Last but not least, we have the woodsman who just happened to be wandering by an open window in time to overhear the wolf’s remarks about big ears and big eyes. Recognizing that young Red had about as much on the ball as Lois Lane when it came to seeing through lame disguises, he immediately sprang into action.
What was his real motivation, though? Was it to dazzle Red into accepting an on-the-spot marriage proposal? Was he already engaged in a clandestine relationship with the grandmother and startled to discover that their afternoon tryst had been pre-empted by a wolf wearing her nightgown? Or were he and the wolf secret partners in crime, preying on the confidence and ignorance of the fairer sex to advance their own agendas?
We’ll never know the answer, of course, since we only heard the story from one side: the one that the author chose for us.
As screenwriters, you, too, will be vested with choosing just one side from many. How you know whether you’ve selected the best one derives from one or more of the following criteria:
Likability Quotient
Audiences want someone they can root for, generally someone who is also likable and with whom they’d enjoy having lunch or grabbing a few beers after work. Film, after all is the vicarious canvas on which audiences project their own hopes, dreams, triumphs. In addition, their affinity for affable underdogs allows them to reflect on the times in their lives that they themselves have felt as if the odds were stacked against them. That’s not to say, of course, that you couldn’t also craft a story with a perfectly likable villain at its helm. As long as he or she embraces ambitions or relates experiences which will resonate with a sympathetic audience, there’s no reason a bad guy can’t be centerstage.
Degree of Risk
Who has the most to lose in your story? If a character doesn’t put very much on the line, you can’t expect an audience to invest very much interest in the outcome. We want to see what’s at stake and we want to understand its significance from the standpoint of the person taking the biggest risk to win it, protect it, or just get it back.
Degree of Threat
Bond. James Bond. Why do we like to view events through the eyes of this super-sleuth? Because he’s all that stands in the way between evil-doers and their schemes for world domination. Not only do we warm to characters who know that they are thorns in the enemies’ sides, but also to those who unwittingly witness criminal acts and don’t know just how much trouble will be unleashed as a result of their being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Quest for Redemption
Hand in hand with an audience’s love for the underdog is its empathy for those who learn to forgive themselves through acts that redeem past errors and omissions. The firefighter who couldn’t save the life of his own child, the ballplayer who cost the home team a winning game, the woman whose fear of driving kept her from getting a sick relative to the hospital — these and other characters whose mettle will be tested in a new crisis are always good choices for the prominent point of view.
FRONT AND CENTER
Based on the above criteria, which character in your movie idea is the best one to “tell” the story? Why is this character the best choice?
CONFLICT AND THE CHARACTER ARC
Whatever the crisis besetting your protagonists, they’re not likely to be exactly the same people at the end of the journey that they were when the trip first began. Whether their efforts are rewarded or squelched, the events in which they participate for the movie’s duration play a part in shaping and reshaping their views about the world, their peers, and even themselves. Such transition is referred to as the character arc.
The character arc is the degree of emotional growth which he or she undergoes as a result of success or failure. While physical changes can occur, too, as a product of aging or accident, it is a character’s psyche in relation to predictability, adaptation and ambiguity that determines whether the role will become a memorable one in the minds of the audience.
How much — or how little — your characters evolve can be whimsically categorized as:
Easter Islanders
Play-Dohs
Lava Lamps
EASTER ISLANDERS
For centuries, people have been intrigued by the immense statues of stone located on Easter Island in the Pacific. Who carved these big cement-heads? How did they get there? What does it all mean? Neither time nor Mother Nature have rendered much impact on them nor diluted their mystique, making them a presence with unquestionable staying power.
Characters whose value systems and opinions are as chiseled in stone as the monoliths on Easter Island have a staying power, as well. Why? Because no matter what conflicts they are forced to weather, they still will be rooted exactly where we left them when the fight is over. In other words, they are built to withstand all external elements.
Although their character arcs barely register as blips on the radar screen, audiences don’t mind because the predictability factor inherent in the players’ behavior projects a comfort level they can sit back and enjoy. Audiences readily warm to the notion that this hero or heroine won’t stray from whatever has been introduced at the outset; what they see is exactly what they are going to get. Indiana Jones, for instance, isn’t likely to deviate left or right of his centered philosophy that ancient artifacts belong in a museum and that women belong in the background.
