Larry Brooks's Blog, page 31

“Side Effects” (deconstruction #3): The Story Milestones… and Beat Sheet

I’ve complied the entire story into what, in the movie biz, is called a “scene log,” but for other/all writers, it’s actually something else, something we can all use.

It’s a BEAT SHEET.  In fact, this scene log from “Side Effects” could double for — and therefore become a model for — a beat sheet, as it identifies every expositional scene, in order, in context to what comes before and after, and in context to the nuances, deception and narrative mind games of the concept and dramatic question.  (I have added some writer-only notes).

This is what our completed Beat Sheets should look like.  Not just exposition (content), but scene mission.

Read it here: side effects scene log.  It’s 12 pages, and if you’ve seen the film I think you’ll find it fun and worthwhile.  Because while the film is running we barely have time to think about what we’ve just seen… this allows it all to sink in.

The Story Milestones

Here is a summary of the major story milestones from “Side Effects.”  Go to the Beat Sheet/scene log (attached, see link above) to see how these are positioned in context to what comes before, and after.  Notice, too, how each of the scenes within each of the four Parts of the story (setup, response, attack, resolution) are completely in context to the mission of each part (again… setup, response, attack, resolution).

Quick note… don’t do the math for milestone placement based on scene numbers. Some of these scenes are actually parts of a scene-sequence, and in a novel would probably be written (and redesigned) as a single scene or chapter.  Some of these scenes are actually “establishing shots” for content-intense scenes that follow, and as such, probably aren’t even in the script itself.

No matter.  It’s all here, in the right order.

What is valid, though, is where these milestones appear relative to running time (story length; the percentage of placement within the narrative).  Those all happen pretty much as optimally defined, and absolutely in alignment with the mission of each milestone.

The HOOK: is the opening Prologue scene, in which we see the toy sailboat, the blood stains and bloody footprints, all without the slightest idea what it means, other than something bad happens.  It poses a question — what does happen? — that is already compelling, because we already know this has something to do with the bad side effects of prescription drugs.  And in this case, because of this Prologue scene, we now know how bad it will be.

Or so we think.  It’s actually much worse than we expect, and something completely different than we expect.

There’s another hook-arc right after that… we see Martin (the husband) being released from jail.  This is inherently interesting, we know we’ll get to vicariously (story physics in play) live that journey with them (and get way more than we bargain for on that count.  (Notice, too, that we aren’t offered a hook into the story’s hero, Dr. Burns, until much later).

Admit it, you were hooked.  Even if you had no idea what the real, forthcoming CORE story was about to hit you upside the head.

Part 1 INCITING INCIDENTS: there are two of them, both necessary to make this story work, and both serving to setup the forthcoming First Plot Point and the story thereafter.

Imagine the story without these two moments… you can’t.  Because it doesn’t work without them.  That’s a great criteria to apply to your Inciting Incidents, too.

The first II is the scene where Emily deliberately drives into the wall of a parking garage (marked as Scene #8).  This is the initial moment we where we know that something is terribly wrong with Emily, and about this whole situation.  It also leads us into the scene in which we do meet the Jude Law/Dr. Banks character, and we’re hooked on his apparent empathy.

Which makes him an easy target for Emily… as we learn much later.

The second is when Dr. Banks meets Dr. Siebert at a medical conference (marked as Scene #15), which is the first place that the centerpiece drug (Ablixa) is brought into the story.  At first viewing we have no idea that Dr. Banks has been manipulated into this meeting… but he was.  See it again, you’ll witness how it happened.

PART 1 NARRATIVE: Complex and misleading as they are, notice how all 21 scenes prior to the First Plot Point (which I’ll discuss next) are in perfect context to the mission of Part 1 — they are all there to SETUP the story.  To create a path toward the FPP.

To mislead us (yet with the truth all there, in plain sight), just as the scam is meant to mislead everyone in the story.

FIRST PLOT POINT: it’s marked as Scene #22, when Dr. Banks finally (after being manipulated toward this moment in the latter half of Part 1), prescribes Ablixa to Emily.

Keep in mind, this was Emily (and Siebert’s) objective all along.  Their plan totally depends on it.  This moment actually begins the story arc for Banks, who IS the hero and protagonist of this story.  Prior to that he’s being SETUP… and now he has something to RESPOND TO (though that remains a bit under the radar for the first half of Part 2… see, we really DO have flexibility with these milestones and Parts).

This occurs 24 minutes into the story… or at the 22nd percentile.  Right on the mark for an optimal First Plot Point.

FIRST PINCH POINT: probably the most dramatically significant First Pinch Point I’ve ever seen… which teaches us that the degree of drama isn’t the issue, but rather, how the scene flows and serves the overall story arc.

This is when the body hits the floor.  Emily kills Martin in chillingly cold blood.

Certainly, this is the CORE DRAMA coming front and center, which is the mission of both Pinch Points.  Something need to HAPPEN as a result of this building scam/drama… and this was it.  Boy howdy, was it ever.

It’s at 36 minutes in, or the 33rd percentile.  A little early, but inside the window.

A lot of folks may be misled by this scene, because it feels like  First Plot Point.  But consider what the CORE story is here… it’ s the scam… not the murder itself (because the murder is one of a handful of crimes associated with the scam), and the scam kicks of when Emily is prescribed Ablixa by Dr. Banks.

It’s always the hero’s story.  The hero here is Dr. Banks.  And thus, it’s HIS story arc that determines the milestones.

MID-POINT: the mission of the Mid-Point is to introduce new information that changes the story, contextually and expostionally.  This sure does.

It’s when a desperate Banks is researching Ablixa online, and discovers an article written by Dr. Siebert about the side effects of sleep walking while on this drug.  Which is key to the insanity plea Emily has been offered (itself a seemingly mid-point, but it was too early).  Siebert knew all along.  Siebert has been coaching Emily.  She’s in on it.  She’s running it from the sidelines.

Notice that these milestones are less about what happens than they are about what it MEANS to the story arc.  That’s a huge, 404-level of learning that escapes a lot of writers, and almost all viewers and readers.

We don’t know why, precisely, but now Banks has another villain he can go up against.

Everything changes here, because now it’s all out, everything Banks needs  is on the table.  Now he has to prove it.  His path has shifted.  He has a new target, a new path toward redemption: he has to nail Dr. Siebert.

This happens in Scene #57, at the 58th minute of the story, right at the 50 percent mark.  Nails it.

SECOND PLOT POINT: A lot happens in Part 3 (prior to the Second Plot Point), and quickly.  So much so that it’s challenging to pin down the actual Second Plot Point.  The important learning here, though, is that THE WRITER KNEW.  Which enabled him to inject specific story beats that lead up to it, many of which are just as dramatic (which teaches us that major turns and information is NOT reserved solely for the major milestones).

But this one, the one that is the Second Plot Point, changes the game from Banks’ POV, creating a new context for his quest… which is the mission of the Second Plot Point.

It’s in Scene #74, when Dr. Siebert, having just been exposed by Banks (who she knows will now come after her), shows us those seemingly incriminating photos she took of Banks and Emily, which we know she’s going to use to leverage his silence.  It’s a gun to Banks’ head.  It puts her on the offensive, in a more threatening and dramatic way.  Banks now has an even bigger problem than before, big as it was.

This happens at the 80 minute mark, or the 73rd percentile… close enough to count.

THE RESOLUTION: a great resolution is an outcome that exceeds the sum of its parts, and any one of those parts might be interpreted as the specific moment of resolution.  That pegging doesn’t matter, as long as the sum of those parts delivers the emotional satisfaction, vindication and villain blow-back desired.

In a story like this, Part 4 is where the fun is.  Where the hero gets his cape on and the villain gets what’s coming to her/them.  So much so, that the writer gives us a deliciously extended Part 4, so we can savor the ride and the finish.

It happens at the very end when, after manipulating Emily to scam Siebert into incriminating herself, in the belief she will earn her freedom in doing so, Banks (and Burns, the writer) turns the tables and puts her back in prison after all.

Burns (the writer) even gives us a moment of resolution for Banks (the hero) and his family drama.  Notice that drama wasn’t a side show, it was always connected to the CORE story arc for the protagonist.  It influenced and pressured him, and provided a sounding board for expository information.

All of these story milestones are best understood in context to the generic definitions and missions for them.  Then, with that in your head, you can see how they are applied here… brilliantly, artfully, and with a whopper of both an emotional and intellectual ride for the movie-viewer.

Feel free to share your thoughts and your story experience with “Side Effects” here.

“Side Effects” (deconstruction #3): The Story Milestones… and Beat Sheet is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

A Quick Case Study in Concept

We interrupt our deconstruction series (“Side Effects”) to present this short case study.  

