Story Flashcards
Cause and effect
As human beings, we are logical animals who thrive on our reasoning abilities.
Because stories are metaphoric models for our lives, we have an innate desire for
logical plotlines that follow a clear cause and effect progression to a climax and
resolution. Stimulus and response are the building blocks of any story because
this is how we make sense of our lives—by understanding how things respond to
others, how they’re caused by others. We have an inner emotional need to make
sense out of things, the world, and the universe. We know that everything has
a cause, and when we know the cause, we understand the effect. E.M. Forster
once gave this example: “The king died and then the queen died.” This is just a
chronicle of events. But if you say, “The king died, and then the queen died of
grief,” it’s a more satisfying sentence because you added a cause. The cause links
the two events, which gives us emotional satisfaction and interest. Thus, a clear
plot where we understand how each event causes the next will hold more interest than one whose events are episodic and random. I’m not saying that episodic,
non-linear plots are to be avoided, or that they’re not interesting scene by scene.
Just that they won’t hold the reader’s interest as tightly as a plotline that has linear
causation—one action causing another, adding up to some meaningful point that
touches the thoughts and emotions of the reader.
Conflict
Most books and seminars emphasize conflict in stories for its dramatic effect, and
for good reason: Without conflict, there is no drama, and without drama, there is
no interest in the reader. Conflict is crucial in maintaining the reader’s interest in
the story and in the characters. Because conflict is discussed the world over, I’ll
try not to repeat what others have said. Instead, I’ll focus on some critical points
as they relate to reader’s interest. If you’re familiar with them, consider them a
basic review. If you’re not, pay close attention because conflict is the essence of
storytelling, the fuel that drives a story, and the glue that keeps the reader’s attention on the page.
This doesn’t mean you must create conflict on every page to generate interest,
since it’s one of several techniques to hold the reader’s attention. However, you
should be aware that it’s one of the best ways to do so, and you should always think about it. The impact of conflict in storytelling presents an interesting
paradox for human beings: While most of us abhor conflict in our lives, it
actually creates interest in dramatic stories. The more we hate to experience
something in real life, the more interest is created on the page when fictional
characters experience the conflict.
So what exactly is conflict? “Two dogs, one bone” is how someone once
described it. Conflict comes from the intention of a character (goal, need,
want) meeting some form of resistance (obstacle). Two committed forces in
conflict will always create interest and heighten tension. By itself, this principle of
goal versus obstacle creates drama and initial interest, but there’s a third element
which makes the conflict more dramatic—the unwillingness to compromise. If
the stakes are high, and both sides are unyielding, you have intense drama. Think
how ineffective the opposite would be. Imagine a character needs money for his
mother’s operation. He asks his best friend who’s a millionaire, but the friend says
no. The character reacts by saying, “Oh, okay. Never mind.” That’s a compromise
and a letdown for the reader. An unwillingness to compromise would have the
begging character insist, threaten his friend, pull out a gun, wound him if there
were still no agreement, or even kill him in desperation, the tension rising with
every beat in the scene. So think of conflict as a triangle—goal, obstacle, and
unwillingness to compromise.
The writer must also think of the outcome of a conflict. There are three
possible ways a conflict can proceed: A character wins or loses, but tension
disappears; the characters compromise, and as you just read, it’s not an option
if you want to maintain interest; or the conflict is aggravated. The latter is what
keeps readers glued to the page, wondering how it will all turn out in the end.
Be careful not to repeat the same conflicts. You must have a constant flow
of new information, new conflicts, and new twists and turns. You want your
script to move, each conflict leading to another without repetition, forcing the
character to take new actions and overcome more difficult challenges.
Make your conflicts compelling. If the obstacles are too easy, the reader
won’t care. If Bill Gates loses a hundred dollars, it’s not a significant problem. But
if a poor deliveryman loses his bicycle, and then his job and his ability to care
for his family, that’s compelling. The bigger the conflicts, the more things are
uncomfortable and difficult for your characters, the more the reader will want
to see how they will get out of the situation you’ve put them in. That’s interest.
