Talkin' 'Bout Structure, Part III posted by kza

Annnndddd… we’re back. Thanks for joining us.

So again, we’re talking about the sequence method of structuring a screenplay, as expounded by David Howard and Paul Joseph Gulino, in their books, How to Build a Great Screenplay and Screenwriting: The Sequence Approach, respectively . Back in Part II, I talked about the first four of eight important “qualities” (I couldn’t think of a better word) that make up a screenplay using the sequence method: the Point of Attack, the Predicament, the Main Tension, and the Point of No Return. If you haven’t read it (especially the part about not having the books in front of me), you may want to before continuing.

And before I continue, some more general comments. One thing I want to be clear about, if I haven’t already, is that I don’t see this (or any other theory of structure) as a One True Way. Just following it word for word isn’t going to create a great screenplay; in fact, it’s possible to follow it too closely, to the detriment of the story you’re trying to tell. (Wonder why the third act of Wedding Crashers goes on for frickin’ forever? Or why Red Eye is so bare-bones? There’s your answer.) I think of learning structure to be like learning a martial art — you learn it to know when to use and when not to use it.

Another thing to be clear about: this process, whether it’s to figure out the structure of a potential screenplay, or to analyze the structure of an existing screenplay or movie, can’t really tell you anything about why the work in question is beautiful or artistically worthy or deep. In mainstream filmmaking, great movies and shitty movies share the same structure, and what separates one from the other can’t necessarily be teased out by looking at Predicaments or Resolutions. To use another simile, examining structure is like an autopsy; we can open it up and see how the bones are connected, how the heart is made up of four chambers, how long the digestive tract is, but we can’t see where the soul is located.

One last thing: In Part II, I talked about the Point of No Return. Although, for the simplicity of explanation, the Point of No Return is slotted into the third sequence, that’s actually the latest in the story that it can appear. It can, and usually does, come earlier, even in the very first sequence, if it makes sense. For example, in The Matrix, the PONR is when Neo takes the pill, and this occurs near the end of the first act, in sequence two. I suspect that, in an ideal screenplay, every action taken is a kind of PONR, one that irrevocably moves the protagonist towards his or her final destination.

So, to continue:

First Culmination: This happens around the midpoint of the screenplay, and as the name indicates, is a kind of a climax and summing up of the action so far, but not the final one. Although the second act (sequences three through six) is all about answering the Main Tension, the First Culmination allows you to answer the Main Tension in a tentative way, giving a clue or preview as to the outcome of the Second Culmination (although that preview or clue can be, probably should be, misleading.) Another use of the First Culmination is to give a hint as to the potential outcome of the story, by either mirroring it (e.g., a positive culmination to a positive resolution) or contradicting it (a negative culmination to a positive resolution).

Unlike the Predicament or the Main Tension, which I feel to be the very heart of screenplay storytelling (if not storytelling in general), the First Culmination seems to be a tool more for the storyteller than the audience. It’s a organizing principle, a way to make sure that the story, despite any narrative detours, stays on point. Part of classic storytelling is the use of recapitulation scenes & dialogue — scenes and dialogue that repeat information we already know, as a kind of reminder as to what’s happened so we can fully absorb the complications that are forthcoming. (Bill Paxton’s Hudson in Aliens, IIRC, is the designated recapitulator, continually whining about what bad stuff has already happened and what bad stuff is likely to happen in the future.) The Culminations aren’t really recapitulations, but they seem to be what the recapitulations are pointing towards — a kind of marker that indicates how far we’ve come in the story, and how much further we have, and where the characters stand at that point in time.

Second Culmination: This is almost exactly like the First Culmination (only this time, the only clue points towards a potential outcome), with one important difference: this is where the question posed by the Main Tension is answered. And the answer is a simple “yes” or “no”. That “yes” or “no” may reveal complications or ambiguities of a physical, philosophical, or moral nature that belie that straightforward answer, but the question and its answer should be clear and unambiguous. For example, in High Noon, can the sheriff get the townspeople to help him? No. In King Kong, will the crew rescue Ann Darrow? Yes. In A History of Violence, will Tom end the threat of Carl Fogarty and his goons? Yes.

