10 Years of Bitter Posts: The Same Old Three Acts - a comparison of several gurus' structural philosophies

I'm humble enough to admit that one of the most interesting posts in the entire history of my site wasn't even written by me. My friend J.J. Patrow once took an intriguing look at the way multiple experts in story and drama looked at the three-act structure and came back with some fascinating conclusions. You can find the original version of this post here:


THE SAME OLD THREE ACTS
By J.J. Patrow

Although good screenwriting isn’t easy, it can be learned through study and practice. That’s what we’re taught to believe. And we must believe it because thousands of people have been inspired to learn the craft, generating a huge market for screenwriting lectures, classes, workshops, instructional videos, and how-to books. It has also generated just as many reader opinions about which screenwriting guru offers the best advice.

Some authors champion a paint-by-the-numbers approach. The “Blake Snyder Beat Sheet” in Save The Cat: The Last Book on Screenwriting You’ll Ever Need by Blake Snyder comes to mind. Other authors counter that step-by-step guides are misguided. In the introduction to The Tools of Screenwriting: A Writer’s Guide to the Craft and Elements of a Screenplay, by David Howard and Edward Mabley, Frank Daniel states that ”…the worst thing a book on screenwriting can do is to instill in the mind of the beginner writer a set of rules, regulations, formulas, prescriptions, and recipes.” (xix) And yet others choose the middle of the road. Andrew Horton writes in his book, Writing the Character Centers Screenplay, that writers should blaze new paths, but still “…pay attention to story and structure and other elements.” (2)
If there’s one reality that all how-to authors seem to agree on, however, it is that there is a saturation of screenplay books, but their work is worth your time and money. It’s special. Maybe this is true. But one should question if new screenwriting books are really fresh, seeing as most of them visit – or rather, revisit – how to construct the same old three-act story.

The generic construction of the “Hollywood Three-Part Screenplay” is fairly straightforward. It doesn’t require too much discussion. I don’t mean to imply that the nuances of screenplay writing are simple, but learning to recognize the essential building blocks of the Hollywood screenplay and their proper order is fairly basic. And this basic knowledge is what most screenplay books seek to impart. The result is that they end up parroting each other. Sure, the average author may bring a more accessible voice, a particular emphasis on character or genre, a unique set of details, or even a set of fresh terms for pre-existing structural components, but the meat of the subject goes unchanged.

Most authors of popular screenwriting books spend a lot of time discussing the three-act structure, which was thoroughly explored by Syd Field in the 1970s. Odds are he inspired them to write a how-to screenwriting book in the first place. And prior to Field there was already a well-documented tradition of the workings of three-act stories, which originated in mythology. These had been discussed for centuries and can be found in the writings of Aristotle to Joseph Campbell. So it is not a stretch to imagine that a lot of what screenwriting books offer is partly a review of earlier works.

To better explore this, it is helpful to visually demonstrate the way certain authors instruct their readers to write screenplays. Each offers an interesting take on storytelling and has plenty to offer, but they are clearly dipping into the same source. Indeed, before someone declares that the “Blake Snyder’s Beat Sheet” is revolutionary, they should read Field or Campbell. Even Snyder suggests this in his introduction.

Aristotle presented the basic three-act structure in Poetics. There is a beginning, a middle, and an end.

Joseph Campbell, having spent a lifetime studying mythology, noted similarities in the story structure of the classic hero journey in A Hero With A Thousand Faces and The Power of Myth. He found that in most mythological stories there was a beginning (the Call to Adventure), a middle (the Road of Trials), and an end (The Return). George Lucas made great use of Campbell’s insights when writing Star Wars. And Stuart Voytilla, in his book Myth and the Movies: Discovering the Mythical Structure of 50 Unforgettable Films, outlined how the components of Campbell’s hero journey applied neatly into many Hollywood films.

Writing in the 1970s, Syd Field defined the essential components of the three-act screenplay as consisting of a set up, followed by a confrontation, and then a resolution. He also added additional story landmarks, such as the inciting incident. Whether he realized it or not, these landmarks fit quite neatly into Campbell’s model.

Blake Snyder, a fan of Campbell and Field, created a “Beat Sheet” that parrots those who came before him, though he uses his own terms. His placement of story landmarks, such as when to “show what needs to be changed,” is a variation on Campbell’s “Call to Adventure” and Field’s introduction points for the story’s “Situation” and “Premise.”

Peter Dunne, author of Emotional Structure: Creating the Story Beneath the Plot, explores the character arc between the key three-act points, which he calls The Beginning: “Life As It Was,” The Middle: “Life Torn Apart,” and the end “Life as it Now.” Although quite detailed, these emotional markers are also in keeping with Campbell.

In his book, The 3rd Act, Drew Yanno explores the end of the film and how it relates to a question posed in the beginning, further complementing the works of his processors. He defines the three acts as the Question, the Debate, and the Answer.

When all the graphs are overlaid there are clearly similarities between each book. Unfortunately, following this chart will not guarantee a blockbuster, but it will illustrate a point. Each of these how-to authors is not as different from each other as some might expect. Consider this the next time you read a new screenplay book and, when you sit down to write, remember the words of Robert McKee: “Your work needn’t be modeled after the “well-made” play; rather, it must be well made within the principles that shape our art. Anxious, inexperienced writers obey rules. Rebellious, unschooled writers break rules. Artists master the form.” (Story, 3)

J.J. Patrow is also the artist behind The Bitter Script Reader's new logo.