Here’s what Michael Schiffer says in 101 Habits: “Good drama requires obstacles
along the way, and if a section is very flat, one of the things a writer can ask
is, ‘This is too easy for them, what could happen to make it absolutely difficult,
painful, agonizing, impossible?’ If you have a good story that goes from A to B,
ask yourself what obstacles would make the journey from A to B more exciting and interesting to watch. The more legitimate and difficult the hindrance, and the
more the characters care about reaching their goal, the more exciting the story.”
Take note that conflict doesn’t mean arguing, or fighting, as in “Yes… no,
yes… no, is too … is not, it’s red… no, it’s burgundy!” Many beginners make the
mistake of thinking two characters arguing in a scene is conflict. But arguments
or disagreements are hollow conflicts, unless there are emotional stakes for the
main character. Then, the argument is an obstacle to the character’s want or need.
Remember, conflict is desire against obstacle.
Change
Life is about change, and all stories are about change—external change, internal
change, change in the status quo. Every story, every scene, and every beat is
about a change—a change in knowledge caused by discoveries, and change in
actions caused by character decisions. A character starts at point A, in a state of
unfulfilled longing and ends at point Z, satisfied and fulfilled, or if it’s a tragedy,
destroyed. Either way this journey implies a change, meaning the end is different
from the beginning, or else what’s the point of telling that story? When anything
changes in a story, a scene, or a beat, it generates interest.
Alfred Hitchcock once said that an audience can only stand about an hour
of storytelling. After that, it starts to get tired, so it needs the injection of action,
movement, and excitement, which is all about keeping the audience occupied
mentally. Fast action, quick cutting, and people running around is not the answer.
What keeps the audience engaged is the changing of one situation to another.
This is the reason why writers are told to escalate the action and the stakes in the
story. If the conflict is the same on page 90 as it is on page 30, what’s the point of
the middle 60 pages? The same goes for inner conflicts and character arcs, which
are the emotional changes in the character at the end of the story.
The two most powerful categories of change in stories, and in our lives, are
discoveries, which are changes in knowledge, and decisions, which are changes
in actions. In a story, these moments are plot points. In a scene, they are beats.
Regardless, these discoveries and decisions create emotions in your character and
in the reader.
Originality and freshness
It shouldn’t be a revelation that another way to generate interest in the reader is
to write about new and original subjects. Since they say, “There’s nothing new
under the sun,” freshness must come from your vision, the original way you write
about common things. Readers always hope to find something unusual that will
spark their interest, whether it’s a creative approach to structure, plot, characters,
theme, or dialogue. Most professional writers focus on originality of concept,
since it drives a whole story and is the main factor in interesting potential buyers. This is where the term “High Concept” comes from—the greater the concept’s
freshness, the higher its appeal.
Subtext
Although we’ll explore subtext in depth in Chapter 10, you may use it in scenes to
evoke additional interest in the reader. As the name implies, subtext is the meaning beneath the text. It’s what the scene is really about, though the actual words
are about something else. When a scene tells the reader directly what it’s about,
it’s often dull and emotionally unsatisfying. Through subtext, you hint at the
conflicts in the scene without actually identifying them. The reason why readers
welcome subtext is that it challenges them, engages them, and makes them active
in the reading experience. When the
Insightful exposition
Another way to evoke interest is to create thoughtfulness through interesting
exposition, either through an insightful voice-over, like in the opening of
American Beauty, or through fascinating information that sets up the story, like
the scrolling exposition that opens Star Wars, or the opening graphics in Casablanca.
The key, of course, and clearly this is a subjective issue, is that the exposition must
be fresh, fascinating, insightful, and interesting.
