Just Effing Entertain Me

From the Mailbag: Origins of Hollywood Structure

How long do you think the 12-sequence/hero’s journey type screenplay structure has been around — and how much of it would you say is embedded within the ancient Greek universals of storytelling, versus simply being our own cultural expectations after seeing so many movies? How did the Hollywood story structure evolve, basically?

-Daniel in Delaware

That is such an interesting question, Daniel! We know that the three act structure is Greek in genesis and has borne out to be the standard ever since. One could also say (as Joseph Campbell and later, Christopher Vogler did) that the heroe’s journey is even older still, dating back to the earliest epic poems and stories of the beginning of recorded history. The oldest recorded of these is the epic poem Gilgamesh.

We also know that opera, in its original incarnation, was a wildly interactive form of entertainment in which audiences often threw fruit and other items when pleased or displeased. Talk about feedback! Traveling shows with puppets and magicians had to change up the entertainment at a rapid pace in order to keep audiences from walking off to another part of the village or the faire – entertainment was, for the entertainers, no laughing matter!

The breakdown of the three acts in films into smaller units or sequences dates back to the very first silent films, which were on small reels and had to be changed every 10 minutes or so. Theaters wanted audiences to stick around to watch the whole film, so each reel would end with a tiny little cliffhanger. Over time, audiences became accustomed to that rhythm of entertainment consumption, which dovetailed perfectly with the advent of television, when advertisers needed the small breaks to sell their wares.

Over time, as our collective ADD has mushroomed, and with so many things competing for our attention, writers have to keep the entertainment coming more than ever. Breaking your script down into sequences is a way of ensuring that you are creating set-ups, complications, reversals and resolutions that keep and hold attention.

The Midpoint Mind-Melt

It brings up feelings of inadequacy and intimidation. It haunts your dreams at night because you don’t have one: the complication. The reversal. The midpoint. Why does it feel like some kind of awful, scary anvil hanging over your head?

The midpoint need not be an intimidating thing. The light bulb went off over my head years ago when I began to use the four act structure and when I realized that the midpoint, while it does do a special job, is really just another plot point.

A brief review of the four act structure (oddly called such, since really, it’s just dividing your second act in two):

act one: pages one-30(-ish)
act two A: pages 30-50(ish)
act two B: pages 50-80(ish)
act three: pages 80(ish) on

We know from studying screenwriting that the second act really is the meat and potatoes of the whole script. It is during the second act that the bulk of the horrifying or funny or dramatic or sad adventure you have penned happens. Yes? The first act is primarily set up and engine revving, the third act is the exciting, climactic oh-my-god-how-will-it-all-end. But the second act is the part of the movie that producers buy. It is the part of the story that defines what the movie is really all about. It is the logline of your script writ large.

It is in the second act that Luke gets his set pieces on in STAR WARS. It is the second act that shows us what Elle’s decision to go to Harvard Law really looks like for her as she experiences it in LEGALLY BLONDE. And speaking of Witherspoon, it is in the second act of ELECTION that shows us to what lengths Tracy Flick is willing to go.

Plot points are relatively egalitarian. Plot points are the spots in a script when BIG STUFF HAPPENS to propel the story forward. They are they cliffhanger moments, the what-will-the-main-character DO moments. The first plot point propels us INTO the second act, ergo its enormous importance.

In Vogler/Campbell terms, the “call” is the inciting incident on page 10(ish). You know, the “call to adventure” that the main character most emphatically would like to ignore. It’s upsetting the applecart. And the main character, in general, would really like to NOT have this crazy adventure but rather to keep on keeping on in his or her normal life..aas flawed or dysfunctional as that life is. The first plot point is an event that SHOVES the main character forward into the meat of the story – whether they like it or not. There is no getting out of this story and there is no possibility of not going on this adventure.

And the second plot point or second act break, which falls around page 75 or 80 (again, using very slippery math; it depends on your script), is what forces a climactic ending for the whole story.

But the midpoint is the game-changer. The main character is coping in a way that should, according to them, wind up this story quickly and easily – but it fails. Something changes. The mid-point is a reversal which causes your main character to have to make a new plan. They get spun in a new direction. What was working will not work. Because the antagonist upped the game. Because something changed drastically.

I used to be able to rattle off how various screenwriting gurus name the midpoint, but I no longer can. I purposely off-loaded that information some time ago. But you can call it whatever you want – it really doesn’t have to be complicated.

Every plot point (or pinch, or break) does the same job – it thrusts the hero into the next, more amped up, higher stakes part of the story. If a script takes the shape of a rollercoaster, with the first 10 pages being the slow click-click-click of the rollercoaster heading up the first hill, then each ensuing plot point is a sharp curve, turn or downward drop.

So the first act is compelling but not as heart-pounding as the third act, right? Of course not. Story-telling is a striptease; as the story unfolds, the audiences gets more and more invested. They HAVE to stick around to see what happens. Because it just keeps getting worse.

Think of the midpoint the same as any of your other plot points. Plot points are plot points. They are pivotal moments that raise the stakes and make things worse and more complicated for your main character.

Except, if you look at the placement of each plot point, you’ll notice they are perched on the cusp of a particular act, and as the acts progress, they move faster and more pell mell toward the exciting ending.

So the first act break pushes your character INTO the pool – SPLASH – and now they have to swim. RAINMAN: Cruise kidnaps his brother. Off they go. Adventure started. Trigger pulled.

The midpoint is when you take away the raft, lifejacket and lifeguard. Now swim, sucker. You had no idea that this pool is really the wide open sea. SIXTH SENSE: I see dead people.