10 years of Bitter Posts - Structure

In today's installment of our month-long retrospective, I tackle a post that I feel less enthused about a decade later. Even then, I was careful to couch most of what I said as general advice, not as any kind of iron-clad "rule." This was because the instant you call something a "rule," even half-jokingly, you'll attract the attention of someone who'll shout "There are no rules in writing!" and then suddenly the debate is about "How DARE you tell someone what to write!" than it is about the actual issue you were writing about in the first place.

That usually then spins out to the fire-breathing attack that "if this guy was any good, HE'D have sold a script!" The argument turns into pro-vs-amateur, which is never a good look for either side and nothing productive comes of it. 

(I want to point out that 99% of my interactions with professional writers has been positive, but every now and then you find one who seems resistant to the idea that someone without a script sale to their name could POSSIBLY understand when a script makes a bad choice. If you're writing scripts ONLY for an audience of screenwriters, then sure, shut out everything else. OR if you're faced with a snake oil guru who makes a living by slapping bullshit terminology on top of more commonly-understood jargon and then charging you through the roof for it, by all means, go after him.)

This older post was about structure. While I still stand by the spirit of the post, I wince a little at how I used page numbers as a signpost, even though I made a point of saying not to use those page numbers as exact markers. CAN you have twenty pages until you hit the inciting incident? Sure. But it doesn't happen often and when it does happen, you'll find that those first twenty pages are some of the most compelling you've ever read.

But as someone who's a stickler for structure, particularly in my own writing, I want to find a way to give the novice a way to understand how Three-Act Structure works. Save the Cat has a brilliant breakdown, but is almost two specific in two different ways: I think it seems to mandate too many specific plot points AND it's pretty specific about where the pages fall.

So how would I handle it today? I'd probably write the post without the page numbers first, describing the act breaks and turning points entirely in terms of what their function was.

To wit:

• The inciting incident is the change in the status quo that instigates the story. It's Casey Becker being murdered by Ghostface, Vincent getting into Max's cab, Chief Brody finding the body of a half-eaten swimmer and realizing he's got a shark on his hands. It's the starter's gun for your story and your protagonist. Everything else is setting the stage for that and laying out the world.
  
• The first act turning point is the major shift in the story trajectory. It's Marty McFly realizing he's in 1955 and accidentally messing up his parents' first meeting. Something MAJOR happens and it defines how the protagonist is going to spend the rest of the movie reacting to it or fixing it.
  
• The midpoint is an equal raising of the stakes. Then the second act climax is usually where we hit the do-or-die moment. The character is at their lowest point and usually needs to rally for the endgame. If there's a plan, here's where it goes off the rails. In Back to the Future, it's probably the moment where George shows up for his rehearsed fight with Marty, only to find that Biff is about to sexually assault Lorraine. In Batman Begins, it's when Ra's burns down Wayne Manor and Bruce is left for dead, even as the League of Shadows puts into play their plan for Gotham's demise.
  
• The third act then becomes a ticking clock down to the climax. What are our heroes trying to stop or achieve? This is hero vs villain, or the big game where our characters face their opponents.

(Though to be honest, Back to the Future is a dangerous script to use for these purposes because nearly EVERY scene is so propulsive that you can make a case for it as a turning point. Marty still needs to play at the dance, George still needs to kiss Lorraine AND then Marty has to get home even as the clock tower plan falls apart piece by piece.)

But those are usually the five structural questions I need to have answered before I start writing:

• What opens up the world?
• What is the change or escalation that will define the second act of the story? What's the "oh shit" decision that gets made there? (Better if it comes from something the protagonist does.)
• What's the new challenge or threat that shows itself after the characters are starting to feel comfortable?
• What is their lowest point?
• What is the final test they face? What are they trying to stop/achieve ultimately?

There! Did it all without citing page numbers.

There's no one right way to get to the destination

You're sitting in the Warner Bros commissary with four friends, noting that you have to go from there to Sony Studios in Culver City.  This being Los Angeles, such an observation provokes 15 minutes of discussion.

"Take Barham to the 101 North. Get on the 405 South.  Take the 10 East, get off at Robertson and you're practically there," says the first friend.

"Are you nuts?!" exclaims the second. "There's no time of day that's good for the 405. Take the 101 South to the 110. Get to the 10 West, then get off at Robertson."

The third gives a sigh. "You guys are too dependent on freeways. Here's how you get there. Barham to Caheunga. South on Caheunga. Turn left onto the bridge just before the Hollywood Bowl because it's stop and go when it turns into Highland. Go right on Caheunga and take it down to Fountain. Right on Fountain. Fountain to La Brea, left on La Brea. Go all the way south to Venice, right on Venice, take Venice to Culver and be ready for the studio entrance."

"I just use Waze," shrugs the fourth.

Every one of those routes will get you to your destination. Some are more complicated then others, some are faster than others but all of them will navigate you from point A to point B, so in that sense, there is no "wrong" way to go.

This is also true of the writing process. As a guy writing a screenwriting blog, I've occasionally felt bad about contributing to an movement of "gurus" who make money selling aspirings "the one" way that they must go about writing their scripts.  When I offer advice about how to get started structuring and commuting your ideas to paper, I try to note that this is just one way to go about it, not THE way it must be done. I know I'm not always perfect about making that distinction, and I do apologize for it.

Go Into The Story recently did a wonderful writers' roundtable with Hollywood screenwriters Chris Borrelli, F. Scott Frazier, Chris McCoy, Justin Rhodes, Greg Russo, and John Swetnam. I like seeing these different personalities bounce off of each other and discuss their process. Each of these guys is successful in their own right, and so as you note the differences in their process and approach, it becomes even more apparent that there is no RIGHT way to get started. Like the Warner Bros to Sony Studios routes, there are a lot of ways to get to your destination.

