What do we mean by cinematic

story and form?

Michael Lengsfield starts by taking a broad look at screen
stories.

Anyone who’s been to the pictures will have a perfectly good

notion of how screen stories operate. For example, most of us are
pretty clear that we like particular movie genres: we might like
RomComs and hate SciFi, or vice versa. And we know that
movies from these genres produce a certain response in us:
Comedies, make us laugh; Horror movies will scare us, and so on.
So we may not think about it, but we see most movies with a
pretty good idea of what to expect from the story.

But other, more general, aspects of the movies are so ingrained in

us that we may remain unaware of them. We instinctively know
the pace and rhythm of movies; we know the common qualities,
sometimes called conventions, of our favourite genres; and we
know that the story’s primary ‘question’ – the “what’s this about” -
will be resolved before the movie can end.

And we unconsciously know that other aspects of the movies

will usuallyhappen, but not always. For example, we know that
that the hero will be tested before he or she earns their happy
ending; that our major characters will usually change or develop
over the course of the film; and that love always seems to win out.
It’s the screenwriter’s job to craft a story that responds to this mix
of familiar conventions and audience expectations – and find a
way to make it feel fresh and original.

Basic characteristics of screen story

First, screenwriting is a dramatic form, which means that we’re
creating a script for actors to perform in front of the cameras. So, a
screenplay is often similar to the script for a stage play. It’s
constructed with “Dramatic Action”, a term that refers to character
movement with consequence. It builds the story on a certain sort
of causality. E.M. Forster once remarked that, “The king died and
then the queen died is a story. The king died, and then the queen
died of grief is a plot.” i Most movies are built around a plot.

And, the story is constructed to take advantage of the

considerable power of cinema. The visual experience
happens to us. It can be grand, perhaps in the films of David
Lean; overwhelming in the sci-fi worlds of Ridley Scott; or
evocative, as in the films of Lynne Ramsay or Andrea Arnold.
Colm Toibin, whose novel Brooklyn was recently adapted into a
film, remarked that Saoirse Ronan’s character Eilis was able
convey fifty pages of character development in a single look. It
was Nick Hornby’s screenplay that set up that ‘look’.

A movie story is told ‘in the cut’, or in the editing process. The film
will be composed of many short fragments of action that come
together. The screenwriter uses this fragmentary process to shape
the rhythm and pace of the story.
And the movies are able to ‘multi-track’, telling its story in many
ways. For example, we will see the action, but we can also hear
speech in the story world and hear it as voice over.

All in all, it’s a very powerful medium. But it does have limitations,
too. It’s an external form, so we see what characters say and do,
but we aren’t privy to their thoughts and feelings, as you might be
in a novel. It’s up to the screenwriter to create action that implies
the character’s inner life, to make that inner life accessible to us.

And in most cases, it all hinges on the characters: movies work

when the characters are compelling. In most cases, we, as
audience, will empathise with a character so deeply that we
become immersed in the action. It needn’t even be a sympathetic
character, such is the power of this immersion, as we will gladly
empathise with a sociopath and murderer, as in The Talented Mr
Ripley. The story is capable of pitting our hearts against our
minds, with our hearts usually winning.

Developing stories
The problem for us, as writers, comes in finding and developing
the stories.

David Mamet, the playwright and filmmaker, once remarked that,

“Stories happen because somebody wants something and has
trouble getting it.” Let’s take a quick look at this simple format:

 The “Somebody”… gives us a character. Not just a name,

but a person in a specific place, at a specific time, living a
specific life.
  The “Wants Something”… gives us a goal, the ‘story
question’ that will be what this film is ‘about’. Sometimes this
is an opportunity to do something that the character wants:
to travel, to climb a mountain, to woo the person of their
dreams, and so on. And sometimes it’s a dilemma forced
onto the character: to flee the alien invasion, escape the
stalker or survive a Tsunami. And it might be largely internal,
for example in a story built around a character battling grief.

 And “Has Trouble Getting It”… gives us the conflict. It

provides obstacles that the character must overcome to
achieve their goal. These obstacles will ask difficult
questions, and the response will come to change and define
the character.

Put these three elements together, and you have the makings of a
basic storyline. We often use this approach to create a movie
logline, or one-sentence synopsis.

To this I want to add one more question: What’s great about it?
What’s exciting about this? That’s the key. Why is this material
compelling? To You.

Developing a basic storyline

When developing a story, we all need time to cast about for
the material that interests and excites us. At a certain point,
however, it helps to work some ideas into a crude story form.
The step forces us to make clear decisions on the basic
“Somebody wants something and has trouble getting it” for
our story. We may not know the complete story yet, but the
very act of trying to create the setup will move the project
past the idea stage.