Backstory
There are two types of backstories—character and situation. You should
already be familiar with character backstory, as it was discussed in the previous
chapter as it relates to character fascination. Obviously, if you’re fascinated by a
character’s past, you’re interested by that character’s actions on the page. But you
can also create an interesting situation backstory, which is about what happened
before the story starts. By the very nature of stories, which begin at a particular
point in time, everything before that point is technically backstory. Another word
for situation backstory would be the context of the story. For instance, before
Jurassic Park begins, the backstory is that John Hammond has successfully cloned
dinosaurs. Before The Matrix begins, most humans have been disconnected
from reality and used for energy without their knowledge, and in The Silence of the
Lambs, serial killer Buffalo Bill has already murdered several women when the
movie starts. Again, the backstory must be compelling and unique enough to be
included and to evoke interest in the reader.
The power of questions
Because curiosity comes from our desire to answer questions, the best way to
evoke it in the reader, and thereby heighten interest, is to set up story questions.
A question demands an answer. Therefore, setting up a question automatically
creates an emotional itch that needs to be scratched. Each turning point in the
plot creates a curiosity that makes the reader ask what will happen next. The
writer can accomplish this by withholding bits of information, not telling the
reader everything all at once, foreshadowing, or hinting at an outcome, all of
which force the reader to play a more active role—filling in the blanks, making
guesses, and assuming things. When the reader is active, he is involved, and
therefore interested.
As you read earlier, a plot is a sequence of events, but a well-constructed
plot will raise dramatic questions in the reader who will follow each event to its
conclusion to get answers, and satisfy his curiosity. As you’ll see in a moment,
every act within a story has its own question to answer. Within each act, every
sequence sets up a sub-question, as does every scene within each sequence, and
every beat within each scene. You basically create a trail of questions for the
reader to follow, as he develops an increasing need to know the answers to each
question, which provide a sense of satisfaction when they’re revealed at each step
of the journey.
Although the writer should set up and answer questions throughout the script,
the ideal place to do so is in the opening sequence. This is because curiosity is
almost automatic from your first words. Open with an arresting image, like fire
in Body Heat, or a grainy photograph in Chinatown, and the immediate question are,
“What is this… where are we… where are going… what does it mean?” Introduce
a character, and we want to know who this person is, and whether we care. Or
start in the middle of a scene, with dialogue, like the opening of Blood Simple, and
you set up intrigue, as the reader wonders what is going on. From the opening
page on, you move the reader through the story by evoking a series of questions.
The key, however, is not having too many at once, or keeping them unanswered
for too long, as this could backfire and produce confusion and irritation in the
reader. I’ll discuss additional opening techniques in the next chapter.
For the rest of your script, you can arouse curiosity in the reader through the
following techniques:
Set up one central question
Every story is about one central dramatic question that takes the whole script to
answer. In fact, what makes a compelling plot is the kind of questions a reader
will follow a story to the end to get answers for. For example, in Ernest Lehman’s classic North by Northwest, advertising executive Roger Thornhill is mistaken for
a spy named George Kaplan, and must then run for his life as he tries to identify
the real Kaplan. The central dramatic question, then, is “Will Thornhill survive
after being mistaken for a spy?” It isn’t answered until the last page of the script.
Set up a question for each act
Each act answers a different question. In North by Northwest, the first act sets up
the question, “Will Thornhill prove he’s not Kaplan?” The act ends at the United
Nations building where he’s framed for the diplomat’s murder. This propels us
into the second act, which sets up the question, “Will Thornhill clear his name?”
The first act question remains unanswered, though we get an exposition scene
where we find out Kaplan is a fictional character designed to draw attention
away from a real undercover spy. The second act ends when Thornhill, betrayed
by Eve, confronts her at the auction and lets himself be captured by police in
order to escape the bad guys again. This takes us into the third act where the
Professor reveals the truth about Kaplan and Eve being the real undercover spy.
This answers the second act’s question, and sets up another for act three—“Will
Thornhill be able to save Eve?” which is unanswered until the climax on top of
Mt. Rushmore.
Since your ultimate goal is constant reader engagement, asking a central question for each act is a good start, but it’s not enough. Boredom can creep into any
act, especially the second, which is always a challenge for writers. So you have to
think about the sequences in each act.
