Story Robert Mckee Epub Story: Style, Structure, Substance, and the Principles of Screenwriting by Robert McKee. Read online, or download in secure EPUB format. To design a feature film, you must reduce the seething mass and rush of 3 1 32 4 ROBERT MCKEE life story to just two little hours, more or less, that somehow.
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Robert McKee - tetraedge.info - Ebook download as PDF File .pdf) or read book online. Story Types - Robert McKee In the Blink of an Eye - Walter Murch. epub. Read "Story Style, Structure, Substance, and the Principles of Screenwriting" by Robert McKee's screenwriting workshops have earned him an international Language: English; Download options: EPUB 2 (Adobe DRM). Author:Robert McKee. Language: eng. Format: epub. Tags: Performing Arts / Film & Video / Screenwriting, Reference / Writing Skills, Language.
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First-rate screenplays are at least optioned if not made. Hollywood has a secure international business for hundreds of films each year, and they will be made. Most will open, run a few weeks, close, and be mercifully forgotten. But with the death or retirement of these masters, the last twenty-five years have seen a slow decay in the quality of European films.
The audience for non-Hollywood film is still vast and loyal. Distributors have the same motivation now they had then: As a result, the storm of European genius has become a slough of arid films that leave a vacuum for Hollywood to fill.
Asian filmmakers tell superb stories. Rather than scapegoating distributors, non-Hollywood filmmakers would do well to look to the East, where artists have the passion to tell stories and the craft to tell them beautifully. The world audience is devoted but thirsting for story. Not from a poverty of effort. The Writers Guild of America script registration service logs over thirty-five thousand titles yearly.
These are only those that are registered. Across America hundreds of thousands of screenplays are attempted each year, but only a handful are quality screenplays, for many reasons but this above all: Today's would-be writers rush to the typewriter without first learning their craft.
I can also play the piano. But that's exactly how many screenwriters begin: I got A's in English. For while the composer scores with the mathematical purity of notes, we dip into the messy stuff known as human nature. Experience, however, is overrated. This is vital but never enough. For most writers, the knowledge they gain from reading and study equals or outweighs experience, especially if that experience goes unexamined.
Self-knowledge is the key—life plus deep reflection on our reactions to life. As for technique, what the novice mistakes for craft is simply his unconscious absorption of story elements from every novel, film, or play he's ever encountered.
He either imitates his mental prototype or imagines himself in the avant-garde and rebels against it. But the haphazard groping toward or revolt against the sum of unconsciously ingrained repetitions is not, in any sense, technique, and leads to screenplays clogged with cliches of either the commercial or the art house variety.
In decades past screenwriters learned their craft either through university study or on their own in a library, through experience in the theatre or in writing novels, through apprenticeship to the Hollywood studio system, or through a combination of these means.
To that end scholars such as William Archer, Kenneth Rowe, and John Howard Lawson wrote excellent books on dramaturgy and the prose arts. Their method was intrinsic, drawing strength from the big-muscle movements of desire, forces of antagonism, turning points, spine, progression, crisis, climax —story seen from the inside out.
Working writers, with or without formal educations, used these texts to develop their art, turning the half-century from the Roaring Twenties through the protesting sixties into a golden age of the American story on screen, page, and stage. Over the last twenty-five years, however, the method of teaching creative writing in American universities has shifted from the intrinsic to the extrinsic. Trends in literary theory have drawn professors away from the deep sources of story toward language, codes, text —story seen from the outside.
As a result, with some notable exceptions, the current generation of writers has been undereducated in the prime principles of story. Screenwriters abroad have had even less opportunity to study their craft. Much can be said against the old Hollywood studio system, but to its credit it was a system of apprenticeship overseen by seasoned story editors.
That day is gone. The final cause for the decline of story runs very deep. The writer shapes story around a perception of what's worth living for, what's worth dying for, what's foolish to pursue, the meaning of justice, truth—the essential values. In decades past, writer and society more or less agreed on these questions, but more and more ours has become an age of moral and ethical cynicism, relativism, and subjectivism—a great confusion of values.
