Understanding Archetypes III

This is the third installment in our exploration of Christian Vogler’s archetypes. In previous posts we have looked at the Hero, Mentor, Threshold Guardian, and Herald archetypes. In this penultimate post on the subject, we examine two more archetypes: Shapeshifter and Shadow.

Shapeshifter

Shapeshifter

Shapeshifter

Shapeshifters are difficult to grasp because their very nature is to change and mutate. Shapeshifters take many forms, the most common being the Hero’s love interest, often a fickle woman who toys with his goals and emotions. In Fatal Attraction, for example, the shape-shifting woman changes from lover to an unstable and murderous foe within a short space of time. In traditional fairy tales, Shapeshifters manifest as wizards, ogres, and witches.

Psychologically, the archetype expresses the energy of the anima and animus, as explained in the writings of Carl Jung. The animus is the male element in the female unconscious and the anima the female element in the male unconscious. In theory, both elements are needed for survival and to maintain a healthy internal balance. Suppressing one of them in the opposite sex, as society would often have us do, can lead to instability and breakdown. Often, repression of the anima or animus finds release in dreams and fantasies as opposite-sex gods, monsters, even family members and colleagues. The theory may also explain why we often project our ideal form of lover onto another person — as our desire to map the anima or animus within ourselves onto another. In Alfred Hitchcock’s Vertigo, for example, James Stewart’s character forces Kim Novak to change her clothing and hair to match those of Carlota, a figment of Stewart’s imagination.

Dramatically, the Shapeshifter brings suspense and doubt into the story. Shapeshifters raise questions of faithfulness, love, and betrayal in the life of the Hero. Film noir and thrillers, in particular, abound with this archetype — the femme fatale as the female temptresses and destroyer, echoing the biblical characters of Eve, Delilah, and Jezebel. In the film Basic Instinct Sharon Stone’s character is perhaps one of the most famous femme fatales based on the Shapeshifter archetype. Not all Shapeshifters take the form of the femme fatale, however. In Greek mythology Zeus, a prototypical Shapeshifter, and ruler of the gods of Olympus, is a male. At a more innocent level, shapeshifting forms part of the normal game of love, in which lovers display, exaggerate, or hide aspects of themselves from each other, often dressing up for the role.

Shadow

Shadow

Shadow

The Shadow represents the energy of the dark side -– a character’s rejected, repressed, or unexpressed thoughts, feelings, and beliefs. Psychologically, the Shadow feeds on trauma or guilt that has been suppressed and driven deep into the unconscious. From there, emotions may grow into something monstrous and destructive. Just as the Threshold Guardian represents neurosis, so the Shadow represents the psychosis that hamper and harm us.

At the dramatic level, the function of the Shadow is to oppose the Hero and provide her with a worthy adversary in her fight to reach her goal. In fact, the Shadow is none other than the antagonist who engages the Hero in the life-threatening conflict that drives the story forward.

I mention, as an aside, that each of the eight separate archetypes may find combined expression within a single character — as aspects of that character. This means that the Shadow can manifest in the Hero, and vice versa: a Hero can have dark moments, and the antagonist can, on occasion, act heroically. In the film, The Terminator, for example, the Schwarzenegger character grows from Shadow to Hero within the course of the story and ultimately saves the day. It is this mixing and blending of archetypes that ultimately results in rich and complex characters who endure. That, however, is a separate subject to be dealt with in a future post.

Summary

The Shapeshifter is the most malleable archetype in a story. It is typically found in male/female relationships, but it is also useful in portraying characters whose behaviour and appearance changes to serve the needs of the story. The Shadow, on the other hand, represents the obstacles the Hero faces in reaching the goal, but it can also represent the Hero’s hidden and repressed feelings, thoughts, and beliefs.

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Understanding Archetypes II

In the previous post I began exploring Christian Vogler’s use of eight Archetypes extracted from his study of myths — specifically the archetypes of Hero and Mentor. In this post I look at two more — Threshold Guardian and Herald.

Threshold Guardian

Threshold Guardian

Threshold Guardian

Vogler sees stories as journeys to reach an important goal through obstacle-strewn terrain. Each obstacle is typically patrolled by powerful guardians. Threshold Guardians are the antagonist’s henchmen, or lesser villains, but they may also be morally neutral figures, objects, or elemental forces that are simply in the way.

