Beating Broadway: How to Create Stories for Musicals That Get Standing Ovations

by Steve Cuden

An antagonist must be equal to or more powerful than the protagonist. He ought to be smarter, stronger, more sophisticated, more cunning, more driven, richer, suaver, more handsome, etc. It ought to be obvious that the protagonist is less than likely to succeed in overcoming whatever it is that the antagonist puts in his way. Such is the power an antagonist has over the protagonist. The paths of these two must either cross or intertwine a lot. In all cases the antagonist ought to be a source of deep frustration for the protagonist.

Joseph Campbell, Hero with a Thousand Faces,

Christopher Vogler’s outstanding book The Writer’s Journey

CLASSIC MYTHOLOGICAL ARCHETYPES The most well-known, classical character archetypes are: Hero, a.k.a. protagonist, adventurer, seeker, lead, star Mentor, a.k.a. guide, counselor, wizened elder, guru Ally, a.k.a. accomplice, associate, colleague, friend Herald, a.k.a. adviser, prophet, courier, reporter Shadow, a.k.a. villain, antagonist, adversary, opponent, foe, rival, enemy Threshold guardian, a.k.a., defender, shepherd, sentinel, protector Trickster, a.k.a. deceiver, misleader, schemer, ambusher, evader, fraud Shapeshifter, a.k.a. mutater, changer, modifier, transformer, unpredictable

Bear in mind that sometimes a single character can fill the shoes of multiple archetypes. Simply because a character takes on the characteristics of one archetype does not mean he cannot be or become another archetype. In fact, the point of some archetypes, especially shapeshifters and tricksters, is to fool and change.

Heroes, or protagonists, tend to have any number of helpers along their way. One of those is the mentor. Mentors are usually wizened elders (though they need not be old at all) who may have had substantial past experiences similar to those of the hero. Mentors are able to lend sage advice to the protagonist, or point him in the right direction on his way to his goal. Mentors generally show up early in a story, usually before or not long after, the inciting incident. A mentor might impart some form of wisdom that the hero may find u...

Most of the time, mentors appear for a brief period then disappear never to be heard from again. Occasionally they stick around for the whole glorious shebang. If they do, m...

Allies come in all sizes and shapes, and can arrive and disappear as needed. But many allies join forces with the hero to help him get where he is going. They often wind up turning into sidekicks, groupies, sycophants, assistants, etc. Allie...

Sometimes a character will come along to make a pronouncement that winds up triggering the inciting incident, or informs the protagonist of impending danger, or indicates where his fortune may be found. Such archetypal characters are known as heralds. These folks can also be allies, shadows, or almost any other archetype. They are often harbingers of what’s to come (both good and bad), although it may not be obvious at the time that they make their pronouncement.

The archetypal character for an antagonist or villain is also known as shadow. In Jungian psychology, Shadow may be positive or negative, but in modern storytelling, most shadow characters tend to be trouble for the hero. Without the shadow, our hero’s goal would probably be too easy to reach, and that would result in a dull and uninteresting story, one that would not capture an audience’s imagination. Shadows can be evil or relentlessly unwitting fools in the protagonist’s way, or both. In all cases, a shadow should always have his own agenda, his own goals, and always believe that what he is doing is the right thing to do. No villain worth his twirling mustache thinks what he is doing is wrong. Villains always believe they are in the right!

Shadows often need allies, too. And mentors. But they tend to get an extra assist from a range of characters that fill the roles of threshold guardians. But threshold guardians don’t have to be affiliated with shadows to fulfill their story function. They are like mini-shadows who get in the way of the hero, becoming stumbling blocks along the path toward achieving his goal. Threshold guardians literally and metaphorically keep the hero from going where he wants to go. They guard the hero’s threshold, or gateway, to achievement. They can be henchmen for the antagonist, or pains in the butt, or goofballs, or represent the frustrating everyday roadblocks that we all face. They must be a source of conflict for the hero, making his life a bit uncomfortable, if not outright difficult.