Unlike writers in the past, we can assume nothing. First we must dig deeply into life to uncover new insights, new refinements of value and meaning, then create a story vehicle that expresses our interpretation to an increasingly agnostic world.
No small task. The report I wrote over and over again went like this: Nice description, actable dialogue. Some amusing moments; some sensitive moments.
All in all, a script of well-chosen words. The story, however, sucks. The main plot, what there is of it, is riddled with convenient coincidence and weak motivation. Characters are never revealed to be more than they seem. Not a moment's insight into the inner lives of these people or their society. It's a lifeless collection of predictable, ill-told, and cliched episodes that wander off into a pointless haze.
But I never wrote this report: Great story! Grabbed me on page one and held me in its embrace. The first act builds to a sudden climax that spins off into a superb weave of plot and subplot. Sublime revelations of deep character. Amazing insight into this society. Made me laugh, made me cry. Drove to an Act Two climax so moving that I thought the story was over. However, this script is a page grammatical nightmare with every fifth word misspelled. Obviously not a professional writer. More often than not, the better the storytelling, the more vivid the images, the sharper the dialogue.
But lack of progression, false motivation, redundant characters, empty subtext, holes, and other such story problems are the root causes of a bland, boring text. Literary talent is not enough.
What we create for the world, what it demands of us, is story. Countless writers lavish dressy dialogue and manicured descriptions on anorexic yarns and wonder why their scripts never see production, while others with modest literary talent but great storytelling power have the deep pleasure of watching their dreams living in the light of the screen.
Who are these characters? What do they want? Why do they want it? How do they go about getting it? What stops them? What are the consequences? Finding the answers to these grand questions and shaping them into story is our overwhelming creative task. Designing story tests the maturity and insight of the writer, his knowledge of society, nature, and the human heart.
Story demands both vivid imagination and powerful analytic thought. Self-expression is never an issue, for, wittingly or unwittingly, all stories, honest and dishonest, wise and foolish, faithfully mirror their maker, exposing his humanity Compared to this terror, writing dialogue is a sweet diversion.
So the writer embraces the principle. Tell Story. For what is story? The idea of story is like the idea of music. We can dance and sing along. We think we understand music until we try to compose it and what comes out of the piano scares the cat. But if we look deeply, if we strip away the surface, we find that at heart all are the same thing. Equally, from Homer to Ingmar Bergman, the universal form of story shapes a work into story, not portraiture or collage.
Across all cultures and through all ages, this innate form has been endlessly variable but changeless. Yet form does not mean formula. Story is far too rich in mystery, complexity, and flexibility to be reduced to a formula. Only a fool would try. Rather, a writer must grasp story form. This is inescapable. Finding this is your lonely task. It begins with talent. Then you must bring to the work a vision that's driven by fresh insights into human nature and society, coupled with in-depth knowledge of your characters and your world.
All that. The love of humanity—a willingness to empathize with suffering souls, to crawl inside their skins and see the world through their eyes. The love of sensation— the desire to indulge not only the physical but the inner senses. The love of dreaming—the pleasure in taking leisurely rides on your imagination just to see where it leads. The love of humor—a joy in the saving grace that restores the balance of life. The love of perfection— the passion to write and rewrite in pursuit of the perfect moment.
The love of uniqueness—the thrill of audacity and a stone-faced calm when it is met by ridicule. The love of beauty—an innate sense that treasures good writing, hates bad writing, and knows the difference. You must love to write and bear the loneliness. But the love of a good story, of terrific characters and a world driven by your passion, courage, and creative gifts is still not enough.
