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Beyond the Rules

There are many different schools of thought with regard to becoming a better screenwriter. Some value convention, while others stress experimentation. Some focus on character, while others rely on plot. Because there are so many different opinions, we feel it’s best to state our biases at the outset.

First, we think of the screenwriter as a storyteller who happens to write for film. Many screenwriters write for more than one medium. Steve Tesich ( Breaking Away ) and Harold Pinter (The Handmaid’s Tale ) write for both theater and film. David Hare ( Strapless ), William Goldman ( Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid ), and John Sayles ( Baby It’s You ) write both fiction and screenplays, as have many others throughout the short history of screenwriting. Our point is that you, as the scriptwriter, are part of a broad storytelling tradition. To cut yourself off from other forms of writing or to view script-writing as an exclusive art form is to cut yourself off from a large cultural community of different types of writing that have more in common than you might realize.

Second, a screenplay should be more than structurally sound. The screenwriter is often referred to as a technician—the equivalent to the draftsman in architecture. Although there are screenwriters who are content to be technicians, many are not. Nor do we feel you should be a technician. One of our goals in this book is to suggest ways to move beyond structure.

Third, you have to know everything about structure in order to move beyond it. It isn’t possible to reinvent the process without knowing it in detail. Consequently, we illustrate the conventions of screenwriting so that you will be able to break from them.

Now that you know our biases, we can state our simple approach. We outline conventions and then proceed to suggest practical ways to undermine or alter those conventions. We use specific examples to illustrate the points we’re trying to make. Our ultimate goal is to help you develop better screenplays. To do this, we talk about form, content, character, and language, while pressing you to develop alternative narrative strategies that prompt you to write the best screenplay you can write. As Melanie Griffith says to the conventional Jeff Daniels in Max Frye’s Something Wild, “I know you, you’re a closet rebel.” Just as she sees beyond his superficial characteristics, we want you to look beyond the surface of scriptwriting, beyond form. You’ll be surprised at what you find.

Conventions

There are some fundamental story devices that remain constant regardless of your scriptwriting approach. All screen stories use plots in which the premise is expressed in terms of conflict. The focus on conflict is so central to storytelling that its use can be traced from the original Ten Commandments to the two film versions of the story. Discovery and reversal are two more conventional storytelling devices because surprise is important to all stories; without it, the story is flat and tends to become a mundane series of events, rather than a story that invites the viewer to get involved and stay involved. A turning point is another device that is typically used in storytelling. The number of turning points varies from screen story to screen story; but their usefulness is critical. All of these elements—conflict, discovery, reversal, and turning point—are the technical devices you use to involve the reader in your story. Beyond these devices, however, the choices are limited only by your willingness to explore your imagination.

Structure

In the past 10 years, structure as applied to film has come to mean Act One, Act Two, Act Three. Each act has its own characteristics: Act One introduces character and premise; Act Two focuses on confrontation and struggle; Act Three resolves the crisis introduced in the premise. Operating in each act are various plot devices intended to intensify conflict, develop characters, and propel the plot forward. We discuss structure in more detail in Chapter 2.

Noteworthy, however, is how the scriptwriting structure differs from other structured forms of storytelling. Most plays have only two acts, and most books have more than three chapters. Although many operas do have three acts, the unfolding of the narrative to suggest the greater importance of subtext over text indicates how far removed opera is from film (but here, too, the screenwriter can learn something from another medium).

Premise

The premise, sometimes referred to as the concept, central concept, or central idea, is what the screenplay is about. Usually, the premise is presented in terms of the central character’s dilemma at a particular point in her life (the point at which the screen story begins). For example, the premise in All About Eve is: What happens to a great actress (Bette Davis) when age threatens her physical beauty and her career? In Inside Moves, a story about a young man, played by John Savage, the premise is: What happens when this young man decides to kill himself and then fails?

Premise is usually presented in terms of conflict. In All About Eve, the conflict offers two options: to accept ageing regardless of the emotional and professional consequences that option suggests, or to struggle for intimate relationships and roles beyond natural reason. This struggle and its outcome form the basis of the script. When Bette Davis makes her decision, the screen story is over.

