“Yada, yada, yada” is a modern-day equivalent of “blah, blah, blah” (which is early 20th century). It is American, and emerged during or just after the Second World War. It was preceded by various alternative forms – “yatata, yatata,” “yaddega, yaddega,” et cetera. An example is found from an advertisement in an August 1948 edition of the Long Beach Independent:
“Yatata . . . Yatata” . . . The talk is all about Chatterbox, Knox’s own little Tomboy Cap with the young, young come-on look!”
You have seen this movie before. Whether it was My Fair Lady, Pretty in Pink, the dance sequence from Footloose, whatever, it all rings a bell. Which is not necessarily a negative, especially if the story in question is served with a Dramatica grand argument story and does a twist, and She’s All That has all that.
The film, written by R. Lee Fleming Jr. and directed by Robert Iscove, opens as most popular boy (main character domain — situation) and main character, Zack (Freddie Prinze Jr.), is unceremoniously dumped (overall story thematic issue — commitment) by most popular girl (story driver — action). She has found true (unlasting) love with a puckish MTV Real World (scene stealing Mathew Lillard as Brock Hudson) castmate over spring break. Contagonist Dean (an unlikable 90210 “Steve” lookalike), masquerading as the best friend, laughs in Zack’s face, especially as (gasp!) the most popular couple were shoe-ins to be crowned teen King and (ice) Queen of the Prom.
It’s not a thing, Zack asserts (main character approach — do-er), he can take any one of the 2000 female population of Harrison High and, in six weeks, transform (story goal — becoming) her into tiara material (overall story signpost 1 — conceptualizing). The bet is set. (Note: Although six weeks indicates a timelock story limit, the goal is an optionlock. Zack’s choice (main character — unique ability) must become queen.)
Zack’s personal concern is his future. Specifically, college. As a graduating senior with the 4th highest GPA, he can go anywhere he wants. Or where his dad insists — which is alma mater Dartmouth (main character thematic counterpoint — preconception). Zack’s vacillation creates conflict at home (critical flaw — attitude). The endeavor (main vs. impact character story concern — obtaining) to win impact character and dream (impact character unique ability) geek, Laney (Rachael Leigh Cook), provides a fine distraction from parental authority and moving on as BMOC (main character benchmark — past).
Laney has her own issues (impact character domain — fixed attitude). Bias against the cliques and an unwillingness to come to terms (impact character thematic issue — closure) with her mother’s death (impact character benchmark — memory) aids in her avoidance (impact character problem) of having fun (translation — a boyfriend). She feels obligated (impact character critical flaw) to be the family caretaker, outside of this she withdraws into a narrow world of art.
The preconceptions Zack and Laney have about one another inhibit the relationship. Zack, however, doesn’t allow this to prevent (main vs. impact character problem) him from chasing (main vs. impact character solution — pursuit) Laney. Of course, the more they hang out, the more they understand (main vs. impact character benchmark) each other. The makeover Zack orchestrates for Laney (main vs. impact character focus — control) is awfully quick and no surprise — we’ve seen Rachael Leigh Cook plenty in the media. (Oddly enough, it doesn’t make Laney any less remote.) Laney puts up some resistance (main vs. impact character direction — uncontrolled) to Zack and her new look, and temporarily (overall story journey 2 — being to becoming) falls prey to the temptation of Dean, who surreptitiously hinders Zack’s efforts towards Laney.
The usual high school high jinks ensue (breaking up/making up), scored with the latest hip-shaking funk. Film imitates television with the insertion of faux Real World clips and Buffy the vampire slayer making a cameo in the high school cafeteria.
At the big prom face-off, Laney loses (outcome — failure). No matter, dancing poolside with Zack she has changed (impact character resolve) into a “pretty woman” but “without the whole hooker thing.” Zack is steadfast (main character resolve) to his essential Prince Charming self (judgment — good), yet he has matured (main character growth — start) — he is now open (main character thematic issue) to a world of possibilities beyond the superficial (mc signpost 4 — present).
“Enter the lists” means “to compete or join in the game.” Julio Peralta-Paulino throws down the gauntlet.
• Mean Girls (2004) Mark S. Waters
Not so mean to watch.
• Elephant (2003) Gus Van Sant
As disturbing as it gets.
• Sugar and Spice (2001) Francine McDougall
When pregnancy leads to crime.
• Virgin Suicides (1999) Sofia Coppola
Simply breathtaking.
• Election (1999) Alexander Paine
Intimate and cruel.
• Clueless (1995) Amy Heckerling
Jane Austen would have smiled.
• Dangerous Minds (1995) John N. Smith
Just for the Bob Dylan song? Why not.
• Heathers (1989) Michael Lehmann
Darker than the usual satire.
• Ferris Bueller’s Day Off(1986) John Hughes
Silly by design.
• Fast Times At Ridgemont High (1982) Amy Heckerling & Valley Girl (1983) Martha Coolidge
James Whale, as dapper in death as he is dressed for dinner, is the main character in Bill Condon’s Gods and Monsters. He is conscious (main character focus-self-aware) his deteriorating health (main character domain-situation) signals the inevitable end (main character thematic issue-destiny), however, the proper Englishman’s courteous ways and impeccable manners remain unfailing—as does his ardent desire for beautiful boys (main character resolve-steadfast).
One young man Whale takes a fancy to is his new gardener Clay Boone, a heterosexual intent on staying that way (impact character domain-mind). Boone’s throughline is attended to only enough to allow for a certain amount of character development—the emphasis of the film is on the main vs. impact character story.
The relationship between Whale and Boone is explored through manipulations (psychology domain), commencing on James Whales’ part as a game of seduction. Boone is quite simply an Adonis in dire financial straits—which is why, in addition to keeping the estate well manicured, he agrees to sit for the director’s sketches. His suspicions (impact character unique ability) of Whales’ motives toward himself, and the fact the cultivated gentleman is less than forthcoming about why he wishes to spend time with his unrefined gardener (main vs. impact character inhibitor-falsehood), represses the relationship. Certainly, the two men are on unequal (main vs. impact character problem-inequity) footing—the concept (main vs. impact character concern) of an affinity ridiculous. Yet, as the past (main vs. impact character concern) James Whale has neatly dismissed encroaches upon him, it points up a common ground. Further, like the Frankenstein he had created, he now (main character benchmark-present) needs a friend far more than a lover.
