This is also a RUNNING GAG: the book with the author photo. Repetition is a cornerstone of comedy. (9:14)

(I’ve noted some of these comedy tricks throughout this movie breakdown, but I am absolutely not an expert. It’s crucial to be familiar with comedy tricks and tropes if comedy is what you’re writing, so make sure you learn everything you can, from everywhere you can.)

Joan rushes to her publisher appointment with her finished book. She is not what anyone would call a fashion plate: no makeup, bland clothes. She helps her elderly neighbor up the stairs, and the neighbor hands her a bulky envelope addressed to her and postmarked from Columbia, which Joan doesn’t open (SET UP). (9:29)

Out on the street Joan tries to catch a cab while being pestered by street vendors. She has trouble fending them off. (Important SET UP for her CHARACTER ARC; we’ll come back to this street and these guys in the end.)

Meanwhile, the South American man with the ominous gloves is in the hall of Joan’s apartment building, breaking in to her apartment. The janitor catches him and Zolo knifes him. So now we know the STAKES are going to be life and death, and the FEAR starts that Joan will be killed by this guy. (10: 24)

Joan meets her publisher Gloria in a bar (ALLY, and the TAVERN is an archetypal jumping-off point for a journey story). There’s a thematic scene here, with the publisher analyzing a line of guys at the bar — all losers or flawed in some major way. This is a typical scene you see in a romantic comedy: the ally’s sole goal in life seems to be to make the protagonist happy. This must be some kind of holdover from all those theatrical drawing room comedies when the ally and sounding board is the servant. In real life, it’s not very believable that anyone would be so focused on someone else’s happiness, don’t you think? Sleepless in Seattle is another example of the ally, Rosie O’Donnell, going way out of her way to effect the protagonist’s happiness with no apparent desire for her own love life. It’s much better writing to give the ally a desire of her own.

In this scene though, that unreality is mitigated by the fact that the publisher is halfway cruising for herself as well and obviously enjoys gutting the hapless line of men.

We get an overt statement of the heroine’s DESIRE: “I know it sounds crazy but I know there’s someone out there for me.”

Now, in this story, unlike in a lot of others, the inner desire and outer desire are not so far apart. Joan wants the love of her life and she gets him. But her inner need is to come out of her shell and start living her life fully, which is exactly what she does that gets her that love of her life, an important distinction, I think.

The scene also serves as exposition: Joan’s sister Elaine is living in Columbia and her husband was recently horribly murdered. This is some deft writing and performance, here; it’s tough to play exposition like that as comic, but it works:

Publisher: “Did they find the rest of her husband’s body yet?

Joan: “Just the one — piece.”

There’s a nice dialogue cut here (10:33) to introduce Elaine, the sister. Joan says “Elaine always manages,” and we cut to a hotel by the beach in Cartagena, where Elaine is fleeing the hotel, but then is kidnapped — by a little boy. Again, the scene is played as comic, and it keeps the tone light that the kidnapper is a little kid — we don’t have to worry about anything too bad happening to Elaine, here. I for one am always grateful to filmmakers and authors who let me know up front that I’m not going to be subjected to rape or torture. (Thomas Harris does this very deftly in The Silence of the Lambs.)

This is the INCITING INCIDENT: an ACTION SEQUENCE that is also the sequence climax: a kidnapping, speeding car, cut to the kidnappers, and getting Elaine on the boat, all with the beautiful backdrop of the Cartagena port. It also sets up the location we will come back to for the climactic FINAL BATTLE: that stone fort (or whatever it is!) on the harbor. (15 min.)

Within this sequence we meet one set of antagonists: Elaine’s kidnappers, Ira and Ralph. They are classic comic characters, one tall and thin, one short and round (a SIGHT GAG — comedy loves CONTRAST like this.) They are city boys from Queens who are fish out of water in this South American country (FISH OUT OF WATER being another classic comedy element). Ira is suave but crazy (that obsession with the gators – SET UP, and RUNNING GAG: “Look at those choppers!”); Ralph is neurotic but actually the more sensible of the two; he knows this whole venture is ill-advised. Again, we don’t have to really worry about Elaine being held captive by these guys, which keeps the tone comic. We learn from a line from Ralph that the two have made a fortune in antiquities. Also the male cousins mirror the sisters; you often find this kind of TWINNING and MIRRORING in comedy and romantic comedy. (15:40)

Joan comes back to her apartment and finds it ransacked. Suspense scene — because she should not be walking through that apartment — and classic FALSE SCARE: the cat jumps down on her from the top of the refrigerator. Then another FALSE SCARE: the phone ringing right beside her. All total manipulation, but storytellers do it because it works.

It’s Elaine calling, in a classic and blatant CALL TO ADVENTURE: she’s been kidnapped and needs Joan to fly to Cartagena and bring the treasure map that Elaine’s dead husband sent to Joan (in that envelope that she had with her, meaning Zolo couldn’t find it in the apartment. The treasure map and the emerald it leads to is the MACGUFFIN: the object that everyone wants). Ira is holding a knife on Elaine and Elaine says “They’ll cut me, Joan … they’ll hurt me.”) Big STAKES: Joan’s sister will die like her husband if Joan doesn’t go to Cartagena to ransom her.

And that’s the PLAN, and the CENTRAL STORY ACTION right there: Joan is going to go to Cartagena to ransom her sister with the treasure map. (17: 36)

Joan is packing and leaving her cat with her publisher. The publisher is trying to talk her out of going and makes a big point out of how hapless and hopeless Joan is in the real world (set up for CHARACTER ARC). She says, “You’re not up for this, Joan, and you know it.” (FEAR. See what I mean about just saying it aloud?)

Zolo follows Joan’s taxi. (FEAR for her). (19:20)

SEQUENCE TWO

INTO THE SPECIAL WORLD: Joan arrives in Cartagena. Big location scene and contrast — the crowded South American bus station. Joan doesn’t speak English and is whiter than white in this arena, a fish out of water. Notice that she passes right by Ralph, who is looking for her, holding a copy of a book with her author photo on the back. (RUNNING GAG.) A big rule of drama, and comedy, is: “Keep the hero/ine and antagonist in proximity.” This film does it masterfully.

Zolo, in the guise of a helpful businessman, directs Joan onto the wrong bus and follows her onto it. Ralph realizes too late that she’s taken off in the wrong direction. (21:20)

Joan wakes up on the bus in middle of the Columbian mountains. It’s gorgeous — we are really in the SPECIAL WORLD now. Joan realizes she’s made a bad mistake, and when she tries to talk to the bus driver to find out where they are, he is not watching the road and runs into a Jeep parked by the side of the road. Hundreds of tropical birds are released from cages in the Jeep.

The other passengers pour out of the bus and start to walk. Zolo tells Joan she should wait — another bus will be along. SUSPENSE and FEAR — and part of the suspense here is that we know more than the heroine. As soon as they are alone, Zolo pulls a knife on Joan and demands her purse (where the treasure map is). (25:38)

A man in silhouette appears at the top of a ridge (just like Jesse in Joan’s story) and starts shooting at Zolo. GUN BATTLE — action sequence. The stranger runs Zolo off. (INTRO TO HERO/LOVE INTEREST). (27:22)

And to top off this action scene, Ralph has been following Joan in that little yellow car (the tiny car is a SIGHT GAG) and Zolo now uses his police badge to commandeer the car and drive him out. (REVELATION: the bad guy is a military cop. Also it’s the beginning of a RUNNING GAG about Ralph’s car being stolen out from under him.) This is an extremely important element for a romantic comedy or comedy: the CONVERGENCE OF SUBPLOTS. All of these subplots are operating really right on top of each other and constantly complicating each other — as if the characters are all magnetized and constantly within each other’s magnetic fields.

And this is a prime example of what I’m talking about when I keep saying you need to break down ten films/books in the genre you’re writing in. This convergence of subplots is one of the games that a romantic comedy or comedy plays with its audience that you are not necessarily going to find playing out so blatantly in other genres, and you need to see how other storytellers handle this element of the genre.

Now, you could say that the gun battle is the climax of Act One, and I wouldn’t really argue with you. But I think it’s only one of a couple of climaxes to the act, and the next scene really is still part of Act One, so I’ll include the next scene in this discussion.

As Ralph and Zolo drive away, we are left with Joan and Jack at the bus.

(In Hollywood terms, Joan is the protagonist, and in a romantic comedy the main antagonist is always the love interest. But Romancing the Stone is different from a Hollywood romantic comedy in that it’s an actual romance, and typically the male and female leads in a romance have pretty much equal weight, and the POV alternates between the female and male leads. So we have both these things going on in this movie: the almost-equal male/female leads, and the love interest as a major antagonist — but Zolo has been set up as such a threat it’s hard to think of Jack as the main antagonist.)

Here we have a detailed set up of Jack Colton, his back story and OUTER DESIRE. He’s been in Columbia working on a scheme to sell exotic birds to get the money to buy his dream boat (the photo of the boat that he rescues from the wreckage of his Jeep is an EXTERNAL REPRESENTATION of his drive and DESIRE). We suspect he’s a good guy because he’s selling birds rather than drugs, which he says straight out was another option. And of course we know this is Joan’s prospective true love.

But at the moment, all Jack cares about is that he’s penniless and vehicle-less. Joan wheedles with him to take her to civilization and a phone, and offers to pay. This is a nice scene for CHARACTER GROWTH: Joan actually bargains with Jack and gets the price down — we’re proud of her! And we see a spark of CHEMISTRY as they haggle with each other — very nicely played, and an essential story line for a romance: the growth of attraction. (THE DANCE.) Jack is attracted to Joan when she asserts herself. But not enough to carry her suitcase for her. (30:49)

(This is another place you could call the climax of Act One. The revised PLAN and CENTRAL QUESTION are very clearly set up: Will Jack get Joan safely back to Cartagena in time to ransom her sister (and before Zolo kills Joan for the map)?

They start off in the pouring rain, Joan stumbling on her Italian pumps. And that mousy little beige outfit she’s wearing starts to undergo a transformation as the rain turns it into a clinging knockout of a dress.

Zolo arrives at the local police station and starts gathering a team of men. Now, interestingly, and I would say this is unusual: there’s no TICKING CLOCK attached to the kidnap and ransom demand from the cousins; they seem to be on South American time. But there is a sense of urgency and a time clock associated with Zolo, especially when we see him amassing troops; we know if he finds Joan he’ll kill her. (31:22)

Jack gets annoyed at Joan’s dawdling with the suitcase and takes it from her — only to throw it over the cliff. The cliff edge crumbles and Joan takes a wild ride down the muddy slope, followed by Jack, who ends up with his face in her crotch. Another large spark of attraction for Jack, here, and it’s what I would say is the real climax of Sequence Two and Act One, as Jack crows, “Welcome to Columbia, Joan Wilder!” (33:30)

(Now that you’ve seen it, what do you think is the Act Climax? The gun battle, which climaxes the action plot? The bargaining for Jack to take Joan to a phone, which starts them off on the road together? The mudslide ride?

The bottom line to me is — it doesn’t really matter. You can go crazy debating the exact moment, but of course in a romance you’re going for multiple climaxes, so to speak, and that’s exactly what this movie pulls off so well.)

ACT TWO, PART 1

SEQUENCE THREE

Kidnapper Ira has lunch with Elaine on his yacht. The roses on the table indicate a possible romance there between Elaine and her captor. (Which is a funny little subplot; true to character, Elaine is instantly attracted to another inappropriate man. Also this seems to run in the family; both Joan and Elaine are attracted to bad boys, Elaine in real life, Joan in her fantasies and then in real life.) (33:50)

Ralph phones from the police station or military encampment and reports to an enraged Ira that he has been waylaid by Zolo and his men. Ralph panics when he sees his own mug shot up on the bulletin board and scrambles to pull it down, of course falling over in the process (PRATFALL). Ira orders him to get the map, and then rants to Elaine that Joan is being pursued by Zolo: the Minister of Antiquities, the head of the secret police, and a known butcher. (This is a very deft summation of why Zolo is after the stone and why he has so many military men at his disposal — it all happens in just one line of dialogue. Ira doesn’t explain anything, but we get that Zolo is using his official positions to steal priceless treasures, and also that it was Zolo who killed Elaine’s husband.) (35:50)

Back to Joan and Jack, who are recovering from their fall. Jack uses his machete (note the size of Jack’s knife!) to chop the heels off Joan’s Italian shoes so she can walk. Suddenly the two are fired upon by Zolo and his men (ATTACK ON HERO/INE). Jack realizes the cops are after Joan and shouts, “Deal’s off!” as they run through the forest with Zolo and his men in pursuit. Jack and Joan run right up against the edge of a precipice, with a raging river below. Jack pulls out his rifle to fire on their pursuers, while Joan tries to cross an ancient, rickety bridge (SUSPENSE, JEOPARDY). The bridge breaks and Joan grabs for a vine, which swings her over to the opposite cliff and lands her safely on her ass. Jack watches, stupefied, and then grabs a vine of his own and swings. He falls short, and must scramble up a sheer rock face while Joan dives into her airline bag and finds a mini-bottle of booze to calm herself.

