CHAPTER ONE — CHOOSING AN IDEA

Mother Lodes – Choosing Ideas That Have a LOT of Potential

Choosing an idea for your film is a bit like selecting where to set up a gold mine. Some places will offer you a few nuggets, and in others you’ll hit the mother lode. Both starting points can be the basis for a great story—those nuggets are still gold—but “mother lodes,” relatable ideas that offer many levels of clear drama and narrative options, tend to be easier to develop and more accessible to audiences.

Clearly, Pixar goes for the mother lodes. Part of the studio’s success comes from its ability to recognize and develop strong, engaging ideas, which usually come with powerful, built in emotional weight. These ideas evoke a rich exotic world that offers many possibilities for imaginative set pieces, visual richness and original scenes. More importantly, these ideas contain tremendous physical and emotional stakes, which makes them immediately enticing and accessible.

Leaving the Comfort Zone. More Discomfort = More Story

How do you shape a story idea to have emotional stakes? Most good stories revolve around watching a character struggle outside of its comfort zone. Pixar continually figures out what a protagonist wants most—and then throws the exact opposite at them. This state of discomfort is gold for writers for a couple of reasons.

On a narrative level, it simply creates scenes. It gives you, as a writer, immediate material to work with. If you’re writing about a rat trying to cook in a sewer it might be cute and even original, but not necessarily interesting or dramatic. But if you’re writing about a rat trying to cook in a gourmet restaurant, narrative questions immediately arise: How does he get in? How can he do it on a regular basis? What happens when someone sees him? What happens when his dishes turn out great? All of those lead to story strands that can be explored and harvested. All it took was placing a character in the most challenging setting it could be.

On a different, deeper level, your idea must force your characters to go through an emotional journey. An uncomfortable character is compelled to work hard to get back to its comfort zone, just like we would in real life. This desire propels actions, decisions and emotions, which are the meat of your
story’s inner narrative. Toy Story’s concept of “toys are actually alive” is immediately an exciting one that offers many narrative possibilities and a rich world to explore. It isn’t until the concept evolves into “favorite toy gets replaced by a newer, shinier toy,” that emotional stakes are introduced.

What is the core idea of your story? Does it offer many possibilities for dramatic moments? Does it impart strong, specific emotional discomfort to your protagonist? Do you mine this discomfort to create scenes and movements that affect your characters emotionally? What is the Flaw in your fictional universe? Is it closely related to the plot you constructed? Do they mutually enhance and enrich each other? Do all of your characters, narrative decisions, scenes and themes pertain to your core idea? Are you constantly exploring and expanding the seed of your story as it progresses? Have you branched off in directions that aren’t part of your core idea?

CHAPTER TWO — CREATING COMPELLING CHARACTERS

Of course, opinions don't just manifest out of the ether. Think of your own opinions. They are most likely conclusions you have arrived at through your upbringing and years of education and experience. The same is true for your characters. You don't need to flash back to fifth grade to explain every attitude your character has, but strong opinions are often shaped by a character's past. It's even better if that past is rife with conflict and tension.

Common screenwriting lore often considers flashbacks as a tricky, treacherous tool that usually does more harm than good and should be avoided when possible. According to these "dry rules," many of Pixar's prologues should be jettisoned, especially considering that some of them are mostly expositional. However, these sequences work wonderfully, providing yet again that screenwriting rules should always be understood and examined rather than taken as blanket statements.

Pixar's flashbacks work so well because they are usually very economical, entertaining and well-placed. They usually occur at the beginning of a film, making them more of a prologue than a flashback, or they arrive organically as the story unfolds, as a part of a character's action or reaction.

Creating compelling characters is one of the biggest challenges you will face as a writer. You must use all of your originality and insight to create a distinct and memorable individual whose story, appearance, and world are unique. Most importantly, your characters should care about your ideas, values, and people, ideally out of a specific, opinionated point of view. When your character's opinions are rooted in their experiences, especially painful experiences, it gives them depth and makes them more realistic. These three tools— passion, opinions, and experience—make the events in your story more meaningful and dramatic for your characters, and by proxy, for your audience.

