Key Screenwriting Tools

Protagonist and Objective

1. There can be only one main objective if the film is to have unity. A
story with a protagonist who has more than one ultimate aim must
invariably dramatize the success or failure of one effort before going
on to the other, and this breaks the spine of the work and dissipates
our interest. A screenplay is like a suspension bridge, with one end
anchored in what the protagonist wants, and the other end anchored to
the disclosure of whether or not he gets it. A bridge that forks in the
middle, with branches leading to two different destinations, can never
be structurally sound. (The fact that other characters also have desires
or objectives must not obscure the fact that the story we are following
is the pursuit of the protagonist's objective.)
2. The objective must be capable of arousing opposition in order to produce
conflict. Whether the opposition comes from another character,
from nature, from the circumstances of the story, or from within the
protagonist himself, it is still a much stronger story if the pursuit of an
objective is actively opposed than if it is not opposed at all.
3. The nature of the objective is a leading factor in determining the attitude
of the audience toward the protagonist and her opposition. If the
objective is a heroic one, we will probably admire the protagonist; if it
is a quixotic one, he may amuse us; a detestable objective will arouse
our hatred or contempt for the leading character; and so on. Protagonist
and objective are so closely identified in our minds that it is impossible
to consider one without the other.

Conflict

Conflict is actually created not by histrionics and excessive behavior,
but by a character wanting something that is difficult to get or achieve.
This is true in the overall story, and equally so in individual scenes. If no
character wants something in a scene, there is no conflict, and the scene
itself sags into a shapeless and ineffective mess. If no character wants
something in a whole story, the screenplay falls into the same mire.

Obstacles

The protagonist and the obstacles he or she encounters must be fairly
evenly matched. If the obstacle is weak, then the achievement of the objective
is too easy, and the story is lifeless. But the obstacle should not be
so overwhelming that the protagonist has no chance of overcoming it. In
other words, the objective must be possible, but very difficult, to
accomplish.
This point may seem to be contradicted by such films as The Third Man
and Death C!! a Salesman, in which the element of a past action poses
overwhelming odds against the achievement of the objective. It should be
noted that the protagonists do not acknowledge the inevitability of failure
until that failure stares them in the face and they must bow to it. They fight
against the odds, believing they have a chance of succeeding; it is the
character's belief that keeps the story alive, that gives us the needed shred
of hope that the goal might still be achieved.
A distinction must also be made between conflicts and hassles. In daily
life, flat tires, lost wallets, and faulty phone-answering machines are inconveniences
that can seem like formidable conflicts. In drama, each of
these could be either a conflict or a mere hassle. The determining factor is
whether the inconvenience is truly an obstacle to a pre-established want.
 A groom trying to get to the church on time has a flat tire and it is an obstacle,
it creates a conflict and quite possibly a whole new chain of events. There
is something at stake that the flat tire puts in jeopardy. But if there is no
want, no goal, nothing at stake for the character, then the flat tire is simply
the same hassle for the character it would be for anyone. Without a goal
and something at stake for at least one character, there can be no dramatic
impact from a given event being depicted in a story, no matter how much
of a "conflict" it seems on the surface.
One last point, and an important one: Although the unity of a story
depends on there being but one main objective, there is no threat to unity
from the use of multiple obstacles to the achievement of that objective.

Premise and Opening

Premise is a particularly misused and misunderstood word in a dramatic
context. In logic, a premise is part of a syllogism: All humans have blood in their veins (major premise); I am a human (minor premise); therefore I have blood in my veins (conclusion).
 In drama, there are close parallels to logic. One way to look at a story is that a protagonist and his goal (major premise) versus an antagonist and the obstacles (minor premise) leads to
drama and the audience's emotional response (conclusion). If a story functions
primarily through internal conflict, then the protagonist and antagonist
are two parts of the personality of the central character. Conversely, if the
story functions primarily with external conflict, the protagonist and antagonist
are clearly defined as separate characters. Or, in some cases, the
antagonist is really the circumstances, as in a man-versus-nature story. The
notion to be most wary of is the idea that a premise is something that a
story sets out to prove. (See "Theme," page 55 for additional discussion
concerning thesis, another term that, like premise, is often misused.)
The premise, as the term is used here, is simply the entire situation that
exists as the protagonist starts moving toward his objective. This includes
all background material pertinent to the story. The protagonist, his potential
desire for his objective, and the potential obstacles (including the antagonist)
to his achieving the goal all predate the story as it is being told. The
opening, as distinguished from the premise, is that spot in the extended
story selected by the storyteller to begin recounting the story.
Here are the premises and openings of five stories:


