CHAPTER 3

BY PAUL ZIMMERMAN

Enid, the teenage protagonist of Terry Zwigoff's Ghost World (written by Zwigoff and Daniel Clowes), knows what she hates, which is just about everything. She feels totally out of place in a world of soulless materialism. That's why while working at the concession stand of a multiplex, she tells a customer that his popcorn is "smothered in delicious yellow chemical sludge." That's why when her friend suggests they dress up like yuppies to help themselves get an apartment, she goes home and dyes her hair green. That's why she decides not to sell a blouse to a lady at a yard sale because she doesn't like her attitude. That's why she finds herself gravitating toward a geeky, middle-aged record collector named Seymour. Underneath all the rebellion, though, is a confused and sensitive girl who has a crush on a popular guy, wants to be an artist, and needs to find a reason to exist. It's not that she's unwilling to like something, even love it; she just doesn't know where to turn in life.

Throughout the movie, an elderly gentleman waits at a bus stop that has been out of service for years. At the end of the film, after Enid's life has crumbled to pieces, Enid also waits at the ghostly bus stop. Miraculously, a bus arrives. Enid boards it and the bus rumbles off into the night. Where is she going? It's never explained. When I first saw this movie, I wondered where Enid traveled to. Then I found myself wondering what she is doing now, right now. Years after seeing the movie, I still find myself wondering what has become of Enid. Is she living the bohemian life in New York City? Did she meet up with a guy and settle down in Phoenix? Is she hooked on heroin or living a happy life?

That's the thing about great characters. We think about them as if they were real people, sometimes thinking of them as friends or enemies or lovers. We identify with their struggles, too. I don't have to be a teenage girl (and I'm not) to feel powerfully connected to Enid's alienation and desire.

Characters are the lifeblood of a story. The plot may be the thing that keeps us watching from moment to moment, but we experience movies through the experience of the characters. It is the characters—be they humans, hobbits, rabbits, or aliens—that reach out of the screen and pull us in. It is the characters that make a movie come to life.

When writing, you are creating parts intended to be given flesh and voice by actors. Actors can add a tremendous stamp to characters, for better or worse, but the best characters are well drawn in the script. Even on paper, they give the semblance of having a life of their own. Should you think of specific actors while writing parts? Certainly it's okay to do this, might even help guide you, and the more your parts are attractive to actors, the better. But don't pigeonhole too much; it's better to let the actor in mind help you find the character, rather than writing a part right only for one actor. Allow the characters to come to life on their own terms.

The Protagonist

When people tell you about a movie, they're likely to start with the phrase "It's about a guy who . . ." That guy (or gal or whatever) is the protagonist. The protagonist is the heart of the story, the element that pumps the story full of excitement and emotion. If you don't have a terrific protagonist, you won't have a terrific story. In a sense, the protagonist is your story. Ideally, you're looking to create a protagonist who will join the ranks of such wonderful characters as George Bailey, Rick Blaine, Ellen Ripley, Erin Brockovich, Virgil Tibbs, Spartacus, Rocky, Neo, Frodo, and Holly Golightly.

Let's look at the three key things that make for a great protagonist, the three A's. You can be sure that movie stars look for these three things when they read scripts, searching for juicy roles to play.

Action

Almost by definition a protagonist is an active character. The story is driven by their pursuit of a single goal, and so, rather than accept their condition and let others call the shots, they take decisive measures of their own. They don't simply react; they initiate the action. That's part of what makes them exciting to watch.

Michael Dorsey in Tootsie, for example, doesn't just meekly accept his agent's admonition that no one will cast him anymore. He gussies himself up as Dorothy Michaels, talks his/her way into the audition, and wins a role he is not even remotely right for.

John McClane in Die Hard doesn't cower in hiding and wait for the authorities when he realizes that terrorists have taken over the building. He wages a guerrilla campaign of his own to get them out.

Andy Dufresne in The Shawshank Redemption doesn't bow to a system that discourages anything but a robotic acceptance of authority. He finds dozens of small ways to maintain his humanity while slowly and patiently executing a spectacular plan of escape.

When Louise of Thelma & Louise shoots a would-be rapist, she and Thelma don't turn themselves in and hope for the best. They hit the road for Mexico. Whatever it takes to break free—robbing a store or locking a cop in a trunk—they're not afraid to do it.

Protagonists may be in a passive state when the story begins, but once roused they will fight to achieve their goal. There will be setbacks, times when they feel like giving up, but they will soldier on to the bitter end. They will take action.

Okay, occasionally a protagonist stays passive for a good part of the story. In such movies, though, it is almost always just a matter of time before they get moving and take matters into their own hands. Part of the tension, and fun, is waiting for them to do so. Benjamin in The Graduate is adrift for half the movie, directionless, easy prey for Mrs. Robinson's manipulations. But as soon as he sets his sights on Mrs. Robinson's daughter, he becomes a whirlwind of action.

In rare instances, usually in very character-driven movies, you'll see a protagonist who stays relatively passive throughout. Miles in Sideways fits this bill. He's a dreamer, someone who wants to break away from being a loser, but he doesn't do all that much to pursue his goal. He often lets others dictate the action. He might even be described as passive-aggressive, doing such things as telling Jack he's on the way while he takes his time showering and reading a book. When he does take steps, he's likely to take them backwards, as when he calls his ex-wife while on a date with Maya. Most of the time he simply avoids any kind of real action, grabbing a nap or drinking himself into stupor. Why is it okay to have a character this passive? Well, it's real. Most people in real life are more likely to behave like this than as a typical movie hero, so most of us can relate, on some level, to a passive protagonist. If you're writing an extremely realistic movie and you have the skill to maintain the dramatic tension in this manner, this may be the way to go.

Otherwise, get your protagonist off the sofa and into action.

Arc

Another mark of protagonists is their ability to change. In pursuing their goals, protagonists meet obstacles that force them to adjust and adapt, and, in turn, they grow or transform in some way. This progression is called an arc. In most cases, the protagonist changes for the better, evolving into some version of a stronger, wiser, more sensitive human being. Occasionally, the protagonist can go the other direction, such as Jimmy in Mystic River or Hank in A Simple Plan, who start out as solid family men and end up as ruthless murderers. The protagonist's arc works hand in hand with the events of the plot and is a big part of what makes the story an emotionally rewarding experience.