Set up a question for each sequence
I won’t go into each sequence of the entire script, but I’ll illustrate how Ernest
Lehman maintained interest throughout the second act, which begins after
Thornhill is on the run, wanted by the police for murder. The first sequence of
scenes is the train sequence, which sets up the question, “Will Thornhill escape
police capture, and get to Chicago?” The second sequence is Eve’s betrayal, which
sets up the question, “How will Thornhill be killed?” The crop duster scene
answers that question. The third and final sequence of act two is Thornhill’s payback, when he confronts Eve and Vandamm at the auction. The question for this
sequence is, “Will he get the truth about Eve?”
Having a different question for each sequence already increases reader interest
every ten pages or so, but you can go even deeper and focus on individual
scenes.
Set up a question for each scene
Let’s look at the individual scenes that make up the train sequence. I include
the questions for each. The first scene is at the train station—will Thornhill
get on the train? Then, on the train, he must elude police officers—will he escape them? He meets Eve, who helps him hide—will Eve turn him in? A bit
later, the steward sits him at Eve’s table—why? Eve and Thornhill are clearly
attracted to each other, and Thornhill gladly plays along in Eve’s seduction
game—will they sleep together? The train stops to let in detectives looking for
Thornhill—will he be discovered? Eve hides him in her bunk bed while the
detectives question her—will she lie for Thornhill? They resume their seduction,
and while Thornhill is in the bathroom, Eve gives a note to the porter—what’s
in the note? We discover Eve works for Vandamm when the note is revealed
to say, “What do you want me to do with him in the morning?” This sets up
the obvious question—what will happen to Thornhill in the morning?” which
hooks us into the next sequence.
Set up a question each beat in a scene
You can go even deeper and set up a question for each beat in a scene, but due
to space constraints, I won’t analyze a scene in depth. You may refer to Chapter
8, however, for more on scene beats. For now, you can learn that a scene is
like a mini-story composed of individual beats, which are the smallest unit of
storytelling. A beat usually changes when there’s a shift in a character’s emotion
or strategy to get what he wants in the scene. A beat is to a scene the same way
a scene is to a plot, so setting up a question for each beat in a scene will arouse
the curiosity of the reader throughout that scene.
Establish mystery by withholding information
Because a good story is carried by the questions set up by the writer, all stories are technically mysteries, not in the criminal “whodunit” sense, but in not
knowing how the question will be answered at the end. Think of these questions as little hooks to pull the reader along from beginning to end. The motion
of story is from question to answer, from doubt to certainty. Without questions,
there’s no script, and without answers, there is no emotional satisfaction.
One way to establish mystery is to withhold information the reader is itching
to know. For example, you can set up a character with unclear motives, which
will keep us wondering until the end, provided everything else in the story is
interesting. In Sergio Leone’s Once Upon a Time in the West, Harmonica Man’s
motives for the final showdown with Frank are withheld until the end.
Create intrigue by emphasizing illicit activity and secrecy
Another way to arouse curiosity is through character secrets, which create
intrigue, like Evelyn’s big secret in Chinatown. Anytime you establish secrets—a
secret scheme, a covert operation, a cover-up of information, or an assassination attempt (JFK had it all), it creates intrigue, especially if the scheme is illegal.
I’ll discuss secrets in depth in the section on surprise later in this chapter.
Establish character traits
As you learned in the previous chapter, establishing character traits is a key
requirement for building major characters. Once these traits are established, the
reader will anticipate character behavior. For example, in The Silence of the Lambs,
Hannibal Lecter is established as a vicious cannibalistic serial killer. This arouses
our anticipation that if Lecter escapes, he will be a dangerous predator. In fact,
this anticipation is fulfilled in the escape sequence where he viciously attacks the
guards, and alluded to in the last scene, when Lecter says he’s having an “old
friend for dinner.”
