“Springboards” and the Genesis of a Story

In television, time equals serious money, so story development is broken down into steps and carefully supervised. The process usually begins with creating a “springboard,” and that first step is a great way to approach any story no matter what you plan to write – screenplay, book, short story, magazine article.

A springboard is a “jumping-off point” for a story; an idea distilled down to a couple of sentences that clearly demonstrates the potential for enough engaging comedic or dramatic conflict to capture the interest of an audience.

One of the best springboards that a writer ever pitched to me was for a little television series I developed and produced called The Zack Files.  This was a youth comedy series about a boy to whom weird things just happened with no apparent cause – that is, according the pre-school books the series was based upon.  But when I was asked to develop the series for ‘tweens, it was necessary to build in a logic to these weird happenings.  And so the premise became that Zack’s adventures were always sparked by the small, unexplained things in life that we routinely take for granted – a kind of “Seinfeld of the paranormal.”  For example, in one story Zack investigates why no one who owns a VCR (now a DVR) seems able to program it.  (The answer:  Because alien invaders are commandeering our VCRs and using them to coordinate landings in people’s back yards.  See?  Makes perfect sense ;-)

Canadian Steve Westren is not a talkative fellow but, wow, what an innovative comedy writer.  I had asked Steve to bring in a few springboards for “The Zack Files,” each one focused on some small, unexplained event in life that we could build an episode around.  The first one out of his mouth was “Why do dogs like to hang their heads out of car windows and bark?”  We thought hard on that one, then gave up.  Steve’s answer: “Because the wind helps their lips to move making it easier for dogs to talk.”

To which I replied:  SOLD!

Original screenplays, from springboard to script, take one heck of a lot more work than television concepts, and are far more complex in structure.  However, to be focused and economical with one’s time, the writer is wise to begin the screenwriting process the same way: by developing his idea into just a couple of sentences that clearly demonstrate the potential for enough engaging comedic or dramatic conflict to capture the interest of an audience.

Here are some examples of successful film stories reduced to springboards:

A simple “hobbit” (a humanoid creature) with a good heart is entrusted with the near-impossible mission of destroying a ring possessed of immense evil, and so powerful that it corrupts all who wear it. — The Lord Of The Rings: The Fellowship Of The Ring

An assassin hunts down genetically made criminal “replicants” (robots nearly indistinguishable from humans) who have escaped slavery because they want to be free to live like humans. — Blade Runner

A struggling novelist in need of inspiration inadvertently travels back through time to 1920s Paris where he rubs elbows with the greatest artists of the century during a period when they were also struggling. — Midnight In Paris

Andy’s toys have a secret life; not only do they talk, they hold staff meetings, go on reconnaissance missions, find their own way home after they’ve been lost, and do just about whatever it takes to make their owner happy. That is, until tragedy strikes and Woody, Andy’s former favorite toy, is replaced by his birthday present: a cool new space commander named Buzz Lightyear.  — Toy Story

The next step is to pitch your distilled story to anyone who will listen (preferably strangers, not your spouse or people who owe you money).  If you do, you will soon get an indication of whether or not your idea is engaging enough to draw an audience.  Keep honing it until it is– developing characters listeners care about, heightening the conflict, folding in some mystery to hook your audience.  When you get to the point where the response is routinely one of sincere high interest, it is probably safe to move to the next step: expanding your idea into a full Story Concept with a beginning, middle and end, the structure of which I will elaborate on in future posts.

What is a “MacGuffin” and why should we care?

Sir Alfred Hitchcock

MacGuffin is a term coined by director Sir Alfred Hitchcock who defined it, in a 1939 lecture at Columbia University, as : “[We] have a name in the studio, and we call it the ‘MacGuffin’. It is the mechanical element that usually crops up in any story. In crook stories it is almost always the necklace and in spy stories it is most always the papers”.

Although that definition suffices from an audience point of view, to be useful to a writer it helps to know what purpose the MacGuffin serves. Others have said something general like “it drives the action” or “advances the story. The Merriam Webster dictionary now defines it as: “an object, event, or character in a film or story that serves to set and keep the plot in motion despite usually lacking intrinsic importance.”

All are accurate enough descriptions but I find it more helpful in separating it from other plot devices to think of it as “the object (event, or character) at stake.”