We can approach this in many ways but to help get us started, we

are going to develop a short verbal “pitch”, which is a simple way
to summarise a story. It can be used as a selling tool, but it also
makes a very good tool to start the writing process.

Now, describing a story in a pithy yet effective way is a formidable

challenge for many of us. Actually, it’s downright terrifying for
some people. The very term ‘pitching’ evokes images of door-to-
door salesmen and brings up all sorts of performance anxiety.
After all, we’re writers, not actors.

There are many strategies to cope with this particular challenge,

most of them ineffective:

 Reading a pitch is dull. It just never sounds natural.

 Memorising and reciting the pitch can be worse. And
forgetting your place is totally humiliating.
 Bullet Points on index cards gets closer to the mark, but it’s
too easy to start reading them.

The best way is to simply know your story and be confident

enough to relate it in a clear, conversational manner. This is
storytelling, and our goal is simply to engage our audience.

We’ve found a simple aide memoire that helps to focus the story
and sooth the jitters, something we call a Five Finger Pitch. The
method reduces your story to five basic elements and offers an
easy way to remember them.
What is story structure?
Now that we have a basis for a story, we will consider the
idea of “story structure.” It refers to the process of
organising the story and constructing the screenplay’s plot.

Story structure is concerned with the order and timing of the

events that take place in the film, so, it’s concerned with the flow
of information – who knows what, and when – and the pace and
rhythm of that flow. As audience, we only think about this when
something goes wrong: a story begins to drag, or maybe we miss
something important. Otherwise, the structure disappears into the
story background.

Screenwriters, however, spend a lot of time thinking about

structure. It’s a very important part of screenwriting and the
subject of many books and courses. In fact, American screenwriter
William Goldman famously remarked that, “Movies are structure
and that’s all they are. The quality of writing – which is crucial in
almost every other form of literature – is not what makes a
screenplay work.” i Novelist John Irving, who won an Oscar for
adapting his own work, The Cider House Rules, goes even further:
“There is no (literary) language in a screenplay. (For me, dialogue
doesn’t count as language.) What passes for language in a
screenplay is rudimentary, like the directions for assembling a
complicated children’s toy. The only aesthetic is to be clear… A
screenplay, as a piece of writing, is merely the scaffolding for a
building someone else is going to build… However many months I
spend writing a screenplay, I never feel as if I’ve been writing at
all. I’ve been constructing a story…” ii
We’re taken by the idea of constructing the story, because it
brings with it a sense of craft and purposefulness. Yet it goes
nowhere without the characters. The structure sets in motion the
character action, which, in turn, creates more story. Structure
helps the audience to become absorbed or immersed in the story,
the source of its great emotional impact. We empathise with the
lead character: his/her wants become our wants; their risks
become our risks; their rewards our rewards. The visual
storytelling tools of cinema are very, very powerful, which link with
our empathy to make for a deeply moving audience experience.

The character-driven Three Act Structure remains the most

common approach, as it delivers the most immersive experience.
Other forms may actually work to limit the immersion in order to
emphasise themes or elements of the story.

The Three Act Structure

This article will focus on the format that’s most commonly
seen in contemporary movies, the causal, character-driven
“Three Act Structure”. While modern films don’t have
intervals or ‘real’ acts, the model refers to a particular way of
organising a story’s Beginning, Middle and End.

George Abbot, the theatre and film director-producer, reduced the

structure to this: “In the first act, your hero gets stuck in a tree. In
the second act, you throw stones at him. In the third act, you get
him out of the tree.” Most film stories still work the same way:
Somebody - our Hero- Wants Something - to get out of the tree -
And Has Trouble Getting It -but people are throwing rocks at
him…
The first act usually lasts twenty to thirty minutes and has the task
of setting up the story. It’s all about our ‘Somebody’ and the
‘Wants Something’. The act introduces most of the basic story
elements - setting, period, genre, characters, themes, conflicts –
and more important, it introduces us to the protagonist, or lead
character. In most cases, we’ll meet this person in his or her own
world, only to soon see them jolted into action. It may be the
opportunity of a lifetime – to climb a mountain, woo the person of
his/her dreams, start a social network – or it may be a dilemma –
escape an advancing army, reverse failing A-levels, or tend a
dying spouse. This choice will send the character in pursuit of a
clearly identified goal that will ask the ‘story question’ - the “What’s
this about?” - that defines the story and drives the rest of the
action.

The second act usually lasts for half of the movie, up to an hour,
and it’s all about the ‘Has Trouble Getting It’. We follow the
protagonist in pursuit of the goal, only to see them thwarted by
obstacles at every turn. The effort to overcome these challenges
and setbacks will force the character into new situations, ask
important questions and forge new relationships. It usually ends
with the failure of the original plan of action, and often leaves the
character lower than at the start of the story.

