A WRITING IDEA USING MUSIC FROM MEGHAN FITZMARTIN

Twitter can be a circus (he says, the day after the Oscars). But it can also be a great place to get ideas about writing. There are many screenwriters on Twitter who like to talk about craft. 

Yesterday I saw this writing exercise from animation writer Meghan Fiztmartin (@megfitz89), and I just love it: 

So basically when she's working on a project she looks for a song that somehow resonates with what she's doing. The operative word being "somehow"--she's not trying to create some kind of soundtrack, but rather to find something that she's drawn to instinctively, and then allow that to help her see her project in a new way, or, in the case she gave, to expand her sense of it. 

That's such a great idea. The creative process is by its nature intuitive, but when you're in the thickets of a project, intuition can be pretty hard to come by. You're more trying to fight your way through the jungle of it all. This offers a way of consciously retapping into those deeper instincts.

I have my own weird life version of this. I often have a song playing in my head. Usually I have no idea where it comes from, it's just there, my own internal radio station. And if I notice it and take the time to mull it over, oftentimes it'll tell me things about how I'm doing right now--what I'm feeling or what I want. 

I've never thought to apply that specifically to my writing, but I'll bet if I pay attention while I'm working on a project there'll be something there. 

Meghan Fitzmartin, ladies and gentlemen. Follow her now!

THE GILDED AGE HAS A SKYLER WHITE PROBLEM (AND A GAY PROBLEM TOO)

 

Just the Worst

The one thing I really do not like about THE GILDED AGE is the whole "Gay men fool innocent girls" plot. I get it from a historical perspective, they see/have no way of being happy in this society, but still, it's just gross. The fact they're so much older than Gladys only makes it worse.

Clearly we're not supposed to like this idea either. But still, I don't think it's right from a storytelling angle. It's the Skyler White problem.

Skyler White, wife of BREAKING BAD lead Walter White, spends two years in the dark not knowing anything about what her husband is doing. That's part of the drama for him; he can't let her find out. But it poisons the well on her character. When the audience is on a secret that one of the characters does not know (but probably should), it makes them seem pathetic. 

Skyler is told at the top of season three, which given the fact that season one is just six episodes is not that bad. Her story is definitely then able to take off in interesting ways. But a lot of damage was already done. 

THE GILDED AGE has spent its whole first season doing the same thing to Gladys. And weakness is already an issue she contends with as a character because of the way her mother and father treat her. I'm sure Julian Fellowes has some plan to launch a stronger version of Gladys out of the ashes of all this at some point, but the amount of degradation she might have to go through--really the amount she's going through already...is harming her as a character.

Also, why are the gay characters in Julian Fellowes' historical projects always villains? He tries to humanize them by placing their villainy in the context of their situation. But do they really all have to be that way? (Someone pointed out to me just today that the GILDED AGE plot was actually done to Mary in a lesser way in DOWNTON ABBEY. Which only increases the WTF of it. Find a new take, Julian.)

There's a lesson in there about the treatment of minorities, but also about seeing the patterns in your own writing. Our stories are obviously shaped by our own assumptions and issues. It's essential to see those patterns in our work--or more often, to let others help us see them--so that we don't recycle the same nasty plots again and again.

THE GILDED AGE GETS A METAPHOR

There's a moment near the end of the finale where we watch most of the cast slowly begin a waltz. At first we focus on individual couples here and there, checking in with each of our main characters. But then the camera pulls back and we just watch as they all spin around and around in this precise fashion. 

And it's very satisfying, not only in the sense of representing the success of Mrs. Russell's plans and Gladys' dreams, but just in the sense of bringing together so many of our characters. This isn't exactly GAME OF THRONES; most of our characters just live across the street from each other. But even so, Agnes has only been in the Russells' home for a moment before this, and Ada never. So again there's that sense of things withheld and delayed which are finally granted, a very satisfying way to end a season. 

But the dance is also an incredibly apt metaphor for this world. Everyone spins in their own little world, and yet they also all spin together and around each other. (It's like rich person version of the teacups at Disneyland.) And from a distance we can see the beauty, yes, but also the insane dizziness of it and the intense precision required. Without drawing any attention to itself, the moment lays out the difficulty that lies ahead for the Russells. You never win. The dance goes on and on.  

I was talking Tuesday about the techniques of a season instead of an episode. Ending on a visual metaphor--if the metaphor is right--is a great way to stick the landing.