Boone wrestles with his perception (impact character problem) of homosexuality. His innate decency and the confidences he shares (impact character concern-memory) with the forgotten Hollywood player, however, eventually overcome his fears and reservations (impact character resolve-change). Boone becomes (main vs. impact character signpost 4) an intimate of James—who is not a god, not a monster, but a mere lonely mortal.
As an understated, character driven drama, Gods and Monsters is elegant indeed, Ian McKellen’s performance—stunning. From a Dramatica perspective, however, the scant overall story is a missed opportunity. Instead of providing an account (as fine as it is) of an actual and fictional characters’ friendship, the big picture would have been more powerful had it been developed to a greater extent. The film could have been elevated to an important social critique of the film industry’s acquiescence of the general public’s negative perception (overall story problem) of homosexuality—and the rampant misunderstanding (overall story concern) that is, now as then, inherent to the subject matter.
Il Postino recounts the story of a diffident postman and a world renown poet, set against a backdrop of conflicting political, societal, and spiritual ideologies (overall story domain of psychology; overall story concern of conceiving). Mario, the main character, is the son of a fisherman existing on a slow, picturesque, Italian island. The opening shot depicts this sad eyed soul turning over a postcard from America— a land he equates with impossible dreams. Mario lives in the moment (main character concern of the present), almost in a state of arrested development— yet it is his immaturity edged with unnamed longings that charms us. Mario is a do-er, but he is certainly no action figure. When faced with a problem, his approach is to irritate, making him impossible to ignore. As one of the few literate persons on the island (main character domain of universe), the accepted way of life (overall story problem) does not appeal to him, and with his father’s tacit permission (overall story thematic issue) he takes on the position of a postman with only one addressee.
Pablo Neruda, the impact character, is a Communist exiled from Chile for articulating his views (impact character problem of proaction) despite the consequences (fixed state of mind). The Italian government has decided to: “Suspend measures against Neruda requested by the Chilean government” (story driver of decision), and allow the poet to remain on Mario’s beautiful, yet economically depressed, island (overall story counterpoint of deficiency).
The postman is a true romantic, entranced by how the poet and his wife “. . . call each other ‘amor.'” He begins to ingratiate himself with Neruda to learn the language of poetry, using his male logic to strike up rapport. Mario buys the poet’s books and recites Neruda’s words to evidence his seriousness. Thus, in spite of himself (impact character concern of conscious), Pablo bemusedly enters into a maestro/studente relationship with his postman (main versus impact character domain of physics; concern of learning).
Mario’s sudden attraction to the local beauty, Beatrice, (main character issue) accelerates his and Pablo’s storyline. Mario demands of his teacher to write a poem to impress his intended (main versus impact character storyline catalyst of preconditions), a request Pablo refuses. Undaunted, Mario plagiarizes his poetry (main character direction of proaction), and wins the fair barmaid’s heart, much to the fury of her aunt who has forbidden the courtship (overall story thematic issue).
Pablo is mollified by Mario’s words: “Poetry doesn’t belong to those who write it, but by those who need it,” and with the priest’s permission (overall story thematic issue), stands up for the postman at his wedding to Beatrice. During the celebration, Pablo and Matilde receive notice that the Chilean government has lifted the ban (overall story issue) and the poet decides to immediately return home, after promising Mario he will stay in touch.
Time passes with no word, and certain doubts (impact character unique ability) about the friendship is what finally compels Mario to start (main character growth) to create his own poetry. He writes a song for the sea and dedicates it to Pablo Neruda. Mario is invited to read the poem at a Communist demonstration. He has matured (resolve of change) and is thrilled (judgment of good) to express his own metaphors to the world.
Years later Pablo and his wife return to the island. It has remained unchanged. Politicians have not fulfilled their promises and the inhabitants have made no protest (outcome of failure; overall story solution of nonacceptance). The poet learns that Mario had died in the Communist demonstration— melancholic, he strolls the white sands along the sea and reminisces (impact character benchmark) under the unrelenting sun.
That Massimo Troisi (Mario) died the day after filming lends a tragic poignancy to IL Postino. The film has a meandering feel, attributed to its vague optionlock and rather abstruse story goal. It is, however, an unusual storyform which makes it most interesting to analyze.
Three Kings is a visual anti-war statement filled with techno tricks and restless zest. The film provocatively questions the rationale of Operation Desert Storm as it depicts innocents who suffered the bloody consequences of chaotic and random combat.
In the overall story, the (media produced?) Persian Gulf War has just ended, and a band of American soldiers chance upon a map leading to untold riches. That it is Saddam Hussein’s appropriated gold bullion (stolen from Kuwait)—and not in the United State’s best interest to obtain (overall story goal) the gold—definitely complicates the endeavor (overall story domain-activity). Iraqi rebels in need of American protection provide the thematic conflict of self-interest vs. morality. The overall characters grapple with problems of temptation, and acts of conscience (overall story solution) ultimately save the day.
Three Kings contains a storyform, but that does not necessarily make for a Dramatica grand argument story. Like the map leading to the $23 million, the storyform serves as only a guide. Unlike writer/director David O. Russell’s clearly defined character driven films Spanking the Monkey and Flirting with Disaster, Three Kings wavers between two potential main characters, Captain Archie Gates (George Clooney) and Troy Barlow (Mark Wahlberg) without settling on either, thus the audience is at a loss in locating the heart of the story. The potential impact characters are also unclear: possibilities include journalist Nora Dunn or Amir for Archie Gates; Capt. Said for Troy Barlow, or perhaps, a main vs. impact story between Gates and Barlow.
If Three Kings did report all four perspectives necessary for a Dramatica grand argument story, it might have invested profound meaning in an otherwise terrific (albeit scattershot) story that addresses the appalling meaningless of war.