The third act takes the movie’s final half hour to resolve the story.
In most cases, the character has learned from the struggles in the
second act, so a changed person will gather their strength for a
final confrontation that will answer the story questions and bring
the story to a close. It may be a battle with a dragon or a race to
stop a wedding. Either way, it will force a conclusion and establish
a new, if only temporary, balance in this story world.
This approach hasn’t changed greatly from that of Aristotle’s
Poetics, written close to 2,500 years ago.

The Three Act Structure will be the ‘scaffolding’ that John Irving
mentions, but the story’s dimensionality will flow from the
character changes, subplots and revelations that are produced by
this story movement.

In recent decades, we’ve seen greater emphasis on the personal

growth of the lead character, sometimes called ‘Conversion
Narrative’ or ‘Restorative Three-Act Structure’. In this format, the
development arc of the protagonist is tied closely to the arc of the
story action. Some writers liken it to the ‘Hero’s Journey’ described
in mythologist Joseph Campbell’s influential work, The Hero With
A Thousand Faces. Others go on to describe a protagonist that
must begin the story with a flaw, a defect or ‘psychic wound’ that
needs to be corrected, healed, or redeemed before the story can
end. This narrative structure can be a very satisfying aspect of
many stories, providing the great emotional catharsis that Aristotle
described so long ago.

While this approach can be effective in many films, it can be

burdensome or clunky in others. And some film franchises would
be ruined if the lead character conquers his or her inner demons.
(Are we interested in the Hulk if he learns to control his temper?)
At any rate, it’s important to match the type and degree of
character development to the style and content of the story.

Alternate story structures

In the last discussion of story structure, we looked at the
dominant form in theatrical films, the character-based causal
Three Act Structure. Now we’ll look at other approaches to
story organisation.

There is little reason why films must be told in this particular

arrangement of three acts, with its 25-50-25 rhythm. Some sort of
beginning, middle and end is helpful, but we have no trouble
following other formal configurations. Modern stage plays seldom
feature more than two acts; television drama is often constructed
in four acts, to accommodate the adverts; and “serial” television
films often break a single story into many parts, each functioning
as an act.

Some filmmakers work in a causal three-act structure, yet provide

surprise or uncertainty by subverting our expectations of the form.
The story may begin with what appears to be a protagonist, who is
then killed off well before the end of the story. You see this most
famously in Hitchcock’s Psycho, but also in more recent films,
e.g., No Country For Old Men or The Homesman. The effect can
be momentarily disorientating for the audience, who must search
for a new point of view on the story, a new home for their
empathy. It produces an unsettling effect that may enhance the
suspense in a film.

Some stories may find a different rhythm or a different act

structure. For example, Enough Said which appears to have a first
act that poses a clear dramatic question, only to introduce a
another major element almost forty minutes into the film. The
change is very effective, re-energising the plot and adding more
complexity to the themes.
Other filmmakers, e.g., Abbas Kiarostami or Michael Haneke, may
intentionally subvert our expectations of the story by refusing to
reveal the dramatic question or avoiding a clear resolution.

There are also entirely different ways to approach story structure.

We’ve been discussing a model that follows one major storyline
that most often follows a single protagonist with clearly defined
goals. Some movies, however, feature multiple storylines.

In most cases, the multiple storylines are joined by a common

event, place or theme. Each of the storylines may have a plot of its
own, the story’s overall coherence comes from the relationship
between the storylines. Some recent films, such as Crash or
Traffic, use this technique to make social commentary. Love,
Actually takes on romance with ten mostly-interlinked stories. Max
Ophuls’ 1950 adaptation of La Ronde featured a chain or “round-
dance” of ten stories: “A” falls in love with “B”, who falls in love
with “C”, and so on.

Robert Altman’s Short Cuts was adapted from Raymond Carver

stories into a film featuring twenty-two principal characters and ten
storylines. The final film has been described as a “mosaic”,
because its stories come together to form a larger picture that can
only be understood in its totality. The movie’s theme denies the
causality at the heart of a three-act structure, taking a rather more
pessimistic look at the human condition.

There are still other ways to organise a screen story, some

intended to break the emotional hold of the immersive three-act
structure. These stories want to make us think, as well as feel.
These films may employ “alienation” techniques akin to Brecht’s
“Epic” theatre.
We haven’t the time to discuss all of the possible approaches to
story, but it’s important to note that the overwhelming majority of
films use the character-driven three act structure. Other forms
demand more of the audience and, as a group, tend to be less
popular than movies constructed in the familiar structure. These
movies may play at the local speciality or art house theatre, rather
than the multiplex.

Commercial considerations aside, it’s important to choose the

approach that best tells your story, rather than trying to force every
story into the same mould.