Fiction Writing Demystified

by Thomas B. Sawyer

  The multiple award-winning movie, A Man For All Seasons (Scr. Robert Bolt, Constance Willis, based on Bolt’s play — Dir. Fred Zinnemann) presents a case in point: The protagonist/martyr, Sir Thomas More ultimately goes to his death over his opposition to the formation of the Church of England. Despite being well-directed and powerfully played, and with lots of good dialogue, the story fails to convince me, and, I suspect, a lot of others — even in the context of Henry VIII’s reign — that Sir Thomas’ cause was really worth dying for. Though Bolt tried to sell us an admirable Man of Principle, his hero finally comes across as a stubborn, tightass fool.

  Which very much goes to the next topic:

  Attractive Protagonists

  In the area of making sure the audience cares about our hero or heroine, about what happens to him or her, a vital question we ask ourselves in TV writing is — will a particular trait or attitude cause the viewer to lose sympathy?

  It can be a kind of tightrope-decision: we want the characters we create to have edges, to be provocative, to have those imperfections. And yet they must to be likable enough to hold the audience.

  But it’s so easy to go too far in the direction of “selling” our characters, of too-obviously begging for the reader’s or viewer’s affection.

  In commercial TV there exists an almost paranoid fear on the part of advertisers and networks of offending even the tiniest portion of the mass-audience. One of the more unfortunate by-products of this dread is a process that takes place in the final stages of readying the teleplay for production. It’s known in the business as “putting the script into the blander.” Part of which is sometimes an actual negotiation between the writer-producer and the network. Frequently this bargaining extends beyond softening character-edges, to the toning-down or removal of onscreen violence and/or sexual content. As ridiculous as it seems, I have occasionally been involved in literal dialogue-tradeoffs on the order of: “Okay, we’ll give you two ‘damn’s’ for one ‘pissedoff.’” Too often the result — one we’ve all seen — is that too many edges are smoothed and rounded off, rendering the content so flat and the characters so excruciatingly ho-hum as to make them downright uninteresting. Unwatchable. The same dynamic sometimes occurs on certain “star-driven” shows, in which the lead-actor wields enough clout to dictate the shadings of the character he or she is portraying — and/or the choice of writers and scripts. This can prove especially detrimental if the actor in question is too worried about “image.”

  Eventually, if a writer is lucky, or is enough of a pain-in-theass — or both — he or she may reach a position where the network offers no interference at any stage of a show’s script-development or actual production. Such was my good fortune on a few series, as well as with most of the pilots I wrote.

  Not all of the interference comes directly from the networks, but all of it is a straight-line offshoot of the advertisers’ terror. An amusing example: In most TV series, the automobiles used in the show are supplied free of charge by manufacturers who wish to showcase their vehicles. A number of years ago it became the practice on several of the action-series for the villains to drive Mercedes Benzes. A logical choice if you think about it — the brand is both expensive and no-nonsense tough-looking. It said a lot about the villains’ competence.

  Well, the executives at Mercedes Benz North America picked up on the trend, and interpreted the statement we were making in a different — and not entirely mistaken light — that it was in effect a kind of negative advertising message. So they mandated that they would no longer provide their automobiles to the production companies — unless the good guys drove them.

  Back to the characters. Basically, the better series, as with the better movies, novels, stories and plays, present figures who are daringly abrasive, often challenging us to stay with them. Consider — from the landmark TV series NYPD Blue — Detective Andy Sipowicz, so beautifully played by actor Dennis Franz. Andy is irritating, argumentative, a bigot, alcoholic, conflicted, judgmental, overly guarded — while simultaneously a super detective, highly moral, a guy whose pain we feel. Audiences cannot take their eyes off him.

  In a sense, the lesson here is to strive for that balance in your characters’ yin-and-yang — those offsetting, positive/negative traits and tics. And to question your own choices about the sharpness of their edges, about how far you wish to test the limits of this likeability-offensiveness quotient.

  And now we come to the creation of another type of character, one that carries with it the same problems, and is of equal or even greater importance than designing appealing protagonists:

  Intriguing Heavies

  “Listen, kid — even yer bad guys have gotta be attractive.”