It’s an example of a well-meaning writer with a story idea that he presents as his Dramatic Concept… but leaves some dramatic cards on the table in doing so.  This is a very common misstep… over half of the stories I coach have this nasty little issue/problem — potentially a story-killer — in evidence.

Half.  That’s scary.

This is the actual Questionnaire/Coaching Document (used with the writer’s permission, name removed; I’ve also shown a placeholder title), which provides context and allows you a sneak peek at what this process looks like.  (To be clear, this is “The $35 Kick-Start Concept Analysis“… which is significantly shorter and narrower than the $100 level.)  .

You can read it here:  The Drug Dealer’s Revenge… and here’s why you should:

It’s only a couple of pages or so.  Not a bad investment of time to possibly save your story from the rejection pile.

Notice how the concept itself isn’t half bad, in that it does set a dramatic stage.  But that’s the problem… it’s only half good.  My response offers examples of how to expand it into a stronger concept, but without crossing the line into the arena of premise, which is another area of story planning focus altogether that’s down the road from Concept.

Then, notice how the DRAMATIC QUESTION provided (a critical element of story) is about something other than the concept.  When this happens — and it does… a lot — it puts the story at risk… and when it doesn’t, when an effective dramatic question is in play, it empowers the story.  It BECOMES the story.  The dramatic question needs to be the off-spring, the inevitability, of the concept, because concept is the introduction of DRAMA, and… well, that’s why.  In this case, the DQ response given connects to the overall thematic story landscape, especially the context of Part 1, without nailing something particularly conceptual.

In other words, a different story.  And possibly a writer who isn’t clear on the difference between them.  One is about a dramatic concept.  The other is about “the adventures of” the hero in pursuing a goal that isn’t what the concept promises.

Also, notice how the First Plot Point (the Most Important Moment in a Story) doesn’t really connect to the hero’s story-quest, or the stated concept.  At least as it’s written here.  What is described is a scene, but one doesn’t touch the criteria for an effective FPP.

There are links in the format that allow the writer to go back in to brush up on the definitions and criteria for Concept and for the First Plot Point.

And finally, notice how this analysis process, including the addition of feedback, shows the writer these soft spots, these nuances and subtleties, which in execution could be fatal, and when fixed, allow the writer to access a deeper level of dramatic tension and resulting thematic resonance.

Think I sound harsh here?  Is saving this writer’s story harsh?  He didn’t think so.  He’s hoping you get something out of this, like he did.  For that I thank him and salute his courage.

Click HERE if you’d like your concept evaluated using this same form and process.

Click HERE if you’d like the other major story points in your plan evaluated, in context to the criteria and to each other (including your Concept and FPP).

Next post: the Beat Sheet from “Side Effects.”

 

A Quick Case Study in Concept is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

“Side Effects” (Deconstruction #2) – Putting Concept to Work In the Narrative… Even Before You Write it.

This is the second in a multi-part series dissecting, discussing and mining gold from “Side Effects,” the current film by Stephen Soderbergh, written by Scott Z. Burns.  Click HERE to read Part 1, then hurry back to stay with us… we’re going hard and fast.

Click HERE to see the TRAILER for the film… you’ll be amazed at how much you see now that the curtain has parted.

*****

PROLOGUE: A Refining of the notion of “Concept”

Allow me this quick educational aside before diving back into “Side Effects.”

This emerging discussion about Concept, the debate, this confusion, this lack of clarity… can go away quickly, and without much argument, when we tweak the definition of “CONCEPT” in the context of applying it as a writing TOOL.  If it is given a sharper focus.

So here goes.

When you think about Concept as one of the Six Core Competencies, as an essential and valuable aspect of storytelling… and especially if you’re tempted to do so through the lens of theme, because by golly that’s how you think…  consider it this way:

Every story BENEFITS FROM a compelling DRAMATIC  CONCEPT.

That changes the game for some, nails it for others.  DRAMATIC CONCEPT.  A SOURCE of dramatic tension.  The seed of conflict (here’s a non-negotiable: no conflict, no story, end of debate).  A STAGE upon which theme is allowed to present itself through the thematic consequences of the choices of your characters… within the DRAMATIC CONCEPT.

And yes, this means PLOT.  A twist, a conceptual idea… that implies DRAMA.

Hope this helps.

A quick correction: the original version of this post, the one distributed to subscribers, had a serious error: the offending drug from the movie was called ABLIXA.  I’d referred to it in this post, quite erroneously, as “Abilify,” which is an actual depression drug (my guess is the alliterative similarities is intentional on the part of the filmmakers, but I’m only speculating).  To my knowledge no evidence of harmful side effects, or anything close to those depicted in the film, which is fiction, have been attributable to Abilify.  My apologies.  Larry

*****

“Side Effects” — From Concept to Specific Story Structure

In the over 200 stories I’ve analyzed in the last eight months, I’d say 75% had problems at the conceptual level.  At the DRAMATIC TENSION level.  The Questionnaire I use in my story coaching asks for both a statement of Concept and the source of dramatic tension.  When those answers don’t align, there’s a problem, and thus, an opportunity to improve the project.

More succinctly, those writers didn’t grasp and adhere to a CORE STORY that IS the source of dramatic tension.  Instead they go on to write about a theme or a setting, with either too little or a shifting dramatic focus.  The result is a failure to mine the inherent gold of story physics, which is available to all.

Concept is the clarification and evolution of the core story.   Not the core theme, not the priority or passion of the writer… but the CORE DRAMATIC STORY being told, which becomes the vehicle for theme.  It is essential.  Non-negotiable.

When weak, it drags down every other noble intention the author brings to the process.  The lack of dramatic concept is almost always a deal-killer.

Take note of the word “dramatic.”  It means… not just any old vanilla concept that is a placeholder to check off this criteria.  Rather, something fresh and layered and, most of all, compelling.

Dramatic Concept actually leads to and defines the story’s structure. 

Examine the first Act/Part in “Side Effects”  and you’ll see this at work.  It would have been virtually impossible to write this story without completely grasping what it was really about in a dramatic sense.

Just as this film completely fools viewers for up to half its running length, a story rendered without a clear understanding of Dramatic Concept can fool its own writer in a similar fashion.  You begin writing about one thing, you realize it wants to be something else, and so you turn that corner… or not.  Leaving the uninformed first pages completely without context.

Context is king when it comes to writing great stories.  “Side Effects” showcases this with clarity and power.  Watch and learn.  Every scene is dripping with context (an unspoken, even unacknowledged defining truth), otherwise known as sub-text.

Thing is, Concept isn’t only valuable as something that empowers the outcome, the end-game itself.  It is also one of the most valuable story development and writing tools – much like a photograph or an artists rendering empowers an architect’s blueprint – in that it can quickly lead you to four things… all four necessary before a draft will work:

Because Concept defines the CORE STORY…

-         it can help you nail the First Plot Point.

-         it can define what must be put into play in Part 1.

-         it can help you determine how the story will resolve.

-         it can help you find a killer opening hook.

A killer concept can actually do a lot more than this, even before the writing itself has commenced (or if you’re a pantser, as you come across opportunities in the draft process, which for you IS the “search for story”), because your Concept defines the CONTEXT of the story.

And a story without context is a story that doesn’t work.

Here’s the ignition switch to make this happen:

Let’s assume you have a solidly compelling and rich DRAMATIC CONCEPT in mind.  Because of it you know what the core story IS… and that becomes the primary source of CONFLICT AND TENSION in the narrative.

You can’t really define ANY of those four things listed above (and more) UNTIL you understand the core story.  They all connect to and depend on each other, subordinated to a Bigger Picture context… defined by your dramatic concept.

Which sends us back to basics, and to “Side Effects”: the core story ISN’T your theme (the dangers of drugs), your character arc, your setting or your sub-text/sub-plot.

It IS the core story (the murder conspiracy/scam), the primary source of DRAMATIC TENSION.

In “Side Effects” the drugs DO provide some dramatic tension.  But be clear, that’s a supporting role here, part of the SETUP and motivation that underpins the CORE story… which is the murder conspiracy and its stock market scheme.

Right there is why you need to know your DRAMATIC CONCEPT… at is very CORE.  At the highest priority and focus.  Otherwise, you may end up focusing on the wrong aspect of your story, to the detriment of… well, all of it.

Let’s use the movie as a laboratory here. 

Better yet, let’s climb into the screenwriter’s head, pre-draft, and see how his understanding of the conceptual core story led him to the FPP, the Part 1 scenes, the ending, the opening hook, and some other story points.