Psychologically, the guardians represent the obstacles we encounter in daily life — bad luck, bad weather, hostility, repression, prejudice and the like. At a deeper level, they represent our inner demons — emotional scars, vices, and neurosis that manifest themselves more strongly at the threshold of obstacles.

At a dramatic level, the Threshold Guardians’ main function is to test the Hero — they are not necessarily evil in themselves. Indeed, they often help the Hero articulate and cross thresholds of resistance. Typically, the Hero must solve a puzzle as in the example of the Sphinx who presents Oedipus with a riddle before allowing him to continue his journey. A Hero may challenge the guardian, offer to bribe him, sidestep him, or literally get under his skin: In The Wizard of Oz, the Tin Woodsman, Cowardly Lion, and Scarecrow manage to enter the heavily guarded castle by overcoming then disguising themselves as three sentries — by donning the (outer) skin of the Threshold Guardians. As Hero’s evolve, however, they learn to recognize Threshold Guardians are not necessarily enemies but opportunities to grow and acquire new power.

Herald

Herald

Herald

Heralds typically appear near the beginning of a story to issue a challenge to the Hero in the form of a call to adventure. The Hero, who has previously lived an ordinary life, is now asked to help prevent some impending catastrophe to himself, his family, or society at large because of a new threat. Occasionally, the threat is disguised as a new opportunity, which, when pursued, turns out to be fraught with dangers. In terms of structure, the Herald functions as the Inciting Incident, kicking-starting the story at the earliest opportunity.

Psychologically, the Herald represents our unconscious need for change — the need to restore internal and external balance. It may come as a dream, a new idea, a person, or as the mysterious voice in The Field of Dreams: “If you build it, they will come.”

At the dramatic level, the Herald provides the Hero with a new practical challenge — the motivation to commence the journey. Again, the Herald may appear as a person, or an event such as a hurricane, even as mail. In Romancing the Stone, the Herald takes the form of a treasure map that arrives through the post and a phone call from Joan Wilder’s sister, informing her she is being held hostage in Colombia.

In Summary

Threshold Guardians take the form of characters or forces that cause the Hero to confront and overcome internal and external obstacles during his journey to the goal. A Herald may appear as an event or character that imparts new information that helps to initiate that journey.

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Understanding Archetypes

We know that creating engaging and effective characters involves observation, maturity, and imagination on the part of the writer. Well-written characters feel real; they radiate naturalness and spontaneity through their thoughts, emotions, and actions — they resonate with verisimilitude. But there is another layer to character creation that has less to do with serving character, and more to do with character serving the story — character as a function of the story argument.

In The Writer’s Journey, Chrisopher Vogler, who built on the work of American mythologist Joseph Campbell, offers a theory of storytelling based on the structure of myth and archetype. Carl G. Jung first used the term, archetype, to refer to the shared ancient patterns that find their way in our dreams and stories. Exploring this further, Vogler argues that myth examines the basic materials of the human psyche through the medium of storytelling. He sees stories as journeys undertaken by the Hero to achieve a goal with physical, spiritual, and emotional dimensions. In this sense, each narrative element has a function to perform — to help create and sustain the story across a myriad of layers. And so too with Character, which draws on the notion of archetype to broaden its universal appeal.

Vogler offers eight character types, or archetypes, that, collectively, fulfill the story argument: Hero, Mentor, Threshold Guardian, Herald, Shape Shifter, Shadow, Ally, and Trickster. Although these names may sound somewhat arcane, we’ve met them before under different appellations — Hero/Protagonist, Ally/Sidekick, Shadow/Antagonist. Each of these characters acts according to his or her type, presenting one side of the argument while propelling the story forward towards its ultimate conclusion. In this post we look at some of the main characteristics of two archetypes: Hero and Mentor.

