Introduction to StoryWeaving

Introduction to Storyweaving

Elements of Structure - Art of Storytelling

by Melanie Anne Phillips
creator StoryWeaver, co-creator Dramatica
The Dramatica Theory Book begins:

"Part of what makes a story great is its underlying dramatic structure and part is the manner in which that structure is related to an audience, often called "storytelling". Therefore, this book is divided into two principal sections: The Elements of Structure and The Art of Storytelling."

When I wrote that paragraph, I thought it was pretty self explanatory. But over the years I've been surprised by how many people, though they agree with the concept in principal, don't really understand the difference between those two facets of a story.

Part of the problem is that people lump all aspects of a story other than the words they use to tell it into a single glop they think of as the structure. This means they see a characters name, its job, age, gender and so on as structure. They see the setting, time frame and genre as structure. They all the events that happen and all the moralizing as part of the structure. Yet none of these are structural elements at all. They are, in fact, part of the storytelling.

Why is it important to differentiate the two? Because structure can only be solidly built if you see it for what it really is - the framework that holds up the story.

In this tip, I'd like to spend a little time illustrating the nature of and differences between story structure and storytelling, and provide some techniques for using this clear view of both to enhance the soundness of your story and your creative experience as well.

What we're going to do is break a completed story into four parts, rather than just structure and storytelling. To do this, we'll use an analogy.

Think of a story as a body. There's the skeleton, the soft tissue, the clothes and lastly the haircut, jewelry, make-up, facial hair, cologne and so on.

The skeleton is the structure, the soft tissue is the encoding (I'll define this in a moment), the clothes is the exposition and the finishing touches are the storytelling.

Structure then is the fixed framework that defines the basic shape and function of the thing. For example one story might have a goal of Obtaining a particular item. Another story might have a goal of Becoming a different kind of person. Obtaining a thing is completely different from Becoming a new person, so those two structures would be completely different.

Now on to the soft tissue of story, the Encoding. Using the above example, in the Obtaining story the goal might be to obtain a treasure, a diploma, someone's love or the answer to a riddle. Clearly each of these stories would seem completely different, even though they are all Obtaining stories and, therefore, structurally identical.

In the other story example, "Becoming" might be becoming more honest, becoming more self-sufficient, becoming more passionate or becoming more considerate. Again, each of these would seem like a different story, even though, structurally, they are all about Becoming something.

Just as the same skeleton can belong to a fat person or a thin one, a healthy one or a sick one, a strong one or a weak one, so too a single structure can manifest itself in many different ways.

So we have a pretty good grip on a very fundamental understanding of the first two parts of a story, the structure and the encoding. Now we consider the clothing, which is the equivalent of Exposition.

In stories, as in clothing, exposition is the way the thing is revealed. How much do you show up front? How long does it take to see more? What do you see in what order? And when do you get to see it all?

Authors need to remember that while they know their entire story from beginning to end and everything in between, their audience or readers don't. So the job of exposition is two-fold. One, to make sure you find a place in the unfolding of your story to convey everything you want the audience/readers to know. Two, to consider how best to unveil the details of your story like a striptease artist, teasing your audience/readers to instill in them the greatest possible interest.

Finally, we come to the actual storytelling - the fancy dancy primps and preens that give the whole package pizazz. Now consider that though you have completed the first three stages in developing your story (built a structure, determined the encoding, and worked out the exposition, you haven't actually written a word! So this last stage, Storytelling, is (surprisingly enough) where you actually tell your story!

The structure determines what it is, the encoding determines what it means, the exposition determines how it comes across, and storytelling determines how it feels. In other words, in four steps you've moved clear across from a fully logistic approach to the elements of structure to a purely passionate experience in the art of storytelling.

Now, I promised to describe why this is useful to a writer. First of all, we shouldn't think about the four stages when we are creating - it just moves us into an analytical frame of mind and smothers our Muse. But once we are done with inspiration for a bit, then we need to look at our story more objectively - to examine it analytically to make sure we haven't missed a beat, gone off track, failed to communicate or lost the passion.

A completed section of your story may mask problems in one of the four aspects by something really cool in another. This doesn't solve the problem, it just hides it behind some flash. In the end, it might wow, but it won't sustain. Conversely, the best balance meal of a story might be bland to the point of being impossible to swallow, yet seems quite complete to an author. By separating the four stages, you can see where your storytelling might not have enough oomph and needs to jiggle its booty a bit more to entice.

By putting structural considerations out of your mind while you creatively write, it frees your Muse to pursue any creative path that appeals to her. By putting creativity out of your mind while you analyze, you can see clearly where the problems are and how to go about fixing them.

In the end, you'll be more productive and have a more pleasant creative experience. And all by being truly aware of the difference between the elements of structure, the art of storytelling and all the points between.

How To Structure Your Story's Theme

Your thematic message (morel or the story) has two sides: the Issue and the Counterpoint. The Issue is the human quality under examination in your story (such as greed) and the Counterpoint is the opposite trait (such as Generosity), presented for contrast. Together, they play both sides of the moral dilemma. But how do you go about making your thematic point to your readers or audience?

The most important key to a successful thematic argument is never, ever play the message issue and counterpoint together at the same time. Why? Because the thematic argument is an emotional one, not one of reason. You are trying to sway your reader/audience to adopt your moral view as an author. This will not happen if you keep showing one side of the argument as "good" and the other side as "bad" in direct comparison. Such a thematic argument would seem one-sided, and treat the issues as being black-and-white, rather than gray-scale.

In real life, moral decisions are seldom cut-and-dried. Although we may hold views that are clearly defined, in practice it all comes down to the context of the specific situation. For example, it is wrong to steal in general. But, it might be proper to steal from the enemy during a war, or from a large market when you baby is starving. In the end, all moral views become a little blurry around the edges when push comes to shove.

Statements of absolutes do not a thematic argument make. Rather, your most powerful message will deal with the lesser of two evils, the greater of two goods, or the degree of goodness or badness of each side of the argument. In fact, there are often situations where both sides of the moral argument are equally good, equally bad, or that both sides are either good nor bad in the particular situation being explored in the story.

The way to create this more powerful, more believable, and more persuasive thematic argument is as follows:

1. Determine in advance whether each side is good, bad, or neutral.

Do this by assigning an arbitrary "value" to both the Message Issue and the Counterpoint. For example, we might choose a scale with +5 being abolutely good, -5 being absolutely bad, and zero being neutral.

If our thematic argument is Greed vs. Generosity, then Greed (our Message Issue) might be a -3, and Generosity (our Counterpoint) might be a -2. This would mean that both Greed and Generosity are both bad (being in the negative) but that Generosity is a little less bad than Greed since Generosity is only a -2 and Greed is a -3.

2. Show the good and bad aspects of both the Message Issue and the Counterpoint.

Make sure the examples of each side of the thematic argument that you have already developed don't portray either side as being all good or all bad. In fact, even if one side of the argument turns out to be bad in the end, it might be shown as good initially. But over the course of the story, that first impression is changed by seeing that side in other contexts.

3. Have the good and bad aspects "average out" to the thematic conclusion you want.

By putting each side of the thematic argument on a roller coaster of good and bad aspects, it blurs the issues, just as in real life. But the reader/audience will "average out" all of their exposures to each side of the argument and draw their own conclusions at the end of the story.

In this way, the argument will move out of the realm of intellectual consideration and become a viewpoint arrived by feel. And, since you have not only shown both sides, but the good and the bad of each side, your message will be easier to swallow. And finally, since you never directly compared the two sides, the reader/audience will not feel that your message has been shoved down its throat.

Characters in the Middle of Act Three

In baseball, they call it the "seventh inning stretch." In stories, it is called the middle of act 3.

Up to this point, your characters and your reader/audience have been on a roller coaster that's been going higher and higher, in fits and starts. In the last part of the third act, the tension will rise up that final highest climb, and then plunge all the way to the bottom as the outcome of the story is determined.

As with a roller coaster, there is more of a thrill if you see that hill coming. So the middle of act 3 serves two purposes. First, to give your reader/audience a little breathing room, and second, to set them up for the emotional upheaval to come.

If two characters had argued or fought at the beginning of the act, a third character might tell them they can settle their differences later, but if they keep fighting now, everyone will lose the bigger fight. Realizing the truth of this, the two characters would calm down, let the adrenaline clear out of their systems, and then focus on the job at hand with the other party as reluctant allies.

In Volleyball, there is the set-up and the spike. The end of act three is the spike, but the middle is the set-up. No matter how much of a slam-bang finish you have planned for your story, it will mean nothing without the right set-up.

So, consider what you have coming, consider where you've been, then use the middle of act 3 to refocus your characters on the overall goal, rather than on each other.