Everything in the story, every scene on the screen, was developing IN CONTEXT TO THE DRAMATIC CONCEPT.

Burns isn’t fooling himself (he’s only fooling us, for about a half hour) that this is a story about the side effects of depression drugs.  He realizes that this temporary focus is thematic, that it is sub-text, that it is there – first and foremost – as a dramatic device.

Nothing wrong with making the most of it, thematically, while it’s there.  That’s actually part of the power – as well as the narrative strategy – of this story.  And it doesn’t matter if that theme was the starting point of the story itself.  Regardless of where you start, where your heart is, the professional understands that the story needs to work, and for that to happen, the context of dramatic tension trumps all.

Burns knows his core story is this:

A woman fakes her reaction to a new depression drug, using published evidence of its side effects (sleep walking and delusion) to her advantage to create an illusion.  She manipulates a doctor into prescribing it for her, faking symptoms all the while.  She’s coached on all this by a silent partner, herself a doctor (and her lover), with a view toward killing her husband, getting off on a temporary insanity plea after a short rehab, then profiting from the resulting stock market hullabaloo relative to the drug manufacturer.

THAT is the core story here.  It’s there in the CONCEPT.  It’s what this story is ABOUT.  Everything else is there is make this happen.

One other piece of basic knowledge applies here: structurally, the core story is LAUNCHED AT the First Plot Point, after being SETUP in the scenes prior to that point.

Scott Z. Burns knows this.  YOU should know this.  Pretty much any story that works – even after a dozen drafts – exhibits this.

That’s not a formula, contrary to what some naive cynics and brainwashed MFAs insist.  It’s dramatic optimization.  It’s what makes the story the best it can possibly be.

Mess with this principle at your own, and your story’s, peril.  Insert your FPP too soon and the expositional, story physics-driving benefits of a thorough setup wane.  Insert it too late and both pace and dramatic tension suffer for it (this is why you put some books down after 100 pages… nothing is happening).

So there you are, you’re Scott Z. Burns, you’re sitting on this killer concept… you understand these concepts… what do you do next?

You nail down your First Plot Point, that’s what.

You have to get Emily’s murder conspiracy in play.  You need to define that point at which SETUP transitions into IMPLEMENTATION.  A key moment, a switch being thrown, an irreversible milestone being reached, the gas being hit, the fuse being lit.

Burns had three acts to structure (four, for novelists, but it’s really the same thing), and the FPP is a necessary step before that can happen, because it’s what separates Part/Act I from Part/Act II.  You write or plan scenes FROM that point, backwards and forwards, rather than allowing it to surface organically.

When you do allow it to surface organically, revisions ensue.

You already know we need to see, in Act/Part 1, the wife displaying all manner of depression and need for therapy and medication.  It’s part of her scam, and part of YOUR setup.  That’s the mission of your Part 1 scenes.  By the time the FPP arrives, you need to have Emily on something (a drug) that our patsy/protagonist/hero has unwittingly prescribed.

Just knowing that practically defines what your FPP should be.  Ahead of time.  It needs to be the scene in which the doctor agrees to prescribe the Big Bad drug to her… it’s when he (and the viewer) falls smack into her trap (something we, the viewers, won’t realize until Part 3… but YOU, the writer, need to know NOW).

It’s when Emily (the wife) brings Ablixa into her life, the target drug for the stock market scam.  It happens when, as a direct result of her displaying her perceived symptoms and manipulating everyone to believing she’s seriously depressed, she ASKS her doctor to prescribe Ablixa for her.  She even concocts a story about a co-worker who says it’s great.

It is right HERE that the core story actually LAUNCHES – there’s no core story drama until this happens, even with Emily faking a bunch of symptoms… those mean nothing UNTIL the drug gets into play – after being brilliantly setup in the Part 1 scenes before it.

And so Jude Law does just that.  He switches her prescription from Zoloft to Ablixa (under the brand name of Deletrex, which is a bit confusing, but its how the industry works – Ambien, for example, is actually a drug called Zolpidem), which (as an element of Part 1) has been established as the target drug for the scam.

Exactly as Emily and her lover planned.  But of course, the viewer doesn’t get that until much later.

And thus, the First Plot Point manifests.   At the 25-minute mark.  Which is the 24 percent mark of the film’s total 106 minute running time… well within the 20 to 25th percentile optimal target.

You Always Have Choices

Why not sooner?  Until you realize all the things Burns had to get into the setup, it may be hard to see why it wasn’t earlier.  But when you do consider all the necessary facets of the setup, you can see why it required all that time, about 23 (out of a total of 94) scenes worth of exposition.

Why not later?  Why isn’t the murder itself the FPP?  Because the core story needs to launch – even in retrospect, which is the case here – early enough to get the dramatic tension into play, versus the setup context of Part 1.   This was an author’s choice… either could have worked, but Burn’s went for the mind game first and foremost.

At a glance, without a stopwatch in your lap, you might argue (and almost certainly believed, at least at first), that the murder itself was the FPP.  Because it certainly does spin the story in a new direction.

But it wasn’t.  It was too late for the FPP.  It’s actually the First Pinch Point, occurring at the 35 minute mark (at 33 percent in, a bit early, but totally in keeping with the mission of a Pinch Point: to bring the dark threat of the antagonist – the wife and her scam—front and center to the story… Channing Tatum dead on the floor certainly does that).

None of this happens unless Burns knows exactly what his core story is.  What his DRAMATIC CONCEPT is.  The murder is a consequence.  The core story began as soon as Jude Law gave her Ablixa to provide her scam with an engine.

Part 1, Emerging from the Forthcoming FPP

With Emily beginning to take Ablixa as the catalytic First Plot Point, thus launching her scam after placing all the “setup” activities required for it to work, the Part 1 scenes themselves, which precede the FPP, begin to show themselves.  The writer now understands what information, specifically, Part 1 (the SETUP) needs to put in motion.

Emily needs to show her depression to the world.  Her need for a doctor.  For depression drugs.  Her suicide attempt.  Her imaginary friend.  Her relationship to her husband and his work friends.  Her inability to cope while on Zoloft, her initial depression and how it escalates, thus establishing the need for something stronger.

The offending (fictional) drug itself, Ablixa, needs to be introduced and set up.  Its side effects – especially sleep walking and delusion – need to have been established.

The audience needs to empathize WITH her, so the mind-boggling story shift will be more effective.  That, too, is part of the concept here.  It’s the narrative strategy (one of the six realms of Story Physics), to INVOLVE the audience in the story experience.

The co-conspirator (Dr. Victoria Seibert, the Catherine Zita-Jones doctor character) needs to be positioned in the story – she’s the one who first introduces Jude Law to Ablixa), but not revealed as a villain.

You never see it coming… but after you know and go back to see it again, you’ll marvel at how and why you missed it.  Everything in Part 1 is converging toward the First Plot Point, as well as unfolding in context to the Big Picture of Emily’s true intentions.

All of this becomes the stuff of Part 1.  Stemming directly from the Dramatic Concept, and defining itself in context to the First Plot Point, which denotes the point at which it all must be in play.

Watch the TRAILER again… you’ll see an entire roster of Part 1 scenes here… which it telling, but the mission of a trailer, like Part 1, is to HOOK you and set up you for… well, buying in.

Part 2, Springing Forth from the FPP

I hope you begin to sense the power of knowing what the contextual mission of each of the four story parts IS… and how the specific content of your FPP, in context to the overall Dramatic Concept now points you straight at what must happen in Part 2… where the hero (Jude Law) must RESPOND to it.

At some point, Burns realizes, he has to have Emily kill Martin (Tatum), her husband.  That’s a key turning point… not of the story itself, but of her scam (which, it bears repeating here IS the core story).  What better spot, then, to show it than at the First Pinch Point, thus allowing Emily to further deepen the perception of side effects for the first half of Part 1 (boy-howdy does it ever), and then have everybody in the ballpark continue to RESPOND to them for the remainder of Part 3.

At some point, though, the story needs to turn a corner. 

Eventually it needs to surface that all is not what it seems.  New information needs to come forth that pokes holes and casts doubt on Emily’s story, and leads to the revelation of her true motivations.

Which of course is the mission of the Mid-Point.  It occurs at the 53 minute mark (exactly the 50-percent target), when Emily strikes a deal with the DA, and basically, because of an insanity plea stemming from the side effects of the drug, gets away with murder.  All according to her dark plan.

That plan was in motion from the beginning, and it is working perfectly at this point.  Because not only will she soon be free, our hero doctor (Jude Law) is going to end up taking the fall, as the incompetent, self-interested party that prescribed the drug, the cause of it all, to her.And thus, the story has a whole new context.  Jude Law is now fighting for his professional and (as we’ll soon learn) personal life.  And soon, for justice.

