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Book Reviews

Review: The Plot Machine: Design Better Stories Faster by Dale Kutzera

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Stumbling blocks are inevitable in any form of writing. Fiction writing carries some special challenges, and one of the most vicious monkeys on the screenwriter’s back is the formulation of a logical, well-structured plot. Plotting complications might arise in the prewriting/ planning phase, in the midst of cranking out the pages, or, worst of all, when you’ve completed a draft and realize your story thread has serious issues and needs some damage control. It’s a scary feeling to write a slew of scenes that are working for you, only to zoom out and realize you’ve lost your way along the narrative through line. Even the coolest beats are pointless if they’re just dangling in the ether, or drifting by on a winding, dead-end street.

These hiccups can take a variety of forms, affecting (or infecting) your script in a number of ways, and looking to one of the classic, standard, comprehensive screenwriting bibles may not always be the most straightforward or efficient troubleshooting route to take. Sometimes what you need is a specialized tool geared directly at what’s ailing your story. The best such tool I’ve encountered in a long time is The Plot Machine: Design Better Stories Faster by Dale Kutzera.

Did you catch that word “design” in the title? Well, Kutzera means exactly that. He comes right out and states, “this is a design guide, not a writing guide,” at one point analogizing story planning to architectural engineering and the final movie to a solidly constructed building.

Through his chosen method of taxonomy, or classification into ordered categories, Kutzera effectively deconstructs, simplifies, and distills the plotting process into a readily applicable workflow, or rather, one of several possible workflows depending on the type of story you’re going for. He neatly catalogs some of the most prevalent and successful types of endeavors, archetypal characters, brands of character arcs, possibilities for your death moment, and so on. This technique essentially is The Plot Machine, and it ticks like a Swiss watch.

Don’t let these cold pragmatic overtones (or the page count) fool you. The conciseness doesn’t render it light so much as dense. There’s a surprising degree of depth and thoughtfulness built into The Plot Machine. It begins by taking a step back to ponder the overall purpose of stories and storytelling and then bears this in mind as a referential guidepost throughout. This same principle is applied to each tier of the system. We’re prompted to consider the core functions of each plot element or to ask ourselves a few simple up-front questions about what we hope to accomplish in its development. This serves as an aid to our creative choices, a course-correcter to keep us on track, and a hedge against the problems that tend to come up later if we overlook these factors.

With the essential overarching intentions established, he funnels down to the nuts and bolts of the process. One of The Plot Machine‘s key features is its focus on prioritization. The objectives seem to be maximized economy and minimal need for revisions and rewrites in the end, as you will have built a solid foundation at each stage before moving onto the finer details and ornaments. So if you’re diving into a new script, The Plot Machine can offer a place to start shaping your plot (hint: it’s not on Act 1, Scene 1, Page 1), and a full unfolding of where to go from there in terms of what narrative components you have to work with, ways to structure them, and how the sequences you build can lay into the storyline. If you’re having trouble with a script that’s in the works, these same procedures can just as easily serve as a quick-reference problem-solving guide.

If all this sounds too rigid and formulaic, think again. The Plot Machine’s starting point is your own creative inspiration, as Kutzera prescribes beginning with what you have in mind for your movie idea, whether that’s a particular character, situation, genre, or whatever. He also points out the infinite avenues open to the plotting process due to the disparate demands of different types of stories, and the virtues of understanding the conventions so that we can turn them on their heads. Not every plotline needs a midpoint reversal, not every protagonist needs to refuse the call to action, and who’s to say the slayer can’t join forces with the dragon in Act 3?

The Plot Machine can be a boon to your writing regardless of where you are or how it’s going. Its only weakness, near as I can tell, is also one of its greatest strengths. As mentioned, it’s a design guide, so it doesn’t delve into the mechanics or fundamentals of screenwriting, telling you how to color within the formatting lines in your description (until it’s time not to) or how to keep the rhythm and cadence of your dialog in tandem with the tone of the piece. If you’re looking for those things, you should turn to one of the classics. You won’t find it in The Plot Machine. However, you will (quickly) come away from it with an enriched understanding of how to configure your story, why you’re writing it, and perhaps why you write at all.

Movie Reviews

Alita: Battle Angel Review: A Pretty Face WIth Some Robotic Parts

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(Spoiler-free)

As a fan of dystopian stories and Japanese Manga storytelling, I have to say I’m surprised this one managed to sneak up on me like it did. I saw it today, and to get the technicalities out of the way, I have no familiarity with the source material, neither the graphic novels nor the 90s anime. I saw it in 2D, though if 3D is something you’re into, this one probably looks great in that format.

Alita: Battle Angel is set a few hundred years in the future. After great technological and economic advancements allowed us to build great cities in the sky, a great war brought all but one of them crashing back to Earth. Now the elites populating the last floating city of Tiphares lord over the rest of the human race living on the surface, benefitting from their excruciating labor and dumping their garbage down on them. One day, Doctor Ido of Iron City, who specializes in both humans and cyborgs, salvages the head and torso (“core”) of a humanoid cyborg that resembles a teenage girl, whose brain is still alive. He revives and rebuilds her to find that she’s lost her memory, retaining only vague images of combat.

