by Jeff Kitchen
Think again about how the greatest movies you’ve ever seen have transfigured you. Reflect upon how you felt as you watched them, how you felt afterward, how you longed for that lift, that energy, that greatness of heart. Remember how you felt walking out of such classics as The Shawshank Redemption, Braveheart, Raiders of the Lost Ark, Body Heat, Pulp Fiction, The Usual Suspects, The Big Lebowski, Howl’s Moving Castle, Blade Runner, Ordinary People, American Beauty, Psycho, Strictly Ballroom, The French Connection, The Lord of the Rings, Gandhi, Rashomon, The Sting, sex, lies, and videotape, The Terminator, Duck Soup, 12 Angry Men, The Bourne Identity, Jerry Maguire, Driving Miss Daisy, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, The King of Hearts, The Producers, Reds, Lawrence of Arabia, Das Boot, Chinatown, Amadeus, Cool Hand Luke, On the Waterfront, The Burmese Harp, M*A*S*H, Back to the Future, Platoon, The Fugitive, Casablanca, Bad Boy Bubby, Regarding Henry, The Seven Samurai, Dances With Wolves, Lethal Weapon, The Hustler, Twelve Monkeys, The Last Emperor, and In the Heat of the Night—to name only a handful. Certain films have left an indelible mark on you, on your soul, on your entire life. Do you remember the last time you were absolutely lit up, totally energized, utterly alive? People need that thrill the same way they need oxygen—so many people just limp though life much of the time. The original storytellers were shamans, and their responsibility was freeing people to experience the present fully, awakening people so they could truly live. The storytellers of today should strive to do the same.
Ask everybody you know who their favorite writers are, and why, and what those authors do to them. Listen to how your friends talk; watch them as they relive their pleasure, fear, energy, exuberance, adrenaline, and fun. Then go out and read their suggestions. Put a book by your bedside table or on your treadmill. Listen to a book on tape as you drive to work (they’re free at the library). Turn off mindless television and work—really work—to be one of the top storytellers in the world, in the history of the world. If you’re a screenwriter, then this is your job! People are starving for great stories, and something inside you is screaming to give it to them—otherwise you wouldn’t be a writer. If you’re going to do it, then be the best. Stun them, stagger them, and transfigure them with your storytelling passion.
Writing a Great Movie is a manual of successful plot creation, development, and construction. I sincerely hope you can add these dependable tools to your screenwriter’s toolkit, not displacing other techniques but complementing them and rounding out your abilities as a dramatist. Since this book’s primary focus is on structural technique, it does not go into much depth on highly specialized elements such as dialog—a separate topic that would require an entire volume of its own. Remember that to maximize your comprehension of the Key Tools, you should have a real familiarity with the films Training Day, What Women Want, Minority Report, The Godfather, Tootsie, and Blade Runner, which are explored extensively to illustrate the tools in action. Best of luck with your writing, and please, knock my socks off at the movies! That’s what it’s all about.
Dilemma, Crisis, Decision & Action, and Resolution:
Dramatizing a Plot
wenty-five hundred years ago, the Greek philosopher Aristotle made some astute observations about the nature of drama, using his native Athens as a laboratory. His observations were based on an annual religious theater festival. Each year only one topic would be assigned to all the playwrights. (This would be akin to requiring every filmmaker presenting a new movie at this year’s Sundance Film Festival to focus on, say, the Kennedy assassination.) With this one variable intact, Aristotle had the chance to compare and contrast the plays in very specific ways, and he perceived that while some put the audience to sleep, others were thoroughly absorbing. He wondered, “Is there anything in common among those plays that grip an audience?” Studying them, he found that, in fact, they did tend to have in common several elements: Dilemma, Crisis, Decision & Action, and Resolution.
These elements are simply the products of Aristotle’s observations, and are neither rules nor dogma nor laws. He was not a dramatist—he never wrote a play that we know of. Sophocles, Euripides, and Aeschylus did not study with him; in truth it was he who studied them.
