Quantum Storytelling

I’m done studying TV development for now, but the insights I’ve found have led me back to screenwriting. I’m trying to think of ways to adapt some of the structural tricks they use to film format.

TV follows 4 act structure whereas film usually follows 3 act. The difference is more than just an extra act. TV 4 act structure is rigid, built concrete around the notion of a commercial every 12-15 minutes. One of the most useful tips I got from studying TV writing is the idea of writing your act-outs first. An act-out is the reveal of a plot twist or heightened tension (such as a gun pointed at someone) just before they cut to commercial. The act-outs occur at the end of each act, with the 4 acts in an hour long TV show divided equally into four parts. Writing your act-outs first gives you key moments of heightened tension as a starting point.

Let’s say your hero is hanging off the edge of a cliff — a good bit of high tension. From there you can work backwards and figure out how they got there. It gives you a healthy starting point for your writing, from where you can bridge backwards the build up of that moment.

In that way, commercials, as much as we hate them, provide dramatic strength to the medium of TV by enforcing conflict highlights every 12-15 minutes. This is one reason TV can be so addictive — it’s designed to be. They want you to keep watching after the commercial break, and that’s exactly what act-outs are for… in addition to giving the writers a jumpstart on their writing.

The problem of course is in trying to translate this to traditional 3 act film structure, and the fact that films do not have commercials.

“But at least you have 3 act-outs?”

Actually, you only have two. The end of the 3rd act-out would be the end of the 3rd act, which is the end of the movie. And they don’t usually leave off with a “To Be Continued…” so really there only two possible act-outs; One at the end of the first act, and another at the end of the second act. Given the average length of a feature film is 110 minutes, you have not only a larger chunk of time in total, but with fewer acts the material is spaced out across a much bigger divide. Enter the notoriously long Act II in most films.

So how can we ‘break’ a three act film structure into more dramatically compelling chunks? There are lots of ways, including the 12 stages from Writer’s Journey, although as many TV writers have pointed out both the acts and stages of a film are less concrete than those in TV. In TV, the structure is forced by the medium and commercial breaks. In film, there is no hard structure. The end of the first act and beginning of the second act in a film may vary by several scenes, depending on who you ask about where the dividing line falls — including the creator. “We enter Act Two at roughly X point…” Film structure has never been as concrete and probably never will be.

“What’s the problem?” You might ask. The problem is that TV structure is reliable, entirely consistent not only for the writers but also for the viewers. Film structure is not. There is a reason that much TV in recent years has had high levels of compelling writing, to a degree that competes or even surpasses film writing. That is because the format demands consistent and reliable high levels of drama accentuated by much more regular dramatic spikes. So how do we compete?

Film needs a more reliable structure. It may not mean abandoning three act structure, but at the least it will depend upon breaking film narratives down into a structure that is more… granular. Frankly, I’m not sure the 12 stages of the ‘journey’ are even enough. I’d love to find a way to apply the concept of carefully meted act-outs containing heightened tension into a film narrative.

If one of the things that makes TV so compelling is that you have dramatic twists every 12-15 minutes, isn’t that something film could benefit from as well?

While we do have alternatives like the beat calculator and 7 sequence structure, I continue to search for a better way.

Ever since I was a teenager during the grunge era, listening to the anti-commercial whinings of Mr. Cobain, it’s been impossible to escape the negative stigma associated with formulas, or the formulaic approach to creativity.

I’ve always had a special place in my heart for the elegance of structure itself. Fractals and geometry, DNA, the rules of physics, etc. Nature seems chaotic, but it is much more structured than most people are willing to admit. There is a method to the madness, and thus formulas themselves fall into the natural scheme of things.

My quest as an aspiring storyteller has been one for the perfect formula. Now, immediately upon reading that last sentence some of you might snicker. “Perfect formula… follow your heart you bloody fool! It’s about ART!”

But you see, structure itself is an art, it is individualistic and unique. I’ll tell you why.

Even in a field as crass commercial as business, anyone who knows what they are talking about will tell you that each brand needs its own positioning. You can’t be Starbucks when there’s already a Starbucks. Don’t even try. When everyone zigs, you zag.

One of the big structure concepts bandied about in TV writing is the template. The template is the collection of hallmarks that have to be in every episode.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer can’t just slay vampires. Part of the hook is that she’s a teenager, and a high school student. She’s got to have those pesky teenage or high school conflicts. Maybe she has to study for a test, but she can’t because she’s out late planting stakes through the hearts of supernatural beings? She wants to join the cheerleading team, but some evil monster is threatening the town and she has to put an end to it.

The conflict between saving the town from monsters every week, and trying to live the life of a normal teenage girl is an entire class of conflicts that make up the template of the show. Any individual conflict that fits the overall template is a springboard for an episode.

TV writers can’t write episodes until they know exactly what their show is about. And if you plan to write a series, neither can you. That’s exactly what a formula is about: Planning, and consistency. You have to know what types of things your show is about, so that you can mine that vein.

Stargate SG-1 is all about stargate travel — exploring planets all over the universe by traveling through wormholes. Now an obvious part of that template is that you will run into danger, and threats to planet Earth. These come in many forms, whether they be alien viruses or aliens themselves. Sometimes they are mysterious byproducts of powerful technology. Anything that happens as a result of traveling through the stargate or to other planets can be fuel for conflict, or a springboard for an episode. This is the SG-1 template. It is the entire class of things, which individually, serve as a springboard for an episode.

Battlestar Galactica can’t use SG-1’s template, because Battlestar Galactica isn’t about stargate travel. That’s SG-1’s hook. Thankfully, Battlestar Galactica has its own template which is quite good I might add; Strong personalities cooped up on a ship for months, constantly trying to escape the cylon threat.

Plus the template is chock full of the usual space dramas: Limited oxygen/water/resource supplies, searching for habitable planets, witnessing strange anomalies in space. The cold, the dark, and the great unknown. As if that weren’t enough, they toss in religious prophecy, religious conflict, political commentary. All the nitty gritty, dirty human stuff. All jammed onto a few lonely ships in space; the final 50,000 members of the human race at the ragged edge of survival. Compressed humanity. It’s great stuff, and the writers seem to know it.

Developing a template will help you establish what your stories will be about. If you plan to write a series, having a template is essential.

The truth about formula is that there’s nothing wrong with using a formula at all. The only catch is it has to be yours.

Thanks to Mr. Hocking and his readers, a problem with the site was brought to my attention. It appears my host’s page buffers alotted for my site were being overloaded, so if you were trying to reach the site and getting blank pages half the time, that’s why.

The interesting twist to this is that I think the real reason was because of spam. It appears spam was regularly coming through my contact form. The whole point in a contact form is so your email address isn’t exposed to spammers, but apparently they can hit/use the contact forms too. So I downloaded a different WordPress contact form that requires human input in the form of a question.

Anyway, long story short the problem *should* be solved now.

Thanks to Ian and readers for pointing it out. And here I thought it was some temporary BlueHost snafu…