Hero

Hero

Hero

One of the earliest renditions of the Hero was Perseus — the monster slayer — who encapsulated the Greek ideal of heroism. At a psychological level, the Hero archetype represents the ego’s search for completion and identity. As a dramatic device, however, the Hero offers the reader or audience a specific perspective, someone to identify with, drawing us deeper into the story. Typically, Heroes grow and learn rough hardships encountered in pursuit of the goal (although some Heroes may remain static, causing others to change around them, instead). They are doers — they initiate and sustain action. Often, Heroes are asked to sacrifice loved ones and/or themselves in pursuit of the goal. Additionally, Heroes are often flawed and may be willing or unwilling pursuers of the goal. Although Heroes may be leaders, captaining armies or groups into battle, they may also be loners, attempting to solve the world’s problems on their own.

Mentor

Mentor

Mentor

A Mentor is closely allied to the Hero, training and guiding him or her during the pursuit of the goal. Vogler reminds us that psychologically, Mentors represent the higher Self — the wiser, nobler, more god-like aspect of us. The dramatic function of the Mentor is to teach and train the Hero, preparing him for the challenges ahead. This is often a two-way process, with the Mentor learning from the Hero as much as the Hero learns from the Mentor. Mentors typically provide the Hero with gifts, be it weapons, medicine, or food, again, intended to aid in the attainment of the goal. Gifts, however, should be earned, either through self-sacrifice, or commitment. Like Heroes, Mentors may be willing or unwilling participants in the task. Occasionally, a flawed Mentor may instruct through counter example — by showing the Hero the dangers of taking a wrong path though enacting it in his own life. Sometimes, a Mentor can mislead the Hero, typically in Thrillers such as Goodfellas or The Public Enemy, which invert heroic values in the telling the tale. Finally, a Mentor, who may either show up early in the story, or towards the end, when he is most needed, provides the Hero with inspiration, guidance, and motivation, granting her gifts to aid her in the task at hand.

In Summary

Archetypes are shared character types, found in myths and dreams, that reoccur across all cultures. Archetypes form the universal language of storytelling, and, as such, are an indispensable part of a writer’s craft.

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Plot and Subplot: Several Strands, One Yarn

Image of yarn

Many Strands, One Yarn

We know that plot and subplot form the basis of all stories. What may be somewhat less obvious, however, is the precise relationship that exists between the two. How are these narrative elements knitted together, and what patterns do they form in stories? It may be useful to answer these questions in the following way: If plot is primarily concerned with the outer journey — the protagonist’s pursuit of the goal, the subplot(s) supports this journey by exploring its motivation, whether it concerns love, hate, generosity, revenge, or the like, and additionally tends to highlight theme, symbol, and the moral framework of the tale — the inner journey. In a finely crafted story, plot and subplot are woven together into a seamless whole.

The Role of Genre

Action-driven stories tend to spend more time on plot, although subplot is never ignored. Even frenetically paced films like Mission Impossible: The Ghost Protocol contain scenes which explore material centered on emotional content: Agent William Brandt (Jeremy Renner), for example, is wracked with guilt over having failed to protect Ethan Hunt’s (Tom Cruise) wife from being killed in Budapest. This frames many of his actions and his refusal to remain with the team at the film’s conclusion. We later learn that Hunt’s wife is very much alive and that Hunt has known this all along but has kept it secret in order to protect her. This sort of inner layering forms part of the story’s subplot.

The Piano

Art-cinema inflected films, by contrast, tend to emphasize subplot over plot. In The Piano, for example, the plot, involves Ada’s (Holly Hunter) attempt to get back her piano and thus regain her “voice” and self-expression. The new owner of the piano, George Baines (Harvey Keitel), who is obsessed with Ada, promises to returns the instrument to her in exchange for piano lessons and sex. This thread of lust, obsession, and Ada’s own awakening sexual passion, overshadows the plot, primarily because the action is diminutive in comparison to the spectacle found in Action/Adventure films. By contrast, it is the subplot that contains the large and tempestuous emotions that drive the story forward.

Retaining Plot Prominence

In some genres, such as the conventional Love Story, plot and subplot may even occasionally appear to merge, becoming difficult to pry apart. Here, the “love” thread, which typically provides part of the protagonist’s inner motivation/subplot in the Action/Adventure genres, now becomes the outer goal (plot), itself. This genre typically centers around the attempt of lovers to get/stay together despite mounting obstacles. Strengthening the outer obstacles may prevent the subplot from usurping the role of the plot.