In Inside Moves, Rory, John Savage’s character, attempts suicide, but survives. Consequently, he has two options: to try again, or to find a way to make a life he can live with, even enjoy. Life or death is the basis of this screen story. Once Rory makes his decision and commits to one option, the screen story is over. The premise, then, is central to the screen story and is best posited in terms of the central conflict for the main character.

A variation worth mentioning is the existence of two particular types of premises. We mention them because they have become part of the industry par-lance. The two variations are high concept and low (or soft) concept. High concept refers to a plot-oriented premise and implies excitement. Low concept refers to a premise that is softer on the plot and consequently relies more on the strength of the characters. A simple way to discern the two is to view a high-concept premise as a plot-intensive story and a low-concept premise as a character-intensive story. During the 1980s, the desirability of high-concept premises had considerable economic value, and they were more likely to be produced.

The Role of Conflict

Conflict is the central feature of the screen story. Man against man, man against environment, and man against himself portray the classic versions of conflict found in the screen story. Variations of sex, age, religion, and culture provide variety to the conflict. Polarities (i.e., extreme opposites) make conflict operational in screen stories. In the Western genre, the most obvious polarity was the hero’s white horse and white clothing, and the villain’s black horse and black clothing. Policeman/criminal, lawyer/accused, rich/poor, hero/villain—all are polarities that exemplify the character conflicts featured in different screen stories.

All screen characters are developed using polarities—opposites in physical appearance and in behavioral characteristics. In On the Waterfront, the main character is the only character who is physically fit. His brother, a criminal, looks older, dresses differently, and speaks differently. The main character is dark; the young woman he falls in love with is a blonde. It should come as no surprise that she speaks better and behaves more intensely than the main character does. When she is committed to a decision, the main character hedges. The polarities go on and on. When we look at all the other characters’ physical variations (slim and heavy), age variations (young and old), and aggression variations (violent and meek), we see that they permeate the screen story. Polarities are the most obvious, useful devices for instilling conflict in your story.

Character

The main character of the screen story is the primary means for the audience to experience the story. The audience will be involved in the story to the extent that it identifies with the character and his dilemma. On the surface, the character may be recognizable via a dominant physical or behavioral characteristic. However, during a moment of private revelation or a moment when the character allows himself to appear foolish or vulnerable, our empathy for that character is realized and our identification with the character is secured.

Generally, the main character is energetic and exposed to sufficient conflict to propel her through the story. The main character differs from secondary characters in a variety of ways. The primary difference is that the main character undergoes a metamorphosis during the course of the story. On the other hand, the secondary characters do not change and, in fact, necessarily serve as a source of contrast to the main character. Through interaction with the main character, secondary characters help to move the story along.

All the characters (main and secondary) have distinct goals in the screen story. Generally, these goals parallel the premise. Secondary characters take each side of the issue and the main character is faced with the conflict. In On the Waterfront, Marlon Brando’s character is faced with these questions: Can he, a washed-up boxer, be a more moral person than his brother, the criminal? Should he be a criminal or a saint? Actors Lee J. Cobb and Rod Steiger, who play gangsters in the film, are important secondary characters, along with Eva Marie Saint and Karl Malden, who play the roles of saints. The secondary characters prod Brando to join their respective side. The screen story draws to its conclusion once Brando has made his choice.

Dialogue

Since 1927, films have had sound, comprising dialogue, sound effects, and music. When dialogue is used in film, it fulfills three roles. First, dialogue characterizes. Speech patterns tells us whether the character is educated, from where the character originates, the profession of the character, the approximate age of the character, and the emotional state of the character. Second, dialogue helps define the plot. What the character says depends on the role of the character in the story. Louis, in Four Friends, is a dying man who loves life, as opposed to the central character’s tentative approach to life. Louis’s function is to highlight, through dialogue, his joy of living, his enthusiasm for science and for sex, and all of those elements absent from the main character’s life. The third function of dialogue is to relieve tension, through humor, when it occurs in a script (an inevitable state given the writer’s attention to conflict). Humor serves to put us at ease with the characters; we like people more readily after we’ve shared a laugh with them.