Tricksters are full of monkey business and tomfoolery. Sometimes their mischief is goofy, comical, wacky, offbeat, and deflating. Tricksters serve to keep a hero’s inflated ego in check, or show him right from wrong in a funny way, or bring levity to an otherwise gloomy world. Generally tricksters relieve tension in a story. But sometimes their naughtiness can also be embarrassing, awkward, mean-spirited, dangerous, or even deadly. Their loyalty is often in doubt. Sometimes a trickster that appears to be an ally winds up being an agent provocateur working on behalf of the shadow. Tricksters are malleable and can change attitude or character on a dime. That’s what makes them “tricky.” It is the trickster’s ability to change his character and disposition so easily that makes him similar to the shapeshifter.

Shapeshifters tend to be more obvious than tricksters. Shapeshifters often serve to bring doubt to the protagonist. As such, they can be hard to read. They are fickle, and you may never really know whose side they’re on. They may be hilarious or not amusing at all. And just when you think you know who they are, they become someone or something else. What makes these latter two archetypes even harder to grasp is that they can sometimes serve as both archetypes. In all cases tricksters and shapeshifters help to keep the protagonist—and the story—off-kilter and, one hopes, unpredictable. They are also frequently the most fun for writers to write and actors to play. Best of all, audiences love these jesters and slippery types, who not infrequently become memorable scene stealers.

As stated previously, I believe that plot should be driven by what characters do. It is always best when stories are propelled by the decisions that characters must make, followed by those actions that they take because of those decisions, and all of the consequences that follow as a result. Decision making by a protagonist, regardless of whether he initiates the action or is reacting to one thing or another, should lead inevitably to the next thing that happens to him. This will cause yet another decision to be made, which will lead to another action, and so on.

Most great protagonists are action takers and doers. A protagonist may react to his circumstances at first, but he ultimately must take an action of some sort. Some people refer to this distinction as a character being reactive versus proactive. Characters that are always reactive tend to be passive. Proactive characters tend to be dynamic, take-charge types—exactly what audiences love to follow.

Lajos Egri’s seminal 1946 book, The Art of Dramatic Writing,

According to Egri, character can be defined as comprising three dimensions: physiology, sociology, and psychology. Developing these three aspects of a character will take you a very long way toward understanding the full composition of each of the characters that must populate a story. Remember, stories are always about people in conflict, usually with other people. Knowing your characters inside and out, backward and forward, is essential for exposing all the quirks, nuances, oddities, strengths, weaknesses, etc., necessary to have well rounded, three-dimensional “humans,” even fictional ones, who will inevitably drive your story forward

Sweeney and Mrs. Lovett are whole, fully realized, three-dimensional, and, most importantly, uniquely their own. They act, speak, and think very differently from one another—and from everyone else they encounter—yet for much of the show they share a similar goal, though for very different purposes. They are brilliant, powerful examples of fully developed, three-dimensional characters.

FLAW Every major character, and many if not most of the minor ones, need a flaw in order to have a personal impediment that helps to make him unique. This flaw often motivates his actions.

Rewrite (2-20), Paul Chitlik

Flaws make characters seem human. It also allows them to overcome yet one more obstacle—always a personal one—on their path to whatever goal they pursue. Flaws impact points of view, psyche, and physical behavior. Such flaws maintain a serious sway over the life of a character.

Flaw is most useful when used as an ingredient of character that a protagonist must overcome in order to succeed. A great protagonist will overcome his flaw in the climax in order to finally resolve his superobjective. When a hero uses or overcomes his flaw to achieve his goal, audiences often feel a deep sense of fulfillment. The hero overcomes his own adversity, and the audience feels relief as a result.

The same holds true for the antagonist, except that his flaw may be what ultimately defeats him. Or, should he be transformed by the end of the story, then he, too, must work to overcome his flaw in order to be forgiven.

CHARACTER THROUGHLINE/SPINE All characters need to have a purpose. Why else are they there? And I don’t just mean a purpose to be in your story. I mean their personal purpose, desire, and goal. This, in turn, gives them the reason to be in the story. Without a strong desire or goal, a character would just float along with nothing to do and no reason for being. You may know a slacker or two in your life who actually fits such a description. But in storytelling, especially efficient storytelling like a play or a musical, every character needs to be after something.

