When you want to say…
“I don’t want to spend time with this character.”
…What you probably mean is:
“This character is boring me by not taking action that moves the story forward.”
Characters without clear direction, who don’t forward the plot, cause us to disengage faster than any destructive anti-hero. After the writer engages us with a character’s needs, we want to see that character do something about them. Protagonists must make the story happen. If they’re not doing enough to move the dial, we pull away.
Sometimes the character is taking action, but never action that succeeds, or that we expect to see succeed when we see it attempted. For example, when a character always chooses tactics for his petitions that can’t possibly work on their granters, or rebuffs every petition he could grant, that character registers as unpleasant, because he’s either failing to move the story, or actively blocking its progression. The writer can address this by rethinking the character’s tactics in dramatic scenes—not to make the character nicer or more conventionally likeable, but to show that he has the emotional savvy necessary to occasionally win people over. That happens to be more likeable, and often nicer, but when it comes to storytelling those qualities are insufficient.
When you want to say…
“We need to know more about this character.”
…What you probably mean is:
“The character’s goal isn’t clear enough.”
Character is action, not backstory. A scene in which we learn more about a character’s past, unless it moves the emotional arrow up or down, stops a story cold. Prose fiction gives us more space to bring a character’s relevant past to bear on scenes occurring in the present than do the stripped-down, linear formats of the stage, screen, and comic book. Rather than asking a writer to add static, explanatory scenes to a piece, what you really want is immediate identification with the character’s unmet desire, or incipient transformation, or compulsion to rectify disorder, as it relates to the main action. When a character puzzles you, it’s not because you need to know where he went to school or how many siblings he had or the incident that scared him most as a child. It’s because you can’t quite work out why he’s doing what he’s doing, and without that you lose the ability to see the consequences of their success or failure. And without that predictive ability, you don’t know what to hope for or fear.
When information about the character will land with emotional impact, it will naturally become part of the scene. It can inform our understanding with, and attachment to, a protagonist’s goals. Absent that, it belongs in the subtext or the writer’s notes, but not in the text.
Making Requests That Stick
When you’re facilitating an author’s vision, you can make your case about any given story point but aren’t looking to impose your creativity onto it. The author will take the notes she finds pertinent and disregard the rest. You’re lending support, not scoring points.
Conversely, a team commissioning work from a writer needs to shape it to their needs, and can expect to issue directives and have them followed. However, if you can’t sell your requests to the writer, his grudging execution will make itself apparent in the revised work. In the worst-case scenario, they can burn out your collaborative relationship with the writer you’re trying to direct.
You may be a writer yourself and know all this stuff already.
If not, journey with me into the dark and cavernous consciousness of the writer, to find its secretive ways.
Writers can most easily make simple and cosmetic changes that do not affect plot or core elements.
This book mostly doesn’t deal with that surface stuff.
The second easiest change to make is one that fits the already established core elements: throughline, core question, boil-down, and character drivers (dramatic poles, transformational arc, or iconic ethos).
Before making a change request, ask yourself how it could fit one or more of these.
If you can’t see how, expect your note to be received as an out-of-left-field request that offers no apparent means of fulfillment.
Maybe you’re just asking for a scene with a giant spider, in a piece that can easily be reconfigured to replace the animated statue fight with a giant spider battle. In a loosely plotted procedural that sort of superficial adjustment might not be so difficult to implement.
But if you look at your beat map and see mostly Outgrowth transitions, you’re looking at a tightly plotted narrative, in which each incident arises as the seamless consequence of the next. Changing one obstacle could pull the whole web of cause and effect to bits. How much did you say you wanted that spider?
For deeper issues, seek a connection between your proposed change and the core elements, but do not provide the solution to the writer. Your job is mostly to identify problems rather than to propose specific fixes. But when the writer finds your request baffling, you can then point out the possible solution you had in mind. He might use this verbatim but will more likely go away and come up with a better way to solve the problem that goes even more directly to the core elements.
Some notes really do come from outside the concerns of the piece. For example, work tied in to an established property has to adhere to an established tone or continuity, and fit the broader framework of other works in the same line, series, or universe. You might have to tell the author that he can’t refer to a “short sword” because that term doesn’t exist in the game the work bases itself on, that a particular villain will have to be replaced because the one the author proposed is super-dead (not just comic-book dead) in the setting, or that a particular plot turn will remind readers too much of another coming episode by another writer. These all go with the territory when a writer works for hire, though of course you can couch these requests, especially the niggling ones, to soften any frustration they may trigger.
Classroom Use
Although this book addresses itself to writers, beat analysis could also be used as tool for critics.
Modern criticism generally divorces itself from the concerns of fiction practitioners, with their focus on craft and execution. It focuses instead on the wider philosophical or sociopolitical implications of the work being studied.
Even so, the process of breaking down the work’s emotional rhythm may provide insight into those implications, just as the mapping of a manuscript in progress might expose a new direction for the writer’s revisions.