Hitchcock first used this device in his 1935 spy thriller, The 39 Steps, in which the MacGuffin everyone appears to be after is stolen British Military Secrets. In a later spy thriller, Notorious, the MacGuffin is an illicit stock of uranium hidden in wine bottles. In North by Northwest it is a missing spy called “George Kaplan” whom, Cary Grant later discovers (after being mistaken for the fellow and nearly murdered on several occasions), never existed in the first place.

Today you will find this invaluable element of story structure front and center in films of many different genres. In Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol it is the code that will launch a nuclear warhead. In the Harry Potter series it begins with The Sorcerers Stone and ends with The Deathly Hallows. You will even find it in Downton Abbey where it is, of course, the crumbling old estate itself. And you will find it in every heist movie – the latest of which is Man on a Ledge.

I liked this script. I admire the writer, Pablo Fenjves, for trapping his protagonist on a narrow lip of concrete, 22 stories above the ground, for the better part of 90 minutes of real-time, and still delivering what he promised: a thriller.

The degree of difficulty in executing such a plot, on a scale of 1 to 10, is a 10. But this writer pulled it off by developing several subplots that provide enough bold twists and turns to keep the pace moving and lend enough action and suspense to keep us thoroughly entertained while his chief protagonist is glued to his ledge. And while the film was criticized for a few shortcomings in logic, I found those easy to forgive in favor of the plot twists and strong performances, which even held the rapt attention of my father (who has excellent taste and bores easily).

I raise this film here, though, as a particularly good example of how a writer imbues a MacGuffin – the object at stake – with a value at stake, and thereby keeps an audience hooked, the importance of which I discuss in my article Why should your audience care?

(Spoiler Alert: If you haven’t seen Man on a Ledge yet, go take a look and come on back – I’ll be here.)

Sam Worthington plays an ex-cop who is willing to leap to his death rather than spend his life in prison. Apparently. Wrongly convicted of stealing a world-class diamond, he hatches a plan to clear himself by proving that he was framed, and that the diamond in question was indeed stolen, but by its owner in an insurance scam. Worthington plans to prove this by sending his brother and an accomplice to steal the diamond back…in the building across the street from the hotel, where Worthington is at that moment drawing the undivided attention of every cop, and pedestrian in mid-town Manhattan.

What keeps us hooked in this film is not whether or not this forty million dollar diamond is recovered. Nor is it whether or not the man on a ledge will jump. If that were all there was to it, you can bet that after three or four false threats to go over the edge, the theatre audience would be shouting “jump” right along with the blood-hungry crowd of pedestrians on the screen. No, what keeps our attention riveted to this film is that the fate of the MacGuffin is inexorably tied to the fate of an innocent man and a good cop who will spend his life in prison if the would-be thieves across the street don’t come out with that diamond — provided that some crooked cops bent on helping our hero to his death don’t get to him first.

When the object at stake represents the value at stake – and when the threat against the value at stake keeps increasing and heightening the suspense, as is expertly done in Man on a Ledge – you end up with a film that keeps an audience – and even one’s hypercritical father – riveted to the screen.

With regard to the other examples I raised: In Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol, the value at stake is the fate of the planet – not to mention the fate of the IMF, for those who are more inclined to care about the fate of the series. In the Harry Potter series, no matter the MacGuffin, the value at stake is always goodness, or home, which for children Hogwarts itself represents, for it is a place where children are safe and no less able or valuable than adults. The MacGuffin always possesses the power to either benefit or destroy some aspect of this world of good magic. Downton Abbey, as discussed in my post The Value at Stake, is valuable to different characters for different reasons, but ultimately it is valuable to all of us because it represents a stable, peaceful, gentler age – the kind one might long for in a fast-moving new century, rife with war and rapid societal and technological change. Not unlike our own.

Read more Successful Screenwriting articles here.  Learn more about Kathy Slevin here.

What Makes A Successful Screen Story?

Not all good stories make good screenplays.  Witness how many best-selling books have spawned film adaptations that flopped.

All stories are told with the purpose of creating an effect on an audience, but the ideal screen story has the capacity to achieve greater impact, or a richer kind of impact, when told visually – and great original screen stories often cannot be effectively told any other way.

It is easy to see why Michael Crichton’s Jurassic Parkdemanded a film version, or Peter Benchley’s Jaws.  Yet, the qualities that make Ol Parker’s original screenplay, The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, so well suited to the screen are just as compelling while not as obvious.