In a more general sense, dialogue has an additional overarching purpose—to make the characters more believable. The writer’s first objective is to make the audience believe the story, or, more specifically, believe the characters in the story. If the dialogue is working, the audience will be more inclined to believe in the characters. When dialogue does not work, the characters tend to be less believable. Consequently, dialogue plays an important role in the creation of character credibility.

Atmosphere

When a reader reads a screenplay, she is confronted with a good deal of description and then dialogue. So how can the writer create atmosphere? Doesn’t atmosphere come from visualization when the screenplay is filmed? Not entirely. Atmosphere, in a screenplay, is the accumulation of details that creates the illusion of a single, coherent world on the page.

The writer creates a spatial, or three-dimensional, sense of believability when the dialogue is credible and when the depictions of time and place are so convincing that the reader can say “I know that person, I’ve been in that place or situation.” Detail is the key. When there is enough detail, the atmosphere of the screenplay moves from generic to particular, from mechanical to meaningful.

Action Line

Action line is frequently referred to as the story line or the plot. The term action line, however, is most appropriate for film, because the visual nature of the medium suggests visual action as the preferred form of characterization. Also, action line is occasionally referred to as the foreground story, or the major story line, as opposed to the background story, or the secondary story line.

The term foreground story implies the more important aspects of the story, which isn’t always true. Indeed, in many stories the more subtle background (or minor story line) involves the deeper elements of the story, the characters’ relationships as opposed to the larger events that drive the story. For an audience, these relationship elements are frequently the most meaningful, emotional link to the screen story. Consequently, the background story can be just as, if not more, important for the audience.

Often, the action line, although more sensational, is more superficial in its meaning. For simplicity, the action line can be viewed as the exterior action of the story, and is definitely conflict oriented. The background story can be viewed as the interior (main character) action of the screen story. Background story is identification oriented.

Rising Action

Rising action carries the action line from the beginning to the end and implies that the level of conflict that confronts the major character increases as we move through the screen story. The level of conflict is greatest in Act Three. There is a dip in the rising action at the beginning of Act Two and Act Three.

Subtext

Subtext is the background story or the interior struggle of the main character to choose the most appropriate solution to his interior conflict. Subtext is often expressed in terms of general human emotional states: love–hate and life–death. Not every screen story deals with such primal feelings, but many memorable films have these dimensions to their stories. At the deepest level, subtext can reach the audience in a more complex and gripping manner than action can. The screen stories you most likely remember have a strong subtext.

Discovery

As we mentioned earlier, the element of surprise is important in a screenplay. Whether it refers to plot or character, unexpected revelation—no matter how trivial—maintains our interest. Discoveries made later in the screen story must be greater in scale than those found earlier in the screen story.

Reversal

Plot twists manifest as reversals of fortune for the main character. This form of setback creates tension and concern for the fate of the character. Reversals are used more sparingly than are other plot devices. Too many reversals in a screen story tend to depreciate the impact of the reversals. Use reversals with care to allow for maximum impact.

Turning Point

Sometimes referred to as plot points, turning points yield surprise, anticipation, and tension, and help maintain our interest in the screen story. Turning points are classified as minor or major, while reversals tend to be major turning points. Minor turning points take place frequently throughout the screen story. Early major turning points open up the story and provide a broader spectrum of options for the main character. Late major turning points help to focus the story by pointing the main character toward the resolution of his crisis.

Going Against Structure

Structure is such an important characteristic of the screenplay that we devote Chapters 2 through 9 to discussing structure, counter-structure, genre, and working against genre. As previously mentioned, the structured approach uses three acts to tell the screen story, and, if you choose, the use of a particular genre to deliver the three acts.

The central question you face if you don’t wish to use the conventional three-act structure is: What is available to you? Can you, for example, tell a story in one act? Probably not. Can you tell a story in two acts? Yes, as evidenced in Full Metal Jacket. In four acts? Yes, as evidenced in Mo’ Better Blues.

Although the setup–confrontation–resolution approach to structure remains the predominant form, the absence of resolution in Full Metal Jacket and the addition of a second optional resolution in the fourth act of Mo’ Better Blues add a dimension to the films that is not present in the classic case. The potential benefit of the fresh addition of a second resolution is to alter the meaning of the film.

