Category Archives: On Character

Setting: How to Write like a Cinematic Genius.

Masterful settings in Anna Karenina
Masterful settings in Anna Karenina

How important is the setting you choose for your story and characters? The short answer? Critical!

In cinema where locations come alive, as much as in novels, your choice of setting is a potent tool in supercharging your storytelling. To illustrate this, let’s draw inspiration from the brilliant location choices of Anna Karenina, All the Pretty Horses, and The Last Voyage of the Demeter as proof of how choosing the right setting can make or break your story.

Anna Karenina: Russia’s Snowy Embrace as a Character

In Anna Karenina, the brilliant Leo Tolstoy turns snowy Russia into a character as compelling as any protagonist. In this classic tale, a snowstorm isn’t just a backdrop. It is a dynamic force that shapes the characters’ choices and actions. The sensation of being inside this world, adds depth and realism to the story. As writers, we should learn to do no less.

All the Pretty Horses: The Southwestern Borderlands as a Plot Driver

In Cormac McCarthy’s All the Pretty Horses, the Southwestern borderlands setting is far from coincidental. It reflects the pivotal conflict of the story, where the disappearing cowboy way of life forces the protagonist on a journey into Mexico. The arid and desolate Southwest is not just a backdrop but a character in its own right, emphasising the intimate connection between setting and plot. As storytellers, we must recognise that the place we choose can be as crucial as any character in our narrative.

The Last Voyage of the Demeter: Tempests and Confined spaces

The Last Voyage of the Demeter is a tale that emerges out of the intricate threads of Count Dracula’s legend. The story’s significance lies not only in the eerie confines of the doomed ship but also in the relentless force of the storm that envelopes it. As the Demeter sails from Varna to Whitby, the tempest mirrors the mounting dread of the crew, accentuating the horror that lurks in the cargo hold below. The setting, a claustrophobic ship with dwindling resources on a tempestuous sea, becomes a pressure cooker of dread and paranoia. The link between setting and weather in this tale showcases how, when skillfully exploited, a surrounding can become a character in itself, breathing life into the story, shaping the characters‘ actions and emotions, and influencing the tone.

“Respect the setting and weather as you do the characters in your story. Your tales will be the more vivid for it!”

As writers, we should always ask which setting(s) will have the most impact on our story. If the answer is: “I’m not sure”, or, “very little”, it is be time to reassess. The characters in Anna Karenina, All the Pretty Horses, and The Last Voyage of the Demeter, don’t merely exist in their surroundings, they are an organic part of them.

Summary

Setting and weather are not just backdrops; they are active participants in the story. Embrace both, let them shape your characters and plot, and watch as your stories roar to life.

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Four keys to writing epic characters

Dent’s Secrets in The Dark Knight
Dent’s Secrets in The Dark Knight

Vivid, unforgettable characters lie at the heart of any great story. Here are the four keys to unlocking them.


1: Powerful Desires/Goals/Needs

Giving your characters, especially your protagonists, powerful desires, goals, and needs will drive any story forward. One of the best examples of this is found in the iconic movie The Shawshank Redemption. Andy Dufresne’s relentless and persistent desire to escape from the Shawshank Prison drives the entire plot, keeping us engaged from start to finish.

We see this at work in countless of novels, too. In Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, Elizabeth Bennet’s desire for love and independence in a society that pressures women into marriage motivates the entire story.

2: Secrets

Secrets add depth and intrigue to your characters, making readers and viewers eager to discover the truth. In the film The Dark Knight Harvey Dent’s character harbours a hidden darkness which transforms him into Two-Face, with dramatic consequences.

And who can forget, George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire, a series in which Jon Snow is a character with a mysterious lineage that sustains speculation and curiosity throughout the story.

3. Contradictions:

Giving your characters contradictions, introduces complexity and conflict into their psychology, which renders them more interesting and relatable. In Fight Club, the narrator appears as an office worker by day and a rebellious anarchist by night, embodying the complex duality within all of us.

“Use the four keys to help you write great characters that endure.”

In the novel To Kill a Mockingbird, Atticus Finch showcases a deep contradiction—fighting tooth and nail as a lawyer for justice in a deeply prejudiced, divided society while simultaneously finding the space and resources to be a loving father. His integrity and vulnerability make him one of the most beloved literary characters of all time.

