Journal: The Confrontation

Journal: The Confrontation

by Paul Adams

Today, I would like to talk about the Confrontation. In case you don’t know,  the “three-act structure” consists of three parts: the setup, the confrontation, and the resolution. The setup and resolution should be generally small, taking up only a fourth or so of the total length of the story, coming at the beginning and end respectively. For a long time I considered them the most important parts of the story. If you can put together a good setup and a fulfilling climax, your story was good. The confrontation was just the in-between.

Now, while the setup and resolution are important, I’ve recently come to the conclusion that the confrontation is arguably the most important piece of your work. The confrontation itself takes up the bulk of the story, at least half of the work in the center and, like a sandwich, should contain the meat of the story’s content. The saying I’ve been using lately is that it should “show the viewer what THEY came to see.”

What do I mean by this? Well, if someone were to go to a sporting event, they wouldn’t be there to see two hours of detailed introductions on each player, manager, and ref involved, followed by about five minutes of gameplay, would they? (Of course, every sporting event I’ve ever been to seems to do this. But then, I’m not a sports guy, so what do I know?) Too often, a writer, filmmaker, musician, or otherwise forgets this. They get too wrapped up in telling THEIR story, that they forget that their audience couldn’t really care less about THEIR story. The trick, I’ve found, is to give the audience what THEY came for, and then weave YOUR story into it.

I suppose a good demonstration of this in the cinematic world is the difference between last year’s Batman v. Superman: Dawn of Justice and Pixar’s Finding Nemo. When it comes to Batman v. Superman, it should be obvious what the audience came for. Batman (wait for it) versus Superman. So then, according to the three-act structure, the first fourth of the movie should then have showed us A) who is Batman, B) who is Superman, and C) why they want to fight each other. Simple, right? Then the next hour to two hours of the movie should then have been Batman (can you guess?) fighting Superman. Some parts straight up action, some parts mental games, some parts strategy and preparation, but nevertheless a whole lot of Batman versus Superman, followed up by a satisfying conclusion that puts an end to their fighting. However, what we got was two hours of endless talking and setup, not only for Batman versus Superman but for a larger movie universe as a whole, followed by eight minutes total of actual Batman versus Superman.

Now compare that to Finding Nemo, Pixar’s endearing story about a fish father finding his fish son and crossing a whole ocean to do so. In the first fifteen minutes or so, we get a clear and concise set up of A) who Marlin is, B) who Nemo is, C) How Nemo gets captured. During the next hour or so, the audience is then treated to an adventure across a vast ocean featuring encounters with sharks, turtles, jellyfish, ocean mines, anglerfish, whales, swarms of fish, and of course Dory. Couple that off with segments of Nemo experiencing life in a fish tank, encountering his fellow fish, filters, tank features like volcanoes, kids tapping on the glass, and kids shaking the fish bag too much. All in all, more than enough to satisfy and surpass the viewers’ expectations. Then finally we get our conclusion that wraps up nicely the emotional baggage set up in the beginning.

This is something to remember throughout any genre or medium. Harry Potter, while containing several great moments of storytelling, devotes most of its time to immersing its reader in this world of magic and especially the various aspects of Hogwarts. When making a horror film, the Setup period should be spent setting up the monster and the cannon fodder, while then spending the bulk of the film building suspense and squeezing every ounce of terror from the audience. In an action movie, most of the film should be, of course, filled with non-stop action. In essence, remember what the story should be, what the audience came for, and give it to them. Whatever world you have promised them, show it to them. Nothing turns off a reader or viewer more than wanting to swim out and breathe in the full world the story has laid out for them, but constantly being driven along a narrow course through the most boring part of it just because the writer's too wrapped up in THEIR story. So, let them explore it. Immerse them in it. Give them all they hoped for and more. If you don’t, it won’t matter how good you think YOUR story is. It will never be heard.

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Journal: Franchise Building

Journal: Franchise Building

by Paul Adams

            So, here’s a thought I had on trying to start on franchises. I was recently watching a video on the recent video-game-based movie Warcraft, a film that was received with less-than-enthusiastic reception as a messy and confusing film, that was however beautiful and full of immense detail perfectly recreating the world of World of Warcraft. Several comments I read tried to defend the film, as a “worldbuilding film”: a movie that did the work of creating the world of the story so that other movies later down the road could then move in and tell an actually good story.

