by Tim Ferguson
And, importantly, jokes often work with three steps:
Set-up
Confirmation
Resolution/Reversal/Revelation
When an Englishman, a Scotsman and an Irishman get together the Englishman sets up the scenario, the Scotsman confirms the scenario and the Irishman provides the resolution, turns the scenario on its head or reveals an aspect of the scenario that casts it in a new light.
A pattern of three resonates more strongly with more people than any other. Tripartite structures apply to arguments, jokes, stories, advertisements—in fact, to pretty much any form of communication. When Aristotle divided story into a ‘beginning, middle and end’ (see The Poetics) he was not inventing the three-act story structure, he was identifying it. Our bodies know the pattern well. Even sneezes and orgasms observe the pattern: (1) A stable but undeniable tickle of indeterminate length evolves into (2) a growing and inexorable wave of energy, (3) culminating in a short and sharp explosion. A story comprised of the first two steps only leaves the audience on tenterhooks, as though they have taken a breath but haven’t sneezed.
Why is it so? Well, maybe it’s something that’s evolved with us from the sea. Waves are comprised of, you guessed it, three stages: pulse, build and crash. First comes the pulse of the wave, an invisible but powerful vibration that surges through the sea until it meets the rising ocean floor whereupon it begins to form a wave. Next, the wave builds and ploughs toward the shore, growing higher and higher until its peak teeters precariously. And crash! The wave topples upon itself in a thunderous tumult. Its journey ends as it laps gently at the shore and recedes.
The three acts of a story resemble these three stages, not only in number but because of the length and shape of them.
Consider a typical Act One (the pulse). It’s normally a short act showing the story’s world in normal balance. The hero is doing what he always does until the arrival of a catalyst. The hero gets moving.
Act Two (the build) is normally the longest of the three acts. It shows the hero struggling against forces beyond his control as he reacts to the complications deriving from the catalyst and his own actions. Events spiral out of control and a reckoning between the hero and the opposing forces is inevitable.
Then Act Three (the crash) hits with brief, irresistible and tumultuous power as the elements of the story collide. Chaos reigns, then settles as the hero overcomes or is defeated by the opposing forces. A new equilibrium is established. If he survives, the protagonist returns to his world, changed somehow but still recognisable as the hero we met in Act One.
If you consider films that you have found troubling or unsatisfying, it’s often because they violate the three-part structure or do not execute it properly. This dissonance doesn’t necessarily mean that the film is crap. It might be a deliberate challenge to the audience, leaving us with an uneasy feeling long after a film has ended. The audience might be provoked or disturbed. But Star Wars it ain’t. Only the rhythm of the wave, the classic three-act structure, gives a general audience a satisfying sense of catharsis and completion.
Tripartite patterns even occur in limericks. These are rhymes that, although traditionally laid out in five lines, when recited to a constant beat take four sets of four beats to complete. In the example below the stressed syllables are underlined:
The Lim’rick comes in from sea,
A slow moving ripple is she.
The ripple gains pace
’Til all is misplaced
’N’ goes back where she used to be.
The stressed syllables combine with a silent beat at the end of each of the first, second and fifth lines to make up four sets of four beats. However we perceive the lines with silent beats as only three beats each. Thus, the first two lines of the limerick comprise ‘Act One’, with a total of six beats. The second two lines are ‘Act Two’, with four beats. The final line, ‘Act Three’, has three beats. Consequently, each ‘Act’ gains pace, a basic principle of drama.
‘So what?’, you say? Here’s what …
Screenwriters can trust the Principle of Three to work with any audience, anywhere, any time. Humans are primally geared to respond to it.
Using patterns of three in dialogue can communicate and re-enforce the issues and topics at play while paying off in terms of laughs. Where one example may be funny, a triple-headed example or a group of three examples can be funnier. The writers of Blackadder use patterns of three regularly and to great effect.
BALDRICK: My name is Baldrick, my lord.
EDMUND: Then I shall call you ‘Baldrick’, Baldrick.
BALDRICK: And I shall call you ‘my lord’, my lord.
—(‘The Foretelling’ by Rowan Atkinson and Richard Curtis)
As the example above shows, enacting the Principle of Three doesn’t mean a character says the same thing three times. The way the line is phrased can change throughout the sequence.
The following is my own analysis based on a lecture given by Stephen Cleary.
The scene below, from The Larry Sanders Show, illustrates the tripartite pattern used by sitcoms the world over, showing that everything ancient can be cool again. Because the patterns overlap, the scene is both numbered (1,2,3) and lettered (A,B,C).
HANK is in his office.
HANK: (into the phone) My God, three hundred dollars for a water pump? (A)
BRIAN comes rushing in, bursting with important news.
BRIAN Hank! (1)
HANK: (into the phone) … But I still smell gas. (B)
BRIAN: Hank! (2)
HANK: (into the phone) … Yes, I do realise the water pump is not connected to the fuel system. (C) (Raising his voice) But I just had the mistaken impression that you had a nose. Tally-ho, fuckface.
BRIAN: Hank! Hank! (3)
HANK: Haven’t you ever heard of knocking before you enter?