In Summary

The normal function of the subplot(s) is to support, motivate, and highlight the inner concerns of the plot by exploring the relationships and emotions of the protagonist and other characters through one or several story strands. Occasionally, and depending on genre, subplots appear to usurp the plot.

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Plants and Pay-Offs: Unearthing Buried Treasure

Buried Treasure

Buried Treasure

In a previous post I discussed the importance of foreshadowing, suggesting that the term covers a wide variety of narrative elements, including theme and symbol — elements that one might best describe as meta-narrative, that is, a layer of significance that sits above, or at the base of a story and does not necessarily participate directly in the plot.

In this post, I want to focus exclusively on narrative elements that create foreshadowing, yet are very much part of the plot — actions and objects that participate directly in the story. It may be best to describe this sort of foreshadowing as planting and paying-off to differentiate it, for the sake of precision, from foreshadowing though theme and symbol.

Planting for the Pay-Off

In writing, every narrative action ought to have clear consequences. This is especially true in screenwriting, which uses fewer pages to tell the story than are afforded a novel. If the writer plants a gun in a scene, it has to be used in the scene, or at some later point in the story to justify its inclusion. In the television series, Jericho, for example, we notice that a gun in a frame on the wall is part of a display in a home where a couple of bogus cops are lurking. Later, we see that the gun has been removed, indicating that the potential victim is now armed and can fight back. In the movie, Mask, Stanley’s (Jim Carrey) dog shows us his prowess by catching a flying frisbee, setting up the pay-off later in the plot, when it crucially jumps to retrieve the magical mask in mid-flight.

Where is the best place to put plants and pay-offs? A plant should remain innocuous and be situated at a natural and believable point along the story spine — as part of the story’s natural development. Its pay-off ought to be held back for as long as possible, and revealed only when it can deliver the most dramatic impact.

In Summary

Plants and pay-offs deal with specific elements in the plot. The main characteristic of a plant is that it should appear innocuous, while a pay-off should be delivered at the moment of highest dramatic impact.

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How to Develop Conflict in your Stories

Conflict

Conflict

We’ve often heard that conflict is the fuel that powers your story — and rightly so. Without conflict between characters, as well as warring elements within a single character, your stories are bound to appear staid and static — lacking dramatic impact and interest.

Internal Vs. External Conflict

There are two main types of conflict — internal and external. Internal conflict arises from warring elements within a character’s psyche. In The Matrix, for example, Neo’s (Keanu Reeves) lack of belief in himself as the chosen one is in conflict with his duty to rescue mankind from the agents and the machines. But this inner conflict echoes the external one: He has to believe that he is ‘The One’ in order to defeat the agents and machines and thus rescue mankind from perpetual slumber. This is an example of how synchronising the internal conflict of a character, especially a protagonist, to the external conflict makes for a gripping tale that stays on track.

Mounting Conflict

Conflict, however, is not simply distributed in equal measure along the spine of your story. Each obstacle faced, each new conflict which arises, should build on the previous one in terms of danger and intensity — both internally and externally. This means that the conflict is adjusted to suit — as the physical stakes change, so does the character’s internal response — fear/prejudice/courage/etc. The internal and external journeys continuously track each other, like partners in a dance. Additionally, obstacles which gives rise to conflict differ from previous ones in order to avoid monotony and repetition.

Structuring Conflict

What follows a scene, or scenes containing mounting conflict? Typically, a setback, leading to a deepening of the conflict. In Unforgiven, for example, Ned Logan (Morgan Freeman) decides to walk away from the job, which involves killing the men who cut up the face of a prostitute. This leaves William Manny (Clint Eastwood) and the myopic ‘Schofield Kid’ (Jaimz Woolvett) to carry out the deed without him. The situation is further aggravated in the last act when Manny faces, on his own, an entire saloon filled with men out to kill him. This situation has arisen as a result of a setback — the murder of his friend, Ned Logan who, himself, has been unjustly accused of murder — and Manny’s pledge to revenge Ned’s death.

Lastly, it is important to note that each conflict has a definite climax, leading directly to the setback: Manny’s shooting of one of the cowboys leads directly to the setback — Ned Logan’s death.

In Summary

Conflict between characters, as well as conflict within a single character, is essential in stories. Positioning and pacing mounting conflict through a skillful use of setbacks is an effective way of structuring this all important narrative element.

