JULE SELBO
Choosing Your Speculative Genre
JULE SELBO, PHD, is a screenwriter with produced work in feature film, network and cable TV, animated series, and daytime dramas. She has also written plays, graphic novels, and two books on screenwriting structure (Gardner Publishing), as well as articles on film genre and Pre-Code American cinema. She is working on her book Film Genre. She is a co-editor of the Journal of Screenwriting and head of the MFA in Screenwriting Program at California State University, Fullerton.
Most audiences choose the film they are going to view by its marketed genre. Most readers choose the book they are going to read by its marketed genre. It’s obvious that a genre promises an experience that the film-viewer/reader wants to have. And if the story does not deliver—yes, it’s true—the disappointed audience feels annoyance, regret, and sometimes downright anger. I would venture to say that in the genres of speculative fiction—sci-fi, fantasy, and horror—this is even more prevalent. Why?
Because these three genres attract specific audiences that tend to be knowledgeable and demanding and very, very picky—not to say prickly—if their expectations are not met. That’s a lot of pressure for “genre”—a French-based word that was originally meant to simply denote “type” or “category,” but one that has now taken on a much, more important place in the lexicon of narrative fiction.
I started as a playwright and short story writer and moved into creating stories for moving pictures; I have written film and/or television scripts in many different narrative genres* for Hollywood studios and networks. I have written fantasy for Disney, horror and sci-fi for George Romero, action/adventure for George Lucas, melodrama for Aaron Spelling, comedy for the Comedy Network, and more.
When I examined my early understanding of genre, I realized that my training ground was basically many decades as a film buff. Like many writers, I felt I understood the components of various genres by some sort of osmosis process, albeit steeped in thousands of hours of film viewing. I actually conducted a survey in 2009 of 100 working Hollywood screenwriters, and nearly 85 percent of them noted that they too relied on “sensing” the elements that made up a romantic comedy or a horror or a sci-fi film or (fill in genre) and had never actually put aside time to explore a certain genre’s classic components, or examine the audience’s reasons for enjoying a particular genre.
When I began to teach screenwriting seminars and noticed participants struggling with making their stories “pop”—or struggling to get to the base of the kind of story (themes, point of view) they wanted to write, I realized that sometimes there was no commitment to a genre. The writer was at sea and so was the reader. I began to see how helpful a deeper understanding of genre could be, and how genre could be used as a tool (along with story structure and character work) in the writer’s toolbox. So I spent the last few years examining each film genre and its components, themes, and structures separately (Western, romantic comedy, disaster, war, buddy, etc.) and how to use them in the construction phase of my writing.
In using this new tool, I found there was more ease in my writing task when I embraced the right genre and right genre hybrid. Genre hybrid? As we know, most stories do not live and breathe in just one genre; thus most narratives are genre hybrids.* In all narratives, but especially speculative fiction genres, efficacious use of supporting genres is very important; they can do a lot of the heavy lifting of the story. However, it is important to solidify the overriding (main) genre of your narrative first; let it frame and lead. So let’s do a quick overview of the basics of three genres in speculative fiction.
I suggest we think of science fiction, fantasy, and horror for a moment as “world” genres, for there are few inherent story components in these genres (genres that have stronger narrative dictates include mystery, romance, and crime). Their main feature is that they invite the audience into a specific world—and there are many fans enthralled with these worlds.
Science fiction genre stories have their roots in science. The writer’s imagination can extrapolate and vamp on the chosen scientific nugget, and the fun of the sci-fi genre is its proximity to some scientific truth or hypothesis. (In other words, research can be your very good friend.) One of the first sci-fi films (as well as one of the first-ever story-based films) was 1902’s A TRIP TO THE MOON written and directed by George Méliès, inspired by the novels of Jules Verne and H. G. Wells. It is the story of a group of scientists who build a rocket ship, fly to the moon, and confront moon creatures. Sci-fi has always caught movie audience interest.
STAR WARS: A NEW HOPE (1977) features science nuggets focused on space exploration and robotic science. The supporting genres of STAR WARS: A NEW HOPE are:
• adventure (a goal is set and the hero, against all odds, must strive to reach that goal for the betterment of community or all of mankind);
• action (lots of it);
• buddy (Luke Skywalker and Han Solo’s arc toward bonding and trust); and a nod toward
• romance (Luke and Han are both interested in Princess Leia and that conflict has its own arc); and
• coming-of-age (Luke matures and learns to trust the Force).
These supporting genres help illuminate character and relationships while the adventure genre holds much of the plot line.
ETERNAL SUNSHINE OF THE SPOTLESS MIND was constructed around the scientific hypothesis of memory erasures; two lovers experience a painful break-up and both decide to expunge memories of each other. Its main supporting genre is romance: boy meets girl, boy wants girl, boy tries to get girl, boy gets girl, boy loses girl, boy realizes life is empty without girl, boy tries to get girl back, and boy gets girl (or doesn’t). It is the romance genre line in this story that makes us care about the characters.