  A knowledgeable, crusty, cigar-puffing comic-book editor gave me that priceless piece of advice very early in my career. At the time I didn’t realize how memorable, or how resoundingly true it was — but it has certainly served me well, affecting all the fiction I’ve written since.

  There are many good reasons actors love to play villains or villainesses. Near the top of the list is the fact that, when well-written, the heavy is usually the most interesting character in the show. Occasionally it’s purely physical. Remember the Nazi SS Officer?

  We’re fascinated by well-conceived baddies because they are attractive. They have dimension — intelligence, or at least cleverness and, ideally, a certain amount of charm. And the more effective ones are rarely all bad. The result is that they’re spellbinding.

  Even more than with protagonists, there should be a push-pull about heavies that causes us to feel a sometimes-guilty ambivalence — even outright sympathy. Don Corleone, in Mario Puzo’s amazing The Godfather, or the Don’s son, Michael, or Tony Soprano of The Sopranos (Cr. David Chase) come to mind, as do Shakespeare’s portrayal of Richard III and Bram Stoker’s Count Dracula. In TV we refer to them as Good Bad Guys, some of course being nicer than others.

  A brief-but-pointed anecdote about that, from my own experience: I was pitching a pilot idea at CBS, a notion for a World War II dramatic series. Titled Cody’s War, it took place in 1944. Its major setting was a U.S. Army Forward Field Hospital housed in a battle-scarred French chateau in Normandy. Adjacent was a little French town with an Anthony Quinn-type mayor who had a zaftig daughter and a son in the Underground. A few kilometers east there was this more-or-less static battle-line between the Americans and the Germans who, during the course of the series would occasionally — and temporarily — retake the town and the chateau.

  It had, as we say in the TV world, a lotta stuff going for it. Yanks, Brits, French, Nazis, life, death, medical, guy/girl, combat, the works. And Cody, the head surgeon, was this romantic/heroic type with an eye-patch. All in all we’re talking good, solidly commercial, exciting concept.

  And when I finished my pitch, the young CBS guy who made the decisions said he really liked the idea, but he was already developing two World War II series for next season, so — unfortunately — he had to pass. I then asked him what the other World War II shows were about. He explained that one focused on the Home Front, and the other on the war in the Pacific, against the Japanese.

  Here, this little tale becomes somewhat less about writing — and a lot more about chutzpah.

  Or... dumb, smartass arrogance.

  Whatever it was, upon years-later reflection, I still don’t know where in hell my next remark came from, but as my agent and producer were rising to leave, I said to the executive, “Have you got about five minutes? Because I’d like to explain World War II to you.”

  Agent and producer looked at me as if I’d lost it, but the executive grinned and told me to go ahead. And I did.

  I gave him the comic-book editor statement about attractive bad guys, then added, “That’s why the war against the Japanese is not commercial...” Now you have to understand that the network — this executive — had already committed to $100,000 in scripts and rewrites. He asked me to continue. And I was rolling: “...I mean as a T
V show, nobody cares about the war in the Pacific — because the enemy was this bunch of little guys in scruffy-looking uniforms...” I could almost hear the agent and producer groaning, but I plunged ahead. “...But — the war against the Germans, that’s another story. They were tall, blond, blue-eyed, gorgeous. And they wore these glamorous uniforms. I mean it’s this really cool combination of pure evil — and beauty. You can’t top it. It’s why shows about the Holocaust and World War II in Europe keep getting made, and pull big numbers — but you don’t see a lot of blockbusters about the war against the Japanese...” Silence.

  Which I milked for a moment, then — my button: “Otherwise, how do you explain why half the Jews in New York and Beverly Hills drive Mercedes Benzes?” There was an uneasy laugh from my Jewish producer and Jewish agent, an awkward grin from the CBS executive that I read as “where the hell is this going?” And then I continued, explaining that I had once asked my New York shrink about this apparent anomaly, and he had described it as a very common psychological phenomenon: “identifying with the aggressor.”

  Another awkward silence. I added: “I mean — personally, I don’t even like to ride in German cars, much less want to own one. But in Israel forgodsake there are almost nothing but Mercedes Benzes. Go figure...”