John McClane, like most protagonists in action films, doesn't have a vast or complicated character arc but, after all the carnage, it is clear that he now has it within himself to make the compromises it will take to get back with his wife and family.

Michael Dorsey may or may not be as fussy an actor by the end of the movie, but he is certainly a changed man in regard to his treatment of women. Having lived as one, he is now able to see them as human, not just sex objects or acting disciples.

Sideways presents a more subtle case. There are no massive changes in store for Miles; he's not going to get hit by lightning and turn suddenly into Cary Grant. But there is a feeling at the end of the film that he has found some kind of tenuous inner balance. It's a small thing, but when he receives the ambiguous phone call from Maya, we sense that he is ready to approach her again with a somewhat cleaner slate, a less paralyzing sense of his own inadequacy. For a character like Miles, that's not an insignificant distance to have traveled.

Of course, the protagonist doesn't change all at once. It is an ongoing process, an evolution. It doesn't happen randomly either, but rather is a direct result of the events of the story. As the story develops externally, the protagonist is going through a simultaneous internal progression.

In Thelma & Louise, Thelma has an especially dramatic arc. She goes through roughly four major phases:

Caged, naïve, timid
Freed, but careless
Understanding her ability and worth, taking charge
Fully alive, at peace, fearless

These phases play out through the story something like this: At the beginning, Thelma is a traditional housewife, stuck at home, thoroughly under the thumb of her jerk of a husband. She isn't stupid; she gets what a dud she's married to, but she seems to have passively, if not happily, accepted the situation. This is about to change. Leaving with Louise for the weekend without Darryl's permission is her first act of liberation. Still, she frets that Darryl's "gonna shit," and, nervous about venturing into great wide world of "psycho killers, bears, and snakes," she overpacks absurdly for the two-day trip, hauling along most of her wardrobe, a clock, a lantern, fingernail scissors, and, of course, a gun.

Once she's on the road, Thelma starts to come alive. She's exhilarated, but not really grounded. She's like a kid, a little out of control, not really thinking about the circumstances, content to let Louise manage things. She drinks too much and allows herself to be maneuvered into the bad business with Harlan. That sobers her up a bit, but she still lusts for fun and ends up experiencing her first orgasm with the studly hitchhiker, J. D.

When J. D. steals their bankroll, Thelma is forced to sober up even more. Growing instantly more mature, she starts to take some control of the situation. Most significantly, she expertly robs a convenience store to get them more money. She gains a new confidence and realizes she's got a "knack" for outlaw behavior and, whereas before she was more or less a passenger on Louise's ride, she's now making all the decisions. She also realizes that she is "not goin' back. No matter what happens."

Finally, Thelma arrives at a place of true peace. Driving through the splendor of the desert, she says, "I feel awake . . . wide awake. I don't remember ever feeling this awake." She's come fully alive, and is now fully free. So alive and free, in fact, that she'd rather drive off a cliff than go back to the prison that inevitably awaits her. When they're surrounded by cops and perched on the edge of the canyon, it is Thelma who broaches the unthinkable, and advises Louise to just keep driving. Thelma has made a 180-degree turn. She gone from being a trapped woman with no real life to someone who is completely independent and spectacularly alive. Her journey can be viewed in the vast distance between her first line of dialogue ("I still have to ask Darryl if I can go") and her last ("Hit it").

Note that the protagonist's change shouldn't come totally out of nowhere. Seeds must be planted. In the very first scene, we see that Thelma isn't thrilled by Darryl, that she has some hankering to break free. This is a journey the character needs to take, in some way wants to take. It's almost as if she's been waiting for the events of the story to occur.

The most common exceptions to the rule of protagonist change are the heroes of ongoing action series, such as James Bond, Indiana Jones, or Lara Croft. They tend to be unalterable icons; they are who they are. Besides, if, say, James Bond were suddenly to become more sensitive to violence, there would be no sequels.

Andy in The Shawshank Redemption offers a more complex exception. It can't really be said that when he leaves Shawshank Andy is significantly different from when he entered prison. Shortly after he arrives, we see that he's smart, surprisingly tough, and patient. Presumably these traits deepen over the years, but they don't really change. But, in a sense, Andy still has an arc. He doesn't change, but our perception of him evolves. Let's call it an "arc of perception." Like Red, we don't think he'll survive at first, but we soon learn that he's made of sterner stuff. We see him maintain his dignity and humanity in the face of repeated physical and psychological assaults by the warden, the guards, and the prisoners, but it is not until near the end of the story, when his escape plan is finally revealed, that we learn just how smart, how tough, and how patient he really is. His character is taken to another level: We knew he was good, we just had had no idea he was this good. In certain stories, this kind of arc can be extremely rewarding for an audience.

It's essential that you figure out the arc of your protagonist and then make sure there is a direct relationship between that arc and the overall structure of the plot. Changes in the plot should feed changes in the protagonist, which should, in turn, feed changes in the plot. The interweaving of plot and character in this way is what makes for a great story.

Appeal

The protagonist is our guide through the movie, and if the guide is bad company, we are probably not going to stay on board for the entire trip. So there needs to be a reason why these characters deserve our attention, why we bond with them or at least stick with them for the duration of the story. A protagonist must appeal to us in some way, but the screenwriter has a great latitude in determining what that way might be.

Some protagonists are easy to root for.

Andy Dufresne is nothing short of an inspirational person. Through sheer intelligence, patience, bravery, and fortitude he manages to maintain his dignity, placate the guards (at least sometimes), and make the prison a more endurable place. Though always self-effacing, he serves as a beacon of light to all around him.

John McClane is just as much of a hero as Andy, albeit less of a boy scout. Not only can he vanquish single-handedly a building full of terrorists, but he's also highly likable—down to earth and funny, an unpretentious working stiff trying to get back into the good graces of his family.

And who wouldn't love Thelma and Louise? They are strong, funny, decent women in open rebellion against a system designed to keep them in their place. They are just finding themselves and beginning to exert their individuality.

The term protagonist is often used synonymously with hero. Sometimes the comparison is apt, sometimes not. Protagonists don't have to be all that likable or good. Their appeal can come from other places. They can be seriously flawed, and test us.