Not surprisingly, Easter Islander personas are the most likely candidates to end up in film sequels or television spin-offs, Fraiser Crane being an example of the latter.
PLAY-DOHS
At the opposite end of the spectrum are the Play-Dohs. Play-Doh®, for the uninitiated, is a soft clay substance that — unlike real clay — doesn’t harden, affording youngsters hours of creative invention. By the end of the play period, the innocuous little lump that started out as one thing will have been dropped, stretched, squeezed, rolled, squished, tossed, pounded, divided, multiplied, and reshaped into something else.
The correlation to the characters in your script is that their personalities are still malleable enough to react to a gamut of external forces and, thus, undergo the necessary changes to adapt to new circumstances and responsibilities.
Jamie Lee Curtis in True Lies is a quintessential Play-Doh. When we first meet her character, Helen, we see that she is a wife, a mother, and a legal secretary who yearns for a little excitement in an existence that she thinks has become pretty darned dull. She gets her wish, not only with the discovery that her husband is actually a spy but that his enemies mistakenly assume she is secret agent, as well. Helen’s dormant energies and resourcefulness, coupled with a renewed passion for her spouse, change her from dowdy to dazzling.
The majority of films embrace this Play-Doh mode of emotional evolution; i.e., the miser who turns generous (A Christmas Carol), the pal who learns to let go (My Best Friend’s Wedding), the workaholic who finally finds romance with the girl next door (Sabrina).
In each case, the decision to change one’s behavior or outlook is predicated on what he/she stands to lose by staying the same, thus creating the requisite suspense and speculation on the part of the viewers.
LAVA LAMPS
Harder to gauge in terms of personal growth are the Lava Lamps. A product of the psychedelic 1960s, real lava lamps are a mesmerizing study-in-motion, the globules perpetually separating, free-floating, and reconnecting as a result of heat. We really don’t know what they’re going to do next and, frankly, neither do they. The fact that these globules (emotions) are in a self-contained environment also means that they act independently of the external setting in which the lamp itself resides.
Further, the amount of attention all of this internal churning will get from others is contingent on the backdrop. If the setting is the 1960s for instance, the movement will go virtually unnoticed because it fits in with everything else. Centerstage in a Victorian parlor or a conference room in the 1990s, however, it will garner odd looks and confusion until its presence is explained or removed.
Kevin Costne
r’s performance in Dances With Wolves is a good lava lamp example. No matter what setting he is placed in, the need to reconcile his inner demons is fated to be a work-in-progress. Just when things seem to have acquiesced and oozed into a cohesive mass, another facet of his psyche emerges and breaks loose. Therefore, whatever “progress” is made is countered by ongoing displays of back-tracking, ambiguity, and self-doubt.
With Easter Islanders and Play-Dohs, we can generally predict what the characters’ lives might be like after the movie is over. With lava lamps, it’s anyone’s guess. That’s what makes them such compelling enigmas.
ANALYZING CHARACTER ARCS
WITHIN YOUR OWN SCREENPLAY
Describe what your protagonist is like as a person when we first meet him or her. What does he or she want the very most when the story begins?
Will your character stay true to this objective all the way through the story? Why or why not?
Which of the three character arcs best fits your protagonist’s emotional journey through the story?
Will he or she achieve the desired outcome? Will it be less? Will it be more?
Does your protagonist’s character arc lend itself to a sequel? Why or why not?
AGENTS FOR CHANGE
At the start of the story, the protagonist’s point of view stems from where he or she is at that particular moment in time. Maybe they are content with the status quo and abhor the idea of any revision to it. On the other hand, maybe they’re desperate to be somewhere else or to acquire something they’re presently lacking. What will it take to light a fire under them and force a decision about their future?
In order to chart a new course and alter his or her current perspective, what your lead character needs is to be introduced to a catalyst, an agent for change.
The agent for change is an individual whose own point of view (or personal circumstances) is often in contrast to the protagonist. While agents for change have well-defined goals and objectives of their own, they generally don’t have to undergo any character transformations themselves in order to achieve those quests. Instead the agent for change is responsible, either by design or accident, for setting up the requisite strategies and events which will impact the hero/heroine’s growth — or lack of it — during the course of the central conflict.
The classic Casablanca is a nice demonstration of how this works. Although there is a strong undercurrent of romance between Rick and Ilsa, the story is related to us through Rick’s viewpoint. Here is a man who has basically declared himself neutral while the world around him is gripped in the grim reality of war.