            As I pondered this, I considered several other works in the same vein that worked or didn’t work. The original Star Wars and Fellowship of the Ring are two of the most notable examples, films that set up a world, but still remained solid films that could be enjoyed alone. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone did the job as well, as a book, and for the most part, as a movie. Iron Man did this for the entire thirteen films and counting of the Marvel Cinematic Universe. Films such as Dragonball Evolution, The Last Airbender, Eragon, and most recently, DC’s attempt to catch up to Marvel with Batman v. Superman, did not.

            The theory I formulated I will call the “Burger Theory.” Imagine you go to a Burger Joint and order a burger. When your food arrives, you are surprised to find only the bottom bun on your plate. You complain to your server, but he assures you that the bun is simply there to set up your burger and that if you wait two to three more years, you will get a patty. Two years after that, you’ll get your entire burger. They tell you that they hope you’ll be willing to wait that long, promising you that the burger you get in the end will be more than worth it.

            A few days later, you go to a different Burger Joint and ask for a burger. Soon enough, you are served an entire burger, and the server tells you that if you enjoyed the first, you are welcome to order a second. You eat, and it’s . . . good? Bad? Either way, you got a whole burger.

            The problem with the “It’s a worldbuilding film” defense, is that that shouldn’t be good enough. A viewer, reader, or otherwise should never be forced to settle for just a bun, hoping a great burger will come years down the road. If you did that in an actual Burger Joint, you’d never get a repeat customer. Why then, as a writer, creator, or artist, would you expect anyone to do any different when it comes to a work of fiction.

            The Marvel Cinematic Universe has grown from a simple standalone film about the origins of Iron Man to a massive interconnected universe featuring thirteen plus films, each raking in millions upon millions of dollars with every single entry, two television series, and three critically acclaimed Netflix series. Much of this wouldn’t even be possible without that first Iron Man film. One of the most important pieces to the success of Iron Man was that it remembered to tell its audience a good story. It had a charismatic and engaging lead, a clever script, and a level of depth that left the audience feeling more than satisfied. The only clue the audience had that it was supposed to lead into a wider universe didn’t even come until the now-famous postcredits scene, in which Samuel L. Jackson’s Nick Fury appears to Tony Stark to talk to him about the “Avenger Initiative.” In a figurative sense, the servers waited until the patrons had finished up their delicious burger before approaching and offering them a little bit more.

            On the other side of that coin was DC’s Batman v. Superman. The history of DC films is a rocky one. For many years, the only movies based on DC characters were Batman or Superman films, half of which were often poorly received. Their greatest claim to fame was Christopher Nolan’s Dark Knight trilogy. Nearly any attempt they had made to branch out to other properties were often met with catastrophic failure, some few examples being Supergirl, Catwoman, and Green Lantern. During all of this, Marvel slowly built up their cinematic behemoth, dwarfing DC and leaving them far behind in the dust.

            Their latest Superman film Man of Steel was met with mixed reviews, but DC was done with being left behind by Marvel. In a risky and desperate move, they pumped millions of dollars into jumpstarting a combined universe off of Man of Steel’s groundwork, their first entry being what they thought would be a shoe-in with Batman v. Superman: Dawn of Justice. What we got instead was a tedious and messy movie, skipping several of the much needed steps Marvel had taken by building up their universe slowly over time, instead opting to throw as much at the screen as they could, shouting to the audience, “Hey, look, it’s Wonder Woman! Hey, look, we’ve got the Flash! Aquaman! Let’s throw in Doomsday and kill off Superman in the second outing, instead of way down the line as it should be! That’ll get us back up to Marvel’s level.”

            In a sense, DC gave us a plate chock-full of fries and chocolate sundaes and sodas and salads around a single bun, when all we’d wanted was a simple burger.

            In the end, works like Iron Man, Star Wars, Fellowship, and Harry Potter did not try to force their great expanded universes on anyone. They told an interesting story and left their audiences feeling satisfied and excited. They got their sequels because the viewers wanted more. They delivered their promised burger, and the audience came back for seconds. Movies like Batman v. Superman and Warcraft tried to feed their viewers a piece of a story, making grand shows about having much more to come without actually delivering in the first outing. When this comes to my writing, it reflects how I used to go about writing the story versus what I’m trying to do now. Originally, my first book was full of stuff that led into later books without necessarily going anywhere and getting the audience lost and confused. In my newest attempt, I am trying to focus on writing the first book and let it stand on its own, while having a plan for later books that all could work together as a whole once finished. It’s a fragile balance, but hopefully one I can pull off.

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