(“Hired goons?”)

Now, note again, what’s going on with the second act, and within it, the Main Tension and the Second Culmination. The second act is, in a sense, it’s own short film, much like how a sequence is like a mini-movie. There’s a question that deals directly with the protagonist — Will they do something or other — and the Second Culmination answers that question. The second act is, in a sense, a complete unit; while it needs the first act to set up the circumstances and context that frame the Main Tension, the story could, conceivably end right there. The crew could leave Skull Island, and that’s that. Tom Stall could just stay home and hope no one else comes after him and his family. The sheriff goes off to face the bad guys and we could fade out right there. (That’d be kinda odd and unnerving, wouldn’t it? If you want to see a film that tries something like that, check out the unusual Burt Lancaster Western, Valdez is Coming.)

But of course, it doesn’t end there. From the ashes, another story — the third act — rises, one with its own tension that must be answered. (See below.) Looking over various movies, what I’m seeing is that while the Second Culmination sows the seeds for the third act, what actually pushes the story from one act to another is a decision on the part of the protagonist. Tom decides to face his brother in Philadelphia. Carl Denham decides to bring Kong back to New York. Neo decides to risk his life to save Morpheus. What’s interesting, to me, is that this seems to be the flipside to the external event that causes the Predicament that creates the second act. Thus: external events create the second act, but protagonist decisions create the third.

Third Act Twist/Tension: So the third act begins, and it usually begins quietly. After the Predicament has caused the protagonist’s life to turn upside down, he or she answers the Main Tension and a new status quo is established, even if we, the audience, know it’s only temporary. Denham and company are back in New York and Kong is on stage. Tom is reunited with his gangster brother. The Matrix’s idea of a quiet beginning is mowing down security guards and rescuing Morpheus — and in the context of what’s to come, it is a quiet beginning.

But then something happens — the Twist — to disrupt the new status quo, and a new Tension is created. Kong breaks free and goes on a rampage. Tom’s brother orders him killed. Neo is trapped in the subway with Agent Smith, whom he can’t kill.

The Third Act Twist/Tension appears to be an organizing principle for the writer — what am I building toward, and how? — much like the First Culmination. But after thinking about the third acts of various mainstream movies, it seems like the third act is where the writer deals with the theme of the piece in the most direct way. (That seems rather obvious after writing it, but it never occurred to me in that way until now.) I’m thinking of Kong climbing the Empire State and finding death there, of Neo becoming The One, of Tom Stall coming to terms with the history of violence between him and his brother. While the concept of theme is an important one, and Burley and I will certainly tackle it in the future, for now, it’s slightly outside the scope of what I want to talk about. Nevertheless, it seems pretty clear that while we expect the protagonist to confront the greatest obstacle here, at the same time, this is where we expect to see the greatest elucidation of the theme. And these two parts (obstacle and theme) may be encoded within the same scene, and they may not be.

Resolution: This is pretty basic: every story reaches a point where there are no more questions that need to be answered. The key word here is “need”; there are always more questions that can be asked when it seems like everything’s been wrapped up, including the impossible-to-avoid “What happens next?” But, generally, once the Tension created by the Twist has been dealt with, this creates a final status quo, and this is usually where the story ends.

And there you have it — the eight important qualities of the sequence method. I’ve tried to be as clear as can, with concepts that can be very nebulous, and, admittedly, not fully understood by myself. I hope I can engage the readers of this site (and Burley, of course) into a continuing discussion of structure, one that can further illuminate these concepts. If you’re interested, click here and the discussion will begin!

Coming up next: A close look at Jaws.

(And speaking of which: Who would you cast in Jaws if you were remaking it today? Tell me here. I wanna know.)

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