Enter Ilsa, the agent for change. Ilsa is as determined to be proactive in securing the necessary letters of transit to save her husband, Laszlo, as Rick is steadfast to stay passive, cynical, and not to stick his head out for anybody. By the final credits, Ilsa has not only achieved her objective of getting safe passage but also influenced Rick to rejoin humanity and take up a cause that is higher than his own self-interests or the feelings they have for each other.
QUICK QUIZ
Identify the agents for change in each of the following films:
Witness
Shakespeare In Love
Moonstruck
Shrek
Rainman
My Best Friend’s Wedding
CONFLICT RESOLUTION
It was impressed upon me by my third grade teacher, Miss Frederickson, that a person should never start something unless he or she intends to finish it. She especially drilled this point home when it came to writing short stories, emphasizing that the worst way you could cheat a reader was to have your characters engage in life-endangering adventures and thrills… only to wake up and reveal that the entire thing had all been a dream.
To this day, I still cringe whenever I read screenplays that build up to a pulse-pounding do-or-die confrontation, only to dribble off into an ending that’s just not worthy. While that’s not to say that every finale has to be upbeat and Disneyesque in order to be satisfying, it nevertheless needs to answer whatever question lured us in at the outset.
Essentially, conflict resolution follows one of two patterns, depending on whether the protagonist’s objective is to vanquish a real or perceived enemy or to conquer a reluctant heart.
In the case of triumphing over an enemy, the formula to remember is:
FLIGHT ► FRIGHT ►FIGHT
Initially, the hero’s reaction to a problem that’s not of his own making is to get away from it as fast as possible. Once it becomes apparent that the problem is unavoidable, he is then forced to face up to the fears that made him want to run away. Resolute to conquer his fears in the interests of a higher good, he is finally able to charge into the fray. Whether he lives or dies as a result of this action is of less importance than the fact he took a definitive stand.
For stories of romance, the pattern can be remembered as:
REND ►BLEND ► MEND
When first we meet the two main characters, they are figuratively at each other’s throats. Their pronounced differences make them the least likely pair to ever find common ground. Yet find it they do. He learns that she was neglected as a child, a condition that he can relate to as a youngster who had workaholic parents. She discovers that he throws coins in wishing wells when he thinks no one is looking, an endearing trait that coincides with her secret prayers for a knight in shining armor. When they finally get together, it is a result of acknowledging each other’s differences as a strength, not as a bone of contention.
Even if you are planning to leave your movie as an open-ended proposition, paving the way for a sequel, it still needs to be resolved within the framework you have laid out. There needs to be some sort of emotional payoff for audiences that will make them want to come back for more, not scratching their heads and wondering why they sat through this one.
HOW DOES IT END?
Are your lead characters proactive in bringing about the story’s resolution?
How will your story end?
Does it satisfy the question(s) presented by the central conflict?
Identify two alternative endings for the same story.
CHAPTER 5: THE AUDIENCE MINDSET:
WHAT’S IN IT FOR ME?
In even the worst years of economic depression, there are two types of business that always thrive: bars and theaters. One of them serves spirits, the other uplifts spirits, providing tickets to escape from the woes of a troubled world, if only on a temporary basis.
Like everything else, going to the movies has gotten more expensive. In large part, of course, it’s because the business of making movies has gotten more expensive. When we read all the hype surrounding an upcoming blockbuster with a nine-figure production price tag, we automatically embrace the expectation that it will give us our money’s worth as its audience.
Will we come away from the experience with the satisfaction of having been entertained, educated, enlightened, terrified, or inspired by what that film delivered? Or will we shake our heads in annoyance as we leave the lobby, opining that not only did we just waste $10 but that the studio which produced it blew a whopping $100 million?
Why do some movies work and others don’t? The bottom line is that their success or failure rests entirely with the audience. Even the most jaded critics will still forgive a multitude of technological sins if the core story is one that has the capacity to stir emotions. Whether a film is able to accomplish this objective depends on the amount of relevance that viewers can attach to their own lives, dreams, and insecurities.
Love stories work because we can all identify with the quest to find ever-lasting romance and companionship… and the pain of letting it go.
Action stories work because they allow us to vicariously step into the shoes of someone whose life is more exciting and risk oriented than our own.
Could It Be a Movie Page 7
