Well it’s all winding down now. I’m rewriting the final push of the film. The ultimate showdown that represents the two opposing ideologies that round out the theme is about to take place. While it is great to be at this point, and this sequence is really what the whole thing is about, it seems that the freight train I’m pushing up the hill has hit a patch of quicksand (That’s right. Uphill quicksand. The difficulty is so extreme, only that dysfunctional metaphor will do!), so there’s not much sense of relief.

We’ve all seen a hundreds of movies that start strong, develop into an engaging premise, and then take a nosedive in the third act, usually either petering out, going off the rails, or seriously flying in the face of audience expectations, and not in a good way. The result? The fun, the audience, and the whole objective behind making the film in the first place, are lost. How does this happen, and how do we keep it from happening?

From the outside, looking in, it might not be that obvious why so many film endings suck and drag all of these otherwise decent stories down the crapper. But the truth is that getting some  compelling narrative threads rolling is one skill set, and resolving them in a fitting and satisfying way is quite another.

He can’t just kill the bad guy, get the girl, and save the family floral shop from foreclosure, even if those are the ends the movie has been driving at the whole time. We’re all too sophisticated (read jaded) to buy that. There has to be some kind of wrench thrown into the gears to subvert such a clean and linear conclusion, and that thing has to fold seamlessly into plot, and serve the story. Too easy, right?

A lot of screenwriting instruction paradigms embody this principal in a structural element call the “third act twist,” in which we think the ending is all sewn up, and usually in a happy way, then things suddenly and hugely shift back to crisis mode, testing the protagonist one last time to decisively settle the issue. This is a sound mechanism, and one can certainly point to many classic examples of it that worked beautifully, but I’m not convinced that it’s the magic bullet that hits the mark every time.

Translation: I can’t figure out how to make a third act twist work in my script.

There’s also talk among some gurus about having your protagonist “win by losing” or “lose by winning,” as the corollary of the want/ need dichotomy that’s plagued him/ her throughout the film. Here our hero realizes what’s really important (the need), and so gives up or sacrifices his or her prior object of pursuit (the want). Again, there’s plenty of merit to this idea, but I’m just not sure if it properly meshes with the needs of my story.

Translation: I can’t figure out a felicitous way to have my protagonist win by losing or lose by winning.

So, as I sally forth to “The End,” my focus is going to be on keeping these aforementioned principals in mind; one, both, some combination, or something similar, and brainstorming what my movie really needs for its ending. My hope is that it will spontaneously “tell me” how I should go about it. Stranger things have happened.

What do you think? What other ideas have you heard about how to do endings? Let me know below!

These days, the studios are dishing out generous helpings of pure garbage. It’s one after another of CGI-laden circuses filled with human tools that don’t feel like people and exist only to deliver the next boring, unengaging spectacle.

So, the remedy? Indie art pieces about starving buskers pontificating about how the government should fund their trash sculptures so they can afford to open that soup kitchen for one-eyed orphans with the Gout?

No, I say! And I’m not the only one. A movie can have rich characterization, a solid story, AND be entertaining (why this still needs to be said out loud is as troubling an idea as that recent Jem and the Holograms movie). The greatest movie classics are the films that deliver the goods: visually, dramatically, and entertainment-wise. A lot of the true classics are movies that have it all!

So, the problem?

As I try to elevate every aspect of my screenplay, I find that its tentacles are expanding too far in all directions. By trying to make the dialog  snappy, witty, and humorous, and the character relationships as rich and relatable as they can be, and execute a moving character arc; am I encroaching on the dark action-thriller tones that I’m ultimately going for, and rendering the whole thing tonally uneven?

Does the true meaning of friendship need to be explored, in a subplot, in a hitman movie? Should exposing the very core of the being of a supporting character take up a few pages? Does this movie’s audience want to see my take on self-help?

How important are all of these components, next to feeding the genre monster? And it seems like a fine line between evening out the story’s tone and dumbing it down to make it “more commercial.” Maybe (hopefully) this is an instinct that develops with experience?

So, in the meantime, this seems to be something that can be ironed out in the peer feedback stage. So, I suppose once I make these calls using my best (if currently undeveloped) judgement, notes from people I trust will tell me if I’ve crossed the line between “properly developed” to “all over the place.”