Such an all-encompassing drive is sometimes referred to as a character’s throughline or spine. A simple way to figure out your hero’s spine is to consider these four things: 1) What does he want? 2) What tasks must he endure to earn his goal? 3) What path must he travel to arrive at his goal? 4) What obstacles must he overcome to achieve a positive result?

Throughlines are not superobjectives, but they are the means by which the protagonist may attain his superobjective. Throughlines keep your protagonist, antagonist, and other characters moving forward, not sitting around with nothing to do. Think of your protagonist’s throughline as the plot, which ought to be just as focused on the emotional highway that he must travel in order to get what he wants as with the physical road taken.

INCLUDE ONLY WHAT BELONGS TO THE WHOLE STORY If your story can be told without a scene or a moment, that scene or moment ought to be removed. Brutal as that may seem, it is the smart way to create an excellent story.

DOES A SCENE BELONG? Here is an excellent question to ask of a scene in order to test its value: Can the scene be removed from the story without the story being substantially altered? Can you still understand what is going on without it? If so, reconsider its purpose—even if it’s wildly entertaining. An incredibly entertaining piece of music or business that adds no value to your story plunked down in the middle of a show will definitely cause it to stand out—for all the wrong reasons.

Anything in your show that does not move the plot forward or expand our understanding of the characters—ideally both at once—does not belong in the script and ought to be excised. Every scene, every song, every dance, every moment should ideally work to define or deepen the characters or move the story forward.

PORTRAY COMMON ELEMENTS UNCOMMONLY Memorable scenes and shows bring together common elements in an uncommon way. Combining two people from differing backgrounds, or putting a character in a setting in which he feels out of place, or creating a scene around elements that typically don’t belong together, can give your characters a new perspective, which may, in turn, provide an interesting spark.

1) A hideously deformed composer living in the sewers beneath the Paris Opera House seems intent upon bringing harm to the young diva he would like to make his life’s leading lady. But he does her no harm (Phantom of the Opera). 2) A Navy nurse isn’t sure if a French plantation owner in the South Pacific survived his secret mission to scope out an island on behalf of US forces (South Pacific).

TRAP YOUR PROTAGONIST This refers to all of the many connotations of the word “trap.” A character can be literally trapped in a jail or cage. Or trapped metaphorically in a loveless marriage, or in a job he hates, or in a school he can’t stand—or in one of life’s numerous unintended or unwelcome circumstances. A character can be trapped in his body or in his mind, or by a poor decision, or bad luck, and so on.

Why are traps so important to storytelling? Who among us has never experienced a situation in which we felt we’d never escape, or wished we could escape faster, easier, cheaper, or smarter? Being trapped is a universal experience. Everyone has felt stuck at one time or another. Therefore, everyone watching a story can empathize with a trapped character. This is a highly effective way to draw an audience in and raise both the stakes and tension.

SURRENDER Surrendering to circumstances is, like a trap, a universally experienced sensation. One can give up and win, or one can sacrifice one’s own life to save the day (a very common theme among heroes). Surrender can be physical, personal, moral, spiritual, financial, or any of a number of emotionally tied acts.

LOSE SOMEONE OR SOMETHING IMPORTANT Yet another universally understood experience. We all know what it’s like to lose or be separated from a loved one, or lose something we truly care about—a toy, a home, money, job, faith, etc. It really tugs at the heart when a protagonist loses something or someone important.

MAKE BIG DECISIONS When a character has to make a big, painful, complicated decision, the audience feels for him in a profound way, especially if the decision has serious consequences for his life. A running theme here is that we all share common experiences of having to make painful, sometimes gut-wrenching decisions in our lives. When the protagonist agonizes over such hard choices, we feel it.

TRACK, HUNT, FOLLOW, PURSUE Pursuit doesn’t necessarily mean a physical chase, although it can. Pursuits don’t always take place in cars or planes or on horses or through big city streets—actions not easily achieved on a legitimate stage. Pursuits can be physical or psychological. Very little is as exciting in drama as the pursuit of one person after another—in all its forms.