Ido effectively adopts the girl, naming her Alita, and we discover this new world alongside her. The residents and way of life on Tiphares, and its mind-controlling leader Nova, are the stuff of legend and rumor. The only way to get there is to dominate the intense violent game of Motorball. The sport is central to the public consciousness and even the politics of Iron City, which is currently being terrorized by criminals murdering people and dismantling cyborgs for parts as means of gaining an advantage in Motorball, and a ruthless class of bounty hunters enlisted to stop them. From there, Alita makes a lot of dramatic discoveries about the people around her and her own past as she tries to survive this rough new environment and protect those she’s grown to care about.

First of all, as is obvious from the trailer and any material you’ve seen on this one, it’s a visual extravaganza. It definitely delivers on spectacle. Everything looks great. This isn’t surprising considering the people involved. Speaking of which, it would’ve been intriguing to be a fly on the wall and observe the working dynamic between director/ writer Robert Rodriguez and writer/ producer James Cameron, one of whom is famous for making relatively cheap movies that look expensive, and the other for making the most expensive movies ever, leaving an indelible mark on visual storytelling. In light of the 200 million dollar budget, it seems they went more with Cameron’s method; but whatever combination of practical sets, old-fashioned matte paintings, and CGI was employed, it all came out pretty seamless and quite dazzling.

But beyond the look of Iron City, this film’s greatest virtue is in its world-building. From the beginning, this setting feels authentic. It displays not only an impressive sci-fi landscape but a society with numerous embedded cultures. Everything from the citizens’ attitudes and behaviors, to their looks and fashion, to their games and recreational activities, comes off as organic. The world is gritty, raw, and feels lived-in. It’s not merely a backdrop but is part and parcel to the mythology and adds great symmetry and depth to Alita’s universe.

Of course, great world-building will only get you so far. Even the most breath-taking story environment will fall completely flat if certain other narrative cylinders aren’t firing, namely the characters (as evidenced by Ridley Scott’s Prometheus series). Alita’s characters are overall pretty solid. Most everyone fulfills a pertinent dramatic function, making for a nice “family tree” of interconnected players, and they’re well-acted by the excellent cast. Christoph Waltz is great as always. Rosa Salazar gives an excellent performance that really comes through her animated face equipped with Disney Eyes. The latest motion capture technology is really amazing that way. The weakest of the main characters is Alita’s dubiously necessary love interest played by Keean Johnson, the poor man’s Joseph Gordon-Levitt, and I wouldn’t classify him as unbearable. The problem there is more with how he fits into the equation (more on this later). Jennifer Connely and Mahershala Ali do their jobs well in this, but there just isn’t much of a job for either of them to do, and here’s where we run into some trouble.

Alita’s plot falls victim to several of the standard hazards of an adaptation. The filmmakers (perhaps the studios) never seem to want to scale the source material’s story down to manageable proportions for a feature-length film. The M.O. seems to be, “throw in everything from the books that will fit and could possibly be appealing to someone, somewhere.” Mind you, these complications are handled better here than in most adaptations I’ve seen, but there are definitely some plot elements that are underdeveloped. Some of the most noticeable include moments of high drama that flare up spontaneously because it’s the right time for them to happen, extremely close relationships that form very quickly, intriguing interpersonal dynamics that are barely touched-on due to time constraints, and character motivations that change on a dime to accommodate the fast-moving plot. These issues never quite cross the line into absurdity, but it feels like a lot of wasted potential that could have been capitalized on by properly fleshing these things out in the next movie (or cutting them, I guess).

Last, and also least, there are numerous instances of my pet peeve offense: on-the-nose expository dialog. There is a lot to explain, in an unfamiliar setting, but for $200 million, it should be done with a little more style and smoothness than:

  • “It’s a harsh world. The strong prey on the weak down here.”
  • “You are someone very special, not just a teenage girl.”
  • Alita: “And I’m just an insignificant girl.” Hugo: “No, that’s what they want you to think.”
  • “I do not standby in the presence of evil.”

Honestly, the last one sounds like it was taken from the Japanese manga, run through Google Translator, and put right in the script.

So, that’s about it. Is Alita: Battle Angel worth seeing? Absolutely. Worth seeing at full price? Yep, and then some, because seeing it in 3D, multiscreen, supersound, 4DX with moving seats and pies to the face, or whatever can really make this a fun ride. Is it going change your life? Not likely, but it is what it is; a highly enjoyable world to visit for a few hours.

My Story Theories

The Not-So-Silent Treatment

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As anyone who read my post on loglines might guess, I’m in a phase of reevaluation and rediscovery of prewriting tools due to a new project. The latest object of experimentation is the treatment, or stylized synopsis of the script. The producer I’m working with asked first for a four-page, and then a 16-20-page treatment as a means of tweaking and developing the concept.