Zolo and his men continue to fire, but can’t follow. (41:54)

Jack chops his way through a field of thick banana palms in the drenching rain. He pauses, exhausted, and when Joan asks if they’re stopping, he hands her the machete. Joan intrepidly slashes forward, while Jack follows from behind, enjoying the view provided by her torn skirt. Joan runs into a decaying corpse and screams; a plane has crashed in the field and what is left of the pilot is hanging out the window. Jack holds her to comfort her (PHYSICAL CONTACT, CHEMISTRY).

SEQUENCE FOUR

The two take shelter in the plane, which has a cargo of marijuana. Nice line when Jack asks if Joan has smoked and she says nonchalantly, “I went to college.” They bed down for the night, drinking the pilot’s tequila (a typical scene in a romantic comedy — the potential lovers getting stuck on the road together and getting to know each other, bonding — a variation on the CABIN IN THE WOODS scene). Jack asks about her sister. Joan lies that she’s in the country to comfort Elaine after the death of her husband, but Jack finds the treasure map and gets the real story out of Joan (time dissolve so we don’t have to hear it again). He knows now that she’s there to ransom her sister. But Jack says they’re right in the territory detailed by the map; why not go after “El Corazon,” whatever that treasure is, so they can have more bargaining power with the kidnappers? (Proposing NEW PLAN) Joan is offended that Jack is only out for himself and goes on a rant about what a real man is (including “dependable” and “trustworthy,” which is a main theme of their love plot). In the middle of it, Jack kills an enormous poisonous snake that is about to strike Joan. Demonstrating a certain kind of dependability, if you want to look at it that way … (49:38)

Zolo arrives back at the military compound. (Don’t go too long without showing WHAT THE BAD GUY IS DOING — it creates suspense to know that he’s out there actively scheming.) (50 min.)

Back at the plane in the jungle, Jack and Joan are now very drunk and stoned from the burning kilos of pot. Jack tells Joan about the birds he lost — he was selling them rather than selling drugs. Joan asks him seriously what he really wants, and he tells her about his dream boat; he wants to buy a boat and sail around the world, all by himself. (HERO’S DESIRE and SECRET DREAM). She says, “It sounds lonely,” and they have a moment of big chemistry (LOVE PLOT), but Joan passes out. Jack takes the map and studies it, noting a landmark called “El Tenador del Diablo,” the “Devil’s Fork.” (CLUE, and HERO/ANTAGONIST’S PLAN) (54:15)

Morning, and Ralph wakes up — he’s sleeping in the back seat of his car (PLANT).

Meanwhile Jack and Joan walk out of the jungle and into a village full of drug runners (which has been set up nicely by the crashed drug plane), who follow them menacingly. Jack is about to pull his gun, when Joan turns and asks the leader where they might rent a car. The drug runner says the only car in the village belongs to “Juan the Bellmaker.”

Jack and Joan knock on the door of Juan’s compound, and are greeted by a gun and the order to “hit the road.” They turn, only to see all the rest of the drug runners amassed, holding guns on them. Then Juan recognizes Joan as “Juanita Wilder” — his favorite author. All the men murmur, impressed. (TWIST, and PAYOFF of the plant from the publisher saying that Joan’s books do well in macho countries, and continues the gag about Joan Wilder’s photo on the back cover of her book.)

Juan ushers them into his house, gushing. (This is a nice extended cameo by director Alphonso Arau). (OPPONENT who turns into ALLY.)

Zolo arrive in the village with jeeps full of men. He threatens an old woman to find out where the gringos are. (58:47)

Juan wants to hang out and show Joan the village. She asks him to take them to a phone. As Zolo’s men surround the house, Juan drives Joan and Jack out in a tricked-out Jeep, and a chase ensues, with Juan speeding over hills and across ditches with Zolo’s men in hot pursuit, firing machine guns at them. (MAJOR ATTACK ON HERO/INE) Juan loses the men when he jumps the Jeep across a river over which he’s built an automated escape bridge.

(MIDPOINT – action scene, narrow escape. 1:04)

ACT TWO, PART TWO

SEQUENCE FIVE

As Juan, Jack and Joan take a breather in a mountain field, Joan picks flowers, looking very sexily disheveled and glowing from their wild ride (more and more like Angelina). Or perhaps that’s just because we’re seeing her from Jack’s POV, and he’s seeing her in a new light after having read some of her very steamy novel. (You have to love a man who enjoys your books, right?)

When he stands, Jack sees a huge tree shaped like a pitchfork and realizes he’s looking at “El Tenador Del Diablo” — the landmark for the treasure. He keeps it to himself. (The issue of his TRUSTWORTHINESS). (1:05)

Ralph phones Ira from another town to report that he’s lost Joan again — then sees Joan and Jack walking straight toward him through the town square. Ralph gets off the phone as Joan reaches for it (HEROINE AND VILLAIN IN PROXIMITY, again). Joan calls the kidnappers and Jack goes to get a room in the nearest hotel, where he asks for a Xerox machine. (PLAN: He intends to go after the treasure himself.)

Jack joins Joan at the phone, where she reports that Elaine is all right, and the kidnappers will be expecting her on the bus in the morning. She is worried that Ira sounded smug, somehow, and wonders what that means. She gives Jack his $375 — after all, he’s brought her to the phone as they agreed. They both have a moment of reluctance to part, and Jack says — “At least I can buy you dinner.” Joan goes up to the room to shower and we get the sense Jack is angling to steal and copy the map. (1:08)

Night now, and the town is lit up, preparing for a party in the square. In the hotel room, Joan comes out of the shower to find Jack has bought her new, pretty clothes (MAKEOVER). He meets her dressed in new duds himself, and there’s a moment of big chemistry as they look each other over.

More LOVE PLOT as they eat dinner and he gives her a heart necklace he’s bought for her. Meanwhile Ralph is skulking around the periphery of the restaurant. Jack pulls Joan up to dance, and Ralph crawls under tables to get the map. A very large woman finds him under her table and proceeds to beat the crap out of him, while Jack and Joan dance wildly then kiss, with fireworks bursting in the sky. (1:13)

In bed (in a very hot post-coital position; this smartly chosen role catapulted Michael Douglas to leading man status as well as cemented his producer cred), Jack tells Joan he wants to take her sailing around the world. He promises he will. (PROMISE SCENE, but can we trust him?) Joan asks him why he hasn’t stolen the map yet; she saw the Devil’s Fork in the field, too. She says she wants to see him on that boat, and is thinking about what he said about getting the treasure themselves for leverage, but if there’s any doubt they have to hand it all over to the kidnappers — Elaine’s life comes first. Jack asserts, “Of course!” (NEW PLAN.) And as they start to make love again, he reaches under the mattress to grab the map and drop it back into her purse (issue of his TRUSTWORTHINESS). (1:15)

Zolo and his men pull up outside the hotel in the morning. Jack and Joan escape through the hotel window and jump into a car to steal it and get away. Of course it’s Ralph’s car, and he is sleeping in the back seat (PAYOFF, as well as RUNNING GAG about Ralph’s car being stolen out from under him with him in it). (1:16)

(SEQUENCE FIVE CLIMAX)

SEQUENCE SIX

Jack and Joan drive out in the tiny car into more beautiful mountainous fields (LOCATION CHANGE). Unbeknownst to them, Zolo and his men are following, and Ralph is huddled in the back seat (KEEPING EVERYONE IN CLOSE PROXIMITY). (1:17)

Following the landmarks on the map, Jack and Joan find the waterfall, another great visual, and enter the cave behind it, nice mysterious setting. They find the last location on the map, “Leche Del Madre,” “Mother’s Milk” — a pool of white limestone. (Another great LOCATION). While Jack digs in the pool, Joan tells him, “You’re the best time I’ve ever had.” Jack looks at her and says, “I was never anyone’s best time before.” They find a cheap statuette, with a priceless heart-shaped emerald inside. Jack takes one look at the stone and says — “We’re in big trouble.” Ralph speaks from behind them, training a gun on them: “Understatement of the year, asshole.” (ALL IS LOST moment). (1:20)

Ralph takes the emerald from them and walks them out to the car, holding the gun on them. When Jack insults him, Ralph says “I’m stealing the stone, not romancing it from under her.” Joan replies that it was her idea to go for the stone and Ralph sneers at her, “All the good con artists make you think it’s your idea.” Joan realizes that she’s been duped. (TRUST theme, and a double punch to the ALL IS LOST.)

Ralph sees Zolo coming across the field and takes off running. Joan jumps in the car and Jack tackles Ralph to get the emerald back. Then somehow mounted men appear from the opposite direction and start to battle it out with Zolo’s men (I never have been quite clear on what’s going on, there, but it’s straight out of one of Joan’s novels), while Joan and Jack drive, dodging gunfire again.

Joan drives the car into a river and they ride the rapids, and then tumble over a waterfall. They both bail out of the car and land on opposite sides of the raging river. Joan is furious; Jack has the stone and she accuses him of planning all this: “I knew I couldn’t depend on you!” Jack shouts back that she should follow the sunset and go to the Hotel Cartagena with the map, which is what she’s supposed to bring the kidnappers anyway, and he’ll meet her there. “Trust me!”

Zolo and his men appear, firing away, and Jack and Joan flee their separate ways.

ACT TWO CLIMAX – with the cliffhanger question: Will Jack show up or not? (1: 24)

ACT THREE

SEQUENCE SEVEN

Cartagena, and again, the beautiful visual of the port. (RETURNING TO A KEY LOCATION — it lets us know that the story is coming to a head). Joan walks through the city street, muddy and rumpled, but a completely different woman than the little mouse who scurried out of the bus station a few days ago. She looks like an adventurer (CHARACTER ARC, and shows how great it can be to use the backdrop of an earlier location to highlight character change).

In the hotel she calls Ira, who tells her to take a water taxi out to the tower on the port, “All by yourself.” Joan hangs up and calls the desk; Jack has not checked in yet.

Night, with lightning in the sky. Joan takes the water taxi and gets out on the spooky dock. Armed men are watching her as she enters the catacomb-like tower. (SUSPENSE, SETPIECE LOCATION.) As Ira’s voice demands the map, Joan demands to see her sister (CHARACTER GROWTH — this is definitely not a mouse, anymore). Elaine stumbles out into the chamber and Joan sets the map down. As the sisters embrace, Ira studies the map, and then tells them they’re free to go. (FALSE ENDING – CONFRONTATION WITH SECONDARY OPPONENT)

It’s a great technique to create a false ending at the climax of Sequence Seven like this, and then go on to the real battle with the main opponent in Sequence Eight.

SEQUENCE EIGHT

Now Zolo appears, with Jack and Ralph captive. (TWIST.) Zolo burns the map, saying “They already have the stone.” Joan lies that they dug and didn’t find it, so Zolo drags her out to the gator pit and cuts her to draw the gators. Jack calls to him to let Joan go, and drops the emerald from his pants. He throws it toward the pit, and Zolo catches it – then has his hand bitten off by a gator, which swallows the hand and the emerald as Zolo screams. Jack grabs a gun from his guard and starts shooting, and mayhem erupts — Zolo’s men are shooting, Ira’s men are shooting, Joan grabs Elaine and runs, Zolo pursues with a lethal looking club of wood. Jack goes after the gator and the emerald. Ira abandons Ralph on the dock and Ralph sends the police boat after him (contrast of the bad cousins turning on each other while the sisters stick together).

Zolo confronts Joan and Elaine in a scene recalling the first scene Joan narrated from her book. Joan has a concealed knife but Zolo deflects it and comes after her (TWIST PAYOFF to the SETUP). Joan screams for Jack’s help. Jack is wrestling the gator, but lets it escape when he realizes Joan is in danger. But Jack has to scale the tower wall to get to her, a deft way to keep the hero active and manly while allowing the heroine to have the FINAL BATTLE WITH ANTAGONIST on her own. (Elaine, of course, has fainted.) Zolo is about to kill Joan, when she grabs the wood spike and hits his wrist stump. Zolo falls back on a lamp and catches on fire, then falls into the gator pit and is devoured. (COMEUPPANCE AND VICTORY OVER MAIN OPPONENT.) (1:39)

Jack embraces Joan, then tells her he has to flee the approaching cops — he’s wanted. Joan is devastated: “You’re leaving me?” And he says, “You’ll be all right, Joan Wilder. I always knew you were.” He kisses her then jumps the wall into the water.