A limitation of scriptwriting is that a screen story must be set up and must have some level of conflict or confrontation. Consequently, a story that is all setup, or all confrontation with no setup (the one-act option), is too limiting and too similar to a fragment of a larger story, rather than being a feature-length screen story.

One qualification to this argument about going against structure is to pose this question: When Julie Dash wrote Daughters of the Dust was the circularity of the story going against conventional structure or was she opting to tell the story in a manner most sensible to her? Similarly, is she opting for a group of characters over a single goal-oriented main character, and does that choice imply working against convention, or again, is it a case of a woman telling a story in a manner most sensible to her? The manner in which men and women tell stories is not an issue easily resolved, but for those interested in the issue we refer you to a fascinating book that does imply gender difference. The title is Women’s Ways of Knowing (Basic Books, 1986), and the authors, Mary Field Belenky, Blythe McVicker Clinchy, Nancy Rule Goldberger, and Jill Mattock Tarule, make a persuasive argument that women are less interested in linear storytelling and far more empathetic with the circular approach used by Julie Dash.

In regard to genre, the scriptwriter’s options increase. Genres, or particular types of films such as gangster or horror, have particular characteristics that audiences identify with those films. For example, audiences identify the monster antagonist with the horror film, and the urban setting with the gangster film. You can use a particular genre as the vehicle for your structural choice, or you can challenge a particular genre motif. For example, in a Western, the protagonist is generally positive, moral, and faces his challenges alone. However, as evidenced in The Wild Bunch, the scriptwriter challenges the genre motif of the wholesome protagonist by making the main character an outlaw and a murderer and surrounding him with people who are worse.

The violation of genre needn’t relate to character. It can relate to any motif of a genre. A scriptwriter can vary the presentation of the antagonist, the nature of the confrontation, and the resolution. For example, the female sniper in the war film Full Metal Jacket breaks from the conventional onscreen depiction of the villain. More often, the villain is the Teutonic German, such as in Saving Private Ryan, who brutally murders the sole Jewish member of the American patrol. De facto, in Full Metal Jacket, the enemy becomes a fellow American in the first half of the film.

Another challenge to genre is the use of mixed genres to alter meaning. Blade Runner and Something Wild are examples. This particular scriptwriting technique became popular in the 1980s. Given the number of genres, many options are available to the scriptwriter. Not all genres mix with success, but attempts to mix even the most unlikely genres have yielded interesting results. For example, by mixing the musical and film noir genres, Diva is fresher than it would have been had it been presented as a straight musical or film noir screen story.

An ultimate challenge to conventional storytelling has been put forth by Woody Allen in his film Crimes and Misdemeanors. Not only does Allen alter structure (he presents two three-act stories in one film), he also mixes genres and challenges particular motifs in each of the genres. The result is a startling screen story during which the shifts in our expectations and moods are so rapid that we are left dazed and dazzled by his audacity. Allen’s Crimes and Misdemeanors suggests audiences will tolerate a good deal of experimentation and are sufficiently film-experienced to know what to expect from conventional structure and genres. Allen challenges these expectations on as many levels as he feels are manageable.

Character Alternatives

If the classic main character is active, likable, and central to the story, alternative approaches challenge each of these qualities. These character alternatives are explored in detail in Chapters 12 through 14.

What happens to your screen story when the main character is more passive, more voyeur than the participant? What happens when your main character is not admirable or even likable? What happens when your main character is overshadowed by one or more secondary characters? Do these initiatives undermine the effectiveness of your screen story? The answers to these questions yield a new range of possibilities. They can weaken your story, or alter the experience of your story in new and interesting ways. In all likelihood, you will have to adjust your treatment of all the characters and of the amount of narrative necessary to tell your story. This is especially true for the role of the antagonist.