The second plot point is when your main character is now faced with a choice: Do or die. Succeed or fail. He or she will have to face down the antagonist in a battle scene. All bets are off.

So try not to mythologize the midpoint too much – just take a close look at where it falls in the script. Dead center. And audiences enjoy the vicarious thrill of hoping the main character will succeed but wondering how the hell that is possible. The midpoint is a complication that causes the main character to have to reach for new solutions after a period of total OH SHIT-ness. Now what?

I should invent new labels for plot points:

Uh Oh! – page 10
Can This Situation Get Any Worse?? – page 25
OH HOLY SHIT – midpoint
Do-or-Die Time – page 75

It is around the midpoint that your main character starts to let go of who they were on page one. They start really coming face to face with what is not working in their lives. The midpoint is the part of going camping when you wind up lost in the rain, and have to patch your tent with a pair of boxer shorts and some gum and you sit there glum and pissed off and light a match to look at a map and then discover it’s the wrong map. At the midpoint, your main character is totally, utterly FUBARed. A new plan is needed. Some serious action is needed here. Despair, desperation, anger – all of that will inspire a brand new plan of attack. Your character will crawl out of that tent into the mud, rise up and have a new plan. One that might not work but hey, they’re lost in the rainy, dark woods, what other choice is there? It is go time and nothing so far has worked out very well. The midpoint is a tipping point for your main character. If the climactic ending shows what your main character is really made of, the midpoint is the first inkling of that.

Structure: The Rhythm of the Dance

For beginning screenwriters, structure is intimidating and slightly mysterious. To more experienced writers, it is one-hand-tied-behind-the-back easy. I think the same would be true of most screenwriting elements – the learning curve is steep but once you get it, you get it forever and your problem becomes not whether your character HAS an arc or whether your script HAS a theme, or whether your script HAS a structure that works, but whether your premise is totally unique and fresh. And that is something that cannot be taught. That takes instincts and creative chops and an encyclopedic awareness of other movies that have come before yours. It’s luck, it’s genius, it’s the Holy Grail. But I digress.

Beginning screenwriters generally write a script or two that basically has no discernible structure. The story just spoooools out like an errant ball of yarn until you finally find it under the couch, covered in dust. The story just goes and goes and goes til it ends, mercifully. I doubt there’s a successful screenwriter alive who has not written that script in the early days. It happens. Then you pick up a book or three and learn where the turning points should be. So then you plug that knowledge in and you have a new problem – your turning points are soft. So your midpoint might be when the couple gets in a fight. Which, you know, in all but a masterfully written piece is probably pretty damn boring.

So you know where the turning points should be, but now you have to learn how to make those plot points BIG enough to escalate your story. That thought used to intimidate me – what do you mean BIG? Like – how big are we talkin’? It feels like one is being asked to write plot points that escalate the story into ridiculousness. No, no, no, get all of that out of your mind. Let’s go back to a fundamental understanding of structure for a moment:

Structure is like the bass guitar – it keeps the rhythm. It’s the 1-2-3 and a 1-2-3 of your script. And it is best plotted out in your outline first. As in a dance, the rhythm is obvious and yet subtle at the same time. You may not notice it but you feel it. It drives the dance.

So when you’re looking at your outline (or your script, but for the sake of efficiency, let’s look at the outline – please god, tell me you have one) you’re going to ask of it, what’s the rhythm here? Is this a fast dance? Or a slow burn? What is the tone relative to the genre? Obviously, in an action script, the rhythm will be fast and furious – which doesn’t mean the classic structure is different – but it will FEEL different because the highs will be higher and the lows will be lower. If you’re writing a psychological thriller, the rhythm will be slow burn, which will escalate, getting more and more intense as the story unfurls.

Think of a pop song that you really like. Listen to it. Can you hear the rhythm in it? Can you hear how the rhythm shifts, changes and escalates? There’s the beginning, there’s the chorus, the bridge and the chorus and another verse and a bridge and the chorus – and it’s all designed to lead you forward tantalizingly. Because you LOVE the chorus and you can’t wait to sing along to that part. Music is all about build.

Use that model when thinking about the structure of your story. Because while a pop song is approximately three minutes long, it’s doing the exact same thing as a script. It’s about something or someone – it has a premise. It has a theme. It has an introduction and a midpoint and a climax. It tells a story in three minutes flat and does so in such a way that you the listener are pulled along by the rhythm and the melody.

If the structure is the rhythm, the melody is the narrative. Narrative in this usage means the story, yes – the plot itself – but more than that, the WAY the plot is being told. So imagine listening to a song say for children: “The Wheels on the Bus,” that’s a good one.

The wheels on the bus go round and round, ROUND and round, ROUND and round. The wheels on the bus go round and round, all through the town. The people on the bus go up and down, UP and down, UP and down, the people on the bus go up and down, all through the town. The. Wipers on the bus go swish swish swish. SWISH swish swish. SWISH swish swish. The wipers on the bus go SWISH swish swish, all through the town. The. Baby on the bus goes wah wah wah. WAH wah wah. WAH wah - are you ready to kill me yet? God I think I just had a really weird flashback of MANCHURIAN CANDIDATE proportions.

The song is repetitious, right? Not really going anywhere. That’s right, because this is for preschoolers. There’s no build here, there’s no mystery – we’re just going to basically catalog stuff on a bus. The premise is stuff on a bus. The theme is – that there’s stuff on a bus (or for more sophisticated kids: Life is like a bus ride, maaaan!) and the melody is exactly in synch with the lyrics. So there’s no tension in this narrative. I plan to send a letter to the ignominious author of this annoying song, claiming long term Tune-Stuck-in-Head issues requiring therapy.