Joan looks out over the water, devastated. (ACT THREE CLIMAX) (1:40)

EPILOGUE/RESOLUTION

MATCH DISSOLVE to Joan standing at her publisher’s window looking out, a new, fully bloomed woman, as her publisher sobs her eyes out over Joan’s latest book (the end of which she has clearly rewritten so that Jack comes back for her.).

Her publisher calls her a hopeless romantic and Joan corrects her: “Hopeful romantic.” (1:41)

Joan walks down her street, besieged by the same street vendors we saw in Act One, but this time she takes it completely in stride, laughing them off. (FULL CIRCLE: returning to early location/situation to show CHARACTER ARC.) Then she stops on the sidewalk as she sees a huge yacht parked in the street outside her building. Jack is standing on deck waiting for her, with alligator boots on. (PAYOFF of his and her DESIRE lines. The alligator boots are a great light touch that keeps it all from being too sugary.) He drops the ladder for her to climb up, and he says he couldn’t stop thinking about her; he even read one of her books. She says, “So you know how it ends.” They kiss, and sail off down the Manhattan street. (NEW WAY OF LIFE, and don't we all want it?)

A wonderfully feel-good ending to a perfectly-pitched movie.

48. Sea of Love

Written by Richard Price

Directed by Harold Becker

Starring Al Pacino, Ellen Barkin and John Goodman

1989

Running time 113 minutes

At the time this film came out, it fell into a popular thriller subgenre Hollywood calls “erotic thriller” — like Body Heat and Basic Instinct. I wanted to include it because it’s an excellent example to look at for people writing romantic suspense; the relationship really does take the lead, but it’s great suspense as well. There are terrific characters, and all kinds of layers of sex in this one; it makes you realize how little eroticism goes on in movies these days. And it’s a great example of how you can use sex as setpieces.

KIND OF STORY: mystery/thriller, police procedural, erotic thriller, noir.

ACT ONE

SEQUENCE ONE

OPENING IMAGE: The sea, of course, dark blue, at night, with pilings. Then we see the Brooklyn Bridge stretching over the water to the city. The credits sequence establishes the key visual imagery of the movie: it’s often shot to look like the action is underwater. The lighting is blue, and the shots of the city streets feature a lot of wide glass windowpanes and reflected light — an aquarium effect. The traffic moves slowly and continuously, like water. I’m not making this up! Also prominently featured is another theme: sex. We see X-rated movie theaters on Times Square, near-naked hookers walking through slowly cruising cars. And the camera movement along the sidewalk is as from someone’s POV — a stalking sort of shot.

The POV closes in on an apartment building and pans up to a dimly lit window. (2:32)

Inside the apartment, it’s dark and again, blue; an old 45 is playing on a turntable: "Sea of Love". We hear sounds of sex coming from the bedroom. There’s a naked man on top of the bed, face down, sweating, pumping his bare ass as if in the middle of sex. His voice is very agitated as he asks "Is this okay?" then looks up into the barrel of a handgun and is shot.

There’s something really creepy about this right away: the victim is being forced at gunpoint to simulate sex, before he is shot. You get the idea of a very disturbed killer, which is a huge part of the suspense of this piece. A creepy, very genre-specific opening (sex and murder), and the INCITING INCIDENT: the corpse hits the floor.

The next scene is the next day — men are lined up on the sidewalk to get inside a meeting hall for a “Meet the Yankees” breakfast. Men in Yankees sweatshirts and jackets, including protagonist Frank, are serving breakfast at the tables. Two of the men ask if Frank’s a Yankee and he does an impression that makes them think he is “the Scooter” (he’s already undercover and pretending to be someone else). Then he gets up on stage for an announcement — it’s a sting. The breakfast servers reveal themselves as the Career Criminals Unit of the NYPD and arrest the whole room; the attendees are all cons with outstanding warrants. One of the other detectives introduces Frank, who’s just made 20 years on the job.

Frank leaves with his team and we can see he’s not thrilled about retiring. As the cops are getting in a car, a father rushes up with his young son, afraid he's too late for the Yankees. Frank asks another cop in the car what the man is wanted for (grand theft auto), then turns back to the father and tells him they’re all booked up while surreptitiously flashing his badge. The father’s face changes and he hurries his son off, muttering, “Thanks.” This is a great scene to create sympathy for Frank; we really didn’t want the father to be arrested. It also shows Frank’s a good judge of character (although he does say, “Catch you later,” to the retreating man). (7:55)

Frank goes home alone to his apartment; more blue lighting. He watches TV and drinks, with lots of bottles visible behind him (another THEME — drowning in alcohol). Much later, in bed, he drunk dials his ex-wife, waking a man (Gruber), who puts his wife on the phone. Frank says he thinks he has appendicitis, and his ex hangs up on him.

This is the HERO’S GHOST — the failed marriage (and the alcoholism). So typical — a marriage that a man can’t let go. But in this case it’s used very well to make the killer a DARK MIRROR OF THE PROTAGONIST: both Frank and the killer are obsessed with their ex-wives. It’s a CLUE, and also a blind spot for Frank, which I think gives the story a great symmetry. (10 min.)

The 45 of "Sea of Love" is still playing inside the same apartment from the first scene. The record ends, starts to replay. In the hallway, an irritated woman comes out of the next apartment and bangs on the door, only to have it swing open under her hand. (SUPSENSE SCENE, JEOPARDY). She calls out nervously, “Jim Mackey?”

(This song becomes infused with dread because of the circumstances in which we hear it played: first the opening murder, now this discovery of a second victim. The REPETITION and LINKING a sound or visual with jeopardy is a classic suspense trick. This was a very tense scene, I thought: we expect this neighbor woman to die. That’s another good trick to remember if you’re writing suspense or mystery: have an unsuspecting witness discover the body when you know the killer may still be there.)

It’s dawn as Frank arrives at the scene, and double-parks. He goes into the apartment building with his partner, and speaks to the doorman, flattering him by pretending that he thought he was an ex-cop. (Frank can be good with people when he wants to be. This is an example of showing the DETECTIVE’S SPECIAL SKILLS, an important element in a mystery or thriller.)

As the detectives take the elevator up things are very tense; we learn Frank’s partner is Gruber, the man now married to his ex-wife. Inside the apartment, we see Frank is very meticulous, sending the patrolmen out because one is smoking and contaminating the scene. There are lipstick-smudged cigarette butts in the ashtray. CLUE, and right away, the storytellers set up that the suspect is possibly a woman. Very noir. Also — more of the DETECTIVE’S SPECIAL SKILLS. (15 minutes)

As Frank and Gruber examine the naked corpse on the bed, Frank apologizes to Gruber for calling in the middle of the night, but then continues, trying to pick a fight: How did Gruber wind up stealing his wife? Gruber says Frank didn’t treat her right, it’s his own ass he should be kicking, and walks out.

CLIMAX SEQUENCE ONE

This is a blatant CLUE/PLANT: the fight over a woman taking place over the dead body. It’s a visual of what the crime was — jealousy and possessiveness leading to murder.

Also, on the wall above the victim’s bed are two lithographs of nude women. This gives a sense that the victim was possibly killed because of sex addiction. That may be overstating it, there’s nothing wrong with erotic art! But alcohol and sex as addiction are themes of this story. So is loneliness and the bleakness of the singles scene. (15:03)

SEQUENCE TWO

Down at the police station, Frank gives his Lieutenant his theory about the killer — it's a woman (“a strange trim”), and it was a first or second date because the victim had taken out his old 45s — it’s “The wonder of me” stage of a relationship. This is smart psychology — and another memorable character scene. It’s a good example of the DETECTIVE VOICING HIS THEORY: in mysteries it’s especially important to keep the reader/audience up to speed on what the detective is thinking, so the reader/audience can easily follow the action. Also, it’s more of the DETECTIVE’S SPECIAL SKILLS.

Frank goes back to interview the building doorman, who tells him there was a cable repairman working in the basement the night of the murder.

Frank finds the cable repairman in the break room at work, where he is telling a dirty and also disturbingly racist joke to co-workers. The man doesn’t remember seeing anyone suspicious at the apartment building. Frank gives him a card with his number, in case he thinks of anything.

(This is the ANTAGONIST — we see him early on with no indication that he is the killer. But there is something immediately creepy about this guy: it’s a racist and misogynistic joke he’s telling, on top of it being ickily sexual. It’s all played just perfectly: you dislike the character without thinking he’s the killer. A good example of SHOWING THE KILLER AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.)

In his apartment, Frank plays “Sea of Love” while he thinks over the case.

CUT TO: another naked man face down on the bed, miming sex before he is shot. It’s very creepy, and it comes soon after actually seeing the killer.

At a police recognition/promotion dinner (SETPIECE), a very large and amiable detective introduces himself to Frank — he's Detective Sherman from a precinct in Queens and he has a homicide that sounds like the one Frank has: a naked man found on his bed, shot in the neck. Sherman says his guy had a lot of letters from women that came from a personal ad. Frank asks about 45 records and “Sea Of Love.” Sherman gets up and performs the song, even beginning a striptease, and we can see the two detectives are BONDING

This is the ALLY, and what an ally! A perfect counterpart to scruffy Frank, and John Goodman plays him as so sweet and caring, I just love him.

On the way out after the dinner, Frank is swaying, drunk, and jokes to Sherman that he admires the killer. “The guy who's screwing her falls asleep and so she pops him.” He then compares the killer to his ex-wife, knowing Gruber is right behind him. The men fight. Sherman breaks it up.

(Another manifestation of Frank’s PROBLEM: a rage parallel to the killer’s. But Sherman is already taking Frank under his wing, and we HOPE that this good man will temper Frank. In fact, I think that while the INCITING INCIDENT in this story is obviously the first murder, the real CALL TO ADVENTURE is Frank meeting Sherman. The character is so warm and loving that he opens Frank’s heart enough to be willing to love again when he meets Helen. Love comes in all kinds of forms, and Sherman re-energizes Frank as a cop and as a human being. The story would not have the resonance it has if not for this character. And this might be me putting my own spin on this story, but I wanted to say it anyway to encourage you to put your own spin on these interpretations!) (23 min.)

Frank goes back to the crime scene and cuts the tape to enter the apartment. The room completely looks like an aquarium, here: blue lighting, even a model sailboat in front of the big windows. In the bedroom, Frank flops on the bed where we last saw the corpse, and starts to drift off …

Then the doorbell buzzes, startling him awake. It’s a good scare: this could be the killer.

Frank opens the door to a bubbly woman (Gina) with balloons tied to her wrists, who starts to recite a poem. Frank realizes she had a date with the dead man. Inside the apartment, Frank interviews her as she cries, and finds out she contacted the victim through a personal ad.

This is an awesome way to meet the witness: instead of just having Frank going to her apartment to interview her, the filmmakers turn it into a scare by having her show up at the scene of the crime as a mystery woman. It’s very deft and effective. Also, being such an unlikely killer makes Gina a good RED HERRING — it’s always the one you least expect, right?

In the morning, Frank finds Sherman waiting for him at the detective bureau, saying “Your prints match ours,” (the prints on the cigarette butts). He says he’ll get his lieutenant to talk to Frank’s lieutenant to make them a two-man task force. Sherman’s on his way to a tuxedo fitting — his daughter's getting married. He invites Frank. (That classic romance scene: GET THE HERO TO SOMEONE ELSE’S WEDDING.)

At the wedding (SETPIECE, crowd scene), Frank is alone at a table. While everyone’s dancing, he's smoking and thinking. (The wedding and the family scenes are an EXTERNALIZATION OF THE HERO’S INNER DESIRE for love. It’s what we HOPE for him: the warmth of love and family that Sherman obviously has.)

As the band plays, Frank starts to hear "Sea of Love" in his head and he gets an idea about how to catch the killer. (This is played as a big moment: the camera pushes slowly in to his face; we see the gears turning …)

He tells Sherman THE PLAN: “Here's how we catch her: we put a personal ad in the New York Weekly and make it rhyme, like the victims’ ads did. Meet the women at a bar or restaurant and get their prints on a glass, match them against the killer’s.”