Rick owns a trendy night spot in Casablanca at the outset of
World War II. A man with a past and a former fighter for lost
causes, Rick is now hardened and unwilling to stick his neck out
for anyone. As an opening, the screenwriters chose to start the
story with an encapsulated setup of the world conditions and
then a demonstration of the dangers inherent in this world. They
quickly get to the point where llsa, the critical person from Rick's
past, enters Rick's bar.

The Capulets and the Montagues have for years been bitter enemies.
Romeo, an impulsive young man and scion of the Montagues,
and Juliet, the sensitive daughter of the Capulets, fall
deeply in love. Shakespeare chose to open the play with a street
brawl dramatizing the enmity of the two families, then moved
soon to a ball given by the Capulets, at which Romeo, an uninvited
guest, first encounters luliet.


Many screenplays are conceived in the writer's mind with a situation
that is essentially the premise. A satisfactory premise always contains the
potential of conflict and some pertinent and specific information about the
main character. (See "Unity," page 58, for other story forms that do not
have a single central character.) Once the opening has been selected, the
start of that conflict should not be delayed for long.




Main Tension, Culmination, and Resolution


Although the main tension of a screenplay points in the direction of the
overall conflict of the story, it does not directly ask the question, "What
will happen at the resolution?" The successful screenwriter has planted
this long-term concern somewhere in the back of the audience's mind,
concern about the eventual rpsolution of the story. But what is most pressing,
most urgent throughout the second act, is thp series of obstacles much
closer to home than the resolution, those obstacles which together can be
summed up with the main tension. "W ill the protagonist stand up for herself?"
"Will the protagonist solve the mystery?" "Will the protagonist forgive
his brother'?" "Will the protagonist come to realize who her true love
really is?" Each of these is a viable main tension. Once it is resolved at
the culmination of the story, then the question becomes, "What will happen
as a result of this change in the character, in his feelings, knowledge, or
intentions ?" The changed circumstances and the changed character come into collision and create a new tension (the third act tension), which leads to the resolution of the overall story. A characteristic of the resolution is the disappearance of the will to struggle. Perhaps the protagonist acknowledges
defeat and gives up the struggle, or she may achieve her objective and have
no further need to struggle. In any case, the conflict subsides, and with it the
drama; a fluid situation has become a stahle one. The resolution of most stories
occurs very near the end, for audience interest and participation cannot
be sustained very long without conflict. In other words, the main tension and
culmination are fluid situations, while the resolution is a stable one. It requires
no further hope versus fear on the part of the audience, even if we are
still concerned with the characters and their well-being and future.
Material for the resolution is extremely variahle. It can suggest what may
happen to characters in the future (as exposition in the heginning of the
story has informed us of events in the past). Often it seems to convey, in
the mouth of one of the characters, the author's point of view toward the
protagonist or the material of the story.
The culmination is the high or low point of the screenplay, the event
toward which all that precedes is driving. The resolution is the point after
which the audience is allowed to relax; whether things have gone as it
hoped or as it feared, the issue is satisfyingly over, resolved. Therefore it
is extremely wasteful of a writer's time and energy to hegin work on a
screenplay before the culmination and resolution are clearly in mind. A
story started without knowing these two points invariably wanders into endless
revisions and such frustration that the screenplay is often abandoned
before it is finished. The culmination is the lighthouse toward which the
dramatist steers his ship, and the resolution is the safe harhor toward which
that lighthouse guides him.
Given protagonist, objective, and obstaeles, the writer should have no
difficulty in establishing what his culmination and resolution should be. In
deciding on his culmination, the writer will instinctively choose one that
correctly interprets his attitude toward his subject matter. (See "Theme,"
below.) Knowing the main tension, the culmination, and the resolution are useful
to the screenwriter in another way, for they can help him to determine the
pertinence and validity of the various scenes in a story. If the omission of
a given scene leaves the main tension, culmination, or resolution damaged
or altered, then that scene is an essential one and should be kept. On the
other hand, if dropping the scene makes no difference at any of these
critical points, the screenwriter had better regard that scene with a skeptical
eye.