It was F. Scott Frazier who had the explanation that most resonated with me at the moment. Wendy Cohen asked "People divide themselves into two camps. You either write character really well or you write plot really well. Do you feel you kind of fall into either group, and then if writing plot’s a challenge for you, how do you approach that?"

Frazier's answer: "When I’m outlining or coming up with an idea the most plot I ever think about is what happens on page 15. What is the inciting incident? After that, I feel like it’s up to the characters to determine that. That might just be me making it up as I go along because I don’t think that I’m good at plot. I get something like The Departed and I just shake my head at it like holy shit, I don’t even know where to begin to write something like that.

"Or The Dark Knight or The Dark Knight Returns where it’s a thousand 30-second scenes and every single one of them move the plot forward in crazy ways. My head doesn’t work like that. I tend to prefer simpler plots, simple stuff. If you saw The Numbers Station is two people in a basement trying to get out. A lot of my scripts are that way. “Autobahn” is very much a guy in a car trying to get to his girlfriend.

"Not a lot in the way of plot outside of what happens on page 15 and the rest of it is just how the characters react to what that big event was and how they interact with each other."

He later expounded, "I usually come up with that inciting incident first, that’s usually where my ideas start from, and then out of that I figure out who is the character that’s going to be screwed up the most by that kind of situation. That’s usually where my character comes from."


I cannot express how good it was to hear someone say this.  I've used an approach similar to this on two of my last three specs and I've always been nervous about saying so because I felt like it was admitting that I was just flying by the seat of my pants on the first draft.  On that first script, I pretty much had developed exactly what Frazier said. I had a character in mind, the general world of the story, the tone and the conflict that would be introduced 15 minutes in. It was the first time I ever started writing without even an inkling of what the ending would be or even some of the major signposts along the way.

This turned out to be a case where that approach worked for me. One idea beget another, and another, and by p. 40, I'd build up so many aspects of this world and put enough concepts into play that it became easier to project forward to what was going to happen later in Act Two, and then later still in Act Three.

Certainly, once I had a complete draft, I went back and tightened up some of the points, adjusting earlier scenes to work as set-up for later revelations.  I ended up swapping the fates of two of the characters, as it felt more right for one particular person to die while another person's arc was better served by having them live. Beyond that, a lot of scenes hewed reasonably close to their earliest incarnation.  For someone who used to do a plot of outlining and obsessing over structure, the fact that this yielded such good results (the script was generally well-received) was encouraging.

But I never admitted to people that the first draft was written on the fly. That felt like something to be ashamed of.

My script after that wasn't quite as loose, but I still dove in without much of a formal outline. Again I had the character, the world, the tone and the overall message of the script I wanted to convey.  The concept required a lot more research so I basically immersed myself in that world and took note of interesting tidbits I wanted to include. In that sense, I had a little bit more of a game plan, but I hadn't pretty seriously worked out what beat was going where.

And again, the people who read it really, really liked it and thought it was the best thing I'd written.  One thing I learned from this is that since I was really coming from a specific tone rather than a specific beat sheet, the tone of the story shone through more in these two scripts. It feels stronger on the page than it had in some of my other works, where the tone occasionally came across neutral. I don't like to put my process under that much of a microscope, but my hunch is that maybe the feeling and emotions are more vivid when I'm not just transcribing and fleshing out something I've lived with a long time.

But then, the script that came after that was one where I wrote a very detailed 12-page outline and the early reaction is that the tone is very strong and powerful.

Perhaps the larger point is, the end result of each of those efforts was a completed script, and one that left my readers with far more positive reactions than negative ones. How you get to that stage doesn't matter so much.  Now, if you're completely stymied by the process of getting started, by all means, adopt whatever's necessary, whether that's the Save the Cat model or my 12-Step Screenwriting plan.

The important thing is the destination, not the journey.

There's more really good stuff from Frazier in that interview, but I've already gassed on enough.  Check out the entire 6-part interview and odds are you'll find yourself nodding along with several of those writers at one point or another.

"How Silly Can You Get?" - Top Secret oral history contains the secrets to writing spoof movies

These days, the term "spoof movie" tends to conjure up images of churned out hackery from the likes of Friedberg/Seltzer, whose films play less like the Airplanes and Naked Guns of yore, and more like restaged sequences from recent films with a fart joke or a pop culture reference tossed in.  Product like many of the SCARY MOVIE films plays less like satire on the works it references and more like a series of "Hey, remember this moment from a 9 month-old pop culture phenomenon?" The story is threadbare and many scenes are little more than gag after gag.

The godfathers of this genre are David Zucker, Jerry Zucker and Jim Abrahams, whose career-making film Airplane literally invented the spoof movie genre.  Only Mel Brooks could have a claim to getting there first, but there's a wackiness and joke density that permeates Airplane which films like even Blazing Saddles and Young Frankenstein don't match.

The ZAZ team made it look so easy with Airplane that when working on the film's follow-up, Top Secret! even they didn't seem to understand what really made the film work.  (I personally love the film, though.)  Its something they cop to again and again in this oral history of Top Secret!

I'm reprinting a number of their quotes here because it goes to the heart of what a good movie needs - a strong story and structure.  Everything else is gravy.

Jerry Zucker: We were funny guys who really didn’t understand, had no clue, about movie structure.

Jim Abrahams: ‘Airplane!’ was based on this movie ‘Zero Hour!,’ and that’s a story about a guy with post-traumatic stress disorder and, if you look at it in ‘Airplane!’ pretty carefully, that’s what Bob Hayes’ character had. He was plagued by demons from the war and it affected his personality.