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Why Obstacles are Good for Stories: Directing Story Traffic

Obstacles

Obstacles

What is Story Traffic?

In previous posts, I discussed the importance of turning points to the development and structure of a story, suggesting that their function is to introduce new information, which should be as surprising as it is inevitable. Surprising, because it keeps the audience/reader guessing, and inevitable, because it has been deftly prepared for by the writer. Another way to view turning points is as obstacles, blocking the way to the protagonist’s goal, forcing a change in direction.

What of the Midpoint?

Typically, a story contains a beginning, middle, and end, and therefore, two major turning points — one which introduces the middle section (or act ii,) and one which introduces the last section (or act iii). But because this middle section tends to be the longest, it often needs to be split further through the use of a midpoint, also discussed previous posts, in effect, creating two more sections. The midpoint, too, may be regarded as a turning point, with one proviso — that it presents the protagonist with a moral choice, a moment of illumination, which once accepted, changes him. Henceforth, the protagonist’s actions take on board this insight, for good or ill, and guide his actions to the story’s conclusion.

What specific forms, then, do turning points/obstacles take? I offer the following for your consideration:

External/Internal

External and internal obstacles flow from the outer and inner journeys respectively. In the best stories, they operate simultaneously. A protagonist who is afraid of heights but has then to cross a tiny ledge on a skyscraper to save his stranded child has clearly more on his hands than the physical task alone.

Obstacle Types

Obstacles may stop the established external/internal flow of events dead in its tracks, forcing the protagonist to start again in a completely new direction, or they may deflect or expand the flow in a related direction, or they may reverse the flow completely, in a 180 degree about-turn. What type of obstacle should you use in your stories? That depends on the type of story you’re telling. Episodic, or biographical stories often stop the current flow in favour of a new option — one episode in one’s life comes to an end and another begins.

Reversals, on the other hand, have effectively been employed in a type of story called multiform narrative, such as Groundhog Day, Run Lola Run, Vantage Point and Source Code, to replay the story from the same starting point.

Deflection, or expansion, is by far the most common form of turning point/obstacle. Here the original goal is adjusted, or realigned, but still adheres to the overall parameters of the original intent. In Unforgiven, for example, Will Manny’s (Clint Eastwood) intention of killing the men who cut up the face of a prostitute, expands into killing anyone who participated in the murder of his friend, Ned Logan (Morgan Freeman). The original goal, which has already been achieved, has been expanded to include an additional one, albeit in the same vain.

In Summary

Turning points introduce major new sections of your story by presenting new information that is as surprising as it is inevitable. There are three main types of turning point — dead stop, deflection/expansion, and reversal.

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How to Motivate Your Character

Much has been written, over time, on the importance of character and character development in stories, and rightly so. An engaging and convincing character, is, in my opinion, one of the most important elements in the well-crafted story. But if character is such an important part of your story, then it follows that what motivates character action is equally important. Readers and audiences need to know and understand precisely why it is that a character acts in the way that he or she does. Outer actions or events are convincing only if they are a fitting response flowing from the personality and circumstances that the character finds herself in.

Motivation

Motivation

The Two Sides of Motivation

In previous posts I’ve talked about the importance to a story of the inner and outer journeys of a character. If the outer journey describes the external movement of the tale — the “what” — the inner journey describes and explains the inner movement — the “why”. Although the two seem ostensibly different, they are inexorably bound together. They entail each other. So, another way to see motivation is as having an inner and outer dimension. Outer motivation operates at the level of the external goal. Here, a series of external events elicit actions from your characters. In the movie, Speed, for example, Officer Jack Traven (Keanu Reeves) has to keep the bus moving at a certain speed to ensure that a bomb inside it doesn’t go off. The reason why someone would risk one’s life to try and prevent this from happening, however, goes beyond external reasons — one’s job. It speaks to one’s moral make up, compassion, and commitment to others, and perhaps to one’s need for excitement — it cuts directly to the core of Jack Traven’s character.

Core Questions

In seeking to nail down your character’s motivation, it is helpful to ask yourself the following questions:

What is your character’s outer goal?
What is your character’s inner motivation (conscious or unconscious) for pursuing this goal?
What is your character willing to do/sacrifice to achieve this goal?
How does the goal change during the story, and how does this affect your character?
Is what is at stake for the character the highest it can be? (Higher stakes make for better stories).