Character Dismissals

Over the course of the story, your reader/audience has come to know your characters and to feel for them. The story doesn't end when your characters and their relationships reach a climax. Rather, the reader/audience will want to know the aftermath - how it turned out for each character and each relationship. In addition, the audience needs a little time to say goodbye - to let the character walk off into the sunset or to mourn for them before the story ends.

This is in effect the conclusion, the wrap-up. After everything has happened to your characters, after the final showdown with their respective demons, what are they like? How have they changed? If a character began the story as a skeptic, does it now have faith? If they began the story full of hatred for a mother that abandoned them, have they now made revelations to the effect that she was forced to do this, and now they no longer hate? This is what you have to tell the audience, how their journeys changed them, have the resolved their problems, or not?

And in the end, this constitutes a large part of your story's message. It is not enough to know if a story ends in success or failure, but also if the characters are better off emotionally or plagued with even greater demons, regardless of whether or not the goal was achieved.

You can show what happens to your characters directly, through a conversation by others about them, or even in a post-script on each that appears after the story is over or in the ending credits of a movie.

How you do this is limited only by your creative inspiration, but make sure you review each character and each relationship and provide at least a minimal dismissal for each.

What Happens in Acts One, Two and Three?

ACT ONE

Act one is about the Set Up. It establishes the way things are when the problem begins. It introduces the problem, establishes the goal and its requirements, as well as the consequences if the goal is not achieved.

Many stories include a journey or quest that leads to the goal. In such stories, the first act concerns discovery of the need for and nature of the quest, the acceptance of the quest, and preparations to embark. Act one then concludes with the final preparations and a restatement of the necessity of the quest by reminding the reader/audience of the potential consequences.

In all stories, by the end of act one, the reader/audience must understand what the story is about, what is to be achieved, and how the effort toward that end is expected to proceed.

Keep in mind that for storytelling purposes you may intend to fool your audience into believing the goal is one thing when it will later turn out to be another.

Also, the plot of many stories includes a "teaser" at the very beginning of the act. The teaser is an emotional "hook" meant to snare reader interest and draw them into the book or movie. Almost every television episode begins with a teaser to keep the audience from changing the channel.

Teasers may or may not have anything to do with the story at large. Sometimes they are simply exciting emotional or action-oriented extravaganzas which are nothing more than entertainment, and add nothing to the structure of the real story about to begin.

In any event, by the end of the first act, your reader/audience must feel it understands what the story is about and the direction it appears to be taking.

ACT TWO

This is the Act of Development. The second act develops plot points that you set up in your first act, adding richness and detail to your story.

If there's a journey in your story, act two is about the beginning and progress of that quest. As progress is made, the obstacles to progress become more substantial. Every step taken towards that goal increases in difficulty.

Somewhere in Act Two there is a major plot twist, either physically or due to information uncovered, that throws the whole story into left field. In some stories this twist happens in the middle of the act. The second half of the act is spent trying to recover from the set back and begin anew. In other stories, this twist occurs at the end of the second act, driving the quest in a whole new direction with the beginning of act three.

ACT THREE

This is the Act of the Climax. The whole of the third act is leading up to that point, creating tension and suspense. This is what your entire story has been leading up to. You want your third act to be more fast-paced than the rest of your story, and a lot more suspenseful.

The most compelling stories build the forces for and against the goal so that each becomes stronger and stronger. At the point of climax each is so powerful that something has to give - the tension is just too great. And yet, since they are balanced, the outcome is still uncertain.

The progression of the third act of plot is often heavily influenced by genre. For example, a compelling mystery might be designed to spread suspicion even wider than before, rather than narrowing in on just a few characters. Therefore, the sense of building tension may spring from increasing confusion, rather than understanding.

In all cases, act three must and draw all dynamic forces to a head and eventually tie up all loose ends.

THE XX AND XY FILES

by Melanie Anne Phillips
creator StoryWeaver, co-creator Dramatica

What is it about The X-Files that has attracted such a following? Is it the blend of New Age philosophy and hard science fiction? Could it be the taboo subjects or government conspiracies? How about the flashy production values and high-tech special effects?

Naturally, all of these contribute to the phenomenal success of the show, but they don't fully explain the unusual "feel" of the program. Anyone who has seen the series knows what we mean. There is a strange emotional aura experienced by the viewing audience that is almost metaphysical itself. In fact, tracking down the source of this strange atmosphere could be a case right out of The X-Files themselves. Fortunately, as the opening credits assert: "The truth is out there." In this case, Dramatica can help illuminate it.

To begin our investigation, let's look to our intrepid agents, Mulder and Scully. Who are they? FBI agents, of course. But we asked who they were, notwhat. For our inquiry, we are more interested in their natures than their functions. It is not that they unravel the tangled, clarify the obscure, and defeat the random. Oh, they do all of that all right, but that's just plot. We are more interested in how they accomplish these ultra-human feats, not their methodology but their mentality.

Who are theyinside? What makes them tick? What do Mulder and Scully have in common that makes them uncommon? The answer lies in the Dramatica concept called Mental Sex .

Mental Sex has two options: male or female. It has nothing to do with anatomical sex, gender identity, or sexual preference. Mental Sex refers to the mind of a character as being either spatially (space) or temporally (time) biased. Space is where our sense of logistics comes from. Time is where our intuition comes from. Male Mental Sex sees logistics clearly, but is a little fuzzy on the intuition. Female Mental Sex is intuitive, but not as clear on the logistics.

Of course, males can be intuitive and females logical, but it requires a little extra work. Also, intuition is not inexact. It seems so to men, because it is a fuzzy logic to them. But to women, intuition is perfectly clear: a form of holistic logic of its own that deals with problems by the "inter-influences" of the many parts, rather than trying to find a direct path from problem to solution.

For the most part, authors create characters who have the same Mental Sex as their anatomical sex. Occasionally, through intent or feel, these two get mixed up. For example, Ripley (Sigourney Weaver) in the original Alien was a male mental sex character. The part was actually written for a man; all they changed were the gender references. Her manner of approaching a problem was male right down the line. In contrast, Tom Wingo (Nick Nolte) in The Prince of Tides is a female mental sex character who tries to bring his life into balance: a holistic technique.

Just because a physically male character has a female mental sex does not mean they will be feminine. An example is Jack Ryan (Alec Baldwin) in The Hunt For Red October. Notice how his problem solving technique is quite different than that of all the generals and soldiers he is competing against, yet he is unquestionably masculine.

The difference in Jack Ryan's manner is easily recognized in his meeting with the chiefs of staff near the beginning of the story. While they are concentrating on how to respond to the threat, Ryan is feeling the influence of many bits of information. Though this data seems unrelated, its overall impact on his mind allows him to surmise that the wayward Russian captain is not attacking but defecting. Only a female mental sex character would arrive at that kind of solution from that kind of data.

So...what is the strange attraction of Mulder and Scully in The X-Files? Mulder is a man with a female mental sex; Scully is a woman with a male mental sex. While Mulder is getting a feeling or being intuitive, Scully demands facts, measurements, and a linear theory without gaps. In most episodes, both methods are required to uncover the mystery. Though this is not uncommon in real life, switching mental sexes is atypical of most television fare.

The charm of the show is partly because the kinds of problems that occur could not be solved by either one of them alone, but truly needs both views to triangulate. Mulder gets a sense of what's going on; Scully describes it. Scully projects where things are leading, Mulder determines what it means. Since we are talking about a series rather than one specific story, things do change.

In some episodes, Scully is also made female mental sex. In these programs, Scully becomes a simple skeptic instead of an alternate problem solving perspective. This weakens Scully and Mulder's relationship. Mulder is still female mental sex, but he cannot explore that perspective since he has to spend all his time trying to overcome Scully's skepticism. Scully keeps demanding proof instead of working out a theory. Under these conditions the show still has its conspiracies, new-age sci-fi, and special effects, but the heart stops beating. That special something is clearly missing, but in episodes where Scully returns to male mental sex, the charm is back.

It is unlikely that the creators of the series were aware of this phenomenon. Still, they engendered it by feel and were inspired to do so. Each of us, male and female, sees the world from a mental sex direction. This gives us a clear perspective on some things and a fuzzy perspective on others. By working together, we can solve problems neither of us could handle alone. That is the real attraction of The X-Files, made all the more apparent (yet obscured) by clothing each mental sex in the unexpected body.

Fried Rice: The Tale of "The Vampire Chronicles"

by Melanie Anne Phillips
creator StoryWeaver, co-creator Dramatica

I am the critic, LessTact. I feed upon the creative efforts of others. Unlike many of my kind, I never prey upon the naive or creatively challenged, but only on the mistakes made by great talents who should know better. A case in point is the tale of the Vampire Chronicles by Anne Rice.