  The CBS guy laughed, which more-or-less gave my companions permission to sort of laugh. We all said thanks and walked out of the office. A minute or so later, the producer and agent and myself were in the reception area doing a quick post-mortem, and the executive poked his head out, grinning, and said, “Go ahead. Write it.” I had the assignment.

  End of anecdote. The moral? Once in a while speaking the truth won’t result in your being taken outside and shot.

  Just don’t count on it.

  Oh — they never shot a pilot episode. But the script got me a lot of other work.

  Back to creating strong antagonists.

  Sometimes their strength is quickness of mind, their logic, their vision. And certainly, again, their intellect. Because beyond making your bad guys attractive, they should be smart, resourceful. Almost nothing weakens a story, or diminishes tension — or your hero — more than dumb or inept heavies. Yes, in certain types of stories, such as satires, stupid and/or incompetent bad guys can be entertaining. A few writers have raised the portrayal of comic heavies to art-form level — nobody that I know of handles it better than Donald Westlake and Elmore Leonard.

  But if your intention is to create serious, believable challengers for your protagonist, the more formidable you make them, the greater the menace, jeopardy and suspense.

  Hannibal Lecter in Silence of the Lambs (Scr. Ted Tally, from the novel by Thomas Harris — Dir. Jonathan Demme) was a monster who ate the faces of his victims, and he repelled us. Yet — like FBI Agent Clarice Starling, we were drawn to him. He is a worthy, wonderfully realized adversary. Parenthetically, Lecter is also a wonderful example of the difficult-to-achieve attractive psychopath.

  Would Les Miserables (Victor Hugo) have worked as well if Inspector Javert had been a bumbler? Or would The Fugitive (Scr. Jeb Stuart, David Twohy — St. David Twohy, based on the TV Series; Cr. Roy Huggins — Dir. Andrew Davis) have been as compelling if Lt. Gerard (note the intentional similarity of their names — and stories) hadn’t been such a formidable pursuer? I doubt it.

  The entire premise of the long-successful, brilliantly conceived Columbo TV series (Cr. William Link & Richard Levinson), reduced to one line, is: An arrogant, brilliant, devious criminal almost outsmarts the seemingly bumbling Lt. Columbo, who is actually more brilliant and devious. The show would not have worked if the killer was less-than brilliant (nor, probably, would it have endured without its quirky star, Peter Falk). And in those rare scripts where the antagonist wasn’t all that clever, the resulting episodes were less satisfying.

  Likewise, Jack and the Beanstalk would probably not have endured as a fable without a fearsome, pretty competent Ogre.

  Bruce Lansbury, Angela’s brother, for whom I was writing an episode of Wonder Woman (Cr. Dr. William Moulton Marston — Dev. Stanley Ralph Ross) early in my TV career, gave me another bit of marvelous, on-the-money, write-it-on-your-forehead wisdom when he critiqued my first-draft: “Your bad guys talk too much. Bad guys have thin, tight, cruel mouths, and they don’t say much. Except for their aria.”

  I treasure that, and think about it every time I write a bad guy. And so should you. To ensure your bad guy’s menace, make him a person of few words. Generally, as Lansbury pointed out, heavies who babble aren’t especially scary. Think of Darth Vader, a man of frighteningly few words. Or Ian Fleming’s James Bond antagonists — the ones who are out to rule the world. Usually they’re rather terse — barking out orders to destroy their adversaries until, of course, they go into the almost obligatory aria, in which they selfjustifyingly explain — with elaborately twisted logic — why they are so dedicated to their diabolical, evil deeds. I’ll address this in greater detail in the chapter on Dialogue Writing.

  In any case, creating capable bad guys is win-win. The more ingenious, the more highly motivated you make your antagonist, the better your protagonist must be in order to come out on top. This is true if you’re writing a historical romance, a children’s book, a literary novel, speculative fiction, or any other type of story.

  How important is it to create formidable heavies? Let me cite another example — a reasonably funny, reasonably successful, yet indifferent movie that might have become a classic. Several years ago there appeared a political satire titled Wag the Dog (Scr. Hilary Henkin, David Mamet, from the novel, American Hero, by Larry Beinhart — Dir. Barry Levinson), which was flawed in such an amateurish way that one wonders if the professionals involved failed to realize they had a numbingly fundamental story-problem, or if was another case of Hollywood’s contempt for the audience. The story which played out in Wag the Dog was about a group of Washington and Hollywood Insiders who, in order to distract the public from news of a Presidential scandal, set out to create a giant, elaborate fabrication — a phony European War, complete with newsreel combat footage, refugees, press coverage, etc.

