Why Do Protagonists Stare at Photographs?

Remember in Romancing the Stone how Michael Douglas's character carried around a picture of a sailboat in order to demonstrate his big-want to own a sailboat? Apparently, he really wants to visit the island Jamie Fox's character dreams about in Collateral.

Every time I see this photo-trope, I groan a little. I'm taken out of the movie as I ponder whether or not they could have come up with a better way to visualize the protagonist's big-want.

So why do I write this trope so much? I'm doing it in the script I'm writing right now!

The reason why this happens so much is because too often it's sadly the best alternative.

Would you rather stall the movie with wistful dialogue about that big-want that's just so big and the protagonist sure sounds wistful about it, doesn't he? No, film is a visual medium. It's full of talismans (yup, plural of "talisman" is "talismans", not "talisman". I looked it up). We'd rather see it than hear it. It's faster. We remember it better.

Would you rather write a dream sequence (sometimes not a bad idea, actually, but potentially overkill)?

Would you rather orchestrate Your protagonist walking past a boat store, or an island store? It's your movie, you can invent stores that don't exist.

Yeah, maybe you can pull off something more inventive on the page. But I imagine that once a film goes into production, and they're looking for ways to save time and money, they see that scene, and think, "Can't he just look at a picture in his wallet so we can cut the new location?"

Sigh. 

I say, always strive to not do this trope, even though, yeah, you're going to do it. Because what we don't fight grows, until that tiny wallet photo becomes...

the Crazy Wall.

Another Scriptshadow Logline Review

Over on Scriptshadow is a review of an amateur script called Made in China, with the logline below:

"Two estranged sisters from New York travel to rural China to receive an inheritance from the father they never knew. Once there, they find themselves on a wild journey of self discovery as they race the clock to pass physical and psychological tests set forth in their father’s will that will earn them his mysterious legacy."

The writer of this script welcomes critique so that she can figure out why this logline got so many read requests (yay!), but no considers or recommends (wah). I will do my best to help!

First, let me make clear that I'm not reading the actual script, though I did read the Scriptshadow review, and know the main story beats. The script may be a great page turner. I'm only focusing on the logline, and how it SUGGESTS potential issues in the story's structure.

As I've said in previous posts, I believe the logline helps the writer as well as the reader understand the story being told. You can review my logline manifesto here.

So, I see red flags in this logline. Yes, I know it's a successful logline that got multiple requests for a script. In THAT sense, the logline is great. But it gives me concerns that the writer doesn't have a firm handle on her story--concerns which are substantiated by the story summary.

For example, it turns out that the "mysterious legacy" goal isn't really mysterious throughout so much as it contains an act three surprise. Throughout act two, it's just money, which is a perfectly fine goal. But if money is the goal, then say so. I worry many readers went into this script suspecting some mysterious, supernatural, or even horror-tinged goal which never materialized.

Next, let's look at the vague stakes for the dual protagonists. Basically, they're two mice thrown into a maze at the start of act two, looking for cheese. The logline only SAYS there's a ticking clock rather than making the ticking clock clear by stating stakes for failure. What will happen if these two sisters fail the maze? Are they competing? Does the loser get nothing? When I don't see clear stakes for failure, I worry that a protagonist is going to be a puppet rather than driven by her own desires. And, again, the summary bears out my fear. One sister has a clear want for money, but the other's big-want is to make the journey to China to close a deal and win a promotion. She doesn't care about the inheritance. She's just accommodating her sister. If you're going to give your protagonist a big-want of a promotion, then you have to respect it. This sister CAN'T go into the maze UNLESS going into the maze helps her achieve her promotion. Otherwise, you're telling the reader, "Never mind". Your protagonist is a puppet driven by the writer's plot needs rather than her own wants. 

Scriptshadow brings up a great template for this writer to study: Rain Man. There are many similarities: Estranged siblings, an inheritance, a road trip. So let's look at my version of the Rain Man logline:

"After discovering an autistic older brother he didn't know he had at his estranged father's will reading, a self-centered hotshot on the verge of financial ruin must wrest control of his father's estate from the brother's care facility by kidnapping the brother and winning his confidence during a California road trip to settle the hotshot's debts."

Notice how the protagonist's goal aligns with going on a road trip with his sibling? In Made In China, one sibling has no such alignment, an issue I feared from the logline.

