Although I've never found Robert McKee's story structuring method to be particularly helpful, lately I have been reading some of his interviews, and the man does seem to have some brilliant insights.
Check out his thoughts from this interview on creating a memorable movie ending:
"The most satisfying, and therefore talked about, Story Climaxes tend to be those in which the writer has saved one last rush of insight that sends the audience's mind back through the entire story. In a sudden flash of insight the audience realizes a profound truth that was buried under the surface of character, world and event. The whole reality of the story is instantly reconfigured. This insight not only brings a flood of new understanding, but with that, a deeply satisfying emotion. As a recent example: the superb Climax of Gran Torino."
A few more examples of films that do this exceptionally well:
Unforgiven: The protagonist with whom we most identify, turns out (when provoked) to have the ruthless, merciless heart of a monster.
Schindler's List: The protagonist, though he is an amoral, philandering profiteer, turns out to have a brave and profoundly compassionate side which aids in the saving of thousands.
The Godfather: The protagonist, by losing his humanity, ends up becoming the exact thing he swore he would never be--a ruthless murderer and power-monger; the very image of his father.
The Empire Strikes Back: The hero attempts to take revenge on the main villain for the murder of his father, but discovers instead that the villain is his father.
It's a Wonderful Life: George Bailey, depressed and suicidal over an apparently unfulfilled life, is shocked to discover that he really is, in a sense, "the wealthiest man in town."
The Wizard of Oz: Dorothy, whose quest throughout the entire story is to find a way home, realizes that she has had the power to go home all along.
The Neverending Story: The child Bastian discovers that he is the very creator of the world he has read about, dreamed about, and longed for.
The Terminator: The time-traveling hero not only saves the mother of the future savior of humanity, but is revealed to be his father as well.
The Matrix: Neo becomes enlightened, is revealed to be the new messiah, and finally sees the world of the Matrix as it really is.
Blade Runner: The ruthless, inhuman villain is revealed to possess a compassionate heart after all--more compassionate, in fact, than the hero, whom he saves in a profound, surprising, and dramatic moment.
Stay tuned during the next few days for some posts on story structuring.
Sometimes exposition is simply unavoidable. And, depending on the particular film and dramatic structure, it is sometimes necessary to deliver that exposition in a single scene or sequence. Unfortunately, if done artlessly, this can be a sure way to bore the audience to tears.
In The Terminator, writer-director James Cameron solves this problem brilliantly. After the Terminator's first attack on Sarah Connor, and her subsequent rescue by Kyle Reese, the latter is saddled with the burden of explaining to Sarah the highly elaborate back story of the film. Instead of reserving this dialog for a quiet, intimate scene, Cameron intersperses it with constant action. The entire exposition is effectively delivered over a riveting car chase sequence, giving the audience no time to get bored.
Watch the clip, and read the corresponding excerpt from Cameron's script:
116 INT. GREY SEDAN - NIGHT 116
Sarah is slumped way down in the seat, turned away from the window, trying not to see the landscape reeling outside.
SARAH (hoarse whisper) This is a mistake. I haven't done anything.
REESE No. But you will. It's very important that you live.
Sarah closes her eyes, as if to shut it all out.
SARAH I can't believe this is happen- ing. How could than man get up after you...
Reese's tone is equal parts hatred and respect as he replies.
REESE Not a man. A Terminator. Cyber Dynamics Model 101.
CUT TO:
117 INT. SQUAD CAR - NIGHT 117
Terminator drives expressionlessly, monitoring the babble from Central Dispatch. He hears his number.
DISPATCHER (V.O.) (filtered) ...Suspect vehicle sighted on Motor at Pico, southbound. Units Two-Zero-Six and Five- Seven, attempt intercept. Unit One-Four-Three, come in.
Terminator picks up the mike. He speaks in a simulation of the young cop's southern twang.
TERMINATOR This is One-Four-Three. West- bound on Olympic, approaching Overland.
CUT TO:
118 EXT. SANTA MONICA FREEWAY - NIGHT 118
The grey sedan moves through traffic like a hell-bent wraith. Reese has the hammer down. He handles the car with nerves of steel.
CUT TO:
119 EXT. POLICE HELICOPTER - NIGHT 119
Below, Reese's sedan snakes along at 110 plus. The chopper, F.G., drops toward it.
PILOT (V.O.) (filtered) Air-unit Two. We're on him. Westbound Santa Monica at 405.
CUT TO:
120 INT. GREY SEDAN - NIGHT 120
SARAH A machine? You mean, like a robot?