The fantasy genre allows the author to create an imaginary world, often using supernatural elements as primary inspirations for plot and characters. The world may be dreamlike, it may at times feel real, but it is always illusory. Think Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings novels and films.
Environments can be otherworldly but at the same time must be clearly drawn; rules of the society and mores and beliefs of the characters must be clear. Without boundaries such as societal expectations, rules of conduct, limitations on power, etc., it is very hard to create conflict. For example, Harry Potter’s heritage of wizardry makes him an outcast in the “real” world; wizards have their own governmental system with factions that do not agree with one another; it has been foretold that Harry is the one to vanquish the megalomaniac Lord Voldemort; wands and invisibility cloaks are sources of limited power, and so on.
Supporting genres in fantasy help illuminate characters and help devise plot points. Note how the film adaptation of THE WIZARD OF OZ brings an ordinary farm girl, Dorothy, into an extraordinary world, Oz (the base of the drama genre is an ordinary protagonist who faces tasks/tests outside of the normal world), and puts her on a quest—first to get to Oz and second to get the Wicked Witch’s broomstick (thus adding the adventure genre, for she has specific goals to accomplish) and brings her to understand there is “no place like home” (that understanding comes through maturation—an element of the coming-of-age genre).
TOY STORY lives in a fantastical world where toys have full lives outside of humans’ interaction with them as objects of play. TOY STORY employs:
• comedy (based in incongruity);
• buddy (the arc of Woody and Buzz Lightyear as they go from adversaries to friends);
• adventure (Woody’s goal of getting Buzz back into the fold before moving day is over); and
• action.
(The romance genre is introduced in TOY STORY 2.)
In all of these examples, the fantasy genre sets the world, while the adventure genre is the motor of the story.
The horror genre features plots where evil forces (events or characters) invade the everyday world and up
set the social order. There is a narrative dictate in horror, which makes it different from the sci-fi and fantasy genres; the horror genre calls for a writer to create a space or situation for the evil entity to show itself and, in most cases, make life miserable for those who inhabit the story—by shaking up belief systems and/or running amuck with violent or subtle malfeasance.
There are various permutations that have unique expectations from the audience—such as slasher horror, psychological horror, sci-fi horror, monster horror, and thriller horror. Whichever permutation, a writer is challenged to raise the terror bar by sparking the viewer’s imagination with original horrific situations—situations that are usually taken to the most excessive point the writer can imagine (excess blood, excess terror, excess body count, excess paranoia, etc.*). Horror villains are classically all “id”: persons/entities that want what they want when they want it and don’t let ego (what others may think of their actions) or super ego (sense of morality) get in their way. (I am totally paraphrasing/mangling Freud’s definitions, but sometimes it’s good just to keep it simple.)
Whether the villain is a monster (vampire, zombie, werewolf, etc.), or human, or extraterrestrial entity—the immoral, unreasonable, self-centered evil of the force will move it from the thriller genre (suspense without the true and absolute evil component) to the horror genre.
Horror books and movies are hugely popular. My favorites are the ones in which I come to care about the characters. ROSEMARY’S BABY (novel and film) is classic horror; the pervasive evil is the devil himself; he is using devil worshipers to help identify the female human vessel who will give birth to his progeny. The supporting genres are:
• drama;
• tragic romance (boy doesn’t get girl at the end, and lives and souls are destroyed); and
• mystery (plot points are structured so that a puzzle is slowly put together by figuring out the meaning of clues).
NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD features zombies intent on using the living as a food source. It leans on sci-fi (zombies rise from the dead due to radiation from a fallen satellite); it also uses the action genre. The lack of one of the “relationship” genres such as romance or buddy causes this film to be more of a carnival ride of terror than a personal/emotional connector—but there is a huge audience for slasher horror (the higher the body count the better).
What about combining sci-fi, fantasy, and horror? Would you put ALIENS in that category? What about ABRAHAM LINCOLN: VAMPIRE SLAYER?
Consider thinking of your narrative having an overriding genre and one or more supporting genres. Each of the genres will give you ideas for plot and character arcs. Understand the audience expectations of each of the genres, their desires for intellectual and visceral experiences. I would bet that identifying the basic components of the overriding speculative genre, and the particulars of its world, and then laying out what supporting genres will help you flesh out character and plot points will make the blank-page challenge of your next new project feel less daunting, more structurally sound, and more fun.
EXERCISE
1. Get very clear about your overriding speculative narrative genre; specificity will help you construct your story. Is it based in science (sci-fi) or solely your imagination (fantasy)? Does it have a truly evil component (horror)—or is it a “scary” story that builds anxiety without engaging a truly evil force (thriller)?
2. In choosing to write in one of the speculative genres, consider making it clear to your audience from the outset that they are going to “get what they paid for.” Construct a scene or situation set in the overriding genre to open your narrative. Just keep in mind that the goal should be to create a scene or situation that makes the genre clear as well as includes a way to get to know one of your main characters so that the audience begins to understand/care for him/her. If you want to start your story with an event that does not feature your main character, best to keep it relatively short. Audience members are quick to understand a “setting the genre/world” scene and are waiting to engage in characters, so don’t tax their patience.