See how well it works just to say the plan straight out? I also like that he’s talking about catching the killer while he’s at a wedding — and he ends up falling in love with his prey.

This is a big scene: it incorporates INNER AND OUTER DESIRE, HOPE, FEAR, GHOST and PLAN. Using several key elements in one scene can be a good technique for making a climax climactic.

ACT ONE CLIMAX: 30 minutes.

ACT TWO, PART ONE

SEQUENCE THREE

Working at the police station, the detectives go through the newspaper. The previous month, only three men placed ads that rhymed. Two have been killed already. Frank realizes they have to find the third man; Sherman has already tracked him down. As they start to leave the station, Frank sees Gruber and apologizes sincerely this time. We see that he has a new purpose with this new case and new friend, and we HOPE it will all work out for him.

The detectives drive out to the suburbs to see the third man — and his wife and kids open the door.

When the detectives interview the family man in his backyard, he swears he never dated anyone from the ad; he couldn’t go through with it. Sherman says: "The worst thing about being a cop is all you hear are lies."

This is one of the THEMES of the story — liars and lying. Frank is going to lie to Helen, the love interest and suspect, and it snarls everything up between them. Other themes are addiction, and obsessive love (as I’ve already mentioned), infidelity, and the loneliness of fast, cheap sex in the roulette game of personal ads, compared to the warm stability of a committed relationship that we see with Sherman at the wedding. (Of course, there’s a twist there …)

Back at the office Frank and Sherman tell Frank’s lieutenant their plan of placing their own ad. He laughs at them and refuses.

CUT TO: a third crime scene: Sherman and Frank stand over a bed with the naked corpse of the family man, shot like the others. Sherman and Frank feel they screwed up; they should have tailed him. Their guilt ups the STAKES (NOW IT’S PERSONAL). (34 min.)

Cut back to the lieutenant who now reluctantly approves the plan, but only if there’s surveillance and a van outside and they will wear wires so the guys in the van can
track them. He warns them explicitly not to touch the women involved, absolutely no sex. Frank's lieutenant is serving as a THRESHOLD GUARDIAN, here — issuing a direct warning, which Frank is going to disobey. And it’s a common technique of suspense to build tension by having a character warn the protagonist against exactly the thing s/he proceeds to do.

The detectives, with other members of the squad, meet at Frank's apartment to drink and write the rhyming ad. They improvise increasingly obscene poetry (some nice comic interplay and character bonding), then Frank's father, also drunk, recites a poem written by Frank's mother in high school. (FAMILY LEGEND.) The cops are touched, and decide to use the poem.

After the other cops leave, Frank has to walk his very drunk father to bed. An externalization of our FEAR for Frank — that he will end up a lonely alcoholic, pining away for love.

(I would call the entire above scene an emotional SETPIECE, a mini-crowd scene, continuing to explore the theme of love.) (37 min.)

At the PD, Frank reads their ad in the personals column, which someone has tacked to the bulletin board.

Frank and Sherman pick up the mail from the mail drop and work the phones in the bull pen, calling women, setting up times to meet them on a chart. (Again, some nice comic and character touches, here.)

Now we’re INTO THE SPECIAL WORLD: a busy restaurant, the dating scene. Sherman is playing a waiter, a couple of undercover cops are watching, and Frank has three dates in quick succession (RULE OF THREE).

First — an older woman who lied about her age on the phone; he tries to make her feel good about her age, but makes a slip: “We’ll call you,” which he quickly amends to “I’ll call you,” and she says, “No you won’t.” (A good RED HERRING, and THEME of loneliness and desperation.)

The second woman is suspicious: she thinks Frank's a cop, he has “cop's eyes.” She'd been married to one and she knows (THEME of EXES, and a PLANT). She walks out on him.

Frank sees the older woman is at the bar and has been watching him with the other woman. She gets up and leaves, crying. Frank feels terrible — and it’s a great RED HERRING scene.

The third woman is Helen, dressed in a bright red leather jacket and red lipstick. Frank is tired and can’t remember her details. She tells him she believes in “animal attraction” and love at first sight, and he’s just not her type; there’s no spark. She gets up and leaves without touching her wineglass — they have no fingerprints for her. It’s a good character introduction and you can see she unnerves Frank.

CLIMAX SEQUENCE THREE: a great SETPIECE scene on the theme of love and relationships. Notice how the RULE OF THREE helped organize it as a setpiece. (45 min.)

SEQUENCE FOUR

When Frank comes in to the PD the next day, the cable guy is with Sherman. He’s remembered that when he was working in the basement, he saw a black grocery delivery kid go through, then rush back a few minutes later, very agitated. (The storytellers are keeping the ANTAGONIST in front of the viewer. This scene shows again the racism of this character, and it’s typical bad guy behavior to invent a suspicious African-American suspect.)

Frank and Sherman go talk to the manager of the grocery store where the kid was working, who says he fired the kid a few days ago for screaming at a customer who undertipped him. But the manager has no address on him. (RED HERRING.) (47 min.)

At night Frank shops for fruit at a sidewalk stall. Helen walks up to him. (There’s a subtle feeling here that she might have been following him.) She lives in the neighborhood. She tells him she thinks he didn’t write the poem from the ad. He admits it was written by his mother and was the reason his father married her. She smiles; she says she likes that he used the poem. He counters that he likes her initiative, what she said about instant attraction. She asks him out for a drink. (Note the colors in this scene: she’s in a red jacket, he’s got a red tie, they’re standing against red fruit and flowers — colors of passion.) (50 min.)

Frank calls Sherman and Sherman says no fucking way should he be going out with a suspect. Frank says he’ll walk away — but ends up at a bar with Helen instead. (HERO CROSSING THE LINE — IMMORAL ACTIONS.)

In the bar, a GETTING TO KNOW YOU scene: They both have failed marriages; she’d only known her husband a week when she agreed to marry him. But when she found out she was pregnant she walked. (Everything Helen says about her marriage and her past are CLUES to the real killer, but it’s very well done — it could also be her motive for killing.)

When the lights dim for last call, Frank tells her that late at night, he feels like a big cat in a small cage — feels like doing desperate things. She says, “Like being with me?” Cut to his apartment, where they are making out against the wall. Torrential rain pours down the windows, again, the sea/aquarium effect.

She breaks away to go into the bathroom. Frank sees a gun in her purse. He freaks out, pulls his own gun, and when she comes out of the bathroom he slams her against the wall, searching her, then locks her in the closet while he searches her purse. The “gun” in her purse is just a starter pistol. He lets her out and she attacks him, even more frightened than he was. He finally subdues her, pins her to the bed … and apologizes profusely. “This city… what it does to people.” She is crying, saying he doesn’t know the meaning of scared. (CLUE.)

This is great suspense, all of this, really sends the adrenaline skyrocketing, and as a woman, I loved the very real fear and believable dialogue about it. But it’s not over yet.

Now they begin kissing again, and suddenly Helen shoves him face up against the wall, fondling him. It looks like she’s searching him, and she might be, but she’s also starting sex with him. It shows her as dominant sexually, for the moment, and puts Frank in the same position (face against the wall, her on top of him) that the victims were forced into just before they were killed.

Later as Frank sleeps, she calls someone — we don’t know who. (SUSPENSE.)

A great MIDPOINT SEXUAL SETPIECE that pays off the genre in every way – suspense, scares, clues, eroticism, emotional bonding. (58 minutes)

ACT TWO, PART TWO

SEQUENCE FIVE

Morning — Helen’s awake, gets coffee in the kitchen and looks over Frank’s living room. She wakes Frank up for more sex. (He has to hide his police boxing trophy under the bed before she can see it — a PLANT.) It’s interesting that the colors in this scene are all white: they’re in white shirts, against white sheets — symbolizing innocence, hope, new beginnings.

She has to go home to be there when her young daughter wakes up. She mentions that her mother is staying with them, helping out.

She manages a shoe store; Frank has told her he’s a printer. When she asks about what that’s like, he evades her (lying to her.) He tells her, “We don’t live for what we do.” She says, “I like to think I live for love.” (Our HOPE for Frank again.)

He tries to ask about the other guys she’s dated recently (we know why he’s asking, but he also looks jealous — again, the hero mirroring the killer. She says it’s none of his business, and then she goes off about men, what they’re like: “They wait until you’re in deep and then you find out what they’re really like and you’re fighting for your life.” (Big CLUE — her ex is dangerous. But she looks a little crazy here — keeps the SUSPENSE up that she really is the killer.)

While she’s dressing, Sherman calls and tells Frank they have no print matches from the other women. He asks Frank if they should print his dick.

After Helen leaves, Frank takes her coffee mug and starts to slide it into an evidence bag … then takes it out again. (HERO CROSSING THE LINE AGAIN — IMMORAL ACTIONS. Also his HOPE and FEAR — he wants the relationship and fears she’s the killer. Very dark that he’s afraid to know.)

While Frank is in the shower, the doorbell buzzes, and someone tries the knob (THREAT). Frank opens the door in a towel (make the hero vulnerable) — the hallway is empty, but the EXIT door is just closing (SUSPENSE). (1 hr. 4 min.)

Frank walks on the street, and then goes in to a store, which turns out to be Helen’s shoe store. He says he wants to talk to her, and she sits him down in a chair and brings shoes out for him to try on, puts his foot on her thigh, a nice, sexy scene. Frank, though, is all business, asking her who he’s been seeing recently. She is evasive again; it’s not his business. But she invites him over for dinner. Then two well-dressed but sleazy punks come in to the store; one of them is demanding with Helen and Frank stands up, staring at him. The other punk tells his friend Frank’s a cop. The first punk spits toward Frank and stalks out. Helen is furious that Frank lied to her; he is defensive, telling her that everyone hates cops, until they get robbed, they get raped, then suddenly he’s everyone’s Daddy.

He storms out and she comes after him on the street. He tells her he just wanted to have a little time for her to get to know him before he told her about being a cop — it’s convincing, and we sense, somewhat true. She tells him, “Just don’t lie to me again.” (SETUP, and the CORE RELATIONSHIP ISSUE of trust. In fact, if Frank had simply been honest with Helen, he could have solved the case much sooner.)

In the police locker room, Frank shows off new leopard print shoes to the guys, and says, “My girl gave them to me.” (I love the shoes — there’s a Cinderella aspect to this, and also we see that Frank is finding his sensual side with this woman.) Sherman reminds him privately, “You never did get her prints.” Frank tells him, “She’s not the shooter.” (1.10)

Back at the restaurant, Sherman is being the date and Frank is being the waiter. A woman is flirting intensely with Sherman. After the last date, Frank declines going out drinking with the guys. Instead he calls Helen and asks her what she’s wearing.

Cut to Frank shopping in a grocery store and Helen comes in wearing a trench coat and stilettos, obviously nothing else. They stalk each other around the store; he fondles her against the produce. (Another EROTIC SETPIECE, and a continuing visual of produce.). (1.13)

CLIMAX SEQUENCE FIVE

SEQUENCE SIX

In bed at her place, Frank is awake after sex. He dresses in the living room, looks over her apartment — and finds boxes of 45 records. He looks through them — finds “Sea Of Love” — and then Helen catches him. He covers, saying he likes the song. She goes to get him a drink and he goes through her purse, takes her Social Security card. She wants him to look at her daughter, sleeping, but Frank is preoccupied and only takes a brief glance, which makes Helen tense (WE SUSPECT HER). Frank makes a quick exit.

Frank goes to a bar, where he looks at her SS card, then goes home. The light is out in the hallway. (SUSPENSE SCENE.) Frank pulls his gun when he hears glass shattering — goes to investigate, and a pigeon flies up in his face from the window (FALSE SCARE). But there is no one. Frank finds the lightbulb has been unscrewed. (Frank is in personal jeopardy, now, and it seems to be because of his answers to Helen in the last scene.) (1.20)

At the PD, Frank runs Helen’s SS # and finds she has no criminal record. He’s intensely relieved.

The detectives are back in the restaurant for another round of “dates”. Frank calls Helen from the restaurant pay phone and asks her to dinner later — he’s got something he wants to ask her. Frank is playing waiter again and when he goes to Sherman’s table, the date is Gina, the woman with the balloons. Frank introduces Sherman as a cop. We see there’s some chemistry with Sherman and Gina.

In the restaurant kitchen, Sherman pretends to be too drunk to go home that night (we suspect he’s made a date with Gina — working the theme of the dangers of easily available sex. We don’t want Sherman to cheat on his wife, and after all, Gina could be the killer). An unsuspecting Frank gives Sherman the keys to his apartment — he’s taking Helen to a nice hotel that night. He’s going to ask her to move in with him.