Now let’s take another set of lyrics – one you are probably very familiar with. I’m pretty sure 99% of you can summon the music that goes with this song just by reading the lyrics…

Imagine there’s no heaven
It’s easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky
Imagine all the people
Living for today…

Imagine there’s no countries
It isn’t hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace…

You may say I’m a dreamer
But I’m not the only one
I hope someday you’ll join us
And the world will be as one

Imagine no possessions
I wonder if you can…

- and you can see how this narrative is told using rhythm, repetition and anticipation. How many of you couldn’t help but sing the chorus that follows the last set of lyrics there? I couldn’t. It’s addictive. I want the song to play out. I need the song to play out. It’s a weird imperative.

And that’s how I should feel when I read your script or watch your movie. There should be a compelling rhythm to it, a pattern that pulls me forward inevitably, a tension that makes me crave the outcome.

So yes, structure is technical – as is music. It’s math. But its job is create a feeling in your reader – an imperative, a rhythm, an addiction to what will happen next. Study up on your plot points, and which pages they should fall on – but don’t forget that your story is a musical composition with a pattern that builds upon itself, growing and growing so that the reader is compelled to follow along, with that very basic human need for completion making it impossible not to sing along with you. With a sense that what happens next HAD to happen next.

She’s got a smile that it seems to me
Reminds me of childhood memories
Where everything
Was as fresh as the bright blue sky

Whoah oh oh oh...how does the rest go? We can’t resist. We want to sing along. And that’s how your script should be. I hear the opening riffs to “Sweet Child O Mine” and instantly I go oooooh I love this song. I can’t wait to hear it. I can’t wait for the build. Maybe you hate that song. Whatever, man. Think of a song you love. Think of the first few seconds of a new song you hear on the radio that you are instantly drawn to. You turn it up. You gotta hear it. That’s the first couple of pages of your script, my friends. That’s exactly how it works.

Structure may sound boring or confining or technical but it’s actually quite sexy in its functionality – it is the rhythm that imbues the experience of reading your script with that delicious feeling of – can’t – get – enoughness. I want to go with you. I need to go with you. I HAVE to see where this story is going. It’s math, it’s music, it’s storytelling.

Structure and Sequence Writing

This from the RW mailbag:

Understanding that the first act breaks into two around page 25, how does one still write in 10 page sequences? Does the first act break into 2 halfway through the third sequence? While also understanding that these aren’t hard and fast rules, I am confused how sequences ‘overlay’ or ‘interwork’ with the 3 act narrative.

You’ll see from the question that I’m a total newbie, but I’m also totally confused.
-David in Dunkirk

Nothing wrong with being a newbie and nothing wrong with asking great questions, David.

The sequence method is something that I tout a lot because I love it and it really, really works for me. So here is an overview of that methodology:

The 12 Sequence Outline:

Imagine that each sequence in your script describes approximately 10 pages of material (ten minutes of screen time) and that your script is about 100 to 115 pages long (work with me people; I am quite loathe to set down rigid numbers on topics like these as there are always variants by story and by writer. So these numbers are flexible and approximate):

ACT ONE: 25 to 30 pages-ISH
Sequence One: 1-10 – the inciting incident
Sequence Two: 10-20
Sequence Three: 20-30 – first plot point, act break or pinch*

*so in other words, somewhere between pages 25 and 30 is your first act break. But in the macro, your first act break falls within the 3rd sequence.

ACT TWO: 50 pages-ISH
Sequence Four: 30-40
Sequence Five: 40-50
Sequence Six: 50-60 – the midpoint somewhere around page 50-ish
Sequence Seven: pages 60 to 70
Sequence Eight: pages 70 to 75
Sequence Nine: pages 75 to 80 – the second plot point, act break or pinch*

ACT THREE: 15 to 20 pages- ISH
Sequence Ten: pages 80 to 85
Sequence Eleven: pages 85 -90 – climax/battle scene
Sequence Twelve: pages 90 -95 – the resolution and aftermath

And – look at that – this sequential narrative template doesn’t EVEN go to page 100. That’s okay. We’re not going to worry about math as much as we are about ratios. Further, you’ll notice that not all sequences have ten pages; here is a good place to note that while generally each sequence will have about ten pages, the further you go along in your script, the more compressed each sequence becomes. Because remember, in a script, events escalate furiously as we near the end. Because tension is rising and things have snowballed into bigger and bigger stakes and entertainment. Also we know that third acts are not as lengthy as the first or second act in your script; the material is not evenly divided by dint of the job that the third act has to do.

The sequence method is a guideline. What is crucial is that you think of each sequence as a unit. I like to use the image of the Jacob’s Ladder – you know, that wooden toy for kids? Each unit has a beginning, a middle and and end – which forces the next sequence to click forward. Set up, complication, resolution. Complication, resolution, reversal. So each sequence contains conflict which clicks the whole story forward into the next sequence. Now, that said, some sequences bear more dramatic weight than others, due to where they fall in the structure template. Ergo the bold-faced bits above.