[...]

Jerry Zucker: That’s part of the problem of doing a second movie after a big hit, everybody says, “Well, you must know.” And the fact is, we didn’t. We knew how to tell jokes, but we didn’t understand yet how to make a movie. I don’t know why nobody said, “Hey, take a structure course.”

David Zucker: We thought we hit it out of the park, because it was so funny. We knew we had the jokes. But I think we learned a lesson.

Jerry Zucker: I think some of our best jokes are in ‘Top Secret!,’ but it’s really hurt by not having a story. It doesn’t have much of a story or a hook … joke-wise, we started to run out of gas at the end of ‘Airplane!.’ But the movie doesn’t run out of gas.

Another lesson they touch on is the issue of topical jokes and references:

Jim Abrahams: Especially after ‘Airplane!,’ we started to figure out the rules of comedy beyond just our own instincts of “does that seem funny or not.” And one of the rules that we came up with was if we’re going to parody a specific scene from a movie, that it needs to work on its own. And if you get the fact it’s a parody of a specific movie, well that’s kind of frosting on the cake. 

 David Zucker: When I reflect on it, it’s better that we didn’t do topical humor. And the unique thing about movies like ‘Airplane!’ and ‘Top Secret!’ is that they are still funny. So, when I see them with audiences, they still laugh. 

 Jim Abrahams: There’s a scene on a beach in ‘Airplane!’ where Bob and Julie got wiped out by a wave. In reviews for ‘Airplane!,’ people said, “Wow, wasn’t that a clever spoof of the scene from ‘Here to Eternity.’ Well, we had never seen ‘From Here to Eternity.’ We had no idea that it was a spoof, we just thought it would be funny for a couple to get wiped out by a wave while they’re kissing on the beach. But that got us thinking that if you’re doing a spoof from a scene from a movie, it has to work regardless or not whether or not you get the reference.

 Comedy is about more than just silly gags.  Most comedy writers will tell you that the rules for writing a comedy are the same as writing any other film.  Build off of a strong structure, have a story that makes sense, and have characters who are consistently drawn.  Do all of that and the humor will arise naturally.

You can find the oral history of Top Secret! here.

Webshow: "Lies about guru beat sheets"

There's a frequent perception that script readers base all their evaluations on the tenets discussed in Blake Snyder's "Save the Cat."  So is there any truth to this?  Hear what the Bitter puppet has to say.

Why Save the Cat didn't destroy screenwriting: it's all been done before

This is a replay post from a couple of years ago, but recent events have convinced me that it merits spotlighting again.  My buddy J.J. Patrow did an excellent comparison that placed the screenwriting philosophies of several leading "gurus" side-by-side.  One of these gurus was Blake Snyder, whose book Save the Cat was recently eviscerated in a Slate article that targeted it as the reason that Hollywood movies suck.

I detest linking to the article, but I need to pull out at least one excerpt.

When Snyder published his book in 2005, it was as if an explosion ripped through Hollywood. The book offered something previous screenplay guru tomes didn’t. Instead of a broad overview of how a screen story fits together, his book broke down the three-act structure into a detailed “beat sheet”: 15 key story “beats”—pivotal events that have to happen—and then gave each of those beats a name and a screenplay page number. Given that each page of a screenplay is expected to equal a minute of film, this makes Snyder’s guide essentially a minute-to-minute movie formula.

The problem I have with blaming Save the Cat for all of this is that there really isn't anything new in that book.  It might be presented differently, but Synder's overall philosophy isn't too dissimilar from storytelling tenants that have been around long before film itself.  So without further ado, I'll turn the floor over to J.J. Patrow:


THE SAME OLD THREE ACTS
By J.J. Patrow

Although good screenwriting isn’t easy, it can be learned through study and practice. That’s what we’re taught to believe. And we must believe it because thousands of people have been inspired to learn the craft, generating a huge market for screenwriting lectures, classes, workshops, instructional videos, and how-to books. It has also generated just as many reader opinions about which screenwriting guru offers the best advice.

Some authors champion a paint-by-the-numbers approach. The “Blake Snyder Beat Sheet” in Save The Cat: The Last Book on Screenwriting You’ll Ever Need by Blake Snyder comes to mind. Other authors counter that step-by-step guides are misguided. In the introduction to The Tools of Screenwriting: A Writer’s Guide to the Craft and Elements of a Screenplay, by David Howard and Edward Mabley, Frank Daniel states that ”…the worst thing a book on screenwriting can do is to instill in the mind of the beginner writer a set of rules, regulations, formulas, prescriptions, and recipes.” (xix) And yet others choose the middle of the road. Andrew Horton writes in his book, Writing the Character Centers Screenplay, that writers should blaze new paths, but still “…pay attention to story and structure and other elements.” (2)

If there’s one reality that all how-to authors seem to agree on, however, it is that there is a saturation of screenplay books, but their work is worth your time and money. It’s special. Maybe this is true. But one should question if new screenwriting books are really fresh, seeing as most of them visit – or rather, revisit – how to construct the same old three-act story.

The generic construction of the “Hollywood Three-Part Screenplay” is fairly straightforward. It doesn’t require too much discussion. I don’t mean to imply that the nuances of screenplay writing are simple, but learning to recognize the essential building blocks of the Hollywood screenplay and their proper order is fairly basic. And this basic knowledge is what most screenplay books seek to impart. The result is that they end up parroting each other. Sure, the average author may bring a more accessible voice, a particular emphasis on character or genre, a unique set of details, or even a set of fresh terms for pre-existing structural components, but the meat of the subject goes unchanged.

