by Blake Snyder
Stacking the deck against the hero at the start of your story is part of what I call “snipping the ends.” How does your hero start this tale, and how does he end it? That start and finish had better be extremes. We set up his home life, work life, and play life; these are all part of his world. But by the end, these aspects must be wholly new. When figuring out where the story begins and where it ends, change is your guide.
To show what I mean, and to let those who believe I'm only talking about “formula” movies — that you think Hollywood squeezes out like so much Play-Doh — let's look at three Academy Award®-nominated screenplays for 2007. Each of these screenplays has picture-perfect opening and closing images that are the right ones because the writer has properly snipped the ends of the story:
► The Savages – Laura Linney begins this movie repressed sexually and professionally, and belittled by dominating brother, Philip Seymour Hoffman. By the end she's a successful playwright and has dumped her bald, overbearing lover in favor of… his dog.
► Michael Clayton – George Clooney is on the run from his law firm, uncertain of his life or character, and broke. By the end he's left the firm, turned the tables on them, and is parleying a million-dollar settlement with “Company Man” Tilda Swinton.
► Lars and the Real Girl – Ryan Gosling starts bereft, due to his mother's death, and alone. By the end, he's made peace with his mom at her gravesite — and found the “real girl” who loves him.
In each of these stories we ask: “What happened?” What caused this remarkable, life-altering change? It begins with picking the Alpha-Omega, the snapshot of the world before this movie began… and after. If you don't have that, or can't answer the question yet, or aren't forcing these changes to occur in your story…
Do.
THE TANGIBLE AND THE SPIRITUAL
Just to pile it on while I've got your attention, let's talk about goals: yours and your hero's. What is your hero's goal? is the fourth question I ask writers. And again, when I do, it's because it's missing from your story — or not apparent.
Every hero in every good story has to demonstrate a burning desire to do something and be proactive about it throughout. In addition, that hero has a lesson to learn, a change to experience that is the subterranean story, and in truth the real reason for the tale. In most writing classes, you'll hear this described as the “wants and needs” of the hero. A baseball star wants to win the big game; what he needs is a lesson in teamwork. But to me, it's more than that, and these two types of goals touch on a more important aspect of storytelling: the reason we do this job!
I prefer to think of “wants and needs” as the tangible and the spiritual. Both the “tangible” (wants) and the “spiritual” (needs) are important and must be shown in your hero's story — and I want to know both, even with the very briefest of pitches. That's because these two very distinct goals work together and have to be tracked throughout. One without the other is an empty experience, and so we must knit hard to weave them together.
“What is the hero's actual goal?” “What concrete thing is he after?” is usually what I ask when the tangible isn't clear. I cite the Little League trophy Walther Matthau chases in The Bad News Bears (1976), the job promotion Mel Gibson seeks in What Women Want, the missing soldier Tom Hanks searches for in Saving Private Ryan.
And btw, the hero has to pursue these things with vigor.
The goal has to be tangible because if you tell me that your hero wants “peace on earth” or “to make the world a better place,” I will ask you: When does he know he can stop? To be a “tangible” goal, it has to be something you can actually quantify, a thing, something we can know for sure when he's won or lost. If that isn't the case, you are blurring the goals.
Because the point of the story involves more.
The “spiritual” goal is why we're really going on this trip. Just like in life, you may want all kinds of things — a better job, a bigger house, the right mate, admittance to the cool clubs — but what we're looking for is much deeper. What we seek is a spiritual connection, the sense of something important happening in our lives, the proof that whether we get what we want or not, there is a point to being here. And whether yours is a silly comedy, big action piece, slasher flick, or musical, the invisible underpinning of why we go along on your trip must be known by you and constantly reinforced throughout your story.
It's all about showing a hero with twin goals — seen and unseen, concrete and invisible, actively sought and conferred.
Take Maria Full of Grace, a wonderful Indie I dissect in my second book, about a pregnant girl in a small South American town who takes on a dangerous mission by becoming a drug mule. Like the hero of the movie I cite at the start of this chapter, The Wages of Fear, Maria is stuck in a South American town, facing a lifeless future. Both movies begin their protagonist's journey all the way back behind the eight ball of life. In both cases, the tangible goal of each character is palpable: to earn the money to get out! It's why each decides to risk his or her life.
Yet beneath the tangible goal that drives the plot is a spiritual one that's the real story. In Maria Full of Grace, to change her world, Maria thinks she has to leave it. In fact, she just has to see the world in a different way. By movie's end, the money she risked all to earn has been lost; she's adrift in America, homeless, friendless, back to square one. The difference is: She's proud. And happy! The tangible goal she thought she really wanted has been replaced by something divine. Love, hope, friendship, gratitude, new ways of thinking — and, yes, grace — are divine. And like the problem that is solved in all good stories, in Maria's case… the solution is the last thing she expected!