There is no medium better suited to introducing the viewer to strange or unfamiliar worlds than film.  In Marigold Hotel, India is more than just a backdrop – it is a powerful catalyst that changes the lives of each protagonist, and it is a world that you must experience along with them to understand why.  You must see the riot of color and the beauty of the architecture, feel the crush of the population, smell the exotic scents of the shops as they blend with the stench of the gutters to understand its unique impact on these foreigners seeking a new beginning.  Without the ability to show India so fully and as she really is this story would be diminished.  The audience would walk away without being as moved by the film as they currently are.  (Most critics only begrudgingly recommend this film, while the audience with whom I viewed it burst into spontaneous applause.)

The dinosaurs of Jurassic Park, the Great White in Jaws, are also key characters in those stories, not merely animatronic set dressing.  While they serve as admirable antagonists, their equally important role is often overlooked – that of “catalyst for change” in the humans whose lives they affect.  And they serve the story, driving it forward, in an entirely visual manner.

At the opposite end of the scale of success is the screen adaptation of my favoritebook, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, written and executive-produced by my favorite author, John le Carré – a viewing experience that I, at least, will not soon forgive.

In Tinker Tailor, we are again introduced to an unfamiliar world; spy movies may abound but protagonist George Smiley’s beloved secret service, nicknamed “the Circus,” where “moles” are hunted by way of tedious paper trails, is not the omnipotent, high-tech intel operation popularized by Bourne and Bond.  Neither are there any clear heroes in le Carré’s books.  Protagonists are, to a man and woman, pitifully flawed, their motives ambiguous, and Smiley is no exception.  While ever-devoted to his mission of cold warrior protecting the vestiges of a free society, this unassuming, bespectacled civil servant struggles with the morality of the choices one must make to keep the upper hand in a trade where treachery is honorable – and if you don’t know that about Smiley; if you don’t understand the deep ambivalence at the core of his character, then you can’t care about Smiley and his brand of spy: ordinary people thrust into kill-or-be-killed circumstances and ill-equipped to play god.

Regardless, in the recent feature version, that crucial insight into the character of our chief protagonist was inexplicably sacrificed. The only passage in the book that pits Smiley against his antagonist, Russian spy master “Karla”, directly and in person, was given short-shrift. Yet it is a seminal moment in the relationship of these two enemies and the only opportunity we are given to clearly see Smiley’s ambivalence about “ends justifying means” in sharp relief against Karla’s unshakeable moral certitude, even in the face of death.  It is the only time that we see Smiley’s faith that the West can win truly shaken.  But instead of seeing this key incident dramatized, we are merely told that it took place in a speech (one of the few cardinal sins of screenwriting, “Never say what you can show”), diluting its significance to a passing concern.

As a result, the audience could neither care about George Smiley as a person, nor fathom what there was at stake in this tale at all to care about.  The audience is deprived of an emotional journey and instead left with nothing to focus on except the intricacies of a complex plot, relegating the only truly intriguing quality about espionage agents – why they do it, not how – to the dust bin.  All sacrificed, apparently, to transform a slow-paced, brilliant suspense novel into a faster-paced, and therefore more marketable “thriller.”

And so the film didn’t compete – because it can’t. Time was needed to tell this tale.Tinker Tailor has its own pace, its own “hammer and pound,” its own way of inducing heart-stopping fear and wrenching sorrow, even for the fate of government-paid assassins.  And, of all people, le Carré knows that best.

So why was the soul of this story abandoned?  Because this story cannot be sufficiently told in a two-hour feature film without being diminished.  Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, and the third book in Le Carré’s The Quest for Karla trilogy, Smiley’s People, were each made into a series of three movies for British television with scripts that proudly and painstakingly told the entire story, and they are brilliantly done.  The DVDs sit on my shelf and I watch them once a year or so, when I don’t have time to re-read the books (which should be studied by every writer as a lesson in plot and character development).  One or two of le Carré’s books, such as The Tailor of Panama, adapted well to film but most do not.  His books are essentially character-driven as opposed to plot-driven, as beautifully crafted as those plots are, and you cannot appreciate them without taking the time to get to know the richly realistic people le Carré so masterfully describes.

I don’t often climb up on my high horse to criticize authors, let alone the best in the world, knowing too well the challenge it is to create even a serviceable script, forget a work of art.  But therein lies the danger of creating such ardent fans – one wrong move and they never let you live it down!