REESE Not a robot. Cyborg. Cybernetic Organism.
They have to yell over the roar of air through the broken windshield.
SARAH But...he was bleeding.
At that moment a blinding light sears down on them from above. Reese looks over his left shoulder and sees a CHP cruiser coming alongside.
REESE Just a second. Keep your head down.
CUT TO:
121 EXT. FREEWAY - NIGHT 121
The helicopter is right above the, its spotlight burning on Reese. The cruiser flanks them, closing. Reese peels off to the right, inches in front of a tractor-trailer rig, brakes hard and slides into a four-wheel drift through a curving off-ramp.
The helicopter banks, following.
The cruiser swaps ends trying to maneuver and slams broad- side into the guardrail. Out of action.
CUT TO:
122 EXT. OFF RAMP/INTERSECTION - NIGHT 122
The sedan roars across the street without slowing and vanishes down a tree-lined side street.
CUT TO:
123 EXT. POLICE HELICOPTER - NIGHT 123
DOWN ANGLE - AERIAL past the chopper, F.G., as its searchlight sweeps over the close-knit treetops.
CUT TO:
124 EXT. SIDE STREET/INTERSECTION - NIGHT 124
The sedan skids around a corner, F.G., as the searchlight filters in shafts through the trees further down the street, sweeping futility back and forth.
CUT TO:
125 EXT. POLICE HELICOPTER - NIGHT 125
It hovers indecisively, then banks off.
PILOT (V.O.) (filtered) Lost him.
CUT TO:
126 INT. GREY SEDAN - NIGHT 126
Reese is ultra-alert, craning to look up, back, forward.
REESE Good cover. (pause) Alright. Listen. The Terminator's an infil- tration unit. Part man, part machine. Underneath, it's a hyperalloy combat chassis, mircoprocessor-controlled, fully armored. Very tough...
He pauses as they slide around another corner.
CUT TO:
127 EXT. STREET - NIGHT 127
Reese's sedan glides out onto a main drag, very subdued. He turns the lights on and blends with traffic. The helicopter crosses laterally in the distance.
CUT TO:
128 INT. GREY SEDAN - NIGHT 128
REESE (continuing) But outside, it's living human tissue. Flesh, skin, hair...blood. Grown for the cyborgs.
SARAH Look, Reese, I know you want to help, but...
REESE (cutting her off) Pay attention. The 600 series had rubber skin. We spotted them easy. But these are new. They look human. Sweat, bad breath, everything. Very hard to spot. I had to wait 'til he moved on you before I could zero him.
SARAH Hey, I'm not stupid, y'know. They can't build anything like that yet.
REESE No. Not yet. Not for about forty years.
Reese is driving sedately for a low profile, but his eyes rove constantly, searching for a place to ditch the car. Sarah's eyes are alert as well, and her tone becomes a bit too cool.
SARAH So, it's from the future, is that right?
REESE One possible future. From your point of view. I don't know the tech stuff.
SARAH And you're from the future too?
REESE Right.
They come to a red light and Reese stops.
SARAH (patronizingly) Right...
Like a shot she unlatches the seatbelt, pulls the door lock and has the door half open before Reese can react. He catches her arm and hauls her struggling back into the car.
"Being a visual person, I work backwards from the imagery that I like. The logic of a scene, I believe, is secondary to the enjoyment of it. You have to assume that Ripley was dumb enough not to check the sub-ceiling, or you have to assume that she was so thorough that she though she had accounted for everything, and there was something that she had missed or didn't know, or wasn't in the blueprint.
Yes, as a writer, you wrestle with all these things. It's not as much a question of whether it's illogical, it's a question of whether you need to put in so much expository material to explain the point. If you overexplain, you look like you're talking to the audience, which is not good. You're telegraphing. You're no longer have the surprise.
For example, when the Queen holds on to the landing gear, and stows away inside the ship for the final sequence, do we show that? Do we show how she did it? No, because then you'd lose the surprise factor."
Right now I'm reading the excellent Notes On Directing by veteran British director Frank Hauser. Chapter Six has an interesting suggestion for structuring a scene:
"Every scene is a chase scene.
Character A wants something from Character B who doesn't want to give it. If he did, the scene would be over. Why does A want it? In order to...what? Why does B refuse?