Much like the loglines, I’d previously thought of treatments as an annoying step that came in the marketing phase, to pare my script down to a document short enough to accommodate the time constraints and attention spans of producers or executives. I always found the process whittling the story down into an effective summary excruciating.

After learning that it’s commonly done prior to writing the script, I wasn’t much happier about that prospect. I’m a scene cards (index cards) guy. They’ve become my favorite tool for mapping out the significant plot points, so I can then adjust the structure until I’m able to kinda sorta watch the film in my head, and then dive into the screenplay itself. I didn’t see what could be gained by distilling and summarizing a plot that was still in development.

But, of course, I was wrong again…

The misconception that was really holding me back was viewing the treatment as a rote synopsis (recall that “effective summary” language used earlier). The utter stupidity of seeing it as simultaneously a promotional device, and an essay devoid of creative flair, where the story concept was laid bare to speak for itself, is unfathomable now. After some perspective damage control, I’ve discovered a whole new dimension of prewriting benefits, both artistic and mechanical.

There’s much more literary flexibility in the treatment than the script itself, due to the need to get to the point and economically convey the mood and tone. It’s permissible to spend some time in the characters’ heads, as well as the readers’. Of course, we still have to stay primarily visual and not hit them over the head with how they should feel at every turn, but there’s much more room for suggestion on these matters.

Throwing in some stylistic and provocative turns of phrase here and there; such as “She’s devastated to find out that…,” “He doesn’t quite buy that explanation, but he agrees,” or “And then they exchange a knowing smile. These two are working together!;” also hatches a graphical “emotion map,” an invaluable guide for the writer to reference and adjust along the way, which brings me to the more pragmatic aspects…

If the scene cards represent a blueprint of the story, then the treatment operates more like a miniature 3D model. It reflects not only the order and structure of the beats but also how they flow and blend together. Thus it goes beyond the mere framework of the story and gives a preview of how it will be told. This allows numerous plotting mishaps to be pinpointed and rectified in the treatment-writing process, and uniquely so, since they aren’t so easily spotted in outlining, scene cards, any other form of “beating out the story” that I’ve employed.

Its nature as a piece of prose rather than an itemized list of occurrences lends greater immediate visibility to how any change you make affects, not only that plot point but other narrative factors as well. Here are some issues it can help detect…

  • The overall timing of scenes, setup/ payoff pairs, obstacles, tense moments, reveals, and twists are awkwardly and/ or predictably paced.
  • Two significant events are butted against each other, but the logical cause-and-effect principles that would carry one to the next just aren’t there.
  • A character’s mood, actions, or motives change on a dime or seem inconsistent somehow
  • The characters are acting according to knowledge or motivations that they don’t have yet.
  • Scenes and sequences need to be added or cut to get to certain waypoints more smoothly and effectively.

This isn’t a magic bullet. Haven’t found one of those yet. Maybe a treatment is as useless to you as I once thought it was for me, but many of the issues above were caught and dealt with much sooner in the process this time around than on previous projects that had no treatment in the pipeline. Adding one on this go-around opened a new world to me. If you’re getting stuck in the development of your plot, maybe it can give you the same refreshed perspective! Give it a try and let us know how it works for you!

My Story Theories

Don’t Underestimate the Logline

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We’re all familiar with it, and many of us dread it. It’s that terribly brutal chore of condensing 100+ pages of story into a single sentence. It’s often invoked as a necessary component of the marketing package of your script once it’s complete and ready to be shopped around. However, the depth the logline’s purpose and utility go far beyond that. It’s a mistake to overlook it as a powerful prewriting tool, guide, and measuring stick for a developing idea.

According to John Truby, most scripts fail at the premise level, meaning that the foundational concept isn’t adequately fleshed out before the writer opens up Final Draft and gets going. Forming a logline isn’t the catchall remedy to this, but it can be the ideal starting point for troubleshooting. It’s a super quick, super efficient device to gauge whether your premise or situation has graduated to the level of a story; and to get you there if it hasn’t. 

The logline lets you know if the bare essentials are taken care of. In its most common and basic form, it represents the skeletal framework of 1) protagonist, 2) protagonist’s goal, 3) antagonist (or antagonizing force), 4) stakes (consequences if the goal isn’t achieved), and maybe 5) world of the story if it’s unique and/ or vital to the narrative.

Example – Logline for The Dark Knight: A masked vigilante hero must stop a sadistic domestic terrorist before his attacks destroy Gotham City.  Loglines can undoubtedly vary in form and structure, and will usually be modified later when the objective becomes marketing and promotion, but most of the time they’ll look something like this at the outset.

See all five of those pieces in there? If you can’t roll call these elements and articulate how they operate together in one concise sentence, then you probably have some fundamental story problems; and these are much easier to take care of at the prewriting stage than after you’ve written 25 pages and don’t know where to go from there.