Set up character goals
Similarly, you can set up a goal for a character to create anticipation. Kurt
Vonnegut once said, “Always have a character want something, even if it’s a glass
of water.” And not just your protagonist and antagonist. Every single character in
your story should want something at any point because desire will always create
anticipation. It doesn’t mean you have to create a whole subplot around that desire,
but you can build a moment around it. Let’s say we cared about a character in the
story—we’ll call her Tess. We learn in a scene that the villain plans to murder
her because she witnessed him committing another crime. Once you set up this fact, we fear for Tess, and hope the villain will fail to murder her. We feel worry
and hope simultaneously because we’re looking ahead to the moment the villain
will murder Tess. It’s the anticipation of an established goal that causes forward
movement in a story, not the dialogue or the action. Imagine that the villain
visits Tess, but we’re unaware of his intentions. The dialogue is hip, fresh, edgy,
and witty, and the scene ends before the reader becomes bored. The scene lacks
forward movement because there’s no anticipation of any goal or intention. Now
imagine we know he intends to kill Tess before this scene. When he meets up
with Tess, he talks about the weather. No matter how dull the dialogue, the scene
has forward movement because the intention has been established. Now you have
suspense (will he accomplish his goal or be frustrated?) and tension (when will he
strike?). You can make the scene even more fascinating by adding curiosity to the
mix. Instead of letting the reader know he intends to kill the woman, how about
he learns she betrayed him? When he visits her, and they talk about the weather,
we are curious to know what he will do to her, and how. This compelling mix of
suspense, tension, and curiosity is evident in North by Northwest, where Thornhill
confronts Eve following the crop duster scene.
Overlap problems and solutions/questions and answers
This technique is based on the principle that a problem attracts our attention until
it is solved. Once a character accomplishes his goal, for example, we lose interest.
Therefore, to sustain continuous interest not only do you want to delay the payoff,
but also create a whole bunch of mini-problems and mini-goals throughout the
story. More important, make sure that a problem is not resolved before another
starts. In other words, try to sequence the problem-solution tracks so that there is
no point in the entire story that has a hole of disinterest. As long as there’s always
an unanswered question, the reader will remain emotionally involved and keep
turning the pages.
Talking about the future
Any time a character refers to a future event, we anticipate it, as it takes us forward
to that event. For example, in the opening of Sunset Boulevard, Joe Gillis’ voice-over
tells us, “The body of a young man was found floating in the pool of a mansion,
with two shots in his back and one in his stomach. Nobody important, really. Just
a movie writer with a couple of “B” pictures to his credit. The poor dope. He
always wanted a pool. Well, in the end he got himself a pool, only the price turned
out to be a little high… Let’s go back about six months and find the day when it all
started.” This is an interesting effect, as we technically go back to the past, and yet
look forward to the future on the movie, anticipating Gillis’ murder. The same
technique opens American Beauty, when we meet Lester through his voice-over:
“This is my neighborhood. This is my street. This… is my life. I’m forty-two years old. In less than a year, I’ll be dead.” This foreshadows his death, hooking the
reader into wondering who will kill him.
It doesn’t always have to be a voice-over. Any character talking about the
future does the trick. In the opening scene of Casablanca, the European Man
explains how things work in Casablanca: “As usual, the refugees and the liberals
will be released in a few hours… the girl will be released later.” This pulls us into
the future, as we visualize the scene and understand what he means. Later, at
Rick’s Café, we eavesdrop on a conversation, as a man says, “Waiting, waiting, I’ll
never get out of here. I’ll die in Casablanca.” And when Renault says, “Rick, there
is going to be some excitement here tonight, we are going to make an arrest in
your café.” All these are great examples of characters talking about the future.
Plans and daydreams
When a character sets up an intention to do something, going over a plan to
accomplish a goal, they automatically create anticipation in the reader. Using
Casablanca as an example again, when Renault says to Strasser that they know
who murdered the couriers, he adds, “There is no hurry. Tonight he will come
to Rick’s. Everybody comes to Rick’s.” By mentioning his plan, we anticipate the
arrest later that evening. Similarly, when Ugarte says to Rick, “After tonight, I’m
through with the whole business. Rick, I’m leaving Casablanca.” And later, “I
will sell these for more money than even I ever dreamed of. Then… farewell
to Casablanca.” Plans and daydreams are an effective tool to engage the reader
through anticipation.
