Story: Substance, Structure, Style, and the Principles of Screenwriting

The opening section, “Show, Don’t Tell,” explores the meaning behind this famous writer’s catchphrase. The key to successful exposition is to imply background information within the action of the story rather than stating it overtly. Exposition should be used sparingly, sharing only as much information as the audience needs to understand the story. Small details can appear early, while large, dramatic secrets should not emerge until near the climax, usually forming the turning points of important scenes or acts.

This section also explores story length and how it relates to exposition. Some stories may span a lifetime, in which case exposition is relatively unnecessary—we see it happening in front of us. However, these stories only work if the protagonist has a single, propelling, unwavering desire over that entire period. Otherwise, the story should cover between several hours and several months, with anything prior to that timeframe communicated through dramatic exposition.

The rest of the chapter is broken up into methods of exposition: “The Use of Backstory,” “Flashbacks,” “Dream Sequences,” “Montage,” and “Voice-over Narration.” While backstory is essential in understanding the choices a character makes, it is most effective when conveyed through dramatic turning points. An effective storyteller can use these expository devices to tell a story of their own that fits inside the larger story; they should never simply convey background knowledge to the audience.

This chapter explores several issues the writer might come up against while building their story. “The Problem of Interest” addresses how to hold an audience’s interest from start to finish through curiosity and concern for the central character. Even when the protagonist is a villain, the writer must find ways to make them sympathetic to the audience—usually by making the world around them much worse. This section defines mystery, suspense, and dramatic irony and how to use them to craft an intriguing story. Mystery occurs when the characters know more than the audience does, suspense when the characters and the audience each know the same amount about what is happening, and dramatic irony when the audience knows more about the story’s events than the characters do.

“The Problem of Surprise” compares “cheap” and “true” surprise. Cheap surprise “takes advantage of the audience’s vulnerability” by shocking them with something unexpected (355). True surprise is much more satisfying as it comes from a sudden revelation and carefully constructed insight. “The Problem of Coincidence” explores this idea further, arguing that coincidence can be cheap and empty when used incorrectly. However, because coincidence does have its place in life, it also has its place in story. Coincidences should be introduced early and then built upon so as to gain meaning and symbolism as the story progresses.

“The Problem of Comedy” looks at the differences and similarities between comedic and dramatic storytelling. Unlike dramas, comedy is “pure: if the audience laughs, it works; if it doesn’t laugh, it doesn’t work” (359). To this end, comedy will usually target a particular institution or way of life, such as the military, the church, or the ruling classes. As with dramas, the efficacy of comedy rests in its ability to turn scenes in a clever and surprising way.

“The Problem of Point of View” defines point of view—the perspective from which the story unfolds, both visually and emotionally—and how varying points of view can alter your story. The story will almost always be more powerful if told from the perspective of just one character. “The Problem of Adaptation” looks at the different storytelling mediums—prose, theater, and screen—as well as their strengths and weaknesses, and how to adapt prose and theater for film. Not every literary work will be an appropriate match for film, and in some cases, writers may need to add, remove, or move scenes to create the best possible story for the screen.

“The Problem of Melodrama” and “The Problem of Holes” explore the more minute scene-level obstacles a writer may encounter that can sacrifice their credibility. Melodrama happens not when scenes are passionate and powerful, but when the motivations and desires leading up to those scenes aren’t powerful enough. “Holes” are logical inconsistencies that may pull an audience out of the story. Writers can resolve holes not by hiding them from the audience, but by acknowledging them so that the audience can move forward with the story.

This chapter revisits and expands the character versus Characterization distinction and discusses how we can find the heart of our characters by looking inward. Character manifests in choice under pressure and the examination of what choices we ourselves would make in their circumstance. These choices come from a place of desire, which can arise from any number of complex, multilayered roots.

McKee explores and defines the idea of “dimension” in character as contradiction: a juxtaposition between ambition and guilt, wisdom and foolishness, weakness and strength, and so on. The protagonist should have several contradictions that nonetheless reflect the reality of human nature; secondary characters should have at least one contradiction, whereas tertiary characters may be flatter. Every character should express their varying facets and contradictions by interacting with the characters around them.

The difference between comic and dramatic characters is not laughter, but single-mindedness. The comic character “is marred by a blind obsession” that they themselves do not see (382), but which is obvious to the audience.

McKee offers three tips on character writing: “Leave room for the actor,” allowing a partnership between actor and writer to bring the character to life; “Fall in love with all your characters,” embracing every one of them for their strengths and weaknesses; and “Character is self-knowledge,” discovering the quintessential, universal human core that exists in all our characters and in every one of us (383-86).