The moral of this post:  Know when you have a feature film story and when you don’t.

Why Tell A Story? The Vital Importance Of “Theme”

It’s easy to fall so in love with a character one has fashioned, or become so fascinated by a true event, that you find yourself deep into writing about it without ever having asked yourself, “Why am I writing this story? What is it about?”

When you first develop a passion for an idea, it is natural to want to sit down and write as much as possible, if only to get that first flood of possibilities out of your imagination and onto paper. I have very large file drawers filled with over 25 years worth of such notes.  But the reason these stories continue to languish in my drawer is because I do not yet fully know what they are about.

Can a woman be loved for being just the way she is?  Can a man’s twisted idea of what it means to be “strong” for his family cause him to lose his family?  Do the problems of three little people amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world?

Brigitte Jones’ Diary, The Godfather, Casablanca — those writers knew exactlywhat they were writing about.

“Theme” is the primary concept that the writer sets out to communicate to his audience through the telling of a story.  Like a thesis, a screenplay attempts to put forward and prove such a premise by way of this visual medium.

We accomplish this by dramatizing warring sides of our theory, keeping our audience entertained and interested while we set out to prove to them which view we believe to be most valid and why. The least we hope this structure will accomplish is to keep them guessing as to how our story will end.

The theme explores a question that is, ideally, of strong interest to both the writer and the audience. “Does crime pay or doesn’t it?”  Ask Dirty Harry.  Should we judge people like Forrest Gump by the braces on their legs or a slow-witted appearance?  Or is “Stupid is as stupid does?”

The writer poses and seeks to answer such a question by weaving a plot wherein each scene examines and promotes one or the other view, positive or negative, alternating between them.  The ending generally espouses the writer’s view of which conclusion is the right one.  Dirty Harry gets the bad guy, leaving no doubt in our minds that “crime does not pay.”  Forrest Gump saves the lives of his platoon members, wins a Medal of Honor,  beats China in Ping-Pong, becomes the shrimping king of Louisiana, runs a cross-country marathon — making us think twice before we underestimate the value of a single human life.

Themes may promote a particular human value or raise awareness of an issue.  The theme may be heavy with significance, sincere or sardonic, subtle or simple and clear.  Do all screen stories have a theme? a writer friend of mine regularly frets.  I routinely reply, “Yes.  All of the good ones, anyway.”

The Character Flaw (A.K.A. Secrets Of Series Creation I)

At the heart of every successful series is a flaw – the character flaw.

Ever since the Greeks introduced heroes, literary characters have come with flaws.  Aristotle called it “hamartia”: an “error in judgement” – also called a “tragic flaw”. The gods the Greek playwrights chronicled had flaws too. Nobody cared much about their fate; they were almighty. Even when they were eaten by another god, they somehow managed to pop out of his stomach whole and survive. But their flaws made them unique and interesting to follow. Some were so twisted and quirky, they had the power to fascinate; the kind of antagonist that today we “love to hate.”

The heroes were mortal – like us – and while readers still thrill to their courageous battles against fantastical creatures, the heroes we remember best are those who met their destruction through inner folly: that adventurous boy who fashioned himself a set of wings with wax, then got so carried away by his own conceit that he flew too close to the sun; that beautiful young man who loved his appearance so much that he whiled away his life staring at his own reflection in a pond.

The Greek myths are full of heroes whose stories end with “and then he fell into the ocean and died,” or “and then he pined away until he died,” or “and then she hanged herself in despair.” (I once had to write a children’s series faithfully based on these myths. You can imagine the network notes!) Fortunately, later storytellers challenged the idea that life is so daunting that only the divine can win. Now it is the ability to face those inner demons, and survive those insurmountable challenges, that gives us both unforgettable drama and great comedy.

But it always begins with a protagonist’s flaw – and that flaw is his chief antagonist.

Looking at successful comedy series is the clearest way to see this, for the cornerstone of comedy is protagonists whose flaws are well-developed and crystal clear.

There isn’t a character in Friends who isn’t his own worst enemy. Find me an average mortal who doesn’t feel the same way about himself – and his friends. There is no need for antagonists here. There doesn’t need to be a Minotaur behind every hedge. There is no more terrifying example of the result of wanton self-destruction than Janice. And each character’s most egregious flaw – I think of it as a defining flaw – is of a nature that conflicts with his goals, and the personalities and goals of the other protagonists, with such clarity that one can easily see how possessing such a flaw can create the kind of conflict that will spark dozens of storylines.