The real menace in the latest Star Wars saga is the non-existent Dramatica grand argument story. There is an overall story, although I’m not quite sure if the problems stem from Queen Amidala and her planet Naboo’s intolerable situation (story domain-universe), or the action packed endeavor (story domain-activity) to restore “peace and prosperity.” Unfortunately, I fell asleep during the battle scenes and spaceship chases—exhausted from the effort of determining: Who is the main character?
Anakin Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Qui-Gon Jinn? All contenders for main or impact character—no clear winner. My instinct (which Qui-Gon encourages us to use) is that Obi Wan and Anakin are hand-off main characters with Qui-Gon acting as the impact character. A relationship between the two sets of characters is in place, however, neither is developed well enough to present a defined main vs. impact character story.
Before his demise, Qui-Gon charges Obi-Wan with the responsibility of training Anakin for Jedi Knighthood—perhaps that will be the main vs. impact character story for George Lucas’ next episode. Then again, it could be the love story between Anakin (Darth Vader) and Amidala.
I am certain that Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace is a success story (outcome). John Williams’ musical score tells us so.
“Odd” (and annoying) Jar Jar Binks asserts: “Maxi big, the Force,” but without an argument explored from other than the overall point of view, the story is just a mirage. A phantom, if you will . . .
A story’s topic, or theme, is the “dominant idea of a work” (Merriam-Webster’s Encyclopedia of Literature 1105). An author’s expression of an idea is always open to interpretation. Applying universal themes to a possible 32,768 Dramatica storyforms is a challenging, perhaps even daunting, endeavor. Nevertheless, putting careful consideration into choosing a storyform will enable an author to better communicate the intended message.
Dramatica grand argument stories with the same subject matter may contain identical storyforms. This is particularly true in adaptations. For example, Bridget Jones’s Diary, a novel by Helen Fielding, is a “v.v.g.” update of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice (story example available in Dramatica 4.0)—a comedic look at the social customs and manners of England’s upper class, in particular, the foolish errors one can make in first impressions.
The Worst Thing a Suburban Girl Could Imagine, a moving short story written by Melissa Bank, and Eudora Welty’s Pulitzer prize winning novel The Optimist’s Daughter, each address a daughter coping with her father’s death. The two stories have the same storyform, however, the storytelling is quite unlike.
Melissa Bank’s short story The Girls’ Guide to Hunting and Fishing, and director Andy Tennant’s Ever After: A Cinderella Story, both explore the quest for Prince Charming, or as Bank’s satirically says: “How to Meet and Marry Mr. Right.” In this case, same motif—different storyform.
Whether it is a fresh take on a classic, personal foray into a common experience, or new twist on a fairy tale—an author always has the opportunity to present a unique vision. A storyform designed with certain deliberation will give that vision clarity—increasing the likelihood the audience will correctly interpret the author’s intent.
The following article was originally written in response to the 1999 brave new film world of experimental narratives-bold storytelling that sent out a call answered by filmmakers such as great escapism artist Baz Lurhman (Moulin Rouge) and innovative newcomer Christopher Nolan (Memento).
“You know, you know, you know. Go, go, go.”—Quiz Kid Donnie Smith
Created in the 1960’s, Jay Ward’s cartoon, Fractured Fairy Tales, part of “the radiant land of Bullwinkle”1 offered a satirical retelling of beloved fables. “Once upon a time and they lived happily ever after” was fractured with irreverent political and social commentary. Smart and absurdly funny, Fractured Fairy Tales assumed the kids were as well. These children of television are now screenwriters on “the edge.”2
Steeped in popular culture and interactive media—armed with an all-access techno pass—they take story subversion further by writing scripts that make a break with classic Hollywood conventions. The familiar and formulaic take a back movie theater seat to the fractured narratives that are the current vogue.
“Well, there are never enough entertaining movies. . . . But there’s entertainment, and then there’s engagement. And ideally both can happen.”—Todd Solondz3
An entertaining movie assuredly holds a vital place for its viewers—a movie that entertains and engages, however, is more apt to provide intellectual and emotional fulfillment for the audience.
A narrative that entertains without engagement is a divertissement. A narrative that engages is a specific type of work that is conceptually complete and emotionally and logically comprehensive. Qualities that substantiate an engaging narrative appear in the structure (the fundamental relationships between the parts of a story), dynamics (the moving, growing, or changing parts of a story), and the manner in which the narrative is relayed through character, plot, theme, and genre.4
Two critically acclaimed works representative of the new wave of filmmakers illustrate this distinction. Go is screenwriter John August’s “Ginseng and Dexatrim”5 fueled skim of L.A.’s surface. Magnolia is screenwriter/director Paul Thomas Anderson’s meditative take on “the very far edge of the bleed where Hollywood stops and the Valley begins.”6
Go is a narrative that entertains—Magnolia is a narrative that entertains and engages its audience. Both can be categorized in the L.A. in a day multi-story genre, ala Short Cuts. Both emphasize ensemble character development over plot. Go and Magnolia contrast in the area of theme. Go is a short-lived, albeit exhilarating, joyride. Characters literally go from one day to the next—events transpire without examination. Magnolia offers thematic exploration of characters and events—because: “There’s just too much in life to go straight to the point of okay . . . . It’s not that simple.”7
Go is all about movement. Go on a road trip, go-go girls on the Vegas strip. Take X for a headtrip. Without exposition, it opens with Claire Montgomery chattering to an unseen guest—her conversation indicates it is a later point in the story. At the same time, the dialogue works as an allusion to the story’s unusual narrative style:
CLAIRE You know what I like best about Christmas? The surprises. It’s like, you get this box, and you’re sure you know what’s in it. You shake it, you weigh it, and you’re totally convinced you have it pegged. No doubt in your mind. But then you open it up, and it’s something completely different. Bing! Wow! Bang! Surprise! I mean, it’s like you and me here. I’m not saying this is anything it’s not. But c’mon. This time yesterday, who’dda thunk it?8
The screenplay is presented as three episodes.