But the dinner doesn’t go well — the restaurant is stuffy, the violinist annoying, and Frank is drinking too much, nervous. Finally he wants to go. On the street, he’s pointing out murder scenes; he wants Helen to know what living with a cop would be like. Helen picks up on that “living with a cop” comment and reminds him she has a daughter, it would be a package deal. It turns into a fight, Frank pressing her about how she could go out with men from personal ads. She reminds him that’s how they met, and he slips up, saying he was just working, wearing a wire. Helen is stunned, and furious. He’s lied to her again. She stalks off. (1.26)

Frank goes to a bar and does double shots.

Now really drunk, he shows up at Helen’s apartment — her mother opens the door. Frank talks to Helen in the kitchen. He wants to make plans for them to go out with her daughter and get to know each other. Then he begs her to come home with him — he can’t even sleep in his bed anymore unless she’s in it. Helen is conflicted, but agrees. When she goes to tell her mother she’s leaving, Frank knocks a magnet off the refrigerator and finds the personals column, with the ads from the three dead men circled. (BIG CLUE, although way too on the nose, here — would she really have those ads on her refrigerator? — and ALL IS LOST moment: now he “knows” she’s the killer.)

Helen comes back in, scaring him, and says she isn’t going to come with him; she needs to think about all this.

Frank leaves quickly, mumbling, “Catch you later.” (Repeating that earlier ironic line). He walks on the street and she watches from the window — eerie.

ACT TWO CLIMAX (1.31)

ACT THREE

SEQUENCE SEVEN

Frank goes home, forgetting that Sherman is there overnight — and catches him with Gina. Sherman tries to explain that he’s never done anything like that before. (There is room to believe here that Frank has just saved Sherman from death, but it’s not really played that way.)

Frank and Sherman stand waiting for the elevator, not speaking. Sherman leaves and Frank stands in the hallway, and then hears footsteps approaching. Helen, walking toward him in her red leather jacket, calls out aggressively, “What was that, Frank, a brush off?” (1.34)

Cut to inside the apartment, where they are making out on the couch. Helen stands and puts on a 45 of “Sea of Love,” saying that it seemed to ring some bells for him.

Frank starts to dance with her, but is running his hands over her body, searching her. She pulls away, and he takes off the record, demands to know why she did it. She has no idea what he’s talking about. He searches her purse for a gun, then pulls out his own and extends it to her, saying, “Let’s just get it over with.” As he demands to know about the other men, an increasingly terrified Helen protests she only slept with Jim Mackey. Frank tells her the case will never get to court: “The arresting officer was fucking the doer.”

Frank finally tells her to leave and she runs out, crying. (1.38)

He puts his gun down and heads for the bedroom, but the door buzzes. Frank answers it — there’s no one in the hall. He’s suddenly attacked — by the cable guy. He forces Frank into the apartment, screaming about his family, his wife — Helen. He pulls out a gun and forces Frank face down on the bed, demanding that Frank show him how he screwed his wife.

So now we understand what we’ve been seeing all along.

Frank grabs the boxing trophy from under the bed (PAYOFF) and slings it back over his head, hitting the cable guy in the forehead, then pounding him with it while the guy is shouting he’s not going to prison. Frank hits him again with a dumbbell, and then scrambles for his gun. The cable guy grabs Frank and as they struggle the cable guy crashes through the window, falling to his death.

At the station, a weeping Helen tells Sherman that she hadn’t seen her ex for 8 months; she thought he was finally gone for good. When she sees Frank, she walks past him without speaking. (1.42)

We next see Sherman at a bar — Frank meets him and we understand they haven’t seen each other in a while, some time has passed. Frank orders only club soda with lime: “It’s the new me.” Frank talks about Helen — he tried to see her but she wouldn’t, and he doesn’t blame her — he really put her through the wringer. (CHARACTER ARC — SELF-REVELATION.) Sherman starts to laugh at him and we see that Frank is going to try again. (I like this wrap up of their relationship — that Frank needs Sherman’s prodding to work up the nerve to try again with Helen.)

Outside Helen’s shop, she is locking up, and stands to find Frank waiting for her. She turns and walks off down the street and he follows her, promising no more lies: he wants her to know the real him. She says she’s going home to York, and he says that’s great: he’s just gotten an offer to go there to break up a big counterfeit produce ring. She starts to laugh (and so do we — it’s a great line). He tells her he’s been on the wagon for seven weeks. She looks at him … and asks if he still drinks coffee. They move off together. RESOLUTION AND NEW WAY OF LIFE). And it’s subtle, but the city streets are no longer blue and ominous.

I think it’s interesting that this story takes such time and care in wrapping up the relationship: it gives it more emphasis than the crime plot. And we really care about these people — we want to take this time to finish with them realistically.

PART THREE: The Business

49. Life is a Pitch Meeting

I’m often asked to speak to groups and classes of aspiring writers. At a college screenwriting class, I realized something that I guess I’ve known for a long time, but I’ve never actually put into words.

Life is a constant pitch meeting.

I talked for about forty-five minutes, my whole story of breaking into the film business and what the job is really like and how it’s different from being an author, all the usual, and the rest of the two-hour class I was just taking questions.

Out of the whole class, only five of the students asked questions, although more did answer when I asked them questions to draw them out. And out of those, only two people actually voluntarily told me what they were working on, in detail. And those were two out of the three who continued to ask questions throughout the class.

Guess which students I remember from the class?

If I were an executive handing out jobs or assignments, guess which ones would get the job?

Not only that, but these two guys caught my attention from the very first moment they walked into the class. They were attention whores. One walked in with a Nerf Uzi, it looked like, in violent neon colors. At the slightest prompting he pulled that puppy out of his backpack, loaded a clip of Nerf bullets with awesome efficiency, and fired several lethal rounds into the whiteboard at the front of the class. It was a thing of beauty.

The other shuffled in, collapsed into his seat in a posture of abject and total martyrdom, made sure everyone could see the bruise under his eye, and proceeded (again with the most minimal prompting) to tell a woeful tale of being assaulted by his girlfriend over the weekend. She subsequently harassed his roommates, who called the cops and had her arrested.

Now those are entrances. Those are characters.

I don’t know if either of those guys can write worth a damn; I don’t know if they’ve got the drive and dedication to do what the job is, but I would give them a chance to show me more, just because they’re standouts — and more importantly than that, because in two hours I learned so much more about them and their writing than I did about anyone else in the class. They moved themselves to the top of the theoretical list just by being forthcoming. They put the spotlight on themselves.

Furthermore, the guy with the Nerf Uzi draws and writes comic books, and the guy with the out-of-control love life is writing a wacky romantic comedy.

Do we see the pattern here?

They were illustrating the kinds of writers they are, in clothing, props, actions, and their entire personal presentations. They were pitching their writing with everything that they did that night. And oh, do film executives love visual aids. Who doesn’t?

At twenty-two or whatever, these kids already have it down.

In screenwriting, because so much of the job is pitching, you have to stand out for simple job survival. Film executives will take six or seven or ten pitch meetings in a day. Of course you have to have a great story to tell, but you equally have to make sure they’re actually awake enough to pay attention.

It’s a lot the same if you’re an author. The more interesting character is going to get more attention from the media (essential for an author’s job survival). You will get more attention from your publisher if they sense you will get extra attention from the media. That’s just reality.

Take a look at successful authors you admire. There’s something beyond their amazing writing, isn’t there? They’re also fascinating people. They have star power in person. You can always find them in a room, and once you spot them, you can’t take your eyes off them. Watch Lee Child smoke a cigarette, for example, and tell me that’s not a living advertisement for the Reacher novels.

Now, that is not at all to say that you can’t make a bestselling career as a recluse. It’s happened throughout the ages. Great writing finds a spotlight, even when the author can’t, or refuses to. But I suspect it’s a lot harder to make a career that way, especially these days.

Even though I wasn’t handing out jobs in that class that night, I am a highly-connected industry professional who was right in front of those students, at their disposal, for two hours. That’s an opportunity that doesn’t get handed to most people every day. There is no reward for being shy in that situation. You need to milk an opportunity like that for all it’s worth.

But the fact is, the Universe is always handing us chances to get exactly what we want. It’s a matter of whether or not we’re prepared enough, professionally and emotionally, to take the chances we’re given.

Sometimes we’re just not ready.

Those two guys I’m talking about didn’t know who I was or that I was going to be in class that night. They didn’t put on those little performances for me. They are clearly people who are always performing. But the point is, you never know when someone who can help you is going to be watching, or who might take an interest in you and your career simply because you’re interesting.

If you are ready … and that’s a big if — you need to put yourself out there so that people can see who you are. You need to talk passionately and specifically about your work. My friend and literary idol Margaret Maron calls it “sparkling,” and Margaret truly does. You have to sparkle.

This really goes double and triple if you attend writing conferences, as I will urge you to do in the next chapters. Conferences are expensive investments in your career, and you need to make the most of the hundreds of opportunities that present themselves to you over a conference weekend.

You aren’t ever going to be on all the time, let’s just be realistic about that! But you can talk passionately and specifically about your newest projects (without dominating the conversation to the point of being obnoxious and a turn-off) so that editor or agent on the sidelines of the group will make a mental note (“Read that author” or “Keep track of that person”).

You have to sparkle, whatever that means to you.

And if you find yourself resisting this idea, perhaps you might consider this question: Do you not present yourself at full power because somewhere inside you don’t feel ready?

I think that’s an important question for all of us to consider, and regularly. Because when it feels like we’re being held back, it’s usually something inside ourselves that is putting the brakes on.

ASSIGNMENT: Pay attention in class or in professional networking situations to see how authors, screenwriters, and aspiring writers present themselves and their writing. Who stands out? Who presents an intriguing sense of the kind of writing that they do? Who sparkles? Who makes you want to know more?

Are there ways that you can communicate your passion for writing and the particular story you’re working on that are comfortable to you, or that you might get comfortable with?

50. How Do I Get a Literary Agent? Or Do I?

First, I’d like to address a question I often get from not-yet-published authors:

“Do I really need a literary agent?”

Well, just a year and a half ago, this was my answer:

“If you want to be a full-time professional novelist, you do.”

Today? I know too many writers who are doing just fine in indie publishing without agents or traditional publishing contracts. I’d be a stone liar to say that you can’t publish and make good money without them. Not that it’s easy, but you can do it.

If you are pursuing a traditional publishing deal, you do need an agent, and this is why you need an agent — this is what an agent does:

A good literary agent lives in New York (that's city). A large part of an agent's job is to go out to breakfast, lunch, dinner, coffee, and drinks with every good editor in the city, and know what those editors are looking for, so that when you hand your agent your new book or proposal, your agent will know exactly which editor is looking for what kind of a book — know each editor's taste intimately, so that your agent can submit to exactly the right editor at each publishing company and put you and your book in the position of making the best possible deal available on the planet at that moment.

Really. That's what your agent does.

When your agent submits your book, s/he will most likely submit it to 8-10 of the top publishers in New York simultaneously, and you need to have that book submitted to the editor most likely to buy it at each house, in the hopes of:

1. Creating an auction and/or pre-empt situation.

2. Getting the best possible editor for you and your particular book and the best possible deal out there.

You cannot do these things in traditional publishing yourself. An agent can. This can very well be the difference between writing for a living and writing in those spaces between the demands of the day job.

Plus, an agent will act as your lawyer, negotiating the fine points of your contract and keeping the rights that need to be kept, things that in Hollywood you need an entertainment lawyer for.

So that's the why of an agent.

But the reality also is e publishing has changed the business so radically and rapidly that it would be insane for anyone contemplating a professional career as an author not to investigate this option, and weigh the benefits of indie versus traditional publishing, and the possibility of combining the two.

This is not a book on e publishing, however, and I would never pretend to be an expert. If you’re not already reading J.A. Konrath’s blog and book, A Newbie’s Guide to Publishing, then do it. Now.

And I’ll stick with answering the questions I actually know the answers to.

How DO I get a literary agent?

I know a lot of authors recommend starting with the lists in Writers’ Market, but the very thought makes me cringe. How are you supposed to know who’s a good agent from reading randomly through that enormous book? Instead, I highly recommend making your own targeted list of agents who represent books in your genre, who have made recent sales, and who other authors you admire are enthusiastic about. We are so lucky to have Google to allow us to do this kind of research instantly, right from our own desks.

