——————1——————

THE BASICS

 

In order to understand the basics of script—premise, character, structure, and all the dramatic properties of film narrative—we need to consider a number of questions whose answers will conceptualize the substance of this chapter. What is storytelling? How does it relate to our lives? And why do certain stories succeed in affecting us, and others fail? These questions are our starting point.

It's best to begin with a central term, drama, a term that is usually associated with the stage and with theater critics. The term itself implies conflict. If Macbeth didn't want to become king, with the sitting king as a barrier to his goal, there would be no conflict in Shakespeare's play. If the warring families in Romeo and Juliet got along, the play wouldn't take the dramatic shape that it does. If Othello weren't as jealous, if he weren't a Moor surrounded by Caucasians, and so on. If the senators of Rome were content to allow Julius Caesar to fulfill his ambition to be Emperor of Rome… well, you get the picture. Shakespeare would not have found the tragedy of Julius Caesar compelling; nor would we.

Not all conflict is a merit from the perspective of the critic. If a drama is over-wrought, the critics consider the story melodramatic or operatic. When they want to suggest that a drama is flat, they describe it as flawed or cheapened. In either case the implication is that when drama is working the level of engagement between the audience and the story is ideal. It has credibility, and it has the capacity to, in a valuable way, invite us into an identification with the actions of the character and with the narrative arc of the play.

Drama, then, is a level of conflict that is shaped, as Aristotle suggests, with a beginning, a middle, and an end. That conflict may be internal, interpersonal, intersocietal, or between man and nature. The consequent clash of goals brings us into an identification with a character. If the character has will and energy, we identify with the drive. If the story positions the character as a potential victim, we fear that the character's will (and ours) will be crushed.

What needs to be said about drama is that it differs from real life. That is not to say that each of us do not have conflict in our lives. Quite the contrary. But the conflict in drama is intensified and structured for a purpose-to entertain or to capture us in a moral swamp where we can swim or sink with a character. And drama offers resolution or catharsis in two hours. Few real-life conflicts hold out such a promise.

Which brings us to the importance of storytelling in the human experience. Whether expressed in a series of cave paintings, a series of tapestries, a sonnet, an epic poem, a novel, a photograph, a play, or a film, all these storytelling expressions have meant so much more than the artifacts now housed in museums or the plays read in high schools. For each generation these communiques from one human being to his or her community have served multiple purposes. On the most basic level, an artifact is an entertainment that might promote laughter or joy from the experience. Cartoons, TV situation comedies, and soap operas have their equivalents in the travelling plays, court jesters, and clowns of former times.

Or the story might have an educational goal. Education is a broad term, and all of us throughout our lifetimes are in the process of becoming educated. New information, moral education, political education, social education—all are the valid educational goals of storytelling. Fairy tales and fables for children, or the more complex education layers of a play such as Arthur Miller's The Crucible, offer different types of education for their audiences.

Whether informational or moral, or educational about the social and psychological dimensions of the human experience, stories educate us in layered and complex ways. The outcome might be to improve us as all education can, or it might simply provide a cathartic experience that helps us cope with demons that would otherwise prove harmful to ourselves or to others.

I'm not suggesting that stories are the panacea for all that ails society and its members. But I am suggesting that storytelling has played an important role in helping societies function. And when those stories are seminal and important, they can have a transformative effect, as all art can. Stories can yield the understanding that brings people together, and in this sense it has and does fulfill a critical function in society.

Imagine for a moment stories told in a form that reaches across societies, across nations, and around the world. That is the power of filmic storytelling. This invention of the late-nineteenth century became the popular art form of the twentieth century. The storytellers of the twenty-first century want to tell their stories in images. Whether in film or video, those stories have become the most important and most powerful story form of our time.

THE VISUAL VERSUS THE SPOKEN

Storytelling as an evolving form followed two distinct paths—the visual and the aural. Theater today owes much to how far the aural tradition has progressed. And although film owes much to theater structurally and in basic dramatic principles, it is distinctly visual as a medium. Its use of light also owes much to painting and to photography, but its visual character goes beyond those forms. It's best to think of filmic storytelling as a form where every aspect of the form evolves out of this visual character.

Consequently, certain film genres that are particularly visual—the western, the musical, the action-adventure film—are dominated by visual action. That action may characterize, it may advance the plot, or it may simply provide the context for both. But these genres are not exclusively visual, they are simply the most predominately visual.

To illustrate the depth of the visual character of the medium a cross-section of famous and less-famous film sequences will serve. Among the most famous are the shower sequence in Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho (1960), the Odessa Steps sequence in Eisenstein's Potemkin (1925), the breakfast scene in Welles' Citizen Kane (1941), the gunfight toward the end of Peckinpah's The Wild Bunch (1969). Among the less-famous but notably visual sequences, the burial of a child's mother early in David Lean's Dr. Zhivago (1965), a young boy's escape from a tyrannical house-keeper in Carol Reed's The Fallen Idol (1948), the sniper attack in Stanley Kubrick's Full Metal Jacket (1987). In this last sequence, many men die on a patrol during the Battle of Hue. They die because of a single sniper. After many losses they kill the sniper, only to discover she is a woman. These sequences are powerful, dramatic evocations presented to us at set pieces.

The medium more often functions with more modest but no less visual aspects. For instance, it may offer insight into character. The visual action of the Marlon Brando character, Terry in Elia Kazan's On the Waterfront (1954), when he's getting to know Edie, a young woman (Eva Marie Saint), is instructive. He is a young man with lots of rough edges; she is a student in a convent school. They sit on swings making conversation. He has taken one of her gloves and as he talks he plays with her glove. From his actions we understand his desire—he wants to get close to this young woman but he doesn't know how. His awkward visual action implies that desire and that awkwardness.

Another example is an early action in Carol Reed's The Third Man (1949). An American writer named Holly Martins (Joseph Cotton) arrives in post-war Vienna, invited and paid for by his friend Harry Lime (Orson Welles), only to find that his friend Lime is dead. A policeman arranges his accommodations and a return to America. Holly tries to punch the policeman for insulting his friend. He is knocked out instead. The scene visually illustrates both the impulsiveness and the naivete of the writer. His refusal to believe Harry Lime is dead leads him to fight and, predictably, to lose.

Characterization in film is almost always visually captured. So, too, is plot. The murder of a brother motivates Wyatt Earp to become the sheriff of Tombstone in John Ford's My Darling Clementine (1946). A case of mistaken identity leads the main character to be kidnapped in Alfred Hitchcock's North by Northwest (1959). The placement of a damaging item in a gossip column will either move the main character up the ladder of success or lead to his ruin in Alexander Mackendrick's Sweet Smell of Success (1956). The key here is that it is a visual action rather than a described action (in dialogue) that is natural and useful in filmic storytelling.

This idea of visualization should pervade your thinking as you begn to write your screenplay.

