by John Vorhaus
Some people might try to tell you that a comic story doesn’t require structure. “It’s just comedy,” they’ll say, “all that matters are the jokes.” Trust me, those people are wrong and soon will try to sell you dubious propositions in real estate or Michael Bolton CDs. A well-structured story gives jokes a place to happen. It tells the audience whose story to follow. If they don’t know who to follow, they don’t know who to care about. If they don’t care, they don’t laugh.
So while we’re going to spend this chapter talking about something other than comedy, in the strictest sense of the word, please suspend your disbelief and imagine that we’re developing something in fact crucial to comedy. Your money cheerfully retained if not completely satisfied.
I think that cracking the story is just about the hardest part of a comic writer’s job. One reason for this is that what makes us funny—a knack for comic invention—doesn’t necessarily help us cope with the rigors and disciplines of storytelling. Another reason (I’m sure you won’t be shocked to hear) is lack of proper tools.
In my time, I’ve haunted bookstores where you can’t swing a dead cat without hitting a rack of massive tomes on story structure and scriptwriting and screenwriting: Zen in the Art of the Plot Pivot, Act Two Made E-Z, what have you. I’ve found almost all such books to be almost incomprehensibly dense. It’s not that they don’t work; it’s just that they didn’t work for me. I’m a simple guy. I needed a simpler system.
So I built my own. What I wanted was a way of writing the barest bones of my story in ten sentences or less, so that I could discover with a minimum of work whether I had an interesting, whole and solid story or not. What I came up with was this:
Who is the hero?
What does the hero want? The door opens.
The hero takes control.
A monkey wrench is thrown. Things fall apart.
The hero hits bottom. The hero risks all.
What does the hero get?
Up till now in this book, we’ve only developed stories to the level of a sentence or two. With this structure, we’ll move to the next level—a paragraph or two—where, if all goes according to plan, you’ll be able to see simply and clearly the beginning, middle and end of your tale, plus some vital stops along the way.
The Comic Throughline won’t give you all the answers. It won’t tell you how Aunt Celia could have robbed the bank in Cleveland if she was in Hawaii with Senor Guernevaca at the time. I have some strategies for solving that sort of story problem, but they come later. For now, we just want to know if our story is complete and authentic. With a minimum of work.
Which is not to say that the tool doesn’t take practice. It will definitely seem clunky and awkward, more paint-by-numbers or fill-in-the-blanks than genuine comic story development. After a few times through, though, the tool will become comfortable in your hand. And then, interestingly enough, it will disappear from view. Soon you’ll use it just to check your work, to make sure your story is tracking correctly (not like subtracting to check your addition, which only proves that you can make the same mistake twice.) Ultimately, if it works for you as it works for me, it will illuminate a part of your storytelling map that may previously have only been marked, “This space intentionally left blank.”
Well that’s the plan, anyhow. Let’s throw it out the window and see if it lands.
WHO IS THE HERO?
Every story is about someone. It can be several someones, as in The Big Chill, or about someone who becomes a something, as in Metamorphosis, or about something who never was a someone, as in The Bear. Until you decide who your story is about, you have no hope of discovering what your story is about. Imagine a private detective who tried to tail a suspect without first deciding which suspect to tail. Can’t be done.
The first order of business, then, is to select your hero. At this point, don’t take “hero” to mean some sort of larger-than-life adventurer like Conan or Roseanne Arnold. Smaller-than-life adventurers, like Yossarian and Woody Allen, make excellent heroes, too. By hero we simply mean the protagonist, the main character, the star of the literal or figurative show. For the purposes of this exercise, any hero will do, though if you’re going to develop a comic story, you need to start with a strong comic character as outlined in chapter four. Also, please remember that while I use the personal pronoun “he” for convenience, I am in no way suggesting that your hero should be male. It’s just a limitation of the language.