BRING THE POWER All memorable scenes—actually, all worthwhile scenes, be they memorable or not—are about power (Suber 296–298); the shifting of power between characters, its ebb and flow as people jockey for superiority. With whom does power lie in a scene? Which person in a scene is willing to do whatever is necessary to gain the power he so desperately seeks? Or how does a character rid himself of unwanted power?

Characters gain and lose power, sometimes many times during the course of a story. Great scenes flow back and forth in power. This power exchange is an important function of drama. It keeps the audience interested in the characters and in the story. It makes the telling of the tale fluid and dynamic rather than static. It keeps the stakes high, which keeps the conflict high. Throughout a story, power should shift—particularly for the protagonist. Power ought to swing between characters from scene to scene, sometimes within scenes. And whatever power the protagonist possesses at the beginning of the story ought to wind up just the opposite by the time he reaches the resolution of the tale. Howard Suber expresses it this way in The Power of Film (296–298): “1) If the central character has power in the beginning and loses it by the end, we call it a tragedy. 2) If the central character has little or no power in the beginning but gains it by the end, we call it a comedy. 3) If the central character has power at the beginning, never loses it, and still has power at the end, or if the central character has no power at the beginning, never acquires it, and still has no power at the end, we call it a flop.”

Songs in musicals have a distinct and grand purpose—to further our understanding of the characters while lifting the story to a higher emotional plane. Songs must work hand in glove with the plot, seamlessly woven into every scene, every moment, perfectly in sync with the dialogue, staging, and choreography. Done well, this will help the protagonist move through the difficult landscape of the story.

If a song does not move the story along or expand our understanding of a character, or both, then it probably does not belong in the show. It does not matter how entertaining or brilliant it is.

musicals trump novels, plays, and screenplays because of their songs. Songs are the perfect solution; they allow the audience inside a character’s head to examine his thoughts and emotions. This is true regardless of how weird, happy, angry, awestruck, nervous, cunning, dopey, defeated, clueless, etc., a character may be. Music and lyrics can express a wide range of emotions while simultaneously expanding our understanding of the characters and moving the story forward. Miraculously, songs do so in the most palatable, enjoyable way possible. And it makes no difference if songs are soft, sweet, tub-thumping, whirling, bombastic, forceful, joyous, studious, soul-searching, stirring, etc.

If you want to see such creative perfection in action, check out the brilliant songwriting that moves character and story forward in Sweeney Todd, My Fair Lady, West Side Story, Fiddler on the Roof, Les Misérables, Chicago, Hairspray, Avenue Q, and many others.

Remember this, the lyrics and the music must service the characters that, in turn, drive the story. Characters and story ought to come first.

SONG-SPOTTING One of the better ways to select the point of entry for a song is to wait until after the structure of the show is figured out. The three creative elements (book writer, lyricist, and composer) can then determine if the show is truly ready to be written. At that point there ought to be a meeting of the minds over the location of the emotional moments of the story. More often than not, songs are used for emotional focus. A song can easily replace a dialogue scene in which one or more characters convey their fears or sorrows or happiness or love, or if there is a moment when one of the principal characters needs to let his feelings out. It can be much more efficient, and a whole lot more pleasurable, to convey those emotions through song.

Again, all of the verbal and musical elements must be created in service of the story. And the story must be developed first.

I believe that the truly great composers have all understood this. The brilliance of the musicals of composers like George Gershwin, Richard Rodgers, Frederick Loewe, Frank Loesser, Cole Porter, Meredith Willson, Cy Coleman, Jerry Herman, Stephen Sondheim, Andrew Lloyd Webber, Stephen Schwartz, Alan Menken, Elton John, Jason Robert Brown, Jeff Marx, Marc Shaiman is that their music seems to serve the stories—and not the other way around.

Dialogue, no matter how memorable or brilliant, must always be organic to the whole show. Lines may stand out for an endless number of reasons in the memory of those watching the show, but memorable lines should never stand out by being out of place in the show. If so, they will be remembered for all the wrong reasons.

never forget that dance can be as much a structural element of the story being told as the songs and dialogue.

Moments created by action rather than dialogue feel more dynamic and more interesting; moreover, they elevate the power of a story.