Consider visualization as the first writing strategy when faced with characterization or plot advancement. The examples of wordsmith David Mamet, a play-wright, writing for the screen is instructive. In terms of characterization, his screenplay of The Edge (1997) is instructive. The main character Charles Morse (Anthony Hopkins) is a billionaire. He is also an older gentleman married to a young model. He is jealous of his younger rival, Robert Green (Alec Baldwin), the photographer, who will photograph his wife in a natural wilderness setting in Northern Alaska. Charles is portrayed as insatiably curious to understand and control his world. He is deeply knowledgeable about tribal artifacts as well as means of survival—creating fire without matches, keeping warm when wet. But he's never had to act on this knowledge, until he and Robert and an assistant crash land deep in the wilderness. At that point, it's all about survival.

Mamet characterizes Charles continually faced with a life-threatening challenge—a Kodiak bear, a freezing environment, no real compass to guide him to safety. In each case, Mamet visually illustrates Charles' capacity for hope and for intelligence to solve the problem and to save himself and his companions.

The visual characterization and the visualization of plot (the escape to the south) is Mamet's writing solution, his visual solution to the writing problem.

TERMS—USEFUL, CRITICAL

If directors of films think in terms of shots, writers think in terms of premise, character, and structure. These narrative terms, some borrowed from theater and some adapted for film, are the common language of film writing. Practitioners and producers sometimes adapt them according to their experience, so you will encounter variations in how they are used. What I present here are the terms I have found useful to writers to help them write.

Screenplay Format Prose is presented in a novel in sentences and paragraphs. A script is presented in visual detail and dialogue organized in a distinct fashion unique to film. That format is called the master scene format (see Appendix for example). What is most common in screenplay format for film and television films is the master scene format. Although multicamera television uses its own format (visual/audio side by side), as does documentary, the format here described is the master scene script format.

This format is useful because it facilitates the reading of the script as well as the budgeting of the script. The scene numbering changes as there is a location change. This allows tabulation of personnel, cast, crew, and props per location facilitating budgeting.

The Premise We experience a film through the main character. The premise refers to the particular challenge facing the main character. In certain genres such as the thriller, it is an external choice. In The Fugtive (1993), Richard Kimble (Harrison Ford) finds his wife dying and after her death he is accused and tried as her killer. He knows he didn't do it. How will he regain his freedom? In Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981), Indiana Jones (Harrison Ford) wants to find the Lost Ark. Will he? How, given the obstacles in his way? In these cases the premise is an external rather than an internal struggle.

More often the premise does refer to an inner struggle. In this case, it's best to consider the premise as the two opposite choices facing the main character. In Anthony Minghella's Truly, Mudly, Deeply (1991), the main character has recently lost her lover to an unexpected illness. She is deeply wounded and struggles with overwhelming grief. The premise of the film is whether she will go on grieving for the rest of her life (hold on to the dead lover) or whether she will take up life, in the future, by way of a new relationship.

In Lee Tamahori's Once Were Warriors (1995), the main character must decide between her husband and her children. Although she lives in the illusion of a family life, her husband's attitude and his lifestyle choices (drinking and partying with his friends) are destructive to the her goals for the family. She must make a choice.

Often the premise is worked out through the exploration of two relational choices, in this case, the husband or the children. She cannot have both.

The Critical Moment The beginning of the film story should throw us into the story. If the setup is too gentle or too slow we may not join with the story. The point at which we begin the film story should capture us powerfully. Whether this means a low point in the life of the main character, as in Sydney Lumet's The Verdict (1982), or the accidental, untimely death of T.E. Lawrence in David Lean's Lawrence of Arabia (1962), the beginning, because of its special function of propelling us into the story, is called the critical moment.

This point can be mysterious, or it can be nfe with danger, or it can seem to be a trap or a dead end for the main character. The key here is the conflictual quality this moment has for the main character—it will be a turning point for the character's story.

The Catalytic Event If the film story begins at a critical moment, the catalytic event (sometimes referred to as the point of attack) will propel the main character away from the trap or toward another option. In film noir the catalytic event is when the main character meets the woman who will rescue him from his state of despair. (Quite the opposite happens.) In Lumet's The Verdict, the drunken lawyer who is an ambulance chaser in his profession, is given a case, a “money-maker.” This case will constitute the plot of The Verdict. In Lean's Lawrence of Arabia, the young officer Lawrence is given permission to join Faisal, the leader of the Arab revolt against the Turks (again the beginning of the plot).

Main Character The main character is at the heart of the film narrative. Not only do we experience the narrative through the point of view of the main character, every element of the narrative impacts upon the main character. Consequently the main character is key. This is not necessarily the case in other story forms and their consequent adaptation to film. In the case of the Francis Ford Coppola 1974 adaptation of Fitzgerald's novel The Great Gatsby, the point of view of the novel is Daisy's cousin. This perspective is maintained in the film directed by Jack Clayton. The result is a flawed film narrative because the central or main character of the film story is clearly Gatsby, the man with a past. In the Coppola screenplay, the chosen point of view distances us from what should be the main character. The consequence is respectful but not emotionally engaging.

Examples of more effectively positioned main characters are Margo Channing (Bette Davis) in All About Eve (1950) and Marty (Ernest Borgnine) in the Paddy Chayefsky 1955 film adaptation of his screenplay Marty. These characters are right in the middle of the narrative action in each of the stories.

Character Goals A film narrative works most effectively when the character has a strong goal. The desire for a love match on the part of the main character Rose (Kate Winslett) in James Cameron's Titanic (1997) is a good example. Another is the young main character's belief in a better life in the midst of his family's sufferings during the Depression in Steven Soderbergh's King of the Hill (1993). Another is Erin's desperate desire to take care of her children in Steven Soderbergh's Erin Brockovich (2000).

The benefit of a strong goal is that it creates drama. Rose must go against her mother and her rich fiancé in Titanic. The young boy in King of the Hill struggles against the economic challenges to his family, to the health challenges to his family, and to the social challenges at school. Erin Brockovich has to fight economic, social, and political opposition in order to achieve her goal. A film story can proceed where a character doesn't have a goal, as for the character in Soderbergh's sex, lies and videotape (1989), but your job as a writer will be much easier if all your characters have goals.

Polarities Polarities or opposites are a very useful device to create drama or conflict. Where characters in the story have opposite goals, where they are different from one another in age, status, race, and gender, and where these differences are dramatically purposeful, you have the idea of opposites working for you in the narrative.

Erin Brockovich is uneducated and poor. The lawyer she goes to work for is educated and rich. Erin's ultimate opposite is the power company that has been polluting the drinking water of its neighbors. The power company stands at the opposite end of the power grid from Erin.

Rose's two suitors, the artist Jack Dawson (Leonardo diCaprio) and the financier Cal Hockley (Billy Zane) couldn't be more opposite. The artist is giving emotionally, fun-loving, and, in the end, self-sacrificing. The financier is materially giving but possessive, and he's not fun at all. In fact, he spends a good deal of the time being angry or aggressive, and in the end he is totally selfish rather than considerate of Rose or anybody else, for that matter.

The important point here is that opposites or polarities are very useful in the film narrative. Think of them as the dramatic train tracks for the story.