Notice here how the viewer is still in the dark about the truth.  But now we’re rooting for Jude Law, because we sense something amiss in Emily’s story.  We’ve been brilliantly led to this point by the writer and director, through a series of dynamics and even tiny visual clues, all of which continue to have us completely involved on an emotional level.  Even though we’re now rooting for something else entirely.

And all of which, by way, are shown to us (the viewers) in Part 4.  Why?  To help tie it all together, and moreover, to deliver a sense of emotional satisfaction.

The Opening Hook Also Emerges from Concept

This story was problematic from the get-go, in that the viewer needed to be hooked into something highly dramatic, but without either revealing or cheating the truth.  How do you show a forthcoming murder, or something that drastic, without showing us too much?

Burns and Soderbergh did so, in essence, with a short Prologue.  A preview of a moment down the story road, without context, yet promising drama (in the form of blood).

In the opening scene of the film, we see a toy model sailboat (a gift to Martin from Emily, as we’ll later learn in a Part 2 scene, just before the murder is revealed) as the camera pans through their apartment, revealing blood stains and bloody footprints.

That’s all we get.  In the context of the Part 1 scenes that follow, we expect the blood to be the result of Emily’s side effects.  We don’t know who dies, if anyone… but that dramatic QUESTION is on the table.  If we were ever in doubt that this building of her drug story was going to end badly, we had only to recall how the story opens.

That’s the HOOK.  The posing of a dramatic question, the answer to which we sense will be compelling.  The promise of high drama.  Of stakes and consequences.  Of more going on than we will initially be allowed to see.

And totally impossible to render, from the writer’s point of view, without a complete understanding of the core story, as well as where and how that story reveals itself.  In this case, in stages, each building upon what came before.

And then, of course, there’s the ending.

You’ve seen the film, you know how it ends.  Badly, as it turns out, for Emily.  Which we’re rooting for (against her), and satisfied with.  And very nicely, from Jude Law’s POV.  Which we’re also rooting for, and in a big way.

It’s obvious how this ending connects to the story’s core dramatic concept.   How it is created BY it.  Because an ending is the RESOLUTION of the core story, and the core story is DEFINED by the dramatic concept.

If you thought the story, at its core, was about drugs… notice that you don’t get resolution about that.  That’s just theme… powerful from the first frame.  That’s the only DRAMATIC role in this story for the focus on depression drugs and their side effects.

Which is not to say the writers don’t take the opportunity to poke us with that theme, to whack us upside the head with it, to make us think and ask questions, to inspire a higher awareness.  In dramatic fiction that’s almost always the mission of theme within the story…

… something the enlightened writer understands.  It’s why theme is among the Six Core Competencies of successful storytelling.

And thus the dance between theme and conceptually-driven dramatic tension begins.  Make no mistake, no matter who asked who for that dance, it is dramatic tension, as framed by the concept, that leads.

*****

Click HERE if you’d like your story plan analyzed – especially your Dramatic Concept and its relationship to the major story milestones – to this degree.

 

 

“Side Effects” (Deconstruction #2) – Putting Concept to Work In the Narrative… Even Before You Write it. is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

“Side Effects” (Deconstruction 1) – The True Concept

Wherein we differentiate a killer concept from its lesser forms.

Welcome to the first installment of this analysis of “Side Effects,” the currently-playing film by Steven Soderbergh.  Look for it as a Best Original Screenplay nominee next year… I’m calling that one now.

The context of these posts will be to create learning by using the film to illustrate the core principles of storytelling excellence – the Six Core Competencies, and the Six Realms of Story Physics that empower them.  I haven’t interviewed the screenwriter (Scott Z. Burns) or the director (Soderbergh), so I can’t speak for them regarding the process of developing the story, including how and where where they started.

But that doesn’t matter here.  For all I know (though I doubt it), they backed into this brilliant premise after years of hit and miss.  What matters is what this story teaches us about how to wield tools – such as Concept – to reach a compelling end result, without years of hit and miss.

The Importance of Concept to This Story

And to YOUR story.

The notion of “concept” has been kicked around on this site over the past two weeks, as well as in over 200 Storyfix posts (for the several folks who answered my recent call for topics with “could you explain more about Concept, please?”… use the search bar to find them, listed in reverse chronological order).  The precise definition of a “story concept” remains imprecise,  as does the minds of many on what it means to a story in development.

The mission of a concept, however, it crystal clear.

In my opinion, it means everything.  In general, and to “Side Effects.”

A properly rendered Concept identifies your CORE STORY, without actually exploring.   It is the end-game of the narrative strategy you are about to put into play.  And thus, it fuels every scene with CONTEXT.  When you watch the film a second time (or after this series), you’ll see that context, often sub-textual, in each story beat, even those that appear before Channing Tatum’s body hits the floor.

That’s the first take away, from this or any other story that works: the narrative unfolds IN CONTEXT TO THE CONCEPT from page 1.  (And yes, I know I’m repeating this… and I will again… this point alone can literally cut decades off your learning curve.)

So what IS the concept of “Side Effects”? 

Let’s play a little game with that, starting with what this concept isn’t.

The point is to recognize when – and how – a statement of story concept comes up short, when it’s not good enough, deep enough, or compelling enough… even though it’s not technically off-topic, per se.  For example: you say The Davinci Code, novel and film, is “about paintings by Leonardo Davinci.”   That’s your tale on the concept.  Are you wrong?  In the context of a writer trying to identify the core conceptual story and USE that as a story development too… that’s absolutely a wrong answer.

I see this ALL THE TIME in the stories sent to me.  Which is why I’m pounding on it here.  Concepts that, a) aren’t really concepts at all, and b) seem to be a discarded and wasted tool, a placeholder, because the core story that follows turns out to be something else entirely.

Usually, that’s dramatic suicide.

The following statements of concept all pertain to “Side Effects.” 

I’ve categorized them as either:

-         NOT so good.

-         Okay, but without a compelling story emerging.

-         Sufficient, you can sniff a story here, but it could be better.

-         Nails it.

That last one is the killer concept.  The one they made the movie from.  The one YOU should shoot for AS SOON AS POSSIBLE in your process (ahead of time if you plan, or if you’re a pantser, as quickly in the drafting sequence as possible, so you can start over on a new draft that will be written from this higher/better context).

Because – and feel free to tattoo this to your forehead – this, when you find it, is WHAT THE STORY IS ABOUT!!!!!

Let’s be clear, the core story in “Side Effects” is NOT, at its core, a look at the dark side effects of prescription drugs.  That’s a by-product of what IS the dramatic concept, which, as it turns out, is a murder mystery.  That false start is purposeful and strategic.  Be very clear on this: it’s not there because the writer started down one road and took a dramatic turn elsewhere.

One more thing before we begin.

Let’s review the mission, the purpose, of a killer story concept.  It is much more specific and dramatic than defining a topic, a subject, an arena, a setting or a theme.  It is more specific than “the adventures of” the protagonist (the most common shortcoming of too many non-fucntional concepts).

Concept is, rather, a compelling proposition, a question that demands an answer (even if not stated as a question, it implies one).  It brings something inherently interesting and urgent to the story arena.  It is inherently interesting and fresh.

It promises, even by implication, drama through tension and conflict.  It is about something happening.

It is not necessarily focused on the hero, but rather, about the forthcoming implication of a hero’s quest… something the hero must do or achieve.  A problem or a goal.

It doesn’t go anywhere near trying to answer to the question it poses.  That’s not part of the concept’s job.  That’s YOUR job, via the narrative sequence.

And, it does it all in one sentence, or one efficiently stated question.  It’s always a matter of depth and degree… you get to decide on that count.  But the goal is ALWAYS the identification of the CORE DRAMATIC STORY, rather than just the arena or theme or character.

“A story about a blind orphan” is not a concept.  Yet.  ”A story set in Ireland in the 1300s, about a ghost and a descendant” is not a concept.

A compelling question leads to a itch for an answer, which becomes the story itself.  You’ll notice that not all of the preliminary “Side Effects” concepts below have such a question… for the simple reason that the insufficient ones don’t really lead to one, other than… “So what? What the hell happens?”

So let us begin. 

Here is the evolutionary thread for the concept for “Side Effects,” beginning with a few story ideas, technically relevant, that DON’T PROVIDE SUFFICIENTLY ROBUST CONTEXT for a dramatic story.

NOT SO GOOD

A story about the dangerous side effects of depression drugs.

A wife kills her husband with the help of her lover.

A story about a shrink and his depressed patient.

A story about a stock market scam.