This is coming from experience. I had an idea for an action thriller that I was so fond of, it seemed as if the entire story just played right out in my mind. So I just dove in head-first and started cranking out pages. Somewhere around the end of Act I, I hit a wall. Some glaring logic issues started creeping into my head that needed addressing before I could move on. A fellow writer, much more experienced than I, suggested taking it back to the logline to ferret out any missing pieces.

“Logline? Those awful one-sentence summary things they harped on in filmschool? Isn’t that for the pitch phase?” I’m not proud of my mentality or writing from those days. Anyway, I took his advice and the missing link came jumping off the page at me. 

I had a familiar but unique protagonist, with a clear goal, and his polar-opposite-in-every-way antagonist that had perfectly organic reasons to oppose him. The bloodbath finale between them was the image that made we want to write it in the first place.

BUT… 

Those logic problems came from one central notion: why wouldn’t he just walk away from the situation before said bloodbath ever ensued? There were no stakes. So many other building blocks were so clear, and so many of the plot points practically wrote themselves, that I’d developed a total blind spot when it came to the stakes. Who cares why he has to be in this situation? If he’s not, my awesome story can’t happen! That’s why! Well, I don’t think that’s going to cut it with a producer or manager.

This is where things really got interesting. It’s just stakes. No big deal, right? Just contrive some reason that explains his plight and traps him in it. I’ll have this script back up and running in no time; awesome story still intact. Not even close.

The narrative corner I’d painted myself into couldn’t have been a better arena in which to learn the indispensable nature of each of those logline components. It dawned on me real fast that they interconnect like the cells of a Rubik’s Cube. Change one, and you shift several others with it. The most precious ideas in the story were so dependent on certain choices by the protagonist, that the introduction of every type of stakes I brainstormed threw them off. 

I’d reached a storytelling impasse. My premise needed stakes, but the addition of stakes altered it into something I wasn’t so excited to write. So I shelved it, extracted some of my favorite aspects, and put them into a new script; one with a complete logline.

Is that idea dead forever? Of course not. No story issue is insurmountable, and it may just get another look someday. But the point is that looking to the logline allowed me to avoid digging deeper into a story that had already failed at the premise level and direct my time and effort toward something with a greater chance of success. So when you’re getting a newly-formed story concept off the ground, bypass this step at your peril.

What do you think? Do you agree that the logline is an important guide? Let us know!

Movie Reviews

Halloween 2018 Review: Murder by Exposition

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(Spoiler-free)

Alright, this review is admittedly late to the party, but there is a method to the madness. I’ll get to it shortly…

First of all, this is a solid sequel and worthy addition to the series. It takes a purist approach by following the groundwork laid in Carpenter’s 1978 genre-creating classic; it doesn’t set arbitrary values for itself like “higher body count” or “more exotic killings,” it doesn’t add extraneous and tangential plot detours to desperately contrive enough story for a new movie, and it doesn’t eat up copious screen time pursuing answers to questions that nobody asked.

All in all, the plot, cinematography, score, and acting effectively elevate the film to such levels that they compensate for some of its lesser qualities and make for an enjoyable watch that’s uniquely worthy of a trip to the theater.

Big deal, you say. That reads like all the other reviews for this movie. So now we come to the reason for this one. There’s a screenwriting elephant in the room that no one seems to be talking about, and I think deserves some attention. Many of the script choices in this movie are highly questionable, and some are just plain weird. Some subplots don’t go anywhere, some “twists” are merely plot contrivances to serve convenient ends, etc. but these are relatively negligible and even forgivable as they tend to fall below the line of suspension of disbelief. My beef with the writing lies elsewhere.

More brutal than the stabs to heart or claw hammers to the skull is the dialog that lands squarely on the nose. And I mean RIGHT on it. Let’s look at one brief exchange from the trailer…

When protagonist Laurie confesses that she hoped spree killer Michael Myers would escape from prison, and she’s asked why; her stunning reply is “so I can kill him.” Now, trailer dialog always entails the caveat that we’re hearing it out of context, so we’re left to think that maybe there’s more to this conversation and it’ll play out much better in its totality. But, no. Like virtually everything from Halloween’s trailers, what we see is what we get.

As a friendly reminder, I liked this movie and Jamie Lee Curtis’ performance in it, but there is no measure for the awfulness of this line. The dramatic punch that the circumstances suggest it’s supposed to have falls miserably flat due to its blatancy, total lack of nuance, and utter failure to do its job of delivering the emotion of the character with a certain eloquent poetry that would never be uttered by a gruff old vigilante speaking of shooting a slasher in the face, but is called for in the name of satisfying storytelling.

In the words of Christopher McQuarrie, “think of what you want to say, and then don’t say it.” Dialog is never just a filmmaker-to-audience conduit for story information. It should be an ornament that adds flavor and style to the film, while covertly imparting exposition under the viewer’s nose. There is no more exigent situation for heeding this advice than this moment from Halloween. Countless preferable responses could have elevated that moment into something like what it was intended to be. Let’s explore a few…

Laurie: Do you know that I prayed every night that he would escape?
Hawkins: What the hell did you do that for?
Laurie: So I can kill him. So I can finish what Dr. Loomis started.