Secondary Characters The secondary characters serve the main character in two ways. Either they help the main character, or they create barriers for or harm the main character. In certain genres the difference is strongly apparent. All those who pose a threat or are harmful to the main character in Roland Emmerich's The Patriot (2000) are British (with one Colonial loyal to the British added). This has great logic in a story set during the American War of Independence (1776–1783). The helpers are family, neighbors, freemen, and slaves who share the main character's goal: first to protect his family and finally to defeat the British, the Colonial power in America.

In other genres the distinction is less clear-cut. In All About Eve, an ambitious would-be actress and the critic who promotes her are harmers to Margo Channing, the main character. The playwright, his wife, and the director are all characters who help Margo. The distinction blurs here because at one point or another each of these characters falls out with the main character or, in the case of the playwright's wife, is actually seriously harmful to the main character. Nevertheless, in the end, she too is helpful.

The Antagonist The antagonist is the most important secondary character. This is the character whose goal is in greatest opposition to the main character. In this sense, the antagonist is the most significant harmer. In James Cameron's Titanic, the antagonist is the main character's fiancé, the financier, Cal. In Joseph Mankiewicz's All About Eve, the antagonist is Eve, the ambitious rising star whose goal is to take over the roles of the main character, Margo Channing.

Often the antagonist is overt and obvious—Darth Vader in Star Wars. At other times, the antagonist might be the conflicted self. The main characters in Minghella's Truly, Madly, Deeply and George Stevens' A Place in the Sun (1951) offer examples where the main character is their own antagonist.

The nature of the antagonist will have a profound influence on the dramatic arc of the story. If it is to be heroic, the antagonist should be all the more powerful. The British Colonel Tavington in Emmerich's The Patriot and Javert in Bille August's Les Miserables (1998) are good examples. More usual however is a more realistic antagonist, such as Mr. Sheldrake in Billy Wilder's The Apartment (1960), or Gordon Gekko in Oliver Stone's Wall Street (1987).

Structure Structure, which is essentially the shape of the narrative, is actually composed of four layers: the mechanical structure, often referred to as the three-act structure; the plot, which I called the Foreground Story in Alternative Scriptwriting (a book I cowrote with Jeff Rush); the character layer, which I called the Background Story in Alternative Scriptwriting; and the genre, or the story form that serves as the container for the structure. These layers are sufficiently important that I will define each of them separately.

Three-Act Structure The organization of events and characters tends to be organized in a three-act structure in the classical film story. In keeping with Aristotle's beginning, middle, and end, three acts orchestrate for dramatic effectiveness the events of the story. Act I, the Setup, joins the story at a critical moment. The main character and the premise are introduced. Approximately one-third of the way into Act I, a catalytic event kick-starts the plot or another source of momentum for the story. In film noir, for example, the main character meets the woman of his dreams. The First Act ends with a turning point that takes us into the Second Act.

Act II is the act of Confrontation. Twice as long as the other acts, it tends to explore two options or choices (in terms of relationships) for the main character. There is a midpoint to the Act. Act II ends with another turning point, which takes us into Act III.

In Act III, the act of Resolution, the main character finally makes his or her choice, or achieves or fails in his or her goal. In this act, the plot as well as the character layers (which I will define in a moment) must be resolved.

Three-act structure refers to the classic film narrative. There are increasing examples of films that choose to drop resolution (Act III) (an example is Spike Lee's She's Gotta Have It [1986]), or which sidestep this linear structure altogether (see “The Nonlinear Story” later in this chapter). (Linear is a narrative in which the goal directed character moves through the narrative toward resolution of that goal.) However, 95 percent of screen stories adhere to this structure.

Major Plot Points Major plot points are the turning points at the end of each act. These tend to be very strong events. The major plot point at the end of Act I opens up the story in an unexpected way. The major plot point at the end of Act II closes down the story and motivates the main character to make a choice.

The turning points in Lee Tamahori's Once Were Warriors, a story of domestic violence among the Maoris of New Zealand, are as follows:

It is clear in Act I that the marriage of Beth and Jake is troubled and that the mother, the main character, cares deeply about her children. Yet nothing prepares the viewer for the physical beating she undergoes at the hands of her husband. Its violence and its sexual aggression present the audience with a shocking reality check on the state of her marriage. This is the first major plot point. The second turning point at the end of Act II comes after Beth exerts a great deal of effort to keep the family together. The suicide of her oldest daughter (after being raped by her father's friend) forces the mother to face a choice—between her marriage or the fate of her children. She chooses to leave the marriage. Both turning points occur at the end of a long night of social drinking and partying at the home of Beth and her family.

The key element of major plot points in comparison to other plot points is that they are very distinct in the impact they have upon the story.

Plot Points Sometimes referred to as beats, plot points are the outcome of each scene in the narrative. Each plot point will either characterize the characters or advance the plot. There may be as many as eighty plot points in a feature film.

Plot Plot is a very important layer of structure. It refers to the external set of events (in the world) that challenge the main character and his or her goal. The voyage of the Titanic in Cameron's Titanic, the Battle of Hue in Kubrick's Full Metal Jacket, the War of Independence and its progress (or lack thereof) in Emmerich's The Patriot—these are the plots in the respective film stories.

The importance of plot is that it should complicate the main character's goal. Often it works in opposition to the character's goal. In this sense, plot enhances the dramatic or conflictual properties of the screen story.

Character Layer The character layer of the screen story is on one level the direct expression of the premise of the film. Should I choose my dead lover or a new live lover in Minghella's Truly, Madly, Deeply? Should I choose my husband or my children in Tamahori's Once Were Warriors? This character layer requires that each option be fully explored in the screen narrative. This layer often dominates Act II of the structure. Because these options have to be fully explored prior to the main character making his or her choice, Act II tends to be long and dominated by characters and their relationships.

Resolution The resolution, sometimes referred to as the climax of the story, is best understood in light of the goal of the main character. In the resolution, the main character either achieves or fails in his or her goal. The goal of the main character in Emmerich's The Patriot, is to save his family. Given that the colonials need soldiers, his sons are expected to fight, as is he. The war and its progress mitigates against this goal. He has lost two sons and a home, but the war is won, and he now will return to the complications of that original goal, to provide a future for his remaining family members. In All About Eve, Margo Channing is a 40 plus year old actress. She is a star. But she is tremendously insecure about her age. She is less so as a star. But as a star she feels its her image, her talent that keeps her lover, the director, with her. Her choices are either to be a star (and forever doubt her personal relationships) or to acknowledge her age and choose what is being offered, a real relationship with the director, in essence, a family life. This will mean that she moves away from being a star whose life is dominated by the stage. She chooses personal over professional goals and in doing so her insecurity about Bill, the director, ebbs. She is comfortable in her choice; and by making the choice, she resolves the conflicting issues in her life.

Resolution that is appropriate to the linear three-act structure creates closure to the film's narrative arc. And closure for the main character means closure for the audience.

Genre Genre is the story form that contains the overall structure of the screen story. There are numerous genres-action-adventure, melodrama, the western, the gangster film, the police story, the musical, the situation comedy, science fiction, film noir, and the horror film, among others. These story forms have very particular characteristics. They differ in terms of the goals of their characters, the role of the antagonist, their dramatic shape, and the balance of plot to character layer and tone. What is important about genre is that there are distinguishing features over time that unite films within a genre (compare Scarface [1934] and The Godfather [1973], for example). There may be tonal variations over time, but the substructure within genres endures and it is that substructure that audiences identify with and value in a genre.

