What does he want?
Which screenwriting rules can you break and which ones can you not?
I have read so many times that your character has to have a goal and an opposition and so on and so forth. In these books and classes, they really limit examples to scripts with relatively simple solutions. I have heard everything from Indiana Jones to Romancing The Stone to Ghost. Of course we can pick out the goals and oppositions here.
For instance, in your script for “Go�, who is the central character and what is their goal and opposition? I get so stuck on these rules and it really discourages me in my writing because I don’t feel I have the right answers. I don’t know, but I am so afraid of being one of these awful writers described on your site.
-Robert V Gallegos
Chicago, IL
You might be an awful writer, but it’s not because you have a hard time figuring out how to implement the so-called rules. Most of them were dreamed up by non-writing film enthusiasts, who decided there had to be an underlying template behind all great movies.
I think there’s a place for the guidebooks, but only to degree the help lessen the stress of “getting it right.” There’s one I recommend, with reservations. And it’s important to be able to talk about “second act breaks” even if you don’t really believe in them, since you’ll be hearing terms like that for the rest of your career.
In terms of the specific rule you cite, I think it’s always fair to ask, “What does this character want?” The answer to that question may or may not be the driving force of your story, but if you can’t answer the question at all, there’s probably something fundamentally wrong with your script.
Let’s look at Go. You have to approach it as three separate stories, each of which has a central character (or duo).
In Part One, Ronna wants to make a very tiny drug deal in order to get enough money to pay her rent. Every decision she makes after that point stems from that desire.
In Part Two, Simon wants to go wild in Vegas. That seems like a nebulous goal, but he’s weirdly aggressive about fulfilling his vision of a perfect night in Vegas.
In Part Three, Adam and Zack want to finish the terms of their deal with the police. Individually, they each want to know who the other one is sleeping with, which becomes the primary goal once the business with Burke is finished.
None of these stories have a classic protagonist/antagonist setup. The central characters experience great obstacles, but the movie deliberately undercuts any sense that, “This was the night that everything changed.” A bunch of shit happens, then it’s over.
Asking what the characters want is something real screenwriters do. In two of the projects I’m writing at the moment, the biggest decisions are about exactly this issue, since that informs every action and the overall tone of the story. Often, the best answer is the simplest: something physical and achievable.
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October 29th, 2007 at 8:55 am
I would be embarrassed to tell you how many times I’ve read Go. I used back in 1999 as a guide to format while writing my first script. It’s still one of my favorite scripts, sitting on a shelf next to worn out copies of Office Space and Adaptation.
I know each segment has its own protagonit, but I’ve always thought of Simon as (mildly) the main character in that he’s the thread through the 3 stories. He’s Ronna’s coworker, he’s the guy the gay couple are looking for at the store, it’s his drug drealer that Ronna goes to, etc. He’s also the one with the infectious bad luck! Take out Simon and each story crumbles.
October 29th, 2007 at 9:35 am
that’s exactly what my creative writing teacher says.
interesting
October 29th, 2007 at 9:47 am
Good answer. It’s amazing how far the “nobody knows anything” saying goes. I mean how great a plot is “a bunch of shit happens and it’s over.” That’s how every movie should be.
Unlike the first poster I think the main character was the party animal in all of us. That’s really the common thread I saw. Of course the beauty of film analysis is there really is no right answer, only what the movie says to you. That’s perhaps why it’s so great to have two reviewers interpret a film the same, or maybe why it’s not. Hmmmm. I’ve got to think about that one.
I find that no matter how many movies I watch I couldn’t care less about 2nd Act plot twists, only that something funny, sad, exciting, violent, angry, etc. happens.
But then I think video girls should get top billing so I may be biased.
October 29th, 2007 at 10:12 am
I find that the movies that break the rules, but do it well, are often some of the movies I like the best. Unfortunately, those don’t always do all that well at the box office. Even if you do it well, the more rules you break, the more chance you have of alienating your audience. That’s the thing you have to be careful of, I think.