Identifying a story’s throughline, the dramatic poles of its key protagonists, and the tactics of its characters during emotional scenes, may prove especially helpful in unlocking a work’s broader meaning. That might assist a student as groundwork before embarking on an essay, for example.
If you are that student, I’d avoid explicitly using this book’s particular use of jargon terms on your instructor. Unless, that is, she’s the one who introduced you to them. (Hamlet’s Hit Points appears on a syllabus or two, so stranger things have happened.)
A more complete treatment of beat analysis as it pertains to the academic study of literature would demand a book of its own, written by someone other than me.
If you’re an instructor making use of this book in your classroom, contact Gameplaywright to let us know.
9
Beat Analysis:
“Have a Seat, Shut the Door”
(from Mad Men)
Mapping out “The Necklace” (see Our First Example) illustrated beat analysis at its most basic. Now for some more complex examples.
You can perform beat analysis on a work of any scope. To keep this book at a reasonable length I’m going to sidestep movies and novels and tackle nothing longer than a television episode. Let’s start with a primarily dramatic work with a sub-thread of Procedural beats.
One of the most memorable episodes of Matthew Weiner’s Mad Men occurs at the end of
its third season. “Have a Seat, Shut the Door” sets up the show for a fourth-season reinvention by dynamiting two of its bedrock elements—its protagonist’s marriage and his workplace. Here’s how it modulates its emotional rhythm as it shows Don Draper simultaneously suffering a great victory and a sad defeat.
The episode, written by Weiner and Erin Levy, opens as our dramatic protagonist, brilliant and mercurial ad executive Don Draper, wakes up bleary and disoriented, to fumble with his travel alarm.
But as Don struggles for consciousness, let’s back up and identify the show’s core elements.
Although the characters occasionally grapple with procedural obstacles, chiefly arising from the challenges of running a successful advertising agency, it is first and foremost a dramatic work. If you look at the breadth of the series, you’ll see that Don Draper’s dramatic poles are authentic man vs. fraud.
The series’ throughline can be summed up as “the quest for personal authenticity in rapidly changing times.” Rewritten for a touch more specificity, that becomes its boil-down: “An ad executive, his family, and his colleagues struggle to realize their authentic selves as the ‘50s crumble and give way to the ‘60s.”
1) Don spends much of the series, up until its very final beats, deeply lost. So it’s no surprise that this key episode shows him in the disoriented state of early waking. (Starting a piece with the character waking up is a wildly overused device, one I’d urge emerging writers to avoid like the plague. Its apt use here shows that you can get away with ringing familiar bells if you both tie the moment directly to the throughline and have also already adroitly locked down the trust of your audience.) As Don tries to remember where and perhaps who he is, Jon Hamm’s performance reminds us of his perennial “Who am I? Where am I?” identity crisis. This evocation of his inner conflict counts as an interior Dramatic beat. His sense of distress when he sees what time it is induces audience anxiety—so we start the episode on a down note.
2) A cut takes us to a new scene, jumping to a hotel room meeting between Don and Conrad Hilton, a wealthy client Don has been courting for much of the season. The new scene features Don and, as this is the meeting he was late for in the last scene, shows him pursuing the same goal, making the transition a Continuation. (He doesn’t wind up at the meeting because he woke up late, so it’s not really an Outgrowth. In this case the distinction between the two is a fine one and doesn’t much matter.) Don has arrived late, but Hilton assures him that this is not a problem. In dramatic scene structure parlance, he petitions for forgiveness and Hilton grants it without hesitation. This relieves the worry we might have felt for him over the previous delayed wake-up beat.
3) But then Connie, as Don has become accustomed to calling him, announces some bad news. He has discovered that the enormous (real-life) ad firm McCann Erickson is buying Puttnam, Powell and Lowe, the company that in turn owns Sterling Cooper, where Don works. Hilton won’t work with McCann, which now means he can’t work with Don. The buyout news is a matter of external practicality, so this lands as the first of the episode’s Procedural beats, revolving around the fate of Sterling Cooper. We take this as bad news, so it strikes a down note.
4) Previous episodes have already well-established Don’s lack of interest in working for McCann. He believes it will rob him of his autonomy—and, by implication, his authenticity. Seeing his reaction, Hilton seeks to reassure him, telling him he’ll do well under the new regime. Don rebuffs his petition. This outcome leaves both men unhappy, and registers as a down note.
5) His autonomy threatened, Don worsens the situation, lashing out at Hilton. This tactic seeks contrition from the older, richer man, but Don lacks the standing with him to put him on the defensive. Connie shuts him down hard, asking Don if he’s a cryer and a complainer. Now Don isn’t just unhappy—he’s just been out-dominated. Another down arrow.