Now personally, I don’t like to put any more labels or constraints on my sequences than knowing approximately where the big structural beats should fall. Over time, this becomes second nature anyway. I know that the Save the Cat beat sheet has specific Save the Cat moments which get slotted in. I’ve seen other labels and templates put over the sequential narrative as well, the Heroes Journey and whatnot. I prefer to use a more free form method because I personally get hung up when I look at sequence, I don’t know, five and it says: the hero unties his shoelaces here and finds the elixir in the cave and saves a cat. That doesn’t exactly apply to my story and I don’t like using anyone else’s terminology with which to frame MY story. I might have a metaphoric cat-saving in my first sequence – make your main character likeable – I get it, thank you very much. But beyond that, since each story is so utterly unique, framing and reframing and labeling and relabeling basic story beats to me just adds confusion. Of course your story will contain an archetypal template but that’s in your bone marrow – you don’t need to be told that. I have a problem, in general, with over intellectualizing screenwriting. Many writers (including myself in the early years) can become enslaved by that.

I hope this answers your question, David. I know meander and use mixed metaphors but my main goal is to SIMPLIFY screenwriting, not make it more confusing. I hope I have not just made it more confusing. Many a writer spends part of their evolution getting really locked down into PAGE NUMBERS and other academic constraints. But if you keep writing and keep at this, eventually all of this becomes second nature and you begin to jump off of it and use what works for you.

The Page Count Clinic

Good morning, Wavers! I inexplicably slept for 10 hours last night. I have no idea why so I just count my blessings that my lifestyle gives me the latitude to do that and get on with my day.

Ahem. Onward.

A commenter on yesterday’s post wondered why BENJAMIN BUTTON appears to have a very loose structure and, I assume, intimated that we should not be as concerned with getting structure right when there are (truly) so many exceptions. Yes, there are many exceptions to the rule. But until or unless you have made it – are repped, are pitching, are sold or selling – you MUST understand exactly how structure works and you must demonstrate this in your writing. Exceptions are no excuse not to know exactly what you’re doing in the now. Aspiring screenwriters are like nascent cooks – you must stick to the recipe in order to learn. Once you’ve made it over the moat that separates aspiring writers from paid ones – then and only then can you begin to put the recipe book down and vary from it when it comes to things like structure. Yesterday’s discussion of structure was a rudimentary one – of course there are all sorts of jumping off points.

Additionally, before we get to today’s topic, one cannot know what went on in the production of a major motion picture unless one was there. The script may have been tightly structured but somewhere in development, decisions were made to add more and bigger set pieces that plumped the structure up until it is what it currently is – pretty free form. Or not. We have no way of knowing unless we can ask that question directly of the writer. One can spend all day every day finding exceptions. Aspiring screenwriters trying to break in don’t have the luxury of stepping off with new and wacky structural techniques. You need to show a rep or producer that you have basic screenwriting craft down cold before you start popping wheelies.

So on to the topic of the day: The Page Count Clinic

Another commenter said: Do you have any suggestions for reining in runaway page count, other than the obvious of scene chopping solution?

Yeah, no, I dunno. Good luck with that.

Wait, I’m getting too cavalier lately. Forgive my insouciance. Yes, there are a few things you can do to cut down on page count. When I write, I never, ever worry about page count in the early stages. I don’t care if my whole script, from fade in to fade out has 72 pages. That gives me room to expand and add more set pieces and more character development. I don’t worry if my script has 132 pages either – that’s an opportunity to take what I have and distill it into sharper, more powerful pages.

So when you have too many pages that’s the opportunity begging to be had. Distilling 10 okay pages into five GREAT pages.

There are two fundamental ways to approach reducing your page count – reviewing each SCENE for relevance and then reviewing each and every PAGE to see where you can cut a line of dialogue, two lines of action, etc.

SCENEWORK
When it comes to each scene, do the scene test: Does this scene contain a relevant beat? Does this scene concurrently develop character? Does this scene contain the thematic undertones of your premise? Does this scene, in other words, absolutely carry its weight and earn its spot in the script? Think of yourself as the captain of a ship loading up to head out to sea – is this scene necessary? Does it earn the spot on the ship? Or is it ballast that can be tossed because it will only weigh the ship down?

PAGEWORK
Once you’re confident that every scene is absolutely necessary, go over every single page and look for ANY opportunity to reduce your action lines from three lines to two. Are there entire action lines that break up dialogue between characters? Are you over-directing the characters, in other words? Is there another way your character can express his or her thoughts in half the dialogue? Is your character actually repeating him or herself? In the same way that grapes are stomped down into a pulp which will ferment into wine, pages can be s-q-u-e-e-z-e-d down into more powerful stuff too.

Something I like to do which seems a bit arbitrary is to say to a writer – okay lose 10 pages off this script. I don’t care where, I don’t care how, just do it. And to a one, the writer comes back aglow with accomplishment and sleeker, faster, more powerful pages.

Just given that marching order with no parameters is empowering because when it comes right down to it, it’s not rocket science to look at your pages and see where the fat is.

So you may want to try that first – just take 10 pages out of your script. Open that sucker up and go. If that feels daunting or directionless, try reducing pages using the following steps:

Do a structure check: Are your act breaks falling on or about pages 10, 25, 50 and 75? How far off are they? Remember, this is a ratio based on the Golden 100 Page Script. Is the ratio about right? If there are 50 pages between act breaks, you have now pinpointed where the problem is in your script. So focus on that section.

Do a scene review: go through each and every scene and ask it these questions: What’s your name and where are you from? Well, no, maybe like: What is the BEAT in this scene? Is there one? Does this scene absolutely and without question move the story forward? Does it develop and reveal more about your character? And ideally – does it do both? Does this scene jump in late and get out early? Could the scene move a long even a little faster?