But they don’t necessarily have to be revealed. They are even more effective
when they’re secret because they add curiosity to the mix. The secret plan is
when a character says, for example, “I know exactly what to do,” then whispers
it in someone’s ear, and we cut away. It can also be the villain’s secret plan to
accomplish his goals, like in Die Hard, where we think his goal is the ransom
for the hostages, but in fact, it’s to have the FBI cut off electrical power to the
building to open a vault. And remember all the Mission Impossible TV shows?
The opening scenes often included the team talking about a plan that was never
entirely revealed, but through the gadgets presented, we assumed a plan had been
formulated and we looked forward to the mission.
Appointments and deadlines
We could argue that an appointment to meet or be somewhere is a goal, and thus
creates anticipation. The same goes for a deadline. When someone is forced to
accomplish something by a certain date and time, it’s a goal too, albeit a more
intense goal. This is why limiting time has been used often to create the more
intense form of anticipation—suspense. I’ll discuss time limits, or “ticking
clocks,” in the next section, but for now, look at this technique as another way
to create anticipation in the reader. Any time a character tells another something like, “Meet me in the park at 3 P.M.” or “You’d better finish your homework
before your TV show starts,” we automatically anticipate this future event. There
are, of course, many film examples you could think of. For instance, in North by
Northwest, when Thornhill escapes from the hotel into a cab and says, “Take me
to the United Nations,” that’s technically an appointment with a location, and it
takes us there mentally.
Worries and premonitions
Worrying about something is feeling anxious about a future event. Therefore,
having a character worry or feel uneasy about something, like having a premonition, will create anticipation. This becomes a more powerful effect when you
make the reader worry as well, like when he cares about a character who may be in
danger. In North by Northwest, in the exposition scene where the agency discusses
Thornhill’s predicament of being mistaken for an agent who doesn’t exist, the
housewife worries Thornhill won’t survive much longer, while the stockbroker
adds that they can’t just wait to see who kills him first, Vandamm or the police.
This small scene makes the reader look forward to the dangers ahead, but also
worry about Thornhill.
Warnings
Warnings, which also include predictions and omens, are usually promises of
unpleasant events to come, and thus set up the anticipation of conflict. Anytime a
character warns another, it takes us into the future. You may be familiar with the
term “foreshadowing,” which is about setting up hints of future conflict. When
you foreshadow, the reader anticipates. In E.T., when Elliott’s mom says they can
call somebody to take the alien away, Elliott responds, “They’ll give it a lobotomy
or do experiments on it or something.” And in North by Northwest, when Eve
sees the detectives board the train, she warns, “Incidentally, I wouldn’t order any
dessert if I were you.” Later in her drawing room, she says, “I’ve been thinking,
it’s not safe for you to roam around Chicago looking for this George Kaplan
you’ve been telling me about. You’ll be picked up by the police the moment you
show your face.”
The macguffin
The MacGuffin is a term coined by Alfred Hitchcock, who made extensive use of
this plot device in his thrillers. Its only purpose is to motivate the characters and
advance the story. It’s often a priceless, elusive object that almost everybody in the
story is after, and some would even kill for it. Examples abound: The MacGuffin
in The Maltese Falcon is the falcon statuette; in Notorious, it’s the uranium hidden
in wine bottles; in Citizen Kane, it’s the unsolvable mystery of “Rosebud;” and
in North by Northwest, the MacGuffin is the fictitious character “George Kaplan”
who’s being chased by enemy spies and by Thornhill, who tries to figure out who Kaplan is. Again, this device works to create forward momentum because it is
technically a goal to go after it, which arouses the reader’s anticipation.
Moods
Setting the right mood can create a predisposition in the reader toward particular
emotions in the future of the story. You can look at mood as the emotional climate
of your story or scene, whether your intent is a humorous climate or suspenseful
climate. The reason it works to create anticipation is that it promises the reader
future emotions. For example, the opening sequence of The Silence of the Lambs,
and most thrillers, sets up a tense suspenseful mood, which subconsciously tells
the reader, “Stick around and you’ll experience a lot more of these emotions.”