BRIAN: Sorry …
HANK: Now calm down. (1)
BRIAN: Okay.
HANK: Calm down. (2)
BRIAN: Okay!
HANK: Now, are you calm? (3)
BRIAN tries to be calm.
BRIAN: Uh huh.
HANK: (slowly) Now. (1) What is it? (2)
BRIAN: Your car’s on fire. (3)
HANK, horrified, jumps up and races to the door.
HANK: Godammit! When were you going to tell me?
—(‘Everybody Loves Larry’ by John Vitti)
There are several ways to apply the principle:
Simple repetition. Brian cries out for Hank’s attention three times—‘Hank!’ The double ‘Hank! Hank!’ only counts as one: it’s Brian’s intention that is at issue.
Tripartite development of an idea. Hank uses three sentences to describe his frustration with his water pump before he turns to abuse.
Rhythmic exchange. (‘Now. / What is it?’ / ‘Your car’s on fire.’)
The scene structure also follows a three-beat pattern:
Set-up (Hank is on the phone, Brian has a problem.)
Confirmation (Hank calms Brian down.)
Resolution (Brian reveals the truth, Hank reacts.)
Tripartite structures keep the story, theme and characters moving at an apparently natural pace despite unusual or complex activity. It also allows the actors to perform the scene briskly, confident that each beat is registering with the audience.
Tripartite patterns aren’t hard to find once you look for them. In fact, like many of the other principles outlined in this book, they are so pervasive that it’s a wonder audiences don’t notice them.
SITCOM AND THE THREE-ACT STRUCTURE
In sitcoms, as in all stories, the three-act structure uses the power of three:
Act One: Set-up
The world and characters are introduced.
The central conflict of the story is initiated.
The act climaxes in the first turning point.
Act Two: Complication
A complication raises the stakes.
Conflict intensif
ies, climaxing in a second turning point.
Act Three: Climax and Resolution
The rising conflict climaxes in the third turning point or story climax.
The conflict is resolved, either for the better or, irreparably, for the worse.
Public broadcasters, such as the BBC and Australia’s ABC which have no commercial breaks, frequently take a minute to establish the characters and the show’s normal world in balance. Any elements that will cause trouble appear in a benign state. The comedy here is found in the characters themselves, engaged in the everyday conflicts of their imagined lives.
The first act of a commercial television sitcom is, however, often rudimentary. Commercial TV generally allocates about 21-minutes for its ‘half-hour’ shows, allowing for three three-minute ad breaks. The episode also loses time for its opening titles (ranging from five to thirty seconds) and closing credits (approximately thirty seconds). Even the ‘breakers’ leading into or out of the ad breaks (three to five seconds each) take valuable time. With as little as nineteen and a half minutes to tell a story, there’s little room for a detailed ‘getting to know you’ Act One. The audience’s knowledge of the series’ premise and characters must be largely assumed so the stories can get underway.
Nonetheless, a first act that establishes the normal world must exist to provide a platform for the change created by conflict, and to establish ground rules for new viewers. Opening titles can aid in the set-up. The Brady Bunch’s titles swiftly sketch in the setting, main characters and overall series conflict. We are told that a man with three sons has married a woman with three daughters, and we see their maid join them all in a split-screen gathering. The opening titles to The Nanny tell the story of a glitzy door-to-door beautician from Queens who is accidentally hired as a nanny for the children of a millionaire widower. And The Simpsons’ opening depicts Homer, the father, being slapdash at his nuclear power-station workplace, Marge, the mother, shopping with Maggie, the baby, while Lisa, the daughter, is thrown out of band class for being too talented and Bart, the son, causes chaos throughout the town. There’s even a panning shot across a field that, if played in slow motion, shows virtually every character in the series. The titles end with the Simpson family jumping onto their couch, whereupon they fall prey to an outlandish twist, different for each episode, that only an animated world could allow. Say no more.
Opening titles don’t have to be didactic to set up their show’s world. The titles to Australia’s finest domestic comedy, Hey Dad..!, simply shows snapshots of the characters at work and play around the family home, with the name of the show and the absence of a mother figure implying that Mum is not around.
Some opening titles merely suggest the sensibility of a show. Frasier’s five-second graphic of the show’s name is accompanied by a sophisticated piano flourish. This is enough to signal that the show will involve urbane, adult characters. A new viewer will not expect to see a tractor in the first scene.
Once the opening titles have broadly established the rules of the game, the concerns of the story should be established as swiftly as possible. Even the first exchange, such as Will and Grace’s below, can become a serviceable set-up. It’s common for the characters to be placed under stress in the first scene and begin their journey to the first act’s turning point:
GRACE: Good morning.
WILL: Bad morning. I just found a grey chest hair. So depressing.
—Will & Grace (‘Will On Ice’ by Michael Patrick King)
No matter the length of an episode, all of the main and secondary story strands should be up and running in the first five minutes. (In the commercial format, this means every story must be established before the first ad break.) Introducing a new strand after this time is confusing and breaks the momentum of the stories underway. Before the fat lady sings, the viewer needs to hear her clearing her throat early in the episode.
