that ever happened to the hero of that story.” It is the most life-altering, most paradigm-shifting, most enlightening or crucial episode — and
this
story causes that change to occur. The problems we set these heroes up with, and resolve in the course of the tale, trump all. Forget all the car crashes, and the set pieces, and the Fun and Games that have drawn us to see this movie; they are only in the service of transforming the hero.
And us.
If you don't see this as your spine; if, at base, you aren't tracking this change, and showing how the change occurs from scene to scene, you will not have a story that matters.
There, I said it!
And let me tell you, it feels good to get it off my chest!
If this declaration is true, and you have every reason to believe it is, then figuring out “the problem” is how you will track “the transformation.” If someone is going from Point A to Point B, then you must start your hero off with a problem that's so big and so all-encompassing, it makes the trip worthwhile.
And if not, you have to make it so.
You'll note in the first chapter, when dealing with the logline for
Quickie
— about the banker who goes to Las Vegas and wakes upwith a penniless waitress (yay Vegas!) — when breaking down that story we must be able to see more than its poster, we have to see what the movie's “about.” And guess what? It's not about the hero's bender, or his job, or his boss; it's the fact he's about to marry the wrong girl. The way to make that point clearer is to show us up front that our hero's soon-to-be future-altering choice will lead to a dead end in all aspects of his life. Yet while even that is true, it's
still
not the problem.
The problem is: Our hero doesn't know it!
And the story spine will track how our hero figures it out.
Stories are about problem solving, and the slow coming to consciousness by our hero that he a) has a deficit and b) needs to fix it. If you don't have a hero with a problem, find one — and make it clear. The bigger the problem, the stronger the spine.
In the three loglines pitched in that first chapter, we can see who the hero is in each, but “what's the problem?” One way to solve broken concepts like these is to ask this question, and be ready to change the concept entirely when we find the answer.
► In
Quickie
, the problem is our hero's marriage will lead to a dead-end life; thus, the spine should track how he discovers this and gives up his old ways to embrace the new. And now maybe it's better to describe the waitress he marries as “vivacious” rather than “penniless.” That simple adjective switch suddenly makes me see where this might go.
► In
Partly Cloudy
, according to the logline, the problem is our TV weatherman is bored, but really it's a story about a coward: A passive man wants to be a hero. That's the “problem” we'll track. So now maybe he should be “on the verge of” hurricane season, and we need to “set up” the idea that saving his town is part of the Act Three finale.
► In
Dark Streets
, the problem is he's a down-and-out cop, full of existential angst about his job — and his life, who will learnlife's real meaning as he actively solves the mystery. And if the writer can give up “hiding the ball” and tell us this, the real drama might come out!
But it all comes back to finding “the problem.”
Having established a problem, anything that is NOT will have to be carefully weighed in each of these concepts. If a story point doesn't directly relate to the spine, out it goes!
And if you can't find the problem, try harder! In truth we, the audience, don't care what you pick. The hero's deficit doesn't matter as long as you set it up and show the problem evolve through the movie. This is why I'm so cavalier when I read your script. I know that as an audience what I'm really looking for is not your brilliant imagery, but a character with a problem, who changes. Together we'll find it; we just have
this
story causes that change to occur. The problems we set these heroes up with, and resolve in the course of the tale, trump all. Forget all the car crashes, and the set pieces, and the Fun and Games that have drawn us to see this movie; they are only in the service of transforming the hero.
And us.
If you don't see this as your spine; if, at base, you aren't tracking this change, and showing how the change occurs from scene to scene, you will not have a story that matters.
There, I said it!
And let me tell you, it feels good to get it off my chest!
If this declaration is true, and you have every reason to believe it is, then figuring out “the problem” is how you will track “the transformation.” If someone is going from Point A to Point B, then you must start your hero off with a problem that's so big and so all-encompassing, it makes the trip worthwhile.
And if not, you have to make it so.
You'll note in the first chapter, when dealing with the logline for
Quickie
— about the banker who goes to Las Vegas and wakes upwith a penniless waitress (yay Vegas!) — when breaking down that story we must be able to see more than its poster, we have to see what the movie's “about.” And guess what? It's not about the hero's bender, or his job, or his boss; it's the fact he's about to marry the wrong girl. The way to make that point clearer is to show us up front that our hero's soon-to-be future-altering choice will lead to a dead end in all aspects of his life. Yet while even that is true, it's
still
not the problem.
The problem is: Our hero doesn't know it!
And the story spine will track how our hero figures it out.
Stories are about problem solving, and the slow coming to consciousness by our hero that he a) has a deficit and b) needs to fix it. If you don't have a hero with a problem, find one — and make it clear. The bigger the problem, the stronger the spine.
In the three loglines pitched in that first chapter, we can see who the hero is in each, but “what's the problem?” One way to solve broken concepts like these is to ask this question, and be ready to change the concept entirely when we find the answer.
► In
Quickie
, the problem is our hero's marriage will lead to a dead-end life; thus, the spine should track how he discovers this and gives up his old ways to embrace the new. And now maybe it's better to describe the waitress he marries as “vivacious” rather than “penniless.” That simple adjective switch suddenly makes me see where this might go.
► In
Partly Cloudy
, according to the logline, the problem is our TV weatherman is bored, but really it's a story about a coward: A passive man wants to be a hero. That's the “problem” we'll track. So now maybe he should be “on the verge of” hurricane season, and we need to “set up” the idea that saving his town is part of the Act Three finale.
► In
Dark Streets
, the problem is he's a down-and-out cop, full of existential angst about his job — and his life, who will learnlife's real meaning as he actively solves the mystery. And if the writer can give up “hiding the ball” and tell us this, the real drama might come out!
But it all comes back to finding “the problem.”
Having established a problem, anything that is NOT will have to be carefully weighed in each of these concepts. If a story point doesn't directly relate to the spine, out it goes!
And if you can't find the problem, try harder! In truth we, the audience, don't care what you pick. The hero's deficit doesn't matter as long as you set it up and show the problem evolve through the movie. This is why I'm so cavalier when I read your script. I know that as an audience what I'm really looking for is not your brilliant imagery, but a character with a problem, who changes. Together we'll find it; we just have
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