Or

Laurie: Because what he needs can’t be done while he’s locked up.

Or

Laurie: Some animals shouldn’t be caged. They have to be put down.

Or

Laurie: The cops and shrinks don’t know how to deal with him. I do.

Or

Laurie: Because he doesn’t deserve to die of old age.

See? None of these are great. They’re the product of about three minutes of brainstorming, but I’ll stand by any one of them as superior to that black hole of subtlety that made it into the film.

After really harping on that one line, I hate to say that it’s not the least bit rare among this film’s dialog. Every spoken word either serves to explain the plot to us or intimate precisely what the character is thinking, leaving absolutely nothing for us to decipher for ourselves. Need further evidence?

Martin: We’re here to investigate a patient that killed three innocent teenagers on Halloween, 1978. He was shot by his own psychiatrist and taken into custody that night, and has spent the last forty years in captivity.

Laurie: I need to protect my family. You have no security system, Karen.
Karen: Mom, you need help!
Laurie: Evil is real.

Laurie: He is a killer. But he will be killed tonight.

It is certainly true that Loomis had some musing monologues in the original that were borderline clunky (and would have been laughable if not delivered by the likes of Donald Pleasance), but that can be at least partially chalked up to breaking in a new kind of character in a new subgenre; and it doesn’t nearly approach the awkwardness with which the speech in the latest installment comes across.

What’s troubling here is that so many other features of the movie are so good, and this one is so easily fixed with some quick and easy tweaking. Oh well, perhaps this will be addressed in the inevitable sequel(s).

What do you think? How did you find the dialog; and the movie in general? Let us know!

Inspiration

Predator (1987): Like Long Tall Sally… It’s Built Sweet

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This is one of the most accessible and enjoyable story structure breakdowns I’ve ever seen, and his nickname for Shane Black made me laugh out loud! Enjoy!

Movie Reviews

The Predator Review: They Were Shooting In All Directions… and Hit Nothing

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(Spoiler-free)

There’s no need to go over the amount of anticipation that comes with this one, or the fact that comparisons to the first one are unavoidable. Let’s just get into whether it delivers or not…

Like the original, it opens with a Predator ship entering Earth’s orbit and delivering a creature to the surface. But this time, instead of just a quick shot to set up the premise that we’re dealing with an alien, it’s a more convoluted space chase that ends up being a significant setup for a later reveal. In this intro sequence, we get a lot of stuff happening, information thrown at us that we should store for later, and nothing too engaging in any of it. I’m sorry to say, this is an apt microcosm of the entire movie.

We’re soon introduced to protagonist McKenna (Boyd Holbrook), an Army Ranger sniper who is mid-op with his team, when they get attacked by the recently arrived Predator and we’re given another rushed and crammed sequence in which they essentially try to do the first movie in about two minutes or less. McKenna’s team gets wiped out, which he lets us know he’s upset about in a few lines of dialog, but we didn’t get to know them at all, so who cares?

This necessitates McKenna being brought to a secret government lab full of scientists and mercenaries who have been studying the Predators for years, want to maintain their secrecy, and are wondering why the visits are rising in frequency. He is transferred there with a group of combat-hardened misfit military prisoners that will become his new team, and this is where the wisecracks really start flying, the action set pieces start popping off, and one of the greatest flaws of the movie becomes glaringly obvious….

It’s packed with misfires. The humor doesn’t land, the spectacle doesn’t excite, and the characters don’t draw us in. What’s worse is that it’s made blatantly obvious what we’re supposed to be feeling and when, particularly in a few moments that are intended to be especially dramatic, but it just isn’t happening. Like the acquaintance constantly uttering bad jokes and leaving pauses where you’re expected to laugh, but it just isn’t in you.

The 1987 masterpiece got us attached to seven characters effortlessly in a short helicopter ride, with almost no talking among them. Here we’re introduced by a quick exchange of quips and a bit of clunky exposition, which is usually the kind of setup given to expendable fodder, but in this case we’re actually expected to care what happens to them without any proper emotional foundation.

We have McKenna. He’s tough, and everything he does and says reminds you of that. His kid is part of the story (who admittedly manages not to not be too annoying). He’s a genius, and everything he does and says reminds you of that. Moonlight’s Trevante Rhodes is McKenna’s instant best buddy, who has his back, and everything he does and says reminds you of that. Thomas Jane (is wasted) as the crazy guy, and everything he does and says reminds you of that. See a pattern emerging here?

So then we’re onto the main conflict, which involves a Super Predator, because the regular one isn’t formidable enough, more one-liners, explosions, some disturbingly odd-looking CGI, awkward shots (the flat-angle medium shot used to introduce Olivia Munn, the hot, tough lady scientist, is laugh-out-loud-worthy), a lot of plot-convenient occurrences, choices and actions without clear motivations (from humans and extraterrestrials alike), and it all goes by at such breakneck speed that is easily outpaces the audience’s interest.