THE GILDED AGE KNOWS HOW TO PAY OFF ITS PROBLEMS

Tonight was the finale of the first season of THE GILDED AGE. And I was really struck by the choice -- 

--and spoilers ahoy here--

--to give Mrs. Russell and her daughter Gladys everything that they wanted. 

The two of them have been at odds the entire season, mostly because Mrs. Russell treats Gladys as just a pawn in her great enterprise, and that, you know, sucks. But at the same time their aspirations have been two of the show's great engines, with Mrs. Russell continuing to risk everything, even her relationship with Mr. Russell, in pursuit of a seat at the rich lady table, and Gladys desperate for someone to please just let be a human being. 

On one level Gladys' story looks a lot like Marion's. She, too, has spent the season chafing against the rules of New York society, wanting to say and do what she pleases. But unlike Gladys, Marion is active. She takes risks. She pursues her desires. And she does other stuff, too. Gladys is never allowed any of that. Even in the finale, when Mrs. Russell decides her new BFF Caroline Astor can't come to the ball, Gladys does nothing and honestly probably can do nothing. 

So on the one hand we've got a character in Mrs. Russell who has been pursuing an impossible goal, and even as she makes inroads she is constantly being shown the door, as well. Having episode 108 end with her having to sneak out of Mrs. Astor's Newport home through the servant's quarters is the perfect encapsulation of her situation. Even after she seems to have made it in, she's actually still social riff raff. Going into 109 we wonder if she can somehow still manage to succeed with Mrs. Astor and the Ladies who Lunch, but also we fear given her take no prisoners attitude that she might be more deserving of a fall. 

Meanwhile in Gladys we have a character who has unable to pursue anything, and who has spent the entire season desperately trying to pound her way out of that box. And given who and how her mother is, it seems likely that the whole thing is going to end up a disaster. 

So two women with strong desires who have been fighting like hell but in very different ways, and who seem destined to fail. But writer Julian Fellowes instead finally gives them what they want. And I found it unexpectedly very emotional, first and foremost to let Gladys have a moment of her own. But also to watch Mrs. Russell stick to her guns and not just win but also be (for the first time, really) gracious. Her offer of friendship to Mrs. Astor is the warmest and gentlest we've ever seen her. (What a brilliant move on Fellowes' and Carrie Coon's parts to save that color the whole season for this one moment in the finale. That in itself is such a great lesson about season finales: Give them something they haven't yet seen.)

But for me the bigger storytelling idea here is this: The more your characters fight and fail, the greater the tension you build within the audience for their success--and also the less sure they become as to whether that's even possible. You create both mystery and tension at the same time. And then paying that off provides incredible catharsis and satisfaction.

I wonder if it would have been just as thrilling had they failed. There definitely was a certain amount of relish in having Aunt Agnes vindicated with Marion; it's not that I didn't want Marion to succeed, but in a sense her failure with Mr. Raikes casts Agnes in a wiser and kinder light.) And if Mrs. Russell were on the hook by herself, I think it's possible that a negative resolution would have still worked, precisely because it was a resolution and she had had so many bold acts and successes along the way. 

But with Gladys also in the lion's mouth, no, I don't think a failure would have felt like catharsis of any kind, but just a continuation of her cage. 

Mostly in my posts I write about techniques within an episode or film. But when it comes to TV there are also the techniques of the season, the ways you build character and tension and interest across episodes. And THE GILDED AGE's finale is a great example to turn to for some of that. So much so, in fact, that I'm going to write about a couple other elements of the finale and broader story over the next few days.

ELDEN RING SMASHES ALL YOUR EXPECTATIONS OF STORIES

Got sidetracked last week. Sorry about that! I'm back now with an assortment of story ideas and techniques drawn from a variety of different kinds of storytelling. 

Today, I want to talk about ELDEN RING, aka the thing that is currently ruining my life. My sister bought it for me as a belated Christmas present, and it's nearly impossible to stop playing. 

But I'm realizing that what makes it so compelling is actually the fact that it has straight up refused to build its world and story in the gradual, let's learn one step at a time way that almost action adventure every video game does. Almost as soon as you enter into the world you are confronted with monsters that you will never be able to defeat for a very long time. 