THE FUNCTION OF DILEMMA IN DRAMATIZING A PLOT
Dilemma may be defined as “a situation with a choice to be made in which neither alternative is acceptable.” Two equally unacceptable alternatives—two equally painful choices. The story of someone trapped in a challenging dilemma can be riveting. Let’s invent a scenario of two equally bad options. Our character’s brother needs a life-or-death operation that costs serious money. But all the cash our character has is earmarked to finally turn his barely surviving business into a success and to make a down payment on a new home, thus saving his marriage and removing his kids from a dangerous neighborhood. Neither option is good because each is at odds with the other. Forced to choose between sacrificing himself or sacrificing a loved one, our character finds himself paralyzed, unable to make a choice. This is a dilemma to lose sleep over.
Damned If You Do and Damned If You Don’t
Two equally unacceptable alternatives. Caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. Kill or be killed. You can’t hang on and you can’t let go. Trapped between a rock and a hard place. A solid dilemma of this sort can always improve the plot. As I’ve learned from working hands-on with thousands of screenwriters and playwrights over the years, a writer may come in with a well-plotted story, but creating a new dilemma or strengthening an existing one will invariably improve the material.
Essentially, there is either a dilemma inherent in a plot or there is not. If there is, then it should be identified, built upon, and complicated in ways that add substantial dimensions to the script. If there is not, then we can experiment with the possibility of creating one. We develop a set of intriguing possibilities to heighten Dramatic Action, thereby engaging the audience in the character’s fate. A dilemma places the protagonist in a more complex and compelling situation. This in turn makes the actor’s role a meatier one, which attracts top actors looking for substance, depth, complexity, and challenge.
An excellent example of a dilemma can be found in the 1956 science-fiction film Forbidden Planet. Commander Adams (Leslie Nielsen) has traveled to a shipwrecked space colony to check for survivors and finds only two: the scientist, Morbius (Walter Pidgeon), and his daughter, Altaira (Anne Francis). Morbius has used alien technology found inside the planet to build Robby the Robot, a very sophisticated machine. While demonstrating Robby for Commander Adams, Morbius has Adams give Robby his ray gun. Morbius then orders Robby to point the gun at Commander Adams, who’s getting pretty nervous. Morbius orders Robby to fire, but the robot begins to short-circuit instead. Arcing electricity, he’s frozen in place. Morbius explains that Robby is caught in a dilemma. On one hand he’s been programmed never to disobey Morbius’s orders, but on the other hand he’s been programmed never to harm a human being. If Morbius leaves Robby in this dilemma he’ll melt down, so he releases him from the command. This is a revealing look at how someone acts when they’re trapped in a good, strong dilemma.
To create a dilemma, you want your protagonist to “short-circuit” like this—frozen between two terrible choices. Note the important distinction here: Your character is generally not literally hiding at home under the covers, but rather is stuck internally and perhaps limping through life, trapped by the powerful circumstances that you’ve created.
Trapping a character in a dilemma is much like cornering a wild animal. A cornered animal can be very dangerous, capable of phenomenal acts such as jumping long distances or attacking with astonishing strength. Your characters can do similar things when backed into a tight corner, and this can be spellbinding on-screen. Think about when you’ve been horribly trapped and remember that desperate, tormented feeling. Notice it the next time it happens and study it as a dramatist.
Look at the characters in your scripts as though they were animals. Animals demonstrate naked behavior. T
hey don’t rationalize why they’re trying to kill anyone who invades their territory—they just do it. Characters can have similar instincts beneath their complicated social behavior. Look at your protagonist and antagonist as two fierce lions fighting over a carcass, two great apes in combat, or a mother bear protecting her young from a predator. Seek out the core of a character beneath all the human reasoning and clever rationalizations.