4: Vulnerabilities

The final characteristic is vulnerability. A character’s vulnerability allows us to connect with him or her on a deep, emotional level. In Inside Out, Joy learns that it’s okay to show vulnerability by feeling sadness. This vulnerability is a crucial moment in her development as a person.

In the Harry Potter books, Harry’s vulnerability stems from his fear of rejection after years of mistreatment by the Dursleys. This helps not only make him a hero but a relatable and endearing character, too.

Use these traits in film and literature to breathe life and fire into your characters.

Summary

The four keys to writing epic characters are: Powerful goals and desires, secrets, contradictions, and vulnerabilities.

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How to use the five senses in stories

The five senses
Chris Lombardi on the five senses

In chapter 5 of Writing Fiction, the Practical Guide from New York’s Acclaimed Creative Writing School, Chris Lombardi offers us sage advice on how to catapult our readers and audiences into our fictional worlds through the evocation of the five senses.


Lombardi explains that we read and write with our brains, but we live life through our bodies. We therefore need to convey the experience of our fictional worlds through our five senses. Yes, our running to catch the bus consists of a series of internal events such as irritation at having to catch a bus in the first place, and the worry that we’ll miss it, but these internal states are motivated by the senses—the feel and sound of shoes striking the pavement, the sucking in of breath, the sight of the retreating bus, the smell of its exhaust and the roar of its engine. Experience of the world, in other words, is fed to us through our sense faculties. Our stories should do no less.

Lombardi presses the point: “To bring a reader into your fictional world, you need to offer data for all the senses. You want to make your readers see the rain’s shadow, taste the bitterness of bad soup, feel the roughness of unshaved skin, smell the spoiled pizza after an all-night party, hear the tires screech during the accident. Note that I’ve referred to all five senses. Don’t be tempted to focus only on sight, as many beginning writers do. It may be the sound after the party that your character really remembers. You may find that the feel of the fabric of a character’s dress tells more about her upbringing than her hairstyle does.”

“The skillful use of the five senses is one of the hallmarks of a good writer.”

The following passage from Amy Tan’s novel, “Rules of the Game” is a great example of the senses at work:

“We lived on Waverly Place, in a warm, clean, two-bedroom flat that sat above a small Chinese bakery, specializing in steamed pastries and dim sum. In the early morning, when the alley was still quiet, I could smell fragrant red beans as they were cooked down to a pasty sweetness. By daybreak, our flat was heavy with the odor of fried sesame balls and sweet curried chicken crescents. From my bed, I would listen as my father got ready for work, then locked the door behind him, one-two-three clicks.”

We see, hear, smell, feel, and even taste this world. It’s almost as if we are physically there.

But could we use a sense other than sight and hearing in a screenplay, too? Indeed we could, if a little more indirectly: We could write into the screenplay’s action block a character wrinkling her nose at the sight of some unsightly food on a plate with steam rising from it, we could have a character’s hand stroking the fur of a cat, a horse, a velvet dress,  we could describe a closeup shot of a child grimacing at the taste of a spoon brimming over with cod liver oil pressed into his mouth. 

You get the idea.

As an exercise write about a character on a dare from his friends to find a perfumed handkerchief hidden somewhere in a spooky, abandoned house. The character is blindfolded and has only a cane to help him/her navigate the interior. Write the scene for a novel or screenplay using only the sensory description of hearing, smell, touch, and taste. Omit any description of sight to force you to concentrate on the remaining senses.

Summary

Use the five senses in writing novels and screenplays to catapult your readers into the physical world of your story.

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Symbols – your secret power

Symbols in The Joker
Symbols in The Joker

What are symbols, and how can we use them to prolong longevity, add resonance and depth to our stories?

In his book, Man and his Symbols the renowned psychologist, Carl Gustav Jung wrote: ‘What we call a symbol is a term, a name, or even a picture that may be familiar in daily life, yet that possesses specific connotations in addition to its conventional and obvious meaning. It implies something vague, unknown, or hidden from us. A word or image stripped of its connotative aspect is a mere sign—it denotes or points to an object or event that has no added significance than its function—such as a chair, a table, and the like.” 