Your goal must be a good story well told. This craft is neither mechanics nor gimmicks. Craft is the sum total of all means used to draw the audience into deep involvement, to hold that involvement, and ultimately to reward it with a moving and meaningful experience. Without craft, the best a writer can do is snatch the first idea off the top of his head, then sit helpless in front of his own work, unable to answer the dreaded questions: Is it good?
Or is it sewage? If sewage, what do I do? But when the conscious mind is put to work on the objective task of executing the craft, the spontaneous surfaces. Mastery of craft frees the subconscious. First, you enter your imagined world. As characters speak and act, you write. And what do you do as you read? You analyze. Does it work?
Why not? Should I cut? And the quality of your rewriting, the possibility of perfection, depends on a command of the craft that guides you to correct imperfection. An artist is never at the mercy of the whims of impulse; he willfully exercises his craft to create harmonies of instinct and idea.
In an office setting we meet a protagonist with a problem: Home to her apartment and a fight with her slobbish, conniving roommate. Now out on a date and smack into a failure to communicate: Her insensitive lover takes her to an expensive French restaurant, completely forgetting that she's on a diet. Back to the office where, amazingly, she gets her promotion Coming home she discovers that her roommate has stolen her TV and vanished without paying the rent. She breaks up with her lover, raids the refrigerator, and gains jive pounds.
But chin up, she turns her promotion into a triumph. We're now on page ninety-jive. She sticks to her diet and looks great for the last twenty five pages, which are the literary equivalent of running in slow-mo through daisies as the romance with Someone New blossoms. At last she confronts her Crisis Decision: The screenplay ends on a tearful Climax as she decides she needs her space. Through a luggage mix-up at the airport, a software salesman comes into possession of the-thing-that-will-end-civilization-as- we-know-it-today.
The-thing-that-will-end-civilization-as-we-know- it-today is quite small. When not blowing things up or shooting folks down, it halts for dialogue-thick scenes as the hero tries to sort through these duplicitous people and find out just whom he can trust.
It ends with a cacophony of violence and multimillion-dollar effects, during which the hero manages to destroy the-thing-that-will-end-civilization-as- we-know-it-today and thus save humanity. Because this writer sees only what is visible and factual, he is blind to the truth of life. This writer is mistaking kinesis for entertainment. He hopes that, regardless of story, if he calls for enough high-speed action and dazzling visuals, the audience will be excited. Spectacles of this kind replace imagination with simulated actuality.
They use story as an excuse for heretofore unseen effects that carry us into a tornado, the jaws of a dinosaur, or futuristic holocausts. And make no mistake, these razzle-dazzle spectacles can deliver a circus of excitement. But like amusement park rides, their pleasures are short-lived. Every decade or so technical innovation spawns a swarm of ill- told movies, for the sole purpose of exploiting spectacle.
The talkie then grew in power and beauty, only to be knocked off stride by the inventions of color, 3-D, wide-screen, and now Computer Generated Images, or CGI. CGI is neither a curse nor a panacea.
It simply adds fresh hues to the story pallet. The writers of portraiture and spectacle, indeed all writers, must come to understand the relationship of story to life: Story is metaphor for life.
A storyteller is a life poet, an artist who transforms day-to-day living, inner life and outer life, dream and actuality into a poem whose rhyme scheme is events rather than words—a two-hour metaphor that says: Life is like thisl Therefore, a story must abstract from life to discover its essences, but not become an abstraction that loses all sense of life-as-lived.
Writers of portraiture must realize that facts are neutral. The weakest possible excuse to include anything in a story is: Indeed, the unimaginable happens. But story is not life in actuality. Mere occurrence brings us nowhere near the truth.
What happens is fact, not truth. Truth is what we think about what happens. Each Joan is divinely inspired, raises an army, defeats the English, burns at the stake. Likewise, writers of spectacle must realize that abstractions are neutral. These have no meaning in and of themselves. The aesthetics of film are the means to express the living content of story, but must never become an end in themselves. Writers who lean toward reportage often have the power of the senses, the power to transport corporal sensations into the reader.