A story about a broken legal system.

All of these are ideas.  Fodder.  None of them imply conflict, and all could be a documentary on PBS.  None of these are STORIES yet.

OKAY, BUT NOT COMPELLING ENOUGH

“What if a woman on prescription antidepressant drugs kills her husband and blames the side effects of her prescription?”

“What if two lovers conspire to murder the husband of one of them and get rich in the process?”

Why aren’t these good enough, even when combined?  Because a story told from either of these context’s could easily be episodic.  It needs more drama, more layering, the promise of a twist and an emerging hero.

SUFFICIENT, BUT WITHOUT A COMPELLING STORY EMERGING

A story about a wife who kills her husband and tries to cover it up with a profitable market scam involving prescription drugs, diverting the blame to her shrink.  (Which can be framed as a question…)

“What if a woman fakes dire side effects to the antidepressants she’s been prescribed, claiming the side effects caused her to blackout and murder her husband while sleep-walking?”

Notice how this covers it, the whole story is in there, conceptually, even while leaving some plot threads out.  That while this is good, but not great.

NAILS IT

“What if a wife and her lover conspire to create the illusion that her use of prescription depression drugs is responsible for the death (at her hand ) of her ex-con husband, for the twofold agenda of eliminating him  while making millions in the market from the resultant scandal, all the while diverting blame on the shrink who gave her the drug in the first place?”

Each story point, each twist and shift, that you saw in the movie is birthed FROM this highest hierarchical level of concept.

Why is each succeeding iteration of this concept more effective than the one before it?  Why is the last one the best one?

Easy.  The answer is the point of all of this, so please get it: because these are aspects, nuances and focuses the WRITER MUST UNDERSTAND FROM PAGE ONE of the story being written, in the draft that will ultimately work best.  And, it has taken on a compelling essence that was missing, in specificity and degree, from the earlier iterations.

This is the CORE story.  Not the thematic message about antidepressants.  Not a depressed woman driven to desperation.  This is a MURDER MYSTERY, with THRILLER elements driving it.  The fun of seeing this film is in believing you are experiencing one core story, itself compelling, when it fact it’s something else entirely, and has been since the opening credits.  You were fooled… not by trickery, but by masterful storytelling that immerses the audience in the dramatic experience in a visceral way.

Each scene in the Part 1 SETUP is in context to THIS concept.  The movie even flashes back to show you that context, which remained almost completely cloaked in stealth until… the MID-POINT.

Right on schedule, I might add.

Imagine trying to write this story without knowing, a) the drug thing was all a scam, a setup, from the very beginning; b) that there were two women behind it; c) that the killer’s real doctor (not her lover-doctor) had a sketchy background that might implicate him, and d) that doctor (Jude Law) will set out to correct it, with is own character arc at stake.

That, in fact, JUDE LAW is the hero and protagonist of this story.  Try to wrap your head around not knowing that, as the writer.  Imagine trying to PANTS this thing.

You couldn’t   You could use the organic pantsing as a MEANS OF STORY DISCOVERY, but from that point on you AREN’T making it up as you go along.  Because its all now IN CONTEXT TO SOMETHING.

And that something is the CONCEPT.

You must, at some point, come to KNOW what your CORE STORY is… what your story is REALLY ABOUT in a DRAMATIC context.  Your own original “idea” just might sabotage you if you don’t.

You can’t manipulate your reader to optimize story physics, you can’t execute that narrative strategy, without KNOWING.

And how to you know?  Your CONCEPT tells you.

So DON’T SETTLE on this, the most empowering element of your story development.  “The adventures of…” won’t be good enough.  The arena won’t be enough.  The theme won’t be enough.

DRAMATIC TENSION, emerging from your CONCEPT… is what you need.  It is, in fact, the very thing that will EMPOWER your theme and setting, perhaps where your passion for the story began.  Without this concept, “Side Effects” would have been a linear character profile of a depressed woman, more suited to PBS than a mass audience.

You need to fully understand what your CORE story is ultimately ABOUT,… dramatically (versus thematically)… both internally and externally (to the hero)….  beyond its theme.  Beyond its character arcs and internal struggle.  Beyond it’s plot points.

The concept and the core story it tells are what FACILITATES all of those important things.  The theme and the character arc EMERGE from the core story, they AREN’T the core story.

Which is also to say: you need to know how your story will END before you can write a draft worthy of having FINAL on the cover page.

Your statement of concept may not tell you that, but it will tell you what road to take – the most compelling and rewarding road – to get there.

NEXT in this series: evolving the concept into a narrative sequence… what decisions are involved, and where to put those story points, using “Side Effects” as an example.  And… it may not be what you think it is, thus illustrating a very advanced and brilliant storytelling strategy… one YOU can emulate in your own work.

Also, I’ll provide a scene log (sequential scene summary) of the entire film, with major story milestones identified.

“Side Effects” (Deconstruction 1) – The True Concept is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

Good to Great: Nail a Better Concept To Empower Your Story

Pop quiz: what is the CONCEPT of your story?

I ask this of all of my story coaching clients, right at the top.  The answers are frustratingly all over the map.  And yet, I believe it is one of the most important things a writer needs to understand about their story.

The problem with both the question and the answer is that the definition and street-level interpretation of “concept” is vague, often imprecise and widely misunderstood.  It’s like trying to answer the questions: what is rich?  What is health?  What is wealth?  What is happiness or friendship or good or evil?

The inherent risk – for both the definition of “concept” AND these other questions – is that a wrong answer can hold you back… or even get you killed.

Some writers don’t understand why we need to even address the question.

As if, in their insular writing world, a concept will somehow emerge from a linear narrative that ends up going in a specific direction that wasn’t ever on the radar.  That can work, that’s just a process… but it’s how a concept is reflected in a final draft that matters.

And if a compelling concept never surfaces, the story will suffer for it.

Let’s say you are writing a story ABOUT Ireland in the 1300.  If THAT and that alone is the depth and extent of your concept… then you risk a story that is low on dramatic tension, character and pace.  You’ll lean toward a historical travelogue.  You’ll likely end up with an “adventures of…” type of story, an epic saga (good luck with that), with a hero going from one thing to the next in this time and place.

That hardly ever works.

To get there, allow me to offer a short case study:

One of my clients recently answered the question (“What is your concept?”) this way:

A young girl moves to Chicago to mend a broken heart and meets an attractive options trader who ends up having ties to the criminal world.

Is that a concept?  Sorta.   Hell, anything is a concept, right?  You could write a story about that.

But… it too easily could end up being “the adventures of our Heroine in Chicago on the arm of this dark dude.”  Without a linear core story.  Without drama or stakes.  A travelogue.  A slice of her life, for better or worse.

While you might argue that, based on the wide breath of the interpretation of the word “concept” in the storytelling context, this IS a concept, I’m fairly certain that it isn’t a good concept.  Or at least, a complete enough concept.

At risk is what story the writer actually tells from it.

Trust me, “The Help” is not “the adventures of three black maids in 1962 Mississippi.  “The Hunger Games” is not “the adventures of a girl in a futurist dystopian world.”  If it was, Katniss might have ended up a hair stylist in the Capitol City… and if you remember those coifs from the film, that would truly be have been a horror story.

Both of those bestsellers had much more compelling and SPECIFIC concepts than an “adventures of…” type of narrative focus.  That works in bio-picks an literary character studies, but rarely in commercial fiction.

Gut check: is that you?  Does your concept lean into an “adventures of…” type of story, versus SPECIFIC THING THAT HAPPENS AND MUST BE RESOLVED type of the story?

The latter is the concept you should be striving to craft.

Back to our example… the responding story from that stated initial concept might have been this: “… they had some adventures, ups and downs… and then they lived happily ever after.”

But even if the author knew that, intended that, it didn’t make it into the concept.  Which IS the core story being told.

Agents want more.  Publishers want more.  Readers want more.  Cool settings and themes are great, but rarely are they the stuff of the CORE DRAMATIC story being told.  This is all about the name of the game here… giving the reading public what they want, through your eyes and words.  A literary win-win.

And that’s the key, right there: the word DRAMATIC.  That’s what was missing from this first pass at a concept.

Here’s the problem in a nutshell, and it is pandemic in its scope: writers are too often, when challenged to describe their concepts, describing “situations” and “locations (time and place),” where “adventures ensue.”

The concept is what your story is ABOUT, at a DRAMATIC level.  It it’s only a situation — you’re in a situation when you drive to the dentist, the traffic sucked, but that doesn’t make it a story worth telling – then the story isn’t there yet.

I’ve seen all of these recently, posing as statements of concept:

A woman who falls in love with her boss.