6) We cut to Don arriving at the Sterling Cooper office. Although nothing happens right away to signal that this happens as a result of the previous beat, we are still following Don, making this transition a Continuation. Don uneasily surveys his soon-to-be-destroyed domain. His look of concern scores yet another down beat.
7) A Flashback transition ensues, as we jump back in time to watch Don before he became Don, as the child Dick Whitman. He watches his father burn business bridges of his own, stubbornly going it alone, breaking with a farming cooperative, to the ill regard of his neighbors. In his impotent rage and potentially destructive hunger for autonomy, we see an echo of Don’s impulsive flare-up against Hilton. We perceive the action through Dick’s perspective and share his dismay—another down note.
8) A Return transition cuts us back to the present. Don tells Bert Cooper, the firm’s eccentric senior eminence, about the buyout. Don petitions him for help in fighting back, but the old man rebuffs him on various fronts. That makes six down arrows in a row, which is a long time to spend going in the same direction. This large slide underlines the severity of the crisis—this isn’t just any bad day at Sterling Cooper, but one of significant import.
9) Don shifts tactics, successfully goading Bert, who pivots to start plotting the elements they’d need to extricate themselves from the buyout. Finally, an accepted petition, and the up note that goes with it.
10) As a consequence of their accord in the previous scene, an Outgrowth transition takes us to the office of sardonic accounts man Roger Sterling. Bert and Don tell Roger about the coming sale, but Roger, more interested in making Don squirm for recent shows of disrespect, wants him to beg for his cooperation. After one up arrow, we’re headed back down again.
11) Bert takes over as petitioner, arguing that Roger will languish in retirement. The show has already well established Roger’s fear of obsolescence: his dramatic poles might be expressed as man of the present vs. man of the past. Although he puts up some resistance, this appeal to one side of his conflicted nature ultimately brings him around. An accepted petition in favor of something we want to happen registers as an up arrow.
12) The next scene shift still features Don, but not in pursuit of the same goal, so the transition counts as a Turn. We cut to the other shoe dropping as Don’s wife, Betty (January Jones) tells him she’s she made an appointment with divorce attorney. Don deflects, which is not what we or Betty want to see him do, and is not a tactic that gets him anywhere, delivering a down note.
13) Don remains our focus character for another Turn transition, as he again shifts between the story’s two streams, in this case from the personal to the professional. We’re back to the office as the rebel trio pitches Lane Pryce, their put-upon superior from the British parent company, to gain his cooperation. He denies that the buy-out is happening. His resistance logs another down note. Denying the truth is always a weak tactic, so we can perhaps anticipate what’s coming next.
14) Roger petitions Lane by offering him friendship. The withdrawn, frustrated Lane’s dramatic poles can be described as isolation vs. belonging. By appealing directly to the positive side of that equation, Roger is making a strong bid for acceptance, which he gets when he comes at least some distance toward them, confirming that Sterling Cooper is being sold—though the parent company, contrary to their understanding, is not. A partial victory still moves the hope/fear arrow up.
15) Roger tries to give Don solace by encouraging him to resign himself to the inevitable. Don does not respond. They’ve moved closer to each other but this is still a declined petition over an undesirable outcome, and points the arrow down.
16) For the first time, we embark on a scene without Don. It doesn’t arise out of the previous scene, making the transition a Break. (It is not a Viewpoint transition, as regular viewers of the series are used to seeing Betty—our focus character in the next scene—in that role.) Betty and her suitor-in-waiting, Henry Francis, have the previously mentioned meeting with a divorce attorney. The lawyer discouragingly lectures them, and embarrasses them by assumin
g they have consummated their relationship. Betty’s dramatic poles could be pinned down as shame vs. dignity, the latter of which she heavily connects to outward appearances. Here we’re seeing her try to free herself from the shame of Don’s falseness, only to face shame in another form. It’s always tough when a character we care about, as we do for Betty, takes a direct hit to a vulnerable pole. We feel Betty’s humiliation and receive this as a down arrow.
17) Taking umbrage at his presumption, Henry and Betty assert their power over the divorce attorney, making him apologize for his assumption. An up arrow reverses the emotional trajectory from the previous beat.
18) Henry petitions Betty to stop worrying about Don’s money, arguing that he can provide for her and her kids. Perhaps because this gives her a dignified way to forget the shame of letting Don win, she silently accedes to him. The prospect of an averted conflict for the two warring characters, both of whom we care about, permits us another up arrow.
19) A Break transition shifts us to Lane’s point of view, as he fills his superior Saint John Powell in on the meeting with Sterling Cooper triad. To his dismay he discovers that PPL is indeed also being sold. He has been left in the dark by his supposed colleagues, a betrayal that hits him in his vulnerable “isolation” dramatic pole. He angrily petitions for recognition, for a show that his loyalty has been valued. Saint John instead remains dismissively sanguine about Lane’s departure. Lane takes this hard, and so do we.
Beating the Story Page 19