Do a global page reduction: Go through every single page and find any and all lines that can be cut. Anything. Dialogue, action lines – nothing is safe. Go pithier. Use more powerful, evocative words. The sun shines down on this suburban neighborhood. Dogs bark, children play and the mailman makes his rounds – which is not bad – might then become: Another sunny day in this family neighborhood; kids play, dogs bark. – We lost seven words in the second example. Maybe we don’t need the mailman. Or do we? Go through every single action and ask – what is really important to point out here? Is the word ‘suburban’ really critical? Or does ‘family’ do the job? That’s your call. But I guarantee that you will find TONS of things you can reduce just slightly. Writers tend to overwrite and over direct scenes. Strip each scene down to the bare bones using words that deliver the feeling and imagery important to the scene but that literally take up less space.

Depending on where you are as a writer – the global page reduction method is probably the best way to cut down on pages. You’d be surprised – even the most advanced writer can always find extraneous stuff on his or her pages. Newer writers are more likely to have scenes that are not necessary at all. If you’re not sure where to begin, I’d follow the steps above in that order without worrying about what your total page count should then be. Just follow the steps and then check in again. Did you lose 10 pages or so?

If you have to lose more than 10 pages you either have a problem with the structure full stop or you have a major issue with overwriting pages.

If you have 10 pages or less to lose, you probably just need to trim action and dialogue on your pages.

Writing IS rewriting. I love trimming pages because it’s not a punishment, it’s a challenge. How can I make what’s here work BETTER than ever before? It’s like chipping away at the marble to reveal a finer, more beautiful image. It is making wine from grapes, it is squeezing the – okay I’ve run out of weird metaphors but you get it.

In general, as a rule of thumb*, I always like to shoot for the Golden 100 Page Script. If you’re writing comedy, romcom, thriller or horror, this page count is actually pretty sweet. If you’re writing scifi, fantasy or drama, you might wind up with 110 pages. If your script has over 115 pages, you need to pull the car over and see what’s going on. It might be fine but it also might be your clarion call to write sleeker, more powerful pages. No matter what your page count, you can always produce better pages than the ones you currently have. I guarantee that. In fact, that’s a whole other blog post – when to STOP tweaking!

*stuff it, Anonymous.*

*This seems like a good time to explain my “stuff it, Anonymous” disclaimers. A couple or three times a week I get comments or emails from disgruntled Have-to-be-Righters who tell me how WRONG I am. Everything on the Rouge Wave is from MY perspective and MY experience. Anyone who takes what I say as gospel should have his head examined. These are all suggestions and advice. Do what you will. Do what works for you.

Let’s Talk About Structure and Also Poker

First, totally unrelated to structure – this from today’s Variety Online: The record-breaking 2008 domestic box office proves Hollywood isn’t as dependent on by-the-book franchises as everyone feared. It will also be remembered for prospering even as the economy collapsed.

To read the rest of the article, click HERE.

Now. I thought maybe we should get down to brass tacks. Let’s talk about structure. A topic that for many makes the blood run cold. Three acts or four? Inciting incident on page five or 10? First act break on page 25 or 30? Get character up in tree, throw rocks at character. Right? Forget all that stuff for a minute.

There is no element in screenwriting that can be discussed totally unto itself. Well, you could, and people try to, but it doesn’t make sense. Structure in particular is the hub of the wheel and is closely tied to character and premise. We know that the structure of a screenplay is roughly a three act proposition. I personally like thinking of it in terms of four acts – but that’s hair splitting; four acts is just the second act divided in half. So we might have:

Act One: pages one-25
Act Two A: pages 25-50
Act Two B: pages 50-75
Act Three: pages 50-100*

*I am using the magical 100 page script here for two reasons. One, it’s not a bad page count to aspire to and two, it just makes the math easier. If you script has a longer page count, the ratios here still apply.

We know we have certain milestones in the three or four act structure:

The inciting incident which falls anywhere from page one to page 10 (latest, kids, latest). Another name for this milestone might be: Why did I buy a ticket to this movie? When is all the stuff I saw in the trailer going to start to happen?

The first act break, which falls right around page 25 or so. And we might call this: I forgot to buy M&Ms I’ll just be a minute – oh HEY, what’s this? I’ll get them later.

The midpoint, which falls, yup, dead center. And we might refer to this as the okay forget the M&MS, the Coke, forget everything, I cannot leave this seat, things just heated up – again!

The second act break, which falls just before the third act, so in the area of page 75 or so. And we most definitely can refer to this one as: I have to use the restroom but…but…I HAVE to see what happens now!

So we know this, right? Each portion of the structure ramps things up to engage the audience in more interesting and complicated ways. Sucking them into the story more and more. That’s looking at structure purely from an entertainment factor point of view, not a story point of view. This is not the gist of what I want to talk about today but it’s a useful way to think of structure. Every 25 pages or so you have to turn up the heat so that your audience is more committed, more curious and more entertained by what’s going on.

But of course, you cannot accomplish this by adding rhinoceros stampedes, BIGGER rhinoceros stampedes and flying monkeys – when you’ve written a romcom. Well, maybe you could. Here’s the thing, once you understand structure from a purely academic point of view and with the use of my handy Audience-ometer Structure Guide (patent pending) as above, you have to design your structure in such a way that it makes sense for your premise and for your character. Structure and character arc are indelibly linked. Like Siamese twins.

Many new writers think okay I’m on page 25, something a bit bigger needs to happen here. It’s a sort of structure by numbers methodology. It is helpful to chart out your character’s arc relative to the structure. Things like rhino stampedes are only a good escalation for a certain type of character. Maybe in JUMANJI this makes sense.