I also know that getting an agent is so hard these days that a lot of aspiring authors jump at the first offer of representation. That is a terrible thing to do. You only have one shot to get your book read and bought by the major publishers and you need the best representation you can find. An agent with “clout” can get you thousands more in advance money, just because of their relationships and who they are. It can easily be the difference between you writing as a hobby and writing for a living. It’s worth taking the time to do extensive research, and approach the agents you most want to work with first, before you settle for the first thing that comes along.

Here are some great resources to consult when you start your agent investigation (and all the sites I’m talking about are handily linked on my own blog http://screenwritingtricks.com ):

1. The Backspace forums. http://www.bksp.org Backspace is an invaluable resource for all aspiring authors (and published authors, too!). There are public pages, but the real gold is the private forum: there’s a one-time fee (I think $25) to join but it’s invaluable. You can get your questions answered directly by great agents and editors, and get public or private feedback on particular agents or your query letters by other Backspace members. Bksp.org

2. Here's a great site with over 1500 agent listings and software to research agents and keep track of your queries: Querytracker.net

3. And another – LitMatch.net — contains hundreds of agent names — and can single out agents in specific genres such as ”romance” or "thriller." It also lists each agent's requirements for submission.

And another: AgentQuery.com

4. Subscribe to Publishers' Lunch http://www.publishersmarketplace.com/lunch/free/, a free newsletter that you can sign up for on the Publishers' Weekly site, and start a notebook in which you list agents who have sold books in your genre that week and the editors and publishing houses they have sold to. http://publishersweekly.com

5. Continue to build your targeted list of agents by going to the library or a bookstore or your own bookshelves and selecting at least 20 popular books in your genre and turning to the ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS page. Unless s/he’s a complete and total ungrateful idiot, the author will have thanked her/his agent in the first few lines.

You can also often find your favorite authors’ agents’ names on the authors’ websites, complete with contact info.

6. If you need help finding current, successful books in your genre, ask your local librarians and independent booksellers, who are your best friends.

7. Always check with Writer Beware to make sure that other agents you're approaching are legit. http://www.sfwa.org/beware/

Here's another agent verification site: Agentresearch.com

And GalleyCat is a must-read blog for your agent hunt. http://www.mediabistro.com/galleycat/agents/

8. Go to writing conventions in your genre that agents will be attending, especially if you can sign up for pitch sessions. Meeting agents face to face in these situations is the best way to establish the connection that can lead to signing with an agency. The Shaw Guides ( Shawguides.com ) provide a comprehensive list of conferences and conventions, nationwide, as does Jacqueline Deval's excellent book Publicize Your Book: there’s a comprehensive list of conventions in the back. If there’s a particular agent you have targeted, check to see if that agent is participating in pitch sessions at particular conferences. It is absolutely worth it to go make the initial contact in person, in a structured setting like this. The personal contact will not only most likely get your submission read, it will give you a chance to see if you really want to work with that agent, which is equally important.

9. Go to conventions and hang out in the bar. I particularly recommend Bouchercon, Thrillerfest, the Backspace conference, the Romance Writers of America National Conference, and the Romantic Times Booklovers Convention. Be pleasant and charming, buy an agent a drink. Again, the personal contact will not only likely get your submission read, it will give you that chance to see if you really want to work with that agent.

How To Write A Query Letter:

Folio Literary Management has an excellent blog on all aspects of agenting, publishing, and writing careers. http://foliolit.blogspot.com/

Check out this post on the perfect query letter: http://foliolit.blogspot.com/2008/04/on-query-letters.html. And then go ahead and delve into the other posts!

More on query letters and Who To Query — from Murderati's Louise Ure.

http://murderati.typepad.com/murderati/2008/11/the-dreaded-que.html

Lisa Gardner on writing queries and synopses. http://www.lisagardner.com/tricks/synopsis.htm

Agent and author Nathan Bransford also has an excellent blog on these and other topics. Check out his essential links on the right side of the blog. http://nathanbransford.blogspot.com/

Here's a free downloadable e book on writing query letters: http://www.amazon.com/How-Write-Great-Query-Letter/dp/B00122GU86/ref=pd_sim_b_9

51. Internet Resources for Writers

Here's my list of essential resources for authors, screenwriters, and TV writers, again, all linked on my own blog: http://screenwritingtricks.com

1. First, I highly recommend that every aspiring and new writer join these writing communities:

– If you’re an author: Backspace, the Writers’ Place: http://www.bksp.org/

Backspace is a message board for pre-published and published authors. Editors and agents are also members. You can post any question on any aspect of writing and publishing and get two dozen informed answers in a day. It’s also a great, supportive community that exchanges and critiques work. There is a one-time fee to join.

– If you’re an author: Murder Must Advertise — a free Yahoo list that discusses publishing and book promotion. No matter what your genre, you can benefit from this wealth of information. http://groups.yahoo.com/group/MurderMustAdvertise/

– If you’re a TV writer: TVwriter.com (free) http://tvwriter.com/ (Message board and contests for aspiring TV writers)

– If you’re a screenwriter: Mystery Man on Film (blog archives) http://mysterymanonfilm.blogspot.com/

These communities of writers will point you toward a wealth of other resources.

Also, if you've just sold your book (congratulations!), you will want to read Jacqueline Deval's excellent Publicize Your Book, cover to cover, for a wealth of information on promotion.

2. You should also join the professional organization in your genre (s) — and think inclusively about which genres you belong to. Most of these organizations have an associate membership status for pre-published writers — although some do not. RWA and Sisters in Crime do not require professional credits.

– Romance Writers of America https://www.rwanational.org/eweb/StartPage.aspx

– Sisters in Crime http://www.sistersincrime.org/

– Mystery Writers of America http://www.mysterywriters.org/

– International Thriller Writers http://www.thrillerwriters.org/index.php

– Horror Writers of America http://www.horror.org/

– Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers http://www.sfwa.org/

– Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators http://www.scbwi.org/

Once you have joined one of these organizations, you can join local chapters and/or online chapters, news groups, and reading groups in your own genre. I particularly recommend joining your local chapter of Romance Writers of America — no matter what your genre or level of expertise, RWA is an awesome support group and publishing resource for authors, published or not-yet-published.

3. Here are just some great general blogs on various aspects of the publishing business. These and more are also conveniently compiled at Murderati: http://www.murderati.typepad.com/

– Confessions of an Idiosyncratic Mind http://www.sarahweinman.com/

– A Newbie’s Guide to Publishing http://jakonrath.blogspot.com/

– Bookbitch http://bookbitch.blogspot.com/

– Evil Editor http://evileditor.blogspot.com/

– Miss Snark http://misssnark.blogspot.com/ (archives)

– Buzz, Balls and Hype http://mjroseblog.typepad.com/buzz_balls_hype/

– Galleycat http://www.mediabistro.com/galleycat/

3. And every aspiring author should also go to Publisher’s Weekly and sign up for e newsletters in your particular field (sign up at bottom of home page). http://www.publishersweekly.com/

INDIE PUBLISHING RESOURCES

– A Newbie’s Guide to Publishing http://jakonrath.blogspot.com/

The one essential resource for e-publishing.

– The Kindleboards http://www.kindleboards.com/

Browsing this message board a couple of days a week will give you a very practical crash course on everything from cover design essentials (what works for traditional publishing is NOT what works at thumbnail size), to promotion, to what indie authors’ actual sales figures are. People on the boards are friendly and helpful; I also found my two great proofreaders there. It’s also interesting to see the politics of indie vs. traditional publishing; personally, I just don’t see it as an Either/Or proposition.

– The Business Rusch Publishing series http://kriswrites.com/business-rusch-table-of-contents/the-business-rusch-publishing-series/

Everyone, and I mean everyone, should read Kristine Rusch’s incredible series on the essentials of publishing and the changes in our world.

ESTABLISHING A WEB PRESENCE FOR YOURSELF

Every author needs a professional website and/or blog. You should set this up before you publish, because many editors and agents are now immediately Googling new authors who submit to see if they have a web presence.

To set up a website:

– Cincinnatimedia.com is the best professional author website designer I've found at the lowest cost. They did my website: http://alexandrasokoloff.com and I can't say enough good things about them. There are other examples here: http://www.cincinnatimedia.com/portfolio.html

– The wonderful Madeira James at xuni.com does spectacular work and specializes in author websites.

To set up a blog:

Blogger.com, Typepad.com, and Wordpress.com are three of the most popular free blog sites — most authors I know use one of these. If you're writing YA or Children's books, LiveJournal is useful. Check out your favorite authors’ blog sites for examples.

– Joe Konrath (prime example of informational blogging and the power of giving away free stuff — plus a goldmine of info on marketing and publishing and the one essential site for indie publishing. Good for fiction and non-fiction.) http://jakonrath.blogspot.com/

– Joining or creating a group blog (grog) takes the pressure of constantly creating blog posts off you, and also gives you more exposure. Check out these very popular examples of grogs (which are also great resources for publishing and marketing information).

– Murderati (mystery, thriller, includes TV and film info as well as publishing) — http://www.murderati.typepad.com/

– The Lipstick Chronicles (chick lit and women’s fiction) http://thelipstickchronicles.typepad.com/

– Squawk Radio (romance) http://squawkradio.com/

– Girlfriends Book Club (romance) http://girlfriendbooks.blogspot.com

– The Debutante Ball (mainstream women’s fiction) http://www.thedebutanteball.com/

– Another great way to start establishing an Internet presence is simply to comment on other popular blogs in your genre.

Commenting intelligently on other blogs will get your own blog linked to higher-traffic blogs, and might get you invited to join one of the more popular group blogs. Posting on message boards like Backspace (all genres and non-fiction) and Shocklines.com (horror and dark fantasy) also helps build your Internet presence.

There are also all kinds of writing discussion groups on Facebook.com, which you might as well get on if you’re not already, because you’re going to need it for promotion and networking when you do sell. Likewise Twitter.com and RedRoom.com

But of course, make sure you’re writing 90% of the time; social networking can be a dangerous time suck, and the best way to promote your books is by writing another book.

52. So You Want to Know About Screenwriting

I’m including this chapter because so many novelists I know are intrigued, or even enchanted, by the idea of screenwriting. Glamour! Easy money! The dream machine!

Well, and sometimes people have a passionate love of film, too.

Because I’ve worked professionally in both media, I will give you my two cents on the differences between the two, in case anyone can find it helpful.

Before I sold The Harrowing, I worked steadily as a screenwriter for ten years. I had a pretty typical screenwriting career, actually: I worked for every major studio (except Universal, for some reason) and some independent production companies, I sold original scripts and got hired on assignment to do novel adaptations, I made a good living, and in all that time I had one movie made that I was officially credited on (depending on who you talk to, it's estimated that 400 to 600 scripts are bought or commissioned for every one that gets made. Not good odds. And you may write on many movies that you never get credited for – more on that in a minute.)

Which is the second reason I started writing novels.

The first reason is that I’m passionate about my work and not only was I sick to death of having things I wrote not made; I was sick to death of having things I wrote butchered – and then not made. I was sick to death of seeing other people’s great scripts butchered, too, but that’s another story. I’ll try to keep this one in focus.

For the purposes of this chapter, I’m going to be talking primarily about feature screenwriting, although I will mention television writing as well (And I’m talking specifically about Hollywood feature screenwriting, not independent feature screenwriting, which is a completely different animal). Feature writing and television writing are structured very differently, but what I want to point out right up front is that in television, writers have the power (not at first, but once you get into the higher ranks). In features, directors have the power and writers most assuredly do not.

We’ll get back to that, though.

I’ll start with the first thing you need to know about screenwriting, and the biggest misconception I find people have about it.

IT’S A JOB.

Authors – and aspiring screenwriters – rarely seem to know this about screen work. It’s a job in a way that writing novels just isn't. Employers (studios, producers) are looking for writers who are committed to doing the screen thing as a living, full-time (double full-time, is often the real case). They don't want to just buy your fabulous spec (meaning original script), pay you big money and never hear from you again. The chances are infinitesimal that they'll ever make your movie at all. Your script is just a sample to show that you can write the movie they want to make, which they will dictate to you, and which often won't make a whole lot of dramatic sense, but you’ll do it because they’re paying you to do it, and if you don’t do it the way they want you to do it, you’ll be fired and they’ll go on to another writer, or thirty.