Be forewarned: if you have not yet read the Vampire Chronicles, what follows will almost certainly ruin the experience. But no matter. The fourth book in the series, The Tale of the Body Thief ruins the experience anyway. How can I say this? How can I be so callous? I am the critic, LessTact!

What is it that makes my blood boil about the Vampire Chronicles? Simply this: all four books in the series have the potential to work together as a single Grand Argument Story. Each volume develops another side of a larger vision dealing with the struggle of that self-serving blood sucker of a Main Character, Lestat, to find inner peace. And he finds it. BUT, we aren't told how!

Can you imagine that??? Two thousand pages of reading, all leading up to a final conclusion that ties four perspectives together, all dramatic forces converging on the Main Character finding a way to resolve his angst that has hounded him since the first book, and he just resolves it!

I mean, I'm sitting here in real life. I've got as much angst as anybody. Suddenly, here's this character who suffers even more than I do, but he won't give up. I perk up. I read on. In fact, this undead tragic figure is on a quest to find a way to put his angst behind him. Along the way he gets into the most amazing scrapes and I tag right along with the fellow, sticking right by his side so no matter when it happens, I'll be there to see just how he does it. Why? So I can do it too.

I was waiting to see how he did it even more than if he did it. That's what I wanted to know. And then, at the end of the fourth book in the series, suddenly all his angst is gone and I wasn't told how! Doesn't that just burn you? Well it burns me.

Of course, most of my fellow critics are bleeding-neck cry-babies who whine and complain when they read something they don't like. But I am the critic, LessTact, and believe one should never complain unless they have a better idea. Naturally, I have one. Follow me and learn, if you dare.

To make my point, I must invoke Dramatica, that weird science whose presence can be felt at work in all solid stories. Dramatica sees every complete story as providing four points of view to an audience: Me, You, We, and They. Let us examine each of these in a theoretical sense and then apply them to the volumes of the Vampire Chronicles.

The "Me" perspective is the view through the eyes of the Main Character. This is where an audience feels as if the story is happening to them. It is the most personal of perspectives on the issues of the story.

The "You" perspective is the view afforded of the Obstacle Character. If the Main Character is seen as a soldier in a battle, the Obstacle Character is the soldier coming toward them through the smoke of the battle. The Main Character cannot tell if this figure is friend or foe, only that the Obstacle Character is blocking his path. From this perspective, the audience, looking through the eyes of the Main Character, sees the Obstacle Character as "you."

Some Obstacles, such as Girard in The Fugitive are foes, and must be overcome. Others, such as Obi Wan Kenobi (Luke's Obstacle in Star Wars) or Hannibal Lecter (Clarise Starling's Obstacle in The Silence of the Lambs) are trying to tell the Main Character that he or she is on the wrong path and will not find satisfaction until he or she changes course.

The argument over this "change" issue takes place in the third perspective of "We," the realm of the Subjective Story. Here the Main and Obstacle Characters have it out, each arguing their point of view on the issue, impacting the other with a force that just might make them change. In fact, you can often identify the Main and Obstacle Characters in a story by phrases such as, "We are really both alike, you and I," and, "We're just two sides of the same coin," or, "We are nothing alike!"

Finally, the audience is afforded a fourth point of view: a view of the story more like that of a general on a hilltop watching a battle unfold below. This is the "They" perspective. It is the most objective of the four throughlines and is called the Objective Story. From this point of view, the characters are not identified by their feelings but by their function.

In most stories, these four throughlines are woven together so that they develop concurrently and simultaneously reach a conclusion. In some cases the throughlines are played one after another such as in Kurosawa's Roshomon. This does not mean the throughlines have to cover the same period of history. All that is important is that each follows the quest for a solution from the beginning of the same kind of problem to the outcome of that quest.

What does all this have to do with the Vampire Chronicles? I'll tell you, because I am the critic, LessTact! Each of the four books in the series explores one of these four perspectives. So, like Roshomon, they are taken one at a time.

The first book, Interview with the Vampire, documents the Obstacle Character's throughline. Louis is the Obstacle Character to Lestat's Main Character. To be fair, this does not seem to be the case when one has read only this initial volume. As a stand-alone story, all indications are that Louis is Main Character, Claudia is Obstacle Character, and Lestat is simply an Objective character, perhaps the Contagonist. Once one has devoured the sequels, however, the meaning of Interview with the Vampire is tempered by what follows. Taken in context of the series as a whole, the story of Louis and Claudia becomes a major sub-story and Lestat emerges as Main Character.

For all his suffering, poor Louis is the one having an impact on Lestat, rather than the other way around. Louis is stuck in his deplorable condition - a condition he did not truly want, but he deals with it. In contrast, Lestat, for all his bravado and flash is constantly forced to reconsider his outlook as a result of Louis' constancy.

What an inspired and unusual technique - to begin with the Obstacle Character's tale rather than that of the Main Character. It is all the more inspired that the decision to focus on Lestat was almost certainly made after the first story had been written. Recasting the dramatic relationship of a work by placing it in a larger structure is no mean feat.

Lestat clearly emerges as Main Character of the series in book two, The Vampire, Lestat. This is Lestat's history, documenting how he came to be living his problem, and how far he could get without changing his outlook. Of note, Lestat often refers to Louis' "Interview" as containing gross exaggerations and downright lies. Clearly, we are now to look AT Louis, rather than through his eyes.

In Queen of the Damned, we are shown the big picture, the objective story of the series. This is the tale that describes the nature and history of all vampires - how they came to be, how they ultimately fare, and where they are headed once the smoke has cleared. It is here we can determine success or failure as the outcome of the quest for the objective goal.

This leaves the fourth installment, The Tale of the Body Thief, as the Subjective story between the Main and Obstacle Characters. And, boy, is it ever! This whole volume concentrates on the personal relationship between Lestat and his mortal friend, David Talbot. Clearly, David Talbot has taken over the role of Obstacle from Louis. Just like Louis, he does not wish to be a vampire. In his heart of hearts, Talbot does wish to be a vampire, which makes him the dramatic opposite of Louis. This is part of what lays the groundwork for failure of this fourth volume. For a "hand-off" of dramatic function from one character to another to work, it must be the exact same function. This, alas, was not the case.

It is no accident that Talbot and Louis do not appear in a scene together until the end. Each would be trying to provide the impact to try and change Lestat, but it would be a different kind of impact from each. The message of the story would clearly be out of sync. Keeping their characters apart simply puts off the inevitable, since Louis' impact started things off and now we aren't allowed to see whether his influence had any effect or not at the day of reckoning. Instead, we come to that moment of truth propelled by the exact opposite force, which obscures the meaning of the whole series beyond redemption.

In dealing with a story so large that it takes four books in which to tell it, we might allow our memory of Louis' discontent to fade, and pay more attention to Talbot who is much fresher in our considerations. That is what makes it feel doubly odd to have Louis in the story at all. What dramatic function does he serve?

Sure, there is some poetic justice in his denial of Lestat's request for the "dark blood," clearly a reverse parallel of Lestat's making of Louis. But that's just an interesting irony. It simply closes a door to Lestat, but does nothing to impact him to change. In fact, Lestat simply gets mad and then sloughs it off. Louis is not acting as an Obstacle Character in this story, but because he had done so for the whole first book, he should not have been included here in a different role.

But that is not the worst of it. By the end of the book, we see how Talbot resolves his problem, but not how Lestat resolves his. Talbot is shown to have a moral view that he will be held guiltless if he wants something evil and is forced into it. This plays well against Lestat's view that one is accountable for one's nature, even if one cannot change it.

Talbot clearly explains that once he was transformed into a vampire against his will, it was his moral obligation to live that life according to its own nature. This is exactly what Lestat has never been able to do. Lestat would be left with a simple choice: leave Talbot and remain mired in his angst or take the same leap of faith and rid himself of his inner pain once and for all as he follows in Talbot's spiritual footsteps. In the first case, the whole series of four books ends as a tragedy: there is no hope for Lestat. In the second case, it is a triumph. Having remained steadfast in his view for hundreds of years, Lestat is finally convinced to change and adopt a new world view. Either way, it is this moment of truth where all four volumes converge: the moment for which we were all waiting.

That is what should have happened. What did happen is a tragedy all right, but not in the dramatic sense. Near the end of The Tale of the Body Thief, Lestat is confronted by Talbot's happiness and personal fulfillment and becomes happy himself. What?! Three hundred years of angst and he just shrugs his shoulders and says, "Oh, well, when in Rome..." (Not hardly!)