Michael Dorsey is really kind of a pain in the ass. He's an irritating perfectionist, a hectoring know-it-all who is unwilling to compromise even it's in his best interest. He's also a crude womanizer, peppering various guests at his birthday party with hackneyed pickup lines. So why should we bother with him? Michael may be a pain, but he is a committed pain. He has real talent and passion for the craft of acting. He's not greedy, either. He shows little apparent concern for money, or even fame. All he hungers for is a good role to play, and the opportunity to do it right. And he shows incredible daring when he assumes the identity of a woman, Dorothy, to pursue his goal. We may not like Michael, but it's impossible for us not to respect and admire him. That makes him appealing. His identity as Dorothy—who is generous, warm, wise—also increases his appeal.

Miles Raymond is even more difficult to like than Michael, certainly harder to admire. He's a sad, self-pitying, deceitful, drunken, morose loser. We're not even sure he's a good writer. For heaven's sake, the guy even steals money from his mother. The only thing that Miles can claim bragging rights to is his knowledge of wine, but, except for a limited subculture of oenophiles, it's hard to imagine the rest of us bonding with this miserable guy just because he can discern hints of vanilla and apple in a glass of Sauvignon Blanc.

So, yes, Miles is a bit of a hard case. Some viewers find him irredeemably unpleasant, and so are never able to fully embrace Sideways. But I believe that, if the viewer hangs in there with him, Miles reaches deeper inside of us than many more sympathetic protagonists. The character hasn't been sugarcoated or given movie-star charisma, and this very rawness, this reality, pulls us in. Miles has an unbearable sense that life is passing him by and leaving him nothing. A lot of us can relate to that, I think. Fear is a constant threat, paralyzing him, leading to self-defeating behavior. In all fairness, though, Miles does have his good qualities—he shows some actual charm with Maya, and remains a loyal friend to Jack. Most importantly, Miles is not a complete victim. Hope clings for life inside him, battered though it may be. The tension between his fragile hope and his paralyzing fear gives Miles poignancy, humanity, and, yes, in the end, appeal.

A protagonist can even be someone who is downright bad, even despicable. Characters from whom we would cower in real life can, on screen, turn into deliciously guilty pleasures. But they've got to be imbued with some kind of appeal that will make us willingly follow them through their dark journeys.

Henry Hill, the protagonist of Goodfellas, is a thief, cheat, drug dealer, and adulterer. Basically, he's an unscrupulous hood. But Henry is still pretty hard to dislike. He treats folks okay, for the most part, and he's got an infectious zest for his work that is fun to witness. His likability is also bolstered by the "others are worse" principle; for all his criminality, Henry is not a particularly violent man, while his cronies are one of two kinds of murderer, crazed or cold-blooded. In that crowd, Henry's a prince.

Bridget Gregory, the protagonist in The Last Seduction, is thoroughly evil. She's larcenous, deceitful, manipulative, cold as ice, murderous, but . . . we love her. As Shakespeare showed in Richard III, a villain can be a magnetic protagonist. Like Richard, Bridget seems to relish her dastardly deeds, and she executes them with brilliance; no matter how dire the circumstance, she's always thinking three moves ahead. A high level of competence is always appealing. She also happens to be the sexiest person on screen, as well as the funniest, coolest, and toughest, all very appealing qualities. It may disturb us to identify with such a morally objectionable character, but in the end it's entirely satisfying to watch her spin her web of deceit.

It's nice when we like protagonists, but if we don't, we should at least respect or identify or sympathize with them, and barring that, we should at least find them fascinating or great fun.

The Other Characters

One great character does not a movie make. Though you may put the most effort into creating your protagonist, the story won't come fully alive unless the other characters are also engaging and interesting. Think of it this way: Every character, just like every real person, is the star of his or her own personal movie, even if the writer has decided otherwise. These characters have their own business to attend to, and, in their minds, they have not been created simply to carry baggage for the star. So, let me offer a few words on behalf of the other characters.

Main Relationship Character

In most movies, the protagonist has one primary relationship in the story. This "main relationship character" (MRC) is usually either a romantic interest or an ally (friend or mentor). This is the person with whom the protagonist will have the most dealings. It is usually a large part, and often the actor playing these roles will get costar billing with the protagonist.

Some notable romantic MRCs would include Rhett Butler in Gone with the Wind, Mary Jensen in There's Something About Mary, Susie Diamond in The Fabulous Baker Boys, and Ilsa Lund in Casablanca. Holly McClane, from Die Hard, would fit in this category.

Some notable ally MRC’s would include Sam in the Lord of the Rings trilogy, Ned Logan in Unforgiven, Rebecca in Ghost World, and Tyler Durden in Fight Club. Red stands as a great example of this in Shawshank, as does Jack in Sideways. Thelma and Louise pretty much fulfill this role for each other.

Very often the protagonist has both a romance and an ally, but usually one of those relationships is more central than the other. In Tootsie, for example, Julie, the romantic interest, has more screen time than Michael's ally, his roommate Jeff. In Sideways, on the other hand, Jack is a larger role than Maya.

The MRC is key to the protagonist's journey. The romantic ones may provide the story's central conflict, or the romance may be more of a sideline, albeit an important one. Ally MRCs usually serve to assist protagonists with their quests and help spur them onward. Whatever their plot function, the MRC invariably will have a major impact on the emotional development of the protagonist. The MRC will often be a catalyst in the protagonist's transformation, as Julie is to Michael. Having to deal with this impossibly beautiful woman in a nonsexual way, Michael is forced to see beneath her physical appearance, and finally come to understand that an attractive woman is not there merely to be hit upon. Sometimes the MRC is used to reveal some aspect of the protagonist through a telling contrast. As compared to brash Jack, Miles appears all the more fearful of life; later, we see that Miles is actually the saner of the two.

The dynamic between the protagonist and the MRC is what gives the story much of its juice. When you think of Gone with the Wind, you think of the sparks between Scarlett and Rhett, and when you think of Lord of the Rings, you think of the exceptional bond between Frodo and Sam. So you need to put almost as much effort into creating a great MRC as you do for your protagonist. Not only that, you want to get some real chemistry going between these two characters.