Most authors of popular screenwriting books spend a lot of time discussing the three-act structure, which was thoroughly explored by Syd Field in the 1970s. Odds are he inspired them to write a how-to screenwriting book in the first place. And prior to Field there was already a well-documented tradition of the workings of three-act stories, which originated in mythology. These had been discussed for centuries and can be found in the writings of Aristotle to Joseph Campbell. So it is not a stretch to imagine that a lot of what screenwriting books offer is partly a review of earlier works.

To better explore this, it is helpful to visually demonstrate the way certain authors instruct their readers to write screenplays. Each offers an interesting take on storytelling and has plenty to offer, but they are clearly dipping into the same source. Indeed, before someone declares that the “Blake Snyder’s Beat Sheet” is revolutionary, they should read Field or Campbell. Even Snyder suggests this in his introduction.


Aristotle presented the basic three-act structure in Poetics. There is a beginning, a middle, and an end.

Joseph Campbell, having spent a lifetime studying mythology, noted similarities in the story structure of the classic hero journey in A Hero With A Thousand Faces and The Power of Myth. He found that in most mythological stories there was a beginning (the Call to Adventure), a middle (the Road of Trials), and an end (The Return). George Lucas made great use of Campbell’s insights when writing Star Wars. And Stuart Voytilla, in his book Myth and the Movies: Discovering the Mythical Structure of 50 Unforgettable Films, outlined how the components of Campbell’s hero journey applied neatly into many Hollywood films.

Writing in the 1970s, Syd Field defined the essential components of the three-act screenplay as consisting of a set up, followed by a confrontation, and then a resolution. He also added additional story landmarks, such as the inciting incident. Whether he realized it or not, these landmarks fit quite neatly into Campbell’s model.

Blake Snyder, a fan of Campbell and Field, created a “Beat Sheet” that parrots those who came before him, though he uses his own terms. His placement of story landmarks, such as when to “show what needs to be changed,” is a variation on Campbell’s “Call to Adventure” and Field’s introduction points for the story’s “Situation” and “Premise.”

Peter Dunne, author of Emotional Structure: Creating the Story Beneath the Plot, explores the character arc between the key three-act points, which he calls The Beginning: “Life As It Was,” The Middle: “Life Torn Apart,” and the end “Life as it Now.” Although quite detailed, these emotional markers are also in keeping with Campbell.

In his book, The 3rd Act, Drew Yanno explores the end of the film and how it relates to a question posed in the beginning, further complementing the works of his processors. He defines the three acts as the Question, the Debate, and the Answer.


When all the graphs are overlaid there are clearly similarities between each book. 

Unfortunately, following this chart will not guarantee a blockbuster, but it will illustrate a point. Each of these how-to authors is not as different from each other as some might expect. Consider this the next time you read a new screenplay book and, when you sit down to write, remember the words of Robert McKee: “Your work needn’t be modeled after the “well-made” play; rather, it must be well made within the principles that shape our art. Anxious, inexperienced writers obey rules. Rebellious, unschooled writers break rules. Artists master the form.” (Story, 3)

---

Note: I've long had problems getting Blogger to display images properly.  For those of you who want these charts in their complete sizes you can download a zip file of them here. 

"Everything you EVER wanted to know about about THE AVENGERS movie"

My friend Clint sent me this fantastic (and very long) article that serves as a breakdown of THE AVENGERS.  It's a great examination of the film scene-by-scene, breaking down structure, character motivations and plot development.  Todd Alcott does a wonderful job as our guide through the film.


The Oscar nominations were announced the other day. To no one’s surprise, the screenplay for The Avengers was not among them. That’s a shame, because the screenplay for The Avengers is a startling model of precision, density and propulsion. It manages to juggle no fewer than ten wildly disparate main characters in its ensemble cast and give each of them weight, clarity and purpose. Dear readers, I’ve worked on many a comic-book movie, none of which ever got near production. To get one superhero narrative to work is damn near impossible; The Avengers soars with seven. 

We begin with a blue cube on a black screen. That’s the Tesseract. What is the Tesseract? Well, assuming the viewer has not seen Thor or Captain America, the answer is “Who knows?” But the Tesseract is the very first thing mentioned in The Avengers. It is, of course, the maguffin of the movie, the object around which the narrative revolves. That it has been mentioned in previous movies doesn’t matter. In a lot of ways, and this is an important concept, what the maguffin of any narrative is doesn’t matter. It is “an object of consequence,” and that’s all you need to know.

Read the rest here.

12-Step Screenwriting: Week 2 - Three-Act Structure

It's time for another episode of the Bitter Script Reader YouTube series!

This is the second chapter of a 12-part series designed to guide and motivate a writer to complete a screenplay within three months.  Recognizing that I had an opportunity to reach a new audience via YouTube, I decided to start with the basics.

This week's video covers the basics of the three-act structure, something every writer should know.



As you can see, this is back-to-basics information, but hopefully some of you will take up the challenge of completing a screenplay alongside the weekly lessons in this series.  I've done my best to minimize the jargon here.  So while at some point we'll be talking things like Act Breaks and Climaxes, but I won't ask you to commit things like "Fun & Games" to memory.


As always, it really helps me out to see some engagement with these videos, so please click through to the YouTube page, Subscribe and leave a few comments there.  Feel free to embed these on your blogs, and if you find the tips useful, tweet about them or put the videos on your Facebook page.