Part one, originally intended as a short,9 follows Ronna Martin—a teenaged grocery clerk facing eviction. Picking up co-worker Simon’s (protagonist in part two) shift to earn extra cash while he heads out for Las Vegas, Ronna also moves in on his drug dealing territory to accelerate the process. The LAPD is on to the X ring, and soap opera actors Zack and Adam (protagonists in common for part three) go undercover to bust Ronna in an effort to make their own drug violation go away:
ZACK Say . . . (checks nametag) Ronna. You don’t know where we could get something to go with this orange juice, do you? . . . something . . . euphoric.
RONNA . . . Gimme a number. Let me see what I can do.10
With no regard for Simon, Ronna takes the bait:
CLAIRE You know that Simon’s in Vegas.
RONNA I don’t need Simon. I’m going to Todd.
MANNIE Todd GAINES?
CLAIRE Who’s Todd Gaines?
MANNIE Simon’s dealer. . . . But it’s like an evolutionary leap. You’re moving up the drug food chain. Without permission.
CLAIRE Ronna, you shouldn’t do this.
RONNA Both of you just chill the fuck out. It’s just once. When Simon gets back, we can still pay for quarters . . . . But this is my deal, so just sit back and watch.11
The episode depicts the economics and ethics of illicit drug trade–the look is surreal, the soundtrack blares, and the audience experiences the joy and anxieties of Ecstasy induced hallucinations.
Part one ends with a jolt. In the Mary XMAS Superfest parking lot-setting for the latest rave—a red Miata, driving in reverse, rams right into Ronna. The action also does a reverse, rewinding back to Simon asking Ronna to take his shift.
Part two is a buddy story—Simon and his boys’ night out in Las Vegas, courtesy of Todd Gaines’ credit card. Tantric sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll. Blackjack, lap dances, and a car chase ensue. Lady Luck runs out once Simon misbehaves in the Crazy Horse. In the car, Simon’s friends reiterate the chain of events:
SINGH Just so we’re clear. You stole a car, shot a bouncer, and had sex with two women?
TINY You had sex with two women?12
Simon ignores them, still checking his rearview mirror.
The boys are bounced back to Los Angeles. In pursuit are Victor Sr.—proprietor of the strip joint—and his son, Victor Jr. Egos bruised, they now possess Todd Gaines’ credit card and a bent for revenge.
Fade out. Fade in.
Once again the action rewinds back to the grocery store’s employee lounge. Simon is asking Ronna to take his shift—in the foreground Adam and Zack’s television show is on. Ronna’s aborted drug deal is revisited from Adam and Zack’s point of view. The cuts are quick with the exception of Zack mouthing a silent “Go”13 to Ronna—in slow motion.
Ronna exits the Venice house—under police surveillance—unscathed (for now) and attention is turned to Adam and Zack’s relationship. Assigned to Detective Burke, the two actors are wary of “The Man”14, particularly his intense and rather alarming admiration of their physiques. August plays with Adam and Zack’s perceptions and the audience is complicit. Homophobics are taken to task—but before the comedy can become a morality tale—Amway and its acolytes are held up as the comic objects of bias and fear.
Adam and Zack arrive on the Mary Xmas Superfest scene to confront Jimmy—the make-up artist with whom they each have had an affair. And that is when they run into Ronna: “Ronna SLAMS against the soft top. Rolls across the windshield. Slides off the hood. Over the headlights. A smear of blood.”15
The three episodes converge once Adam and Zack deliver Ronna to the ER and go. Claire winds up at the local coffee shop in search of Ronna and Mannie. Her who’dda thunk it? companion obscured at Go’s starting point is revealed: Todd Gaines.
Claire and Todd go to the drug dealer’s apartment. Victor Sr. and Victor Jr. are Gaines’ surprise guests—but no one is more taken aback than Simon, who charges in looking to hide out. Recriminations, gunshots, and apologies somewhat settle accounts and life goes on. The last line of dialogue points up the characters’ avoidance of finding meaning in the traumatic events that have just occurred:
MANNIE So. What are we doing for New Year’s?16
References particular to Los Angeles conveys much of the humor in Go. Gadabout characters with the same Zip Code tie the fast and loose plot together. Morality, intolerance, and disenfranchised youth are potential thematic issues to sift through, but without development, Go’s narrative remains a divertissement—a stylistically hip slice of SoCal 90’s life.
Magnolia is another screenplay written with heady narrative style that focuses on twenty-four hours of a diverse collection of Angelenos separated by fewer than the requisite six degrees. Unlike the characters in Go, however, Anderson’s characters have a history that gives depth to the morality issues they are compelled to face.
A prologue explicates three unrelated occurrences that are not, the narrator declares adamantly: “Matters of Chance.”17
Next, the principle characters are introduced. Damaged and displaced, these saints, sinners, and saviors are each at the center of a personal drama—unwittingly poised to pass through destiny’s door. The characters’ stories intersect throughout the sequence of events. A latticework so fine it allows for complete immersion in Magnolia’s lush textures. The plot doesn’t so much evolve as revolve around the past, present, and future:
NARRATOR There are stories of coincidence and chance and intersections and strange things told and which is which and who only knows . . . and we generally say, “Well if that was in a movie I wouldn’t believe it.” Someone’s so and so meets someone else’s so and so and so on. And it is in the humble opinion of this narrator that these strange things happen all the time . . . and so it goes and so it goes and the book says, “We may be through with the past, but the past is not through with us.”18
The past “sins of the father laid upon the children”19 thematically connects the characters. Anderson credits Aimee Mann for the inspiration to magically transform nine stories into a cohesive whole: “This ‘original’ screenplay could, for all intents and purposes, be called an adaptation of Aimee Mann songs.”20
Themes introduced and delved into in Magnolia make a day in LA a universal, rather than local experience for the audience.