Usually, when someone chases someone else they move toward their object, and the object, feeling the pressure, moves away. Blocking, that obscure mystery, is simply that. Lenin said 'Who? Whom?' That is, who is doing what to whom, and with what further aim? When the Ghost is hectoring Hamlet it is easy to see who is chasing whom, but look at the opening of The Cherry Orchard or King Lear and the answer is more problematic. Nevertheless, the chase underpins all dramatic structure. When you have learnt to see it, blocking becomes much more obvious and (still more important) a false move more glaringly apparent." (Hauser, Notes on Directing, p. 33)
While I disagree with Hauser's blanket assertion that the chase underpins "all dramatic structure", looking at a scene in this way can be immensely helpful in giving a jolt of life to otherwise tepid drama.
One of the main problems with action movies made today (and over the last thirty years) is that there is really nothing special at all about the main character, save for his or her extraordinary fighting ability.
A great protagonist must have additional qualities or flaws that make him appropriate for his role as the hero. He must have an arc or evolution of character that directly affects the climax and resolution of the movie, so that the final battle of the film is not simply a contest of martial prowess. Some examples of genre movies that do this well:
1. Star Wars: During the climactic battle, Luke finally believes in himself, trusts in a higher spiritual power, and uses the Force to destroy the Death Star. 2. The Road Warrior: The loner Max, as a result of his failure and desperation, lends himself to a higher cause by deciding to put his life at risk and drive the tanker. 3. Lethal Weapon: After a long bonding process, Riggs and Murtaugh finally become a team to take down Shadow Company (even to the point of shooting the main villain, Joshua, in unison).
In none of the above-mentioned films are the climactic battles simply about skill. There is always another, more important dimension touching upon the character of the protagonist. These arcs are appropriate outcomes which occur as a result of the consequences of individual action, as opposed to sudden "changes of heart", or the simple heeding of advice (for instance, the hero learning a "secret move" which allows him to take down the antagonist).
The Road Warrior is a good illustration of this principle. Just before the climax, when Max decides to drive the tanker, he is not experiencing a random change of heart. His decision makes sense because of what he has been through. He previously chose to abandon the noble struggle of the people, fled, and attempted to make it on his own as a loner. The consequences of this decision were devastating...he lost his car, his dog, and nearly his life. In light of this, his decision to join in the climactic fight by driving the tanker makes perfect sense. At stake is not only his life and livelihood, but his redemption.
Fights, Contests, and Duels
Why is this principle so important? Without an arc, there is no change in the hero's character that allows him to win. In the absence of any arc/evolution, he could have beaten the villain just as easily during the first ten minutes of the film. Because of this, the drama--even that which takes place during the action--is not as compelling as it could be.
Each personal combat, or duel, in an action movie should be about more than just a matter of who has the best spin-heel kick. This can be accomplished by integrating issues of character. Years ago there appeared a Japanese animated series called Rurouni Kenshin: Wandering Samurai that accomplishes this feat remarkably well. We can also look at the “gold standard” of dueling scenes in famous genre movies: Empire Strikes Back, Return of the Jedi, The Matrix, etc. In each climactic showdown, there is somehow an issue of character that must be resolved in order for the protagonist to conquer his opponent.
And in the case that the protagonist does not resolve his character problems (such as in The Empire Strikes Back), it may be appropriate for him to lose the fight.
The simple answer is: from many places. The core idea for a movie or novel is an elusive thing. It can come from anywhere, and often it so happens that the most powerful and arresting stories come from the most humble beginnings.
Let's look at a few examples from "the masters":
The Lord of the Rings trilogy has, at the date of this writing, grossed a total of more than $2.9 billion dollars. The films were, of course, based on the best selling books by J. R. R. Tolkien, whose children's novel "The Hobbit" started it all, creating the characters of Gandalf, Bilbo and Gollum, and the world that The Lord of the Rings would take place in. We have an account of the genesis for the entire saga in Tolkien's own words, in a letter written June 7th, 1955:
"All I remember about the start of The Hobbit is sitting correcting School Certificate papers in the everlasting weariness of that annual task forced on impecunious academics with children. On a blank leaf I scrawled, "In a hole in the ground there live a hobbit." I did not and do not know why. I did nothing about it for a long time, and for some years I got no further than the production of Thror's Map. It became The Hobbit in the early 1930s , and was eventually published on 21st September, 1937." (Rateliff, The History of The Hobbit, Part I, p. xii)
Above: $2.9 billion dollars later: "In a hole in the ground there lived a Hobbit"
Now let's look at one of the most successful filmmakers of all time, James Cameron. In March 1982, he was "twenty-seven, broke, and depressed" in Rome, desperately trying to fix the final cut of Piranha II. Cameron had no money for food, so he subsisted on dinner rolls stolen off of trays in the hotel where he was staying. Malnutrition caused him to fall ill and develop a fever of 102 degrees. His biography recounts:
"That's when Cameron had his nightmare epiphany. He dreamed of a chrome torso emerging, phoenixlike, from an explosion and dragging itself across the floor with kitchen knives. Cameron awoke and immediately started sketching the deathly figure on hotel stationary as ideas for a story line surrounding the image flooded his mind." (Keegan, The Futurist, p. 34)
Above: The fever dream that started it all...
Cameron's dream, of course, was the genesis of the Terminator franchise, which has collectively grossed more than $1.4 billion in revenue, and spawned a large number of novelizations, comics, TV series, toys, and rides.
Some of the great classics had their genesis in waking dreams, or "mental pictures" that suddenly flashed into the head of the writer. C.S. Lewis, author of the Narnia series, explained:
“In the author's mind there bubbles up every now and then the material for a story. For me it invariably begins with mental pictures. You then have to marry this with a suitable ‘form', verse or prose, short story, novel, play or whatever. When these two things click you have the author's impulse complete…[With Narnia] everything began with images; a faun carrying an umbrella, a queen on a sledge, a magnificent lion.”
More recently, George R. R. Martin, author of the ongoing blockbuster book series (and soon to be released HBO series) A Song of Ice and Fire relates,
"I started back in 1991 during a lull while I was still working in Hollywood and I was working on another book, a science fiction book I had always wanted to write. So I was working on that book when suddenly the first chapter of A Games of Thrones, not the prologue but the first chapter, came to me. The scene of the dire wolves in the summer snow. I didn't know where it came from or where it needed to go, but from there the book seemed to write itself. From there I knew what the second step was and the third and so one. Eventually, I stopped to draw some maps and work out some background material."
Great things come from small beginnings. Asked where he got the idea for his classic novel, The Name of the Rose, author Umberto Eco simply replied, "I felt like poisoning a monk." The same thing goes for movies. An associate of Alfred Hitchcock once noted that the central vision for North by Northwest was two men fighting on Lincoln's nose atop Mount Rushmore.
The point is, it doesn't matter how small or innocuous-seeming an idea is. If it inspires you, and gets your creative energies flowing, then go with it, no matter what anyone tells you. It's the passion, energy, work, and application that will make it great. As Thomas Edison said, "Genius is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration."
These small bursts of inspiration may indeed seem ridiculous to someone who doesn't share your vision. James Cameron's agent thought The Terminator was a terrible idea that was bound to fail. Unperturbed, Cameron fired the agent and forged ahead with his idea.
It should also be noted that you don't have to wait for a fever dream or a lightning bolt of inspiration to hit. George Lucas is an example of someone who takes ideas from various pre-existing sources, and brilliantly weaves and combines them to form a new story. Star Wars, probably the most successful franchise of all time, drew from sources as disparate as:
Flash Gordon serials E. E. Doc Smith's Lensman books Tolkien's Lord of the Rings trilogy Frank Baum's The Wizard of Oz John Ford's The Searchers Akira Kurosawa's Hidden Fortress Fritz Lang's Metropolis Joseph Campbell's Hero With a Thousand Faces
Above: Hidden Fortress, an inspiration for Star Wars
And many, many more. Lucas even drew ideas from personal experience. The concept for the character of Chewbacca arose one day when Lucas was glancing at his girlfriend's dog, which liked to sit in the front seat of their station wagon. Suddenly Lucas was struck with the image of a furry alien sitting in the cockpit of a beat-up spacecraft.
So the answer is simple. If an idea strikes you as new, interesting, exciting, arresting, or original, and it inspires your creative energies, then go with it. And if the sparks aren't coming from within, then look to those things without that inspire you--history, literature, plays, films, etc. Weave and combine elements from your favorite books or movies. The whole notion of "high concept" is based on this.
Just remember, it doesn't have to seem amazing to everyone else in the beginning. Often times it won't. As David Lynch explains:
"It would be great if the entire film came all at once. But it comes, for me, in fragments. That first fragment is like the Rosetta Stone. It's the piece of the puzzle that indicates the rest. It's a hopeful puzzle piece...You fall in love with the first idea, that tiny little piece. And once you've got it, the rest will come in time." (Lynch, Catching the Big Fish, p. 23)
Stay tuned during the next few days for some posts on story structuring.