Still, by that time, there was not much else Lestat could do. You see, Lestat spends most of the book as a mortal himself. His vampire body is stolen by the body thief. The real question that Lestat should have been wrestling with is whether or not he wanted his vampire body back. There could have been a time limit after which the switch became permanent. Or, there could have been limited options where he required the assistance of at least one other ancient vampire to return to his body. One by one, he drops from their favor as he is tempted ever more strongly into the mortal ways. Finally there is only one who can help him, and Lestat must now choose a life or the choice will be made for him.

Wouldn't that have been nice? Alas, it was not to be. Within moments of becoming a mortal, even before he knows the thief has stolen his body, Lestat is sick and tired, in a very literal sense. He hates being mortal and wants his old body back without question. What a story it might have been if he started out hating it and learned to love it again. After all, mortality is an acquired taste.

Then

, he might have had a decision to make. By the time he got the opportunity to recover his body, he would no longer be sure he wanted it. His resolve would waver. He would be forced to address the seat of his angst and either accept a mortal life of normality, or a vampire's immortal life of spectacular evil.

We, the readers, make this decision every time we choose to do what we can or what we feel is right. To make such a choice and be satisfied with it is a consummation devoutly to be wished! Ah, what a moment that would be! And which way would he go? Any way Anne Rice wanted him to. Her message might have been that we can receive absolution for our sins and blend into to normal life, even after we have seen Gay Paree. Or, her message might equally have been that one must accept the fullness of one's being - that is it better to shine as a beacon of evil than be lost in a sea of good. Clearly, the later is more consistent with the thematic lean of the series.

But the intensity comes from the fact that it could go either way. As readers, we just don't know until we are shown. That is what we were waiting for, but it is not what we got. No moment of truth, no balanced pros and cons, no pressure to choose. Nope. Lestat makes Talbot. Talbot is happy. Lestat is happy. Big deal.

This type of story problem is not without precedent. I felt the same disappointment after reading Orlando by Virginia Woolf. Orlando (the Main Character) struggles throughout the book to find the path to a peaceful heart, and in the end she (he) does. Again, we are not shown how; she just ends up happy. I suspect that was not an oversight, but simply that Virginia didn't have an answer. In writing about Orlando, she described her own quest for an end to angst. In supplying one to Orlando, she vicariously provided one for herself.

Alas, because the method for achieving a quiet heart was lacking, Ms. Woolf could not duplicate her Main Character's accomplishment and sadly killed herself. Ms. Rice has also given us a happy ending without the means to achieve it. In contrast, I, the critic LessTact, give you the means but will let you draw your own conclusions.

I propose that an author without a solution should not offer one. A story that ends in angst can be a masterwork, as well as a story that ends in angst resolved. A story that ends with angst resolved without resolving angst is nothing more than a merry chase that ends up at a wonderful destination from which its audience is unceremoniously barred.

Natural Born Killers: Guilty as Charged

by Melanie Anne Phillips
creator StoryWeaver, co-creator Dramatica

Indicted, tried, and convicted: Violence in Western culture as crucified in Natural Born Killers through its public execution. Take "execution," two ways, as NBK kills violence by carrying it to an extreme. Amend "violence IN Western culture," to read, "violence AS Western culture." The message of Natural Born Killers is not that violence is engendered by the system or even that violence is inherent in the system, but that violence IS the system. In such a society where violence is the stock and trade, natural born killers rise to the top. In fact, they are destined to rule as royalty, natural born.

The message of NBK is clear. So clear that we focus our attention upon it, just as we watch a magician's right hand while his left is palming the ball. Virtually all the media talk in articles and reviews has been riveted to the issue of violence. Meanwhile, Oliver Stone is performing his magic behind the smoke and mirrors. His intent? To make us more sensitized to the violence in our everyday lives so that we might question its validity. His method? A brilliant form of propaganda. And that is the focus of this article: how he did it and how you can too.

Unless you walked out of the show when it first began because it antagonized certain sensibilities regarding carnage and mayhem, you were first appalled by the graphic nature of the crimes and then intrigued with the black comedy that sets it in a completely different context. You might sit there, wondering, "I think this is deplorable. I should just stop watching." Then, scene after scene, Stone twists it all around into a cosmic joke and you find yourself amazed that you are laughing. "I should stop watching, but I've never seen anything from this point of view before."

By the time the story is halfway through, you have almost forgotten to look at the violence per se and have become much more interested in looking for the humor. If that is where the story left us, we would merely have been desensitized to even higher levels of violence than we are already. Our tolerance levels would have increased to some degree. There is no good or bad in a system that is inherently evil. From inside the system there is no way to evaluate intrinsics. That is why midway through the film we are presented an alternative paradigm in the form of Red Cloud, the Native American. Just as we are becoming settled into accepting the violence as a necessary component of the humor, Red Cloud illustrates a larger context in which another culture exists that is not made of violence. Suddenly, we can see good and evil. Suddenly, we have stepped out of Western culture to see it for what it is, objectively rather than subjectively.

Now we are assaulted full tilt with the media connection through shots of sheepish audiences in front of the television sets vicariously drinking up the blood of their own kind drawn by broadcast wolves. Again, smoke and mirrors that make us question our own role in sitting in the theater watching NBK. Still, the only characters who are worthy of succeeding are Micky and Mallory. Everyone else is tainted with some degree of restraint. Everyone else is less than pure. In the pecking order that is the Western culture, only the natural born killers have a right to sit at the top of the food chain: cannibalistic christs at the head of the smorgasbord table, "Drink, this is your blood... Eat, this is your body."

Unlike the first half of the story in which we find ourselves placated into accepting the violence, now we find ourselves ever more sensitized to it with every horrendous event. Instead of finding the humor and forgetting the means, we take note of our desire to root for the root of all evil and rebel against the seeds we find within us.

By the end of the story, we cannot help but be disturbed that we wanted the wantonly vicious to succeed. And that is where the propaganda takes hold. Because Stone has been so successful in sucking us in to the Super Bowl of violence, then turned the tables and made us question the rules of his game, we become so focused on the film itself that we are not aware how many times we are helpless but to think of it while watching Saturday morning cartoons with our kids. Every time a news program airs, we note the gleam in the eyes of the anchor reporting atrocities in a foreign land. We see these things and think of NBK, drawing comparisons. But the propaganda is not that we consciously ponder this connection with the overt message of the film, but that we take time to think about it at all. We are focusing on the actual connection, unaware that Stone's amazingly powerful propaganda statement has changed us in a way that prevents us from simply not seeing the violence at all.

The two concepts are closely allied: consciously considering the violence in the media versus not even thinking to consider it. The first is our focus. The second is what makes us focus.

If Oliver Stone had merely intended to create an homage to ultra-violence he would have never brought in Red Cloud. Yet, as the film stands, it clearly snookers us into being deprogrammed from our stupor and sensitized to violence we had become accustomed to and would otherwise unconsciously ignore.

How did he do that? How can we use the same techniques to further our own pet cause as writers? To understand we must examine both the structure and dynamics of Natural Born Killers and how they were transmitted to the audience through storytelling techniques.

Structurally, NBK describes three Western worlds, populated by four principal characters. The "real" world is home to Wayne Gale, the TV "journalist." All of his scenes are presented in the most realistic film making techniques. Unusual editing keeps his scenes consistent with the flavor of the film as a whole, but they are external manipulations of his reality, not presented as part of its makeup. Wayne Gale starts out fully in the "real" world and gradually evolves into the world of the natural born killers, becoming a killer himself, though not natural born. This is indicated as the scenes in which he participates become more and more internally bizarre, not only in action but in lighting, camera angles, film stock and eventually special effects as his face distorts like Micky's. So Wayne has made the transition from the structured world to the dynamic.

In contrast, Scagnetti, the police detective, has always had a foot in each world. He has straddled the line all of his life. Like a half breed, he is not quite natural born, but still not domesticated enough to be unaffected by the smell of blood. His world is presented as a half and half mix of structural reality and dynamic transformation. Before he ever meets up with Micky and Mallory, he kills a young woman for the thrill. But that is where he proves himself not to be natural born. Those who are the Western Royalty get no thrill from killing: its just what they do. As Red Cloud put it, "Stupid lady, you knew I was a snake!"

The filmic storytelling of Scagnetti's scenes reflect the dichotomy of his nature. Although his world is never as distorted as Micky and Mallory's, it is never quite as real as Gale's either. As an example, when Scagnetti investigates the murder scene where Mallory has killed the gas station attendant, the blood pooled behind the boy's head is initially blue. Moments later, seen again the blood is red. This same juxtaposition of imagery is evident as Scagnetti examines the smudges on the shiny hood of the sports car where Mallory seduced the boy. He sees the reality of the evidence just as his associates do, but he also actually sees Mallory, reflected in the metal as if she were still there, reenacting the crime.