A Dilemma of Magnitude
A potent dilemma is important—a dilemma of magnitude. Magnitude implies significance. Is it significant to an audience? Look at the difference between the films The Shawshank Redemption and Dumb and Dumber. This is not a value judgment, because Dumb and Dumber was funny as hell, but The Shawshank Redemption is a film of more magnitude, more substance. Your goal should be to construct a dilemma of substance. You may have two bad options, but without significance to an audience—for example, it’s unacceptable to clean the house and equally unacceptable to wash the car—it has no magnitude. It won’t rivet an audience unless it passes the “So what?” test.
The “So what?” test can challenge anything that tries to work its way into your script. Harry Cohn, the founder of Columbia Pictures, ran his development process as follows: He would sit his writers down at a conference table and ask for their ideas. The first writer would lay out his idea and Cohn would respond, “So what?” The next writer would pitch his idea and Cohn would shoot it down the same way. An idea had to pass Cohn’s “So what?” test before he was willing to pursue it.
A dilemma of magnitude must pass the “So what?” test. Even in comedy, the protagonist will generally take the dilemma seriously him- or herself, even though it’s hilarious to the audience—in fact, the worse it is for him or her, the funnier it is for us. Take Jim Carrey’s comedic dilemma in Bruce Almighty, where his character temporarily becomes God: It’s unacceptable to give up being God because he has all these awesome powers, but it’s equally unacceptable to continue being God because he’s in over his head. The more things spiral out of control, the more hilarious it is for the audience. Once you get a dilemma up and running, then you should experiment with magnitude. Is your dilemma as significant, as potent as it could be? Does it hit the audience members where it hurts? Does it resonate in each of their own lives? How much more intense could you possibly make this dilemma? Be extremely tough on your own material—everybody else is certainly going to be.
A Sense of Proportion
It’s also important to have a sense of proportion in terms of where to use dilemma in your screenplay. A dilemma should kick in after some “set-up time,” which enables the audience to get to know and care about the character—about a quarter to a third of the way into a script, when the plot has begun to develop. Once you identify with a character, you are essentially pretending to be that person, so the dilemma will hit you with more force.
The following diagram represents an approximate line of proportion for an entire script:
The first triangle indicates roughly where the Dilemma tends to kick in. The Dilemma will build in intensity until it reaches the make-or-break point of the Crisis (the second triangle). This Crisis requires an immediate Decision & Action (the third triangle), and then the plot is essentially wrapped up by the Resolution (the fourth triangle). Denouement is the last bit of the story after Resolution. It is the aftermath, the epilog, the upshot—also known as the “new equilibrium.” It’s usually the last minute or two of the film, such as Jake going home in Training Day or Michael’s men kissing his ring as the door is shut on Kay in The Godfather. Bear in mind that this is just an estimated sense of proportion; it does not indicate specific pages where the elements will necessarily be found.
One good, strong dilemma can carry a whole film. Once your protagonist becomes trapped in it, the dilemma can build in intensity until the crisis point forces decision and action. The dilemma is finally resolved at the point of resolution (essentially the film’s ending). In other words, one central dilemma can form the engine of a drama.
The Use of Dilemma in Training Day
In Training Day (2001), rookie undercover cop Jake Hoyt (Ethan Hawke) is caught in an intense dilemma when grizzled veteran Alonzo Harris (Denzel Washington) offers him a devil’s choice between results and morality. Jake is in awe of Alonzo, a legendary undercover cop. Deeply ambitious, Jake has a shot at joining Alonzo’s elite undercover narcotics squad, but Alonzo is dragging him down a slippery ethical slope. Although nothing will make Jake relinquish this incredible opportunity, his dilemma begins in earnest when Alonzo makes him smoke PCP. Alonzo’s also got him robbing drug dealers, and being party to murder and armed robbery—all the while explaining that this is the only way an undercover narcotics cop can get real results. In essence, Jake’s guru is also his worst enemy. He’s damned if he goes along with Alonzo and damned if he doesn’t. He can either bend the law to take down the bad guys or go back to being a “patrol fairy” (a regular cop). Jake is trapped, and this trap is what the movie is about. Training Day’s dilemma is that while it’s unacceptable for Jake to lose this opportunity to be an undercover cop with a heavy hitter like Alonzo, it’s equally unacceptable for him to be dragged by Alonzo into tactics of increasingly questionable morality.