The third act of a sitcom is usually very short, and the resolution can happen in one line. The birds come home to roost and the show is over—although subsequent action can be implied off screen. In Act One of ‘May The Force Be With You’ (Only Fools And Horses by John Sullivan), Del’s sidekick, Rodney, is accused of stealing a microwave by Del’s nemesis, DCI Roy Slater. The cop is bent on sending poor Rodney to jail by any means. After much slipping and sliding, Del demands immunity from prosecution in exchange for giving Slater the name of the thief. Slater agrees and the immunity document is signed. Rodney watching his friend’s apparent betrayal of the thief’s code provides the episode’s climax. The resolution is short and sweet. Slater asks who stole the microwave and Del replies with a smile—‘I did’. Roll credits.
Ad breaks impose four segments on a commercial half-hour TV sitcom. It’s common for each of the three turning points in a story to occur immediately before an ad break, acting as cliff-hangers to keep the audience tuned in. The climax can come before the third ad break, with a quick resolution that can be as short as a minute following the ad break. But given the second act is usually the longest, it’s also common to put the third ad break just prior to the climactic scene.
In many domestic comedies the resolution is a brief lesson, followed by a lighter, character-based gag that shows all is back to normal. Farces are often resolved by a new round of chaos, or when the situation is irreparably worsened and recriminations are inevitable. Satires frequently end when both the protagonist and antagonist fail to achieve their goals and surrender to the inevitable.
Chapter Four:
Designing Ongoing
Characters
They say, best men are moulded out of faults, And for the most, become much more the better For being a little bad.
—Measure For Measure (William Shakespeare)
Character Building
The primary purpose of a comic character is to make us laugh. To do this, they must poke at us in clever but ultimately simple ways. We can’t be sitting around after a punchline, reversal or stakes-raise trying to work out the reasons behind it.
A punchline punches.
A comic reversal spins on a dime.
Stakes rise in swift, clear increments.
This is not to suggest that a comic character can’t survive an element of mystery, even to themselves. Complexity and nuance have a place, but they operate best when they stem from clearly drawn character qualities.
Creating a character demands not only the invention of their characterisation (the observable, external qualities of the character) but also of the things that drive them, their deep character. Their desires, fears and view of the world are the things that get them out of bed in the morning.
Characteristics (the qualities that constitute characterisation) fall broadly into four categories: role/s in life, physical attributes, status and home life. Thus a character might be defined in the following way:
Role/s in life: police officer and father
Physical attributes: tall, dark and handsome
Status: a sergeant
Home life: married to a capable woman who loves him
Comic characters, however, benefit from a juxtaposition of unlikely or incompatible characteristics. The cop above sounds like a perfect fellow—and for the purposes of a sitcom he might stay as he is just to irritate the less perfect males in the show. But in this guise he could only ever be a cameo. As a major character he’s not going to last long.
To make him funny in himself the characteristics above need to contradict eachother. Sometimes a single incompatible quality can revolutionise a character. If, for example, the cop above is tall, dark and cross-eyed, his superhuman perfection is immediately undermined. A comic version of this character might look like this:
Role/s in life: police officer and kleptomaniac
Physical attributes: tall, dark and mono-browed
Status: a former police commissioner who chose to become a sergeant
Home life: married to a nymphomaniac he can never satisfy
The character may not need
all these characteristics—any one of them is certain to make his life tougher—but the tougher his life is, the funnier it can be. When he is facing insurmountable odds at home (from his insatiable wife) and at work (from his partner, who may catch him stealing, and from his mono-brow which intimidates the innocent and guilty alike), then the hope principle comes into play in the poor cop’s life.
Having selected comic characteristics for all your characters, the next step is to plot their general history. One short paragraph is enough to get a handle on them: the character’s life in a nutshell. They need room to grow and change in the writing, so don’t get bogged down in details. Fiddle with minutiae and you’ll end up in the yoga position known as ‘the swan inspects its own colon’.
Though it’s no walk in the park, devising characterisation is the easiest part of the character-building process. The real work comes next and involves balancing characterisation with core drives, strengths, weaknesses and worldviews that can be relied upon to regularly drive a character to action.
In the romantic comedy Tootsie (by Larry Gelbart, Don McGuire and Murray Schisgal), Michael Dorsey finds himself pulled in several directions as he struggles to maintain a false front as a female soap star. Dorsey is a well-rounded character. He has all the ego, self-doubt, wits, talent, insight, determination and fear of irrelevance many actors possess. If we met Michael Dorsey on 42nd Street he would come across as real and not particularly comic. The things that drive him to comic action are his core drives.
At the start of his story, Dorsey wants to be a famous actor but his unconscious need is for something more important and ultimately more fulfilling: love. The complications begin when he meets the woman of his dreams but she only knows him as his female alter-ego, ‘Dorothy Michaels’. Caught between his desire for fame and his burgeoning love, an avalanche of weaknesses are exposed: self-deception (he thinks he can have it all), desire for affirmation (everyone wants a piece of him/her) and identity confusion (is he Michael or Dorothy or both?). Dorsey engages in a complex farcical dance as he tries to juggle both his identities, his true love, her amorous father, his agent, the TV network and his suspicious friends.