 And everywhere you go it is like that. There is a sort of training module if you can find it--I didn't stumble onto it until I'd been playing for almost two weeks. And honestly, even though it was basic it was still helpful, because the game has so many different mechanics going on it's just really easy to not know how to do stuff. Almost from the beginning we are told that people can jump between dimensions, and now on more than occasion I have been killed by someone who did just that. But there is so much more basic stuff that I have yet to master, I can't even predict when any of that is going to make any sense.

I know I'm supposed to put the Elden Ring together, but how is completely unexplained. You just wander around (mostly getting killed by monsters) and little by little you learn stuff. 

Video games have their own mechanics and there are some things you might be able to get away with there that might not work in say, a television show.  But I don't know, the more I play the more I wonder whether there isn't more room to experiment, particularly with regard to how much you spoon feed your audience. TWIN PEAKS: THE RETURN was endlessly impossible to get your head fully around, and yet I would say it's probably the greatest season of television I've ever seen. The ending of season one of EUPHORIA was much the same. I don't know what the hell was going on with that crowd scene, but it was incredible and I felt so lucky to have seen it. 

Being difficult for difficulty's sake doesn't work. The audience almost instinctively knows that's what you're doing and most will walk away. But if the challenge you pose to the expectations of your audience  actually serves the story, I honestly wonder if there's a limit to how difficult or outside the box you can be. 

There's a principle in improv that might also apply: if you do something and it fails to land, do it again. By the third time, the audience will love it simply by virtue of the fact you've taught them to expect it.  

I wonder if challenging expectations is similar. If you're going to do it, don't go halfway. The more you push--again, assuming you're serving the story--the more the audience will rise to the challenge.

BEN PERCY GETS ANTAGONISTS

This week I'm kind of bouncing around to different kinds of media--comic books, novels, video games, and maybe I think the biography of a composer of musicals? We'll see. 

 We start with this guy.

This is novelist Ben Percy, who looks like he is secretly Wolverine and also publicly writes the Wolverine solo comic for Marvel, as well as their black ops X-Men book X-Force. 

Percy was recently on Cerebro, which is basically the deepest of deep dive podcasts. Each episode host Connor Goldsmith talks with a guest about a different character from the X-Men universe, for 2 to 5 hours. Yes, you read that right, and also, it's amazing. 

And in the midst of their conversation, about a relatively minor X-Men villain named Omega Red, Percy talks about what makes a good antagonist for a character. And in about three sentences he captured how you develop those characters.

Every antagonist, he said, is either a mirror image or the opposite of your hero. Mirror image--they start from the same place as our character but go a completely different way. Think the Mirrorverse from Star Trek (or most alt reality twists). Think Sabertooth vs. Wolverine.

Opposite--they reject everything the protagonist stands for. Think Lex Luthor vs. Superman. Think Joker vs. Batman. Think Trump vs. Obama. 

Just that idea is hugely helpful when thinking through anyone in your show or movie who is going to prove to be an antagonist to your protagonist. 

But then he also notes, Your antagonist should force your protagonist to deal with some weak spot of theirs, or some fear they have. Batman's antagonists force him to confront his fear that he might be crazy, or that there is no preventing what happened to his parents from happening again. Sabertooth makes Wolverine look at his own trail of carnage, or his deep fear that he is just an animal.  

The more your story works this way, the higher the stakes will be for your protagonist, because their opponent is not just an obstacle, they're forcing the character to confront their fears. The stakes are personal. (I can't tell you how many scripts I've read (and written) where the hero has some kind of quest or problem to deal with, but there's nothing personal in it. A story like that can still be entertaining...for a while...but it's constantly haunted by the So What? of it all.

A writer friend of mine pointed out recently, Percy's thinking can also sync up with how we think about our protagonist's supporting characters. They, too, could be characters that play on some fear of the protagonist. But they could also be people who have some tiny little bit of something the protagonist needs or wants, or are already farther on that same journey. Mentors so often fit this bill, but it can be true of other characters, too--friends, coworkers, family members.

I think this can be particular useful when thinking about a television show. Who are the other characters that populate your story? How do their issues and talents match with the hero? The more they have to offer -- or, perhaps, the more their own needs and problems sync with/oppose the hero's own desires, skills and fears--the more room you're making for story. 

Here's an image I've had as I've been writing this: Think of your protagonist like a prism through which you as the writer are shining light. The other characters who populate your story are like the different colors that pour out, each of them unique but all of them in some ways related to the protagonist's needs, fears and journey.