Taking up the issue of the unconventional main character, we can find examples throughout the history of film. Diello (James Mason), the main character in Michael Wilson’s Five Fingers, is a spy trying to sell secrets to the Nazis, including the time and place of the Normandy invasion of France. Hardly a person to admire, Diello is, nevertheless, a fascinating and involving character. Travis Bickle (Robert De Niro) in Paul Schrader’s Taxi Driver is an alienated, highly disturbed war veteran. He is sufficiently antisocial and prone to violence to have little appeal as a main character. Rupert Popkin (Robert De Niro) in Paul Zimmerman’s King of Comedy is even less appealing. Delusional and desperate, Popkin wants to be a television celebrity.

In each of these cases, the scriptwriter was faced with presenting characters and action in a way that allowed the viewer to identify with the main character. In Taxi Driver, the uncaring, callous nature of the majority of characters makes Travis Bickle seem more sensitive, and he becomes a victim rather than a perpetrator. Consequently, we identify with Travis Bickle in spite of his neurotic behavior. This is the sort of adjustment the writer has to make if it is desired to move away from the classic presentation of the main character.

You can also use an ironic character as an alternative character. An ironic character promotes distance between us and the character, and allows us not only to sympathize with the character’s plight, but also to wonder why events and people seem to conspire against him. Often, the ironic character is portrayed as an innocent victim of a person or system. This type of character is very useful when you feel that the ideas are more important than the people in your screen story.

Dialogue Alternatives

Dialogue in a screen story enhances the particular credibility of the character. Whether it’s used to advance the plot or develop the character, audiences expect film dialogue to be believable. This is in keeping with the illusion of realism in the film medium. Events on film look real; therefore, behavior and appearance of performers must support that illusion. What if the screenwriter wants to use dialogue to undermine credibility or to supersede the sense of realism? If so, the quality and function of the dialogue in the screenplay broadens considerably and invites the influence of other storytelling forms—the play, the performance, the burlesque—all of which are dependent on dialogue in more elaborate ways.

Dialogue can be more highly charged and more emotional than conventional movie dialogue. Paddy Chayefsky uses this approach in his screenplay Network. The old-time producer (William Holden) and the new-style programming executive (Faye Dunaway) argue eloquently about their conflicting philosophies. The dialogue illustrates this conflict. Dialogue can also be stripped of feeling and abstracted so that the viewer relates to the dialogue as a metaphor for his state of mind, rather than with a sense of plausibility. David Hare uses this approach to dialogue in his screenplays Plenty and Strapless.

A third option for dialogue is to use language ironically in order to destroy the most literal meaning of the language. This type of dialogue is often associated with the Marx Brothers; Groucho was constantly trying to undermine meaning. For example, Groucho plays Rufus T. Firefly in Bert Kalmar and Harry Ruby’s Duck Soup. Firefly is the new leader of Freedonia, a fictional middle European state. Fanfare announces the arrival of the leader. In the palace, he is greeted by Mrs. Teasdale. The regal guests eagerly await his arrival. Rather than following the pomp expected in such circumstances, the dialogue trivializes the ceremonial dimension of the scene, reducing it to the level of a social card game in a community hall. The exchange of dialogue follows:

Another dialogue alternative is used in screen stories that have very little action and subsequently may be subject to a loss of screen energy. Often this situation is compensated for using energized dialogue, which is sufficiently charged so that the dynamism of the story is brought out. This alternative necessitates a great deal more dialogue because dialogue becomes considerably more important than in the conventional screen story. Spike Lee’s She’s Gotta Have It is a recent example of this type of dialogue. Budget limitations can also promote the use of excessive, energized dialogue in order to avoid costly action sequences. Quentin Tarantino’s use of dialogue scenes to replace action sequences is a good example of this impulse.

Atmosphere Alternatives

Atmosphere is created by visual detail and lends a visual credibility to your screen story. If your goal is to challenge credibility or to add another level of meaning to your story, manipulation of environmental details becomes your most direct tool to alter atmosphere.

In Local Hero, Bill Forsyth uses detail to subvert and alter the original direction of the narrative. Local Hero is the story of a Texas oilman’s efforts to buy land in Scotland. The purpose of the purchase is to exploit offshore oil. To underscore the corporate dimension of the story line, we would expect offices, oil rigs, and the material benefits of the exploiters and the exploited. Forsyth has little interest in this type of detail. Instead, we are presented with a sensual otherworldly presentation of the land and its hypnotic effect on the would-be exploiters. The result is that the oilmen, by the end of the narrative, don’t get what they came for but they don’t seem to mind. The owner of the company, a mystic portrayed by Burt Lancaster, and his salesman, portrayed by Peter Riegert, have been changed by their exposure to this mystical landscape. They are sensually enriched, but materially worse off.