CHAPTER THREE — CREATING EMPATHY

The first layer of a character is easy to create but fades quickly. The third layer requires more details and originality, as well as more patience from your audience, but is more rewarding and creates a stronger bond with the viewers. The second layer lies somewhere in between. You can coast on it for a long time, but without the substantial third layer, it won't resonate with your audience.

Empathy is a powerful phenomenon. Our ability to adopt the point of view of someone who seems completely different from us based on our shared core humanity is one of our distinctly human abilities. Use it wisely; the further you take us into the heart of someone completely different, the more rewarding and transformative our journey will be.

There's another method of creating empathy with a character, and arguably it is the most crucial; Place them in trouble. But remember that no one enjoys merely watching someone else suffer—simply tormenting your characters will cause more pity and aversion than empathy. Instead, characters should be placed in harm's way and then forced to bravely chart their course out of it.

CHAPTER FOUR — DRAMA AND CONFLICT

Fighting for their life is the biggest conflict a character can face, as death is an insurmountable obstacle to all goals a character might have. This is something writers can use, especially when depicting dangerous worlds.

Keep in mind that life-threatening situations are just a starting point. Death is an obstacle to all goals, but merely living is a dull goal. Designing specific, personal goals for your protagonists, based on their opinions and desires, can lead you toward more interesting conflicts that you should develop and explore.

Pixar's films often depict dangerous worlds rife with life-and-death situations, where losing the struggle would mean the demise of the protagonist. While these conflicts are entertaining and easily relatable, Pixar strives to create deep emotional effects on its audience. To achieve them, they create strong internal conflicts.

These kinds of conflicts are challenging to create and communicate. They must be rooted in the opinions and beliefs of a character and must put them in danger of losing something dear, usually a part of their identity. To express the emotional forces struggling within, we must find filmable, external expressions of the conflicts: other characters, mementos, dialogue, or a symbol system that is clear to the audience. Making your situation extreme also helps convey the meaning of your character's struggle.

The best kind of conflict offers a chance for both destruction and construction, which would have a fortifying effect against the antagonistic forces. Construction can only come from change, to which characters and people are naturally averse. Therefore, the quality of the conflict in your script is measured by the believable change it propels in your characters. Change is the measuring unit of conflict.

CHAPTER FIVE — STRUCTURE

A satisfying story will usually have between three and five major events. While different theories give these events different names, they have become so common and useful that every writer should know their aliases. The first event is known as the “inciting incident.” It is the first meaningful event to happen in your story. It takes place in act one and begins the plot and propels your protagonist to act.

The second event is known as the “first plot point.” It often cements the protagonist’s commitment to their quest and serves as an inciting incident of sorts for the second act, sending our hero in a new direction. The first plot point usually happens around the quarter mark of the film. Sometimes it converges with the inciting incident.

The third major event is the “second plot point,” which takes place around the three-quarter mark of the film. The second plot point will usually feature a strong blow to our protagonists and will set up the third act. The last major event is the “climax” of your story. The climax should be a suspenseful, grand scene rife with conflict that answers the main dramatic question of your story. It will usually take place several minutes before the end of your film.

The best way to think of plot points is as a combination of an inciting incident and a climax. The inciting incident begins a story, raises dramatic questions, and sends a character on a journey. The climax answers dramatic questions and features a tense, potent moment of conflict, which is resolved in a satisfying manner. Plot points must do both. They must set your hero on a new path while also resolving some of the dramatic questions already raised—though never the dramatic question of your story. Because plot points are a combination of inciting incident and climax, they aren’t as potent a catalyst as the former nor as final a resolution as the latter.

CHAPTER SIX — CASTING CHARACTERS

Treat your story as an efficient machine. Every part of it should be treated with care and should be a part of your grand scheme. Nothing should be missing, and nothing should be redundant. This is especially true for your characters. While some characters may have specific functions to perform—obstacles, catalysts, and so on—they must also be drawn with care and imbued with their own stories and personalities. Never sacrifice honesty for originality or coolness. No matter what awesome invention you come up with, work hard to tie it to an emotional reality that is part of your fictional universe.

CHAPTER SEVEN — VILLAINS

Everything that makes your protagonist interesting—an existing flaw, experience, point of view, idiosyncrasies—your villain should have too. Villains make our protagonist’s life harder because they enjoy malicious activities or because they prioritize their pleasure over someone else’s wellbeing. Other antagonists may mean well but just happen to cause our protagonists grief.