The escalation embedded in and implied by structure has to make sense. What is the worst thing that COULD happen for THIS character at THIS point of time given THIS premise?

Again, anybody can simply jot down what I indicated above:

Act One: pages one-25
Act Two A: pages 25-50
Act Two B: pages 50-75
Act Three: pages 50-100

But this is only an academic understanding of structure. Again, what is the worst thing that could happen to your particular character at this point in the story? And are you going to be able to top that organically, within the premise, in another 25 pages? I actually take some issue with the macro view statement that you get your character in a tree and throw rocks at him. What character? In what tree? What kind of rocks are these? It’s all relative to the story you are telling and the type of character inhabiting this story. The act breaks for DIE HARD are in no way related to the act breaks in RAIN MAN. Yes, they fall in approximately the same places but that isn’t specific enough to be helpful.

So much of screenwriting is like that – we are all taught the academic perspective but one size does not fit all. And that’s part of the journey of being a screenwriter. We learn about the various elements from a macro view but it is only as you gain more experience that you can get a feel for the jumping off points and after you’ve written a few scripts, structure just starts to come naturally to you.

Imagine thinking of structure as a poker game for your main character – and he or she really doesn’t want to be there at all. Your main character doesn’t know how to play poker, never played a hand in his or her life and would much rather go home. But this is a movie and you the writer are God. You have literally thrown your character into a high stakes poker game against his or her will. There’s no going home there’s only winning or losing. Or is there a third way?

At each structural juncture, your character is more and more screwed in this imaginary poker game. At the midpoint, he or she is all in. With a bad hand. Audiences are conditioned to believe that your main character will in fact succeed. But with that hand? All in? It’s not possible. Or is it?

Just some food for thought on this Monday when the holidays are behind us and the new year lies ahead. Maybe you already have structure nailed. But for many new screenwriters, structure, which is deceptively simple, is a very difficult thing to wrap their minds around. Try looking at it from three points of view: Academic, Audience-ometer and Character Arc.

Have You Lost the Plot?

You know that feeling when you’re reading a novel and it doesn’t feel like it’s going anywhere? When it’s all sorts of pretty things and reflections but you can’t seem to find the plot? A reader friend and I were chatting over the 4th and she said “Reading scripts has ruined me for reading novels. I keep skimming along, faster and faster looking for the PLOT”. Believe me, this serves a reader well when they are asked to “cover” a novel – the Wave-inatrix does that a fair bit for a couple of production companies I work for. Being a reader forces one to zero in on plot and quickly. We have to synopsize the story and we have to do it fast. It’s a job requirement that begets a certain ADHD which trickles down to you, the writer.

Here is an excerpt from the very first blog entry on the Rouge Wave:

Action lines are not just paragraphs which describe the building, or the car or the dusty street the character is walking down. They aren’t just to tell us the character is wearing “khaki pants, a white shirt and dress shoes”. Action lines are like paintings. They should be kinetic, pithy and evocative. What do I mean by that? If a writer is describing a mid-19th century street in Nevada and the day is hot and the bad guy is about to gallop up on his horse, then focus on using that action line to really convey all of that. Let us hear a carriage creaking by. Let us feel the hot sun. Let us choke on the dust and hear the sound of the boots over the wooden walkways. Choose words, in other words, that match the mood of the scene and the tone of the script overall. Read produced scripts and notice the way a horror script uses dark, scary words in the action lines. Notice the way a romantic comedy employs lighter, funnier, bouncier words in the action lines. Make the scene come alive. Don’t be afraid to sound like you, not some pedantic machine who’s read a how-to screenwriting book one too many times.

Here’s a little secret: most readers, and by extension, executives and producers, skim over action lines quickly. Particularly if they are dense. We are only looking for key words so we can orient ourselves. The dialogue is the primary place where the plot is going to play out.

To read the post in its entirety, click HERE.

Oh dear, I’ve lost the plot. Where were we? Ah yes – the yin and yang, the fine balance between writing evocative, cinematic action lines and also moving the plot forward. We are writers, let’s face it. And we love words. We love images and moments. We love the feelings that are happening in a particular scene. But sometimes we over-indulge and forget that we must move along into the next moment and keep the story moving. Like a shark. Elegant, mysterious – but always moving or it will drown.

So how do you know if you’ve done that or if you’ve gotten lost in moments? How do you know if you’ve lost the plot? If you have outlined your story ahead of writing the script, you should be in pretty good shape. As long as your outline contained definitive plot beats every step of the way. That’s the point of an outline – to beat out the story. Then when you get to pages, that’s when you write the moments and visuals and feelings into the pages.

But what if you never outlined your script in the first place? First of all, bad Rouge Waver, bad! Unless you are one of those savants capable of keeping that outline in your head – and they exist, I’ve met them, but they are a rare breed – you should have outlined. But too late now, right? Well, have you lost the plot?

What about reverse-outlining your already written script? Take a look at your script in ten page increments. Can you pithily describe every ten pages with a set up, complication and resolution? Can you boil it down, in other words, to the plot and only the plot? Give it a try. If your description winds up sounding like: The woman meets a guy she would like to date and they go out on a date – if that describes ten pages – you gotta problem, my friend. Because it begs the question – yeah? So what? What’s the problem? What’s the complication? Why do I care what happens in the next ten pages? That description would work better as: the main character swears she’ll never date then she meets a great guy, they go out on a date but it turns out he is married. Ah – complication. Not a great one, but a complication. I don’t get a sense of the genre from that description, that’s missing. So make sure you describe each sequence relative to the genre.