Francis Ford Coppola and Michael Herr use the atmosphere of Apocalypse Now to move that story from a realistic treatment of the Vietnam War to a metaphor of war and Vietnam as hell. In his screenplay The Untouchables, David Mamet moves his gangster film about Al Capone and Elliot Ness to a story about the struggle of good and evil. The metaphor moves us away from the events of the story toward the subtext of good and evil.

Finally, the scriptwriter has the option of altering atmosphere by using details that undermine the sense of place developed from preceding details. A good example of this alteration is found in David Lynch’s Blue Velvet. A tranquil, pastoral town is presented—beautiful flowers, contented inhabitants, and, of course, rosy-cheeked children. Then, suddenly, Lynch shows us the ants and insects living beneath the surface. Shortly after this shot, the viewer’s initial impression of the town is shattered when the main character finds a severed ear. The tranquility is broken, and we can’t trust our expectations for the balance of the screen story.

Foreground and Background Story Alternatives

The scriptwriter has broad options in the area of foreground and background stories. Film stories have long been divided between personal interest stories and adventure (action) stories. Often, the personal interest story is more literary and the action story is linear. Today, the action story is called the high-concept premise and the personal interest story is called the low-concept premise. The high-concept film, particularly since Star Wars, has become the dominant type of screen story. Foreground stories are the prevalent form and the resulting schism has screenwriters scurrying to maintain their positions in the marketplace. In spite of the market, screen stories benefit from having both strong foreground and background stories, as described in Chapter 17.

It should be noted that the current international dominance of the American film is attributable to the success of the foreground, plot-oriented story. Films such as The Terminator series, the Lethal Weapon series, as well as the earlier Indiana Jones and Star Wars series employ stars, special effects, and production values, but at heart are all linear stories with memorable set pieces of action. When European films such as La Femme Nikita or Australian films such as The Road Warrior employ a similar narrative strategy, they too, are great international successes. This does not mean, however, that writers should now all devote themselves to the action genre. Indeed, the success of films such as Sleepless in Seattle and Forrest Gump demonstrates that audiences also want low-concept or character-driven stories.

For the scriptwriter, alternatives begin to develop when working with the balance of foreground and background. The key ingredient in creating foreground and background balance is the main character. If the scriptwriter positions the main character in a deeply personal dilemma, the outcome of the story is less predictable. Background stories, which dwell on the interior life of the main character, tend to be less predictable because the interior life is not linear.

Although foreground stories are the current dominant form, much attention has been paid to background stories, as evidenced in Moonstruck. Screen stories that are more background story oriented tend to have particular characteristics beyond their character orientation. Often, dialogue moves away from realism toward a more literary quality and is distinctive and eccentric. Playwrights are accustomed to using dialogue—literary, charged dialogue—because there is less action on stage. Emotional levels intensify through language and dialogue. The dialogue in Moonstruck shouldn’t come as a surprise, since the scriptwriter, John Patrick Shanley, is a playwright. So, too, are Sam Shepard, Ted Tally, Steve Tesich, Hanif Kureishi, David Hare, and David Mamet, all interesting playwrights who also happen to write screenplays with strong background stories.

When the writer uses the background story, the main character becomes more personal to us, and the narrative more open ended. The result invites a deeper involvement from the viewer.

Rising Action Alternatives

When writers use a stronger background story, they open up possibilities in varying the convention of rising action. Generally, the action of the screen story gradually rises to a climax, except for a brief pause at the beginnings of Acts Two and Three. These pauses allow the writer to set up the parameters for the acts that follow. When using a background story, the scriptwriter can devote more time to the characters, although this does not necessarily advance the plot or move the story toward the climax. A good example of this alternative approach to rising action is found in Louis Malle’s My Dinner with Andre. Less extreme, but no less interesting, is Jean-Claude Carriére and Louis Malle’s May Fools. In these films, the shift from rising action affords the audience a greater opportunity to know the characters.