Scripted one-hour series also live or die on the strength of their characters (the one notable exception being the “Procedural”*).  And, of course, the same strength can be found at the heart of a great film. The movie 10 is a classic example of a story entirely driven by a protagonist’s defining flaw. Dudley Moore plays a successful composer; a middle-aged man who has everything – including a lovely, talented, “significant other” in Julie Andrews – but whose vanity will not allow him to come to terms with his age. He upends his entire life in search of a younger woman who he perceives as the “perfect 10.”

We love these characters not just despite, but because of their flaws – because they doggedly chase twisted ambitions without the slightest recognition of how hopeless the goal or how pathetic they look in the chasing.

Next to them, we feel almost well-adjusted.

*Writer-producer Dick Wolf, who created the first of this new genre with “Law and Order,” defined the Procedural as “…stand-alone episodes that are story driven, not character driven, so if people don’t see the show for a while, or they miss an episode, there’s no catching up.”

Why Should Your Audience Care?

My days in theatre school taught me that all story begins with character – and my years in television taught me that plots and their “MacGuffins”*, while essential to an engaging story, are among the first things an audience forgets.

From my observation, audiences do not invest themselves to any great degree in objects.  Like you, I have watched them thrill to an exciting car crash sequence, heard the squeals of disbelief as a forty carat diamond plops into the yawning jaws of a crocodile, but my trial-and-error experiences in series TV proved to me beyond doubt that, while memorable, these sequences do not have the power to bring a viewer back to the sofa at the same time next week [quite a feat when you consider how busy the average person’s life is and how much choice they have when it comes to how they spend their free time]. Only well-loved [or hated] characters brought audiences back.

People care about live beings – life has a value with which no object can compete.  Only when an object is equated with an individual about whom we care deeply will we invest ourselves in its fate.

I have found that I can sit at my desk and dream up a plot as intricate as any but, as necessary and engaging as a great plot can be, if my story remains primarily plot-driven, I have done nothing to invest my audience in its outcome and they will soon lose interest.

However, when I take the time to build a character first, and begin that process by observing life, I am dipping into reality for my raw material,  grounding my writing in “what is.”  Characters who possess qualities that are real to viewers – qualities they agree are true because they recognize them in themselves or others – are characters that an audience can care about.  If it is a quality with which an audience can empathize  –  a flaw, real or perceived – this deepens the caring.  You’ve made your character a real person to them and one whose hopes and ambitions they will want to see materialized, just like their own.

A well-told story summons up a reader’s emotions, both pleasant and painful. By exploring losses and triumphs that are universal, challenges well known to the average person, the writer creates a bond of common reality between reader and character, and makes the reader/viewer care.

A great writer plays on these emotions with the same skill with which an accomplished violinist manipulates his instrument.  By making us care, and then building on that bond, intensifying our emotions as the story plays out, the artist captures our attention and holds it until the last word is read…or the last note is played.

Therefore, when a writer asks me to read his work and comment upon it, the first question I look to have answered is “Why should I care?”  If the writer succeeds in creating that emotional connection for me within the first five pages, I read on; if he/she can’t, I lose interest. I find most readers of screenplays do the same.

* film term coined (c. 1935) by Sir Alfred Hitchcock. The object that drives the narrative forward; the object at stake.

What Quality Distinguishes A “Protagonist” From All Other Characters?

In ancient Greek drama, the protagonist was “the first or leading actor.”  Prior to the introduction of that first actor, speaking roles were not given to individuals; all dialogue was spoken by a chorus. Gradually characters were added and developed into different types, and the protagonist came to be defined as “the principle character in a drama, novel or story.”

In film and television, the primary desire that drives the protagonist throughout a story has been aptly described by comedy writer Danny Simon as “a simple want.” But the quality that distinguishes the protagonist from all other types of characters is that he alone has the capacity to achieve his goal, no matter what barriers are placed in his path. Although he may not appear so, and whether he believes he has this capacity or not,  the protagonist will ultimately be found to be uniquely able to face whatever internal flaws or external hazards life throws at him and still triumph.