Often the MRC is actually a flashier character than the protagonist, something that is certainly true of Mary Jensen and Tyler Durden. This can be a helpful technique if your protagonist is intended to be a bit on the ordinary or passive side. The MRC can be around to give a kick in the pants to your protagonist. Following moody Miles through Sideways would be unbearable if we didn't have the riotous Jack aboard for the ride. In some cases, it may seem to the casual observer that the MRC is actually the star of the show, a mistake that could perhaps be made for There's Something About Mary or Fight Club. You can always spot the true protagonist, though, by determining whose goal the story is centered around and who is undergoing the biggest transformation.

Antagonist

The antagonist is the character that presents the strongest obstacle to the protagonist's goal. The antagonist may or may not have as much screen time as the MRC (often they don't), but they exert a powerful influence on the story. It's vital to have an antagonist who can provide as great an opposition as possible. The more formidable the foe, the better the game. A seemingly invincible antagonist will also help cast the protagonist as the underdog, and thus make us root for him or her all the more.

Very often the antagonist is, simply, the bad guy. He may have various and complex motivations, but basically, well . . . he's bad. Hans Gruber in Die Hard is a perfect example. Other leading members of the evil club would be Max Cady in Cape Fear, Noah Cross in Chinatown, Commodus in Gladiator, and Frank Booth in Blue Velvet.

But just as the protagonist is not necessarily the good guy, so, too, the antagonist is not necessarily a villain, just the chief character working in opposition to the protagonist. Joanna Kramer, in Kramer vs. Kramer, and Tracy Flick, in Election, for example, aren't exactly nice, but they're hardly spiritual cousins to the Wicked Witch of the West. They're just operating counter to the interests of the protagonists. And antagonists such as Carl Hanratty in Catch Me If You Can and Sam Gerard in The Fugitive are, in fact, pretty good guys who end up befriending and even helping their respective protagonists. Hal in Thelma & Louise could be considered the primary antagonist, as he is the main guy pursuing the women for most of the movie, but he is sympathetic to his quarry, and his actions are clearly fueled by an honorable desire to help Thelma and Louise. (Simply being evil, by the way, does not qualify a character to be the antagonist. Hannibal Lector, in The Silence of the Lambs, is a terrifying character, whose malevolence saturates the entire movie, but he's not the antagonist. Clarice Starling's goal is to save a kidnapped girl from the clutches of the serial killer Buffalo Bill, and so Buffalo Bill is the antagonist. For all his evilness, Hannibal actually functions as a kind of twisted ally to Clarice.)

Some movies have no single antagonist, but rather a generalized opposing power. In war movies, for example, like Saving Private Ryan, M*A*S*H, or The Thin Red Line, the real adversary is often either "The Enemy" (the Germans or Japanese, etc.), or the very concept of war (the insanity of violence, the stupidity of the war makers, etc.). Usually, though, we feel the opposition more strongly if it's been given a human face. In Shawshank, for example, Andy's antagonist is the entire penal system, including the courts, the guards, the administrators, and even some fellow prisoners. But the opposition coalesces into the character of Warden Norton, who becomes the focal point of all that is keeping Andy down. When it comes time for your protagonist to face his enemy, it's good to give that enemy a face.

In some cases, no antagonist is needed. Michael Dorsey in Tootsie has enough problems maintaining his identity as a woman. And sometimes the antagonist can be a force inside the mind of the protagonist. Who in Sideways is a bigger obstacle to Miles than Miles himself? When Miles has his first date with Maya, they bond immediately over the wine, and this lovely woman, remarkably, seems interested in him. So what does Miles do? He drinks way too much, starts to babble, crosses to the "dark side," leaves the table, and makes a pathetic phone call to his ex-wife. The evening could have been perfect, but Miles just can't enjoy it, can't let himself enjoy it. And the only one standing in his way is himself.

Minor Characters

Don't neglect the smaller parts. You don't want to make them too fascinating or they'll upstage the story, but you don't want them to be cardboard cutouts, either. The livelier each character is, the livelier the movie. Remember, even these guys see themselves as stars of their own stories.

Tootsie has so many wonderful characters, it's hard for anyone to steal the show, but Sandy comes close at times. She has a wild energy that springs from her outsized insecurities. Her scenes are both funny and sad, and always a little dangerous. This woman might melt down at any moment. Darryl, Thelma's husband in Thelma & Louise, comes close to being a little too cartoonish perhaps, but he lends terrific comic relief whenever we see him. Unduly proud of his moussed hair and lofty position as regional manager of a carpet store, he makes it a true pleasure to dislike him, and he gives us a powerful interest in rooting for Thelma's emancipation. Even the really small parts can shine for their brief moments in the spotlight. Take, for example, Theo, the computer expert on the terrorist team in Die Hard. He's cheerful, brilliant, cool-headed, and utterly amoral, and we get all this in probably less than two minutes of total screen time.

If you watch these movies, you can tell that the actors playing these parts had a ball with them. That's a great thing to think about. If you give the actors, in parts large or small, something they can make the most of, you'll have a much richer screenplay. Whenever you see a really good movie, you'll find that all the characters are given some real blood.

More Arcs

Change isn't reserved only for protagonists. It's possible that other characters may have their own arcs, internal progressions that result in change. Usually they're not quite as extensive or developed as a protagonist arc, but they can be. More often than not, when supporting characters change, it's a result of their interaction with the protagonist. In that way, the relationships among the characters are made more dynamic.

Red's arc in Shawshank is actually the true character arc of the story. Through Andy's inspiration, Red goes from being without hope to having hope, from merely existing to truly living, from dully speaking by rote to the parole board to speaking from the heart, and thus both literally and metaphorically freeing himself. Similarly, Julie in Tootsie is changed through her interaction with Michael (or, more precisely, Dorothy). She is first seen as an essentially passive dreamboat, aware of her history of being victimized by men, but not willing to deal with the problem. Under Dorothy's tutelage, she grows into someone far more ready to stick up for herself. Eventually, she dumps the controlling Ron and there is the implication that she may, heaven help her, end up with Michael. The relationship between Michael and Julie is especially dynamic because they change each other.

Minor characters can have their arcs, too. Darryl, in Thelma & Louise first appears as a strutting, would-be big shot, preening in the mirror and belittling his wife. But even dumb Darryl is shaken by the sensational events of the story. When last we see him, he's sitting comatose in his chair. If he manages to get another wife, will he treat her any better? Well, maybe.