The third world belongs to both Micky and Mallory. They share the magic, but from two different approaches. Micky is a do-er, physically making over his world to his liking. In contrast, Mallory is a be-er: she effects change by altering her perception. When we flashback to experience the moment when Micky and Mallory met, we see Mallory's family through her perceptions of them. There is no reality at all in her imagery. Although thrown into a bizarre, sitcom context, the vicious, lechery of her father and the distracted helplessness of her mother are still clearly delineated. We see nothing of her family in anything but her abstract remodeling. Her world is wholly non-real.

Micky has something to learn from Mallory: how to adjust his perceptions to change the nature of personal reality. Mallory has something to learn from Micky: how to alter her environment rather than just reconfigure it. Because of their different approaches, each sees only part of the picture, even while they are born to the magic. Together, however, they are unstoppable, as they control the entire violent world. This is brought home by their success in evading capture until they are separated at the drug store. Alone, they are vulnerable. When they are once again reunited in prison, their ultimate triumph is unavoidable, as long as they remain joined.

This arrangement serves to make the one faulty line of dialog between them stand out like a sore thumb. In their first meeting scene, Micky asks Mallory, "Do you always dress like that or did you do it for me?" She replies, "How could I do it for you if I didn't know you were coming?" This would lead us to believe that somehow Micky has brought the magic to her and that she did not possess it before. But the manner in which she distorted her family clearly indicates the opposite. To be more true to the scenario of her own magic, her reply might better have been, "How much meat do you have in that bag?," by which she doesn't even acknowledge the question, thereby sidestepping the whole issue.

In the end, both Gale's and Scagnetti's worlds are tested against Micky and Mallory's and found to be wanting. Gale is impure. Although he has become a killer, he is not natural born. Therefore, Gale might be at the top of the food chain except in the presence of the True Royalty of Western Civilization. Micky is the inquisitor who finds Gale lacking.

In parallel is the earlier scene in which Scagnetti visits Mallory in her cell. This is the only false moment in the thematic flow of the message. Scagnetti has verbalized his pride at having actually killed someone. Through Mallory, he seeks purification so that he can divest himself of the reality ties that bind, and transform himself completely into a genetic predator. As Earth Mother of this cold natural order, Mallory has it within her power to grant this supplicant his request. She can take him into her womb and give him rebirth as a truly natural born killer. Unfortunately, the rebirthing concept got lost in the sexual dynamics. Rather than making it apparent that Mallory understood her power and chose to withhold it, the idea got lost in parody of adolescent date rape. In this way, the scene lost much of its mystical power and Mallory lost much of her mythic aura.

These three worlds, inhabited by the four principal characters define the perspectives of the story. From a Dramatica perspective, Micky is the Main Character (Physics Class) or first person singular perspective, I. We experience the story primarily through him, which is a standard approach to exploring that view. Similarly, Gale is the Obstacle Character (Psychology Class), identified as the second person singular perspective, YOU. He is always talking about Micky, talking TO Micky, saying "you this" and "you that." Micky responds in the interview scene saying to Gale, "you this" and "you that." Comparatives often occur between the Main and Obstacle characters and NBK is no exception. Micky tells Gale, "We're really just doing the same thing, we're really alike, you and I." Gale angrily retorts that they are quite different. However, through the unfolding of events the point is made that not only were these two characters alike in attitude, Gale eventually proves they are alike in deed as well. Gale changes, actually transforms, and Micky remains steadfast, accepting no substitutes, killing Gale as a pretender to the throne.

In unusual storytelling, the remaining two Dramatica Domains are personified, rather than played out. Scagnetti is the Subjective story incarnate (Mind Class), trapped between Gale's structure and Micky's dynamics. The Subjective Story can be seen in terms of the first person plural perspective, WE. Scagnetti is the battleground upon which the battle between the two worlds is waged. Even his book, entitled "Scagnetti on Scagnetti," further reveals the dichotomy in Scagnetti's nature. Mallory, on the other hand, is the Objective story (Universe Class) identified as the third person perspective, SHE (or THEY). She represents the actual reality of the story, the true magic that has no base in physicality per se, but the point of view from which all valid meaning is derived.

Consistent with the characterization of storylines is the use of on screen dynamics in the symbology of the film. Normally, storytelling is accomplished by having the audience look at the dramatic potentials of a story and then figure out the dynamics that drive them by watching the potential rearrange and reorder themselves, indicating the forces that have moved them. In the end, enough movements have been documented, scene by scene to draw conclusions as to the dynamic environment that holds the message of the story.

In NBK, however, even the dynamics are portrayed right up front for all to see. Changes in film stock, which have no valid internal story impact still serve to connect otherwise disassociated pieces of the drama. Another approach creates comparisons between items of similar or dissimilar shape or color to draw connections. A notable use of this technique is in the opening diner scene in which a cut between the green of Micky's Key lime pie is matched to the green of the jukebox near which Mallory is dancing. Similar colors, similar outlooks, green and green, she is as he is, etc. Third is the use of special effects, such as the face distortion that draws connections at yet another level. And finally, is the editorial technique itself, such as repeating action or editing between two incompatible renderings of a single event.

The last is the most objective approach, imposing its impact from outside the story. The special effects like distortion are the Main Character equivalent, as they are only seen by the audience experientially from the most personal of views. The Subjective perspective is carried through the comparisons of color or shape, and the Obstacle view is presented through the changes in film stock and style, which reflect our perceptions back to us in warped mockery: alternative truths. All of the hidden dynamics are made visible, putting the whole film on trial because there is nowhere left for the audience to hide themselves within the story. The context expands to the real world and we are presented with a fun house mirror, leaving us to ask ourselves, "Is it warped, or are we?"

And that is the nature of the propaganda techniques in this story. First it suckers you in. Then, midway, it throws it all into a different context forcing us to reevaluate ourselves. Finally, it leaves us so focused on the violence that we observed, and confused by our reaction to it that we have effectively become deprogrammed and re-sensitized to violence without ever being aware that we had changed.

Many of us may be resistant to the idea that we can be changed by a work in ways of which we are not aware. But this article itself has been modeled after the structural dynamics of Natural Born Killers. It begins with a discussion of violence of the piece, and suckers you into looking at the mechanisms of the story. Then it turns the tables midway and diverts the issue to describing how propaganda works, forcing us to focus on that methodology. If it were to end as the film did, it would have concluded with the paragraph above, and everyone who read this article would be unaware they had been changed. How changed? Well, the issue of the morality of using propaganda techniques was never brought up. It was left out intentionally. So if we had not drawn attention to the structure of our own propaganda, that missing aspect would naturally be filled in by the mind of each reader whenever they noticed propaganda in the future. It is an essential question to be answered: is this kind of manipulation moral, even if it is for a good cause?

By bringing this all out in the open, it diffuses the power of our propaganda statement. It takes the force of it from the subconscious and elevates it to conscious consideration where it can easily be disposed of by our readers. We really did not want to impact anyone in a propagandistic manner. Our intent is only to objectively describe some of the techniques by which it can and has been employed, then subjectively illustrate its power by using those very same techniques. As a result, you all now possess some tools, which if used will make both you and your indicted subject Guilty as Charged.

True Liabilities: A Constructive Criticism of "True Lies"

by Melanie Anne Phillips
creator StoryWeaver, co-creator Dramatica

Jack of all trades, master of none. Sometimes a story just tries to do too much. Often when creating a work, an author will be inspired by a bit of action, a particular character or an interesting theme. Unfortunately, these may not all belong in the same story. A good solution is to choose which of these opposing creative directions one wishes to follow and put the others in cold storage for later. Another approach is to fully develop each of the incompatible concepts as a separate story within the work so that each is internally complete and externally consistent with the others. A regrettable approach is to try and make one story out of the beginnings of several. Rather than having each inspired concept add to the overall impact of the work, they detract from the gestalt, appearing not as creative assets but True Liabilities.

In the attempt to meld too many incompatible creative inspirations into a single story, True Lies ends up fragmented, schizophrenic, and unfocused. Worst of all, because each piece had such potential to develop into a complete story of its own, seeing them incomplete and stunted leaves the audience unfulfilled and frustrated. If we can identify the fragments and conjecture as to how they might have been developed independently, we can apply these techniques in making our own works more consistent.

True Lies embodies three potentially unconnected stories about three characters; Harry, an undercover spy; Helen, his unsuspecting wife; and Dana, their neglected daughter. Story number one involves Harry, who suspects his wife of having an affair and seeks to discover if she still loves him. After eavesdropping on her conversation, Harry is shaken and tells his partner, Gil of his suspicions.

HARRY

Helen...Helen...is... having an affair.

GIL

Hey, Harry. Listen, Helen still loves you, you know. She just wants to bang this guy for a while. It's nothing serious...you'll get used to it.