October 29th, 2007 at 10:18 am
Anoraknophobia! That image looks familiar to me! :)
October 29th, 2007 at 12:04 pm
Robert,
I agree with John. Be very wary of those books. It’s good to be conversent in some of the ideas they present because they will come up when you get notes, but they won’t necessarily help you find your way as a writer. A few months ago attended a panel on structure that featured a number of very successful screenwriters. There was some debate about the value of these books, but the majority agreed that they’re only useful after you already know what you’re doing. Far better to read a lot of scripts and see a lot of movies, and analyze why they succeed or fail.
That said, the “rules” I find helpful (if I’m writing a three-act, single narrative film) are:
Something needs to happen on or before page 10 that sets the story in motion. It doesn’t have to be big and splashy. It could be something subtle like a phone call or a move to a new city, or something more splashy like a murder. The important thing is that the character is living his normal life and then something changes that enables the story to begin.
The character responds to the story-starting event, some story development results, and then around page 25-30 something else happens (your 1st Act turning point) that “raises (or re-raises) the dramatic question.” Don’t fixate to much on this term, all I mean is the question that you will answer by the end of your story. It goes hand in hand with the “What does the character want” question. If the character wants a blow-out Vegas weekend, the dramatic question is “Will he get his blow-out Vegas weekend.”
By the way, the books will make it seem like the 1st Act turning point has to be some big, dramatic event, but it can be something as subtle as someone deciding to do something or even thinking about doing something. In The Insider, the first act turning point is really small. I asked Eric Roth (who wrote The Insider) what it was and he had no idea, which just goes to show you that you don’t have to follow the rules to write well. That said, there is a moment in The Insider that you could call the 1st Act turning point. There might even be more than one moment that you could give that label. I think it’s the moment in the parking lot in the rain where Jeffrey Wygant (Russell Crowe) and Lowell Bergman (Al Pacino) bond and we realize that Jeffrey is going to help Lowell bring big tobacco down. At this point, Jeffrey hasn’t even made the commitment (that won’t happen until several events later), but even suggesting that he will do it is enough to keep the story moving – and in the end, keeping the story moving are what the “rules” are all about. I think of this parking lot scene as the moment when Bergman “wins Wygant over” and we begin to think that maybe Bergman will achieve his goal of getting the story on big tobacco. It’s a small but momentous moment. It works because it pulls us further into the Bergman-Wygant “love story” (as I call it). It gets us to invest in the characters more and care more about how the story turns out.
Not every script has one, but I often find using a midpoint helpful. It occurs around p. 60 and gives me a chance to add other complicating factors that help add more depth to the story I’m trying to tell (e.g. new stakes, a surprise event that adds complexity, whatever).
Something else happens around p. 90 (the second act turning point) that’s generally the lowest moment for the character, when it seems like he won’t achieve his goal. But then he rallies in Act III… and by the climax at the end of Act III, he’s either gotten what he wants or he hasn’t.
The books often define the rules too rigidly, telling you, e.g. that your first act turning point must be a physical surprise, or whatever. It isn’t true. These books seem persuasive because the examples they choose are chosen for their ability to prove the author’s thesis.
If you read and analyze a lot of scripts (something you should do) you’ll find that these rules aren’t rules after all, that people do it differently all the time and it works out just fine. The reason it works out fine is that those writers understand something about storytelling that can’t be reduced to rules.
I’ve never heard this business about needing to have an “opposition” so I don’t know what that is, but yes, your character does need to face challenges on the way to achieving his goal. That’s where drama comes from. Little red riding hood wants to go see her grandmother but then that whole wolf business gets in the way, and that’s what gets our little hearts racing.
When you’re developing your own story idea, ask yourself “What happens…? And then what happens?” Because you already know what a good story is. You’ve been explosed to stories all your life. So read screenplays and see movies. Figure out for yourself why some stories work and others don’t. And write, even if you fail, since at the end of the day, we learn to write by writing.