In the end, we’re left with a wholly unsatisfying mess of a movie, and they also hit us over the head with an asinine politically-charged theme to add insult to injury. However, a few witty digs inspire some chuckles (especially from Keegan-Michael Key), and some actions scenes rise to the level of “that was kinda cool, I guess,” but that’s about as good as it gets here. It’s not a pleasant things to report, but my bleak predictions from the trailer came true, and then some. This does more (or less) than not live up to the hype. It’s likely to disappoint committed fans and newcomers alike.

Screenwriting Issue of the Day

Writer’s Bliss: The Creative Breakthrough

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Rewriting is, by and large, problem-solving. We clip the stuff that isn’t necessary, add the things that are missing, rearrange and refashion the ideas that aren’t being expressed with maximum clarity and effectiveness, and generally engineer a narrative that will hopefully instill in the reader/ audience the same roused fervor that incited us to write it in the first place.

This means a lot of whittling and fiddling. We spend hours contemplating solutions to ideas that aren’t working and sentiments that aren’t coming through. We list the alternatives, draw out mind maps, watch or read the greats, stare at the wall, etc. Maybe we get flustered and step away to reorganize the DVD collection, clean the bathroom, or think about starting another script. It’s a fight to push through all this resistance and commit to the trial and error of making those needed alterations and get the story going in a more cohesive and engaging direction.

I think the best of us revel in this process, regardless of the individual’s workflow. As exhausting as it is, the wherewithal to inflict this mental, emotional, and intellectual self-torture on a regular basis separates those who could have a career and those who become a statistic.

BUT…

There are also those moments that come along and remind us why we do it, and why we fancy this more than anything else. Those precious nuggets that make the process – not only not miserable – but a great pleasure in itself. The pinnacle of these is the creative breakthrough.

This is a different animal from the typical hard-won story fix that materializes from the aforementioned grind. These are those ideas that spring forth, maybe as a result of some serious brainstorming, perhaps after spending some much-needed time away from the piece, or most intriguing of all, without warning while we’re focused on something else. And they have some amazing attributes that truly set them apart…

They’re simple: So many story logic issues, overwritten tangents, flat sequences, disagreements between character or plot actions, etc. necessitate a bunch of explanatory fluff as a vain attempt to square those circles. When a breakthrough hits, it irons things out, streamlines the operation, obliterates the anomalies (and the fluff right along with them), leaving action and dialog that are more intuitive, coherent, visual, and concise, which brings me to my next point…

They’re economical: Early drafts (mine, anyway) carry a compulsion to explain every last feeling, motivation, gesture, and tick to combat the bugbear of “they won’t get it.” What’s left is a 145-page eulogy to the human imagination. But after one of these amazing boosts of inspiration, we’re left with a more intriguing sequence, with more for the reader to decipher, at a lower page count. It’s a fantastic moment for a fledgling writer when the true meaning of “say more with less” really hits home.

And coolest of all…

They fix other issues: This is the magic ingredient that let’s us know we’re really onto something. We get one idea out of the crapper and it touches on other story elements that were either missing or not doing their job, and sets off a chain reaction of plot repair.

I’ll use this example of a recent breakthrough I’ve had to illustrate my point:

Problem: I have a character in my script, a friend of a friend to the protagonist, who is a doctor, and ultimately ends up giving our hero the help he needs to fight his ailment, complete his arc, and achieve his goal. Since this doctor is a relatively small (but important) supporting character, she seemed to just show up when needed, do exactly what was required to progress the narrative, then disappear, rinse and repeat. So she wasn’t a character at all, but a flimsy plot device. I had developed her relationship with the hero’s friend, but the dynamic between her and the hero was an afterthought, and it showed. In trying to round her character out, I had fabricated a bunch of plot interruptions where he had to visit her for help, and attempted to justify it with convoluted discussions and circumstances.

Breakthrough: Turn her against the protagonist. Make her hate him and resist helping him at every turn.

Once I made this change, it did so much to straighten out my story. Now this character wouldn’t piss on him if he were on fire. Their interactions have become terse, conflict-laden, and they keep things moving, because they come up much more organically as the consequences of various accidents and calamities that befall the main character, and neither of them is happy about it. These new hardships and obstacles subject him to a great deal more suffering through the middle of the movie, creating a much more interesting series of events.

Without my initially realizing it, this also filled in an element that was missing before. The main conflict of the piece arises from a mistake made by the protagonist, stemming from his main flaw. While a sense of guilt slowly builds in him throughout, there was no one to hold up a mirror to him, force him to take a hard look at himself, put him at a dramatic low, and make him realize he needs to change. But now there is. This character now dovetails so nicely into this task, it seems as if I’d planned it for her from the beginning.