So how do you fix this? I can't be certain without reading the script, but I can guess. Maybe the workaholic sister needs something from the cash-strapped sister rather than wanting a client-deal unrelated to the story's core journey. Maybe the workaholic wrote a tell-all and needs her sister to sign away life rights. Maybe the workaholic needs a kidney. Or maybe the workaholic needs money too! In fact, that might be the best answer, as perhaps the workaholic needs the ENTIRE inheritance, putting the sisters in eventual conflict. It presents opportunities for sister sabotage. It makes clear stakes. How about something like this:

"After an eccentric father they never knew passes away, two estranged and debt-ridden sisters must travel to rural China to claim their inheritance, only to find a catch: Their father has designed a gauntlet of tests for them to pass which threaten to break their already meager family-bond."

Here's another possibility: Maybe this doesn't want to be a dual protagonist story. Maybe one sister is an antagonist or magical helper.

Or maybe the actual story works, and the logline just isn't capturing it. I'd have to read the script to know. Let's not forget, I'm just brainstorming about loglines, hoping that the process shakes out the right answer for the writer. 

Writer, if you read this, let me know if this helps! 

Best Stick to ONE Prologue

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I just watched The Sorcerer's Apprentice for research purposes. I know, many of you might scoff: How does watching a "bad" film help you write a good one? Why not watch a "great" film, like Excalibur?

First of all, I have watched Excalibur. A lot. "Enahl Nah Trach. Oos Vas Vethude. Donyel Dienve" is my ringtone.

Second of all, calling The Sorcerer's Apprentice a bad film is like calling Elliot Williams the worst player in the NBA. All it would take is one devastating earthquake at the ESPYS and Elliot Williams is the greatest basketball player in the world. You can learn A LOT from a player, and a movie, that ran the gauntlet all the way to the big show. The writer(s) wrote a script that got a green light, as well as attachments from actors you would KILL to have attach to your script. There is much to mine here.

Okay, so now that I've defended The Sorcerer's Apprentice, let me focus on my problem with its opening.

(SPOILERS!) The film begins with a prologue explaining the world of Sorcerers; Nicholas Cage and Alfred Molina are two apprentices of Merlin, until Molina joins with the evil Morgana and sets off a prophecy where Cage must find a special child who is "the one" to kill Morgana once and for all. 

Okay, many stories do these prologues, and then reboot into the actual story with the main protagonist, usually meeting a prologue character for the first time. In fact, Excalibur does the same thing, starting its story with King Arthur's father falling in battle as a price for the dark magic he uses to seduce King Arthur's mom. The father's final act is burying his magical sword, Excalibur, into stone such that only his newborn son can remove it when he grows up, thereby claiming his birthright to the throne.

But there's a danger in prologues. They muddy the inciting incident. I see a lot of writers bury their actual inciting incident under multiple prologues. Case in point: The Sorcerer's Apprentice!

After the film's prologue, we meet the main protagonist as a 10 year old boy. He stumbles onto meeting Nicholas Cage, who recognizes the boy as "the one". The inciting incident is upon us! Except then Alfred Molina arrives to scuttle the meeting with magic that winds up trapping him and Nicholas Cage in an enchanted vase. The boy grows up to think this magical moment was all in his head, delaying the true inciting incident until the grown up boy, played by Jay Baruchel, meets Nicholas Cage for the second time 10 years later.

How does this sort of muddiness happen in a major studio film? I have suspicions. Maybe the story was originally written with a 10 year old protagonist, but the studio feared putting the film's opening on the back of a no-name boy. Just look at Pan to see their fears justified. There are ZERO 10 year olds that can open a film. The more the marketing tried to focus us on Hugh Jackman's Blackbeard, the more audiences wondered why the film was called Pan, and stayed away. So maybe the studio asked to age up the protagonist to get Jay Baruchel attached. 

Or maybe the script originally presented the Merlin era in flashback rather than front loaded as prologue, but had to Frankenstein the prologue after shooting finished, due to audience reactions.

Whatever the reason, it's just not optimal. Learn from The Sorcerer's Apprentice's stumble. Look at your own story, and count the prologues. Unless your story truly has multiple protagonists, or a panicked studio is paying you a ton of money to force you to break this rule, you get ONE prologue.

The WORST Part in The Martian

Seen The Martian? The WORST, right? Not the whole movie, of course. The movie is FANTASTIC. But that one scene, you know the scene I'm talking about, right?

No, not Kristen Wiig, whom it's not fair to criticize, but she's just so funny that I could not get it out of my head that she was going to Garth and Kat every scene.