I hope that in three months time, a lot of you will be reporting back with completed screenplays.

The "And Then" Problem - as explained by South Park's creators.

South Park creators Trey Parker and Matt Stone recently crashed an NYU Film class on its first day and imparted some wisdom to the students that is simple, but essential when crafting a story.  I'll let Trey Parker explain  (around the 4:00 mark).  In the event the embed doesn't work for you, go here:

"We found out this really simple rule... we can take... the beats of your outline, and if the words "and then' belong between those beats, you're f**ked, basically.  You've got something pretty boring.  What should happen between every beat you've written down is the word 'therefore' or 'but.'  

"So you come up with an idea and it's like 'this happens... and then, this happens.'  No, no, no!  It should be 'this happens... and therefore, this happens.'  [or] 'this happens... but this happens.'"

In transcript form, that probably reads more confusing than it plays.  I recognized this advice immediately, though, because it's something I term the "And Then Problem" when writing up coverage.  As most of you know, writing up coverage usually involves producing a story synopsis.  Nothing makes you aware of the weaknesses in story construction more than trying to boil down 120 pages to a page and a half or two pages of description that covers all the important moments while still flowing effectively.

A well-constructed script often makes for an easily written synopsis because there's that domino effect that Trey is essentially describing.  One scene clearly connects to the next and has an impact. Bad scripts jump all over the place before settling on a direction - or they pick a direction only to sputter and allow intermediate beats to drop the ball.

If it helps, describe your script to someone and see how often you find yourself resorting to "And Then" in your descriptions.

The "Act Two problems" of Green Lantern: Part II - Hal's arc

Part I

We continue with our look at the Act II problems of Green Lantern.

The next problem: Hal's internal arc. When we meet him, he's a cocky test pilot, seemingly driven by ego and a lot of false bravado. Before long, we learn he's haunted by the death of his test pilot father in a plane crash years earlier. Some of this works - I can buy that Hal is haunted and being fired from his job might send him towards rock bottom. But the script whisks him off to Oa for training, where he retains his cocky personality until Corps member Sinestro basically says he doesn't deserve to wear that uniform, saying he brings shame to it.

Somehow, these words from someone Hal's known for all of three minutes cut him so deeply that he decides he needs to quit the Corps. Thus, Hal spends the entire second act moping that he can't be part of the Corps because he's afraid, and that his fear makes him weak and he'll never be as good as the other Lanterns, and so on and so on.

Having a character mope during the entire second act is always a dangerous move. Your hero sets the tone. The reason people loved Iron Man had less to do with any affection for comic book heroes and more to do with the fact that Robert Downey Jr. was a helluva lot of fun to watch in the role. I absolutely believe that Reynolds could have been just as much fun as Green Lantern, but he's stranded by a script that doesn't give his character much sense of fun. There's no motivation for Hal to really be hurt by the fact that Sinestro doesn't respect him and so the whole arc feels false. It's just there to give him self-doubt that he can "heroically" overcome by the end of the film.

The thing is, there was a better way to get to this. While Hal's sent back to Earth, Sinestro leads a squadron of Corps members against Parallax, who makes shortwork of them by tapping into their fears to make them vulnerable before he finishes them off.

My solution: when Sinestro tells Hal, "You suck, I can tell after 30 seconds you haven't got what it takes. Hal retorts, "Screw you. I'm as good as any of you." Play up that arrogance and insecurity that we've already seen and then send him on the initial mission to confront Parallax. Here's where Hal finds out he's in over his head because he experiences first hand the menance and what he'll need to overcome it. When the Corps attack, Hal should fall in battle pretty quickly, overwhelmed by the fears that Parallax brings to the fore. Perhaps with Sinestro's help, Hal is one of the few to escape alive, only to flee back to Earth.

Here's where we would hit the "Dark Night of the Soul." Hal wouldn't mope for an entire act - but maybe just ten minutes or so. Then he gets forced into action by Hector's plots. He doesn't have time to think about it - he has to be a hero. And then it gets worse. Maybe Sinestro and the rest of the Corps have fallen back to hold the line at Oa. There's just one problem - Parallax isn't headed there. Having become aware of Earth through Hector, he's now heading there to power up before going to Oa for the main dish.

In the film right now, there's not a particularly good reason given for why the Guardians don't send the Corps to defend Earth. Yeah, it gives Hal a good scene where he stands up to the Guardians and accuses them of being afraid. In the end, it feels like a clunky way to set up Hal as the only one to take on Parallax.

For what it's worth, I enjoyed Green Lantern, even if it wasn't as airtight as I would have liked. It's a shame that the box office fell short this weekend, because I would have loved to have seen this universe explored in a sequel or two. WB and DC Entertainment really needed this one to be a hit and I can't imagine they're thrilled with the box office results. It's a shame because I'd say it's a mostly decent comic book movie.

In terms of this summer's offerings, I think it's better than Thor, but perhaps short of X-Men: First Class. The difference is that even while Thor was held back by some of the cheesy stuff in Asgard, Chris Hemmsworth really anchored that film and was allowed to give a fun performance. Reynolds isn't given the same freedom from his screenplay, and unfortunately, I think that's what led critics to attack the film.

The "Act Two problems" of Green Lantern

An unfortunately-not-uncommon term among screenwriters and critics is "Act Two problems." Even if you don't know exactly what this means, likely you've observed them. If you're a writer, chances are at some point in your creative efforts, you've birthed them.

See, if you've got a good hook for a script, writing the set-up is often pretty easy. When you're really lucky, the first act writes itself. If you're really sharp, you've come up with an exciting climax and a strong ending that perfectly suits your concept and set-up. In other words, you know where your plot and characters start and have a good idea of where they end up.