Writers of action extravaganzas, on the other hand, often have the imaginative power to lift audiences beyond what is to what could be. They also make hearts jump. Both sensory perception and a lively imagination are enviable gifts, but, like a good marriage, one complements the other. Alone they are diminished.
Spanning these two poles is the infinitely varied spectrum of fiction. Strong storytelling strikes a balance along this spectrum. If your writing drifts to one extreme or the other, you must learn to draw all aspects of your humanity into harmony. You must place yourself along the creative spectrum: Dig in a two- handed way, using your insight and instinct to move us, to express your vision of how and why human beings do the things they do.
These talents, however, have no necessary connection. A mountain of one does not mean a grain of the other. In every literate community in the world, hundreds, if not thousands of people can, to one degree or another, begin with the ordinary language of their culture and end with something extraordinary. The second is story talent—the creative conversion of life itself to a more powerful, clearer, more meaningful experience.
It seeks out the inscape of our days and reshapes it into a telling that enriches life. Pure story talent is rare. Instinctive genius may produce a work of quality once, but perfection and prolificness do not flow from the spontaneous and untutored. Literary and story talent are not only distinctively different but are unrelated, for stories do not need to be written to be told.
Theatre, prose, film, opera, mime, poetry, dance are all magnificent forms of the story ritual, each with its own delights. At different times in history, however, one of these steps to the fore. The most powerful, eloquent moments on screen require no verbal description to create them, no dialogue to act them.
They are image, pure and silent. When, for example, coworkers gather around the coffee machine, the storytelling begins. She draws them into her spell, holding them slack-jawed over their coffee cups. She spins her tale, building them up, easing them down, making them laugh, maybe cry, holding all in high suspense until she pays it off with a dynamite last scene: His story is all on the surface, repetitious rambling from trivial detail to cliche: Given the choice between trivial material brilliantly told versus profound material badly told, an audience will always choose the trivial told brilliantly.
You may have the insight of a Buddha, but if you cannot tell story, your ideas turn dry as chalk. Story talent is primary, literary talent secondary but essential. This principle is absolute in film and television, and truer for stage and page than most playwrights and novelists wish to admit.
Your task is to wring from it all possible creativity. For talent without craft is like fuel without an engine. To find their harmony, the writer must study the elements of story as if they were instruments of an orchestra—first separately, then in concert. If you wish, you could start the telling before the character is born, then follow him day after day, decade after decade until dead and gone.
From an instant to eternity, from the intracranial to the intergalactic, the life story of each and every character offers encyclopedic possibilities.
The mark of a master is to select only a few moments but give us a lifetime. Or you could shift up to the level of personal conflict between protagonist and family, friends, lovers.
Or expand into social institutions, setting the character at odds with school, career, church, the justice system. Or any combination of all these levels. But this complex expanse of life story must become the story told. When friends come back from a film and you ask them what it was about, have you noticed they often put the story told inside life story? As a kid he toiled with his family under the hot sun. But somebody gave him a guitar and he learned to play, write his own songs.
Then he met a beautiful gal with a great voice. They fell in love, teamed up, and, bang, their careers skyrocketed. But the trouble was the spotlight was always on her.
He wrote their songs, arranged, backed her up, but people only came to see her. Living in her shadow, he turned to drink.
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Finally she throws him out, and there he is back on the road again, until he hits rock bottom. He wakes up in a cheap motel in a dusty Midwest town, middle of nowhere, penniless, friendless, a hopeless drunk, not a dime for the phone and no one to call if he had one.
But nothing of the above is in the film. Structure From the vast flux of life story the writer must make choices. Fictional worlds are not daydreams but sweatshops where we labor in search of material to tailor a film. Some look for character, others for action or strife, perhaps mood, images, dialogue.
But no one element, in and of itself, will build a story. What the writer seeks are events, for an event contains all the above and more. STRUCTURE is a selection of events from the characters' life stories that is composed into a strategic sequence to arouse specific emotions and to express a specific view of life. What to include?