Theme

The experienced dramatist or screenwriter seldom begins with a theme,
or attempts to fashion a story in order to present a philosophical position,
which might be called a thesis. This method leads to cliches, propaganda,
and lifeless characters, because all the human issues of the drama have
been subordinated to this thesis the author is out to prove. Instead, an
accomplished screenwriter creates characters and situations, and then
chooses a culmination and resolution that seem right and satisfactory to
his own feelings about the subject matter. In other words, a good screenwriter
lets the theme take care of itself. The theme thus becomes not some
point to be proven, but the subject matter itself, that aspect of human
existence this story will explore.
The seasoned screenwriter is not apt to put into the mouths of his characters
statements that spell out the theme. Those sorts of speeches make
the characters sound as if they were on a soapbox and seriously distance
the audience from the emotional core of the story. If the writer crossed out
every single line that said explicitly what the story "meant," the audience
would still know what it meant. The writer can't conceal his own attitude;
it's built right into the story, in his treatment of it and how he chooses to
resolve it.

Each subplot, then, has its own conflict regarding the same subjectthe
theme and variations-and has its own resolution of that conflict. In
this way the author broadens and deepens the meaning and impact of the
work, and helps to universalize the drama



Unity

In building a story for a film, the screenwriter must adhere to one of the
three unities, but not all three. One of the great aspects of film is its ability
to transport the audience from place to place, and to ellipse, repeat, or
even reverse time. Therefore, for most films, the unity that helps give shape
to the raw material of the story is the unity of action. At its simplest, this
is the reason we need one central character in most film stories. That one
character's pursuit of her objective creates this unity of action; the story,
then, follows the character in pursuit of her goal.

Thus the telling of a story becomes the sequence of events that happen
to a central character in active pursuit of an objective. Even when time is
not followed-by means of flashbacks, flash-forwards, reversals of time,
recollections, and all the other ways in which the film storyteller can vary
time out of the strictly chronological-the unity of the character's pursuit
of his goal keeps the audience oriented and makes the story seem "all of
a piece." The same can be done with place-we can go halfway around
the world and back again from one scene to the next, or we can follow
events that are unfolding simultaneously in two different locations. Yet so
long as there is unity of action, the audience will be able to stay grounded
and participating in the story.
It is entirely possible, though infrequently tried and rarely successful,
to build a story around the unities of time or place. (See the analyses of
Rashomon and Diner, pages 240 and 227 respectively, for more detailed
discussion.) In these sorts of movies, there is no need for a single central
character whose action we follow as the story unfolds. In place of that unity,
we can have a location (as in Diner or Nashville) around which the action
is centered. Within this social and atmospheric context, the audience is
still able to participate in the various intertwining stories. For the unity of
time to focus a story (as in Rashomon or its American remake as a western,
The Outrage), a single overridingly important event becomes the focal center
of the story. The various characters' perspectives on that event make
the story still seem "all of a piece."