A spaceship lands on a strange new world that looks a lot like Earth.

A dragon wants to become human, and must win the love of a virgin to make it happen.

A tall cowboy named John travels in time to 1950s Los Angeles and becomes a movie star.

A marriage is in trouble when one spouse begins to have an affair.

All of these are SITUATIONS.  There is little about them that is CONCEPTUAL.

Each of them perhaps implies a story landscape… one in which everything or nothing at all could happen.   But someone reading these statements of concept wouldn’t know which.  Worse yet, the writer may not know.

All of them could end with “… and lived happily ever after.”

All of them need more.  More depth, more specificity, more promise of conflict and stakes.  Which, in each case, would make them more CONCEPTUAL.

Let’s return yet again to the first example…

…. (“A young girl moves to Chicago and meets a hot options trader who ends up having ties to the criminal world.”)  and see what the writer really meant.   Which is a good thing… at least there really was something more in mind.

Too often, there isn’t.

When asked to explain the source of dramatic tension in this story, the answer went like this:

When one of her new lover’s best friends confesses he’s working undercover with the FBI and asks her to wear a wire for him to snag the boyfriend on Federal charges, she must decide which team she wants to play on, and thus, who she really is.

Dripping with dramatic tension.  With stakes.  Theme.  Choices.

This is more than “the adventures of…”  There is a CORE story on the table.  One with DRAMA and STAKES driving it.

Now THAT is a concept.  It opens a door to a hero’s quest that is some combination of problem solving, goal pursuit, the crafting fate, theme… all of it in the midst of danger and consequences.

Combine her first answer with the second, and you have a concept you could successfully pitch:

What if a naïve girl moves to Chicago and meets a sexy options trader with criminal ties, and must decide who she is when a Federal undercover officer posing as her lover’s friend asks her to work with him to incriminate the guy?

Notice, too, how much more effective this is when posed as a “what if?” proposition.

The writer actually had the second answer when offering the clipped, insufficient (because it didn’t so much as touch on the CORE story) answer to the first.   But this writer didn’t understand that THIS WAS CORE STORY…and thus, the heart of the CONCEPT.

Who knows how the narrative might have been formed without that realization.  Because EVERYTHING in a great story connects to the CORE story in some way, however subtle.

That’s the risk.  That’s why we need to know what our concept is, and if it works.

She does now, by the way.

IF she had written about the first stated concept, the story might have unfolded episodically, simply taking us along for the ride as the new romance unfolds.  This then that, then something else… oh what a grand time she’s having in Chicago.  Maybe later she tosses in the undercover BFF, but the story might not have been ABOUT that aspect of things.

Even though, at the end of the day, THAT is the heart of her concept.

Stories always turn out better when the writer understands the CORE STORY… and the core story should be defined by a well-rendered statement of concept.

The core story, and the statement of concept that gets it into play, should never be an after-thought. 

This is storytelling, not a diary or a memoir.  Dramatic tension is key, as is pacing.  Something needs to be at stake.

Rather, a great concept should demonstrate the writer’s grasp of STORY PHYSICS in terms of engaging a reader on a deeper, emotional level.

A final example of a story concept that DOES nail it, just to send you away seeking the right thing:

What if a guy engaged in a murder investigation stumbles across a 2000-year old conspiracy that could topple one of the largest religions in the world, and must survive attempts to silence him before he can discover the true nature of the underlying secret?

Definitely not “the adventures of a guy on assignment in Paris.”

That’s a killer concept.  Even if it offends you to the core.  Maybe because it does.

It’s all just fiction, after all.

The difference between a rejection slip and nearly 100 million copies sold, or somewhere in between… that’s the power of concept.

*****

Where are you with your concept?  Need a second pair of eyes?  Click HERE to see how you can verify that your concept really does lead to a CORE STORY, or if you risk episodic storytelling that doesn’t.

 

 

 

 

 

Good to Great: Nail a Better Concept To Empower Your Story is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

“Side Effects” – a Preview of the Forthcoming Deconstruction

Two quickie personal announcements (the downside of having a not-in-service newsletter, which I’m working on resurrecting):

Check out the March/April issue of Writers Digest Magazine.  Above the cover banner is the header: “The Plot Thickens: A Step-by-Step Guide to Subplots.”  Once inside you’ll find three articles on this topic, one of which is by yours truly.

I’m on Page 60: “Using Subplots to Enhance Subtext.”

Because I’m all about the subtext these days.

Also, click HERE to see the new covers from my new novel (“Deadly Faux,” also shown in the right hand column here) and four of my five backlist novels, all to be published/republished later this year, and one in early 2014, by Turner Publishing.

On to “Side Effects”

(NOTE for those who haven’t yet seen the film: spoilers follow.  Reading this won’t compromise your learning experience – indeed, it may enhance it – but it could rain on your popcorn experience.

In preparation for the deconstruction, which will launch a week from Monday (2-25), I took my iPad to the theater this week to prepare.  Seeing it a second time is even more illuminating… you’ll want to do just that after the deconstruction gets in your head.

You just may be a completely different storyteller when that happens.

Why?  Because – and this is just of many examples – you won’t believe the utter preponderance of foreshadowing that peppers all of Parts 1 and 2 of the film (up to the Mid-Point, and even beyond that).  The complex plot, which seems to entirely shift lanes just when you think you’ve got it nailed, is completely without logic holes or any lack of a visible lineage… yet nobody in the place sees it coming.

I charted 94 scenes over 106 minutes.  Of course, this may not map precisely to the script, because film editing often cuts scenes into pieces interspersed with cutaways and establishing shots, each of which could be interpreted as a scene.  Many of the scenes are lightning fast, making their point (their mission) quickly, without the clutter of chit-chat or unnecessary exposition.

A novel would most likely be constructed in an expositionally tighter way, with longer scenes that embrace some of the shorter beats in the film… but that doesn’t take away from the plethora of learning this film offers.

What You’ll Learn

Me, too.

Pacing – one of the essential realms of Story Physics – is something this story models clearly and effectively.  The story is screaming forward from the first frame… even when you don’t notice that happening.

You’ll realize that this story – the version you see, the final version – would be impossible to “pants.”  To make up as you go along.  This is not to say you couldn’t (or shouldn’t) pants your way TO this final version (this being the highest goal of both pantsing and planning), but there’s no way you could assemble this story sequence without knowing the ending.

From scene one.  No way.  If you doubt that (entire stadiums full of organic writers still do), this film will convince you that this is true.

You’ll learn the critical role of foreshadowing, especially in a thriller that’s also a mystery (both apply here) with psychological story variables.

You’ll learn – because you’ll see it, big time – how a theme does NOT have to actually be the plot, how it emerges from the plot and the character arcs.  How plot and character provide a platform for theme (there’s a lot of preaching going on in the film, but you’ll realize it’s a plot device that, coincidentally, happens to have thematic weight).

Until we read it in an article somewhere, we have no idea where Scott Z. Burns began this story journey.  Perhaps with a burning need to write a story that shows us the dangers of prescription ISSDs (depression drugs).  Astute writers like Burns, though, realize that such a focus wouldn’t result in an effective story in a dramatic sense… and thus, the story became about something else in that context.

You’ll see the structural milestones in play.  You’ll also see how they can either be ramped up and become the culmination of a sequence of related scenes… or they can drop out of the narrative sky and explode the story into something… else.  In this case, not where you’d think it would happen.

You’ll, I hope, how you can execute a necessary plot turn and insert expositional information, without having to force it into play, which can easily happen when you settle, or force an idea into being.  The more complex your story (and this one is very complex), the more you need to make sure your story beats make sense.

You’ll see how the hero becomes the primary catalyst in the story’s salvation.

In fact, for a while you may not realize who the hero in this even is.  Uniforms change several times, all by the design of the storytellers.

You’ll learn how and why subplots are part of the story.  They aren’t side shows (though they seem to be for a while), the best subplots are there to contribute causal factors and stakes.

This is the highest calling of a subplot.  Of which there are several here, all doing exactly that.

Most of all – and this is perhaps only evident after you’ve studied the story in full deconstructed detail – you’ll learn…

Why it is so important for the author to know what the CORE story is.

It isn’t the theme.   It hardly ever is.

You, the viewer, will think so… and maybe the writer even thought so originally.  But it turns out not to be the core story, trust me.  And you’ll see, without knowing the true core story here, how one might mishandle the tricky First Plot Point…

… because the FPP ISN’T the most dramatic scene in this movie.  Rare… but that’s part of why this film is remarkable.  (For those cynics who think I preach a formula… suck on that one.)  Not by a mile.

No, the FPP in this film does just what it is supposed to do: launch the core story, with antagonism and stakes in place.