To exclude? To put before and after what? To answer these questions you must know your purpose. Events composed to do what? One purpose may be to express your feelings, but this becomes self-indulgence if it doesn't result in arousing emotions in the audience. A second purpose may be to express ideas, but this risks solipsism if the audience cannot follow. So the design of events needs a dual strategy.
The world's changed from dry to wet. You cannot, however, build a film out of nothing but changes in weather—although there are those who have tried. Story Events are meaningful, not trivial. To make change meaningful it must, to begin with, happen to a character.
If you see someone drenched in a downpour, this has somewhat more meaning than a damp street. Rather, Story Values refers to the broadest sense of the idea. Values are the soul of storytelling. Ultimately ours is the art of expressing to the world a perception of values. For example: All such binary qualities of experience that can reverse their charge at any moment are Story Values.
Imagine that outside your window is s Hast Africa, a realm of drought. Now we have a value at stake: We begin at the negative: This terrible famine is taking lives by the thousands.
If then it should rain, a monsoon that brings the earth back to green, animals to pasture, and people to survival, this rain would be deeply meaningful because it switches the value from negative to positive, from death to life.
However, as powerful as this event would be, it still does not qualify as a Story Event because it happened by coincidence. Rain finally fell in East Africa. Lastly, he faces implacable conflict with the physical world—the hot winds, empty skies, parched earth.
If this man can struggle through all his inner and personal conflicts, against social and environmental forces and finally coax rain out of a cloudless sky, that storm would be majestic and sublimely meaningful—for it is change motivated through conflict.
Scene For a typical film, the writer will choose forty to sixty Story Events or, as they're commonly known, scenes. A novelist may want more than sixty, a playwright rarely as many as forty. A SCENE is an action through conflict in more or less continuous time and space that turns the value-charged condition of a character's life on at least one value with a degree of perceptible significance.
How is that value charged at the top of the scene? Some of both? Make a note. Next turn to the close of the scene and ask, Where is this value now? Make a note and compare. If the answer you write down at the end of the scene is the same note you made at the opening, you now have another important question to ask: Why is this scene in my script?
The scene has activity—talking about this, doing that—but nothing changes in value. It is a nonevent. Why then is the scene in the story? No scene that doesn't turn. This is our ideal. If a scene is not a true event, cut it.
Chris and Andy are in love and live together. They wake up one morning and start to squabble. Their spat builds in the kitchen as they hurry to make breakfast. Finally words explode into violence on the highway.
Andy wrenches the car to the shoulder and jumps out, ending their relationship. This series of actions and locations creates a scene: It takes the couple from the positive in love and together to the negative in hate and apart. The four shifts of place—bedroom to kitchen to garage to highway—are camera setups but not true scenes. As the argument moves through the morning, the couple is still together and presumably in love. Generally the test of whether a series of activities constitutes a true scene is this: In this case the answer is yes.
Their argument could begin in a bedroom, build in the bedroom, and end the relationship in the bedroom. Countless relationships have ended in bedrooms. Or the kitchen. Or the garage. This scene could even cross-cut with another scene, perhaps involving another couple. Beat Inside the scene is the smallest element of structure, the Beat. Beat by Beat these changing behaviors shape the turning of a scene.
As the alarm goes off, Chris teases Andy and he reacts in kind. As they dress, teasing turns to sarcasm and they throw insults back and forth. Now in the kitchen Chris threatens Andy with: Finally, in the speeding car, Chris doubles her fist and punches Andy.
A fight, a squeal of brakes. Sequence Beats build scenes. Scenes then build the next largest movement of story design, the Sequence. The capping scene of a sequence, however, delivers a more powerful, determinant change.
For example, this three-scene sequence: She is one of six finalists. The corporate heads realize that this position has a vital public dimension to it, so they want to see these applicants on their feet in an informal setting before making the final decision.