3. List possible supporting genres. Decide which may lend a sense of originality to your piece. Which will illuminate characters and which will help raise conflicts between characters? Consider which supporting genres will help complicate/raise the stakes in your plot.
4. Frame your story in your overriding genre—build a scene/situation at the beginning, and build another one at the very end of your story. Also frame your supporting genre sequences within your story with scenes/situations featuring the overriding genre; this will keep your audience members connected to the genre they have chosen to experience.
GLENN M. BENEST
Writing Horror
GLENN M. BENEST is an award-winning writer/producer with seven produced film credits. He teaches professional-level screenwriting workshops, which have launched five films, including SCREAM and EVENT HORIZON.
After writing two horror films directed by Wes Craven (the writer/director of A NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET and many others), I got to be an expert of sorts in the field of horror. What I learned about this particular and unique genre translates to fiction as well as film. Let me share some of those lessons with you.
In the first place, we must realize that the real star in the horror genre is not the hero but the source of the horror itself. Whether it’s a haunted hotel in THE SHINING or the great white shark in JAWS, the crucial thing that makes a horror project really work is that which scares us.
Unlike other works of fiction or film, the protagonist in this genre does not need to go through a character arc. By a character arc, I mean someone who begins at one point emotionally and grows through conflict to be more vulnerable, more courageous, or more ethical.
In most genres, this is what a story is truly about. It’s not about the plot; it’s about the character growth of the protagonist. As a result, character is what the author is most concerned with—the plot is simply there to show step-by-step how much the character is changing during the course of the story. So plot comes from character, not character from plot. That’s normally what makes truly great art.
In horror, whether we think of THE EXORCIST or THE OMEN or PET SEMATARY, what the protagonist simply needs to be is strongly motivated to confront what terrible evil is out there. Our central focus is not necessarily on character or how the character will grow during the course of the story.
Which doesn’t mean we don’t want strong characters; it simply means something is even more important in how we think as horror writers. Unlike other works of fiction or film, the story is not about character growth, but facing evil. Oftentimes, the hero is already courageous when the story begins or simply has no other choice but to face that which needs to be destroyed.
The audience that pays their money to read your horror novel or see your horror film is not there to appreciate the nuances of character—they are there to be scared silly. In some ways, this seems rather obvious, but I find in helping many of the writers in my screenwriting workshops with their horror projects, they seem to overlook this basic tenet. They spend way too much time on scenes that are dialogue-driven or expository, and way too little time creating memorable, scary moments.
It is a childish emotion, this love of being scared. That is not to say adults don’t like to be scared as well. Clearly we do. But as adults, we are not responding to a horror novel or film with adult-like behavior. Rationally, if something scares us, we avoid it. But now, we are seeking it out. Why would we do this?
Because we are being transported back to a time when nameless fears held us in their sway. It simply means that as adults we have not outgrown our juvenile fascination with what goes bump in the night. Just like some of us still like the thrill of going on roller coasters at amusement parks. We like to be scared because it helps us face and overcome our most primal fears from childhood—the monster that lives under the bed or the creatur
es that haunt our nightmares.
We all come to your work of horror with certain expectations that you must deliver or we will be extremely disappointed. So think long and hard about your villains and the world in which they exist. Make sure you immediately thrust the reader or filmgoer into that world of dangerous creatures, crazed killers, or aliens who desire our demise.
Be very attentive to what makes your villains unique. Why do we need to see another story about vampires or zombies or rabid animals? What made the ALIEN franchise so memorable was the originality of the monster—a creature that has acid as blood and could transform itself into whatever environment it was hunting in. How can we possibly kill such a creature? This monster is not of our world, it doesn’t think like us, it has no compassion or conscience—and that makes it that much more frightening.
And when you write the scary scenes, milk them for all they’re worth. This is the equivalent of writing the funny, touching scenes between lovers in a romantic comedy or the gross-out humor in a teen comedy. It is the very essence of what you’re doing as a horror writer. It’s what the audience members have paid their money for—so don’t disappoint them.
This is why we came to your party. Make sure you give us what we came for. Use every trick in the book when you create your scares. Study from the best just as I did: whether it’s Stephen King or Wes Craven or Edgar Allan Poe.
EXERCISE
1. Whatever villain you’ve picked to scare your audience, brainstorm with yourself and others to make the antagonist as unique as possible. Whether it’s the largest anaconda in the Amazon with amazing abilities to kill, or a great white shark that can literally devour boats, make sure that your source of evil is something that has never been seen quite like that before.
2. Take a scene of horror you’ve written and find ways to make it scarier. For example, you can do this by cross-cutting scenes with another line of action to build the suspense. Or you can have false scares, where the audience thinks something terrifying is going to happen, but it’s only the crazy next-door neighbor, dressed up in a monster mask to get a cheap laugh. Then, just as the characters feel some sense of relief—the real terror begins.
Now Write! Page 2