Here, I'll give you a good example of this kind of pitch. This is from The Player. The story itself starts at about a minute in. Tim Robbins plays a studio exec who's getting a pitch from two writers. (One of whom has an arrogance and pretension that eventually comes across as off-putting and, frankly, naive.)



In a later scene, Robbins' character remarks that among the story's other deficiencies, "It's got no second act." It's a problem a lot of writers face - how do you get from A to C?

Green Lantern is - much to my great disappointment - a pretty good example of Act Two problems. As I discussed last week, I'd been anticipating this film like no other and was very concerned when I saw so many negative reviews. When I finally saw the film, I spent the first 40 or 45 minutes pleasantly surprised. The mythology of the Green Lanterns was introduced as effectively as film allowed, Ryan Reynolds' Hal Jordan got an exciting introduction that summed up his character well, and the big scene where he received the ring from the dying Abin Sur had all the weight and power I expected it to carry.

The film doesn't really run into trouble until partway through the second act. While Hal is whisked away to the planet Oa for training, an Earth-bound threat emerges in the form of scientist Hector Hammond, who becomes infected with energy from galactic threat Parallax.

The Green Lantern Corps need to mount an attack on Parallax, which is winging its way through space and is bound for Oa. The problem: there's still an hour left in the movie, so the film has to find some way of stalling that climactic battle.

Thus we get our first major Act Two problem: The Hector Hammond subplot. Peter Sarsgaard performs the role well, and under the right circumstances, Hector can be one creepy SOB. Here, he feels like a placeholder - a way to motivate some action to happen on Earth. Since the movie wants to set up Hal's earthbound life for future chapters, there needs to be some kind of subplot set-up Earthside, preferably one that puts Blake Lively's Carol Ferris into some kind of damsel-in-distress situation.

Hector is supposedly an old friend of Hal and Carol's, but this fact isn't mined for anything beyond perfunctory "I had the hots for her too, Hal" tension. When it comes down to the final battle between the two, there's none of the depth or heartbreak that X-Men: First Class was able to tap when Xavier found himself on the opposite side of the situation from Erik and Mystique.

There's also the fact that superhero film conventions demand that Hal flex some muscles on Earth and have a public debut of sorts as Green Lantern. Hector's first public stunt provides this, but then the film makes one of it's most baffling misteps: Hal's public debut barely feels public. The helicopter rescue gives him a chance to show off some of his ring constructs, but then we only get the barest hint of a public reaction to the new superhero in their midst.

I get that a lot of Superhero movies - particularly Superman - have covered this ground, and there's the risk of being derivative. Still, it's something that would have made the world feel realer, and given a stronger sense of Green Lantern's powers and responsibilities. From what we see - the world reacts with a shrug more than a "Holy shit! This guy can fly and his ring does anything!" If no one in-story is reacting to amazing things with any sense of wonder, it often weakens the impact for the audience.

(I had a similar problem with the Smallville finale last month, where Clark's public debut as Superman was practically non-existent and we saw none of the reaction to "The Blur" finally showing his face after years of being little more than an urban legend to the people of Metropolis.)

That's a lot for one day, so we'll save another major Act Two issue for tomorrow's post, where we focus on Hal Jordan's personal arc.

Guest Post: The Same Old Three Acts - a comparison of several guru's structural philosophies

A buddy of mine and a member of my writing group, J.J. Patrow recently decided on a lark to compare the differing philosophies of the best-known screenwriting gurus. As he output his findings as charts, he made some interesting discoveries. I found the charts so intriguing that I invited him to post them here, along with an explanatory article of sorts. 

THE SAME OLD THREE ACTS
By J.J. Patrow

Although good screenwriting isn’t easy, it can be learned through study and practice. That’s what we’re taught to believe. And we must believe it because thousands of people have been inspired to learn the craft, generating a huge market for screenwriting lectures, classes, workshops, instructional videos, and how-to books. It has also generated just as many reader opinions about which screenwriting guru offers the best advice.

Some authors champion a paint-by-the-numbers approach. The “Blake Snyder Beat Sheet” in Save The Cat: The Last Book on Screenwriting You’ll Ever Need by Blake Snyder comes to mind. Other authors counter that step-by-step guides are misguided. In the introduction to The Tools of Screenwriting: A Writer’s Guide to the Craft and Elements of a Screenplay, by David Howard and Edward Mabley, Frank Daniel states that ”…the worst thing a book on screenwriting can do is to instill in the mind of the beginner writer a set of rules, regulations, formulas, prescriptions, and recipes.” (xix) And yet others choose the middle of the road. Andrew Horton writes in his book, Writing the Character Centers Screenplay, that writers should blaze new paths, but still “…pay attention to story and structure and other elements.” (2)
If there’s one reality that all how-to authors seem to agree on, however, it is that there is a saturation of screenplay books, but their work is worth your time and money. It’s special. Maybe this is true. But one should question if new screenwriting books are really fresh, seeing as most of them visit – or rather, revisit – how to construct the same old three-act story.

The generic construction of the “Hollywood Three-Part Screenplay” is fairly straightforward. It doesn’t require too much discussion. I don’t mean to imply that the nuances of screenplay writing are simple, but learning to recognize the essential building blocks of the Hollywood screenplay and their proper order is fairly basic. And this basic knowledge is what most screenplay books seek to impart. The result is that they end up parroting each other. Sure, the average author may bring a more accessible voice, a particular emphasis on character or genre, a unique set of details, or even a set of fresh terms for pre-existing structural components, but the meat of the subject goes unchanged.