A useful way of thinking through the other characters in your story...

THE GILDED AGE KNOWS HOW TO PAYOFF (AND SET UP)

Yesterday I talked about the confrontation between Mrs. Russell and Mrs. Morris near the midpoint of episode 102. The tussle between them is very much at the heart of the episode. Can Mrs. Morris and Mrs. Fane manage to thwart Mrs. Russell's attempts to raise her standing?

And at the end of the episode we get a delightful example of how to pay something off. The episode keeps mentioning the location of an upcoming fund raising bazaar hosted by Mrs. Morris and Fane. It was to be at one location; they got shut out and went somewhere else. The Russells offer their ballroom if things fall through. When they do fall through, the women still don't use the Russells, opting instead for something far less interesting. 

The Russells show up at the new location, and Mr. Russell, who has kept out of these battles, confronts the women on what they've done and then completely decimates their event in a matter of moments. 

What makes this sequence and sequences like it so satisfying? I think there are a couple things. 

1) The sequence never telegraphs where it's going: We begin with Mrs. Russell in bed reading about the change in venue. She throws her breakfast tray to the floor. But we get no sign of what more might be on the offing, or even that she and Mr. Russell will go. We don't even see Mr. Russell himself until they all show up at the event, at which point after confronting Mrs. Morris and Mrs. Fane on their nastiness, he offers to buy out a whole shop. Which is not at all the kind of revenge one might expect. What does it even mean? How is it revenge? 

We don't learn that until after his back and forth with the seller ends and he hands over the money. It's not just that he's buying out the store, and on this very tight timeline of an hour, and at a price that will make her sales a great success--another move that seems to go against the whole revenge motif--but that he insists she close her shop immediately. 

We might think we understand at this point or pretty soon thereafter. But then no, it's not just that the bazaar sells out. It's that all the important fancy people leave, including Mrs. Astor herself. That's the ultimate punishment that can be served. 

And even then there's still another beat that comes out of nowhere, and it's the most important of all. While the Russells ride home, Mr. Russell feeling very satisfied, we cut away to a character we have never seen on her own, the great Mrs. Astor. And we learn in her conversation with her daughter that the Russells have made an impression.

So having seemed to lose any chance of furthering themselves in the moment, with first the ballroom dismissed and then their take down of the bazaar, in fact their stunt worked. Progress has been made. 

2) The sequence wrings out every moment of fun it can: There's a version of the bazaar scene where Mr. Russell buys out the first stall, begins the same conversation with the second seller and then we just watch Fane and Morris get more and more angry as he walks around the room before finally it's over.

Instead, we watch him do the whole offer and conditions again; then we cut to the women and others' reactions--but with Russell continuing to move through and talk to sellers; and then we get what is maybe my favorite beat of the whole sequence--Marion delighting in the whole thing with the Russells' son Larry and Mr. Russell himself. "I feel I should say 5 [hundred] and we could transform the whole endeavor," she says to Russell as she takes his hundred.

Only then does he return to the women to rub their noses in it by congratulating them.  

Fellowes' instinct to really take his time with this scene is not just him giving us a good time. It's necessary. Having spent the whole episode building this conflict between Mrs. Russell and Mrs. Morris, and presenting Mrs. Morris as mean-spirited, the comeuppance has to be significant for us to feel satisfied. There's a sort of weighted scales in storytelling: throughout the episode you're mostly putting weight on one side, against the protagonist generally. And then in the payoff you have to do something that provides even more weight to the other side. That often equates to more time spent watching it play out. 

3) It offers a wider view or insight: I said that Marion's beat was my favorite. In part that's because having someone within the story share our delight makes it all that much more satisfying. They express what we're feeling, and it feels like we're in on a secret together. 

But Fellowes also gives Marion a take on Mr. Russell. When Larry offers to help her pack her stall up, she says this: "Oh no, I'm enjoying myself. It's not every day you see Sherman march into the ocean."

Describing Mr. Russell in this way is delightful. But more than that it's a little gift Fellowes is giving us. Here's a way of thinking about Russell that fits not just this circumstance but the show. For me, the best shows usually offer little insights like this along the way, moments that a character comments on another or on themselves in a way that is revelatory and fresh. And a payoff is a great moment to do that because it's so earned. Mr. Russell has made a big choice; and that choice by its nature invites a reaction, a hot take or moment of insight. Had he not done what he did in the scene Marion's insight would be no less true, given how he behaves in general. But it would feel inauthentic and contrived. Exposition, rather than response.