When I ask about the tangible and spiritual goals of your hero, that's what I mean. On the surface, what actual goal is driving your hero? And below the surface, at the hidden level that is your real story, what does your hero need? And get?
Here is an easy way to remember these two threads that must intertwine within every well-structured tale:
► The “tangible” – is the A Story, the concrete goal driving your hero at every given point along the way; it is “the plot.”
► The “spiritual” – is the B Story, the below-the-surface tale that is the “lesson” your hero will learn and “the theme.”
Isn't this stuff about as cool as it gets?
THE ARC OF THE EXPERIENCE
What we are talking about here, keep in mind, is making, and keeping, the spine of your story straight throughout.
And the solution is like clear mountain spring water.
Once we see it.
We need a hero who starts waaaay back at the beginning, and is pocked with problems. He is at a loss, in fear, pushed down, held back, and may not even know it! His is a world, in fact, that in every part of his life — at work, at home, and at play — looks at him like he's from Mars. And in his own way, he is. His is a backstory with all manner of Achilles heels, assorted recurring nightmares he can't quite shake, defects of character that stop him from enjoying life to its fullest — and whether he is Donald Trump rolling in the dough-ray-me, or a homeless bum on the skids, he reminds us of someone we know very well: ourselves.
And, like him, we know somethin's gotta give… and soon.
Once he is sent off on his mission (this very cool little pitch you've come up with), we have armed him with such a tangible goal, and such a driving desire to get to the end, he can't help but keep moving — and we can't help but hope he makes it. He's the detective on the case, the soldier on the march, the girl who burns to find true love. And by the end, when they reach their last beat, they have been so awakened to the real meaning of the trip, they dare to do something so breathtakingly new, that the world they left, or came back to, will be changed forever, as in upside-down.
And we say: mama!
What a ride.
That's all we're looking for. That's how to straighten your spine! And don't be confused by the hundreds of movies you see t
hat don't have this, that get away with murder at the Cineplex.
I know I can't be the only one who's noticed!
I'm the guy who sits in lots of movies and when my date and I leave, I say: “Nothing happened.” “What are you talking about?” she says. “Didn't you see all those special effects, those car chases, those hilarious jokes?” Yes, I did. What I didn't catch was a story. What I missed was a hero with a problem who in the course of this movie extravaganza learns something and changes.
And so it is not surprising that the movie we all rushed to see in the first week — due to the great special effects and the funny trailer moments and all the other “stuff” — drops off the radar in the second week. Box office falls 50 or 60 or even 70% and everyone wonders why. It's because what the movie gave audiences was only so much fluff. There was lots of stuff happening, when actually nothing happened at all. And all the movie had to give me was just a tiny bit of a story, something I can use in my life here on Earth. They need to show me a guy with a problem who changes and grows for the journey.
I need that.
And so do you.
Which leads me to the fifth and final question I ask a struggling, spine-scoliosied writer who (picture Igor: Yeth, Math-ter!) comes to me wondering why his screenplay is crooked:
What's it about?
The good news is: By answering this question, you will know everything about your movie. It's the theme of your film, and we know how important theme is.
The bad news is: You may not know what it is until the end!
Here's a story…
As part of my duties in Cat! dom, I gave a speech to the talented writers and artists at a major studio's animation division. It was maybe the highlight of my career. Having been a writer with an office on that lot, to return “home” was one of the great moments of my life. Later, I listened while a group of 40 animators went over a project they were working on, and were, by their own admission, stuck. The session was designed to un-stick them.
The problem was, they not only didn't know what the ending was, they couldn't settle on the Midpoint, or how it segued into Act Three. Versed in Save the Cat! (many of the animators have both Cats! by their work stands — Yes!), we batted around “All Is Lost” and the “Dark Night of the Soul” but couldn't get a handle on any of it, until I asked what seemed an obvious question:
What's it about?
At which point everyone jumped in en masse and said they had five different takes, and five different ways to go, and we all realized that's why they had no ending — they had no theme! Without knowing why they were telling the story, they could not find what it meant to have one ending or another, one lesson or another, one direction or another. Without knowing “What's it about?” they had no compass. And without one, they were lost.
I bring this up to let you know even steely pros with years of experience, scads of talent, and working at major studios, fall into the same traps as you and I. I also know that the answer isn't always clear. Many times it's only after I or my partners have written THE END and dropped the script in the outgoing mail that we suddenly say: Wait! I know what it's about! And I know where to stick in the line that lets the audience know what that is!
But sometimes it's only with objectivity that we see it.
We were dancing around it the whole time!
What's the guide for finding the theme in your movie? Well, here's another great fix-it tool I'll put out there: Make a list. No matter what writing problem we're facing, by sitting down with a blank piece of paper, labeling it, as an example, “30 Bad Ideas for the Theme of My Story,” and not stopping until you blast out all 30, somewhere among those 30 bad ones will be a great one. It will be THE one. For help on solving Theme, here are some hints:
► What does the hero learn?