Oh, and as a casual aside, she now feels like a real person that has a rightful purpose in the film. Her contentiousness toward the hero, contrasted with her protective affection for the friend, adds a realistic complexity to her that makes her someone the audience would (hopefully) like to get to know. It also allowed for a much-needed arc for their relationship, in that (you may have guessed) he manages to earn her respect and a certain amicable understanding develops between them. This, of course, also added another layer to him.

This kind of beneficial butterfly effect from one snap flash of inspiration can’t be expected to happen all the time. Perhaps even the opportunities for them recede over time as greater experience precludes one from leaving such gaping chasms in the story that require this type of drastic solution. Whatever the case, these occasions bring a true thrill to someone in the early stages of exploring their creativity.

How about you? Has something like this happened to you? What have been the biggest leaps, bounds, and setbacks in your process? Let us know below!

Screenwriting Issue of the Day

Don’t Cross the Themes!

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There’s no point in writing if you have nothing to say. (It sounds self-evident, but a quick glance around at what’s being produced these days reveals that this mantra doesn’t stop a lot of aimless schlock from slipping through the cracks. Anyway, pre-success bitterness aside, let’s get into this…)

It’s all about the theme. What do you, as a writer, have to say to the rest of us about what we’re doing wrong (or right, but usually wrong)? Perhaps focusing on this aspect of the craft, rather than “ya know what would make a really cool movie?!…”is the mark of a mature writer. Maybe the ideal balance is “I believe I have a new take on this or that idea, and ya know what would be a really cool way to state it?!…”

There’s a lot of debate about where theme should rightfully come from. Is it the proper starting point of the whole process, or is it more creatively organic to just start vomiting narrative chunks and let the theme naturally unfold and present itself when everyone, especially the writer, least expects it? We all know the correct answer here, right? Who cares? The all-time greats are all over the map on this one, so there could never be a definitive key to how and why the theme(s) should emerge. I think the usefulness of this debate lies in the mind of the individual writer, as an introspective exercise.

But how about this…

As I’m rewriting and contemplating what comes out, I’m coming across numerous threads that point to multiple themes, on varying levels of complexity and consequentialism. This is bound to happen to some degree, but if I remain a little hazy as to whether my story is about my protagonist’s need to grow up and become self-reliant, the obligation we all have to fight an evil despotic force rather than wallow in apathy, or the idea that risking one’s life for someone they love is not a sacrifice at all, then is this an indicator of a confused and convoluted story in desperate need of being pared down?

Countless classic stories have multiple intertwined themes, but is it more than a new writer can chew? Is the thematic volume greater than the scope of my script? Is the effectiveness of one of my underlying statements undermined by interference from the others?

If all the themes are to stay in, how are they to be managed? I have some semi-educated guesses about this one:

  • There’s seems to be a natural hierarchy that’s conducive to their harmonious execution, with one over-arching theme that the others should serve in some way, or at least be subordinate to.
  • Multiple themes seem to work better when distributed over the story, residing within the choices and actions of different characters in separate story threads.
  • It feels ill-conceived to have a theme pop up once, never to be seen or heard from again. Each one should be interlaced through a substantial segment of the plot.
  • And what seems most important is that they compliment each other philosophically, so I shouldn’t cram “no man is an island” in the same yarn as “you can only rely on yourself,” even though they could each work quite well on their own.

Those were easy enough to write, but I’m still working on developing the sense to know if I’m following them. Also still struggling with this question: Is it possible to have “too much theme” and become preachy?

So what do you think? How do you manage the themes in your writing, and how many is too many? Let us know below!

My Story Theories

Halloween and Predator 2018: The Revisionist Sequel

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In an era totally inundated with recycled cinema, it’s rare to see something new. Everything is a remake, reboot, adaptation, prequel, spinoff, or sequel. There are some exceptions to be sure, but if you’re looking at the box office headliners, pre-existing property is king.

This creates a host of problems for writers, I would imagine. Introducing a wholly original concept must be like pushing a freight train up a ski slope, getting a job on board one of the established franchises must come packaged with a laundry list of “world rules” that must be obeyed, and the more time-honored and entrenched the mythology is, the harder it must get to color within those lines.

But, with the new installments of both the Halloween and Predator series arriving this year, we have a type of specimen. These are sequels (not soft reboots, hard reboots, or re-imaginings) that effectively cancel out all other sequels in the series and pick up after part one, rerouting the mythological trajectory from that point.

Now we could think of this one of two ways – the cynical tack would be to call it just another excuse to churn out more sequels hoping to recover lost fans after some lackluster installments; or we could be a bit more optimistic and view it as an opportunity to repair a broken and derailed franchise, possibly recapturing some of the magic that made it a successful idea in the first place.

Let’s see what we can put together about these two approaches from the trailers:

Well, this looks awesome to me. Halloween (1978) is credited by many as the original slasher film, establishing a template that would be duplicated for decades to come. The strengths of this film include the dark and mysterious nature of stoic killing machine Michael Myers, the pure heroism of his vigilante psychiatrist Dr. Loomis, and the gritty, suspenseful unfolding of this simple (that theme of simplicity is going to creep up again and again in this post) narrative to an open, yet satisfying, climax.