4) It moves the story along: The sequence at the end with Mrs. Astor is actually essential. From a story standpoint, it's not enough for the Russells to "beat" Mrs. Morris. Their success has to mean something. It has to move their arc to its next step.

The physical idea of an "arc" is instructive here: Every episode of a season, you are adding bricks to a bridge between where the season began and where it's meant to end. That's not to say the characters themselves must experience progress every episode. Hardly; what kind of story would that be? No, it's the story that must progress. Every episode needs to somehow start in a new place from the one before, or else it's repetitive and boring. 

Even a time loop show like RUSSIAN DOLL, where the lead frequently finds herself back where she started, has progress in that what she's learned, what her plan is and what she's doing keeps changing.

Without the Astor beat, 102 ends in a fun way, but the story hasn't moved forward. Mrs. Russell is in the same place as before, just with a grin on her face.

THE GILDED AGE GETS THE SUBTEXT

A major element to the story of THE GILDED AGE is the clash between old money and new, specifically Mrs. Russell's quest to be accepted among the wealthy who detest her because she is nouveau riche. 

And one of the more jaw-dropping qualities of that conflict is how much in the open it takes place. For every invitation that Mrs. Russell is excluded from in the early episodes there is also a bit of in your face jousting, as happens at the 20 minute mark in episode 102. The Russells are welcoming Mr. and Mrs. Morris; Mr. Russell is trying to convince Mr. Morris to support the train station he wants to build. Meanwhile Mrs. Morris, who has shown nothing but contempt for Mrs. Russell from the start, cannot help but attack her, to which Mrs. Russell responds in kind, all in a tone of endless pleasantness. 

Part of what makes the scene sing is the play of the scene. It begins like an improv game: we get a first beat, in which we learn they're going to insult each other using what the other had said directly before. Mrs. Russell says she likes her architect because he's unafraid and Mrs. Morris responds, "He is unafraid of decoration, certainly." 

Then it's Mrs. Russell's turn, and we in the audience, having seen the game, are not only waiting to see how she plays it but I think invited to play along ourselves, listening to the interchange closely to try and anticipate the jab. Some of it doesn't totally make sense--Mrs. Russell wonders whether the Morris' architect is a relation because his first name is Morris; some of it doesn't totally work--we get not one but two jabs from Mrs. Morris about how much money the Russells spend on their chef. But it doesn't matter because that opening has already hooked us into the game of it all we just want to guess where each swing is finally going to land. 

I also think the scene works as well as it does because both sides retain such a warm exterior composure as they are thrashing each other. There's just something inherently delightful about taking dialogue in the opposite direction from what is actually being said. Somehow it expands our sense of the space of a scene, of what might be possible. 

Much as I did yesterday, I highly recommend you watch this very short dinner table scene. It's brilliant and delightful.   

THE GILDED AGE MOVES ITS INTRODUCTIONS ALONG

How do you introduce your characters? It can be such a challenge to do in the pilot, especially if you have a huge cast like THE GILDED AGE. You want each character to have a moment, and ideally that moment will reveal something specific about who they are, what they want and/or what their problem is. Doing that with a huge cast threatens to slow things down.

But if you watch the first few minutes of GILDED AGE, there's no such problem. In fact the opening has a wonderful momentum. We start with the horse-drawn carts rolling through Central Park to the Russell's fancy new house, and for a few minutes the camera never stops moving. We go from the carts rolling up to Bannister and his second watching from the van Rhijn house across the street, and then up the windows to where Agnes watches, unhappily and from behind the curtain, as though hidden away. Just like that we learn much about what this show is--Russells vs. van Rhijns; new money vs. old. And without a word from her we've also learned everything we need to know about Agnes--she does not like what the Russells represent; and she's trapped away in her house. 

We get a second beat of the watching to introduce her sister Ada, and then John is given mail that carries bad news--which he immediately clarifies with "They're old, they get bad news every week." So someone has died. And then we follow him into the servants' work area and in about 10 seconds meet all five main players there and learn the space they work in; and with the exception of Armstrong (Debra Monk) between dialogue and costume it's very clear what they each do and their relationships. There's even a bit of conflict as Mrs. Bauer suggests Bannister let Armstrong take the letters up and Bannister says he thinks he knows what he's doing. 