The strength of symbols, especially symbols that emerge from the unconscious to manifest as Archetypes, is that they endure. To put it in another way, as primordial remnants bubble up from the human unconscious, they are expressed by the conscious mind as universally applicable archetypal symbols. They do so by cleaving to specific actions, events and objects in myths and stories.

“Symbols, when rendered adroitly, promote the longevity of any story.”

To generate symbols in your own tales, start with story and character: 1. Ask, what is the genre of your story? 2. What is the key idea, theme, and moral premise of your story? 3. What goals and struggles are your characters engaged in?

The answers to these questions will direct you to the sorts of symbols you need to use. A note of caution here. Your symbols shouldn’t attract attention to themselves—they shouldn’t be too obvious. They need to grow on us as vessels of meaning. They also need to be specific and to generate emotion. The key here is to work out how they relate to the characters and to each other: Are these symbols actual objects that would feature effortlessly in the characters’ everyday lives? Again, subtlety is key.

Here’s how Todd Phillip uses character symbols in his film, The Joker:

The film opens with Arthur Fleck applying his clown make-up. We don’t immediately ascribe symbolic significance to this. Arthur is merely preparing to do his job as a clown. But as the story progresses the clown imagery deepens in meaning, driven by story questions: Why is it that after Arthur loses his job, he continues to wear his clown make-up? Is it that it offers him an escape from his dreary reality? Does it have deeper psychological connotations—indicate his rejecting his identity due to some past trauma that makes him wish that he was someone else?

“Well crafted symbols are universal and eternal.”

The figure of the clown now comes to symbolise the breakdown of social structures in Gotham—the conflict between the rulers and the ruled. The mob dons clown dress and rises up against the authorities, with the Joker, as inspiration.  A clown suit and mask are no longer symbols of fun and laughter—the Joker has become the symbol of something dark and dangerous—the symbol of chaos.

Symbolism can also emerge from setting, providing context, atmosphere and bolstering the theme. In The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, Mordor, as opposed to the idyllic life of the Shire, is shown to be a place of hellfire and horror—the entire landscape is symbolic of the evil represented by Sauron. 

And of course, the rings themselves are highly symbolic, with the last ring being especially significant. Having been forged by Sauron on Mount Doom it represents pure evil. But the ring also symbolises desire and greed. We see this clearly in Bilbo and Gollum’s desire to posses it.

The ring also symbolises temptation. Even honourable characters such as Gandalf and Boromir are tempted by its beguiling power. This temptation gains in resonance by reminding us of the original temptation in the garden of Eden, where Adam and Eve disobeyed God and ate from the apple of good and evil.

When deploying symbols remember to show rather than tell, to point them towards your key ideas and themes, to select symbols that give rise to emotion, and to avoid being heavy-handed in their use.

Summary

Use symbols to add resonance, meaning and depth to your stories.

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Fascinating characters are a little paradoxical

Paradoxical characters in A Fish Called Wanda.
Paradoxical characters in A Fish Called Wanda.

Given the plethora of books, TV series, and films available nowadays, there is a danger that stories and the characters that inhabit them become stale and repetitive—poorly disguised imitations of themselves. It’s therefore important that we find a way to make them fascinating and colourful to avoid turning them into mere cliches.

One way to make a character more fascinating is to inject paradoxical elements into his or her personality. In Creating Unforgettable Characters, Linda Seger, quotes the novelist Leonard Tourney on the subject: Tourney writes “Characters are more interesting if they are made of mixed stuff, if they contain warring elements. To create these warring elements, you begin by establishing one, then asking, ‘Given this element, what elements are there in the same person that would create in that person a kind of conflict?” A ruthless hit man who donates all his money to a foundation for war veterans is an example.

“Paradoxical characters make for fascinating stories.”

But an all-out war between traits, however, is not the only way to create paradoxes—your character/s could merely display an unexpected conjunction of personality tendencies, habits, hobbies, or interests:

In A Fish Called Wanda, Otto is presented as nervous, dumb and jealous, yet he meditates and reads Nietzsche. This is surprising, which makes the character instantly more fascinating.