Film heroes include Sylvester Stallone in Rocky, Scarlett O’Hara in Gone With the Wind, Luke Skywalker in Star Wars, Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, E.T. in E.T, and the courageous Japanese journalist who fought Godzilla to a draw. Television sitcom heroes include Archie Bunker, Rob Petrie, Gilligan, Seinfeld, and poor, long-suffering Oliver Douglas. Heroes in fiction include Anne of Green Gables, Sissy Hankshaw, Tom Sawyer, Rip van Winkle, and Bartleby the Scrivener.
Interestingly, each of us is the hero of his or her own adventure. You’re the hero of your story, I’m the hero of mine. Mao Zedong was the hero of the Long March. Jesus Christ starred in the Gospels.
Can a story have two heroes? Sure: Woodward and Bernstein, Butch and Sundance, Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas. The problem is that each of these characters is the hero of his or her own story, and to understand their stories completely, you’ll eventually have to separate them and track them individually. You’ll save yourself a lot of grief, at least in this chapter, if you declare your hero to be a single individual and develop the story through him.
So what I’d like you to do now is create a character to run through this throughline with me as the chapter progresses. Build someone new from the comic perspective up or use a character you’ve invented in an earlier exercise. You can even look at your neighbor’s paper. The proctors have left the room.
My hero, then, is ALBERT COLLIER, a young dreamer in 1915. His strong comic perspective is curiosity: he’s a tinkerer driven to invention. His flaws include gawkiness, curiosity, sexual innocence, intellectual arrogance, painful shyness, impulsiveness, and fear of heights. His humanity includes intelligence, compassion, creativity, a sense of humor, good looks, charm, and a strong desire to change the world with his inventions. We see exaggeration in Albert’s awful bumbling clumsiness, in his tendency to take things apart that he can’t put back together, in his sexual innocence—a lady’s naked ankle makes him blush—and in the wildly inventive but spectacularly unsuccessful things he builds. In short, Albert Collier is a young man who’s really going places—if only he can stay out of his own way.
Take a moment now to invent your hero and describe him or her on paper. Limit yourself to a paragraph of detail, and then boil all that detail back down to one sentence. Don’t stop until you can identify your hero in one sentence, for that’s your strong clue that he’s become clear to you. At the same time, don’t get hung up on “right” answers. Every character is subject to massive change without notice, and while it’s true that you can’t discover your story until you’ve discovered your hero, it’s also true that your story will reveal things about your hero that neither of you ever knew.
WHAT DOES THE HERO WANT?
Once we’ve identified the hero of our tale, we next have to know what he wants: What’s his goal, strong desire, or need? It turns out that an interesting and well-constructed comic hero has not one strong need but two: his outer need and his inner need. Put simply, the outer need is what the hero thinks he wants and his inner need is what he really wants.
For instance, your hero may think that he wants to build a successful business when what he really wants is to retire to the woods and paint. Or he may think that he wants to join the Navy, but what he really wants is to get his darn father off his back. Or he may think that he wants his dead wife back, but what he really wants is to come to terms with her death. Again, you may not see such dark psychology as grist for the old humor mill, but I think you’ll find t
hat it is.
In Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, Sissy Hankshaw’s outer need is to hitchhike, but her inner need is to find her place in the world. In Tootsie, Michael Dorsey’s outer need is to get work as an actor, but his inner need is to discover his true self. In City Slickers, Billy Crystal’s outer need is to have a raw adventure, but his inner need is to have an authentic life experience. In Pretty in Pink, Molly Ringwald’s outer need is to prove herself to the snobs at school, but her inner need is to prove herself to herself.
Sitcom characters have outer and inner needs as well. Mary Richards’ outer need is to take care of her friends, but her inner need is to stand up for herself. Archie Bunker’s outer need is to validate his bigoted view of the world, but his inner need is to understand a difficult world. Murphy Brown’s outer need is to prove herself to everyone, but her inner need is to prove herself to herself.