You’ll see the four part model executed, in spades. 

At 106 minutes of running time, the optimal targets for the three major story milestones are: 21 minutes (FPP)… 33 minutes (MP)… 85 minutes (2ndPP).

In the movie the FPP arrives at the 25 minute mark.

You may think you’ve seen the FPP before this, but those story beats turn out to be a handful of key Inciting Incidents.  The true FPP changes the story in an almost official way, truly launching the hero’s quest and need (though the hero doesn’t know it yet, which means the viewer doesn’t either… but trust me, the writer DOES, and needs to), as well as the antagonistic force that will be shown to be opposing that quest.

The first Pinch Point is at 35 minutes in… almost dead on.

This is a tricky one, because this is actually THE MOST SIGNLFICANT STORY BEAT IN THE FILM… but in retrospect (you’ll think it’s the FPP) is clearly the Pinch Point and not a late FPP.   Because this scene is a dramatic REACTION context (to the FPP), and (as you’ll understand when you’re walking out of the theater), not the launch of the hero’s problem journey (THAT happened at the FPP, where it was supposed to).

The learning being… you can weigh and execute these structural points any way you please… as long as they emerge from a narrative strategy.

Formula, my ass.

The Mid-Point creates a brand new context for the story at 58 minutes (a bit after the optimal target), after a few scenes that set it up (also something this film teaches us).  The CORE story here emerges fully at this point, not before… the hallmark of a brilliant Mid-Point.

And thus we learn that we have wiggle room in this aspect of story design, and that the optimal target are important as our design paradigm, rather than our design specificity.

Shoot for optimal, then do what you have to do.

The Second Plot Point arrives at… well, how about I leave that for you to decide.  See if you can spot it, and time it.  We’ll nail it down in the deconstruction itself.

You’ll also see how the assigned contexts of each part (the narrative missions of each scene within each respective part) is absolutely in play.  Part 1 is pure setup, and little else.  Part 2 shows everybody responding to the FPP.  Part 3 shows our hero beginning to be proactive and lean into heroism.  And Part 4 is all about resolution, and on several levels.

It’s the story physics of that resolution that give this story its most powerful dose of story physics.  The film teaches the importance of that, in spades.

If you aren’t familiar with these concepts, try to ramp up before seeing the movie. Because seeing IS believing, and this film is a clinic in all these things.

If you’ve been looking for a way to cement your knowledge of storytelling craft, and be knocked out of your seat in the process… “Side Effects ” is your two-hour, nine dollar seminar.

The deconstruction launches Monday, February 25th.

*****

Postscript: so picture me in the last row of a nearly deserted theater, midweek matinee, one of those food-service-at-your-seat places (so I could, a) park my iPad on a table, and b) get a burger I can write off).

As the film opened I noticed I had a battery reserve of 14 percent on my iPad.  Bad planning.  I kept an eye on this as I bulleted every scene (the result being a scene-log I will make available as part of this process).

When the Second Plot Point hit, there was 5 percent remaining.  My bullets became shorter and shorter.

When the final scene came up and credits rolled… the battery died.

Right on cue.

Like it was meant to be.

 

 

“Side Effects” – a Preview of the Forthcoming Deconstruction is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

Deconstructing “Side Effects” — A Writer’s Movie…

… even for a novelist.

 

Especially if the writer is a novelist.

Your assignment, should you decided to accept it, is to get your fanny to the multi-plex and invest nine bucks in your writing career… by seeing this movie.

“Side Effects” was released this weekend (Feb. 9) to glowing reviews, the focus of which is the storytelling.  

Directed by Stephen Soderbergh (Oceans 11 & 12… Good Night and Good Luck… Magic Mike… and enough others to be known as one of our most prolific filmmakers) from a script by  Scott Z. Burns (An Inconvenient Truth… The Bourne Ultimatum… The Informant…  Contagion… among others, including two forthcoming studio tent pole films), the movie has four major stars: Channing Tatum, Rooney Mara (the Girl With The Dragon Tattoo… literally), Jude Law and Catherine Zita-Jones.

This is a major league film on both sides of the camera, created by A-List talent.  That alone is worth the time and money.  But that alone isn’t the primary rationale for our deconstruction exercise.

Enough about the resume, and even the reviews (which are stellar… more on that in a moment)… this is a WRITER’s movie.  A storytelling clinic.  A perfect model for both story structure and story physics.

It’s what the term “watch and learn” was trying to say.

You have two weeks.

In about two weeks I’ll deconstruct this film over a handful of posts (y’all asked… here you go).

Goes without saying, to get the most out of this you really need to see the film.  And based on what there is to learn from it… it just might be the best nine bucks you’ll ever invest (other than my book, of course… just to affirm what my critics are saying about my ego…) in your writing career.

This can change your writing experience in a way that will put you into the hunt for an agent and a publisher.

If you already get it, this will affirm it.  If you are struggling with the principles of story structure and story physics — with storytelling in general — then this just might be your Epiphany.

Two weeks.  Nine bucks.  And then, perhaps a career suddenly emp0wered in ways that will surprise and delight you.

Oh… about the story.  I encourage you NOT to read the reviews.  Most that I’ve seen have been careful not to reveal too much, which is telling… because the film isn’t what you think it is.  Even saying that, it won’t be what you think it might be.  You’ll think it’s a theme-driven story — and on one level, it absolutely is — but it becomes so much… well, I’ll shut up now.  See for yourself.

It’s that good.  It’s that well written.  It’s that mind-boggling.

And it’s THAT powerful as a writing clinic.

Check out the PREVIEW HERE.  (Only caveat… this R-rated film has sexual content, rough language and some violence.)

Second caveat… you’ll want to see it twice.  The second time as a story pathologist.  Fair warning.

Deconstructing “Side Effects” — A Writer’s Movie… is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

A Call for Storyfix Post Topics

Any questions?

 

 

There’s a lot to this fiction writing stuff.

I try to cover it, to emphasize what I think are the sweet spots of the craft of storytelling.  Even so, certain questions keep coming up.

So I’m asking YOU… what would you like to see covered here in 2013?  

Anything, the full enchilada, from the arena of writing stories — novels, screenplays, memoir, even short fiction… . core competencies, story physics, specific problems… agents, editors, publishers, self-publishing…  process, product, examples, deconstructions… what’s not clear, what seems impossible, what challenges you.

Your call.  Be as specific, or as general, as you’d like.

Can’t promise I’ll get to all of it.  Can’t promise, either, that I’ll know the answer.  In some cases I may point you to specific posts already here.  (Also, just to be clear… this isn’t a call for “guest posts,” I pretty much have that base covered.)

This is your shot at filling in the Storyfix course curriculum.

Also, if you have ideas on the product/services side — courses, coaching, ebooks, etc. — that you’d like to see developed, I’m all entrepreneurial ears.  (I’m considering a full “boot camp”… a from-idea-to-finished-draft, personally coached, multi-month membership seminar, with deadlines and assignments that take you from the blank page (and perhaps a blank head) to a draft you can either submit, or work with.)

Use the comment section here to toss your idea(s) and feedback, on any of this, into the ring.  Thanks for participating.

Larry

(Photo by Sasha Y. Kimel, via Flickr.) 

 

A Call for Storyfix Post Topics is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

The Football of Story — by Art Holcomb

I know I can’t be the first person to make this connection.

As I sat in agony and watched my beloved Forty-Niners lose one of the most exciting football games I’ve ever seen, the link between sports and story structure became clear to me. The reason why we love sports is because they present and perfect the stories in our lives– some small (like a Little League game) and some large (like the Olympics, World Cup, Super Bowl and so on).  We have created in our games near perfect mirrors of the human conditions and the struggles of Mankind.

For example, let’s break down the game of football in structure terms as if it were a story:  - The story is divided into four acts (called quarters).

-  There is an Inciting Incident (coin toss/kick off).

-There are natural, plot-turning points (end of quarter, halftime, two minute warning, etc.). - There are naturally opposing forces (teams).

- There is a Main Character (QB).

-There is a cast of supporting characters (other players).

- There are action sequences of varying lengths (drives).

- There are scenes within those sequences (plays).

- There are rivalries (back story / arc).

- There are naturally occurring time limits placed on the scenes (the clock).

- There are affinity audiences for the different characters and group (supporters/fans).

-  There is sex appeal (cheerleaders).

- There is natural drama inherent within every scene.

- There is an escalation of excitement and conflict as the game goes on (dramatic tension). - Each of the characters has their own story that plays out in the drama – everybody has a chance to be a star.

- There is a narrating POV character that makes sure that the story is clear and easy to follow (Commentator).