In Good Will Hunting, Matt Damon’s character, Will, recently paroled from jail and now a janitor at M.I.T, solves a difficult math problem posted on a blackboard that has stumped everyone else. Although this is not necessary a display of contrary traits, it does make us wonder why such a smart man ended up in jail and now works as a janitor.

To quote Seger, “Human nature being what it is, a character is always more than just a set of consistencies. People are illogical and unpredictable. They do things that surprise us, startle us, change all of our preconceived ideas about them.”

As writers we should seek to do no less.

Summary

Characters who display paradoxical or unexpected traits, traits that have been skillfully selected, make for fascinating stories.

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Show Don’t Tell – in a Nutshell

Show don’t tell. What do you see?
Show don’t tell. What do you see?

Most stories comprise of both telling and showing. If telling explains, simplifies and summarises by compressing time and space, showing reveals and dramatises, allowing readers or audiences to piece things together for themselves. Let’s look at five ways, with examples, of how to show not tell:

1. Narration

Sometimes a writer compresses actions and events through narration to speed up a story. Even so, catapulting the reader into the scene by showing rather than telling, even in narration, can increase reader involvement.

Telling: The boy felt terror when he heard his uncle, cane in hand no doubt, approaching his room. He always came to his room with his cane. The boy’s tiny stomach contracted into an even tighter knot and his fear grew.

Showing: The boy heard his uncle’s footsteps grow louder. He squeezed his eyes shut. The cane swooshed through the air, each practice stroke sounding closer. He pressed his palms against his ears, and, shivering, counted back from ten.

2. Dialogue

Dialogue, especially subtext dialogue, can reveal a layer beneath the literal meaning of the words.

Telling: “You thought I wouldn’t notice, Tommy? The number of coins in the orange pot on the top shelf? The pot I thought you couldn’t reach? You think I’m stupid? You thieving, ungrateful brat.”

Showing: “Get a load of this, Tommy. Ferguson caught his nephew stealing from his wallet. Thrashed him real bad. Should’ve cut his hand off, I says. Boys shouldn’t steal. Anyways, fetch that orange pot from the kitchen cupboard, will you? On the top shelf. The one with the money you pretend not to know is there.”

3. Setting

A setting that uses vivid sensory details can help the writer to show not tell by having the characters, hence the reader, experience the environment through the senses more directly.

Telling: The angry, ominous Arcus clouds were full of lightning. A terrifying storm was brewing. He had never feared storms before. But he feared this one. He feared he would not survive—unless he could tie the loose sails back on the mast before the storm hit.

Showing: The boat bucked under his feet and lightning lit up the Arcus clouds. Loose sails hissed and flapped savagely above him like wounded behemoths. He’d have to secure them to the mast immediately or die trying.

“Show don’t tell is the indispensable technique of accomplished writing.”

4. Use Details – but not to many

Don’t be too ornate or over-descriptive. Less is more.

Too ornate: He was heavy-set, with thick eyebrows and the forehead of a Neanderthal, muscles bulging with the threat of deadly violence, and a voice as gruff as a wheel-less barrow grating on cold grey concrete.

More apt (especially for a screenplay): He looked and sounded like a concrete truck churning over a full load.

5. Showing by describing action

Telling slows your story down. Yet, you still need to introduce characters, environments, and provide background information. So how to do it? Through action that shows while characterising or creating tension.

If you need to introduce a character who has to get from A to B on a train, instead of having him while away the time by describing the passengers and the thoughts this triggers, build tension by having him notice someone bothering another passenger through small actions—sniffing her hair, whispering in her ear, squeezing up against her, and the like. The scene will get you from A to B in no time while maintaining momentum.

Summary

Although telling is necessary in order to cover the large narrative terrain of a story, showing involves the reader or audience in a more direct way.

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Masters of Subtext

As Good as it Gets - Screenplay: James L. Brooks, Mark Andrus masters of subtext.
As Good as it Gets – Screenplay: James L. Brooks, Mark Andrus masters of subtext.

I just can’t stop talking about the necessity of becoming absolute masters of subtext. Dialogue that ripples with subtext jumps right out of the page and declares to the reader—I am an accomplished writer. Keep reading.

