by Erik Bork
Blake Snyder’s Save the Cat! screenwriting books offer ten “genres” that can really help writers to identify the best such situation for their idea—and to make sure that it has one. His theory is that successful movies seemed to be about one of ten different kinds of human problems, and he gave them fun names like “Dude with a Problem” and “Fool Triumphant.”
I love using these story types while developing an idea, whether it’s my own or brought to me by another writer I’m working with. Each one centers on a different type of hugely challenging situation that we can all relate to, and taps into something primal that we all share as human beings. Audience members either have been in such a situation or can easily imagine how difficult it would be—and may have had dreams or nightmares about something similar.
Stories are not about intellectually interesting things (although that might be a side element). They are about emotionally impactful things. There’s a key difference. Our goal is to get the audience to feel something, not just to think something. And audiences pay to consume stories because they want that. They want to be led on an emotional journey, where they really relate to the central character and their predicament.
Sometimes writers get caught up in the intellectually interesting (to them) details of a science fiction world they’ve created, for instance, or the experiences of a military unit in battle, or a miscellany of real-life events in a true story they’re adapting. But the audience doesn’t usually want to be sifting through such facts and details. The core of a story needs to be easy for the audience not only to hold in their hands and understand but to feel something about. It should wear its heart on its sleeve. Most successful projects are about fundamental, universal, emotional things like good vs. evil, urgent threats that must be stopped, and once-in-a-lifetime challenges that will forever define who a character is and the life they get to live.
The Eight Types of Story Problems
Usually the relatable main character of a successful story is dealing with one of the following eight types of problems:
Someone or something is trying to kill me (or us).
Someone or something is trying to destroy my life as I know it.
I have a once-in-a-lifetime but incredibly difficult opportunity to rise up and be somebody, in a big way, that could forever change my sense of self.
I have to rescue someone from a potentially terrible fate.
I have to reach a distant and life-changing “prize,” which seems nearly impossible to do.
I have to defeat powerful “bad guys” who have hurt and/or are threatening innocents.
I have to escape a terrible situation, which prevents me from living freely and happily.
I have to win over and/or hang on to a desired life partner, with whom I have a chance at my best life. But something is hugely in the way of that.
This list might seem limiting at first glance. Surely there are great stories that are about something other than these eight things, aren’t there? I am not so sure. In my experience, honest analysis of favorite books, movies, plays, or series tends to reveal that one or more of these universally relatable challenges seem to always be at the heart of what’s going on.
Likability
It really helps if we like the main character—if we see them as “good people.” A lot of writers chafe at this idea. They cite darker, less likable characters in successful stories as examples of why this isn’t a hard-and-fast “rule.” And such characters seem more interesting. So let’s talk about that.
Sometimes we don’t exactly like the main character, in the traditional way, but we are so massively entertained, the stakes are so high, and/or they are being so relentlessly punished that we can forgive some unlikability. But the more unlikable they are, the more those other factors need to be in place.
Take Scarface, for instance. There are nearly constant life-and-death stakes. And though the main character becomes powerful fairly early (which can make it hard for audiences to stay invested, as we all love to root for the underdog), there are other people who are more powerful, who threaten him. And his life spirals downward, just as he starts to reach the difficult and risky goals that we were intrigued to see him undertake. We might not like him, per se, but we are riveted in watching what’s going on. Because what’s at stake is crystal clear, incredibly primal, and easy to connect with emotionally. And it’s massively entertaining in terms of action and suspense, in keeping with its genre.
Or take the series House M.D. The title character is very unlikable. But he’s entertaining and fascinating to watch. He’s also heroically saving lives every week, so we can somewhat forgive him for being a misanthrope who psychologically manipulates and abuses people. Not totally, but it helps us stay with him.
Imagine a show where a guy like Dr. House was not saving lives, and was not that entertaining or fascinating to watch but was still that mean. Say he worked in insurance and treated people that same way but was less witty, surprising, or outrageous. Or what if Tony Montana’s life wasn’t constantly at risk, with huge cinematic challenges closing in from every angle, in Scarface. Would we care enough to want to follow these guys? Or would we just think, “Why would I want to be with this person for two hours?”
This is the conscious or subconscious reaction that audiences (and professional readers) have to stories and story ideas more often than you might think. It all comes back to “Why should I care?” We have to give them a reason to care—to be emotionally invested in the main character and what they’re dealing with.
It may be out of favor in certain circles to go for “likability” with a main character, but in many genres, it’s still essential. Take love stories. Here, the audience needs to root for two people to be together in the end. For this to work, the audience has to kind of fall in love with both the main character and their love interest, and feel that they are perfect matches for each other. If we don’t strongly emotionally connect with the main character, will we really care about their love life? And if we don’t agree with their choice of partner, will we care about them ending up together?