Scene A scene is the smallest unit within the overall structure of the screen story. Although a shot may be smaller, a shot more often will only refer to a directorial decision that is the equivalent of a single detail within the scene.

From a narrative perspective, consider the scene to be the context for the plot point, as described earlier. A scene has a purpose, and once that purpose is achieved (the plot point) the scene is over.

The Sequence A sequence is a series of scenes within the overall structure of the screen story. The purpose of a sequence may be to advance the plot or characterize an environment or a person, and therefore may be plot- or character-driven. A good example of a character-driven sequence is the introduction of the gunnery sergeant, Hartman, and his strategy to the new army inductees in Kubrick's Full Metal Jacket. The purpose of the sequence is to illustrate that the goal of Sergeant Hartman is to break the individualistic spirits of the inductees. His deeper goal, as he states it, is “to turn them into killing machines.” Breaking their spirits is, to his mind, the way to achieve his goal.

The Act I have already defined the individual acts within a three-act structure. In relation to the sequence, an Act is a series of sequences that are organized along a rising action to promote the conflict between the main character and his goal, those who oppose him, those who may help him, and the plot, which will oppose him.

The Nonlinear Story The nonlinear story has been with us since Luis Buñuel made Un Chien Andalou in 1929, but it's been more recently popularized and mythologized by the success of Quentin Tarantino's Pulp Fiction (1993). Essentially, nonlinear screen story is a story whose shape is not driven by a main character who has a clearly defined goal and who is rushing towards resolution. On the contrary, the nonlinear story may not have one main character, it may proceed where the character(s) do not have goals, and it certainly does not have resolution. Consequently, the experience of the nonlinear story is very different from the experience of a three-act film narrative. Recent examples include Paul Thomas Anderson's Magnolia (1999), Terence Malick's The Thin Red Line (1998), and Tom Tykwer's Run, Lola, Run (1999).

In Terence Malick's The Thin Red Line, the battle is over at the end of the film, but since we have followed 10 characters, some with goals, others simply wanting to survive, we don't have the conclusive sense of closure that we have in Spielberg's Saving Private Ryan (1999), a linear war film. The Captain has saved Private Ryan, dying in the act, but with the invocation, make your life worthy of my sacrifice. This kind of closure leaves the audience with a far different, more articulated sense of emotions than does the end of The Thin Red Line. Whether we conclude more poetically, or more philosophically, the ending offers us choice rather than forcing the choice upon us.

Surprise Generally surprise is achieved in the film narrative via the twists and turns of plot and of the individual behavior of the characters in the narrative. This might mean the “humane” behavior of the serial killer Hannibal Lecter (Anthony Hopkins) toward Clarice Starling (Jodie Foster) in Jonathan Demme's The Silence of the Lambs (1991), or it might mean that Lucky, the leader of the Allied demolition team, breaks his leg and is therefore no longer able to lead, in J. Lee Thompson's The Guns of Navarone (1961). In both cases, surprise leaves the audience in a state of heightened tension about the fate of the main character. Surprise is very important to sustain audience involvement with the film narrative.

Tension Tension is a critical factor in every scene. It is the key to our involvement in the film narrative. What creates tension is specific to the dramatic construction of each scene. Imagine two characters with differing goals. The goals may be simple; the key is that they are opposing goals. The scene itself is resolved when one character or the other achieves his or her goal. But the tension in the scene is generated from the conflict between the two characters and their opposing goals. Who will achieve his or her goal? This is the question as we move toward the resolution of the scene. The byproduct of this question is tension, a key ingredient in your screen story and in how involved the audience will become with your story.

Energy Energy, a critical element in every film narrative, relates to character: the nature of character, the behavior of character, the will of character, and the desire of character. On one level, energy relates to the goal of the character. If the character's nature is to be intense, this quality when applied to his or her goal will generate the kind of energy that is powerful and endlessly useful in the screen story. Plot can also generate energy.

Ridley Scott's Gladiator (2000) provides good examples of both types of energy. First, the goal of the main character, Maximus (Russell Crowe), is to return home to his wife and son. But to do so he must complete his responsibilities to Caesar, Marcus Aurelius (Richard Harris). As the general of the army of the north, Maximus must end the war with the German barbarians. But when he does so, Caesar poses another responsibility—to be his heir, and restore Rome to a republic (it has drifted toward an absolute monarchy). Maximus, a man of duty, is torn, but he will serve. Here the plot intervenes. Commodus (Joaquin Phoenix), son of Caesar, doesn't like his father's decision. He kills his father, tries to kill Maximus, and has the wife and son of Maximus brutally murdered.

Now the goal of Maximus becomes revenge and here it is the energy of the plot that gives him his opportunity. He becomes a slave, then a gladiator, and then, as the greatest gladiator, a threat to Commodus, the new Caesar.

The tension between the will of Maximus to have revenge and justice and the barriers before him creates the powerful energy in Gladiator. Energy facilitates our involvement with the screen story.

Tone The tone of a film is the nonverbal, visual surround of the story. Tone tends to direct the audience towards a particular interpretation and is often genre-specific. Because melodrama is essentially a genre about recognizable people in believable situations, the tone is realistic. In a musical, a genre of wish fulfillment, the tone has to be fantastic or magical, a tone in which we in the audience believe dreams can come true. As you might expect, the tone in the horror film has to be overflowing with danger and the feeling that anything can happen. The excessive, over-the-top tone of the horror film is the surround that helps us believe in the unleashed aggression and sexuality that are central to the horror film.

There is tone that draws us into the story, and there can also be tone that is so absurd it pushes us away from character and events in the screen story. This tone, irony, is useful in genres such as the satire and the screwball comedy, where distance is critical to the effectiveness of the screen story.

Voice Each of us has a point of view, a filter through which we see the world. This is no less true for writers and directors who use that filter to translate their world—their screen story—for us. That editorial position I will call their voice.

When you see a number of films by a particular writer or director you begn to get the sense of their voice. Billy Wilder has a cosmopolitan cynicism that moves throughout his work. Preston Sturges had a profound sense of irony about relationships and the American dream. Quentin Tarantino is media-obsessed in his work, as is Oliver Stone. Spike Lee wants to educate his audience. Every writer and director has a voice that makes his or her work unique.

In the past ten years, voice has become more personal and more assertive, overwhelming our relationship with character and story. In the past, voice was more subtle, more subdued. This is such an important shift in storytelling that we will return to the issue more than once in the balance of this book.

Narrative Strategies A narrative strategy refers to the particular mix of plot, character layer, and genre that a writer deploys. It also refers to variations in expectations as to how the main and secondary characters are treated in the script. For example, the expected dominant narrative strategy in melodrama is the deployment of the character layer as the primary structural component. Although this holds true for the majority of melodrama, particular stories have included a plot layer. Indeed in a film such as George Stevens' A Place in the Sun, the plot layer is substantial.