Go ahead. Try it. Reverse-engineer your script. Write a description of every ten pages, using bullet points. Now you can check for two things – plot development and escalation. Does the description of your third sequence sound BIGGER and even more entertaining than the description of the first sequence? It better. Every sequence should build on the last. Things should get more complicated with every sequence. There should be setbacks, surprises and twists. The obstacles keep getting worse and more complicated. Just when your main character has achieved something – SMASH it in the next sequence.

Once you have outlined in reverse, imagine that this is a story you are telling at a cocktail party. This happened. THEN this happened! But then that happened! And you wouldn’t believe what happens next!

So if you are in doubt, give it a try. Does your script pass the test? Or have you lost the plot?

Top Ten Things Readers HATE

Good morning, Wavers. I trust many of you, as usual, are busily thinking of a clever one page scene for the latest competition. There’s nothing to lose and a $25 gift certificate to gain. Plus we like to have fun at the Rouge Wave, so, you know, you really gotta give it a whirl. Click HERE for the guidelines and click HERE to submit.

Also: just FYI, I have recently had requests from two production companies and a lit manager for some GREAT scripts. I have already submitted a few this week, from my client base but am definitely looking for great material to get out there. Obviously, I have to read the script first and yeah, that obviously means do some notes on the material, but the reputation of the Script Department has grown to the point where I am getting hit up for good scripts. So. Just put that in your pipe and smoke it. I am looking for anything well written, but also family, tentpole, action, horror and thriller.

So the happy, happy class who took Ten Things Readers HATE over the weekend requested that I repost that list here on the Rouge Wave. Now – you really had to to be there and I can’t reprint everything that we discussed in a 90 minute class. But I will reprint the list itself just for fun. This list could have been much longer but this is what we discussed at the Great American Pitch Fest. And remember – because it’s the Wave-inatrix – my list actually goes to 11.

Bear in mind that readers are often overworked and underpaid and your script may be the third script they read that day. So they’re a little cranky, a little jaded and they really want to go to bed. But no. Your script is staring at them and they gotta get through it quickly so they can turn in the coverage that night so tomorrow they can go pick up six more scripts from another production company a long, smoggy drive away. So I’ve set the scene, right?

Top Ten Things Readers HATE:

#11 A script over 120 pages.

Reader thinks: Please kill me now. The writer doesn’t have a good grasp of structure and tight story telling. Great. Just great.

#10 The writer sent weird shit in the mail with the script.

Reader thinks: Oh god. A rank amateur. Some kind of nut. What is this map/sketch/doll/polaroid/music and how fast can I toss it to the floor so I can just read the script already?

#9 Boring, derivative scripts in which nothing happens.

Reader thinks: Wtf? Where’s the conflict? What is the bloody point here? I hate this writer! Why can’t he or she just tell me a story already! I’m hungry. Maybe there’s something in the fridge. Maybe I should throw some laundry in. But I have to get this script done and – I hate this writer!

#8 Wonky Tone or Genre

Reader thinks: Wait – I cannot draw a bead on this. It’s funny, it’s graphic, it’s scary, it’s got characters with more personalities than Sybil. I can’t sum this up, I can’t follow where it’s going. There’s no cohesion. I’m gonna PASS this writer so fast his head’s gonna spin. Gd it.

#7 Bad, Confusing Sluglines

Reader thinks: My eyes! The humanity! These pages are cluttered and overslugged. Too many details in the slugs! Or – completely generic slugs – ext. house – day – oh come ON!

#6 Gratuitous, Shocking Sex or Violence

Reader thinks: Really? Am I supposed to be impressed or shaken by this? You’re dealing with the wrong reader, pal. If it’s not in keeping with the tone and narrative, if it’s just there to pop wheelies and tell me way more than I ever wanted to know about your sexual fantasies or urge to scoop out eyeballs with a melon baller, then color me NOT impressed.

#5 On the Nose Dialogue

Reader thinks: Talk about an urge for violence – what do you think I am, stupid? This dialogue is patronizing, dull and amateur. But hey – this is going to be a fast read and an easy PASS. Bring it.

#4 Dense Action Lines

Reader thinks: Like I’m going to wade through this crap. I’m just trying to synopsize this quickly and efficiently. And this is killing my eyes, slowing down the read and adding exponentially to my already cranky mood.

#3 No Structure: the BOSH script

Reader thinks: Nothing is moving this story forward, it just goes and goes and goes. It’s a BOSH script! (bunch of shit happens).

#2 Lame Characters

Reader thinks: These characters sound, act and look like robots. If there was one thing that might have gotten me into this story, it would have been characters I give a damn about. But no. Is this writer serious? Does he or she read this dialogue outloud? People don’t act this way. These are types! Oh! I’m so cranky!!

#1 Typos and malaprops

Reader thinks: Oh come ON. Seriously? One or three is one thing but now I’m beginning to feel personally insulted. Proofread! Is it that hard? Do you want to be taken seriously??

Now, Wavers know that there is a remedy to every single one of these items. And if you are new to the Rouge Wave, look at the Browse by Topic and click on corresponding subject labels to read up on how to do a better job and improve your craft. Mostly, just do the opposite of each point made here. But of course, there’s a lot more to it than that.

The larger point of the class is that you have to imagine yourself in the reader’s shoes. And during the class, cruelly, that’s just what I did, by passing out the first ten pages of a script that somehow managed to accomplish everything on this list save number 10 and that’s just because I didn’t bother to bring the map of the castle to the class. I gave everyone four minutes to read the pages (about how long a reader would spend, give or take) and asked that they circle those things that are slowing down the read for them. It was painful to watch, and I’m sorry, but it was effective, no?