Setting up the right mood according to the genre of your story is an effective
way to create anticipation in the reader because it’s often subliminal, rather than
the overt effect of the previous techniques. How to create specific moods will be
discussed in depth in Chapter 9.
Dramatic irony (reader superior position)
I saved the most powerful tool for last, as it’s the most effective way to create
forward momentum in a story or scene. Dramatic irony is about putting the reader
in a “superior position” to the characters by revealing information not known to
the characters. It’s like being let in on a secret. Based on this information, the
reader knows what might happen (or not happen) to the oblivious characters,
and he can only hope they make the right choices. This hope and fear takes the
reader to the future and thus creates anticipation and active involvement. Alfred
Hitchcock, to illustrate suspense, used the example of two people sitting at a table
in a restaurant with a bomb ticking away underneath, and two versions of the
same scene. In one version, like the two characters, we don’t know there’s a bomb.
When it goes off, we’re surprised and that’s it. The other more potent version tilts
the camera underneath the table so that we know there’s a bomb, and we feel a
whole gamut of emotions as the bomb is ticking down. The information doesn’t
have to be a bomb, of course. The reader can be made aware of another character
eavesdropping on a damaging secret, a killer waiting in an apartment, an ally who
is secretly the enemy, or a couple falling in love on the doomed Titanic. Using
North by Northwest, note how often Ernest Lehman uses dramatic irony to keep
us engaged: When we find out “George Kaplan” is a fictional character, while
Thornhill and Vandamm are unaware; when Eve writes the note “What do I do
with him in the morning;” when she arranges a meeting with Kaplan that turns
out to be a lethal crop duster; when Eve turns out to be the real Number One;
when Thornhill is “shot” in front of Vandamm; when Vandamm realizes Eve is
a spy and plans to throw her off the plane; and when Thornhill tries to rescue
Eve. Dramatic irony also works when the character knows something we don’t.
This would be “Reader inferior position,” where we know less than the characters.
This creates curiosity. We want to know why the characters behave in a mysterious
way, and anticipate the moment the secret will be revealed, like Evelyn’s dark
secret in Chinatown.
Dramatic irony can come from a misunderstanding between two characters,
a device often used in comedies. When we realize one character has misunderstood
another, we anticipate the moment when the error will be revealed. Think of
the wonderful comedies driven by misunderstandings: Bringing Up Baby, Dr.
Strangelove, Some Like It Hot, and Tootsie. The TV show Three’s Company was driven by
misunderstandings and misinterpretations, one character talking about one thing,
and the other understanding another. In tragedies, misunderstandings often lead
to death, like in Romeo and Juliet and Othello, where our superior position leads to
compassion for the victim and helplessness for our inability to do anything about
it. This is an effective device in horror films, where we know the killer is in the
house, and the victim is unaware.
Deception is another plot device based on this concept of superior position,
where in addition to creating anticipation, it also creates suspense, by setting up
the questions, “Will the characters we care about be harmed by the deception,”
and “Will they discover it before it’s too late?” Because anticipation to unpleasant events creates uncertainty in the mind of the reader, which is suspense, I will
expand on this technique in the next section.
Suspense/Tension/Anxiety/Concern/Doubt
As the heading states, this essential visceral response is all about tension, anxiety,
and doubt, which arise out of an uncertain, undecided, or mysterious situation.
This offers an interesting paradox: In real life, we don’t like to feel this stress,
but we gladly spend our money to experience it in theaters. It’s probably the
most important element in dramatic storytelling because it holds the reader’s
attention from beginning to end. Since every story must be maintained by
a level of uncertainty (what will happen next), and keep us guessing to avoid
predictability, suspense is an absolute requirement in all stories, not just thrillers
or action-adventures. Every story should create this feeling of eagerly wanting to
know what will happen next.
One of the main reasons scripts are turned down is lack of suspense and
uncertainty. In other words, they’re predictable. Suspense should be everywhere
in the script: At the story level—Will the hero achieve his goal? At the scene
level—Will the hero get what he wants? And at the beat level—How will the hero
react emotionally?