Once Jake becomes trapped in his dilemma, he is truly paralyzed by it all the way through to the make-or-break point: when Jake discovers that Alonzo has tried to have him murdered by the Latino gang. Jake goes to arrest Alonzo, and while he is no longer paralyzed by the dilemma, he’s still got a tough fight on his hands to fully extricate himself from it. He finally frees himself from the dilemma when he beats Alonzo, takes the money as evidence, and leaves him to his fate. The dilemma carries the film—it’s what the movie is all about.
The Use of Dilemma in What Women Want
In What Women Want (2000), Nick Marshall (Mel Gibson)—a “man’s man” at the top of his game in the advertising world—finds himself edged out of his dream job by a woman, Darcy Maguire (Helen Hunt), whom he’s determined to drive out by hook or by crook. When he unexpectedly finds he has the ability to hear what the women around him are thinking, he realizes it is the perfect way to get rid of Darcy. He steals her ideas and undermines her by listening in on her thoughts. But Nick discovers that Darcy is not only a true genius in advertising but also an incredible person. The more he sees into her with his mind-reading ability, the more he finds that she is a magnificent creature: talented, sexy, stylish, and totally honest. Although he can’t let go of his need for revenge, it’s equally hard to “kill her off,” so to speak. He hates her but is fascinated by her, and he is falling in love.
The plot is a lot like that of Amadeus, which follows the intense love/hate conflict that Antonio Salieri felt for Mozart. Bear in mind that within the context of a romantic comedy, this quest for revenge is given a light touch—but it definitely drives Nick. While his magic skill gives him a way to get rid of Darcy, it also enables him to see her for who she really is. She’s the worst thing that ever happened to him as well as the best. Nick’s dilemma is: It’s unacceptable not to use this golden opportunity to ruin Darcy for stealing his job, but it’s equally unacceptable to destroy her because he’s falling in love with her.
The Use of Dilemma in Minority Report
The dilemma in Minority Report (2002) is complex and tricky to figure out. Rather than merely stating it for you here, it may be more instructive to demonstrate my real-time process of getting a handle on it. Bear in mind that there isn’t automatically a dilemma in any given film, but it’s not difficult to sense the presence of one in Minority Report.
Chief John Anderton (Tom Cruise) is the head of Precrime, a police agency that, with the help of new technology, is able to predict murders before they occur. Precrime’s three psychics (Precogs) predict that Anderton himself will soon kill a man he’s never met, Leo Crow (Mike Binder). Since the Precogs are infallible and the system is perfect, Anderton knows he will be convicted and permanently incarcerated by his own o
rganization. He is forced to run, and on the way out encounters Danny Witwer (Colin Farrell), the Justice Department investigator, who confronts him with evidence of his narcotics use. Anderton’s boss, Lamar Burgess (Max von Sydow), has warned him that the Justice Department is trying to take over Precrime, and Anderton believes that Danny is setting him up.
In this future world, when the Precogs tag you, you’re guilty. They don’t need to catch Anderton in the act of committing murder. When a brown ball pops up with his name on it, they come immediately to lock him away forever. That’s the law. No evidence is required, no dead body, no trial, and no appeal. Anderton is guilty because the system is perfect. He totally believes this, and his life’s purpose is based on this absolute belief. Precrime is his baby.
One aspect of a possible dilemma is quite obvious: It’s unacceptable for John Anderton to be destroyed by Precrime. Not only is his survival at stake, but he’s convinced that he’s being framed so Danny can break up Precrime. He cannot allow himself to be caught and his life’s work to be ruined, so he’s fighting for everything he is, has, and believes in.