So that’s where I’m at. What’s your take on this one? Let me know below!

They say that, with some notable exceptions, at the heart of every great character is one central, debilitating flaw, that will either be fixed, improved, or tragically unchanged and maybe reinforced in the course of the story. This process should organically bring about an outer goal and an inner goal, both of which will interact in some way with the character’s primary flaw, and out will sprout a compelling narrative.  Or… something like that.

So, what if I started with preconceived ideas for character actions? Can I retroactively embed a flaw that grounds character to plot? Well, I’m sure the answer is “yes,” but it’s proving difficult.

As I trudge through my rewrite, I’m seeing disconcerting signs of a lack of focus. This thing that the character does (and I’m not sure how to effectively change or omit) seems to be based on his rashness when provoked. This other thing (that I also don’t know how  to effectively change or omit) could be explained by his unrealistic idealism. So I suppose my question is: is there room for both, or should I whittle him down to only one overarching flaw?

In life, we all have multiple flaws that complicate things. But in a screenplay, with one main character throughline, I wonder if having two or more governing flaws will result in neither being fully developed and dealt with in a way that will garner the audience’s interest in taking the journey with him.

At this point, I’m thinking I should try to meld his actions thematically and corral them under the umbrella of one cohesive flaw, that’s general enough to manifest itself in several different ways.

Let’s see how this’ll work… (This is just off the top of my head.)

If his flaw is chronic aloofness, taking nothing seriously, then that could make him rash, indecisive, irritable toward criticism, unable to maintain a job or relationship, and incapable of realizing the seriousness of a situation or its consequences until it’s too late.

This seems like a solid way to go about it, with a hierarchical structure of flaws; where a bigger, more general one splinters and becomes smaller ones that surface in the character’s actions. So maybe the real mistake is having multiple broad and general flaws that interfere, or outright conflict, with each other. So at this point I should brainstorm just what the granddaddy flaw is that drives the others.

Time to push on, with this newly-processed nugget in mind. So what do you think? Give us your thoughts on character flaws below!

Moving past the first draft and into the rewriting stage is great, for the most part. But, as with most things in life, the prize has its price.

When I was just trying to get to THE END, relentlessly banging out scenes to bridge the landmarks in my beat sheet, at least I had an objective, concrete measure of each session’s progress: the shear number of words typed. Some days were better than others, but I always knew where I stood.

But the rewrite is a different story…

Much of my time these days is spent staring at a scene and brainstorming how to fix it. How can it be more dramatic, gripping, moving, fitting to the plot, logical, and eloquent? And how can it peal another layer off this character?

This kind of process is very hard on the psyche. It’s difficult to feel productive when I’ve just spent three hours thinking (along with YouTubing, checking in on social media, texting, etc.), decided I was still clueless on how to repair the scene, then just packed it in for the day.

I’m attempting to create some good habits in these circumstances. I’ve started typing out exactly what the problems are with each faulty scene, expressing what the purpose of the scene is, and then making a mini-outline of its most vital beats. This has been a good way to at least be doing something, and it gives a good road map for the broad strokes, but I’m afraid it’s not the be-all answer. The devil is in the details; those little story bits that continue to elude me. What should they say to each other here? She she slap him or kiss him? Should he draw a pistol, or just give a really mean glare?

I’m still at a loss for how to maintain a consistent, satisfying level of output. Some sessions (yesterday, for example) go great. The inspiration flows like wine, and I manage to significantly elevate a scene. The process is invigorating and has a snowball effect on my motivation to keep writing. I suppose my focus ought to be on discovering the source of this exaltation and harnessing it; making it reproducible on command. But, I’m sure if such a thing were possible, some writer, somewhere, would’ve done it by now, and would be selling it in bottles. But it’s still a worthy target, I think, as long as it doesn’t take away from actual writing time.

So, what do you think? What habits and practices can you recommend to make some headway every time? Let me know below!

Why not just go to the cops? Why wouldn’t you just break up with that psycho? Why doesn’t she simply quit that terrible job? Why does the CIA and the whole US government care so much about this one putz? Why would the gangsters stash their hostage in the abandoned warehouse on the other side of town?