If direct dialogue tells us about the literal meaning of the words—their denotation—subtext reveals the meaning behind the words—their connotation. Subtext is a far more engaging way of having the character reveal information because it lets the reader or audience into a secret, or at least, into the deeper layer of meaning that makes them feel more connected to the characters and the story. It does not spoon-feed the reader, as would direct dialogue.

“Masters of subtext stand out from the crowd. They are consummate writers of dramatic speech.”

There are many ways to write subtext, one of the most important being The Cover-Up. It may use a change of subject, a lie, a misdirection, a question, a threat, and the like, to achieve its goal. These techniques occur downstream, but first let me remind everyone that there are three chief areas to any dramatic text: 1. direct text, 2. its deeper meaning, and 3. when this meaning is to be conveyed to the reader or audience.

In As good as it Gets, we see Melvyn, who despises dogs, put the neighbour’s animal down the garbage chute in the hallway outside his apartment. We should note that the subtext can be (1) revealed before the actual subtext dialogue occurs, (2) during or (3) after the dialogue. Notice that here we already know that Melvyn has done the deed before the exchange with his neighbour, so we experience it as a Cover-Up.

INT. APARTMENT BUILDING (NEW YORK), HALLWAY – NIGHT

SIMON, the dog’s owner, rushes down the hall just as Melvyn is about to enter his apartment.

SIMON: Verdell? Here, good doggie…

He notices Melvyn at the end of the hall.

SIMON: Mr Udhall…excuse me. Hey there! Have you seen Verdell?

MELVYN: What’s he look like?

Here, Melvyn uses the technique of The Cover-Up by asking a question. But since we already know that he has stuffed the dog down the chute we know that he is lying. To spell it out: Melvyn’s denotation is: ‘What’s he look like’, feigning engagement. But the actual meaning is: ‘I got rid of your dog and I’ll lie so as not to get caught.’

Imagine if the scene had started with Simon looking for his dog. Melvyn’s question about what the dog looks like would then appear as if he was being helpful. When the truth was revealed later that Melvyn did indeed do it, the subtext would arise introspectively. Both instances would involve subtext, but the former is perhaps stronger because it occurs at the present moment. But that is something for you to decide in each particular instance.

SIMON: My dog…you know, I mean my little dog with the adorable face… Don’t you know what my dog looks like?

MELVYN: I got it. You’re talking about your dog. I thought that was the name of the colored man I’ve been seeing in the hall.

Again, because we know that Melvyn is the culprit, we experience the deception more acutely—every line promotes the Cover-Up, which demonstrates the sort of man he is. In other words, we learn far more about his character from the subtext than direct, denotative speech could reveal. Such is its power.

Summary

Masters of subtext – the sure sign of the accomplished writers. Study its various techniques until you master them fully.

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The explanatory power of need in stories.

In the film Tootsie Michael Dorsey‘s ‘need” manifests in his actions.

What is the difference between a character’s want and need?

In her book, Advanced Screenwriting, Linda Seger explains that one’s ‘want’ is related to the outer goal in the story—what the character thinks s/he has to achieve in order to solve a problem: get the girl, or the job, and the like. One’s ‘need’, however, is typically hidden from the character. It is revealed only late in the developmental arc as a result of the characters having learnt a series of lessons about themselves, and the world, through life’s hard knocks. 

We as writers, however, have to know how to work with this hidden need on behalf of our characters. We have to know how to work with the subtext—with what is suppressed, left unsaid, with emotions of guilt, shame or regret. These are the generators of depth and resonance in our stories. Without them we have only plot. With them we have in-depth characters whose psychological motivation rings true.

“Without an acknowledgement of need, characters are unable to complete their character arcs and achieve their story goals.”

Tootsie’s Michael Dorsey, for example, does not, at first, realise that he needs to be less difficult, more sensitive to others in order to achieve his outer goals as an actor. He does not realise that his insistence on ‘perfection’, his obsessive disagreeableness and fussiness stems from his own insecurities. It is only when he adopts the disguise of a woman in order to procure a television soapie role, a disguise so convincing that he is subjected to the sort of insensitivity and sexism he has inflicted on others, that he realises that his need is to be a better man. It is only then that Michael can accomplish his external goals—his desire for Julie, his need for work, his desire to maintain his friendship with Sandy. The accomplished writer understands this about his character(s) and implements this knowledge. It is a skill well worth emulating.