Story number two is about a housewife who discovers that her husband has been lying to her for seventeen years, loses her trust in him, and must decide if she will trust him again. Harry and Helen are kidnapped by the terrorists and Harry is forced to tell the truth about his secret life, and face the consequences with Helen.

HARRY

What can I say? I am a spy.

HELEN

You bastard! Lying, son of a bitch!

HARRY

Sorry, honey...

HELEN

Oh, don't you call me honey! You don't ever get to call me honey, again. You understand me? You pig!!

Story number three is about a man who doesn't pay enough attention to his daughter, so she comes to believe that she is unimportant to him and the man must try to prove to his daughter that he truly cares. Returning from a mission, Harry is insensitive to the fact that he should have bought something to bring home to his daughter. Luckily, his partner Gil remembered and saves the day.

GIL

I've got a...souvenir Swiss Snowy Village.

HARRY

What's that for?

GIL

For Dana, stupe! You know, bring your kid home a gift. You know...the dad thing.

HARRY

Right, got it...nice touch.

Notice that the first and third stories focus on the man as the main character, while in story number two the main character is the wife. This is the first problem created by the multiple stories in True Lies: there is no consistent main character, yet the filmmakers forced it to have one. In other words, the story dealing with the wife's lost trust in her husband should have been told from her perspective to be consistent with the dramatic potentials of that story. However, the filmmakers chose to tell the story from her husband's point of view and thereby placed the audience in the uncomfortable position of wanting to see the story from her side, yet forced to look at her (themselves) from the outside. This pulls the audience right out of the passionate argument and robs that story of its heart.

It is this misplaced perspective that makes Harry seem to be a voyeur in the stripping scene and steals the meaning of their time together on the island, right up to his final rescue of her from the runaway limo on the bridge. In spite of this weakness in perspective, there must be some consistency that strings the three stories together or the film would not have worked at all. This consistency is the Objective Story. Every story has an Objective (or plot-oriented) side and a Subjective (or character-oriented) side. The three stories mentioned above are all Subjective in nature. The consistency in True lies is the Objective story about the terrorist threat, which spans all three. So, even though the entire middle of the film is told through the wrong character's eyes, the Objective story of terrorism strings them all together. How could this disjointed subjective side of True Lies have been fixed? There are two easy options: turn two of the partially developed subjective stories into subplots of the primary subjective story or lose the two least powerful stories altogether. Let's explore each option.

Losing two of the stories is certainly the easiest (though it may not be acceptable to filmmakers who insist on incorporating every good idea they have, whether it belongs in a film or not). If we take a look at where each of the three stories begins and where each segues into the next, we can perform a hypothetical amputation and see if the patient is healthier for it.

The opening teaser is just that: a teaser. All of Harry's shenanigans boil down to backstory exposition that he is a successful, dashing spy. Other than that, there is not a single bit of information that isn't brought out later, including the relationships among the members of Harry's team. It is important to recognize the difference between a dramatic storyform and dramatic storytelling. The chase scene at the end of the teaser is exciting and well-told, but it doesn't add to our understanding of the characters or their personal problems, and also offers precious little to our knowledge of the terrorist plot.

Liability #1

After the teaser, Harry goes home to his family and a "normal" life. Here we get our first glimpse of the beginning of the third story about the neglected daughter, Dana. But this story is so thin as to be almost not there. Dana dumps her father's proxy gift in the wastebasket and takes some cash from his partner's jacket. Aside from stirring a cake, she is barely involved in the movie until the Harrier sequence. Her story concludes with a visually stunning Harrier rescue, yet how can we care about her when we hardly know her? Still, at least the point is made that Harry doesn't know his daughter any better than we do.

GIL

You know, it's not just because you're a bad parent, I mean, kids, today, are ten years ahead of where we were at the same age. Hey, you think she's still a virgin?

HARRY

Don't be ridiculous, she's only... What is she now?

GIL

She's 14 Harry!

HARRY

She's only 14 years old.

Harry's partner, Gill, seems to know much much more about Harry's daughter. We see no more than a superficial exploration of the relationship between Harry and Dana. The daughter as an essential character to the story's solution or resolution seems quite invalid. We could easily dispose of her, and never miss her. Since we are first talking about cutting out two of the stories and later exploring ways to integrate them, let's just have the happy couple be childless and lop off the harrier sequence at the end.

What?!? Lose all that wonderful Harrier CGI?!? Yep. Car crashes and high-tech planes are a dime a dozen as action fodder. If you don't care about the people involved, you might as well go to the demolition derby. But how would we eliminate the villain if not by Harrier? How about by helicopter? Instead of landing for the Big Nuke, Harry could have just stayed on the copter, caught up to the villain and blown him out of the sky. THEN he lands and kisses his wife while the bomb goes off in the background.

Of course, rescuing the daughter was supposed to resolve her belief that her father didn't care about her. But did it really do that? The only clue we have is that just before Harry and Helen (his wife) are called out on assignment from their dinner table, Dana is sitting there all clean cut. Somehow shifting from grunge to debutante "one year later" is to serve as author's proof that she now understands that her father cares for her.

But what about Harry and the Harrier as he calls up to his daughter, "Trust me."? What about it? The issue was never whether Dana trusted him. That was Helen's issue. Dana just didn't think he cared. We don't get that from his showing up in a plane like Captain America and telling her to trust him. Presumably, the shock of seeing your computer salesman dad in a Harrier might just overshadow that event as single-handedly proving that he cares. So, we lose Dana's story and along with it, unfortunately, some exceptional CGI.

Liability #2

Now we have the "man who thinks his wife is cheating" story to dispose of. This story is developed better than the daughter's. Here, at least, we have some real emotion. Harry loves Helen, but does Helen still love Harry? From the look of things, no. He eavesdrops on a single conversation she has on the phone and is immediately convinced she is having an affair.

SIMON

Helen, it's Simon. Is it safe to talk?

HELEN

Yes.

SIMON

Listen, I can't talk long...Can you meet me for lunch tomorrow? I must to see you.

HELEN

I suppose so. Where?

SIMON

Same place. 1:00 o'clock. I have to go now. See you tomorrow. Remember, I need you.

Well, the overtones there were rather good, so we buy his conviction. He investigates, puts her in situations that force her to lie, and ultimately frightens and browbeats her in a high-tech sweat session. This story starts VERY well . . . and it develops well . . . and then it doesn't end when it should. In the interrogation scene, Harry comes to realize Helen is telling the truth about not having or even intending to have an affair. He almost becomes a human character when he starts to feel saddened and guilty for his lack of trust in her when he has been lying to her all these years. Helen admits that she has been tempted toward the excitement of the moment, but never to have an affair.

HELEN

I needed to feel alive. I just wanted to do something outrageous, and it felt really good to be needed, and to be trusted, and to be special. It's just that there is so much I wanted to do with this life, and it's like I haven't done any of it, and the sand's running out of the sand glass, and I just wanted to be able to look back and say:

"See, I did that. I was reckless and wild and I fucking did it." Quite frankly, I don't give a shit if you understand that or not!

She beats on the window and Harry is shamed. Still he puts the question to her:

HARRY

Do you love your husband?

HELEN

Yes, I love him. I've always loved him, and I will always love him.

That's when he should have come out of the control room, embraced her and begged her forgiveness. She is angry, she is hurt, but he is genuinely repentive. Does she love him even after this or has he lost her forever with his lack of trust? Dissolve to "one year later" at the party scene and we see the two of them tangoing together. She has forgiven him, he has learned his lesson, and she gets her excitement. Happy ending, the party bookends the story.

In True Lies the story doesn't end there. Harry doesn't reveal himself. Rather than asking her forgiveness for all he has already done to her, he inflicts further emotional stress by making Helen believe her family is in danger.

HARRY
(to Gil)

She wants a little adventure, so I'm going to give her one.

(to Helen)

I'm offering you a choice. If you work for us, we will drop the charges and you can go back to your normal life, if not, you will go to federal prison, and your husband and daughter will be left waiting and alone. Your life will be destroyed.

*****

More lies. Nothing learned. Then, he manipulates her, and humiliates her while he watches like a lecher. Not an admirable character. Oh, sure, she beats him on the head before she knows who he is. Wouldn't it have been better under the circumstances if she beat the tar out of him after she recognized him? But all this is swept under the carpet by the Objective story when the terrorists kidnap them both from the room. That's no way to resolve a Subjective problem!
Which brings up the question of where that particular problem DOES resolve. In fact, it never does. There is never a scene in which Helen forgives Harry or in which he asks forgiveness. They just sort of come out of it like two people who have been married a long time, have a spat, and it just blows over. But you sure don't find romance in a party scene stemming from a relationship like that! We needed to see this one resolve. Since we didn't and since the Objective story wanted to focus more on the terrorists, let's axe this story as well.