A story may have more than one protagonist.  Each may have his own unique goal or “simple want,” or all may have the same goal, as in a sports story.  Regardless, to qualify as a protagonist, each must possess and demonstrate the capacity to overcome all obstacles and achieve their goal.

What Drives A Protagonist? Danny Simon’s “Simple Want.”

When I arrived in Hollywood there was only one place to learn comedy and that was in the community room of Danny Simon’s condo complex where the legendary comedy writer lectured every week to a room packed with aspirants. A very green writer, I felt fortunate to be included. Danny had been sharing his gifts with writers for decades.  Among his first students were his brother Neil Simon and Woody Allen, who said of Danny “I’ve learned a few things on my own and modified a few things he taught me, but everything, unequivocally, that I learned about comedy writing, I learned from Danny Simon.”

One of Danny’s screenwriting gems is the “simple want,” which is a way of describing the primary desire that drives the protagonist throughout the story.  Although it is a conscious motivation, clear and concise, what the protagonist wants often proves not to be what he needs.  Which is where the genius comes in.  The “simple want” often begins as an apparent desire that unwittingly sets the protagonist on a path toward discovering and achieving his true desire.

Take The King’s Speech.  Immediately after viewing the film, one might say that what motivated Britain’s King George VI (formerly Prince Albert) was his desire to be able to deliver a speech without stuttering. (His antagonist is his severe impediment; a psychosomatic affliction held in place by the memory of painful childhood incidents.)  But in fact that was his father’s desire and, out of love and compassion, it became his wife’s mission.  One could argue that, at the top of the film, “Bertie’s” simple want is actually to be left alone.  Like the rest of the world, he expects his elder brother, David, to inherit.  Albert does not want to be King – and the last thing he wants is to continually put himself through the terribly humiliating experience of speaking in public. But, while tortured by it, this most natural human desire to speak remains.

And, interestingly, fate cooperates.  David abdicates, Bertie becomes King, and now the King must acquire the skill to address and rally his nation.  England’s very survival depends upon it.  Worse, he has a brilliant competitor for the hearts and minds of his own people in Adolf Hitler.

Bertie suppresses his desire to speak because he doesn’t believe it is possible – until he finally listens to a recording of his voice that a quickly abandoned speech therapist, Lionel Logue, made while Bertie’s ears were filled with music so that he could not hear himself speak. As the record spins, for the first time in memory, Bertie hears his own words flow out of his mouth with ease and elegance.  This is the turning point of the film – what Syd Field calls “the Mid-Point.”  From here on, although his path is still painful and marred by setbacks, Bertie is driven to achieve the new simple want he now knows is possible: to communicate with success.

Although others who lecture on story structure have developed their own terms for establishing what drives the protagonist, I have found none so clear and easy to grasp as Danny Simon’s “simple want.”

Kicking Stories Into High Gear: The Midpoint Twist

If you’ve ever had a producer ask you to submit a story that has “a beginning, middle and end” you may have wondered what exactly they meant by “a middle.”  And correctly so.  It is a basic element of story structure that is often ill-defined.

A “middle” is, first of all, a major twist in the story, if not the major twist. A twist (we have learned earlier) can be defined as “an unexpected turn of events.”  Story Structure comprises more than one twist, but the one that routinely occurs at or near the midpoint of the story (regardless of length or genre) could be defined as “A major turn of events that works against the hero, and which comes about as a direct result of the protagonist’s pursuit of his goal (or “simple want” as Danny Simon called it) during the first half of the story.”

This midpoint turn kicks the story into high gear, doing for a story what a rollercoaster does when it crests the top of the highest peak just so it can send you barreling down the other side at the fastest speed and most harrowing angle possible.

A few examples:

At the midpoint of The Firm, The FBI secretly contacts fledgling lawyer Mitchell McDeere and informs him that his firm is laundering money for mob clients.  The feds want McDeere to spy on his own clients and report back to them, violating client-attorney privilege which is itself illegal. The FBI advises McDeere that there is no other way out of this situation except in a coffin; every associate who has ever tried to leave The Firm ends up murdered.  In that instant, McDeere’s hard won career appears to be over, and his life forever changed.