You can also use the "arc of perception" on supporting characters. It's probably more common to do this with a supporting character than with a protagonist. Jack in Sideways is a brilliant example. At first, Jack seems just a bit of a babe hound. That he's looking to get some action before his wedding is not exactly honorable, but it's also not unique in the annals of male misbehavior. We get a warning signal when he seems to be developing an actual relationship with Stephanie, not telling her about the wedding and overtly leading her on, but still he could be taken as a guy who's just getting in over his head. But when, after he's had his face bashed in and has had to go to the hospital as a result of his shenanigans, he still can't stop himself from putting the moves on the zaftig waitress, we finally get it—this guy is truly, deeply disturbed. Jack was, of course, a total psycho at the beginning of the movie; we just didn't realize it until the end. It's like that sometimes with people in real life, isn't it? You know them, but you don't really know them.

Not all of your characters should change, but if you can effect a change with one or two characters beyond your protagonist, you will have a more dynamic story. Take a good look at the potential for change in each of your characters.

Orchestrating the Cast

You need to give some thought to the cast of characters. Who will be the characters in your story? How many characters do you need? How prominent a role will each one play? Screenplays are compressed, so you need to be careful in your selections. There is no room for characters who don't enhance the story in some way. Everyone needs to carry his or her weight. You'll start with your protagonist and his or her journey. Once you understand that, you begin building around it. Start considering the other major characters. Who should help the protagonist? Who should hinder the protagonist? Is there a love interest? If the main plot isn't romantic, the romance may be in a subplot (a subject covered in a later chapter).

Very often the major characters of a movie fall neatly into the roles we've discussed—protagonist, romantic interest, ally, or antagonist. Certainly Die Hard fits this mold: McClane (protagonist), Holly (romantic interest), Al (ally), Hans (antagonist). That's a classic arrangement for a cast, but don't feel locked in to this model. Every story has it's own needs, its own chemistry. If your story doesn't need a romantic interest or ally or even an antagonist, don't try to shoehorn one in there. As a rule, you usually don't want more than three or four major characters. There just isn't time for more.

It's important to have the right number of characters. Too few, and the story can begin to feel claustrophobic. Too many, and the focus can get diffused, and you might not do justice to everyone. Look to consolidate; if two characters are fulfilling the same role in the story, you might consider combining them. The size of the cast will depend largely on the scope of the story. There is something epic about Die Hard, with hostages and the FBI and TV crews involved. All of Los Angeles seems to become part of the saga, so it makes sense that Die Hard contains a whole symphony of supporting characters. Beyond the major four, you have Argyle, Takagi, Ellis, Karl, Theo, the deputy police chief, Johnson and Johnson of the FBI, and the newscaster, Thornhill. The worlds of Tootsie, Thelma & Louise, and The Shawshank Redemption also call for fairly large casts. Sideways is much smaller in scope, a deftly balanced chamber piece that stays focused mostly on four major characters—Miles, Jack, Maya, and Stephanie. A few others appear, but they never stay for more than a single scene.

Also, the cast members should mix with each other in intriguing ways. This usually means creating characters with distinct personality differences. Strong contrasts between characters create strong conflicts, which of course lead to explosive drama or sharp-edged comedy. Part of the fun of Tootsie, for example, is watching how these diverse people bounce off of each other. Jeff, the laconic roommate. Sandy, the hysterical friend. George, the exasperated agent. Julie, the lovely star. Ron, the egomaniacal director. Les, the sweet widower. Van Horn, the foppish old pro. Rita, the brusque producer. And let's not forget the delightful contrast between selfish Michael and his alter ego, openhearted Dorothy.

You might also consider how your characters reflect off of the protagonist, how they help to reveal the protagonist through their similarities or differences. In Tootsie, for example, the male characters echo aspects of Michael: Jeff, the pure artist; George, the driven professional; Van Horn, the hambone; and Ron, the sexist pig. This isn't something an audience will notice but they absorb it in a subconscious way.

You are manipulating an ensemble the way a composer orchestrates a piece of music, choosing which instruments are used and when they play. The way you orchestrate should not be random. Everyone should have a good reason for being there. If not, you should cut them, regardless of how much you may like a character. When a character pops into your mind, make that character audition for you and justify his or her reason for being included in the story.

Dimension

Remember Enid in Ghost World? How real I thought she seemed? So real that I wondered what became of her, even though she was only a character in a movie? How does a writer do that, create a character out of thin air that seems to resemble a living, breathing human being? The key is to make characters dimensional—round, full, in the way real people are.

Granted, some movies are more character-driven than others, and so they should have the most dimensional characters. In movies that are more plot-driven, the characters are more efficiently engineered. But in all good movies, the characters should have some semblance of dimension. Two key things will help you achieve this—desire and contrasts.

Desire

It's been discussed that most protagonists have an immediate goal, something clear and tangible, and it's this goal that drives the story. In The Wizard of Oz, for example, Dorothy wants to get back to Kansas. That's her goal. And it's been discussed that often underlying the surface goal is a deeper desire, something more internal and abstract, which signifies what is really at stake for the protagonist. Because Dorothy is a powerless little girl whom no one listens to, she yearns to take more control over her life, to stop being blown around by the wind, and it's this deeper desire that makes her want to travel over the rainbow and it's the same desire that makes her want to return home.

But not only protagonists are driven by desire. All significant characters should have strong desires. For the Wicked Witch of the West, it's all about getting the ruby slippers. That's her movie. The Scarecrow desires a brain; the Tin Man, a heart; the Lion, courage. Even those menacing apple trees have desires: They want to stop people from picking their apples. These other characters might well have deeper desires, too. For the Wicked Witch, the ruby slippers are the immediate goal, and the deeper desire is to control Oz (which the slippers will help with in some unexplained way).

There are times, as with Sideways, when the protagonist's goal is not all that clear and tangible, when the goal looks more like a deeper desire. This phenomenon is even more common with secondary characters. Their goals are not driving the movie, as is the goal of the protagonist, so you have more leeway. Darryl in Thelma & Louise is not driven by an immediate goal, just the deeper desire to stay the biggest fish in his tiny little pond. In Tootsie Sandy's goal of winning the part in the soap opera is quickly disposed of, after which her actions are driven by the deeper desire to protect herself from rejection and pain.