A West Side Hotel where our protagonist prepares for the evening. Fear knots her middle as she paces the room, telling herself she was a fool to come East, these New Yorkers will eat her alive.
She flings clothes out of her suitcase, trying on this, trying on that, but each outfit looks worse than the one before. Her hair is an uncombable tangle of frizz. As she grapples with her clothes and hair, she decides to pack it in and save herself the humiliation.
Suddenly, the phone rings. Barbara hangs up, realizing that the piranhas of Manhattan are no match for the great white shark at home. She needs this job!
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Her hair falls magically into place. She plants herself in front of the mirror, looking great, eyes bright, glowing with confidence positive. Scene Two: Under the hotel marquee. Besides, when it rains in New York there are no cabs. So she decides to do what they warn never, ever to do—to run through Central Park at night. This scene takes on a new value: She covers her hair with a newspaper and darts into the night, daring death negative. Scene Three: Mirrored lobby—Park Avenue apartment building.
But then she looks in the mirror and sees a drowned rat: Her self-confidence plummets past doubt and fear until she bows in personal defeat negative , crushed by her social disaster negative. Taxis pull up with the other applicants. All found cabs; all get out looking New York chic. They take pity on the poor loser from the Midwest and usher her into an elevator. Because she knows she has lost anyway, she relaxes into her natural self and from deep within comes a chutzpah she never knew she had; she not only tells them about her batde in the park but makes jokes about it.
Mouths go slack with awe or wide with laughter. At end of the evening, all the executives know exactly who they want for the job: Anyone who can go through that terror in the park and display this kind of cool is clearly the person for them. The evening ends on her personal and social triumphs as she is given the job doubly positive. Each scene turns on its own value or values.
Scene One: It could have been accomplished in a single scene with a personnel officer. An ACT is a series of sequences that peaks in a climactic scene which causes a major reversal of values, more powerful in its impact than any previous sequence or scene. Story A series of acts builds the largest structure of all: A story is simply one huge master event.
When you look at the value-charged situation in the life of the character at the beginning of the story, then compare it to the value-charge at the end of the story, you should see the arc of the film, the great sweep of change that takes life from one condition at the opening to a changed condition at the end.
This final condition, this end change, must be absolute and irreversible. The lovers in the previous sketch could get back together; people fall in and out and back in love again every day. A sequence could be reversed: The Midwest businesswoman could win her job only to discover that she reports to a boss she hates and wishes she were back in Terre Haute.
An act climax could be reversed: The Emotional Craft of Fiction. Donald Maass. Nail Your Novel: Roz Morris. Die Empty. Todd Henry. Rachel Aaron. The Screenwriter's Problem Solver. Writing Down the Bones. Natalie Goldberg. Bryan Cohen. The Storytelling Animal. Jonathan Gottschall. Elements of Fiction Writing - Conflict and Suspense. Julie Hyzy. Renni Browne. Rock Your Plot. Cathy Yardley. Make a Scene. Jordan Rosenfeld. Writing Short Films. Linda J. How to Market a Book.
Joanna Penn. Nail Your Novel. Writing Fiction For Dummies. Randy Ingermanson. Never Split the Difference. Chris Voss. A History of Ancient Rome. Mary Beard. Amy Cuddy. Gotham Writers' Workshop: Writing Fiction. Bloomsbury Publishing. All the Birds in the Sky. Charlie Jane Anders. Victoria Lynn Schmidt. The Plot Whisperer. Martha Alderson. Story Structure Architect. The City of Brass. A Chakraborty. Trigger Warning.
Neil Gaiman. The Plot Thickens. Noah Lukeman. Goes to the Movies. The War of Art. Steven Pressfield. The First 20 Hours. Josh Kaufman. Structuring Your Novel Workbook: Stein On Writing. Sol Stein. A Darker Shade of Magic. Turning Pro.
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