So, speaking now to authors who are thinking of toying with screenwriting – unless you're willing to move to L.A. (and it has to be L.A., unless you want to do independent film, which pays even less than novels!) – and really go for it, it's probably not what you want to be doing. A lot of your time as a working screenwriter is taken up trying to get jobs, and that in the end was the most frustrating thing to me: how much wasted time and writing was going on with nothing to show for it. Except, of course, I was making a living.

For the vast majority of novelists, it’s a much more viable idea to work on optioning your novels and getting some money from Hollywood without having to pursue a screenwriting career. On the other hand, if you’re fairly young and film or television is your passion, and you want to make a living exclusively at writing, it's a really viable job. You can get paid for writing, you can support a family, you can work in a glamorous business with wildly talented people (and a lot of jerks, too, but truly, a lot of brilliantly talented people) and once in a while you can get something done.

Another thing novelists never seem to know about screenwriting is that screenwriters are union workers. Working screenwriters belong to the Writers Guild of America – WGA – East or West, depending on which side of the Mississippi you live on. The WGA is a federal labor union and handles collective bargaining for screen, TV, (some) game, and news writers. The WGA has negotiated, through long activism, a very good MBA, minimum basic agreement, which ensures that WGA members get paid certain minimums for their work, including pension and health benefits. That’s why screen and television writers are paid so much more than novelists, on average.

But what, you ask, is the catch?

Yes, there is a huge catch. We got the contract, and salary minimums and benefits – but in order to do that, we gave up copyright. When studios buy your script, they buy your copyright. It’s their project. And from then on, you are an employee, and you can be fired off your own script at any time, for any reason or no reason, but the reason is almost always the same: the studio/producers will want a bigger writer on the project. In fact, they will want a whole series of bigger writers on the project, the more the better, somehow; it’s not unusual for two or three dozen writers to work on a single project (although only three writers or teams of writers are ever allowed to be credited on any one movie) and that, in a nutshell, is why movies are so bad these days. And that’s another book entirely.

But I’m sure you’re not here to read about collective bargaining (even though it's kind of crucial). I’d like to say, though, that I’ve not just been a working screenwriter – I’ve also been tremendously active in the WGA, including a two-year term on the Board of Directors, and administering a private message board for WGA members only. So when I speak in sweeping terms about what makes a screenwriting career, I’m not just speaking about how I did it, personally; I actually have had a ringside seat from which I see very specifically who does break in to the business and how they break in and how they sustain their careers.

Now, on to what you really want to know, what everyone wants to know:

HOW DO I BREAK IN?

The way you break in is: write a great script (and although I’m not happy having to say it, having a male lead doesn’t hurt), get a great film agent, and have that agent market your script as a weekend read and hopefully get into a bidding war. I'll get into more details later, but that's the process in a nutshell. Chances are you won’t sell that script, especially because the spec market has been depressed for years, even before the global financial collapse. Although at the time of this writing, it seems to be picking up again…).

But whether or not you sell the script, if it's good, even if all the studios and financing companies pass (and there are only about ten real sources of money in Hollywood at any given time), you will be the flavor of the month and they will want to meet you and you will then go through a couple dozen meet-and-greet meetings in which execs and producers will tell you the projects they're trying to get going and you can potentially get an assignment out of that – or you can work harder and go in with a pitch of your own that you might sell and be hired to write.

That is how the vast majority of screenwriters get started. That is precisely how I got started: great script (I thought!) got me and my writing partner a great agent who sold it to Fox in a bidding war. Script never got made, but we were “in”. We got an assignment off that, and kept getting hired from there.

So, next question.

HOW DO YOU GET A FILM AGENT?

This is how I got my film agent. This is how most screenwriters I know (and I know a lot) got their film agents.

First, they lived in Los Angeles.

Second, they worked as story analysts, or readers, for a studio or agency or production company. A story analyst reads scripts and books that are submitted to companies for consideration for film or TV development, and writes “coverage”: a 2-10 page synopsis of the book or script (depending on the company’s requirements) and a one-page evaluation of the material’s potential as a film, complete with a grid that scores the script in terms of character development, story, dialogue, action, and other narrative elements.

People get those jobs by living in Los Angeles, where you can’t throw a rock without hitting someone who works in the business.

I didn’t get my first job as a reader by throwing rocks at my neighbors, but I did get the job through a neighbor who was working as a reader herself and had too much work to handle. I ghosted some of her scripts, and when a reading job came up at her company she recommended me, and I got the job – it was that easy.

Working as a reader is tremendous training for screenwriting because you learn the format, you learn what works and what doesn’t, you learn how the business really operates from a writing point of view, and you learn specifically who the agents and producers are, out there and what their tastes and reputations are.

When I was a reader I kept file cards on every single script that came in to my company and every single agent who submitted. So when my partner and I had our great script finished, I knew exactly which agents I wanted to approach. I made a list and cold-called those agents, and explained that I was a reader at Company X and I’d read these scripts of the agent’s by these clients and my partner and I had a script that I thought that agent would respond to.

Every single one of the agents but one said to send the script. We got multiple offers of representation and picked the best one of the bunch, and he sold that script to Fox.

These days it’s easier to get a manager than an agent, and that’s how a lot of screenwriters start off; then once they get that first job they will hire an agent as well. A manager can get you in to pitch meetings and get your script read, which is what gets you a job; they just can’t negotiate the contract for you.

BUT WHAT IF I DON’T LIVE IN LOS ANGELES?

Well, as I said above, if you’re not willing to move to Los Angeles, you’re probably not going to have a career as a screenwriter. It happens, but rarely. At least in the beginning, you have to actually be there.

But – there is a tried and true way to get an agent and break into the business if you don’t live in Los Angeles. You will still have to move to Los Angeles to sustain your career, but you can take this road to break in without actually moving yet.

THE CONTESTS:

There are some established screenwriting contests and fellowships that have launched many a writing career. There are a million writing contests out there and most of them will not help you to a screenwriting career at all. But the following contests have consistently gotten the winners and placers good agents, writing assignments, or TV staff jobs:

– The Nicholl Fellowship – the most prestigious and best breakthrough screenwriting contest out there. Many pros say it's about the only contest that can lead to a professional career. http://www.oscars.org/nicholl/index.html

– The Disney Fellowship and Nickelodeon Writing Fellowship – winners get an actual job and hands-on training. The Nick Fellowship grooms writers to work on one of their shows.

– The Warner Bros Drama Writers Workshop and Comedy Writers Workshop — a fast-track way into TV staffing. You write your hour spec and submit. They get about 600 scripts a year; they pick 25 to interview, and choose 13 for the program. You write a second spec under their supervision, and they get you interviews with current CW network and studio projects. About half of any given class gets hired on staff out of the program. Being in the program can get you a good agent if you don’t have one.

– For University of California students and alumni, the Goldwyn Award is also major. There is huge industry competition for the first-place winner, and the Goldwyns heavily promote the winners. Just about every winner becomes a WGA member and is working in the industry within a year of winning.

– TVwriter.com and WriteSafe contests: I know winners of these contests who have gone on to industry jobs. TVwriter.com is also just an excellent resource and community for aspiring TV writers.

SO IF I WANT TO WRITE A SCREENPLAY, HOW DO I START?

I hear a lot of people say that screenwriting is a harder form than novels. This perplexes me. It’s definitely a more restrictive form than novels, and you really have to know your story; you can’t throw dazzling and evocative prose at the reader to cover up the fact that your story doesn’t actually end — but I think it’s much harder to write a good novel.

What I think is, people are intimidated by script form because they’re just not used to reading it. Think about it. We’ve been reading books since we were four or five years old. We (well, the people reading this book, anyway!) have read not just thousands of books, but probably into the ten thousands. Okay, I’m wretched with math, but I don’t think that’s an unreasonable figure for this crowd. We’re voracious.

And how many screenplays have you all read?

Exactly my point.

That’s why starting as a story analyst is such good training for a screenwriter. You read dozens of scripts a week. You absorb the form through osmosis.

So if you want to be a screenwriter, start reading scripts. Tons of them. And start doing the same kind of analysis that you do as a novelist. Writers are primarily self-taught: we have to be constantly reading and analyzing what other writers do to make a story work.

FREE ONLINE SOURCES FOR SCRIPTS:

Just Google “Movie Scripts Online” and you’ll come up with dozens of sites that have free screenplays available. Remember, the writers don’t get any money from these sites, so if you enjoy a script, why not write to the writer and let her or him know it?)

BOOKS AND CLASSES ON SCREENWRITING:

Unfortunately there are very few books I can really recommend on film writing, but—

I cannot say enough good things about John Truby's book The Anatomy of Story. Truby's one of the main screenwriting gurus in LA, and for good reason. His class was the best I ever took on screenwriting, and he's finally gotten it all into a book.

It's useful to read Syd Field's Screenplay. It's groaningly simplistic, but it will teach you very general basic movie structure and teach you how to work by putting your scenes on index cards, which is a great method of developing a story, especially a movie.

Christopher Vogler’s The Writer’s Journey is a wonderful, easy-to-grasp analysis of the mythic Hero’s Journey detailed by Joseph Campbell, and Vogler’s version is tailored specifically to writers.

The late Blake Snyder’s Save The Cat! is a fun, practical textbook from a produced screenwriter. His slant is definitely toward comedy.

Robert McKee's Story — I got a lot out of his class when I took it (many years ago now ...) and he’s probably the top story guru in Hollywood.

And another plug for John Truby, if you like the book: The best screenwriting course I've ever come across, outside of the late Frank Daniel’s USC classes, is John Truby's Story Structure class, which you can get in its entirety on DVD or CD online: Truby.com. (The master class is the one called “Great Screenwriting.”)

It's not cheap but I doubt there's a film school in the entire country that is as good.

I do recommend taking classes, but I don’t recommend paying too much for them. A lot of the people teaching out there don’t have any experience whatsoever in the business, so go to the first class, see if you think you can actually learn something from either the teacher or the other students, and if not, opt out.

BREAKING DOWN MOVIES FOR STRUCTURE

If you’ve read this book you should be an expert at this by now, but here’s the Cliffs’ Notes version. I recommend that you take ten movies you love in the genre that you want to work in and watch each one — first all the way through, then again, this time starting and stopping so you can write down every scene and what happens in it. Then look at your scene outline and identify the three acts and the turning points, or climaxes, of each. Then see if you can identify the 8 sequences that make up the movie (almost every movie at least roughly follows an 8-sequence structure — each sequence being 10-15 minutes long. The first act has two sequences, the second act, four, and the last act two shorter ones, or one continuous sequence and a capper. Do that with ten movies in a row and, again, you will have gone through better writing training than most film schools will put you through, and will be ready to tackle your own story.

SCREENPLAY FORMAT

Here’s a crash course in script format: pick a movie you particularly like and would like to have written, get yourself a copy of the script, and type the whole script from beginning to end, in the same screenplay format the script is in. That exercise will teach you what you need to know about script formatting and pacing.

WHAT IS “HIGH CONCEPT”?

Reread the chapter on High Concept and commit it to memory. It's vitally important if you want to work in Hollywood that you understand what a premise is and what a high concept premise is.

SCREENWRITING: THE DIRTY LITTLE SECRET

This is a subject I don’t even like to write about because I find the whole idea so repellant, and just wrong, but it’s something a lot of people aren’t aware of about the process and reality of film writing and it’s something that novelists contemplating screen work need to know.

Well, so what is the difference between writing novels for a living and screenwriting for a living? Really?

In terms of the creative process — not all that much, really. A story is a story. There are many different ways to tell it. The format is different. Some emphases are different (screenwriting is very visual, novel writing is generally much more internal). But dramatic structure, characters, dialogue, theme, subplots, action, pacing, business, sensory detail, the world of the story … the major building blocks are all there in both. Even, to some degree, voice, which is much more noticeable in a novel but undeniably there in any good script as well, and, I would argue, just as crucial. Every script I’ve ever written could be a novel. With my scripts, I’ve had to leave out more of the story than I actually knew about it, going in. With my novels, I’m having to discover and work in more of the story than I actually knew about it, going in. But the story, in every case, is still the story.

But which should you do, novels or screenplays?

Well, the question is, what do you want?

No one can decide that for you.

If you find yourself going around saying “I just want to get paid to write” (and I hear that constantly from aspiring writers) — then you probably want to think about screen or TV writing. Or technical writing, or journalism, or speechwriting, or nonfiction, or advertising (because, notice, that sentence doesn’t specify what kind of writing you want to get paid for. When you make these kinds of life-altering wishes, you must be specific.).