Desire lies at the heart of every great character. Give each and every one of your characters some kind of a desire. It will give them purpose and drive, which will help bring them to life. And their desire will help you know what they will do in any given situation, and why. What better way to know someone than to know what they want most in life?

Contrasts

People in real life are not simple. A stereotype is a character that is predictable and one-note—the unbending minister, the sensitive poet, the peppy cheerleader. But you seldom see this kind of simplicity in life. Virtually every person on the planet has contrasts within their personality. The minister with a gambling addiction, the poet who plays rugby, the cheerleader who contemplates suicide. People in real life, in fact, are a mass of contradictory impulses, needs, and habits. We want to go out and conquer the world, and at the same time want to curl up by the fire and take a nap. The more we get to know people, the more unforeseen personal wrinkles we notice, and the more they come to defy our expectations. Characters in movies should reflect this complexity.

One-dimensional stereotypes will rarely hold our interest for very long. It is the multifaceted characters that capture our attention, linger in our imagination, and feel like real people to us. If you think of memorable movie characters, you will invariably find characters with fascinating contrasts. Is Scarlett O'Hara in Gone with the Wind nothing more than a scheming southern belle? Is Vito Corleone in The Godfather nothing more than a crime boss? Is J. J. Gittes in Chinatown nothing more than a sharp-eyed detective?

For starters, you have to be careful about allowing any character to be all good or all bad. People aren't like this in real life, and most of the characters in your movie shouldn't be like this, either.

Characters that are completely faultless may be admirable, but they can also be boring, perhaps even irritating. If you're writing a character who seems "too good," look for ways to give the character a rough edge or two. Not all characters require huge faults but they need some flaws or weaknesses. John McClane is a hero in every way: courageous, resourceful, quick-witted, a righteous champion of the common man. The guy would be just a little too wonderful to bear, except that he's pigheaded when it comes to his wife's success. It's also a nice little touch that he's nervous about flying. These traits make him human, which makes him more believable and appealing.

A character who is totally evil, though perhaps not dull (villainy does have its undeniable pleasures), will be made even more compelling when given some mitigating qualities. Hans Gruber in Die Hard is a ruthless villain who thinks nothing of committing mass murder in the name of profit, but at least he's remarkably clever and even kind of charming. He would be less intriguing if were dim-witted and dull. The ultimate evil guy, Hannibal Lector, has a whole slew of appealing traits: He's brilliant, cultured, witty, polite, intolerant of rudeness (just ask Miggs, in the neighboring cell), intellectually curious, and sincerely fond of Clarice. These fellows are bad, way bad, but they, too, have some hints of humanity and, interestingly, it's their good qualities that make them all the more dangerous.

Of course, contrasts within a character go far beyond questions of good and evil. Most dimensional characters, like most people, lie somewhere in the middle on the continuum of good and evil—far from saintly, far from demonic. They contain a very human mixture of appealing traits and those that are less than appealing.

Jack in Sideways is a pretty dubious character. With his compulsive lying and obsessive womanizing, he's probably not someone we would want to marry our sister. But his buoyancy and humor make him hard to hate, and there's something touching about his devotion to Miles, whom he sincerely wishes the best for. I imagine that we all know someone like this, someone whose behavior appalls us at times but whose friendship we can't quite do without. Julie in Tootsie seems to have it all. She is beautiful, intelligent, and successful, with a child she adores and legions of worshiping fans. But all is not so perfect in her private life. She seems to have a problem with self-esteem, which leads her to questionable taste in men and a propensity to drink too much. Probably we all know someone like this, someone blessed with brains and beauty but who can't reconcile his or her inner demons.

The very richest characters are a genuine kaleidoscope of contrasting traits, as is Michael Dorsey in Tootsie. On the good side, he's a true artist—talented, passionate, dedicated, in it for the art, not the money. He is loyal and supportive to his friends. His determination and cleverness are beyond question. On the not-so-good side, he's impossible to deal with, stubborn to a fault, and a total jerk with women. Both his good and bad sides come to the fore when he escorts Sandy to her audition. He spent time coaching Sandy, and he comes along with her because he's a good friend who cares that she does well. When Sandy is refused the audition and on the verge of despair, Michael tries to provide assurance. But the moment he learns that Terry Bishop has stolen his role in a play, he drops Sandy like a burning coal and rushes off to badger his agent. Michael shifts between good and bad qualities as quickly as he slips in and out of heels, and this makes him a truly unforgettable character.

If you want to render a character instantly more dimensional, give the character one or two contrasting traits. With a major character, feel free to add more. Not only does this make the character more real and appealing, but it allows them to do things that will surprise us. We're a little startled when we see that Julie allows herself to be manhandled by Ron and a bit taken aback as we notice her drinking too much. These surprises make her all the more interesting to us.

The contrasts you give characters have to be believable, though. You can't just toss them in as a way to dimensionalize. Don't give the serial killer a pet that he loves without providing a reason to understand this affection. There needs to be an underlying consistency that unites all of the character's traits. Why, for example, is it believable that someone as lovely and successful as Julie would allow herself to be neglected and humiliated? This is never explained, but we can infer that her beauty and pliability with men were the very things that helped propel her to soap stardom, and now she is suffering the consequences. Julie's contrasting traits are consistent with her personality.

Do all characters need contrasting traits? No, not all. Often, it's perfectly acceptable to have a one-note character in a small role, especially if it's an effective note. There is not much variation to hammy John Van Horn in Tootsie or the menacing terrorist Karl in Die Hard, but these characters hit their notes just right. For them, that's enough.

If you look closely, you'll see that The Shawshank Redemption doesn't pay too much attention to the contrast rule. The characters are well rendered, but most of them tend to be really good or really bad people. Except at the start, Andy is pretty much a saint, and Warden Norton is never anything but a hypocritical and cruel prig. We would all want Red for a friend and none of us are sorry to see Boggs beaten to a pulp. This isn't due to sloppy writing but because Shawshank is a sort of parable or tall tale. It's a deliberate choice and it works. This kind of simplicity will also work in any movie that is more comic book than real, including such movies as the X-Men and Spiderman films. Even here, though, you'll find that most superheroes and supervillains have some kind of weakness.

