Memo from the Story Department - Christopher Vogler

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List, all basic storytelling equipment. We'll have something to say about the essential story department tools of Log Line and Synopsis, and how they can help any storyteller clarify themes, characters and intentions.

      A major section of the book will be David's presentation of something he calls the Six Environmental Facts, which is a way of looking at characters and entire stories through six different prisms: the economic, social, religious and political conditions in the story as well as the influence of time and place. David's exploration of these Environmental Facts is a development of a method for analyzing plays and preparing scenes pioneered by a University of Texas professor, Francis Hodge.

      Taken together, these six environmental factors build up a complete, multi-dimensional picture of the subject, allowing actors and directors to make informed choices that will express the theme more dramatically. We believe they can be equally useful for screenwriters and producers of theatrical films, for designers of games and interactive media, or for anyone wishing to harness the full power of stories.

      The book will close with David's suggestion that you make a Five-Year Plan, and I will have a few words of encouragement before unleashing you upon the world to make better stories.

      One thing we both feel strongly about: None of this will make sense or be worthwhile unless you put it to work. More than a tool kit, you might think of it as a well-equipped garage waiting for cars that need to be repaired or customized. We have found that when you put a theory to the test, when you apply some principle to a particular work, there is a strong payoff that seems to defy the laws of physics, returning more energy than you invested. Try it for yourself; take any of the tools in this book and apply them to a movie you've seen, a book you've read, or a project you are working on, and you will find a surprising amount of energy will be released. You will only truly possess these tools once you have put them to work; until then they are just theories.

      So go ahead, make the most of it, and add your own experiences to the legacy of storytelling.

      MY TIME IN THE

      STORY DEPARTMENT

      —— MCKENNA ——

      I have never wanted to write a book. Christopher Vogler made me do it.

      By nature, I am a troubadour, a gadfly, a raconteur, an entertainer. I fell into directing plays and was a carefree young fellow, traveling from one low-paying gig to another. I was learning lessons about showmanship and my craft, and I was happy to ply my trade for anyone willing to pay the piper.

      Then I met Mr. Vogler, who is a far more serious and determined gent than I. Aside from his snarky wit, what attracted me to him was his unique ability to read obscure tomes and to distill their arcane information into digestible and tasty nuggets of wisdom. Gadfly meets Harry the Explainer.

      We shared an insatiable appetite for stories and how they are made.

      Being serious, Chris applied himself to getting steady work in the film industry. Aware that I was inclined to gig forever, Chris took me in hand and insisted that I join him.

      He showed me how to make a living as a reader/story analyst for film studios. On one level, he was being kind to a penniless fool. On another, he was recruiting a comrade to help decipher the lessons his artistic journey was revealing and a colleague who would provide different lessons for him to consider. Over a very long time on the job, we have analyzed uncounted thousands of screenplays. We have been and remain a two-man story department.

      So this book (which I never wanted to write) is an artifact of our four-decade conversation. The son of an amateur handyman whose claim to fame was canoes constructed from concrete, Chris is on a lifelong mission to describe how things work and to create a better set of tools. The Writer's Journey and his chapters within this book are fruits of that search.

      He's badgered me for years to explain what I know. He finally handcuffed me to a keyboard and got his wish. If my contribution to this book proves to be half as valuable to storytellers and audiences as Chris' work has been, I'll be a very happy man.

      INTRODUCTION

      WHO ARE THOSE GUYS?

      —— VOGLER ——

      Butch Cassidy: They're beginning to get on my nerves. Who are those guys?

      —from the screenplay Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid by William Goldman

       Early versions of Vogler (left) and McKenna trying to figure it all out at the La Purísima Mission in Lompoc, California (photo by Joyce Garrison)

      I am a farm boy from Missouri; David is a product of the suburbs of New Jersey. So how did these two guys get thrown together to begin their odyssey in the country of storytelling?

      When I was about twelve years old my family moved from the suburbs of St. Louis to a farm forty miles west of the city. As a kid I was fascinated by movies, fairy tales, myths and legends, comic books, anything with a story. I knew I wanted to be in the story game somehow. I studied broadcast journalism at the University of Missouri and, after graduation, joined the U.S. Air Force. As a young officer I was sent to Los Angeles to make documentary films about the military space program, then after a couple of years was transferred to Kelly Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas to make training videos.

      I had an interest in theatre and acting, and went downtown with one of my friends from the base to try out for a part in a local production of Dial M for Murder. My friend said the director was an interesting character, a rising star and a rebel in the local theatre scene by the name of David McKenna.

      McKenna was indeed a colorful character, with long hair, unruly beard and the loud voice of a kid from New Jersey. Boiling over with energy, he was constantly bouncing a rubber ball or twirling a cane. His manner was brash and vulgar but very funny, and his unorthodox taste as a director appealed to me. He reminded me of Bugs Bunny, irreverent, mischievous but good-hearted.

      David cast my friend, a much better actor than me, in a major role and gave me a small part as a policeman. Because I was good with accents, I also provided several radio and telephone voices needed for the production, and tried to make myself useful by volunteering to “keep book,” that is, following along in the script as we went through rehearsals, writing down all of the director's notes. David became very stern and unforgiving as he assumed the director role, taking full control of the theatre and everyone in it. He knew exactly what he wanted and didn't seem interested in anyone else's opinion.

      By the standards of the day his directorial choices were exotic, daring, challenging to the audience. But it was clear he had reasons for his choices, some principles he was following. He dealt in the language of movies, speaking of shots, angles and cuts and using classic films as references. His taste in movies and his pleasure in them seemed to overlap with mine. I wanted to jump in and make comments, but kept silent, trying to write down everything he said.

      Then David was on his feet staging the big action scene of the play, a struggle in which a woman being attacked by a murderer turns the tables in self-defense, stabbing him to death with a pair of scissors. David finished blocking the scene and was about to move on, but I suddenly found myself blurting out “What if he's not dead?!”

      McKenna turned to look at me, his eyes wide. The first thought on his face was “Who the hell is this guy interrupting the flow of my directing?” and the second was “Hey, that's a good idea!”

      “He's like a vampire,” I dared to continue. “She kills him, the audience buys it, she buys it. But then he jumps up—he's not dead! He comes after her again, with a pair of scissors sticking out of his back! She has to kill him all over again!”

      David liked the idea and immediately incorporated it into the play. That evening, after the rehearsal, we went to a coffee shop and began the decades-long discussion that is the fabric of this book.

      We discovered that we had a lot in

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