Why? Why? Why? It’s that dreaded question that, I imagine, haunts the  dreams – as well as the waking hours – of every screenwriter. It’s the leper’s bell of a story logic problem. It means you’ve faltered in your duty to deliver the beats with coherence and rational consistency, the audience’s or reader’s hackles are now up, the suspension of disbelief is broken, and the integrity of your whole creative masterwork is in jeopardy.

This issue is eating me alive as we speak. As I work through my rewrite, it seems that in my pursuit of cool, dramatic, unique storytelling, my plot has become polluted with logic gaps.  When I apply the “why” question to these scenes, it hollows out the narrative and eats away at my will to live.

I know what you’re thinking. Practically every movie ever made has some story logic issues, if you comb through it in the mode of predatory fanboy instead of transfixed-unconditional-loyalist fanboy; even the greatest masterpieces of cinema. Therefore, who cares? We didn’t notice them because the stories were so well told otherwise. So, all I have to do is match the greatest screenwriters ever to  step up to the plate? Oh, who knew it was so easy?!

Okay, so what’s to be done? Can a story be dramatically effective and make perfect sense, or does the quest for total believability reduce the narrative to a clinical, overly-realistic, boring, anti-climactic exercise in futility?

Well, now I’m just being silly.

Certainly, moving the audience is Priority 1. Without that, I might as well hang it up, right? I’m thinking there’s a balance, a sweet spot, a nexus, between emotion and logic that will get me to where I want to be, with a story that’s emotionally gripping, with a logic web that’s impermeable, except maybe by the most sinister and bloodthirsty fanboy.

For now, my new plan of action is to first hone the dramatic arc into what I want it to be, and then tweak the story logic, with a little research and good old-fashioned brainstorming (“What would your slightly-above-average-Joe do in this situation?”). Maybe by maximizing the “wow” moments, then dialing them back a bit to reality, that balance can be achieved.

I’ll keep you posted on how it goes.

How about you? How do you (or would you) handle logical issues that come up in your writing? Let me know below!

Here’s my situation…

Guy #1 wants information from Guy #2, who is hesitant to give up the goods. Guy #1 gets aggressive, roughs up Guy #2, threatens to get really nasty, and gets what he wants.

…by the way, all of this takes place in a shady dive bar full of lowlives.

See any problems? Neither do I. Let’s go with it. Now, where’s my million dollars?

[Crickets]

See what I’m getting at here? I’ve got a wealth of integral story beats that I’m floundering to find an interesting, cliche-free way to illustrate.

The pivotal sequences are easy (well, not easy, but, you know what I mean). These are the inspired bits that I can see clear as day in my head. These were conceived in the very beginning, and they’re the collective reason I’m writing this script. They have something truly different and fresh to offer, and they’ll be the highlights of the piece. But, what about everything else?

We all know there’s no point in even firing up the word processor if you don’t have anything to say. Maybe if I have something truly personal and sincere to say with every scene, the quality can match those special aforementioned few. But is this possible? Can the “girl trying to seduce the guy before the pizza arrives” scene really be as deeply meaningful as the “girl realizes what she’s made of and destroys her abusive stepfather’s whole empire” scene? I’m not sure… gotta stew on this one for a while longer.

But for now…

Avoiding cliches is an easy thing to talk about about. Spotting and thrashing them in someone else’s work is child’s play. However, I’m finding that keeping them out of my own back yard is another story.

So, I’m currently at a read-through point (yippee!) and experimenting with ways to join points A and B in each scene by some method other than a straight line.

Once again, easy to talk about, tough to implement. It seems to have a lot to do with really putting the screws to my hero whenever possible, and doing everything I can to subvert expectation. In short, I’m trying to enact Murphy’s Law at every possible turn.

Maybe Guy #1 enters a shady dog kennel (the legitimate front of a multi-million-dollar drug trade), prepared to rough up Guy #2 for the info, then BANG! BANG! Guy #3 shows up and shoots them both, wounding #1 and killing #2 before he can talk.

Hmmm… An egregious, shopworn trope replaced by a slightly-less-egregious, shopworn trope. But, maybe we’re moving in the right direction.

What do you think? What techniques have you found useful to make every beat stand out and engage the reader? Let me know below!