Profiles

The more of your screenplay you write, the more you will learn about your characters. They'll become more organic, more dimensional, and perhaps even start to surprise you by saying and doing unexpected things. Like Frankenstein's monster, sometimes our creations take on unruly lives of their own, and that's a very good thing. But the more you know about your characters at the beginning of the writing process, the more quickly and easily you can put them into action, and start their process of coming alive. You may choose to base a character on someone you know, or know of, and that will give you a headstart. So will envisioning a particular actor.

You can also use profiles. Some writers find it helpful to come up with a profile for their major characters—a detailed life history, or perhaps a list of interesting biographical facts. Here are the types of questions you might choose to answer about your characters:

Name

Physicality

Looks

Style of dress

Gestures

Other physical distinctions

Background

Basic facts: sex, age, ethnicity, religion, etc.

Family

Childhood

Friends

Romantic partners

Locations lived in

Occupation

Personality

Best qualities

Worst faults

Deepest secret

Biggest fear

Habits

Favorite foods, sports, books, movies, TV shows, vacation destinations, etc.

What does the character love?

What does the character hate?

You might also explore some less conventional things about your characters. Sometimes the oddball details are the most illuminating of all. For example:

What does your character keep in the refrigerator? The medicine cabinet?

What kind of footwear does your character favor?

What's your character's idea of a perfect day off?

Who is your character's favorite celebrity? Historical figure?

What kind of animal is your character most like, and why?

Most of the things you come up with for this list won't actually surface in the movie. The audience will never learn that the protagonist's first kiss was in the planetarium during a seventh-grade class field trip, or that their biggest fear is being eaten alive by wild boars. Though undisclosed, however, these bits of history will inform the visible actions of the character. Think of your character as an iceberg: a little bit showing, a whole lot hidden in the waters below.

It's not essential to work with profiles. Some writers just intuit as they go. You should always find the way that works best for you. The advantage of the profile is that it helps you understand your characters more fully at the outset and it gives you a wealth of material to draw upon as you write. If you're stumped on how a character might react to a situation, you can consult your profile. And, of course, you have complete liberty to alter the profile at any time.

To illustrate the usefulness of profiles, let's see how a profile of Louise from Thelma & Louise may have informed the story. What about her education? Louise probably didn't go to college and perhaps she never allowed herself to have any big career ambitions, and therefore she has ended up as a career waitress. This fact makes her all the more eager to get out of town and, eventually, to leave her old life behind. If she had been a high-powered career woman, like Holly in Die Hard, she wouldn't be as likely to find herself in a situation like that in the parking lot with Harlan. And if she did, she wouldn't be as likely to shoot him. And, if she did, she wouldn't be as likely to flee the scene without contacting a lawyer. Her background helps make the story plausible.

What about Louise's personal habits? Louise is neat, even meticulous. We see this in the care she takes with her appearance, her packing, her car. This doesn't have any major impact on the course of the story, but it adds something. It makes her journey into messiness more interesting. When she tosses her lipstick away, it's not just a flip gesture, but a dramatic break from her past.

Obviously, this is a two-way street. Very often the needs of the story will inform the biographical facts, not the other way around. The whole story, for example, probably wouldn't have happened if Louise had not been raped in Texas. But there is much to be gained from knowing your characters intimately as you go to work on a script. When Thelma & Louise was being filmed, Geena Davis (the actress playing Thelma) knew that if she needed any little detail about her character, even down to what sort of toothpaste she used, the answer would be known by the writer, Callie Khouri.

Even the names are important, very much so. Choosing the right name helps establish the right tone for a character. Names are perhaps even more helpful for the reading experience than the viewing experience because we see the name on the page repeatedly. So take the time to select the best names. You don't want to be too literal about this. Shakespeare may have been able to name characters Andrew Aguecheek and Toby Belch, but, unless you are writing something wildly satirical or stylized, it's usually best to take a more understated approach. Just find a name for the character that feels like it fits, and perhaps resonates in some small way.

Look at some of the names in Die Hard. John McClane is a good, strong regular-guy name. Hans Gruber reeks of greed (money-grubbing?) Holly sounds nice, but not too soft. Powell sounds a bit like a gunshot (something he's haunted by). Argyle is lively and comic. Ellis is a little oily. There is something vaudevillian about the FBI guys being named Johnson and Johnson. We don't think about these names when we watch the movie, and we shouldn't, but each name feels right.

All the Actions

It's one thing to dream up fully dimensional characters in your head. But you then have to figure out how to bring those characters to life on the page and, eventually, on the screen. If you don't do that effectively, your characters won't ever emerge out of your head. So how do you go about this job of showing the audience who your wonderful creations really are?

In prose, the writer can tell us all about the characters and even let us enter their thoughts but, for the most part, these options don't exist in film. We may learn a little about characters by what other characters tell us about them, which can be helpful, but even that technique is limited. In movies, characters are best revealed to us through what we see them do.

We've seen how a protagonist follows a path of action to pursue his or her goal, but let's expand the concept of action to include everything a character does. As the art of screenwriting is about showing, not telling, show us the actions of your characters. These actions may be supported by the dialogue. Or the dialogue may be in opposition to the doing. Think of your old friend who says, "Trust me, I won't let you down," and then borrows your car, gets drunk, and drives it into the harbor. In this case, what the character does is in direct opposition to what he says. The actual action here is the colossal failure to deliver on the spoken promise of "trust me." As important as dialogue is, what a character says is never quite as important was what the character actually does.

As you get to know your characters, you will find a general through-line for their actions—they way they handle situations—but then you'll need to figure out how you will show us their actions bit by bit, scene by scene. And from that collection of actions we pull together a sense of who these people are.

Let's look at a few examples of character actions. As we go through the following, notice how some of the actions are shown verbally, some nonverbally, some with a combination thereof. Any of these methods will work.

Our understanding of characters starts with the smallest actions, the minutia of their behavior. These small actions can speak volumes.

Near the beginning of Die Hard, shortly after he has landed in L.A., McClane is met at the airport by a chauffeur, Argyle, who escorts him out to a waiting limo. When next we see them they are in the car:

Both Argyle and McClane are in the front seat.