- There are obsessed and broken characters that we can identify with (Character Arcs). - There are no unnecessary characters (players) – each person has a job.

- There is a balance: each character has an opponent.

- There is constantly Rising Action. - There is a Climax.

- There is a Resolution.

-  There is a plot (game plan).

- There is a setting ripe for description and rich with character (venue).

-  There are “B’ and “C” stories.

- There are False Victories and False Defeats (turnovers).

- There is an “All is lost “moment.

- There are characters dealing with internal problems (injury / confidence / commitment) in order to solve an external problem (how to preforming well) so as to prevent a catastrophic event (loss of the game) from occurring.

- There is tension.

- There is conflict.

- There are thrills and there are agonies.

- And there is a theme.How many others can you name?

In all, a powerful example of how story imbues so many aspects of our lives.

Now, here’s your challenge: Think of this as a checklist for your current project.  How many of these characteristics to you have in your story?

Art Holcomb is a screenwriter and comic book creator. His most recent comic book property is THE AMBASSADOR and his most recent story is AN ECHO OF HAMMERS.

The Football of Story — by Art Holcomb is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com

The Power of a Storytelling Model

(The following is an excerpt — it’s Chapter 1 — from “Story Engineering: Mastering the Six Core Competencies of Successful Writing” – Writers Digest Books, 2011)

by Larry Brooks 

You can go your whole career as a writer without someone asking you to define the essence of story.  What it means.  What it is.  What it isn’t.  For many writers this is a good thing.  Because their answer just might come up short.

Your first goal as a writer is to not be counted among this group.

There are so many ways to define story.  Story is character.  Story is conflict.   Story is narrative tension.  Story is thematic resonance.  Story is plot.

Trouble is, all of these are partially correct, while none of them, viewed as isolated definitions, are completely correct.  Even when you combine them, they are still fall short of expressing their melding delivers the essence of a great story.  Without that essence, what you have is a kitchen table full of ingredients waiting for a recipe that allows them to become a delicious sum in excess of their individual parts.

Many writers just sit down and write.  A story may or may emerge, and the writer may or may not be cognizant of the presence of structure, theme, conceptual appeal and the multi-faceted complexity of characterization.

Some writers give all these issues due diligence through some form of story planning, be it notes on a cocktail napkin, yellow sticky notes on a wall or through a full-blown outline.

Either way, it’s all just a search for a story the springs from the seed of an initial idea.  And in that search, whether we realize it or not, or even if we care to admit it or not, our success depends on certain dramatic principles, story elements, functionality, process and even physics, all of which melts together into a literary stew that defines the core essence of story.

What we need is a model that embraces all the requisite elements of a good story.  A development model that is as much a functioning tool chest as it is the ultimate target of our efforts.

Just as an engineer relies on a blueprint to build a structure that will bear weight and resist the elements, a vision and a plan based on proven physics and structural dynamics, writers can benefit from approaching the craft of storytelling armed with a command of certain principles and criteria that always work.  It’s unthinkable that an engineer and an architect would meet at the construction site one day and just start digging and pouring concrete without much more than a vision, or even an artist’s rendering of the end product.  In addition to a detailed blueprint, they both bring the fruits of an informed planning process based on an in-depth understanding of the physics and principles that reside at the core of their craft.

But like an architect’s vision that yields the engineer’s blueprint, the resulting product may or may not be everyone’s cup of tea, even if it’s structurally sound.  That’s the art of it.  Standing up against a stiff wind is one thing, making the cover of Architectural Digest is quite another.

Writing is no different.  We build our stories on a foundation of structurally-sound principles.  But from there we depend on something less definable and teachable to elevate our work.  To something that publishers will buy and readers will consume and enjoy.  What the writer creates from these storytelling principles and the development model that puts them into play is no less aesthetically-challenging or artfully endowed than the work of a writer who, perhaps in either ignorance or rejection of such a tool chest, labors over a manuscript for years in search of the very same fundamental literary physics.

In other words, we can work hard or we can work smart.  Hopefully both.  A killer story development model doesn’t take the hard work out of writing, but it totally infuses it with smart.

The Physics of Storytelling

There are many theories and principles floating around in the vast oeuvre of writing instruction.  And pretty much all of them can be boiled down and grouped into six separate and succinct buckets of information.  You may think the list of things a writer needs to understand and execute is long and complex, and you’re absolutely right if you do.  But that list can be grouped into separate yet dependent categories – six of them – and in doing so the fog that shrouds the storytelling challenge begins to lift.

I call them the Six Core Competencies of Successful Storytelling.  When applied to the story development process, you end up with a process that become, in essence, one of story engineering.  And it works for writers because of the very same reasons it works for the folks to build stadiums and skyscrapers.  It’s based on physics.  On natural law.  On proven truth.  And it in no way compromises aesthetic or artistic expression or excellence.

Viewed both separately and in relation to each other, the Six  Core Competencies create a story development model that leaves nothing out of the writing equation.

Execute them all at a high level and you may find yourself in the hunt for a publishing contract.  The model can’t infuse your work with artful genius – that continues to defy quantification or definitive criteria – but it will get you in the game and make you competitive with authors who are already publishing.  Bringing evidence of your command of these six core competencies is your ante-in to the world of publishing.  From there, like a tryout for a major league team crowed with other hopefuls who are in command of the basics of the game, you need to bring something magic on top of it all.

Leave one of these six core competencies out, or execute any one at a less-than-stellar level, and you will be sent back to the drawing board.

With this model in hand, at least you’ll know what to shoot for.

A Checklist-Driven, Criteria-Based Story Development Model

The Six Core Competencies comprise perhaps the first storytelling model that brings all of the necessary components and skill-sets of successful storytelling under one process-intensive umbrella approach.  That drives toward the core essence of story in a comprehensive way, over and above simply being a collection of things that a writer must know.

Here’s a fact: with some isolated and therefore irrelevant exceptions, every

published novel or produced screenplay delivers on each of the six core competencies described in this model, at least to some degree.   And even then, the really successful ones take them to a level of integration that defies definition.  That becomes artful.

Even if the author doesn’t recognize it, or backed into it after multiple drafts.  Even if it was organically rendered rather than proactively articulated from within a structured storytelling process.

The Six Core Competencies of Successful Storytelling are as integral to the healthy growth of a story as protein, hydration, antibiotics, sleep and exercise are to the development and growth of a healthy human body.

Which leads us to another fact: leave one out, or execute one poorly, and you won’t sell that story.

The Search for Story

Since the very first story was set to parchment, writers have used the drafting process – creating version after version of their story, adding to it and revising it as they go – to discover and explore these same six core competencies.  Intuitively they know they aren’t done until they’ve covered these bases, even if the bases themselves reside outside of their awareness and understanding.  Or, if they don’t intuitively grasp them, or if they are in denial of them, or if they abandon the story before they’re all in place, they never really find the story at all.  At least not  to the degree necessary to make it work.

Imagine the power and efficiency of understanding the necessary components and skill-sets ahead of time.  I’m not talking about story planning, per se, but rather, arriving at the keyboard armed with the awareness and understanding of the principles required to empower your story to greatness.  Why do some prolific writers seem to spill stories out of their head in a manner that embraces the six core competencies – think Stephen King or Arthur C. Clarke – in such a way that their revision process is all about adding value and polish and nuance, rather than fixing major holes and out-of-rhythm narrative exposition?  The answer is that they get it.  They inherently, at the very core of their talent, understand the physics of a solid story, and the Six Core Competencies that come to bear on the process of putting them onto the page.

Sadly, this is not the case for the vast majority of writers, who aren’t even aware of the standards they need to reach.

In fact, it could be argued that talent is nothing more than the degree to which an author understands and applies these Six Core Competencies to their storytelling.  Because prose with the lyrical magic of Shakespeare in not required to publish.  You merely need to be clear, crisp and clever at the right moments.  What is required, though, is a storytelling acumen that, whether cause or effect, reflects the principles and criteria of the Six Core Competencies.

This model results in empowered storytelling, rather than exploratory or even blind storytelling.  Whether you spill them directly out of your head or plan for them before you begin to write, the Six Core Competencies manifest two direct and immediate benefits: better stories, and better early drafts of those stories.

Reason enough to allow them into your process.

*****

This website goes into depth on the Six Core Competencies, with over 500 archived posts.  If you’d like to subscribe, either email or RSS, click HERE.

My new book — also explored in depth on this site — “Story Physics: Harnessing the Underlying Physics of Storytelling,” comes out in June 2013, also from Writers Digest Books.

The Power of a Storytelling Model is a post from: Larry Brooks at storyfix.com