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THE BIG DEAL?

      —— VOGLER ——

      Hollywood is a sink-or-swim industry where they rarely take time to teach you anything, but I got a useful lesson early in my career when I was a reader for Orion Pictures. Our story editor called a meeting of the readers to tell us none of us had any idea what a scene was. I was surprised; I thought I knew. A scene is a short piece of a movie, taking place in one location and one span of time, in which some action takes place or some information is given. Wrong, she said.

      And proceeded to explain that a scene is a business deal. It may not involve money but it will always involve some change in the contract between characters or in the balance of power. It's a transaction, in which two or more people enter with one kind of deal between them, and negotiate or battle until a new deal has been cut, at which point the scene should end.

      It could be the overturning of a long-established power structure. The underdog seizes power by blackmail. The people rise up against a dictator. Someone tries to leave a relationship or overcome an addiction.

      Or it could be the forging of a new alliance or enmity. Two people who hated each other make a new deal to work together in a threatening situation. A boy asks a girl out and she accepts or rejects his offer. Two gangsters make an alliance to rub out a rival. A mob forces a sheriff to turn a man over for lynching.

      The meat of the scene is the negotiation to arrive at the new deal, and when the deal is cut, the scene is over, period. If there's no new deal, it's not a scene, or at least it's not a scene that's pulling its weight in the script. It's a candidate either for cutting or for rewriting to include some significant exchange of power.

      The story editor pointed out that many writers don't know what a scene is, either, and put in non-scenes that are just there “to build character” or to get across exposition. They don't know when to begin and end a scene, wasting time with introductions and chit-chat and dragging the scene out long after the transaction has been concluded. The scene is the deal. When the deal is done, get off the stage.

      I found this principle very useful in pinning down the essence of a scene, and I found it also works at a macro level for identifying the bigger issues in a script, for every story is the renegotiation of a major deal, a contract between opposing forces in society. Romantic comedies are a re-negotiation of the contract between men and women. Myths, religious stories, and fantasies rework the compact between humans and the greater forces at play in the universe. The terms of the uneasy balance between good and evil are re-evaluated in every super-hero adventure and story of moral dilemma. The climax of many movies is a courtroom judgment that lays out a new agreement, passing sentence on a wrongdoer, proclaiming someone's innocence, or dictating terms of a disputed transaction. In all situations, we go in with one deal and we come out with a new deal having been cut.

      Knowing when the big deal of the movie has been cut tells you when the movie should be over. Many movies today go on long after they have truly ended, as far as the audience is concerned. They know it's over when the last term of the deal has been decided, and they get restless if the filmmaker goes on with extra flourishes and codas and flash-forwards to ten years later, etc. When I was a kid going to drive-in movie theatres I noticed many people starting their engines and driving away before the last movie of a double bill was quite over. For them the deal of the whole movie was complete when the monster was killed or the murderer was caught, and they didn't need to stick around to see the hero kiss the girl and ride off into the sunset. “When the deal is done, get off the stage” is a good rule for scenes and for the overall structure of stories as well.

      NOTE FROM McKENNA

      One of my perks for being a “friend of Vog” is access to unexpected eruptions from his volcanic brain. His thought-bombs are sporadic and unpredictable. Sometimes they subject me to long and winding treks down the bottomless rabbit hole. But more often than not, they point me to the mother lode.

      “What's the Big Deal” is pure gold. I got it in the mail one morning, and I immediately jettisoned my lesson plan for that afternoon's screenwriting class. I printed up the memo, snatched a random video from the library and presented both to my students.

      With the memo in mind, we began to watch the DVD and instantly pinpointed the scenes which were working and those that dragged. We had a new diagnostic tool to add to our storytelling gear! From that point and for the rest of the semester, we discussed student scenes in terms of “deals.” The level of writing got a whole lot better.

      Chris doesn't name the Orion story editor who caught and shared this nugget, but let me toss a few kudos in his/her direction…

      Reply from Vogler: For the record, her name was Migs Levy and she deserves those kudos. Whatever kudos are.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      THE CONTRACT

      WITH THE AUDIENCE

      —— VOGLER ——

      If a scene is a deal, then what is a story? One answer is that a story, too, is a deal, but the contract in this case is not between characters in a scene but between you and your audience. The terms are these: They agree to give you something of value, their money, but also a much more valuable consideration, their time. As a screenwriter you are asking them to pay attention to you and you only for ninety minutes, and as a novelist for much longer. Think about that! Focused attention has always been one of the rarest and most valuable commodities in the universe, and it's even truer today, when people have so many things fighting for their attention. So for them to give you even a few minutes of their focus is huge stakes to put on the table, worth much more than the ten bucks or so they shell out for a book or a movie ticket. Therefore, you'd better come up with something really good to fulfill your part of the bargain.

      There are many ways to fulfill that contract with the audience. I used to think the “Hero's Journey” model that I describe in my book The Writer's Journey was the whole contract, and an absolute necessity. I still think it is the most reliable way to honor the terms of the deal with the audience, providing them with a cathartic metaphor for their lives that includes a taste of death and transformation. They tend to read it into any story anyhow, and it's actually hard to find a story that doesn't display some of its elements. But I've come to see it's not the only way to hold up your end of the deal.

      At a minimum you must be entertaining, that is, able to hold their attention with something a little novel, shocking, surprising, or suspenseful. Be sensational; that is, appeal to their sensations, give them something sensual or visceral, some experience that they can feel in the organs of their bodies, like speed, movement, terror, sexiness.

      Laughter is another way to fulfill the contract with the audience. People are so starved for laughter that a movie that makes you laugh out loud a few times is probably going to be a hit. They'll overlook a stupid or pointless story if the movie delivers on the laugh clause in the contract. They didn't go to see movies about Francis the Talking Mule in the 1950s for the heart-warming, thought-provoking Hero's Journey stories, and they don't expect Alvin and the Chipmunks to change their lives.

      A good ride to another place and time can fulfill the contract. I don't remember much of the story of The Abyss but I felt well repaid by being taken to a cool dark place under the sea for two hours on a hot summer afternoon. James Cameron is great at creating entire worlds, the elegant world of Titanic, the ravishing world of Avatar, and his movies are rewarded with success because they satisfy the “take me to another place” part of the contract so well.

      Giving the audience stars they like in appealing combinations is a way the studios have always used to fulfill the contract with the public. Breathless movies trailers used to proclaim: “You loved Tracy and Hepburn in Adam's Rib; here they are together again in Pat and Mike!” Putting beloved stars into different costumes is another way to satisfy the entertainment contract. You thought Russell Crowe looked good in the gladiator kit; you'll love him in the Robin Hood outfit.

      Sheer novelty weighs heavily with audiences, justifying the investment of their time and attention. It's worth a lot to people to be able to talk about

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