What does that leave us with? An opening scene in which a spy does spy things. Harry comes home to his "normal" family who don't know. He is "marked" by the villain. Terrorists break into his house, take him and his wife hostage. Helen is shocked to find that Harry has been lying to her and doesn't want anything to do with him. She won't trust anything he says. On the island, he is given truth serum. She learns that he really does love her. When it wears off, he starts grandstanding to win her back. He tells a few white lies to make himself look better in her eyes and gets caught in the fibs. Now she REALLY doesn't trust him. She won't believe anything he says, which puts a big crimp in his ability to get them safely off the island and stop the terrorists.
Helen ends up in the runaway limo on the bridge. Harry catches up by helicopter. He yells to her that the bridge is out, but she can't see it behind the fire and believes he is still grandstanding to win her back. No matter what he says, she doesn't believe him and time is running out. Finally, Harry tells her that if he is lying now, then she must believe he never loved her. She makes a leap of faith, hoping that his love is enough to make him truthful. In fact, it is a literal leap of faith, as she takes his grip just in time to be pulled from the limo before in crashes off the collapsed bridge. Author's proof, she made the right choice. They land, they kiss, (bomb goes off), the end, no party scene.

But we cut out so much! True, but the film would have felt so much better! Still, its a shame to lose so many good storytelling concepts. If we could find a way to complete each story internally and then bring them all together in a single film, we might be able to have our cake and eat it too. How might we complete, then combine them to cater to their strengths and compensate for their weaknesses?

Turning Liabilities into Assets

Let's open with the party scene. Just for kicks, lets see something at the party or the computer room that hints at the nuclear connection. Harry goes home to his "normal" family life. We learn that his daughter believes he doesn't care "because you're never there." Dana has to say this at least once. We need a scene with her, not just a moment when she gets the gift. She goes off with the boyfriend and Harry sees and HEARS her with the hidden camera as her boyfriend tells her, "You sure your dad won't mind you going?" Dana replies, "He doesn't care about anything I do. Sometimes I feel like I don't even have a dad." Well, maybe the dialog is clunky, but you get the idea: we set it up that Harry is never there for her when she needs him.

Now, the "affair" proceeds as it was filmed. But when we come to the interrogation scene, Jamie makes more of a point about how her life is so boring. (We could foreshadow and support this in the office scene earlier when she got the call from the used car salesman). Harry breaks down, feeling shamed. His buddy tells him to go in and ask her forgiveness. He says he can't because she'll never trust him again. He believes he'll lose her. Harry still can't tell the truth. Instead, he decides to lie even more in an attempt to win her back.

GIL

What are you doing Harry??

HARRY

Just giving her a little assignment.

GIL

You got to be shittin' me!?!

Harry decides to set it all up, trying to give her what she fantasizes about and winning her back in the process. (Sure, its self-serving to the male audience, but that's the intended audience, after all.) But when Helen goes up to the room, humiliates herself and finds out it is Harry, she lambastes him with the phone. Before the issue between them can be resolved, the terrorists show up and take them away.

Harry and Helen end up on the island as described above where she is sure he loves her but still he lies to win her back. Her lack of trust hinders his ability to get them safely off the island. Helen ends up in the limo, makes the leap of faith (after all, for the intended audience the woman has to be the one to change), they land, kiss, nuclear bomb, and then they get the word that Dana has been taken.

We cut to the terrorists holding Dana. We need the villain to tell her she is bait to lure her father. She tells him that her dad won't come: he doesn't care about her at all. Again, she HAS to say this at least once. NOW, we have all the elements in place for her to be surprised not only by her daddy in a Harrier, but that it is HER DADDY. Harry's line is not "trust me", but "I love you." And that is when Dana jumps because she knows her daddy will catch her.

One year later, the happy family, the phone call, the party bookend, and just before the tango, Harry picks up something for his daughter as a souvenir. He says, "This is for Dana, she loves unicorns," letting us know that he has come to care enough about his daughter to know her special likes. Then the tango, roll credits, happy ending.

The interesting thing about this minor rewrite is that it would have added nothing to the budget. All that was required was a minute or two of new film in existing locations with existing cast and a few additional lines of dialog. Yet, with that little effort, rather than being true liabilities, the "three unsuccessful stories" could have gotten this film's storyforming assets in gear. And that's no lie.

Jurassic Park: Building A Better Dinosaur

by Melanie Anne Phillips

creator StoryWeaver, co-creator Dramatica

Jurassic Park is wonderfully entertaining. The concepts are intriguing, the visuals stunning. Everything it does, it does well. Unfortunately, it doesn't do enough. There are parts missing, little bits of story DNA that are needed to complete the chain. To be fair, these problems largely result from the mostly faithful adherence to the dramatic structure and dynamics of the book upon which the movie is based.

Storyform, the structure and dynamics of a story, is not medium dependent. What works in one medium will work in all others. Storytelling, however, must vary significantly to take advantage of the strengths and avoid the weaknesses inherent in any format. Jurassic Park makes this storytelling translation very well, but the flawed dramatics were nearly lifted intact, shackling the movie just like the book with a Pterodactyl hanging `round its neck.

Yet criticisms are a dime a dozen. Suggestions for improvement are much more rare. Fortunately that is the strong suit of the Dramatica theory. Here is one plan for building a better dinosaur.

Dramatica Background

As a starting point, Dramatica denotes a difference between a Tale and a Story. A Tale describes a series of events that lead to success or failure. It carries the message that a particular way of going about solving the problem is or is not a good one. But a Story is an argument that there is only one right way to solve a problem. It is a much more potent form that seeks to have the audience accept the author's conclusions.

To gain an audience's acceptance, an argument (Story) must appeal to both logic and feeling. To make the logical part of this argument, all the inappropriate ways a problem might be approached need to be addressed and shown to fail. Each one must be given its due and shown not to work except the one touted by the author. This is accomplished by looking at the characters and the plot objectively, much like a general on a hill watching a battle down below. The big picture is very clear and the scope and ramifications of the individual soldiers can be seen in relationship to the entire field.

However, to make the emotional part of the argument, the audience must become involved in the story at a personal level. To this end, they are afforded a Subjective view of the story through the eyes of the Main Character. Here they get to participate in the battle as if they were actually one of the soldiers in the trenches. It is the differential between the Subjective view of the Main Character and the Objective view of the whole battle that generates dramatic tension from which the message of the story is created.

By comparing the two views, the argument is made to the audience that the Main Character must change to accommodate the big picture, or that the Main Character is on the right track and must hold on to their resolve if they hope to succeed. Of course, the Main Character cannot see the big picture, so they must make a leap of faith near the end of the story, deciding if they want to stick it out or change.

Now this relationship between the Main Character and the Objective story makes them a very special character. In fact, they hold the key to the whole battle. They are the crucial element in the dramatic web who (through action or inaction) can wrap the whole thing up or cause it to fall apart. As a result, the personal problems they face reflect the nature of the Objective problem of the story at large.

To the audience there are two problems in a story. One is the Objective problem that everyone is concerned with; the other is the Subjective problem that the Main Character is personally concerned with. Although the problems may be greatly different in the way they are manifest, they both hinge on the crucial element in the Main Character as their common root. So, to be a complete argument a story must explore an Objective AND a Subjective problem, and show how they are both related to the same source.

Jurassic Park Analysis:

Jurassic Park attempts to be a story (not a tale) but does not make it because its exploration of the Subjective problem is lacking.

The Objective problem is clearly shown to be caused by the relationship of Order to Chaos. The message of the logical side of the argument is that the more you try to control something, the more you actually open yourself up to the effects of chaos. As Princess Leia put it to the Gran Mof Tarkin in Star Wars, "The more you tighten your grip, the more star systems will slip through your fingers."

Since Order is actually the problem, the Chaos must be the solution. This is vaguely alluded to in Jurassic Park when the Tyrannosaurus wipes out the Raptors, unknowingly saving the humans. Although the point is not strongly stated, it is sort of there. We will come back to this point later to show how it should have been a much more dramatically integral event than it was. The important concept at the moment is that as far as it goes, the Objective Storyline is fairly close to what it should be, which is true of most action-oriented stories.

It is the Subjective Storyline that fails to fulfill its dramatic mandate in Jurassic Park. To see how we must go back to the very beginning of the film, to our Main Character, Dr. Alan Grant. Since Dr. Grant contains the crucial element, we would expect him to intersect the Objective Story's problem by representing Order or Chaos. Clearly the author intended him to represent Order. This means that he contains the Problem element (the inappropriate attitude or approach that is the underlying source of the Story's troubles), rather than the Solution Element, and as such must Change in order to succeed.