The following is a “speed round to determine who’s who”:21
Frank T.J. Mackey is the messiah of misogyny. A strutting infomercial on how to “Seduce and Destroy”22 women. Hatred for his cancer-ridden father, Earl Partridge, is corrosive. Earl betrayed wife Lily during their marriage. During her losing battle with cancer, he left young Frank to care for her—an act Earl now regrets. Translucent and tight-wired, Linda is Earl’s second wife. As Earl lies on his deathbed, she falls apart in the Partridge family attorney’s office confessing her own infidelities:
LINDA I don’t want him to die, I didn’t love him when we met, and I’ve done so many bad things to him that he doesn’t know . . . now . . . I love him. I love him so much . . .23
Phil Parma, Earl’s nurse, is the angel of mercy who effects the reconciliation between father and son. Attempting to locate a line to Frank in the back pages of a porno magazine, Phil telephones an operator standing by for Seduce and Destroy:
PHIL . . . I know that maybe I sound ridiculous, like maybe this is the scene of the movie where the guy is trying to get ahold of the long-lost son, but this is that scene. Y’know? I think they have those scenes in movies because they’re true, because they really happen.24
Earl owns Big Earl Partridge Productions—producer of the “What Do Kids Know?” quiz show, hosted live from beautiful downtown Burbank by television icon Jimmy Gator. Jimmy is also dying of cancer. He attempts to reconcile with estranged daughter Claudia:
JIMMY . . . I want so many things, Claudia. Maybe we can just talk to straighten our things out. . . CLAUDIA . . . Get out of here, get the fuck out of my house25I
In a later scene, Jimmy confesses his extramarital affairs to wife Rose:
JIMMY I’ve cheated on you . . . ROSE . . . I’m not mad. I am, but I’m not. Y’know? JIMMY I love you so much. ROSE . . . I’m not through asking my questions. Why doesn’t Claudia talk to you, Jimmy? JIMMY Why. . . what do you mean? ROSE I think that you know. . . . Did you ever touch her? JIMMY I really don’t know. . . . I don’t know what I’ve done. ROSE You deserve to die alone for what you’ve done. . . . You should know better.26
The “What Do Kids Know?” latest show features child prodigy Stanley Spector. His dad, Rick Spector, is the epitome of a stage father-pushing his ten-year old to succeed. If Stanley continues on this path, he will grow up to be 1968 Quiz Kid Donnie Smith. An adult in a state of arrested emotional development:
DONNIE I really do have love to give, I just don’t know where to put it.27
Ten-year old Dixon watches Stanley on “What Do Kids Know?” What Dixon knows is who killed Porter Parker, a dead man discovered in his grandmother Marcie’s closet. Dixon’s father is Worm, a young black man under suspicion. The Dixon/Worm/Marcie/Porter story is expanded upon in the screenplay—but cut down for the screen. What is hinted at in the film is clarified in the shooting script:
MARCIE I killed him [Porter]. I killed my husband. He hit my son and he hit my grandson and I hit him. . . . I strangled my husband to protect my boys.28Although a life or death connection is made between Dixon and Linda Partridge, the Dixon/Worm/Marcie/Porter characters’ primary function is the minor role they play in police Officer Jim Kurring’s story.
Kurring lacks the canniness necessary for a cop—but his sense of justice is pure. He responds to a disturbing the peace call after Jimmy Gator has left Claudia’s apartment. Struck with her vulnerability, Jim overcomes his shyness and takes a chance:
JIM KURRING . . . I’d be a fool if I didn’t do something I really want to do which is to ask you on a date. CLAUDIA . . . I thought you were flirting with me a little.29
Throughout the narrative Anderson builds tension with intense visual images, culminating in the jubilant chaos of frogs raining from heaven. When asked about the frogs in an interview, Anderson replied: “You get to a point in your life, and shit is happening, and everything’s out of your control, and suddenly, a rain of frogs just makes sense.”30
Resolution, for good or ill arrives at dawn. Unencumbered by the past, the children can now be saved: “From the ranks of the freaks who suspect they could never love anyone.”31 Relief in redemption and divinity in forgiveness are encountered in Magnolia’s “saddest happy ending.”32
Anderson concludes his thematic argument in the voice of Jim Kurring:
JIM KURRING Sometimes people need a little help. Sometimes people need to be forgiven and sometimes they need to go to jail.33
“So Now Then”
Rules that are arbitrary to begin with are meant to be fractured. Go and Magnolia exemplify a new generation of screenwriters who possess a keen ability to fearlessly rend traditional narrative and remain true to their original voice.
Experimentation with story expression, however, does not necessitate total abandonment of solid narrative foundation and the elements of storytelling. A story that resonates requires substance as well as high style. An underlying framework—spun with imaginative storytelling symbols and daring expository presentation-can make the difference between movies for audience observation and those for audience absorption “and all that that implies.”34
1 David A. Kaplan, “A Moose for All Seasons,” Newsweek, March 18, 1991, p. 50. 2 Jeff Gordinier, “1999 The Year That Changed Movies,” Entertainment Weekly, November 26, 1999, p. 42. 3 Solondz, Todd. “That Lovin’ Feeling.” With Scott Macaulay. FILMMAKER 7 1998, pp. 37-39, 104-05. 4 Concept integral to the Dramatica narrative theory conceived by Chris Huntley and Melanie Anne Phillips. 5 John August, GO (screenplay dated May 29, 1997), p. 113. 6 Paul Thomas Anderson, interview with Chuck Stephens, October 6, 1999, transcribed in Magnolia: the shooting script (New York: Newmarket Press, 2000), p. 198. 7 Ibid., p. 208. 8 John August, Go (screenplay dated May 29, 1997), pp. 1-2. 9 John August, Craft Series Intensive-Writing, (lecture series), Los Angeles Independent Film Festival, April 17, 1999. 10 John August, GO (screenplay dated May 29, 1997), pp. 10-11. 11 Ibid., pp. 11-12. 12 Ibid., p. 79. 13 Ibid., p. 91. 14 Ibid. 15 Ibid., p. 105. 16 John August, Go (Transcribed from film). 17 Paul Thomas Anderson, Magnolia (Shooting Script dated November 10, 1998), p. 12. 18 Ibid., pp. 189-191. 19 Ibid., p. 107. 20 Paul Thomas Anderson, Introduction to Magnolia: the shooting script, p. viii. 21 Paul Thomas Anderson, Magnolia (Shooting Script dated November 10, 1998), p. 129. 22 Ibid., p. 13. 23 Ibid., p. 114. 24 Ibid., p. 94. 25 Ibid., pp. 43-44. 26 Ibid., pp. 161, 168, 174-175. 27 Ibid., p. 192. 28 Ibid. 29 Ibid., p. 126. 30 Paul Thomas Anderson, interview with Chuck Stephens, October 6, 1999, transcribed in Magnolia: the shooting script. p. 206. 31 Aimee Mann, “Save Me.” Music from the motion picture Magnolia. Reprise Records, 1999. New Line Productions, Inc., 1999. 32 Paul Thomas Anderson, interview with Chuck Stephens, October 6, 1999, transcribed in Magnolia: the shooting script. p. 206. 33 Paul Thomas Anderson, Magnolia (shooting script dated November 10, 1998), p. 194. 34 Paul Thomas Anderson, Introduction to Magnolia: the shooting script, p. ix.