So how do you make the main character likable? There’s one clear-cut area where a character’s behavior will make the audience either like or dislike them: how they treat others. If they are really good to others, even to the point of forgoing their own interests at times, we will tend to instantly like them. If they are selfish and don’t go out of their way for others, we will tend to not like them.
This is where the title of Save the Cat! comes from—it half-jokingly maintains that the main character needs to “save a cat” in the first ten minutes so we will want to engage with their story. But they can’t just do something nice that’s easy to do. They actually have to give up what they want, in some way, to help another. When they do that, we start to fall in love with them. When they do the opposite, and focus only on what they want, we tend to think, “Why would I want to follow this character? Why should I care about whatever they are going to face?” Selfishness can be poison in trying to make the audience stick with a main character.
In real life, there are a variety of ways in which people become more or less likable or interesting to us. But stories aren’t real life, and the audience’s relationship to the main character is a special and fragile one. To hook people into caring, this character usually has to be especially sympathetic and relatable. And if they aren’t heroic or facing massive problems (and aren’t incredibly fascinating/entertaining at all times)—then it’s especially important that they are easy to bond with.
Even main characters who face life-and-death stakes are usually still depicted as pointedly sympathetic and likable in most commercially successful stories. Take Star Wars or Harry Potter. Their main characters deal with the highest possible stakes and are in heroic situations that are hugely entertaining to watch or read about—all things that can help make a less likable character more forgivable. And still their authors made them incredibly lovable, on top of that. Imagine th
ese movies if the main characters were kind of selfish jerks, but still did all the heroic things and faced death, etc. Would these stories be as beloved?
Consider, as well, the main characters of the following movies:
I Am Legend
Jerry Maguire
The Nutty Professor
12 Years a Slave
Gravity
The Graduate
Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery
The Sixth Sense
Enchanted
Meet the Parents
There are a variety of genres here. But to my mind, all these main characters are presented in ways that make them extremely likable and relatable (albeit with relatable flaws). When in doubt, making the character easier to care about is generally worth doing. You almost can’t err too much in that direction (unless the character becomes boring or unbelievable). But it’s easy and common for writers to do the opposite—to present a main character who doesn’t have a mix of qualities that truly engages a mass audience.
What about Character Arc?
Writers often create main characters that are not so likable—who are selfish and not good to others—with the idea that they will “arc” them to someone who learns to be nicer in the end. Because aren’t main characters supposed to grow and change over the course of a movie?
It’s true that the best stories often (but not always) tend to have a significant growth arc for the main character. In the end, they have somehow become a better version of themselves, as well as having solved some big problem in their world. And yes, this means they have to start the movie as the “not-best version of themselves.”
But if the “not-best version” of your main character is a selfish jerk who hurts others in some way, readers will tend to not bond with them enough to want to stay with the story.
There are a rare handful of movies that are exceptions to this—and which successfully begin with a “jerk” main character. In these, the whole point is that a jerk becomes a better person, usually through some magical intervention. A great example is Liar Liar. The main character is purposefully presented as someone who is not particularly good to other people, because the whole point of the film is that a magic spell will force him to tell the truth and be better. That’s the one time I think you can get away with the jerk opening. It’s a rare exception. (A Christmas Carol is another example.)
But even in Liar Liar, you’ll notice that Jim Carrey’s character is actually really good to his kid, when he shows up. His problem is just that he’s unreliable and evades the truth. But when present, he’s a great, loving dad. So even in this movie about “a jerk who stops being a jerk,” the filmmakers go out of their way to give him some positive qualities from the outset, in how he interacts with and loves his son.
Also, this character is really entertaining to watch, which helps a lot. The movie is hilarious from page one. And, importantly, he gets completely beaten up by life for most of the movie. They aren’t life-and-death stakes, but he’s under siege continuously, and it only builds. We can forgive bad behavior more easily when the main character is punished for it in a big way, and pretty much constantly.
Another example is School of Rock. Jack Black’s character starts the movie behaving pretty selfishly. Although even then, he’s an underdog who gets treated badly, which helps the audience get on his side. And he’s also hilarious to watch. But the key is that the situation fairly quickly shifts from him merely exploiting the kids to the kids benefiting from what he’s doing.