The entire first scene with Grant at the dig should have illustrated his love of Order. All the elements were there: a disruptive boy, a randomly sensitive computer, a helicopter that comes out of nowhere and ruins the dig. All of these things could have illustrated Grant's hatred of Chaos and his quest for Order. Using the same events and incidents the point might have been made in any number of ways, the easiest being a simple comment by Dr. Grant himself.

Unfortunately without any direct allusion to Order being his primary concern, Dr. Grant comes off simply as finding disruptions inconvenient, faulty equipment annoying, and kids as both.

Why is it so important to set up the nature of the problem so early? Well, one of the major problems with the Jurassic Park storyform is that we really don't know what the problem is until near the end of the first act. Certainly almost every movie goer must have been aware that this was a picture about an island where they cloned dinosaurs back to life, and they run amok wreaking havoc - that's all storytelling. But that doesn't say why. The "Why" is the storyform: the excuse, if you will, for having a story to tell. If the point of contention had been established up front, the whole thrust of the picture would have been given direction from scene one.

Just stating that Dr. Grant shares the problem with the story is obviously not enough. The relationship between his view of the problem and the Objective view of the problem is what explores the concept, makes the argument, and allows the Main Character to grow. Ultimately, it is the differential between the two that brings a Changing (versus Steadfast) Main Character to suspect the error of their ways and make a positive leap of faith. They see the problem outside themselves, then find it inside themselves. They change the inside, and the outside follows suit.

What does this mean for Jurassic Park? As it is, Doctor Grant's attitude toward John Hammond's ability to control the dinosaurs is one of skepticism, but not because of Order, because of Chaos. Grant simply agrees with Ian Malcolm, the mathematician. This makes the same point from two directions. But Grant's function is not to tout Chaos, but to favor Order. Only this point of view would be consistent with his feelings toward the children.

As illustrated in the table scene with Hammond, Ian, and Elissa, Grant jumps from representing his original approach to representing the opposite, neutralizing his effectiveness as owner of the crucial element and taking the wind out of the dramatic sails.

This problem could have been easily avoided and strong drama created by having Dr. Grant continue to believe that the park is unsafe, but for different reasons.

(Note: The following proposed scene is designed to illustrate how Grant's and Ian's positions on what is needed for the park to be safe is different. The storytelling is minimal so as not to distract from the storyforming argument.

GRANT

How can you be sure your creations won't escape?

HAMMOND

Each compound is completely encircled with electric fences.

GRANT

How many fences?

HAMMOND

Just one, but it is 10,000 volts.

GRANT

That's not enough....

HAMMOND

I assure you, even a T-Rex respects 10,000 volts!

GRANT

No, I mean not enough fences. It's been my experience that Dr. Malcom is right. You can't count on things going the way you expect them. You need back-ups to your back-ups. Leave a soft spot and Chaos will find it. Put three fences around each compound, each with a separate power source and then you can bring people in here.

MALCOLM

That's not the point at all! Chaos will happen no matter how much you prepare. In fact, the more you try to control a situation, the greater the potential that chaos will bring the whole thing down.

******

In the above scene, Grant stresses the need for even MORE control than Hammond used. This clearly establishes his aversion to giving in to chaos. But Ian illustrates the difference in their points of view by stating that the greater the control you exercise, the more you tighten the spring of chaos.

What would this mean for the middle of the story? Plenty. Once Grant and the children are lost in the open with the thunder lizards, he might learn gradually that one must allow Chaos to reach an equilibrium with Order. Several close encounters with the dinos might result in minor successes and failures determined by applying Order or allowing Chaos.

As it stands, Dr. Grant simply learns to care about the children. But what has really changed in him? What did he learn? Would it not have been more dramatically pleasing to have the children teach him how chaos is not just a disruptive element, but sometimes an essential component of life? And would it not make sense for someone who has spent his whole life imagining the way dinosaurs lived to be surprised by the truth when he sees them in person? What a wonderful opportunity to show how the Orderly interactions he had imagined for his beloved beasts are anything but orderly in the real world. So many opportunities to teach him the value of Chaos, yet all we get is "They DO travel in herds... I was right!" Well, that line is a nice place to start, especially if you spend the rest of the story showing how wrong he was about everything else. Truly a good place to start growing from.

Perhaps the most disappointing aspect of the Subjective Storyline is the manner in which they escape in the end. Grant and the kids are sealed in the control room, but the Raptors are right outside. The girl struggles to get the computer up so they can get the door locked. This of course, merely delays the Raptors until the helpless humans can escape into another Raptor attack. Then out of nowhere, T-Rex conveniently barges in, kills the Raptors and allows the humans to escape? Why? Why then? Was T-Rex just waiting in the wings for his cue?

Let's describe one possible ending that would've tied in Chaos, Dr. Grant's personal problem of order in the Subjective storyline, his growth as a character and eventual change, AND have all this force a successful outcome to the Objective storyline.

Imagine that earlier in the story, when the power went down it only affected some of the compounds, not all. So only some of the areas were open to the roving dinos. Rather than having Elissa get the power back on for the fences, she merely powers up the computer system, but then no one can boot it up.

Dr. Grant and the kids make it back to the control room, barely escaping the T-Rex who is trapped by one of the functional electric fences. They climb over the fence on a tree knocked down by the Tyrannosaurus. The Raptors are at the door of the control room, the girl goes to the computer to lock the door. She locks it, then tells Grant she can bring up the rest of the fences. There might be some kind of visual reminder in the room (such as a dino picture) that Grant (and the audience) associate with his major learning experience with the kids about needing to accept Chaos. Grant almost allows her to bring up the power, then yells for her to stop. He tells her not to bring it up, but to actually cut the power on all of the fences.

Just as before, the Raptors break in, the humans escape onto the dino skeletons. NOW, when T-Rex comes in to save the day, it is solely because of Dr. Grant's decision to cut the power to the fence that was holding him in. Having learned his lesson about the benefits of Chaos and the folly of Order, he is a changed man. The author's proof of this correct decision is their salvation courtesy of T-Rex.

Equilibrium is established on the island, Grant suddenly loves kids, he gets the girl, they escape with their lives, and all because the crucial element of Order connected both the Objective and Subjective storylines.

Certainly, Dramatica has many more suggestions for Building a Better Dinosaur, but, leapin' lizards, don't you think this is enough for one Constructive Criticism?

Structure vs. Passion

by Melanie Anne Phillips
creator StoryWeaver, co-creator Dramatica

No one reads a book or goes to a movie to enjoy a good structure. No author writes because he is driven to create a sound structure. Audiences and authors come to opposite sides of a story because of their passions - the author driven to express his, and the audience hoping to ignite its own.

As an audience, what draws us to a story in the first place is our attraction to the subject matter and the style. We might love a taut mystery, a fulfilling romance, or a chilling horror story. We might be intrigued by the potential applications of a new discovery of science, the exploration of newly unearthed ancient city, or the life of a celebrity.

As an author what brings us to write a story may be a clever concept for an action sequence, a bit of dialog, a notion for a character, a setting, time period, a favorite topic, or a clever twist of plot. Or, we might have a deep-seated need to express a childhood experience, work out an irrational fear, or make a public statement about a social injustice.

No matter what our attraction as audience or author, it is our passions that trigger our imaginations. But passion rides on structure, and if the structure is flawed or even broken, then the passionate expression from author to audience will fall.

When structure is done properly, it is invisible, serving only as the carrier wave that delivers the passion to the audience. But when structure is flawed, it adds static to the flow of emotion, breaking up and possibly scrambling the passion so badly that the audience gets nothing of what the author was sending.

Yet, the attempt to ensure a sound structure is an intellectual pursuit. Questions such as "Who is my Protagonist?" "Where should my story begin?" "What happens in Act Two?" or "What is my message?" force an author to turn away from his passion and embrace logistics instead.

As a result, an author often becomes mired in the nuts and bolts of storytelling, staring at a blank page not because of a lack of inspiration, but because he can’t figure out how to make his passion make sense. Worse, the re-writing process is often grueling and frustrating, forcing the author to accept unwanted changes in the flow of emotion for the sake of logic. So what is an author to do? Is there any way out of this dilemma?

With Dramatica you’ll discover a new way of working with stories - a method that allows an author to retain his passion even while serving the demands of structure. This system can be used both before you write to know exactly where things will be going and also after you write to find and refine the structure already hidden in your passion.

You won’t be asked to discard any techniques or approaches you are currently using. Rather, you’ll simply be adding to what you already know, to what you are already doing; extending your understanding of how stories really work and how to write them. So embark on an expedition into the uncharted frontiers of story structure. The risks are low, the potential rewards are great, and all you need to carry with you are your own passions.