Taking this mix further, Nick Enright and George Miller treat their story Lorenzo's Oil (1992) primarily through plot layer. Consequently the genre expectation of the dominance of the character layer is in this case substantially altered away from genre expectation.

In the case of character, the dominance of the main character vis a vis secondary characters in melodrama can also be altered. In Robert Mulligan's To Kill a Mockingbird (1962), the main character's father, a secondary character, is more a presence in both the character layer and the plot layer of the narrative. The main character, a 10-year-old girl is present only in the character layer.

A CASE STUDY IN THE BASICS: ELIA KAZAN'S AMERICA AMERICA

Elia Kazan occupies a unique place among directors. For the period of the playwrights Arthur Miller and Tennessee Williams (1940–1960), Kazan was the most important director of American theater and film. What is so valuable about Kazan to writers is that the man had a profound understanding of drama. For that reason I've chosen to focus on his work in this introductory chapter. On a very fundamental level Kazan understood that the premise, character, and plot all must be compelling in the tale. The result has been a series of films quite unlike the careers of other directors. His films have an effectiveness in their dramatic shape that had, and still have, an emotional resonance for h s audience. One could say that if a young director wants to learn to direct, Hitchcock is your man; but if a young writer wants to learn how to write, study Kazan. The premise is always clear in a Kazan film. In Gentleman's Agreement (1947), does the main character want to be a reporter who describes experience, exploiting material, or does he want to write from experience by pretending to be a Jew? In East of Eden (1955), does Cal want to be a free spirit like his mother or a judgmental, rigid person like his father? In Viva Zapata (1952), does a man become a revolutionary because of his ideals or because he wants power? In Splendor in the Grass (1961), does a young man follow his heart in a relationship or does his father choose a mate for him? In each case, the choice the main character struggles with is articulated in terms of a powerful character. The result is drama at its most visceral.

America America (1963) is Kazan's own story about how his uncle came from Anatolia, a region of Turkey, to America at the beginning of the twentieth century. In order to outline fully the dramatic properties of America America, we begin with the premise.

Premise—America America

America America is the story of Stavros, a twenty-year-old Greek living with his family in Anatolia (Turkey) in 1896. His dream is to leave Anatolia and go to America. Given his age, the resistance of his family, the danger in the journey, and the expense, much must be overcome to fulfill his dream, but that is precisely what he will do in this film story.

With this brief description in mind, let's move on to the premise. The two opposing choices for Stavros are:

1. To leave in order to be free—and I mean freedom in the fullest sense. Freedom from the constraints of his family, freedom from exploitation by the Turks.
2. To stay and have no freedom—to be a slave to the political system (the Turks are in control of all the minorities, the Greeks as well as the Armenians) and to be a slave to a social system in which his father is his master.

In a sense Stavros' choices are free man or slave, and these two choices will resonate throughout the narrative in every sequence.

Character—America America

Stavros as a young man is ambitious and headstrong but inexperienced. He has a dream about America but knows little about it. All he knows is that he must leave. From a dramatic point of view, the impossibility of his achieving his goal and the barriers that lie before him are daunting and they create a dramatic arc of epic proportions. How can a young man with nothng but his will succeed?

What is critical from the point of view of character is that the secondary characters be emblematic of the premise—that is, they help Stavros, and yet they also are barriers to the achievement of his goal (they imprison or enslave him). How this works will become clearer as I describe the sequences. Because the characters are both enablers after being victimizers, there is no clear, single antagonist.

What is interesting about all of the secondary characters is that in their own way they are as willful as Stavros.

Structure

The act structure of America America is quite clear. Act I is set in Anatolia, Act II on the way to and in Constantinople, and Act III on the journey to and in America. The turning point that ends Act I is the father's decision to send Stavros to Constantinople. As the eldest, Stavros will be the first to leave. When he is established in Constantinople, he is to bring his seven siblings out and then his mother. Act II consists of Stavros' journey to Constantinople and his experience there in his efforts to secure passage to America, first working as a stevedore, then seeking to marry a wealthy woman. Act II ends with the opportunity to take passage to America in return for sexual favors for a rich American woman. Act III consists of Stavros' voyage to America, concluding with his arrival and hard work there—because his siblings and his mother are waiting.

In order to illustrate more fully the dramatic properties of the narrative, we now look at the structure in much greater detail, act by act.

Act I

Act I of America America begins at a critical moment. Stavros and his friend Vartan are chopping ice from Mt. Ergis to sell in their village, but the political reality is that Armenians have bombed a bankin Constantinople and an edict has gone out to punish the Armenians. Vartan is Armenian; Stavros is Greek. Both are minorities under the control of the Turks. The catalytic event in Act I is the Turkish pogrom against the Armenians in the village.

Act I has two sequences. The first establishes the relationship between Stavros and Vartan, and the second fleshes out the relationship between Stavros and his father.

In the first sequence, the premise is established. Stavros wants to go to America. He sees Vartan as an older, experienced man who also yearns for freedom. In this sequence Vartan is challenging to the authorities while passing through a Turkish encampment commanded by the Turkish Captain Memet for whom Vartan was an orderly eight years earlier. Vartan has served his time. He wants to be free. Memet will protect him if he stays with him, but Vartan insists on going home and selling his ice. He then goes to a Turlush bar to spend his earnings. Here, too, he is provocative. He dances. Stavros follows him, for Vartan is the mentor to his dream to go to America. The pogrom against the Armenians follows that very night. Stavros witnesses the events and in trying to save his family, Vartan is killed. But even in death, he represents an ideal for Stavros. Stavros attempts to return Vartan's body to the family for burial, but in doing so, he is arrested by the Turks. In this sequence, the man who wants most to be free, Vartan, is killed, and the others who are Armenian are arrested. Their fate is unclear. Surprise in this sequence comes from the behavior of both Stavros and Vartan. They are defiant in their will to hold on to their dreams.

In the next sequence, Stavros is rescued from prison by his father. The price is a bribe to the Turkish governor. But Stavros, instead of being grateful, runs off. He runs up to the hill above the village to the home of his grandmother. He smiles, but she knows what he has come for—money. She belittles him as being his father's son rather than being a real man like his grandfather—a man who knows that such a false smile would please his patrons, the Turkish overlords. The grandmother gives him his grandfather's dagger and nothing more. He runs down the hill overwhelmed with frustration.

At the base of the hill a young man who is Stavros' age asks for his help. The young man, Oaness, wdl reappear in each act. Like Stavros, he is obsessed with getting to America. He is Armenian and he has walked very far. His shoes are worn. Angry at being trapped in the current situation, Stavros gives him his own shoes, an act of good will and defiance, and the young man tells him he will remember Stavros. At home, Stavros finds his father to be reflective and his mother to be angry when they discover he no longer has his shoes. And then the surprise, his father has decided that Stavros will go to Constantinople with all the belongings and wealth of the family. There he will invest in a cousin's business and prepare to send for his siblings and his mother. Again, Stavros is being diverted from his own goal—America. As the family prepares Stavros for his journey, his mother describes him as a young man who can't be trusted to go to a bakery to buy a loaf of bread. He might not return. And now the father is sending him with all the wealth of the family. Is this an act of madness? The act ends as Stavros leaves Anatolia with a loaded donkey, his coat sewn with money and jewels.