Summary

A character’s acknowledgment of ‘need’ comes late in the story and results in an adjustment of the story goal.

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Why have our stories grown stale?

Banish the stale! Follow Chinatown’s example.
Banish the stale. Follow Chinatown’s example.

Much of our viewing consumption, whether at the cinema or through streaming services, has grown stale. There is a repetitiveness to the story structure, genre, theme, and the subliminal messaging. Superhero stories predominate, and what’s worse, the sequel-generating machine has diminished the spark that may have existed in the original. The disconnected and visually numbing Ant-Man and the Wasp: Quantumania, is a case in point.

What’s the reason for this? I’d venture a lack of originality and character authenticity which the presence of the brand alone can’t compensate for. Then there’s the easy access to tons of tv series and films on streaming services which has educated audiences about the tricks that go into a story. Formulas are exposed for being just that—formulas. Add the avalanche of cardboard characters and limp story lines and you get the picture.

So, what’s the remedy? My instinct is to go back to creating strong, authentic characters driven by credible goals, hopes and ambitions—characters who harbour wounds and secrets, and who are immersed in situations, albeit fantastical on occasion, that we find believable. 

“We should banish what is stale in our stories by getting back to the basics, by concentrating on originality and verisimilitude.”

One of the things that makes Chinatown a great story is the power of the wounds and secrets that Evelyn Malwray harbours. These drive the entire story—wounds and secrets whose consequences affect the characters, generate subtext, and create story questions. And what a staggering reveal late in the story when Evelyn finally comes clean to Jake Gittes!

Citizen Kane too is an enduring classic in no small part because Kane has a painful secret that the audience is dying to know. Indeed the whole film is predicated upon unraveling the meaning of the word ‘Rosebud’ uttered by Kane on his deathbed. The theme that is encoded in that word—that the value of family outweighs material wealth and fame, also lends the story a transcendent meaning that elevates it and keeps it resonant and fresh. If only we could inject such verisimilitude into the current parade of stories.

Summary

Many stories have fallen prey to stale, repetitive formulas, plots, and shallow characters swimming in the sludge of endless franchises of dubious worth.

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Story beats and archetypes in the Hero’s Journey

During one of my lecturers on the Hero’s Journey based on Christopher Vogler’s The Writer’s Journey, a student asked me about the nature of the relationship that exists between the eight archetypes and the twelve beats that comprise a tale of this sort. Before answering the question let me remind everyone of the Archetypes and story beats.


The Archetypes are: 1. Hero, 2. Mentor, 3. Threshold Guardian, 4. Herald, 5. Shapeshifter, 6. Shadow, 7. Ally, 8. Trickster.

The story beats are: 1. The Ordinary World, 2. The Call to Adventure, 3. Refusal of the call, 4. Meeting with the Mentor, 5. Crossing of the First Threshold, 6. Tests, Enemies and Allies, 7. Approach to the inmost Cave, 8. The Ordeal, 9. The Reward, 10. The Road Back, 11. The Resurrection, 12. Return with the Elixir.

“Story beats and archetypal characters are two sides of the same story coin .”

One of the most essential relationships between story beats and archetypes is their proximity to each other—archetypal characters tend to be evoked at specific points in the story: The introduction to the Ordinary World, for example, entails that we meet the Hero in the context of his or her world. The Call to Adventure demands that we throw the Herald into the mix. The Meeting with the Mentor means that the mentor has to persuade the hero, who has previously Refused the Call, to take it on. The Crossing of the First Threshold necessitates that the Threshold Guardian makes an appearance to defend his threshold. Tests, Allies and Enemies means that these characters interact with the hero (and to us), to aid or block his path towards his quest.

The point is that the archetypal characters are embedded in the hero’s journey—they are two sides of the same coin. Together, they tell of how a character, the hero, rises to the challenge to subdue outer threats, which necessitates integrating the warring energies within himself or herself represented by the very archetypes.

Summary

Archetypal characters appear at specific points in the hero’s journey, so much so that several of these story beats contain their very name.

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