As we mention in Chapter 4, moving away from the three-act model results in a more open-ended sense of character and structure. A similar result occurs when the scriptwriter moves away from rising action. To make this step effective, however, the screenwriter must make the focus on the characters worthwhile. The characters must be interesting, and the dialogue has to be as involving as new plot developments would be. This means charged, witty, and surprising dialogue. If these elements are not present, the viewer will experience a flatness that does not serve the interests of the screen story.

This idea of modulating rising action applies only to Act Two of the screenplay. The screen story still needs the rise in action during the setup in Act One and the continued rise in action to the resolution in Act Three— unless, of course, you choose not to use an Act Three.

Developing Narrative Strategies

There are various ways to tell a screen story, more than the conventions of screenwriting suggest. This message is the central theme of this book. In order to tell your story, you need to develop a narrative strategy that is best suited to your idea. First, you need to answer the following questions: Who is your main character? What is the premise of your story? What is the most exciting action line for this story? Does the action line best highlight your main character’s dilemma? Is your main character’s dilemma situational, or is it deeply rooted in her personality?

The choices you make when answering these questions are inherently dramatic choices. You, as a screenwriter, must make the best dramatic choice. Bear in mind that the choice that is most interesting is not necessarily the most obvious.

A central issue for all scriptwriters is the creation of a story that invites the viewer to identify with the main character or with that character’s situation. If your narrative strategy employs characters who don’t invite accessibility, you can’t guarantee that the viewer will stay with you for the length of your story.

What are the narrative strategies available to the writer? There are many, and you have options with every element in the screenplay, including character, language, atmosphere, action line, background story, and structure. In regard to the main character, for example, you can opt for an active main character, a more passive one, or a less likable one. Your choice depends on the type of character that best elicits the dramatic results for which you are looking. In regard to dialogue, you do not have to be limited by character function, and in terms of structure, you can vary or mix genres, challenge the convention of the three-act structure, or vary the foreground–background mix. In all cases, exploring alternative ways to develop your narrative strategy yields a fresher approach to your story and more open-ended characters.

The scriptwriter must be flexible to ensure that what he takes away from one area of the screenplay is compensated for elsewhere. If we don’t like your main character and the challenge is to create a situation in which we identify with that character (in spite of our reservations about the character), there are certain steps you must take to reach this goal. You may have to shift your approach to the other characters; your dialogue may have to be more emotionally charged and more intense, and you may need a more elaborate plot. Alfred Hitchcock, in his work with writers Ben Hecht and Raymond Chandler, exemplifies the ability to capture viewer empathy in spite of the use of less-than-admirable main characters. In Psycho, The Birds, and North by Northwest, it’s the situation—rather than the character—that brings us into the story. In Notorious and Strangers on a Train, the unsympathetic main characters are offset by extreme antagonists, people we like to hate.

A scriptwriter also has to be concerned with the issue of stimulation for the viewer. Audiences go to movies to enjoy themselves. Whether stimulation comes from a complex plot or witty dialogue, there is an element of charm and stimulation that is necessary in relating the screen story to the audience. What happens to this element when you begin to challenge screenwriting conventions? It begins to fade. Therefore, you have to include stimulation in some other form. Spike Lee challenges conventional structure in She’s Gotta Have It, but his additional charm comes from the dialogue. Whatever narrative strategy you use, audience identification and stimulation are critical factors in determining the success of your screenplay. If you select an alternative strategy, these factors will still have to be present.

Conclusion

In this chapter, we discussed conventions and counter-conventions to scriptwriting. Conventions are critical building blocks to tell your story. Counter-conventions can make that story fresh and more exciting. In order to use new strategies, however, you have to know the conventions of scriptwriting. Throughout this book, we highlight the creative opportunities that lie between these conventions and counter-conventions.

Reference

1.  George Seaton, Kalmer Bert, and Will B. Johnstone The Marx Brothers: Monkey Business, Duck Soup, and A Day at the Races (London: Faber and Faber, 1953).