Act II

Act II of America America is composed of three primary sequences. The first is the trip from Anatolia to Constantinople. In Constantinople, the second sequence follows Stavros in his first attempt to earn the 110 Turkish pounds he needs to pay for ship passage to America. He is freely interpreting his father's charge. First he will go to America, then he will rescue the f a d y . The third sequence follows his second attempt to secure the needed monies—by trying to get married. The act ends when a married woman from America pays for his passage. As in Act I, the dramatic articulation of the premise works its way through each sequence. Consequently, the secondary characters who first appear to be enablers of Stavros reaching his goal, actually prove to be victimizers, and vice versa.

The first sequence, the journey from Anatolia to Constantinople, begins with the trip across a lake. Just short of the shore the oarsman begms to threaten Stavros with drowning. The oarsman takes all his money and runs off at shore. A M u s h traveler recaptures the money for Stavros. Grateful, Stavros begins to travel with his rescuer. But this traveler, Abdul, who offers Stavros his friendship and his assets (even though he has none), expects the same in return. The character who has secured Stavros' freedom and enabled him to carry on in his journey now becomes his victimizer. He asks for food and refreshment, then for Stavros to pay for a prostitute. First willingly, then more reluctantly, Stavros agrees. The man did save him. But the situation deteriorates quickly. Abdul sells Stavros' assets—his food—while he sleeps. Angered, he breaks with the man and recovers what he can.

Shortly afterwards Abdul accuses Stavros of stealing all these things—he can describe them to the Turkish authorities. The law sides with a fellow Muslim and now Stavros has nothing. Abdul taunts him, riding the donkey beside Stavros, who no longer has his coat and jewels or the donkey and its blankets. Stavros kills Abdul but recovers very little, only enough to take a train to Constantinople. He arrives with nothing of the monies his father entrusted to him. Now Stavros has no means to get to America.

The second sequence of Act II begins with Stavros meeting his cousin, Mr. Opouzoglou, a down-and-out businessman who needed the money sent from his uncle in order to rejuvenate his business. There is no alternative, according to Mr. Opouzoglou: Stavros must marry someone plain but rich to secure a future for all in his family. Stavros doesn't agree. He runs off, believing that his own hard work will secure the monies he needs for passage to America. He works on the docks as a stevedore. Here he meets a worker who befriends him. This friendship is at the core of this sequence.

The stevedore is different from all the characters we have met so far. Only the grandmother seemed spiritual and reflective about the values of life. AU the other characters were practical. The stevedore is philosophical and seems fatalistic about the possibilities in life—later we find out he is an anarchist. Early in the relationship the stevedore offers Stavros food and advice, and eventually his first night with a woman. Although all of Stavros' savings are stolen by the prostitute, the influence of the stevedore on Stavros remains strong. Under that influence Stavros joins a anarchist political cell led by the stevedore. They will bomb the establishment that enslaves them in an act to secure their freedom, just as Stavros wants to secure freedom in America. The plan never has a chance. Turkish soldiers don't arrest the members of the cell—they kill them. A seriously wounded Stavros is hospitalized. There, near death, he is sent by the doctor to be buried in the sea. The death cart is heavy and Stavros falls off, saving himself as the soldiers are distracted by hauling the cart. He makes his way back to his cousin, Mr. Opouzoglou. With his second mentor, the stevedore, dead, Stavros' hopes for securing freedom through anarchy are ended.

The third sequence of the Act II, the longest, is the proposed courtship and marriage of Stavros to the plain daughter of a wealthy merchant. In this sequence, the victimizers appear to be the proposed father-in-law and the fiancée. Both represent staying within the family, within the society from which Stavros wants to be free. Mr. Sinnikoglou, his father-in-law-to-be employs Stavvros and buys an apartment for the couple—adjacent to his own. Stavros keeps his dream of freedom to himself until he literally bumps into Oaness, the young man from Armenia to whom he gave his shoes. Now he offers a meal and a shared dream of going to America. But Oaness' cough has grown worse and he is less sure of being able to actualize his dream.

Next, under pressure from his fiancee, Domna, Stavros confesses his dream and tells her not to trust him. She wishes she were prettier for him. She doesn't understand why he wants to go to America, but she doesn't present a barrier. Like the other women in this narrative, she is a “slave” in the power grid of family where men are masters. In this sense, like all the women in the story, the grandmother and later Mrs. Kababian (she will pay for his passage to America), the fiancee is a kindred spirit to Stavros' dream to be free. (Only his mother resists this enabling role.) Enter the Kababians of America. Stavros meets Mr. and Mrs. Kababian at the shop of his father-in-law-to-be. He is a Greek who made good in America; she is his wife, twenty years younger. It is clear that Mrs. Kababian finds Stavros attractive, and she promotes the notion of an affair. Their implied agreement is that she will help Stavros get to America. This proves to be Stavros' means to reach America. He tells his fianc'e, apologizing for leaving her, but he can't give up his dream. He tells her he will never find another woman like her.

Act III

Act III of America America is composed of two sequences and a resolution. In the first sequence, on the ocean liner en route to America, Stavros rekindles his relationship with Oaness who travels with seven others, their passage paid by an American businessman in return for two years service as shoeshine boys. In this sequence, the affair with Mrs. Kababian proceeds until it is discovered by Mr. Kababian. The second sequence concerns itself with Kababian's revenge—Stavros will be sent back to Turkey on his arrival in America. Within sight of Ellis Island, he must cope with this new threat. In the resolution, Stavros reaches America, and an epilogue describes how he repays his obligations to his family.

In the first sequence, Stavros is on the ship, finally enjoying the expectation that he will achieve his goal. In this sequence, he again shares his dream with Oaness, but the health situation for Oaness has deteriorated. His cough is severe. In this sequence the enabler-victimizer premise is also played out again—this time with Mrs. Kababian as the enabler and with Mr. Kababian as the victimizer. Upon discovering the affair, Mr. Kababian aggressively attempts to destroy Stavros's dream. He will have him sent back. Stavros assaults Mr. Kababian, now assuring he will be sent back because of the criminal charges Mr. Kababian, a rich American, will file. The sequence ends with Stavros in a hopeless situation.

The next sequence takes place outside Ellis Island. In the hospital, their physical health status is assessed in preparation for entry into the United States. Stavros and Oaness are told by the doctor that their fate is set but tenuous. Oaness must appear to be healthy to American officials or he will be sent back. Stavros wiU be sent back because of the Kababian charges. Although unable to swim, Stavros says that no one will rob him of his dream and he will swim to shore. In the morning, American health officials inspect the human cargo and Oaness passes (heeding Stavros' advice to imagine himself in a relaxed place, not overwhelmed with stress). And now it's time for Oaness to repay his debt to Stavros. Oaness jumps into the ocean to commit suicide on Stavros' behalf. He drowns so that Stavros can take his identity among the eight indentured young men. Mrs. Kababian sends him a straw hat and fifty American dollars to help him begin his new life. The sequence ends when an American official accepts that the drowned man was Stavros and that Stavros is Oaness. He renames him Joe Amess. Stavros kisses American soil as he steps off the ferry from Ellis Island.