  A funny idea, right? And, with its topnotch cast and expert, knowing direction by Mr. Levinson, a lot of laughs.

  Except that the movie didn’t work nearly as well as it should have. Worse, it was unsatisfying. Why? For a reason so rudimentary that even the most indifferent episode of the dumbest, most pedestrian TV series — say The Dukes of Hazzard — would never have accepted it in a script, much less put into production. The script for Wag the Dog had a basic, fatal, virtually “Writing 101” omission.

  There was no bad guy.

  No serious antagonist, and no risk of penalty if the gag failed or the perpetrators exposed.

  Which meant that the movie had no suspense.

  Nobody was trying to stop these people from pulling off their stunt. Nobody was onto them. Unlike good fiction, or real-life, there was no antagonist — no Woodward & Bernstein, or a fanatical, self-righteous-but-dangerous sweaty-palmed Kenneth Starr-type — a Wile E. Coyote who smelled the conspiracy, who doggedly tried to expose it, only to be outwitted by the protagonists each time he thought he had them dead to rights. And so, audiences sat there watching the perpetrators simply do what they set out to do — fool the public, with no jeopardy, no narrow escapes along the way.

  What makes the example so egregious is that it would have been ridiculously easy to remedy — and would have made the film infinitely funnier, and more importantly, audience-satisfying and memorable.

  In defense of the filmmakers it is quite likely that they wanted to show just how easily such shenanigans can be pulled off. But it is basic to any dramatist’s skills that the above-described fix would have made the point far more emphatically. Instead, the film was a mildly entertaining but rather limp one-joke exercise.

  It is not only well worth your time to create really effective bad guys.

  It is imperative.

  Outsiders
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  The Outsider-protagonist (AKA Fish Out of Water) has broad appeal and offers a wealth of story-possibilities. As mentioned, film director Alfred Hitchcock used the device over-and-over — an ordinary man who suddenly, to his surprise/horror is thrown into a dangerous situation. In the Hitchcock canon, the hero unknowingly coming into possession of the maguffin usually triggered it. Or, as in North By Northwest (Scr. Ernest Lehman — Dir. Alfred Hitchcock), the ordinary guy is the maguffin, pursued by the heavies because they’re convinced he’s someone else. One of the cleverer twists in that film was that the “someone else” did not exist, but was rather, a fictional decoy set up by the good guys.

  Additional Hitchcock-directed examples of the outsider-hero, though not the only ones, are Saboteur (Scr. Peter Viertel, Joan Harrison and Dorothy Parker, St. Alfred Hitchcock), The 39 Steps (Scr. Charles Bennett, Alma Reville, Add’l. Dialogue, Ian Hay, from John Buchan’s novel) and The Man Who Knew Too Much (Scr. A.R. Rawlinson, Charles Bennett, D.B. Wyndham-Lewis, Emlyn Williams, Edwin Greenwood — St. Bennett & Wyndham-Lewis). Other movies and books that have successfully used this gag are Marathon Man (Scr. William Goldman, from his novel — Dir. John Schlesinger) and Three Days of the Condor (Scr. Lorenzo Semple, Jr., David Rayfiel, from the novel Six Days of the Condor by James Grady — Dir. Sydney Pollack). Condor is for me the classic thriller, the best-ever of the genre, and well worth studying. Made in the early nineteen-seventies, the only things about it that are dated are the dial telephones and bell-bottom trousers.

  Less melodramatic, often comedic examples include the rube in the big city, the poor person in high society, the outright impostor, such as male or female impersonator, undercover cop, a closet gay in the straight world, or vice-versa, etc.

  We’ve all seen the fish-out-of-water story any number of times. The point is, there’s a lot of fun and/or emotional color to be had with such a protagonist, male or female, comic or dramatic. And the personal attributes you give the character, the other conflicts, the hang-ups and defects and eccentricities, can give your take on it that fresh feel.