But odds are, if you’ve got the talent, and the drive (and that’s an enormous if), you can probably make more money in film or TV than in novels. I have no statistics to back me up about that; it’s completely and totally anecdotal. But I suspect the cold hard steel of truth in this quotation (if someone can provide the author, I’d be grateful): “You can’t make a living writing books — but you can make a killing.” This isn’t true of Hollywood. You can make a living, and you can make a killing.

If you do decide to go for the money in Hollywood, what you give up is creative power. What you give up is unique voice. What you give up is copyright. What you far too often give up is your soul.

Oh, right, I’m exaggerating.

No, really, I’m not.

I love film. I do. I love the form, I love the power of it. A great movie makes me want to drop to my knees in gratitude. When a movie actually hits that groove, it’s transcendent. But there are so many stupid, unnecessary complications ingrained in the business. I have seen so many great scripts mutilated, stripped of all power and individuality, ground into meaningless pablum … and I’m not even talking about my own. I really thank whatever gods are out there that the some of the scripts I’ve written haven’t been made. I’m talking about the scripts of other writers I know, and writers I don’t know. When I think of all the brilliant movies that could have been made simply by shooting an even fair approximation of the original scripts, I just want to kill myself.

There are exceptions, of course; good movies do get made, and the exceptions are what keep passionate writers working. Sometimes miracles happen.

But less and less, I think — for two basic reasons.

One — the increasing vertical integration and corporatization of Hollywood. Novelists worry about, for example, Walmart’s increasing influence over what books get ordered, bought and sold, right? Well, that kind of thing has been happening in Hollywood for years, and it’s not pretty.

Two — is rewriting.

And I don’t mean rewriting as in “Writing is rewriting.” I don’t mean, rewriting your own work. I mean, rewriting other writers.

Rewriting is a concept that is alien to most novelists. After all, when JT Ellison sold All the Pretty Girls to Mira, Mira didn’t turn around and say, “Great story, has potential, we like it … but we don’t love it. Let’s get Lee Child in to do a pass to beef up the male characters, maybe bring in some international intrigue to help with foreign markets. Actually, female protagonists don’t do well in the foreign markets so let’s also have him switch the genders of the characters.” And JT is fired off her own book (her agent will deliver this news to her, because her editor (producers) and publishers (studio/executives) certainly won’t take the trouble to do it themselves. Then after Mr. Child has done his rewrite, the conversation might go like this: “International serial killer books are just not doing well right now, but medical thrillers are off the charts. Let’s make the detective a doctor and get Tess Gerritsen to do a pass. Oh, and also, 80% of books this year were bought by women so let’s make this doctor female.” So Mr. Child is fired, and Ms. Gerritsen is hired. And after Ms. Gerritsen has transformed this police thriller cum international serial spy actioner into a sexy medical thriller, the conversation might go something like this: “Stephenie Meyer’s eighteenth book has been #1 on the NYT bestseller list for a year and a half now, and Stephenie has a window. Let’s get her in to revision this puppy as a teenage vampire story, and get this — the vampire is in med school! You know, a protégé. Um, prodigy.”

So Ms. Gerritsen is fired, and ....

Repeat two dozen times until the final version, whatever the hell that is, is slapped up on screen, or in this hypothetical, print — or (as in the vast majority of cases) until everyone is so sick of trying to make the story "work" that they just shelve it. And no, I’m not kidding.

I wish I were.

Now, I love all the authors I’ve mentioned above. But I love them for their unique voices. I don’t want to read their half-assed attempts at trying to “fix” someone else’s writing, which in all likelihood wasn’t even broken to begin with.

Can you imagine? Barry Eisler being hired to layer some martial arts into the Irish tragedies of Ken Bruen .... Dennis Lehane being hired to pump up the urban reality in Neil Gaiman’s mythic fantasies … Heather Graham being hired to weave a paranormal subplot into PD James’ psychological mysteries …

You have to understand this, though. That’s the main money that's out there to be made in screenwriting: rewriting other writers’ work, to studio specifications.

And then there’s another factor. The general public is not aware that only three writers (or writing teams) are allowed to be credited on a movie, maximum. But if three dozen writers have done a draft, or two or three, on this movie, who decides who gets credit? And how?

Well, that’s a huge subject, but basically, the Writers Guild of America (WGA) has the sole power to determine credits. Studios may submit who they would like to see credited on the movie (guess who they’d prefer — the brand new writer who wrote the original script or the multimillion dollar writer they hired to replace her?) but the WGA has that call, through a process called credit arbitration, in which writers submit their own drafts of the script and their arguments about why they should receive credit, and a panel of writer/arbiters reads all the drafts and makes the determination whose names go on the movie.

There are produced movies that I wrote on that I’m not and will never be credited for because I wasn't awarded final credit in the arbitration. It happens to all professional screenwriters, all the time. But that's not the part that bothers me. I was paid well to do the job, and they weren’tmy original script (they were not cases of rewriting an original writer, either).

Here’s the really troubling thing. Back end compensation for writers, a huge part of the money you potentially receive for writing a movie, is completely tied to final credit. No final credit, no back end money. So a lot of the rewriting that gets done has nothing to do with what would be good for the story, but has to do with deliberate shifts in character and plot that will change the script enough for the rewriter to get credit. Writers go through and change all the names of characters, change characters’ professions, change locations, combine characters — and that’s just for starters.

(I won't even go see a movie if I see more than two writers listed on the poster, because I know all too well the kind of mess that signifies.)

So screenwriters are not just in constant competition with each other for jobs; they’re often engaged in battles over credit and the back end money credit brings.

I myself couldn’t do it. I think it degrades writers — both the rewriter and the writer being rewritten. I think it dilutes or outright destroys the original and unique power of the story. I think it’s the prime factor in the reality that feature writers have no power in Hollywood.

And I think it’s a major reason that movies are so bad, these days.

It’s something to think about.

So what am I saying? I guess my advice is, if you just want to make money …

Well, if you’re just in for the money, good luck with that.

I absolutely believe writers should make a good living. But books and films and television and games are too precious a resource to be left in the hands of people who are only doing it for the money. These are dreams we’re dealing with, here. As writers, we dream for other people. And if you’re not passionate about your writing, your own writing, the dreams you dream, I have nothing to say to you.

In terms of working for Hollywood, though, in the present climate, this is what I will say, and this is just completely my own opinion.

I can’t remember the last time I saw a new movie that enthralled me as much as some recent television: Deadwood, The Wire, Rome, Mad Men. (I was not a Sopranos junkie but yes, I understand, it was brilliant, too.) I believe that great television is happening right now, and if you want to work in moving pictures, that’s probably the place to go. The writer has power in television; the screenwriter does not have power in features. And HBO, in particular, has vision. I think it shows. And I believe television writing is a more honest and effective writing process because — at least — it’s collaborative up front.

Otherwise, if you care about what you do, and what you are putting out into the world, I hope you’ll keep writing novels.

No matter what, be very specific about what you are aspiring to. If your dream is to make a great movie, make sure you understand what that takes and consider how you might be able to do it in the present corporate climate. Can you do it as an independent, instead? Can you do it as a TV series? Can you do it as a novel? If this for some reason was your one shot, how could you bring your story to fruition and die satisfied with the result?

Know what you’re getting into — and go for it.

Good luck.

53. Recommended Reading

Story structure:

The Anatomy of Story— John Truby. For my money the one indispensable book on story.

The Writer’s Journey — Christopher Vogler

Story — Robert McKee

Poetics — Aristotle

Making a Good Script Great — Linda Seger

Save the Cat! — Blake Snyder

Writing a Movie in 21 Days — Viki King

Writing Screenplays That Sell — Michael Hauge

The Art of Dramatic Writing — Lajos Egri

The Artist’s Way — Julia Cameron

Psychology, Character, Archetypes:

Goddesses in Everywoman — Jean Shinoda Bolen

Gods in Everyman — Jean Shinoda Bolen

The Owl Was a Baker’s Daughter — Marion Woodman

Women Who Run With the Wolves — Clarissa Pinkola Estes

The Woman’s Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets — Barbara Walker

Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus — John Gray

The Gift of Fear — Gavin deBecker

Shadow Syndromes — John J. Ratey

Book promotion and marketing:

Publicize Your Book — Jacqueline Deval

A Newbie’s Guide to Publishing — J.A. Konrath

Books By Alexandra Sokoloff

Thrillers

THE SPACE BETWEEN at Amazon.com

THE UNSEEN at Amazon.com

BOOK OF SHADOWS at Amazon.com

THE HARROWING at Amazon.com

THE PRICE at Amazon.com

Paranormal

THE SHIFTERS (Book 2 of THE KEEPERS trilogy) at Amazon.com

Nonfiction

SCREENWRITING TRICKS FOR AUTHORS at Amazon.com

Short fiction

THE EDGE OF SEVENTEEN at Amazon.com

IN ATLANTIS (in the anthology THRILLER 3, Stories to Keep You Up At Night)

About the author:

As a screenwriter, Alexandra Sokoloff has sold original mystery and thriller scripts and written novel adaptations for numerous Hollywood studios. Alex’s debut novel, The Harrowing, was nominated for both a Bram Stoker Award and Anthony Award for Best First Novel, and she is an International Thriller Writers’ Thriller Award winner for Best Short Fiction. Her second supernatural thriller, The Price, was called “some of the most original and freshly unnerving work in the genre” by the New York Times Book Review. Her thrillers The Unseen, Book of Shadows, The Shifters and The Space Between are out now; her paranormal trilogy Twist Of Fate and a second Keepers series are coming in 2012.

Alex is a former Board of Directors member of the Writers Guild of America, West, and of the Mystery Writers of America, and is the founder of WriterAction.com, an online community and resource center for professional screenwriters. She is the author of the non-fiction workbook, Screenwriting Tricks for Authors and has taught story structure on the college level at Otis School of Design; she now teaches story structure workshops all over the country and blogs extensively on Screenwriting Tricks for Authors at http://screenwritingtricks.com and at her website: AlexandraSokoloff.com

In her free time (!) Alex performs with Heather Graham’s Vampire Dinner Theater, and dances like a fiend.

Acknowledgments:

To all my blog readers and students, who teach me more about story every day.

A million special thanks to:

Brenda Janowitz, K.D. James, and Lisa Mondello, awesome beta readers and critics!

The Weymouth Seven: Margaret Maron, Mary Kay Andrews, Diane Chamberlain, Sarah Shaber, Katy Munger, and Brenda Witchger, who always let me experiment on them.

Heather Graham, Kathy Love, Molly Bolden, Jodie Thomas, Nina Bruns, Amy King, Sharon Lyon, and Virna dePaul for bringing me to wonderful places to teach all this stuff in such gorgeous settings.

Harry Mott and my students at Otis School of Design for expanding my understanding of visual storytelling (and animation!).

Joseph Campbell, Frank Daniel, John Truby, and Robert McKee for breaking down the architecture under the art.

Table of Contents

Title page

Introduction

PART ONE: Story Structure

1. The Master List

2. What’s Your Premise?

3. First, You Need An Idea

4. What KIND of Story is It?

5. The Three-Act, Eight-Sequence Structure

6. The Index Card Method

7. Story Elements Checklist

8. Elements of Act One

9. Plan, Central Question, Central Story Action

10. What’s The Plan?

12. Hero and Heroine, Lover and Loved One

13. What Makes A Great Villain?

14. Elements of Act Two, Part 1

16. Elements of Act Three

17. Top Ten Endings

18. What Makes a Great Climax?

19. Act Climaxes Overview and Examples

20. Expanding On The Key Story Elements

21. Expanded Story Elements Checklist

22. Love Story Elements

23. Fairy Tale Structure

24. Meta Structure

25. What is “High Concept”?

26. The Rule of Three

27. Voice

28. First Chapters

29. Thematic Image Systems

30. Visual Storytelling

31. Creating Suspense

32. Plants and Payoffs

33. Character Introductions

34. Using Character Clusters

35. Your First Draft Is Always Going to Suck

36. Top Ten Things I Know About Editing

37. A Process For Writing

PART TWO: Story Breakdowns

38. The Breakdowns

39. Leap Year

40. While You Were Sleeping

41. Notting Hill

42. Four Weddings and a Funeral

43. The Proposal

44. New in Town

45. Groundhog Day

46. Sense and Sensibility

47. Romancing the Stone

48. Sea of Love

PART THREE: The Business

49. Life is a Pitch Meeting

50. How Do I Get a Literary Agent? Or Do I?

51. Internet Resources for Writers

52. So You Want to Know About Screenwriting

53. Recommended Reading

Books By Alexandra Sokoloff

About the author:

Acknowledgments: