The Greatness Principle

What makes a great film...great?

Is there a core attribute that all great films possess, which all non-great films lack? In short, can greatness in motion pictures be reduced or distilled to a single principle?

I believe that it can be.

The secret is this:

A great film provides a transformational, "religious" experience for the viewer, by allowing him or her to live vicariously through the transformational experience of a character (or characters) depicted in the film.

To understand precisely how this works, we have to start with this statement and work backwards.

To be clear, I do not intend the word "religious" to be taken in its strictest sense (hence the quotation marks). However, what is experienced by the viewer in all of the great films is a religious feeling, one of profound transformation, realization, and/or revelation, wherein life, reality, or the Universe is understood in a new and vastly different way. To take an actual religious example, we can examine Paul the Apostle's conversion from a zealous, pro-Roman torturer to a dedicated Christian, after receiving a spectacular, heavenly visit from Jesus himself.

This doesn't mean that in the context of a film, such a transformation has to be overtly religious in nature; quite often the case is to the contrary. As cinematic examples we may look to Rick's transformation from a world-weary cynic to an idealistic hero in Casablanca,  or Oskar Schindler's conversion from a self-interested, ruthless war profiteer to a courageous humanitarian in Schindler's List.

As exemplified in the examples of Casablanca and Schindler's List, typically, the more dramatic and extreme the transformation (that is, assuming it is convincingly executed), the more powerful the entire film.

Such a transformation typically has its fullest expression at the denouement, or climax, of a picture; however, it must be seeded and cultivated throughout the entire story. This was touched upon in a previous post, The Amazing Ending, in which we took note of the following observation by Robert McKee:

"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."

This "sudden flash of insight" or "flood of new understanding" comes about through the audience members as they witness the transformation of a character in the film, the experience of which the audience members are in a sense able to live as though they were the actual character themselves.

It is the protagonist or main character of the film that typically undergoes this transformation; however, sometimes multiple characters undergo transformations for especially powerful overall effects. An example of this "multiple-character conversion" can be seen in Star Wars: A New Hope, in which both:

Luke Skywalker learns to let go of his small-minded, worldly approach to reality, and embrace the higher power of the Force

and

Han Solo, who converts from a self-serving rogue to become a self-sacrificing hero.

Although, as McKee intimates, such transformations typically have their most vital moment, or greatest expression, during the final climax of the film, it is not always so. Dances With Wolves, for instance, takes a "slow burn" approach to character transformation. Kevin Costner's John Dunbar changes from a lost, world-weary Civil War veteran to a wise, rebellious mystic--but the change occurs gradually over the entire course of the three hour-plus film. However, the greatest expression of this transformation occurs close to the ending of the film, when Dunbar enthusiastically participates in a battle alongside his Indian friends, ultimately killing his Union Army captors--formerly his allies. Unlike Luke Skywalker or Han Solo, Dunbar has not experienced a climactic change of heart--rather, we are sudden witness to the vivid and dramatic culmination of what has been a long, gradual transformation.

This gradual, "slow-burn" transformation (which occurs in Dances with Wolves) also has its parallel in the Old Testament story of Moses, who begins his life as a powerful Egyptian prince, then trades that existence for one of humble spiritual development among the rural Hebrews, and finally emerges as one of the most powerful, mystical heroes of all time--literally, a man with the power of God at his fingertips.

Conventional wisdom might dictate that the main character is the one who must, at all costs, undergo such transformation in order for the film to be truly powerful. But this is not true either. In certain cases, a supporting character alone may be the one to undergo the primary climactic transformation.

To illustrate this principle, let's take the example of Braveheart. William Wallace's character undergoes his transformation during the first third of the film...when his father is killed, and when he avenges the death of his wife and becomes a rebellious military leader. After that, Wallace's personal transformation more or less ceases, and his story becomes one of overcoming and enduring certain trials. The greatest transformation is experienced, instead, by Robert the Bruce--a minor but important character in the film. Bruce is no hero; he is an ordinary man thrust into a position he seems unfit for; he is plagued by self-doubt and moral uncertainty. He is certainly not courageous, and allows himself to be shamefully manipulated by members of his own family. However, learning from the ideal example of William Wallace, Bruce completes a long-hoped for transformation in the final minute of the film, summoning the heart and courage to lead the victorious charge at the Battle of Bannockburn. Bruce is not a powerful, idealized figure, but an ordinary man that the audience can relate to, and for this reason, his conversion is especially powerful--even spectacular--despite the fact that he is not the chief protagonist of the film.

It should also be mentioned that the "religious" character transformation does not have to be a positive one. The Godfather, Taxi Driver, Revenge of the Sith, and Unforgiven are all examples of great films in which the protagonist experiences a profound transformation from the positive to the negative; from kindness to ruthlessness, from the humane to the heinous. Religious lore contains many parallels--the fall and transformation (both physical and spiritual) of Lucifer, for instance, as well as the betrayal and fall of Judas Iscariot.

 As Obi Wan Kenobi eloquently sums up in the climax of Star Wars: Episode III:

 "You have allowed this Dark Lord to twist your mind until now . . . you have become the very thing you swore to destroy."

The transformation from angel to demon is a powerful one, because it is all something that most of us have at a point in our life experienced to some degree, either in ourselves, or in someone we know.

So, in closing, we might ask: how does one construct or develop this transformation, from either positive to negative, or negative to positive?

My answer to that is: that's where the art really comes into play.

A writer's own tastes, values, sensibilities, life experiences, understanding of human character, and understanding of life itself, all play a part in making the transformation compelling. If these attributes are shallow and unrefined--in short, if a writer hasn't given much thought to life, psychology, and the human spirit, it will be exceedingly difficult to come up with a convincing (and powerful) transformation. In the case of amateur writers, who may be young and less-experienced, pre-existing movies are often the source of that knowledge, rather than life experience.

We, as writers, have to understand both the light and dark aspects of the human being; to know (and remember) what it's like to be both weak and strong, kind and cruel, noble and crude, foolhardy and wise.  That's why the aforementioned attributes are a critical part of the writer's own psyche and author's toolbox, and why it will never be enough to simply "plug in the plot points" per the standard screenwriter's workbook.

Well, maybe enough to make a good movie...

But not a great one.