Although these are by no means the only questions to be asked with regards character, they are a good way of sketching in the overall shape of a character arc. They also draw attention to the “what” (outer) and “why” (inner) aspects of your character’s actions — a requirement of any good story.

In Summary

Motivating your character’s actions is an essential part of effective storytelling. The outer goal is directly related to your character’s inner life and is motivated by her core concerns.

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How to Keep your Story Moving

Momentum

Momentum

A story without momentum is in danger of being branded boring; at worst it implodes and disintegrates. In her book, Making a Good Script Great, Linda Seger gives us several suggestions of how to establish and enhance story momentum.

Story Momentum

Seger defines story momentum as that which causes one scene to lead inexorably to the next. Inexorably, because the relationship between scenes is one of cause and effect. There are, of course, other scenes, which serve the subplot, that are less tightly bound into the main plot, but in terms of the plot itself, a causal relationship between scenes should be the order of the day.

Witness

The end of act two in Witness provides a telling sequence of scenes in this regard: The young Amish boy, Samuel (Lukas Haas), identifies detective McFee (Danny Glover) as the murderer. This prescribes the next scene in which John Book (Harrison Ford) visits his boss to tell him of this, but is asked to keep it quiet. This causes John to return to his apartment, only to be shot at by McFee. John realises that his boss is one of the murderers. As a result, John picks up Rachael (Kelly McGillis), Samuel’s mother, and Samuel, and drives to the Amish farm to hide out. This initiates the next scene in which, as a result of his injury, John passes out. This, in turn, leads into the second act with John hiding out at the Amish farm, with Rachel looking after him.

Note how every scene described above is tightly related to the next. In future blogs, I shall have more to say about the specific structure of these causal scenes, and the important actions or beats within them called action points, but for now, I mention that the inciting incident and turning points, discussed at length in previous posts, are certainly cause-and-effect scenes.

In Summary

Story momentum is a result of scenes being causally related to each other, contributing to he main plot through-line. Interwoven with other “looser” scenes that comprise the subplot, they make for a story that has both forward momentum and variation in pace, tone, and subject matter.

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How to Get the Ball Rolling: Nine Story Templates

9 Story Templates

9 Story Templates

Much has been written, over the centuries, about what constitutes a good story. Each sage on the subject has had his or her own interpretation on how many story templates there are, and it is not the purpose of this post to go into the merits of each here. I do, however, want to suggest, for the sake of brevity and conciseness, that most stories can be accommodated within one of nine general types, or a mixture thereof. What I mean by this is that although the names, places, and finer grain of each individual story differ from those of the original, the basic structure of the narrative follows a similar pattern. Here are some influential stories that have so captured the imagination of the world that they have created story types:

1. Romeo and Juliet

Boy meets/wins/has girl, boy looses girl, or boy finds/doesn’t find girl: When Harry Met Sally, Sleepless in Seattle.

2. Faust

Selling your soul may bring short term riches and success, but there’s always a price to be paid, leading to ruin and damnation: Wall Street, Fatal Attraction.

3. Cinderella

Dreams do come true, despite initial setbacks from wicked or opposing forces: Rocky, Pretty Woman.

4. Circe

The spider and the fly; the victim and the manipulator; the temptress ensnaring the love-struck, or innocent victim, often seen in film noir: Body Heat, The Postman Always Rings Twice.

5. Orpheus

The theft of something precious, either lost, or taken away; the search to redeem it, and the tragedy or success which follows it: Rain Man.

6. Tristan

Stories about love triangles — man loves a woman, but he or she is already spoken for: Fatal Attraction.

7. Candide

The hero who won’t stay down; the innocent on a mission; naive optimism winning the day: Indiana Jones, Forrest Gump.

8. Achilles

The destruction, or endangerment of an otherwise good person, because of an inherent flaw: Superman, Othello, the protagonist in film noir.

9. Frankenstein

Man’s attempt to rise to the level of God, ending in tragedy and failure: Frankenstein; Icarus.

In Summary

All stories follow a pattern originating from source material. Mixing and varying material from these sources accounts for the structure of most stories being told today.

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