I like to think of the main character’s flaw (and the thing we want to see them overcome, in their “arc”) as the way they “get in their own way”—usually through limited thinking about what’s possible for them. The flaw may have the side effect of constricting the good they can contribute to those around him or her, but they’re usually not directly and actively hurting others in a way that we see on-screen and harshly blame them for. Instead, they’re living a compromised version of what their life could be, because they somehow haven’t risen up to face the internal blocks that keep them stuck. The big external challenge of the movie will force them to face this, often, and to make some changes. But they’re not jerks!
Consider, for instance, the following main character flaws:
Star Wars—Luke doesn’t believe in himself or trust the force.
Big—Josh can’t accept life as a kid.
It’s a Wonderful Life—George’s ambitions for a big and successful life outside of Bedford Falls somewhat blind him to the blessings he has.
Working Girl—Tess doesn’t really believe in herself and the possibility of a better life/career beyond Staten Island.
Casablanca—Rick doesn’t believe in anything or pursue anything; he’s just getting by and keeping his head down, staying uninvolved.
Lethal Weapon—Riggs is suicidal due to the death of his wife.
Legally Blonde—Elle has been living a sheltered life as a sorority princess, not trying to improve herself or be something more.
Field of Dreams—Ray hasn’t really made peace with his relationship with his late father.
Almost Famous—William thinks rock stars are cool and wants their approval.
Notice a common theme? These characters are mostly relatable and even likable, but they are clinging to smaller lives or ways of living (or fantasies) that don’t ultimately serve them. They’re not healthy and self-actualized in the most mature ways. And they need to grow—scary and difficult though it might be—in order to be their best, do their best, and contribute the most. Their arcs are about “living one’s best life,” not “learning to be good to other people.”
In my experience, beginning writers tend to obsess too much about character arcs and flaws, and work too hard to give the main character too much room for growth, to the point where they start the movie rather unsympathetically. And this is hard to ever recover from.
I would also say that plenty of successful movies don’t have major character arcs and flaws, with the main character having to significantly change to become much better or nicer in the end. Consider a handful of representative examples, across multiple genres:
Four Weddings and a Funeral
Coming to America
Stand and Deliver
Get Out
The Bourne Identity
There’s Something about Mary
Say Anything . . .
Die Hard
Rear Window
Erin Brockovich
There are plenty of great stories where the main character is basically “good” all the way through, and though they grow in some ways, they don’t substantially change at the end.
So, my advice is to not make “arc” the main priority, and especially don’t start your character out hurting others in some way. A better way to address arc is to focus on what their best life would be, and why they don’t have it. This tends to connect to some sort of “wound” that has led them to live life in a closed-down, less-than-ideal way—in terms of how they view themselves and what they think is possible.
The Goal of the Opening Pages
With any story idea, our main character has a starting point—a status quo life. It’s hinted at in the logline and quickly described in the synopsis. And it’s the main thing being depicted in the opening pages, before some “catalyst” event (aka “the inciting incident”) introduces the main story problem.
These opening pages are crucial to hooking the reader into caring about the character. And they might be the only pages that get read. The script will likely be put down right away if those pages don’t immediately engage the busy industry professional who has given it a chance by opening it.
Most screenwriters who have been at it for a while realize this, and try to pack some of their best description, dialogue, entertainment value, and overall scene writing into this crucial beginning section—which makes sense. There’s also a common piece of advice that you should start the script in medias res, or “in th
e middle of things,” meaning that something compelling, emotional, and filled with conflict and spectacle should happen right away.
I think this is a good idea, but that it’s also crucial that writers fulfill the more important function of the script’s opening, which is to establish relatability—to get readers understanding, interested in, and starting to emotionally invest in our main character, before hitting them with that catalyst event that rocks their world.
To achieve this, we have to introduce the character and their life at some length and in some breadth. This can take time. If we’re mainly focused on trying to “grab” people with some huge event in the first few pages—or move around too much, introducing other characters—readers might find that they’re not up to speed with the main character and their world enough, by the time of the catalyst, to really be able to engage. I see this problem very often in scripts.
It’s not so much about “grabbing” the reader as it is drawing them into the world of the story, and its central figure, so they get intrigued and start to care. Any grabbing that’s done—any exciting activity that we open in the middle of—should ideally just be the beginning of illustrating who this main character is, what their life situation is, and why readers should be intrigued by them. In other words, it’s part of presenting their current status quo, before the catalyst rocks it.
One of the “grabbiest” movie openings happens in Saving Private Ryan, where we watch soldiers storming Omaha Beach. It’s a harrowing and unforgettable sequence bringing to life the horrors of war. But if you really look at it in the context of what happens after, it is still merely setting up who Captain Miller is, and what he’s been up to and dealing with, before the catalyst of getting the mission to go find Private Ryan. It’s presenting an especially exciting version of his “status quo life,” before the real story kicks in.