(On second thought that moment is actually there to give us some sense of Armstrong, isn't it? Even though we don't have the connection yet of face and name, still Fellowes is trying to establish roles and relationships.)

Bannister takes the notes upstairs, we cut to credits and then we're with our protagonist Marian, who is the subject of the note that we've just heard talked about. And now we take a real moment with her and Tom Raikes, her lawyer, who unbeknownst to us (or her) will be so central in her story. And we lay out her problem and also her self-confidence--her great skill. And on we go back to the sisters in New York and their reaction to Marion's situation. 

We haven't introduced the Russells yet, which is brilliant; we set up everything on one side of the street and then turn to them--and the conceit of the sisters watching them through the window is once again our way in. It's Mrs. Russell they're watching, the main character of that story, and we follow her into her house--with the music that opened the show and led us into the Van Rhijn story now leading us into the Russell story as well, and once again the space, the characters and their desires. First Mrs. Russell and her desire to take the world by storm. Then we slow down and meet Mr. Russell, whose tycoon status is clear from the opening shot of him lighting a cigar.

It's really, really brilliant. It's like a whole class in opening a show. You think I need whole scenes to introduce characters and relationships, but no. Sometimes it's as simple as what they wear, their stature or physical relationship to someone else in a room. That image at the top of this post: Ada looks out on the Russells with curiosity, maybe concern. But Agnes hides in the background, not in the light but in the dark, both not wanting her obvious interest to be seen and also once again, seeming a bit trapped. The show's own Miss Havisham.

THE GILDED AGE FOCUSES ON DESIRES

THE GILDED AGE is headed into the final few episodes of its first season. The pilot is a little daunting in length, but once you get into it there's lots of great material from creator Julian Fellowes. So this week I'm going to focus on some of the things they're doing. 

Sometimes for me the hardest thing to remember is that every character needs to have something that propels them, some desire or want that drives both the way they interact with everyone they meet and every scenario they face. It can seem a little too straightforward to think of it that way; we've all got competing desires that motivate us. And great writing can offer that, too, and all of the contradictions that come with it. 

But watching GILDED AGE I'm reminded of how thrilling it is when a character is so completely all in on one desire. From the moment we meet Carrie Coon's nouveau riche Mrs. Russell, she is focused on one thing: becoming part of the wealthy establishment of New York City. It motivates virtually every choice she makes, even to the point of rendering her villainous. After keeping her daughter Gladys in a gilded cage for much of the season, in 107 she finally relents to allowing her to have her coming out when doing so means that matriarch of the old wealth Mrs. Astor will finally have to visit her home. When Gladys realizes why she's gotten her freedom...oof.

Mrs. Russell has other drives on the show as well. She loves her husband and supports him fiercely. She controls Gladys not only for what her marriage can mean for their family, but to ensure her happiness (even if it is not of the sort Gladys might like). But her central drive is that quest to rise. 

And in 107 we see just how far that drive extends. Mr. Russell is suddenly in quite a lot of trouble, after a train derails and the employee responsible produces a note that suggests in fact Russell is to blame. It's not the first moment in the series Mr. Russell has truly needed his wife's support, but it's the first where his situation threatens to derail her plans. And she responds with no thought to him, telling him he needs to get this resolved because she is about to succeed in her quest. It's a horrendous moment, and Fellowes does a wonderful job of underlining that by having Mr. Russell call her on her shit in no uncertain terms. (The scene, which starts at 16:00 in 107 and goes less than a minute, is so good.)

It also highlights for the first time a significant difference between the two of them. Even though he is just as fierce about his business as Mrs. Russell is about social success, Mr. Russell's deepest drive is actually family. He's the one that thinks she's being too hard on Gladys, and at the same time the one who destroys Gladys' first suitor because Mrs. Russell asks it. Both choices are all about supporting family. In 107 his son tells him he wants to be an architect; and while he starts from a very Mrs. Russell-space of We're Not Talking about This, by the end of the episode he has agreed to sincerely consider it. 

So now we've got our power couple with strong but now clearly divergent desires and a rich source of conflict between them. In other words, we've got a great engine for more story. 

I've said versions of this before--I hope it's clear, when I'm writing about these shows I'm first and foremost thinking things through for myself!--but for me this moment is another reminder of the power of a clear, strong desire. We know who characters are through the choices they make, and the bigger and bolder they are the clearer that is and the more we root for them (even if we hate them). 