“Good” villains appear, on the surface, to belong to the malicious group. They are often mean, indifferent to the pain they cause, and even terrifying. What differentiates them from malicious antagonists is that they have a benevolent core set of beliefs that strive to benefit their community. This is important. They can’t be purely self-interested. They never unfairly target anyone, and they don’t enjoy hurting people. Their moral compass is in place, and they have certain lines they will never cross.

You might argue that all villains have a value system that makes them believe their actions are right, and it’s true. The difference is that usually these values are egotistical or perverted, and are rooted in hatred or joy at the pain of others. “Good” villains have some altruistic motive within them. They may stand in the way of your protagonists, but they have an important function in their community, which they perform with strict integrity.

CHAPTER EIGHT — DEVELOPING AN IDEA

There are two main ways in which you can develop your idea. One is simply to explore your universe. If you’re writing about a futuristic resort spaceship, wander around it with your mind’s eye. What robots would it need? What utilities? What services would it offer? What would life be like on it? The spaceship in Wall-E is realistic because of the details Pixar came up with: the various robots that service the ship; the ways in which its denizens shop, eat, play, and socialize. They even created a very clear daily schedule for its captain. These details offer opportunities for set pieces, satire, and drama.

The other way to develop an idea focuses on the plan for your plot and characters. If you’ve decided that Marlin will find Nemo, you know the end of his destination. You must now design stops along the journey that will hinder and help him get there. These approaches aren’t mutually exclusive. You’ll often switch between them. One moment you are gathering information on your world and creating material for your story, and a moment later you are keeping or discarding your findings based on your plot’s needs.

How much do you know about your fictional world? Have you allowed yourself to wander through its streets and fields, talking to its denizens, or did you only mine the parts needed for your plot? Consider the expectations from the material you’re developing. Where can you subvert those expectations to create a moment that will surprise and delight your audience? If you’re stuck, consider what you don’t want to happen in your story world. Anything you eliminate will inevitably point toward something you would like to incorporate.

CHAPTER NINE — ENDINGS

Crafting a satisfying ending is one the biggest challenges you’ll face as a writer. A good ending must make sense without being predictable. It should come with a bit of a surprise but also justify and elucidate the journey leading it up to it. One key way to reach this goal is to tie the ending deeply to the actions and constitution of your protagonist. The final action must be a direct result of the journey your characters have taken. In other words, avoid coincidences.

Coincidences happen in life. Random, statistically unfeasible things happen daily. But they can’t happen to your characters, not when it counts. If you let your character’s fate—good or bad—simply fall in their lap, you’re robbing us of the joy of knowing who these characters really are.

Your ending must be a reflection of your character and a direct result of the path upon which they were set. It shouldn’t be expected or predictable, but it must be tied to your protagonist’s journey. One way to create this effect is to have the ending relate to a seed you have subtly planted earlier in the film. Hopefully the audience forgets about that detail. When this seed pays off in your resolution, the audience will feel an increased sense of cohesiveness, strengthening the meaning of your ending. Pixar film endings often involve creating a better world. The most moving of endings show the positive results of the journey your character has taken, preferably in a visual way.

Is your ending a coincidence, or is it linked through a chain of causality to your character’s actions? Does it tell us something new about your character’s personality? Does your ending feel like an inseparable part of your story? Is it linked strongly to your plot through dramatic questions you’ve left unanswered until later in the story? Lastly, does your story create a ripple effect? Does it change something in the people, community, or world surrounding your protagonist? Is there a clear, potent visual way to express this change?

CHAPTER TEN — THEMES

Okay, let’s say you’ve found your theme. It is an organic part of your universe, and even a part of your story. How can you make it clearer? How can you enrich it? How do you make it unique to your own fictional universe, rather than something trite? You must make your theme present in your universe. There are several ways to do so.

Theme is the part of your story that is universal and abstract. It isn’t part of your plot. It is what your plot expresses. Your theme should emerge naturally from the fictional universe you’ve chosen to explore. Once you’ve found your theme, use plot, characters, locations, objects, and dialogue to make it as present as possible in your screenplay.