In the New Testament, Jesus’s outer need is to help the poor, but his inner need is to know God. I won’t speculate on Mao’s inner need on the Long March. Possibly to keep his feet warm. What are your outer need and inner need? The answer to this question won’t necessarily help your comic storytelling, but it’s interesting to ponder just the same. Consider it extra credit.
Here are some more examples, just to make sure we’re all tracking the same target. In When Harry Met Sally, Harry’s outer need is to prove he’s right, but his inner need is to find love. In Romancing the Stone, Joan Wilder’s outer need is to save her sister, but her inner need is to find love. In Groundhog Day, the Bill Murray character’s outer need is to get out of his dead-end life, but his inner need is to find love.
We see this over and over again in comic movies: No matter what the hero thinks he wants, what he really wants is love. It may even be that the presence or absence of love as an issue is the difference between a comic and a dramatic story. I decline to speculate, for that’s the stuff of doctoral dissertations, not pop “how-to” tomes. Suffice it to say that if you can’t find any other inner need for your character, assign the need for love. You won’t go too far wrong.
But don’t get fooled by the word “love” any more than by the word “hero.” There are all sorts of love besides romantic love. Billy Crystal loves that calf in City Slickers, but doesn’t want to marry it (as far as we can tell). Steve Martin loves his daughter in Father of the Bride. Luke Skywalker loves the rebel alliance in Star Wars.
Can a hero have more than one inner need and outer need? Sure, why the heck not? In Romancing the Stone, Joan Wilder needs romance, and adventure, and to save her sister’s life. In Star Wars, Luke Skywalker needs his manhood, adventure, and love. He has to defeat Darth Vader and to save the rebel alliance and to master the Force. Busy guy. Just as the most interesting stories have many levels of conflict, so the most interesting heroes have many levels of comic need. On the other hand, two are sufficient, so long as the inner need and outer need are real. So think about your character for a moment and assign those needs to him now.
In my story about Albert Collier (working title Everybody’s Dream Come True), Albert’s outer need is to invent one damn thing that works, but his inner need is to become a man.
I don’t worry that Albert’s inner need—the need to come of age—has been explored before. Such needs are universal; they’re what make a story worth telling. Don’t worry that your hero’s need is already “taken.” When you dress it up in detail, you’ll make it uniquely your own.
Also don’t worry if your hero’s needs change later. Right now, all we want to do is set the story in motion. A story is a dynamic thing. Nothing’s set in stone until the type is set in print. So feel free to be reckless and bold in your choices. After all, you can’t go back and fix a broken story until you’ve broken it pretty good in the first place.
Oh, and I’d just like to say that it’s not enough to think about these things. You really need to write them down. You are? Oh, good. Well, I won’t mention it again.
THE DOOR OPENS
Now that we’ve established our hero’s strong outer need and inner need, we need to kick his story into gear. What we want is to thrust him into some new and challenging world, a place away from home, literally or figuratively, where he gets a chance to go for the thing he thinks he needs. If Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz thinks she wants to leave home (she really wants to accept home), the door opens when the tornado comes and takes her away.
In a fish-out-of-water tale, the fish leaves his pond. In a character comedy, the comic opposites meet. In a powers tale, your hero finds the magic. On the page, so far, your story might look something like this:
PAULA PILDUSKI is a prim ‘n’ proper bride-to-be. Her strong outer need is to get home in time to marry BILL. Her strong inner need is to discover that she’s marrying the wrong man before it’s too late. The door opens when she arranges to ride home with ANDREW FERGUSON, anarchist of the soul and, unbeknownst to Paula, her ultimate Mr. Right.
In Weird Science, two teenage nerdnoes have the strong outer need to be popular. The door opens when computer magic creates the girl of their dreams. In Play It Again Sam, Woody Allen wants to succeed with women. The door opens when Humphrey Bogart comes alive for him. In Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, Sissy Hankshaw wants to hitchhike. The door opens when she becomes old enough to hit the road. In The Big Chill, a group of college pals have the strong comic need to come to terms with their past. The door opens when the suicide of a peer brings them all back together again.