A physical thereapist friend once told me that we learn to walk by falling. This is literally true. What I learned from that is that, if you want to do anything well, you’re going to have to risk failing along the way. Failure is also part of any successful career. No one hits it out of the park every time. Even when you’re a successful writers, some of your stories will fail to some degree. And so what?
October 29th, 2007 at 12:50 pm
The reason why drama theory operates with the notion of a protagonist, an antagonist, and a goal is because this represents the simplest possible configuration of dramatical dynamics.
There are exactly three basic types of dynamics: lyrical, epical and dramatical. These differ in the number of poles (approx = forces).
Lyrical dynamics have one pole. Epical dynamics have two poles. Dramatical dynamics have three or more poles.
To illustrate this, we can think of lyrical dynamics as a guy simply lying in a field. Nothing happens. It’s simply a state, of bliss maybe. And epical dynamics as this guy journeying through a landscape of mountains and valleys to a land far away. And finally, dramatical dynamics as the guy journeying to this faraway land, but being hindered by some gruesome enemy on his way.
The lyrical scenario is not a story: a man lied in a field…yeah, so what? The epical is: once upon a time, a man set out to travel to a faraway land. And the dramatical even more so: once upon a time, a man set out to travel to a faraway land, but then an enemy came upon him.
The three-pole dramatical configuration is reflected in the typical structure of a log-line: “A man travels to a faraway land, but is hindered by a gruesome enemy.” (Sounds like a great movie, doesn’t it?)
Real life, of course, is not as simple as this. Real life dynamics consists of a multitude of poles, possibly without any discernable pattern or configuration. And there is no such thing as pure lyrical or pure epical or pure dramatical dynamics, but a complex combination thereof.
But stories are not real life, they are simplifications. And in the (dramatical) stories that are simplified most, the archetypical stories, the dramatical configuration is therefore reduced to the least possible number of poles: the three main forces of protagonist, goal, and antagonist.
October 29th, 2007 at 7:26 pm
Great answer. I also like what Tony Gilroy has to say on writing:
“… when it comes down to it all you’re doing is making shit up.”
Puts things in perspective.
October 30th, 2007 at 8:11 am
I agree, great answer. I made it to the finals of the pitch competition at the AFF Screenwriters Conference last year. Out of 10 pitches, mine came first. The other nine had the three judges going on for at least 10 minutes each about the strengths and weaknesses of the stories. But I went first and this was the critique (of a 60 second pitch):
Judge A: I liked it. Judge B: I liked it, too. Judge C: I can’t see the act breaks.
Thanks, guys. Really helpful feedback.
October 30th, 2007 at 9:12 am
“Rules” in writing are much like “laws” of science. People who don’t understand them will make them sound like eternal tenets that can never be broken.
The reality is that they are generalizations used to describe trends. Trying to make reality fit the trend is going about it backwards.
October 30th, 2007 at 1:17 pm
Thanks so much everyone! You guys were really helpful!
October 30th, 2007 at 2:31 pm
Robert,
So nice of you to say so (not saying my comments helped, maybe they didn’t, but nice to know that it’s a two-way conversation and that everyone’s weighing-in did mean something to you). Write on!
October 30th, 2007 at 8:07 pm
Since producers use this lingo to communicate, you not only need to learn it but you need to use it with some skill – if only to defend your work. However- with the caveat that I once enjoyed reading the books -even if right about everything (and they certainly aren’t) books still can’t teach you about your vision, or your sense of humor, or your taste- in other words, practice is the best teacher, because that way you don’t learn generalities, but only what works for you. If this won’t convince you- and as a lapsed Catholic I know about the need for comfortable dogma -and if John’s motivation rule does not suffice, I can only think of this: First, I assume you know about observation and representation but i’ll quickly repeat it, if you don’t mind — a rose in the field is not art but a poem about the rose is. And, apart from this, there’s the basic rule of draftmaship, that you can apply to anything: A line is the contrast between light and absence of light, which is a practical tool for the representation of anything. Observation implies is logic and verosimilitude; contrast is everything else- pace, depth, etc. It may sound too glib but this is truly all you need.