Most authors of popular screenwriting books spend a lot of time discussing the three-act structure, which was thoroughly explored by Syd Field in the 1970s. Odds are he inspired them to write a how-to screenwriting book in the first place. And prior to Field there was already a well-documented tradition of the workings of three-act stories, which originated in mythology. These had been discussed for centuries and can be found in the writings of Aristotle to Joseph Campbell. So it is not a stretch to imagine that a lot of what screenwriting books offer is partly a review of earlier works.

To better explore this, it is helpful to visually demonstrate the way certain authors instruct their readers to write screenplays. Each offers an interesting take on storytelling and has plenty to offer, but they are clearly dipping into the same source. Indeed, before someone declares that the “Blake Snyder’s Beat Sheet” is revolutionary, they should read Field or Campbell. Even Snyder suggests this in his introduction.

Aristotle presented the basic three-act structure in Poetics. There is a beginning, a middle, and an end.

Joseph Campbell, having spent a lifetime studying mythology, noted similarities in the story structure of the classic hero journey in A Hero With A Thousand Faces and The Power of Myth. He found that in most mythological stories there was a beginning (the Call to Adventure), a middle (the Road of Trials), and an end (The Return). George Lucas made great use of Campbell’s insights when writing Star Wars. And Stuart Voytilla, in his book Myth and the Movies: Discovering the Mythical Structure of 50 Unforgettable Films, outlined how the components of Campbell’s hero journey applied neatly into many Hollywood films.

Writing in the 1970s, Syd Field defined the essential components of the three-act screenplay as consisting of a set up, followed by a confrontation, and then a resolution. He also added additional story landmarks, such as the inciting incident. Whether he realized it or not, these landmarks fit quite neatly into Campbell’s model.

Blake Snyder, a fan of Campbell and Field, created a “Beat Sheet” that parrots those who came before him, though he uses his own terms. His placement of story landmarks, such as when to “show what needs to be changed,” is a variation on Campbell’s “Call to Adventure” and Field’s introduction points for the story’s “Situation” and “Premise.”

Peter Dunne, author of Emotional Structure: Creating the Story Beneath the Plot, explores the character arc between the key three-act points, which he calls The Beginning: “Life As It Was,” The Middle: “Life Torn Apart,” and the end “Life as it Now.” Although quite detailed, these emotional markers are also in keeping with Campbell.

In his book, The 3rd Act, Drew Yanno explores the end of the film and how it relates to a question posed in the beginning, further complementing the works of his processors. He defines the three acts as the Question, the Debate, and the Answer.

When all the graphs are overlaid there are clearly similarities between each book. Unfortunately, following this chart will not guarantee a blockbuster, but it will illustrate a point. Each of these how-to authors is not as different from each other as some might expect. Consider this the next time you read a new screenplay book and, when you sit down to write, remember the words of Robert McKee: “Your work needn’t be modeled after the “well-made” play; rather, it must be well made within the principles that shape our art. Anxious, inexperienced writers obey rules. Rebellious, unschooled writers break rules. Artists master the form.” (Story, 3)

J.J. Patrow is also the artist behind The Bitter Script Reader's new logo.

Structure

Structure is one of the most important elements in screenwriting, and it’s also one that a good writer could spend an entire screenwriting book explaining. Having read several of those books, I can attest that everyone has their own method of explaining the three-act structure. Different books and screenwriting professors might have different terms for certain structural details, but in the end most scripts can be broken down in one way or another. For a very detailed breakdown, this reader suggests the one that Blake Snyder discusses in his book Save the Cat.

However, in most cases, I usually discuss structure in a less specific fashion when I do coverage. Here’s the short, most basic breakdown I tend to work from:

Typically you want the inciting incident to happen in the first fifteen minutes of the movie. This is the moment that puts the main arc of the story into motion and often ends up defining the script. In most cases, you’ll find it close to p. 12-15. Then, at the end of Act One, there will be a major turning point in the plot that sends the story in a new direction. This usually happens in the range of p. 25-30. First acts generally conform to this pattern, whether the second act is 30 pages or 60 pages. If your main story hasn’t gotten some advancement by p. 30, it’s usually time to start tightening the pace.

Act Two has three turning points, and usually they’re separated by a range of 15-20 pages, though in a tight script it’s not unheard of for them to be ten pages apart. In any event, there need to be three major developments in the story that build on each other, with the third development being the end-of-Act-Two climax. Usually, this is the point where things are at their worst for the hero. It’s sometimes called the “all is lost” moment because it happens when the odds have been stacked against the protagonist and everything that can go wrong, has.

The third act then usually begins with the hero somehow rallying as he prepares to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. Then after about 15-20 pages, we reach the climax, where the central problem of the film is resolved. After that, there’s usually a coda, which can take anywhere from 5-10 pages and brings closure to the story.

I’m always leery of citing page counts because that gives the impression that scripts are completely cookie cutter and a writer is going to get called out if their inciting incident is on p. 16 instead of p. 15, or if the first turning point comes on p. 31. Don’t worry too much about that. Worry about the fact that if your reader is noticing the page numbers, then the pacing probably isn’t as tight as it needs to be. When a story isn’t flowing well for me, or the beginning of a script is dragging, 99 times out of a hundred, I can trace it back to the fact that the writer is taking too long to get to the turning point. Cutting down the excess almost always results in the turning points ending up roughly where they need to be in terms of page count. Pacing and structure go hand-in-hand, and there’s definitely a reason why reviewers notice when the first act runs 35 pages long.