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!

The reality is that they are generalizations used to describe trends. Trying to make reality fit the trend is going about it backwards.

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.

“… when it comes down to it all you’re doing is making shit up.”

Puts things in perspective.

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.

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:

1. 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.

2. 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.

1. 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).

2. 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?

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.