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No, I' referring to the Donald-Glover-explains-with-a-STAPLER scene, which is now an awful-movie-cliche that they keep doing over and over because the knuckle-dragger segment of the population needs to be carried over the goal line of clarity, I suppose?



Why does this scene keep happening when the complexity of the exposition doesn't require it?

Yes, we all loved Doc Brown explaining his plan to direct 1.21 gigawatts of lightning power into the Delorean. But that plan had detail and novelty. Here, let's write out the steps:

Run an electrical cable from the clock tower to the street.
Connect the flux capacitor to a giant hook that can transfer power from the electrical cable into the car.
Drive the car at 88 miles per hour, and time the acceleration precisely so that the hook meets the electrical cable at the exact moment of the lightning striking the clock tower.

Now let's write out the steps of the Rich Purnell Maneuver:

The Hermes slighshots around the Earth, picking up supplies on its way back to Mars.

I know that the scene is trying to have fun with Purnell's Aspergers. I know that Donald Glover is awesome. I know that there are younger viewers unfamiliar with the slingshot concept in Apollo 13 and Star Trek 4.

But it just comes off to me like trying to buy genius points on the cheap. This plan wears the clothing of genius, so it must BE genius.

And yet, some day, if I'm lucky, I'll sell my action script with a cool act three crescendo, and I will get a note about how parents don't want to have to explain the logic to their kids, so I will add an act three break down in miniature using grapes, a hamster wheel and a trampoline. I will hate the scene all the way to the bank: These thousand dollar bills barely absorb my tears, have pity!


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Don't Reboot Your Story Unless You're Quentin Tarantino

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Who loves From Dusk Till Dawn?

I loved it back in the day, but it was polarizing: Tons of people HATED how the movie rebooted from a crime film to a vampire film, and they have a point. I loved that film because I knew it was a vampire film that was hiding in a crime film. I thought, "What's not to like? Crime films, good! Vampire films, good!"



But what if I wasn't expecting the switcheroo? Without the film's marketing campaign making the reboot contained in the movie explicit, I might have been repulsed. Expectations are everything: Don't dress your audience for the pool and take them skiing.

And yet, so many writers lose their way and reboot their stories in the chase for 100 pages. They convince themselves that it's not a reboot, but an enlargement of the same story.

So how can you tell the difference between a reboot and an enlargement? I think you have to look at the protagonist's BIG-WANT. If the big-want changes, you're rebooting, and without a marketing campaign to prepare them, your audience is going to hate it.

Look at From Dusk Till Dawn (SPOILER, and how have you not seen this yet!): At the start of the film, the main protagonist, Seth (Clooney) big-wants to save his brother, Richard (Tarantino). That means if Richard dies in the middle of the movie, this story becomes a reboot (again, SPOILER: He does).

That makes me wonder: Could this film have worked without the marketing campaign if Richard didn't die, at least until late in act three? Could preserving Seth's big-want throughout the whole picture have made crime and vampires work for a larger audience? I guess I'll leave that for discussion in the comments. But for now, let us at least see the lesson of preserving the big-want throughout the story in order to avoid a reboot.

If your protagonist big-wants to win the karate world championships in act one, don't have her skip her victory party late in act two in order to go pursue another big-want like rescuing hostages. This seems so obvious, doesn't it? But we're writers: Our own creativity can convince us of anything. I've been guilty. I've heard and made all the arguments below.

You may argue the hostage complication is an enlargement because she's gonna defeat the hostage-takers with karate. You see, she only THOUGHT she was training to win the championship, but then fate gave her a higher calling. Sorry, that's a reboot. If you wanted to tell us a karate-hostage-savior movie, you put that higher calling in act one.

Maybe then you argue the hostage complication is an enlargement by moving it to act three on the eve of the championships, giving the protagonist a choice between winning the championships or saving the hostages. In other words, if she rescues the hostages, she'll LOSE the championship. Okay, MAYBE that can work. It's a good idea actually to give your protagonist a choice to give up their big-want for a big-need, and in making that choice, becoming worthy of the big-want. But if you can't figure out how to organically get your protagonist back to the championship after rescuing the hostages, then sorry, that's a reboot.

Maybe then you argue that her big-want was never to win the karate world championships. She was just trying to make a boy notice her. The boy is her big-want. And the boy is a hostage. Okay, MAYBE that can work--until the second you have her freeing the little old lady first, and then asking the boy to join her in freeing the kindergarten class on the second floor. Yes, that makes her noble, but it reboots the story, because she's not putting the boy first anymore.