► What is the moral of the story?
► What's on your mind? What statement, issue, or ax to grind finds voice in your characters?
► If the theme were your title, what would it be?
► What film is yours most like and what's its lesson?
And so… if you follow the rules of how to find the spine of your story, paying attention to all five major questions posed, something truly amazing will occur:
You will find the answers faster than you ever have!
CASE STUDIES: SCRIPT SOLUTIONS USING THE FIVE QUESTIONS
All this is well and good, Blake, but can you give us some examples of how these rules of yours actually work in real scripts and give us more advice on how to fix these?
Why thanks for asking, anonymous voice in my head.
I'd be glad to!
Here are three case studies that show just what I mean:
CASE STUDY #1 – “Brian B.’s Hero Quest” – Writer Brian B. had the problem of deciding whom his story was about. His idea was based on a friend of his who met a woman at a convention of therapists who told a remarkable tale of her adventures during World War Two as a French resistance fighter. As interesting as that is, what's the story?
Brian started by assuming the protagonist was the woman. She was the most interesting character; why shouldn't she be the lead? But by being open to: Who's the hero? Brian and I realized a better protagonist might be another, a younger man or woman, also a therapist, who comes to the convention facing a dilemma. What about the older woman's story would make a difference to this hero?
We next asked: What's the problem? and came up with one that made the hero's dilemma match the lesson the woman passed on. Now it's not just a flashback to World War Two, but a “story within a story” about betrayal. The woman's story helps our hero realize he has betrayed another, and his “coming into awareness” that this is his problem is the spine and how we demarcated his “milestones of growth.” By the time our hero leaves the convention, he knows what he has to do to make amends for his wrong deeds — all thanks to “the most important event that ever happened to the hero of this story.”
CASE STUDY #2 – “Jerry C.’s Hero Is Too Good” – Jerry C. had a great romantic comedy: a mismatched pair of lovers, one a Border Patrol Agent, the other a fiery Mexican illegal, and a hot topic — immigration. Illegal Love speaks to these issues, and yet we were having a hard time getting it off the ground. Why? The male half of the romantic duo was a little too good. Good job, good family, nice guy, with the result that when he gets together with his female half — the fireworks weren't an explosion but a fizzle.
Were we “snipping the ends” as much as we could? When I asked Jerry that very question, he admitted that he didn't want to take his hero “all the way back” because he didn't want him to appear unlikable — so he made him already half-evolved. But if that's the case, why does he need this adventure? How are he and his world one way at the beginning and opposite by the end?
I often talk about Romancing the Stone when this problem comes up. One of the reasons it works is because protagonist Joan Wilder (Kathleen Turner) is a socially frozen author when the movie starts. She lives alone, has a wild imagination and one friend — her agent. If she were more evolved, or more daring in life, if she dated, or even left her apartment occasionally, it wouldn't be nearly as much fun when she meets Michael Douglas in the jungles of Colombia.
Well, same here. Odd things happen when we don't take the hero “all the way back.” It torques everything and makes the story spine crooked. Not only is snipping the ends not big enough, but the Fun and Games of the movie is less fun. Isn't it better for our hero to loudly denounce illegal immigration at the start? And won't it be more fun when the hero is thrown together with the one woman who will change him by being someone who's not only illegal but equally vehement about the laws?
There are two kinds of problems for a hero at the start: individual and systemic. There must be a personal flaw, an Achilles heel, blind spot, what I call the shard of glass buried inside, that this adventure will pull out and force him to deal with — and there must be something wrong with the world, too. Both will get fixed
in the course of this story. But to make it work, you have to let go of the notion that your hero is you, take him all the way back to before he becomes evolved, and snip the ends of the story to make sure that your spine is straight!
CASE STUDY #3 – “What's Kathy H.’s Story About?” – One of the best scripts I've consulted on is Amends by Kathy H. She is a great writer, and this script is one of the best mysteries I've read in a long while. It concerns an alcoholic Angeleno accused of murdering his wife in a blackout. In the course of the adventure, he discovers his part in her death, and within its twists and turns is a mystery that is also a Rites of Passage tale. Bravo!
But there were two problems: Because of the hero's character and condition, he seemed unmotivated. Both his “tangible goal” and his “spiritual goal” were blurred into a nightmare without direction and a Theme that seemed MIA. Part of Kathy's dilemma was based on the premise: As an alcoholic in the final stages of his disease, the hero didn't care. Even when accused of murder, he ambled from one clue to the next. By giving him a tangible goal — to prove his innocence — we gave the hero a clear driving force.
But where was the spiritual goal? What was this about? After hashing it out, we found the Theme… in the title. Amends is a story about taking responsibility and making it right, and though the hero finds the truth by script's end, he also realizes his part in his wife's death, which gives this story meaning for both the character and the audience. All because we asked: What's it about? and insisted we give the hero both tangible and spiritual goals!