And at the same time big desires and choices also tend to draw out the same in other characters. Mr. Russell has no lack of desire or actions of his own but still, Mrs. Russell's choices draw him out in a new or perhaps clearer way. Maybe it's like pinball; the more "action" you can put on a character, the more momentum it's going to give to other balls with which it collides. 

(Okay so in pinball you usually have just the one ball banging around. Blerg. You get my point.)

If you're looking for something to try, take a script you're working on or perhaps an episode of TV that you're about to watch, and just follow the desire of any one character in it. What's the character's first choice? Does it tell me what they're up to (or at least that they're up to something)? How does it play out? And what collisions and new directions for others does it generate along the way? 

OZARK SHOWS HOW TO DO COMPLICATIONS

I love it when an episode of TV produces a series of complications that flow naturally one upon the next. When it's done well it seems so easy, and it's so damn hard. 

OZARK 405, "Ellie", written by Paul Kolsby, has a great example of this, and I thought I would just lay it out. I don't know if this is true for you, but for me listing the beats of a great (or not so great) sequence really helps me understand what the writer is doing. 

WHERE WE START: Coming out of 404, Marty thinks he's solved his drug shortage by turning to Ruth, who has access to Darlene's heroin--although she has not spoken to Darlene about it.

INCITING INCIDENT: Darlene gives Frank Jr. her drugs to sell. 

Meanwhile Ruth has let Marty's buyer test her sample, and they are all in.  

Ruth and Marty find out there are no drugs to sell. Marty's client freaks. 

NEW GOAL: GET THE DRUGS BACK.

This is the basic formula for the start of any story, right? The character has a problem, and sets a goal to respond to it. 

 

Ruth finds out what Darlene has done and tells Marty. She agrees to get it back for a price. But Frank Jr. has already sold it to two different buyers.  

COMPLICATION: NOW THEY HAVE TO GO THROUGH TWO SETS OF STRANGERS.  

Such a great complication. And believable. Darlene told Frank Jr. to sell her drugs. And he has. 

  

Frank Jr., Ruth and Marty meet the first buyer, no problem. PARTIAL SUCCESS!

But then the second buyer gets spooked and leaves.  

COMPLICATION: THEY ARE SHIT OUT OF LUCK. 

NEW GOAL: FIND AND CONVINCE THE SECOND BUYER.  

See how the complication creates the need for a more focused version of the goal, but it's really still the same goal--get the drugs back. 

 

Also, while this complication doesn't immediately seem connected to Marty and Ruth, we'll learn soon that the buyers freaked once they caught a glimpse of them. So without knowing it they've created this problem. (As much as you can it's always great to let your characters create their own complications...)

 

Ruth gets the contact information from Frank Jr. on the second buyer.  

Ruth, Marty and his buyer's commando guy go to the location of the second buyer. Commando wants to handle it. Marty wants no violence. Ruth insists she will handle it. Marty relents. 

But the Commando is going in five minutes. 

COMPLICATION: NOW THERE'S A TICKING CLOCK.   

Such a great wrinkle to add. A ticking clock creates urgency.

 

Ruth demands the drugs from the buyers. They get pissed. She gets hit. 

Ruth tries a different approach, explains who Marty is and that this is going to cost him money. He gets more pissed off at her. 

Meanwhile time is up and the commando is going to go in. Marty tries to stop him by taking his gun. It fails.

COMPLICATION: TIME IS UP.

Ruth's scene is really two parts--she goes in hot, more or less threatening them and demanding the drugs. When that doesn't work she changes her appeal.

Marty trying to stop the commando is a nice touch, too. It's a big bold choice.

 

Ruth shows up with the drugs. GOAL ACHIEVED. 

If there is any flaw in this sequence, it's the deus ex machina of this moment. It seems like a cheat--we've had nothing suggesting Ruth will win out. But what we have had is a steady stream of bold choices from Ruth, and that in itself earns her the win. The audience will often accept rewarding characters if they've taken big risks. 

In a sense the ending also tells us what this sequence was all about on a personal level. It's about Ruth taking ownership of her own destiny. She starts with Darlene's actions really questioning whether she's up to the task of being a major player in the scene. And the arc sees her over and over doing the things to prove that she is.