Evolution

Recently, someone cut and pasted the Rouge Wave blog post about shifting expectations in structure on a particularly cantankerous message board. One that is dear to my heart. One on which I have made dear friends. But that cantankerous element can be found online anywhere. Anonymity creates mighty experts and strong opinions.

A kerfuffle arose mightly, with many casting aspersions on the Wave-inatrix, naming her as a contemptible witch for suggesting that the expectations for spec scripts is shorter and more compressed than in the past. Some posted examples of scripts sold at 114 or 123 pages. Good examples, true examples.

But on the Rouge Wave, I hold this truth to be self-evident: Rouge Wavers are an intelligent, interactive and thoughtful bunch who weigh, measure and try things out for themselves. Color me optimistic, but I do not view aspiring screenwriters as “newbies” akin to chicks in a nest with chunks of food being rammed down their innocent throats. I hold all writers – anyone who willingly sits in the silence and makes stuff up and then hopes we’ll get paid for it as slightly insane heroes. And I count myself among you.

But. As the Wave-inatrix is wont to say – I do not make this stuff up. I am hearing, repeatedly, from the managers, executives and producers whom I have professional relationships with that they want shorter scripts with more giddy-up. Does this apply particularly to the comedy and horror genres? YES. But Wavers, in my belief, there is merit in this concept full stop.

Does that mean that if your first plot point is on page 30 that you are doomed to fail? Of course not. Think, people. Or rather – think, people on cantankerous message board! Whether you use the 3-act structure of the 4-act structure is purely a personal decision – whatever works for you. The Wave-inatrix finds it useful beyond measure in my own writing but an executive won’t notice and won’t care. I mean, really, there’s no neon sign that says “welcome to act 2B!”

Wavers know how to use their god-given noggins. The Wave-inatrix, while seemingly quite goddess like, understandably, is just a girl working in this business. A girl who employs many readers, reads many scripts, cultivates relationships with managers and executives and who makes observations based on that experience.

It says so right above you and I’ll paraphrase because I’m lazy: The Rouge Wave is a place to get inspired, motivated and edu-tained. Not indoctrinated and hopefully not confused.

Do what works for you – but the word on the street is shorter is better. If you wind up taking that advice and going for a structure that looks more like this:

Page 1 to 25 – act one
page 26 to 50 – act two (a)
page 51 to 75 – act two (b)
page 76 to 100 – act three

- and you find that your story isn’t being served well – then by all means, have a look at that. Here’s the thing – that’s not a bad problem to have. However, writing a big, fat, overstuffed, overlong script is a tough one to solve. Much more difficult to rewrite. Building on your story is much less difficult than having a wandering story with a ton of excess fat. Not that trimming excess fat is not a GREAT exercise in your evolution as a writer.

But that’s what it’s all about, Wavers – you are continually evolving as human beings and as writers. You learn lessons along the way. Do what works for you while keeping your ear to the ground – the word on the street is important to pay attention to.

Outlining, Spreadsheets & Charts, Oh My!

For a long time, I shied away from outlining my scripts because I pictured those crummy outlines we had to make in grade school:

I. Marie Antoinette

1. Her Childhood Dreams
a. Empress of the Universe
b. Giant Candy Garden
c. Big Hats

2. Her Academic Training
a. Setting a Proper Tea Tray
b. Curtsy and Air Kiss
c. Bon Bon Appreciation

I know that sounds ridiculous, that one could possibly outline a story that way but that was always the mental picture I got so – I didn’t outline. The resulting scripts were not good.

Coincidentally, a dear Canadian friend sent me an Excel Spreadsheet she uses to outline the other day and Rouge Waver Christina mentioned in the comments section that she uses a spreadsheet as well. I have tried the spreadsheet thing but my (dis)comfort with Excel makes it a distraction for me.

I actually outline in a couple of different ways. It depends on my mood. As it should depend on yours. Mostly, I just use what I call a Sequential Beat Sheet:

ACT ONE

Sequence 1
In which blah blah blah

Sequence 2
And then blah

Sequence 3
Therefore, huge, surprising BLAH

ACT TWO

Sequence 4

–and so forth.

But another way I like to outline is to take a 8 1/2 by 11 piece of paper and turn it sideways (landscape). You’ll need a ruler for this, by the way. Across the top of the page, I pencil in columns numbered one through twelve. Relatively roomy columns. Then down the side, I make corresponding rows – as many as I wish, because I’m the boss, applesauce. And so are you.

So in these corresponding rows, I generally put the names of my main characters. Then I might have a row dedicated to The Magic Pumpkin Seed – in other words, if you have an object, a curse, a ghost or even a point of view you’d like to track over the course of the script, make a box for it.

So now you can go down and across and for each sequence fill in, briefly, what’s going on for that character. You can use this chart in any way you like. To chart character arc, to chart the level of tension in the narrative, to simply chart the location and knowledge of each character (say if you’re writing something complicated and procedural).

So that’s what I do. Because I have never been an index-cards-on-the-wall person, either. Many professional writers swear by that. Most television staff writing rooms include huge white boards.

I have seen many writers make fancy Excel spreadsheets but at the end of the day, it’s the same difference. If you feel totally comfortable with spreadsheet software – use that. Index cards, whiteboards, cocktail napkins in pencil – whatever works.

But mainly, Wavers, don’t allow yourself to feel confined by the word “outline”. Just like everything in life, you learn, you observe and then you make it your own.