There is a dearth of stories that fulfill us both intellectually and emotionally. Inherent to stories that do engage an audience are sound structure and dynamic storytelling. Dramatica, a relatively new narrative theory, expands upon current understanding of how engaging stories work.
Formulated apart from major theoretical paradigms, the Dramatica theory may prove compelling for its potential use in story creation and analysis (screenplays, teleplays, novels, short stories, and stage plays).
Created by writer/director Melanie Anne Phillips and film and television production software developer Chris Huntley, Dramatica offers a powerful solution to the problems of faulty stories and the absence of an accessible “reasoned account of the structure of the narrative, the elements of storytelling, their combination and articulation” (Chatman 15). Dramatica addresses all components of a story, from the underlying deep structure to an audience’s reception of its meaning.
As an exposition of the entire theory is beyond the scope of this article, the focus is confined to one basic aspect of the Dramatica theory’s foundation—the four throughlines of a grand argument story.
Grand Argument Story
The grand argument story is a specific type of work that is conceptually complete and emotionally and logically comprehensive. Qualities that substantiate a grand argument appear in the story’s structure (the underlying relationships between the parts of a story), dynamics (the moving, growing, or changing parts of a story), and the manner in which the grand argument is relayed through character, plot, theme, and genre.
In a grand argument story the author investigates all significant approaches to resolving the story’s specific problem, and provides the most appropriate solution to solve it. Characters, plot, theme, and genre are the different families of considerations intrinsic to the grand argument story. Characters enact the motivations. Plot documents the problem-solving methods. Theme examines values and their standards of measure. Finally, genre establishes the overall attitude that influences the characters, plot, and theme. By placing different emphases on character, plot, theme, and genre in the storytelling, the author communicates a certain message.
Four Throughlines
As in structuralism, Phillips and Huntley perceive a literary work as a construct “whose mechanisms could be classified and analysed like the object of any other science” (Eagleton 106). According to Chatman, the basis of structuralism is “that each narrative has two parts: a story (historie), the content or chain of events (actions, happenings), plus what may be called the existents (characters, items of setting); and a discourse (discours), that is, the expression, the means by which the content is communicated” (19-20). Chatman identifies the narrative’s “point of view” in the discourse, and further defines it as “the physical place or ideological situation or practical life-orientation to which narrative events stand in relation. . . . the perspective in terms of which the expression is made. The perspective and the expression need not be lodged in the same person” (153).
Phillips and Huntley concur; they declare further that in Dramatica there are four different kinds of points of view, called the four throughlines, that probe the issues presented over the course of the story. The significance of the four throughlines is they grant the opportunity for an audience to participate in the four points of view that comprise a grand argument.
Dramatica’s four throughlines are the overall story throughline, main character throughline, impact character throughline, and main vs. impact character story throughline. The overall story and main character throughlines are storytelling conventions comparable to the omniscient and first person points of view; the impact character and main vs. impact character story throughlines delve into two additional points of view.
The overall story throughline is the story’s objective, dispassionate viewpoint. It contains the action and events in which all the characters take part. An objective character is defined as a specific collection of dramatic characteristics that remain consistent throughout the overall story. Objective story characters may be archetypal, e.g., the classic protagonist and antagonist, or complex. Similar to “dramatis personae” (Propp 20), the simple arrangement of archetypal characters represents all the requisite functions of a complete grand argument story. Although archetypal characters may conflict with one another, this type of character does not experience conflict within itself. Archetypal characters may provide a form of storytelling shorthand. This is convenient for an author who wishes to emphasize plot or theme, or is limited in storytelling time and/or space. If not used for a clear purpose, however, a structurally simple character may not hold an audience’s interest. Nevertheless, a comprehension of archetypal characters informs and enhances one’s appreciation for complex characters. Complex characters more closely represent a real person because their internal elements can be at odds with one another.
The Dramatica conception of archetypal and complex characters can be compared to E. M. Forster’s discrimination between “flat” and “round” characters:
“A flat character . . . is built around “a single idea or
quality” and is presented without much individualizing detail,
and therefore can be fairly adequately described in a single
phrase or sentence. A round character is complex in temperament
and motivation and is represented with subtle particularity;
such a character therefore is as difficult to describe with any
adequacy as a person in real life, and like real persons, is
capable of surprising us (qtd. in Abrams 24).”
The main character is the character to whom the audience emotionally relates; the heart of the story is what is explored in the main character’s throughline. The main character may additionally fulfill the protagonist function in the objective story, for example, Catherine Sloper in Henry James’ Washington Square. As the main character Catherine is the emotional focus; the reader empathizes with Catherine’s personal issues. As the protagonist she is the prime mover of objective story’s action, the effort to make a suitable marriage.
An example of a main character that is not the protagonist is Scout in Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird. The protagonist is instead her father, Atticus Finch. Atticus is defending a black man unjustly accused of rape; the entire town is involved in the story of his trial. The audience, however, is emotionally connected to Scout’s main character throughline as she attempts to understand prejudice and face her own preconceptions, particularly those of neighborhood bogeyman, Boo Radley.