The rest of the series has had its ups and downs, mostly following the law of diminishing returns, and has never reached the storytelling heights of the first.

If this trailer is any indication, the new movie looks to be a return to form, with some tasteful new elements added. The story seems fairly straightforward. Michael escapes captivity again, after his killer instincts have been jogged by memories of his Halloween massacre forty years ago, and he returns to his hometown to repeat it. Jamie Lee Curtis is back as Laurie, “the one who got away,” and he’s not going to find her the screaming teenager he remembers, but a woman who has prepared and armed herself to the teeth in anticipation of his return. She looks to be hunting him, suggesting that she’ll take over where the late Dr. Loomis left off, as the hero of the piece.

But what’s also interesting is what we don’t see. There don’t seem to be any plot detours to answer questions that nobody asked. Is Michael possessed by the devil? Is he a surrogate under the trance of an evil cult? Is it just an advanced form of psychopathy? It appears, and I hope I’m right, that the filmmakers have given the proper answer to these questions, which is: who cares? Discovering the source and impulse behind Michael’s homicidal drive could only serve to disappoint and suck the unease and mystery out of his actions. Inquiries like this solely serve to complicate the plot, flooding it with mind-numbing exposition, taking the story in directions we don’t want to see it go, and twisting the dramatic question away from what it should be: how do we stop him?

Writers David Gordon Green and Danny McBride(!) have expressed their intentions to get back to the simple charm that made the original an enduring classic, and the first trailer gives us no reason to doubt their word.

Now, on to some not-so-good news…

What in the world is going on here? Remember that magic word I used earlier, simplicity? Yeah, not seeing any of that in this one.

Predator (1987) is a masterclass in the seamless, complimentary fusion of genres. Very few “monsters vs. soldiers” movies manage to come off as anything above the level of farce, but Predator is a cinematic high water mark in numerous ways. The characters are extremely well developed in record time, have fantastic chemistry, and manage to get us on their side despite being tongue-in-cheek and borderline cartoonish. The plotting and structure are top-notch, dialing up the tension and suspense while keeping the creature hidden and mysterious until the end of Act Two, just before the ultimate showdown to decide who is the hunter and who is the prey.

So how about where it went from there? Predator 2 (1990), while an unjustly underrated sequel, drifts a little too far into camp and away from the suspense and subtlety of the first one. Predators (2010) pays a great deal of respect to the original, referencing it nearly every minute, and it has some solid acting and characterization, but it introduces some unnecessary complications to the hunter versus prey survival dynamic, like bizarre blood feuds between multiple Predator species and odd spontaneous alliances between Predators and people. The Alien vs. Predator crossovers are abysmal wastes of great subject matter potential. So, just as with Halloween, there were some highs and lows, but the tone and feel of what made the original so great have never returned.

I’m not so optimistic here because, unlike Halloween, the latest Predator entry doesn’t show any intention to get back to its proven roots. In the total span of two and a half minutes of trailer, we have…

– A kid in the suburbs playing with Predator tech (remote-controlling the ship? surely not). Exactly what I want to see in a Predator movie. The only thing better than suburban kids, is suburban kids that significantly affect the plot by accident. Sci-Fi action monster movies without kiddie shenanigans in them are so boring!

– Interrogations and implied coverups/shadiness by government agents. If this goes on for any longer than one scene, just to get the plot going, it’s going to get old real quick. But I guess a story without stuffy guys in suits saying cryptic things to each other behind a one-way mirror would be so boring!

– Scientists talking about hybridization/Multiple Predator Species again, now including a giant/Upgraded Predator tech Sigh. Why do we need these things? The initial Predator was big, strong, armored, nearly invisible much of the time, and had weapons technology unheard-of on Earth back in 1987. All this new stuff seems to be there in order to pave the way for some flashy, lifeless action set pieces, interlaced with hyper-technical exposition, which is always a lot of fun. Maybe we’ll get really lucky and all this will necessitate some convoluted way that they have to be killed. Because, you know, being resourceful and outsmarting them, as the culmination of an engaging character/story arc would be so boring!

I understand that a sequel necessarily entails expanding the universe to some extent, but it becomes apparent very quickly whether the priority was what would serve the story or what would “look cool.” And I see a lot of “cool” stuff going on here.

Now nothing would make me happier than to have to eat these words later this year, because this movie turned out to be awesome. I love the original Predator, I’m a fan of Shane Black, and I’m totally on board with doing a revisionist sequel to it. But I gotta call it like a I see it. I just hope the full movie is greater than the sum of these trailers’ parts.

Well, there you go. Two noteworthy upcoming revisionist sequels. There’s also one in the works for the Terminator world! What others have you heard about? Were there earlier ones that I missed? What do you think of revisionist sequels? Let us know below!