Notice, McClane sits in the front seat, beside the driver. Most of us would take the backseat in a limo, even if, like McClane, we were riding in one for the first time. Indeed, the passenger is supposed to take the backseat. But McClane is not a backseat guy. He's a regular Joe, a man of the people, someone uncomfortable with pretense and formality. He wouldn't feel right in the backseat. This tiny action, revealed in one sentence, says a lot about McClane, and it even clues us in to how he will stand up against the arrogant terrorists, and why he is so uncomfortable with his wife's sudden change in social status.

Similarly, in Sideways, a simple action manages to show us a great deal about both Miles and Jack. After some delay, Miles has picked Jack up at his fiancé’s house, and the two have finally gotten on the road. Settling in for the trip up to wine country, Jack takes a bottle of Champagne from Miles's stash and starts to undo the foil:

MILES

Don't open that now. It's warm.

JACK

Come on, we're celebrating.
I say we pop it.

MILES

That's a 1992 Vintage Byron.
It's sacrilegious.

Jack untwists the wire. Instantly the cork pops off, and a fountain of champagne erupts.

MILES (CONT’D)

See what I mean? It's pissed off.

Jack is pouring two glasses.

JACK

Shut up.
(handing Miles a glass)
Here's to a great week.

The action and reaction surrounding the opening of the bottle gives us the characters in a nutshell, foreshadowing everything they will do. Miles is all about putting things on hold, waiting for the perfect occasion that will never come. Jack is not one to deny himself any gratification, no matter the circumstance.

In Tootsie, when Michael gets caught with his pants down (quite literally) while trying on Sandy's dress, he chooses to cover the situation by having sex with her. Deeply flattered, having admired Michael for many years, Sandy is all too happy to comply. But when Michael gets out of bed, immediately afterward, what does Sandy do? Assure Michael it was a wonderful experience? Demand Michael stay the night? No, not Sandy. As always, she assumes the absolute worst.

MICHAEL

How 'bout I call you tomorrow.

SANDY

I know there's pain in every relationship and I'd like to have mine now. Otherwise, I'll wait by the phone and if you don't call, then I'll have to have pain and wait by the phone. You could save me a lot of time.

Characters will take dozens of small actions in the course of a movie, and they all matter. Things register so strongly when we see them on screen that we assign meaning to every little nuance. So choose these small actions carefully, making them say what you want them to say.

As important as small actions are, however, movies are not about everyday events. They are about the most dramatic times in the lives of the characters, occasions when they are tested, pressured, forced to make momentous choices. It is the large actions that people take at such times that reveal most profoundly what they are made of. Will they fold or rise to the occasion? Will they act rashly or wisely?

In Thelma & Louise, Louise is temporarily separated from Thelma at the roadhouse. When she finally finds her, Thelma is on the verge of being raped by Harlan in the parking lot. Louise aims the gun (the one Thelma gave her) at Harlan and forces him to back off. Thelma is saved, but the situation is not quite resolved.

Louise lowers the gun and stares at him for a second. Then she turns and walks away. Thelma does, too.

HARLAN

(pulling up his pants)
Bitch. I should have gone ahead and fucked her.

Louise stops in her tracks.

LOUISE

What did you say?

HARLAN

I said suck my cock.

Louise takes two long strides back towards him, raises the gun and FIRES a bullet into his face.

Killing a guy to stop him raping her friend is one thing, but Louise doesn't shoot him in the middle of the attack. She kills him after the direct threat is over, which is a whole other matter. Until this point, Louise has been seen as a bit of a tough cookie, and it's been hinted that she's had some bad experiences with men, but, until she fires the gun, we've had no idea how damaged she actually is. When she blows away Harlan, it reveals the sheer rage brewing inside her, the utter determination to never be a victim again.

In Shawshank, Andy takes a large action that is altogether more joyous in its effect than Louise's. Momentarily left alone in the guard station with a load of newly delivered supplies for the prison library, he discovers, to his wonder, a pile of record albums. As he digs reverently through them he finds something almost too good to be true, a Mozart opera, a thing of shining beauty brought into the prison. Andy is not one to let the moment slip by:

Andy wrestles the phonograph player onto the guards' desk, sweeping things onto the floor in his haste. He plugs the machine in. A red light warms up. The platter starts spinning.

He slides the Mozart album from its sleeve, lays it on the platter, and lowers the tone arm to his favorite cut. The needle HISSES in the groove . . . and the MUSIC begins, lilting and gorgeous. Andy sinks into Wiley's chair, overcome by its beauty. It is "Deuttino: Che soave zefiretto," a duet sung by Susanna and the Contessa.

But then the guard, off in the bathroom, hears the music, and calls out. What does Andy do?

Andy shoots a look at the bathroom . . . and smiles. Go for broke. He lunges to his feet and barricades the front door, then the bathroom. He returns to the desk and positions the P.A. microphone. He works up his courage, then flicks all the toggles to "on." A SQUEAL OF FEEDBACK echoes briefly . . .

. . . and the Mozart is suddenly broadcast all over the prison.

This is an immense action. Andy is well aware of what the consequences may be—a beating, a long stretch in the "hole," becoming the object of great mistrust among the prison staff. And yet he still chooses to broadcast the Mozart prisonwide. Everything stops. All the numbing routine of prison life grinds to a halt. Everyone listens, transported. At tremendous risk, Andy has brought a few brief moments of freedom and rapture to every prisoner in Shawshank Prison. It is actions such as this that bring characters to life, and it is actions such as this that make movies live in our mind.

Take a Shot

Pick five real-life people, using a mix of those you know well and know only slightly. For each person, identify one action that strongly defines who that person is—i.e., scrubbing the kitchen sink, arriving late for an appointment, picking an unnecessary quarrel, etc. Then go back through your list of people, this time identifying one action for each that shows a contrasting side to this person. For example, perhaps you know a person who has no trouble speaking eloquently in front of a crowd but who gets tongue-tied in a meaningful one-on-one conversation.

Stepping-Stone: Protagonist and Cast

Create a profile for your protagonist by answering all of the questions listed in the Profile section of this chapter. You will find a downloadable version of this questionnaire at www.WritingMovies.info.

Chart your protagonist's arc by listing at least three to five stages of his or her development, summing up each stage in a few words or sentences.

List the other major characters that you plan on using in your movie, and for each one state his or her purpose in the story. Every major character needs a strong reason to be there.