Exposition

The problem with exposition is that it is only necessary to the audience;
it is not what the characters need to know for themselves in the course of
the story. Most exposition reveals what the characters already know (their
own past and circumstances), but we must know it too, to get the fullest
experience of their story and actions. Exposition should be used sparingly,
because it is a narrative device rather than a dramatic one. Overuse of
exposition quickly becomes tedious for the audience. The novice screenwriter
may be surprised by how little exposition is needed, particularly in
the beginning of a film. The audience quickly grasps the essentials of a
situation without a lot of preliminary background material.
This is not to say that exposition can be eliminated; it is an essential
ingredient in cooking up a good story, but it should be used as a spice, not
a filler. Most stories require at least some expository information in order
to get moving, and over the centuries, dramatists have been supplying this
in a number of ways. Greek plays often opened with a formal chorus in
which the historical events leading up to the play were reviewed. The prologue
or chorus has survived in the theater in the form of a narrator or
character who talks directly to the audience, as in Wilder's Our Town and
Williams's The Glass Menagerie.
The film counterpart of the narrator or chorus is the voice-over narration,
often by the central character. When expertly handled, as Billy Wilder did
in Sunset Boulevard and Double Indemnity, this can be a very effective tool,
but it is not the tool of first choice under most circumstances. Exposition
can usually be made more engrossing if it is revealed in conAict, and this
is the most widely practiced method of handling it. The expository information
then becomes a sort of by-product of a scene that is dramatically
interesting in itself.
For example, in the opening sequence of Amadeus, Salieri gives a great
deal of background information about himself and Mozart as he is trying
to tell the young priest who he is. But because these scenes are about the
priest's desire to hear Salieri's confession and to grant him absolution, and
because the priest is just as impatient to get on with it as Salieri is anxious
to have his tunes remembered, the scenes are dramatically rich and fulfilling
for the audience. The exposition is "snuck up" on the audience; it
is merely something we learn while we are engrossed in the conAict between
two interesting characters.
Another tactic is to thrust the audience into the story and make it work
to figure out the past, the relationships, and the circumstances behind the
scenes being shown. For example, The 400 Blows opens with Antoine already
getting himself into trouble, showing the mischief and the humor in
his character, and the nature of his friendship with Rene. At first we can
only guess about Antoine's reasons for being mischievous; we are made to
work to try to figure it out. Once he is home with his mother and his nightly
routine and we see the exposition of his living circumstances, we are already
hooked on the boy and his plight.
In other words, the exposition should usually be delayed as long as
possible. If, at the same time, the audience is tantalized with little bits of
information that point forward to future revelations or information that the
audience wants to grasp, this leads to audience interest in the characters
and their actions. Using actions of the characters that allow the audience
to experience and discover for itself the who, what, where, when, and why
of the characters is an extremely useful way of accomplishing exposition.
Another effective technique is to use humor, ideally in conjunction with
conflict. For example, in Chinatown it becomes necessary for Jake to find
out who owns all the land in the valley that is at the center of the mystery.
He goes to the hall of records and looks the information up in huge plat
books-potentially one of the most boring of all possible scenes, yet one
that is essential to the unraveling of the story. When lake asks for the plat
books from an officious and impatient little clerk, a conflict is established
between the two characters. The clerk's reluctance to reveal information to
lake (and us) makes him (and us) work to get it. When lake asks for a
ruler, we don't quite understand what he's up to, but when his little trick
works and defeats the clerk, we are pleased and amused. And along the
way, we learn all the information we need. Instead of being a boring scene
of a man looking information up in a book, this scene is turned into an
enjoyable and memorable moment, one that expands our affection and admiration
for lake.The inexperienced screenwriter often tries to crowd a lot of exposition
into the beginning of a script. This results in a static opening that bores
the audience before the story itself begins to move. A far better tactic is to
use hints and partial revelations, little mysteries and puzzles, denials and
conflicting opinions of characters about expositional matters. All of these
are ways to make the audience work (and therefore participate) to gather
its background knowledge of the events on screen. By getting on with the
story and letting the audience discover the majority of the exposition as it
unfolds, the screenwriter becomes able to put the characters in active pursuit
of their daily lives and let us uncover the mysteries behind those lives.
A few rules of thumb might be kept in mind when dealing with the need
for exposition:



Characterization

Development of the Story
Dramatic Irony
Preparation and Ajiermath
Planting and Payoff
Elements of the Future and Advertising
The Outline and the Step Outline
Plausibility
Activity and Action
Dialogue
Visuals
The Dramatic Scene
Rewriting