So what if she does put the boy first, and tries to rescue only him--but he won't let her do that without first going to rescue the little old lady and the kindergarteners? She has to be noble to keep his approval. Again, MAYBE that can work. It will probably still feel too jarring to have spent all this time training for a karate championship and then switching to a hostage rescue, but at least with a consistent big-want, you have a chance.

So always remember the big-want. Make it clear. Make it the biggest want in the movie. Never trump it unless your name is Quentin Tarantino. Hi Quentin! Loved From Dusk Till Dawn!

Big-Want Corollary: Movies so often escalate to protagonists saving the world because whatever big-wants they start with, they usually can't have them if the entire world ends. You can almost always argue that your story is enlarged and not rebooted by the need to save the world.


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How To Trick Yourself Into Collapsing Characters

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New writers do this the most, but every writer is vulnerable to creating a character to fulfill a story need, and then letting that character fall out of the story after their usefulness expires. At some point, someone will suggest that the dead-end character is collapsed into another character. And it's such a mind-f*ck to the writer that they dig their heels in and proclaim one or both the characters to be absolutely essential exactly as they are written.

A. Dorable.

Of course, if that writer was given someone else's script and asked if they could see two characters being collapsed into one, they would smell a paycheck and see a dozen ways to pull that off.

So how do you get out of your own head and out of your own script and get to the task at hand, which is getting rid of that dead-end character?

The answer is Ving Rhames. Or at least it was for me.

I had a script optioned and the director was trying to get actors attached in order to set up funding. And there was this cop character that SCREAMED Ving Rhames to my director. Let's send Ving Rhames the script! Only, hmmmm, you know, this cop is kind of just an exposition blabber, isn't he? He's always behind the caution tape. Never even draws his gun.

Hmmm. Is there any way to get Ving Rhames into the action? And don't throw those walls up about not wanting to collapse his character into another character that's in the action because Ving Rhames and honey badger don't care. Ving Rhames wants to pull out his gun if he's gonna be on your movie poster, and pre-sell your movie globally. You want your movie to be real? Then you need Ving Rhames.

And so I was finally able to get out of my own head, and I realized there was TOTALLY a way to make Ving Rhames happy. Collapse his character with the guy later on in the fray.

Of course, I never heard if Ving Rhames actually read the script because financing stalled after a similar movie came out and bombed, but let's not lose the lesson. If someone suggests to you that you should collapse two characters, imagine that the suggestion isn't coming from your writer friend who can't write his way out of a paper bag so why should I listen to you, Podrick? 

Future post topic: Sometimes your writer friends named Podrick ARE getting back at you for the way your notes gutted their script. But I digress...

Imagine your movie poster. And on that poster is Ving Rhames holding a gun. And all these movie financiers are looking at your poster nodding your heads. Now THIS I can pre-sell in Bulgaria, because Ving Rhames is in the Mission Impossible franchise. We can draft in its wake! The movie's profitable before it even hits the theaters! Only Ving Rhames in the poster opens his big mouth, "Wait, my dead-end character never draws his gun. Why do I have my gun drawn? Get my agent on the phone, I'm not playing this dead-end character who never actually draws his gun!"

And all the financiers look to you, shaking their heads. You were so close, but, turns out, you only have a writing sample. "Oh, the delicious schadenfreude! Once it hits your lips it's so good!", cries Podrick.

Don't let Podrick have his schadenfreude. Make Ving Rhames happy, even if it was stupid Podrick's note before it was Ving Rhames' note. Broken clocks are right twice a day. 

God, Podrick is so smug!

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I Have a Plan

Here's a useful tip on how to navigate the post-midpoint act two: have your protagonist say, "I have a plan."



Now, keep in mind, "I have a plan" is in danger of becoming a viral video montage of movie characters saying those words over and over, like "I get it". But as an exercise, it's a fantastic way to turn your protagonist from passive to active. It forces you to ask yourself, "What IS my protagonist's plan?"

Now your protagonist is charged with the mindset of going on offense, of defining what he/she wants, and having the strength to go and get it. He/she isn't waiting to be saved by a deus ex machina. 

The plan may not work. In fact, it probably won't. But that will naturally give you an "all is lost" moment to propel your story into act three.

Once you've used those words to light your way to act three, you can take the actual phrasing out of the script, or, as in Guardians of the Galaxy, use the phrase to great comedic effect at the 68 minute mark of a 102 minute film, which is midway through the post-midpoint act two.