In the epilogue, Stavros is working in a shoeshine parlor for the businessman who supposedly brought him from Constantinople. He rushes on to another customer saying, “Hurry up, people waiting.” As the narrator, Elia Kazan tells us that Stavros indeed brought over his siblings and his mother, but that his father died in Anatolia. Stavros achieves his goal after the most challenging of journeys. He is free.

From a dramatic point of view, the premise has worked its way through the screen story. Whether or not Stavros' claim to his fiancee at the end of the second act—”In America I will be washed clean”—will come true is another story. In the course of achieving his goal, Stavros has killed, stolen, lied, been shot and used, and manipulated others. He has traveled far from the inexperienced, naive young man we met at the beginning of Act II.

Notable as well is how in each sequence a surprise in plot or character either moves Stavros closer to or further from his goal: the military attack on the anarchists' cell; the threat of Mr. Kababian; the suicide of Oaness—each of these events twists the action away from what we expect. These surprises or plot twists amplify the tension and exemplify how using dramatic principles effectively serves us in a powerful way through a screen story.

IMAGINATION AND SUCCESS IN THE SCREENPLAY

There are a number of questions that arise out of the description of the operation of the drama in Kazan's America America. These questions run through the mind of writers all the time so it's best that I make them explicit. They are, in good part, questions that you should pose for yourself when you are writing a screenplay.

What Is a Mechancially Good Story versus a Creative Story?

Many stories are mechanically well structured. Emmerich's The Patriot is an example of a mechanically well-structured story. In such a story all the elements are manifest. The main character Benjamin Martin, played by Me1 Gibson, has a clear goal—to protect his family, his reason being that he is a widower. He has a past as a brave, fierce warrior. And the plot, the progress of the War of Independence, will create challenges to his goal. The primary vehicle of the plot's opposition will be a British officer, Colonel Tavington, a proper antagonist. He kills two of the main character's sons. For a man who wants to protect his family, this is sufficient reason to enlist and fight fiercely for the Colonial side. Every time the plot development wanes in energy, there is a new threat to Benjamin's family: the attempt to capture his children, the burning of a church filled with worshippers who include Benjamin's daughter-in-law. These threats are always made by Tavington. Finally, the story has a resolution, a decisive battle that is punctuated by the hand-to-hand combat of the main character and the antagonist, concluding with Tavington's brutal death at the hands of Benjamin Martin.

What I'm suggesting here is that The Patriot is a mechanically well-constructed screen story. But I'm also implying that it is not a particularly creative story. What would constitute a more creative story? What might be useful to consider are issues of character and plot that might yield a sense of what would constitute a more creative story.

Let's turn first to Me1 Gibson's own movie Braveheart (1995), a story that is also about a war of independence, in this case, the thirteenth century Scottish rebellion against the British. With respect to the issue of character, the main character, William Wallace, becomes the leader of the Scottish rebellion and his antagonist is King Edward of England. Here, both the main character and the antagonist play central roles in the narrative. This is not the case in The Patriot. A second point about the main character and the antagonist in The Patriot is that both are stereotypical characters—the good parent versus the evil, cruel enemy. In Braveheart, the characters are more complex: Wallace is presented as a son, a lover, a brilliant, fierce warrior, and a leader with considerable political acuity; Edward is presented as a father, a king, and a ruthless leader. Each is complex, and although Edward is the antagonist, we understand and on some level perhaps even feel sorrow for him (his son and successor is not even a shadow of the father). This complexity of character makes behavior more layered and at times surprising.

In terms of plot, Braveheart deals with political, economic, and military issues, so that the challenges to the main character and his goal are complex and at times surprising. The result is a more powerful and a more emotional struggle on the part of the main character to achieve his goal. The experience of The Patriot is more predictable and consequently mechanical rather than complex or surprising.

Other examples of more creative stories about similar issues include another story from the screenwriter of The Patriot, Robert Rodat's screenplay for Saving Private Ryan, Stanley Kubrick's Paths of Glory (1958), and Ed Zwick's Glory (1989). What characterizes each of these screen stories as creative is their approach to character and plot.

Each of these screen stories is a war film. The role of the main character in the war film is to survive. The main character in Saving Private Ryan, Captain John Miller, wants to survive but in the end gives his life to save Private Ryan so he can go home. But Miller puts the question to Ryan and to us, the viewer, make the personal sacrifices in war (his Me) mean something. He embodies responsibility, personal and national. This behavior raises Saving Private Ryan above the usual war film.

So, too, the goal of the main character in Paths of Glory. Colonial Dax is a brave solider and an outstanding lawyer. In the plot of the World War I narrative, three of his men are charged with cowardice by the French general who ordered Dax and his men on an impossible mission. The three wdl set an example for the regiment—not to fail in their mission. In this story, the antagonists are the French generals who persecute their own men. Colonial Dax seeks justice as well as survival for his men. His failure reflects not so much on him as it does upon the enemy within—the General staff. This turn of events surprises, shocks, and creatively elevates a screen story about trench warfare into an anti-war classic.

What Is an Imaginative Story?

Imaginative stories are always creative rather than mechanical. But they have something more: they surprise us. This doesn't always mean a pleasant surprise. In Peter and Bobby Farrelly's There's Something About Mary (1998), the story is essentially about first love. The main character, Ted (Ben Stiller), fell in love as a teenager and now, as a thirty-something adult, he decides that Mary (Cameron Diaz), his first love, is the only one for him. He pursues her via Healy (Matt Dillon), a private detective, having been encouraged in this endeavor by his best friend, Dom (Chris Elliott). The imaginative dimension, the surprise in There's Something About Mary, is that both the best friend and the private detective are in love with Mary. In fact, almost every man who comes into contact with her becomes a stalker. This aggressive love—as opposed to the idealistic love of adolescence—is the creative dimension of There's Something About Mary. The first general point I'm making about the imaginative story is that it surprises us.

The second point about the imaginative story is that the main character has to exhibit a boldness that we rarely encounter in screen stories. By boldness I'm not referring to James Bond boldness or Clint Eastwood-Dirty Harry brashness. Rather I'm thinking about the main character in Paul Mazursky's Enemies: A Love Story (1989). He's a man with a wife, a mistress, and a former wife. What is a man to do in these circumstances? I'm also thinking about the main character in Joseph Mankiewicz's Five Fingers (1952), by day a valet, by night the greatest spy who plied his trade in World War II. And I'm thinking about the main character in Nikolai Mikhalkov's Burnt by the Sun (1995)—a general, a father, a husband, a politician, and a patriot, all energetically manifested in one man in Stalin's Soviet Union of the 1930s. These characters make life bigger than it is; they are imaginative characters.

What Makes Stories Succeed or Fail?