The impact character, wittingly or unwittingly, has the most influence on the main character. Unlike the antagonist who is directly attempting to stop the protagonist, e.g., Bob Ewell in To Kill a Mockingbird, the impact character throughline offers an alternative approach to the main character’s. The impact character compels the main character to change or remain steadfast to their essential nature. In To Kill a Mockingbird, main character Scout’s impact character is Boo Radley, the character who ultimately obliges Scout to face her personal bias.
The story’s passionate exchange is articulated in the main vs. impact character story. The main vs. impact character story throughline examines what happens between the main and impact characters, fastening attention on the pressure that intensifies within the relationship until one ultimately defers to the other’s way of thinking.
A grand argument story is limited to stories balanced by the four throughlines. As a storytelling choice, however, an author may emphasize one or more throughlines over the other(s) to great effect. For example, the superb film Hilary and Jackie, adapted by Frank Cottrell Boyce and directed by Anand Tucker, centers on the main vs. impact character story relationship between two sisters, almost to the exclusion of the objective point of view, and to a lesser extent, the main and impact character points of view. An example of when only one point of view is problematic can be found in Bret Easton Ellis’ controversial novel American Psycho. The story imparts only the main character’s point of view; a larger context from which to derive meaning is absent.
Taken together, the four throughlines comprise the author’s argument to the audience. Whether or not the audience is in agreement depends upon the individual, however, as long as the argument is made completely and consistently, it cannot be dismissed on its own terms.
Conclusion
Dramatica is valuable to an author’s story where lack of structure is problematic. For original story creation, applying the fundamental concept of the four throughlines to a story aids in constructing sound structure, the foundation from which to build dynamic storytelling. For the purpose of analysis, this allows insight vital to understanding author’s intent. For the audience members, they can simultaneously experience all four points of view necessary for a Dramatica grand argument—an event that conveys a familiar context within which to find individual meaning in their own off-screen lives.
Works Cited
Abrams, M. H. A Glossary of Literary Terms. 6th ed. Orlando: Harcourt, 1993.
Chatman, Seymour. Story and Discourse: Narrative Structure in Fiction and Film. Ithaca: Cornell UP, 1978.
Eagleton, Terry. Literary Theory: An Introduction. Minneapolis: U of MN P, 1983.
Ellis, Bret Easton. American Psycho. New York: Vintage, 1991.
Hilary and Jackie. Dir. Anand Tucker. Screenwriter Frank Cottrell Boyce, 1998.
James, Henry. Washington Square. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1982. (Washington Square first published in 1880)
Lee, H. To Kill a Mockingbird. London: Mandarin, 1960.
Phillips, Melanie A., and Chris Huntley. Dramatica: A New Theory of Story. 3rd ed. Burbank: Screenplay Systems, 1996.
Propp, Vladimir. Morphology of the Folktale. Ed. Louis A. Wagner. 2nd. ed. Austin: U of Texas P, 1968.
Human sexuality will not be bound to societal mores. Incomprehensible and unpredictable, grotesque or beautiful, it is inextricably tied to the heart. Director Adrian Lyne examines this idea, advanced in Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita. The classic novel contains a storyform rich in illustrations. As with Nabokov’s own screenplay for Stanley Kubrick’s 1962 adaptation, Lyne’s valiant interpretation of Lolita contains the same storyform and stands well enough on its own, however, both films—lacking the whole of main character Humbert Humbert’s intimate confession—stand in the shadow of the original work—extraordinary in its lyrical literariness.
In Lyne’s screen version, Humbert Humbert’s “doomed obsession” for the “nymphet” impact character Lolita “a mixture of . . . tender dreamy childishness and a kind of eerie vulgarity” (Nabokov 44), is captured elegantly in Jeremy Irons’ tortured facial expressions. Dominique Swain’s Lolita is all swinging bare legs and unkempt adolescence. She practices flirting techniques with Humbert—blowing pink bubble gum, batting eyelashes. At first he is in: “. . . my adult disguise . . . a great big handsome hunk of movieland manhood” (Nabokov 39). Once he becomes the “pubescent concubine’s” (Nabokov 148) legal guardian, he is Lolita’s captor, her relentless rapist—because in his own words: “. . . she had nowhere else to go” (Nabokov 142).
Nicely done are the small moments that illustrate the film’s narrative, for example, Humbert’s backward glance of an innocent Lolita twirling inside—caught in a brief moment when the front porch—swing passes by the open door. Another instance is Lolita, bored with the interminable joy(less)ride, pitching soda bottle caps into the auto’s ashtray, clacking her teeth with a candy jawbreaker. Screenwriter Stephen Schiff’s dialogue jars—better is the selection and reworking of Nabokovian poetic passages, in particular, the film’s last line: “What I heard then was the melody of children at play, nothing but that. And I knew that the hopelessly poignant thing was not Lolita’s absence from my side, but the absence of her voice from that chorus.” Ennio Morricone’s melancholic music, interspersed with the 40’s dance tunes Lolita skips to, lends despair to the tragic misadventure.
The director alludes to Humbert’s abhorrence of his torrid torment of Lolita, as the pedophile contemplates (main character benchmark-conscious) what effect (impact character-direction) the daily sexual assaults on his young charge takes: “It was something quite special, that feeling: an oppressive, hideous constraint as if I were with the small ghost of somebody I had just killed” (Nabokov 129).
Certain omissions that truly underscore the magnitude of Humbert Humbert’s unforgivable acts (main character problem-non-accurate) devitalizes its storytelling. The film does not explore the depths of main character Humbert’s depravity: “a cesspool of rotting monsters behind his slow boyish smile” (Nabokov 44), visually unacceptable to the viewing audience.