I find it fun and useful to look for when protagonists have their "I have a plan" moments.

In The Matrix, Neo forms the plan to save Morpheus VERY late in act two, just a few scenes before act three.

In Gravity, Sandra Bullock's character, Ryan, literally becomes the only person left in the movie at the midpoint, with a plan to return home, and no one to help her.

And when does Ben Affleck's character get the go ahead to execute his plan to save the Iranian hostages? Right at the midpoint. Post-midpoint act two is ALL PLAN.

So, now YOU have a plan for your post-midpoint act two. See what I did there? Yes, that is another clam waiting to be made into a viral video montage.

Passive Protagonists

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I'm writing a feature right now. Here's the Buffy-esque, spoiler free logline:

After discovering his/her birthright power as [awesome, superpowered person of dark prophecy], a young innocent must use his/her new powers to thwart the prophecy that foretells his/her part in [terrible calamity].

[Hey, do yourself a favor and read my post about loglines!]

This is a perfectly good example of a logline objective with stakes for failure that will likely have people rooting for my protagonist to succeed, because he/she turns from passive to active at the midpoint. 

Why do so many writers miss this? They keep their protagonists passive and put their antagonists behind the wheel for the whole movie. 

Do you have one of these passive protagonists? Look at your logline to find out. If your protagonist "struggles to", or their life becomes a "rollercoaster", or they're "put through the ultimate test", then my gut immediately tells me your protagonist is going to dodge boulders for the whole movie, and then they're gonna luck onto a deus ex machina. They'll never have a plan with consequences for failure. I'll never root for them.

You have to figure out what your protagonist is going to do, or else you don't have a movie.

Hey, let's make a weekly feature of looking at a passive protagonist logline from over on Scriptshadow, and see if we can riff an objective for the protagonist that will better tell us where the idea wants to go! Last week's first Amateur logline was:

"A perfect couple’s relationship becomes a rollercoaster when she wants a baby and he flat-out refuses to start a family."

What a perfectly solid idea for a movie, lacking any and all objectives for what is presented as dual-protagonists. I can just imagine the whatever's in the fridge crock pot stew this movie could be. He buys her a dog. She pokes holes in the condoms. He finds the holes and withholds sex. She tries to seduce him with a threesome. He sleeps in the spare bedroom with the door locked at night to protect his masturbation sperm. She goes to a clinic and buys sperm. He defrosts and spoils it before she can use it. And then at the end of the movie, on the verge of breakup, he gets cancer and changes his mind because mortality.

Does that sound like a movie to you? It's not. It's a montage stretched out to 100 pages with a deus ex machina ending. It's unlikely to sustain, because neither protagonist has a movie-sized objective with stakes for failure. Sure, you could say the stakes for failure are a break-up, but think about it: that's the opposite of failure, as each protagonist is getting what they want! She gets married to a guy who wants kids. He stays childless. 

So how does this fun idea find its movieness? Well, for starters, I think we have to be strategic, and lean toward making the husband the protagonist, and the wife the antagonist. His goal is to change her mind. His failure is parenthood. Sure, she's also trying to change his mind, but that doesn't have stakes for failure unless the movie goes on for 20 years and she hits menopause.

What next? Well, what else is missing from the logline? An inciting incident! What if her desire for a child is incited? That would give him something to work with, wouldn't it? 

So let's say the wife was a powerful executive who got fired, and that's what triggered her need for a child. So she stops taking her birth control. Now the husband can have a goal of getting her back on birth control by getting her job back before she starts ovulating. 

Or maybe the inciting incident is that the new neighbors have four kids, making the wife see kid joy up close, 24-7. So she stops taking her birth control. Now the husband conspires with the kids to be monsters whenever they're around his wife, hoping it will inspire her to go back on birth control before she starts ovulating.

In both of these versions, you can still have all those mini-objectives I riffed above, but now they fit into a complete narrative with a movie-sized objective with clear stakes for failure. And then just before the turn to act three, his plans to change her mind wind up changing his mind, just as she discovers his web of lies and leaves him. He must get her to take him back by getting her pregnant. It's a movie!

I imagine the writer of this script might object to my taking his/her perhaps semi-autographical logline and "commercializing" it. And maybe his/her script is brilliant and rule-breaking. Doesn't change the fact that making a protagonist active by finding their logline objective with stakes for failure will eventually save every writer some painful rewriting.


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