Much speculation has suggested that it is stars that make films succeed or fail. An equal amount of speculation about the success or failure of films has revolved around marketing campaigns and decisions—the dates of release, the number of theaters, and so on. There are enough examples to make the case on either side of the argument. Fortunately, this book is about narrative issues, so we can sidestep these arguments. The issue I don't want to avoid is what makes certain stories succeed and others fail from a narrative point of view. When I speak of success, I should point out that I'm looking for examples where a film has been embraced critically and commercially. I'd like to point out that this approach has its own minefields. For example, I believe that Spielberg's Amistad (1997) is no less powerful a narrative than his Saving Private Ryan, and yet the latter was a towering success and Amistad was a critical and commercial failure. Thus acknowledging the fragility of the term success, let's move into the issue.

The first observation I would make is that successful films are films where the main character's goal and therefore his or her dramatic arc is as great as possible. The larger the reach and the greater the consequent resistances, the greater the impact upon us, the audience. A negative example begins to make the point. In Scorsese's Bringing out the Dead (1999), the main character is close to the end of his rope. He is a depressed, guilt-ridden paramedic in New York City. We enter the story late in his day. Throughout the narrative, he wants to leave the profession. And in the end, he settles for a good night's sleep. There is much desperation here but very little character arc. Bringing Out the Dead represents the baseline of what you don't want for your character if your story is to succeed.

Examples of characters with a large dramatic arc include the main character in Shall We Dance (1997), a narrative in which a conservative man from a conservative society (Japan) decides that what he needs to change his life is dancing lessons. Another example is the main character in Gladiator. He's a man at the top of his profession (as a general). He is offered the emperorship by the Emperor who feels the main character will restore needed values to the empire. The Emperor's son disagrees, kills the Emperor and attempts to kill the main character, but fails. He does succeed in killing the main character's family. The main character's goal then is to take revenge. How can a man, albeit a gifted soldier, achieve revenge against the emperor of the most powerful empire in the world? The goal seems impossible, and the dramatic arc of the character will be great indeed. So the first ingredient of success in a screenplay is the significant scale of the goal of the main character. Other good examples here would be the main character in Tootsie (1982), whose goal is to be a successful actor by pretending he is a woman. Another good example is the main character in Saving Private Ryan, whose goal is to preserve as many lives of the men in his command as possible, while undertaking a mission to save one man on the killing fields that were France during the D-Day invasion. The goal is all but impossible.

A second prerequisite for success is to find a structure that stretches and challenges the character's goal in imaginative ways. How does a housewife trapped in a bad marriage find liberation, a situation complicated by her own prudery? The answer, of course, is through sexual liberation in Soderbergh's sex, lies and videotape. In M. Night Shyamalan's The Sixth Sense (1999), how can a character, desperate to save a child from his demons, use all his skills as a psychologist to do so, when the psychologist is in denial about his own death? In John Sayles' Lone Star (1996), the main character is the sheriff in a small Texas border town. The majority of the population is Mexican-American or African-American. He is white. The plot of the film is a murder investigation in which the main suspect is the sheriff's dead father, the much revered former sheriff. If this were not enough of a structural challenge, the main character rekindles a love affair with a Mexican-American woman. His investigation uncovers that she is his step-sister. Shades of Chinatown] Thus the second element of success is to use the plot and character layers of the structure to powerfully amplify the difficulties the main character has in achieving his goal.

A third characteristic of the successful screenplay is the energy level of the language. In part this will come from the impossibility of the main character's goal. Consider here the main character in Sam Mendes' American Beauty (1999), or the two main characters in Billy Wilder's Some Like It Hot (1959), or the main character in Mike Leigh's Secrets and Lies (1996). There is something loud about all of these characters. But it's more than that. It's a life force, a desire or desperation—whatever its source—that gives the successful narrative a drive that is unusual. The main character in Mike Newell's Four Weddings and a Funeral (1993) has it, as does the main character in Danny Boyle's Trainspotting (1995). The main character in Lewis Gilbert's Alfie (1965) had it, as did Scarlett O'Hara in Fleming's Gone with the Wind (1939). I will touch on this issue in Chapter 2, “Character,” when I discuss issues of identification.

My point regarding successful narratives is that there are certain qualities that are critical. There are others beyond the character's goal, the level of structural challenges to that goal, and the energy of the main character, but I will take up those other issues in Chapter 4, “Genre,” and Chapter 5, “Tone.”

THE SHORT FILM AND THE LONG FILM

Before we leave this chapter I need to differentiate the long film from the short film. Because the long or feature film is the principal narrative currency of film narrative, and because early filmmakers learn their craft from making short films, these differences need to be made overt.

A good starting point is to state the obvious: You can't tell the same story in less than thirty minutes that can be managed in more than ninety minutes. This has implications for character, structure, and form.

The second point I'd like to make is that the short film has much in common with the photograph, the painting, and the poem. Not so the long film, which has much more in common with the novel, the play, even the short story. In this sense, the short film tends to be more literary, and more allegorical, than the long film, which relies more heavily on a tradition of realism.

A third point is that the structural shape of the short film is not only shorter, it looks different. The short film has the equivalent of a very short Act I and then, depending upon whether you are deploying resolution or not, what follows will be Act II (no resolution) or Act III (resolution). The feature film, as we have outlined, proceeds along a three-act structure.¹

The last point I'd like to make about the differences between the short and long film is that the short film has a greater affinity to story forms that have literary origins, such as the fable. Although there are long films that are fables, there are far more fables among short films. Other literary forms that are favored in short films include the experimental narrative and the poem.

DRAMA VERSUS DOCUMENTARY VERSUS EXPERIMENTAL NARRATIVES

The dramatic notions discussed so far are applicable to the long-form film, or the feature film. There are dramatic properties to the documentary and to experimental narratives, but there are significant differences that it is useful to point out at this stage. The long-form feature film is characterized in the majority of cases by a goal: a main character struggles for his or her goal against an antagonist and against obstacles posed by the plot in a linear dramatic arc from catalytic event to resolution. As viewers, we experience the story through that main character.

At the opposite extreme from the dramatic feature film is the experimental narrative, a story form that emphasizes style over content. It is likely that the character will not have an apparent goal, that the character will be reacting to an-other person, situation, or environment, and that there certainly will not be a plot. Consequently, the whole issue of linearity, or of cause and effect, will not be relevant. The dominant quality of the narrative may be a mood or the voice of the writer or director. If the drama is content- and character-driven, the experimental narrative is mood- and voice-driven.

The documentary, on the other hand, lies between the drama and the experimental narrative. It too has dramatic properties, but as a form, a main character is not as important as the voice of the author (writer-director). In terms of structure, the documentary looks more like an argumentative case that is being developed rather than the dramatic arc of a character. There are subcategories of documentary: the personal documentary, the social/political/educational documentary, and the cinema vérité documentary. Each implies a different level of intervention by the writer-director; each implies a different balance between an information line and an emotional line; and each has different implications regarding the issue of voice. But as a form, the documentary values educational goals over entertainment goals when compared to the drama.

What is important at this point is that you, the writer, realize at least in a preliminary way how different each of these forms is from the others. Now that some of the basics have been addressed, let's move on to the more specific issue of character.

NOTES

1. A full discussion of all these issues is presented in P. Cooper and K. Dancyger, Writing the Short Film, Second Edition (Focal Press, 1999).