At the midpoint of Jane Austen’s Emma, the young aspiring matchmaker misinterprets the attentions of a sly gentleman by the name of Mr. Frank Churchill as being a declaration of love. Up to this point, Emma has been deeply involved in matchmaking amongst her friends due to her belief, based on one early success, that she is a particularly good judge of people. But in fact Emma proves herself to be a terrible judge of people when (amongst other foibles) she falls for Churchill’s flattery, which is not only the beginning of the end of her matchmaking career, it also succeeds in alienating Emma’s own perfect match, Mr. Knightly.

In The Godfather, Michael Corleone – the son who was meant to stay out of the family business and be the first to become legitimate – instead becomes a criminal himself when, at the midpoint, he commits a revenge killing of the mobster who attempted to assassinate Don Vito Corleone.  Now, instead of become a Senator or Governor, Michael will eventually take over his father’s role as Godfather and seek another means of reaching his goal to make the Corleone family legitimate.

In each case, the mid-point twist is a major turn of events that works against the hero; one that results directly from his pursuit of that goal or “simple want” that drives him or her from the beginning of the story.  Mitch McDeere starts out determined to be a successful lawyer, even if it means turning a blind eye to the criminal activities of the firm for which he works.  Emma Woodhouse, while not unkind by nature,  is nonetheless a busybody who considers her own judgment to be superior to her friends’ – so much so, that she manages to outwit herself by taking Frank Churchill’s attentions at face value.  Michael Corleone does not want to be part of his father’s criminal empire – but family loyalty trumps personal freedom, and he will do anything to defend his father and protect his family.

In each case, the Midpoint Twist sends the protagonist on a downhill slide, at the bottom of which lies a “hard choice” wherein he appears doomed to lose, no matter which alternative he chooses.  If he is a true protagonist, he will find some way to survive.  But if he is a tragic hero, he will succumb, as that is the fate of all those who lack the character to rise above their flaws and overcome adversity.

To Be Or Not To Be? Why A Protagonist Faces A “Hard Choice.”

There are few choices more famous, or more familiar to the average person, than the one that consumed Prince Hamlet of Denmark.  But while we all know that taking risks to win great stakes is how one plays the game of life to its fullest, how many of us possess that kind of ambition and courage? And how many of us just wish we did?

We all aspire to be more than we are.  We just don’t know how.  Our film heroes give us clues.  They are flawed individuals like us, struggling to survive one way or another, just like us.  And they are faced with choices just like ours.  The only difference is they find a way to rise above their flaws and make difficult choices – or die trying.  They give us courage.  And hope.

In the most effective screenplays I have read, the protagonist (in order to qualify as one) is at some point faced with the necessity of making a “hard choice” between two or more options that appear to present no possibility of a positive outcome; our guy or girl appears doomed to lose no matter which option they choose.  This choice generally occurs about two-thirds of the way through the story – near the end of Act II or early in Act III.  Making such a choice can drive the hero to his lowest point, thereafter forcing him to change his ways if he wants to survive.  Or it may pull him back from the brink of disaster by presenting a solution he would not have seen had he not been willing to risk it all and step over the brink.

Robert McKee dubbed this choice the “crisis” and defines it as that point when the protagonist must make a choice wherein he is “damned if he does and damned if he doesn’t” – a very apt description and one which has helped me enormously over the years.  But it can take some examples to really get a grasp of it.

Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.  Now, according to William Goldman (and screenwriters don’t come any finer), these two bank robbers lived their whole lives on the brink of disaster.  Goldman convinces us early on that Butch and Sundance are no cowards.  They would rather choose death over being caught by the law, and they prove it by leaping into a raging river from a cliff so high that just the fall is likely to kill them.  Yet, like cats with nine lives, they survive.

But the toughest choice Butch and Sundance eventually face has nothing to do with physical danger. Detective La Force appears in Bolivia and they know, sooner or later, he will track them down, no matter how long or cleverly they manage to evade him.  Unless, of course, they go straight – become farmers or sheep-herders, or do whatever honest saps do.  And they think about doing just that – for about half a minute – but can’t, even when Emma threatens to leave without them.  Butch and Sundance, for all their charm, are tragic heroes, unable to change sufficiently even to save their own lives. They would rather charge at a posse, already bleeding to death, guns blazing, in an impossible bid to cheat death one more time, their only consolation being that they will die the way they lived, on their own terms.