What is also missing from Lyne’s account is how old Lolita really is at the relationship’s start—twelve—a developmentally significant age difference than that of the fourteen-year-old Lolita in the film. Another example is the untoward advantage Humbert takes, finding Lolita in her classroom without a teacher present: “I sat beside Dolly [Lolita] just behind that neck and that hair, and unbuttoned my overcoat and for sixty-five cents plus the permission to participate in the school play, had Dolly put her inky, chalky, red-knuckled hand under the desk” (Nabokov 198). Further, and most devastating: “. . . the thought that with patience and luck I might produce eventually a nymphet with my blood in her exquisite veins, a Lolita the Second, who would be eight or nine around 1960 . . . indeed, the telescopy of my mind, or un-mind, was strong enough to distinguish in the remoteness of time a . . . bizarre, tender, salivating Dr. Humbert, practicing on supremely lovely Lolita the Third the art of being a granddad” (Nabokov 174).
That Adrian Lyne’s Lolita could not be released as a feature film for fear it goes too far is unfounded. The real problem is, because of the constraints of the medium in which the story is recounted, the film lacks the ability to make commentary on what is being seen on screen. It is Nabokov’s commentary in the novel, made through Humbert’s narrative, that provides a main character throughline exhaustively detailed.
In love with Nabokov’s “American sweet immortal dead love” (Nabokov 280), I hope Lyne’s accomplished film production will intrigue an audience—who perhaps have not yet read the “horrific comic masterpiece” (Angell 156)—to take on the intellectual and emotional challenge the novel offers. That is, to feel “a private, perhaps unconscious anguish over the story’s sexual complexity” and the “dazzled admiration for its satiric brilliance and literary weight” (Angell 156). The reader that can rise above the horrors of the sexual relationship between Lolita and Humbert will realize: ” . . . this is a love story, after all—an unexpected grand romance, with a poignancy and conviction that match anything . . .” (Angell 159).
Postscript:
Click the image to read: “The Real Story That Inspired ‘Lolita’ Is Somehow More Disturbing Than The Actual Book.”
Steve Prefontaine has none of the usual insecurities. A track star in high school, he is courted by top colleges — the only one he wishes to attend, however, is the University of Oregon. Before he enrolls, Pre wants Bill Bowerman (impact character), a coach (impact character concern — being) who doesn’t believe in the value (impact character critical flaw) of himself recruiting, to invite him. Pre’s confidence (main vs. impact character catalyst) in his skill (unique ability) as a runner accelerates the relationship between Bill Bowerman and himself:
PRE: (to Bowerman’s assistant coach, Dellinger): I’ve got three weeks to sign my letter of intent before I’m gonna lose my slot at any college worth going to (main character signpost 1 — obtaining). Here’s my philosophy — I don’t go anywhere near Eugene unless Bowerman personally lets me know he wants me (main vs. impact character thematic conflict — value vs. worth).
EXT PHONE BOOTH
DELLINGER: Bill, for God’s sake! Everybody in the country’s been offering him the moon. All he wants is one word from you, to know that you want to coach him (impact character unique ability — ability).
Bowerman considers (main vs. impact character signpost 1 — conscious) Dellinger’s advice and writes to Pre: “If you do us the honor of attending the University of Oregon (story driver — action), there is no doubt in my mind that you can become (overall story precondition) the nation’s finest distance runner, perhaps the world’s” (overall story benchmark — future).
The overall story domain is explored in the confines of amateur track and field competition (situation) where athletes are ranked individually and in teams, whether for college or country. The goal centers on Steve Prefontaine’s progress as a college distance runner. To make his development meaningful, a requirement of the future is put in place (The Olympic Games) — Pre’s basic competitive drive (subconscious) is the prerequisite, and his insistence on becoming part of Oregon’s team an unessential restriction placed on the effort to achieve the goal.
In the overall story, proven (overall story problem) records drive the athletes to break them; in the impact character throughline, Bowerman’s proven (impact character problem) method of coaching is what Pre challenges (main character approach — doer):
BOWERMAN: Your pulse is north of 190 — just a rough guess (main vs. character focus — accurate) but I’d say you were exceeding the agreed-upon (impact character problem — proven) speed limit.
Pre’s natural instinct (main vs. impact character concern — preconscious) as a frontrunner leads to a contentious relationship with Bowerman — but his (in)experience (main character thematic issue), particularly in international competition, necessitates Bowerman’s ability (impact character unique ability) as a coach.
Pre is driven by the expectations (main character problem) he places upon himself. He arrogantly refuses to acknowledge any innate talent — he believes it is only by sheer guts (main character solution — determination) that he crosses the finish line first. The epitome of poetry in motion, Pre died instantly in an auto accident the evening of winning the American 5000 meter. In his eulogy, Bill Bowerman illuminates how the coach who went on to create Nike shoes and his “showboat” runner who embodied the phrase “Just do it” make Without Limits a success story (outcome), despite Steve Prefontaine’s tragic end.
BOWERMAN: All my life, man and boy, I’ve operated under the assumption that the main idea in running was to win the race (impact character domain — manner of thinking). Naturally, when I became a coach I tried to teach people how to do that. Tried to teach Pre how to do that. Tried like hell to teach Pre to do that. And Pre taught me. Taught me I was wrong.
Pre, you see, was troubled by knowing (main character critical flaw — fact) that a mediocre effort can win a race and a magnificent effort can lose one. Winning a race wouldn’t necessarily demand that he give it everything he had from start to finish. He never ran any other way (main character resolve — steadfast). I couldn’t get him to, and God knows I tried . . . but . . . Pre was stubborn (main character vs. impact character domain — fixed attitude). He insisted (main character solution — determination) on holding himself to a higher standard than victory (main character judgment — good). ‘A race is a work of art’ (main character concern — doing) is what he said and what he believed and he was out to make it one every step of the way (problem solving style — logical).
Of course he wanted to win. Those who saw Pre compete (main character domain — activity) or who competed against him were never in doubt how much he wanted to win. But how he won mattered to him more (main vs. impact character solution — process). Pre thought I was a hard case. But he finally got it through my head (impact character resolve — change) that the real purpose of running isn’t to win a race (main vs. impact character problem — result). It’s to test to the limits of the human heart. That he did . . . No one did it more often. No one did it better.