Suspense is more than just feeling uncertain about something. I can feel uncertain about how tomorrow will turn out, but I don’t feel anxious or tense about it. There has to be more to it. To complete the equation, let’s look at what makes up
suspense.
Caring about the character is the first crucial requirement. This is why the
chapter on character comes before this one. It all starts with character. Once you
have the tools to create connection with a character, you can set up threatening
and uncertain situations that cause suspense. If the reader doesn’t care about a
character, there won’t be any suspense when that character faces jeopardy.
The next step is establishing the likelihood of threat, meaning that the more
likely a threatening event is to happen (a bomb with seven seconds to go, a plane
running out of fuel, a diver running out of air, a bridge about to collapse, etc.) the
more intense the suspense. We wouldn’t feel the same tension if a character had
a month to diffuse a bomb because it’s unlikely it will explode soon. This is why
it’s better to use reader superior position, and let the reader in on the potential
danger, than keeping him in the dark, which only creates surprise when the bomb
explodes out of nowhere. Knowing the bomb is there increases the likelihood of
jeopardy. This is also why one of the most effective ways to create suspense is to
limit time, like a ticking bomb or running out of air, because this increases the
likelihood of failure. In fact, the more likely the threat, the more suspense we’ll
feel. For example, in Speed, we feel suspense throughout the script because it’s
unlikely that the speeding bus won’t blow up.
The last element is uncertainty of outcome. This means the sympathetic
character must have equal odds of succeeding and failing, which keeps the reader
guessing and doubting, going from anticipating victory (diffusing the bomb in
time) to dreading defeat (the character being blown to bits). In short, suspense is
about the potential of bad things happening to a character we care about. It is this
play between knowing what might happen and not knowing what will happen
that causes this potent feeling of suspense, and keeps us at the edge of our seat.
Thus, the formula for suspense is as follows: Character empathy + Likelihood of
threat + Uncertainty of outcome = SUSPENSE.
Although many refer to suspense as tension, you should be aware that tension is
a slight offshoot of suspense. Tension is about delaying anticipation of outcome.
In fact, anything that causes suspense causes tension when it’s unrelieved. Tension
comes from the Latin “to stretch.” Think of slowly stretching a rubber band,
more and more… and more… and… Are you feeling the tension? The competent
writer always tries to make the reader anxious over how things will turn out, and
then delays the resolution for as long as it’s effective. The longer the delay, the
more tension. William Goldman once said, “Make ’em laugh. Make ’em cry. But
most of all, make ’em wait.” It can be overall tension (will protagonist achieve his
goal?) or tension within a scene (will a character get what he wants?) A couple of caveats about confusing suspense with similar sensations, specifically curiosity and surprise. Curiosity is often mistaken for suspense because our
reaction is similar—intense involvement through mental doubt. In both cases,
we wonder what’s going to happen? But curiosity comes from not knowing what the
character wants, while suspense comes from not knowing whether his goal will be fulfilled or
frustrated. For example, the TV show 24 constantly plays with these two emotions:
First setting up curiosity by showing an assassin prepping a rifle and waiting. We
don’t know whom he will shoot. This arouses curiosity. When we learn his target
is the President of the United States, curiosity is out and immediately replaced by
suspense—will he accomplish his mission or not? Curiosity is our desire to find
the goal, while suspense can only exist if we know the goal. Once you know the
goal, curiosity disappears and suspense takes over.
Another common confusion is with surprise. Remember Hitchcock’s example
of the two men sitting in a restaurant with a bomb under their table? When the
bomb suddenly explodes, we have surprise—a shocking and unexpected event
that lasts for a few seconds. If, however, you show us the bomb ticking under the
table, then focus on the men calmly enjoying their meal, we would feel suspense.
The longer we have to wait until the bomb explodes, the more tension we feel, a
sensation that can last for a long as the bomb is ticking down, say fifteen minutes.
Hitchcock was right when he said that fifteen minutes of tension was better than
ten seconds of surprise.