On the other hand, Patton, according to authors North, Coppola and others, had a much keener sense of survival.  He knew that “…No bastard ever won a war by dying for his country.  He won it by making the other poor dumb bastard die for his country.”  So, when General George Patton’s “hard choice” comes – and it also has nothing to do with physical danger – he has both the brains and the guts to take the only option that offers him even the remotest chance of remaining on the battlefield: he issues a humiliating public apology for slapping a soldier he believed to be guilty of cowardice.  Patton knows this will utterly undermine his authority and ability to command.  But he has been given an order, and if he disobeys he will most certainly be stripped of command, perhaps forever – and keeping his command means more to Patton than life itself.

Patton makes the hard choice and loses his command anyway.  But he survives to regain a new command and fight again another day.  A hero – regardless of how you view him.

Emma Thompson’s expert adaptation of Jane Austen’s exquisite Sense and Sensibility brings to the screen two heroines with differing brands of courage, but true protagonists nonetheless.  Marianne, with her passionate sensibilities, believes that the only kind of love worth having is the kind for which one would willingly throw him or herself on a sword.  Her sensible sister Elinor, however, holds a different view.  Unlike Marianne, Elinor suppresses her desires and disappointments in favor of being sensitive to the problems of others, arguably to the point of doing herself a disservice. But it is also a sign of maturity and great decency that she is willing to put the happiness of the one she loves before her own.

Near the end, Marianne must choose death by heartbreak, or life without Willoughby, the only man she feels she can ever love, for he has chosen the more prudent path of marrying a woman of fortune.  Elinor must choose between helping the man she loves to find a living, so that he can marry a woman he does not love but must marry out of duty, or turn her back on him and let him live the rest of his life in poverty as well as misery.

Marianne chooses life and is surprised to discover that there is love after Willoughby, and a more rewarding kind.  Elinor’s steadfast love and generosity in the face of apparent betrayal, is rewarded by a twist of fate that frees the love of her life to marry her after all.

In all of these stories, the protagonist’s hard choice involves issues and values that the average person can well understand.  Each is given the opportunity to overcomethe character flaw – real or apparent – that brought them to this choice.  Butch is irresponsible and weak, for all his charm.  Sundance has a misplaced sense of loyalty, and doesn’t know any life other than robbing and killing.  George Patton will eat every ounce of the very quality that makes him a brilliant soldier, his pride, rather than lose his career.  Marianne will reform her runaway passion.  Elinor’s seemingly foolish restraint pays off in spades.

By carefully pitting each protagonist’s driving desire against their crippling flaws, and crafting events that would eventually force them to triumph over those flaws, or face tragedy with their own brand of courage, these expert screenwriters brought about three of the most unforgettable stories in film history.

The First Act Twist

In essence, the first thirty minutes of a film (also known as “Act One”) is devoted to establishing our heroes, their “simple want,” and the barriers that stand between them and their goal – in other words, “the set-up.”

The barrier can be external or internal, and is often both.  As discussed in my article,The Character Flaw, internal barriers are rooted in some personal flaw that routinely holds a protagonist back.  For example, in Hugo, Georges Méliès is a despondent toy maker minding his shop in a Paris train station.  Time and “progress” robbed Georges of his dream, so now he indulges in self-pity. He punishes himself for his failure by becoming an embittered old man.

Now, by a twist of fate, Georges is about to be forced to overcome his inner demons. He discovers that the boy Hugo, a station squatter, has been stealing from his shop and threatens to turn the child over to his own antagonist, the station policeman.

A “twist” can be defined as “an unexpected turn of events.”  Story Structure comprises more than one of these twists, but the one that routinely occurs at or near the end of the first act was dubbed by Robert McKee the “inciting incident” –inciting because it is an event that prompts the protagonist to take an action he would not otherwise have taken.  As a result, this event causes the protagonist’s life to change course.

Hugo attempts to steal from Georges’ shop.  The boy has done it before, but this time Georges catches him.  Life would have gone on as normal and nothing would have changed for either of them had Georges turned a blind eye to the petty theft of a penniless orphan.  But Georges has allowed himself to become an embittered, resentful old man and so feels compelled to act.  Because of it, each of these protagonists – Georges and Hugo – will now face further, more challenging barriers and antagonists.  Yet each will also eventually prove to have something the other needs to complete himself.

This First Act Twist, like the staircases in Hogwarts, causes a hero’s life to change course, putting him on a path to facing his flaws and overcoming his barriers, bringing him closer to his goal.