An episode of The Mary Tyler Moore Show might start with Mary’s strong outer need to have Ted and Lou be better friends. The door opens when they agree to try. An episode of All in the Family might start with Archie’s strong outer need to prove that liberals lack the courage of their convictions. The door opens when Michael refuses to back a student strike. In the sitcom Love Will Find a Way (don’t see newspaper for local listings—I just made it up), the hero is Walter, a young widower, whose strong outer need is to find a mother for his kids. The door opens when he hires a lady chauffeur.
Now you know and I know that Walter and the chauffeur will become lovers in the end. Thus, in a situation comedy, the hero’s strong outer need can drive an episode and/or an entire series. Murphy Brown’s strong outer need to prove herself to others leads her to take a job at FYI in the wake of her stint at the Betty Ford Center. Dobie Gillis’s strong outer need to find the girl of his dreams is the engine that motors his show.
As an exercise, try creating a couple of new situation comedies by starting with their central character’s strong outer need. For example . . .
In Flappers!, our hero’s strong outer need to be in show business drives him to buy and renovate a derelict burlesque house.
In Rising Starr, a young boy with a strong need for control in his world finds a magic meteor that gives him the power to make wishes come true.
In Home of the Brave, a newlywed couple’s dream of owning their own home leads them to buy a haunted house.
In A Fish Called Wanda, John Cleese’s Reggie has the strong need to free himself from his dull, conservative life. The door opens when he meets Wanda. Wanda, on the other hand, has the strong need to recover stolen diamonds, and the door opens when she meets Reggie, who can help her do it. You can see from this example that each of your lead characters can be treated as the hero of his or her own story. In The Prince and the Pauper, both of the main characters have a need to reinvent themselves, and the door opens for each when he meets the other.
In Risky Business, Tom Cruise wants a taste of independence. The door opens when his parents go away on vacation. In Home Alone, Macaulay Culkin wants everyone to leave him the heck alone. The door opens when his whole family goes away on vacation.
From the hero’s point of view, the opening door is either a problem or an opportunity, a threat or a welcoming hand. In murder mysteries, the door opens with the discovery of a corpse. In quest adventures, like Lord of the
Rings, the opening door is the call to the quest. The common denominator is this: The opening door upsets the applecart. From the moment the door opens, things for your hero can never be the same.
Or, to put it another way, the opening door makes your hero an offer he can’t refuse. So make your opening door as compelling or as dire you can. Then yank your hero through it.
Another way to open the door is to offer your hero something he really wants but maybe can’t handle. Cinderella wants to go to the ball, but when she gets there, she has to be up to the challenge of winning Prince Charming.
On the other hand, the opening door can look like your hero’s worst nightmare come true. In Baby Boom, Diane Keaton plays a selfish yuppie on a high-powered career track. Her opening door—she inherits a baby—is the last thing she thinks she wants. Of course, in terms of her inner need—to discover her humanity, femininity, and maternity—getting that baby is exactly what she wants. She doesn’t know it yet—but she will.
We see this a lot, an opening door that looks great to a character’s outer need, and terrible to his inner need, or vice versa. In Father of the Bride, Steve Martin’s outer need is to keep his little girl from growing up. In this light, he dreads her impending wedding. But since his inner need is to accept her adulthood, her wedding is just the right crucible in which to forge a new relationship.
In Everybody’s Dream Come True, Albert’s outer need is to be a successful inventor, and his inner need is to acquire his manhood. The door opens when he meets barnstorming aviatrix KATHRYN HILLS, who wants him to build her a racing plane. He’s getting his shot at inventing, but will he be up to the challenge? He’s in the soup. Funny thing about the opening door: One way or another, it always seems to lead to the soup.
As you write down your opening door, remember to keep it simple: The door opens when he joins the circus; the door opens when she meets the boy next door; the door opens when they find a sacred amulet; that sort of thing. Again, if you can’t boil it down to a sentence, you don’t have a fix on the information yet.
