STRANGER THINGS BUILDS A GREAT CATASTROPHE

When we look back at season four of STRANGER THINGS, I wonder if the scene that will be remembered as the most scary and traumatic won't be one of the many insane horror moments but the scene in episode 402 of Andrea and her friends publicly shaming Jane at the roller rink. It doesn't really seem on par with I don't know, massacring a lab filled with children? And yet in practice it really hits hard. How do the Duffer Brothers do that? 

Here's a couple of the ways they build the sense of horror in that sequence: 

1) Establish the Stakes and Conflict Immediately: The roller rink sequence actually has a whole bunch of beats to it. First it's Mike and El and Will going to the rink. And even as they let the initial moment very much have that fun teen roller skating vibe, the Duffer Brothers fold in tension right away, via the fiction Jane insists on that she has friends and this is some place they go. When Mike steps away Will calls her on it, and her reaction conveys just how much pressure she feels for this to go well. Andrea hasn't even entered the scene yet but we've already got a sense of the stakes. 

2) Give the Nightmare Many Parts: It's really interesting how many distinct beats there are in the Andrea shames Jane sequence. First there's just Andrea showing up at the table; right then and there she could ruin everything for Jane by revealing they are not the friends Jane told Mike. Then we've got Andrea with Jane in the rink, skating her somewhere.

Then we've got what seems like the main event: Jane alone on the floor, the DJ dedicating a song to her as "the local snitch," a spotlight on her and dozens of girls circling her, imitating the hand gesture she threw at Andrea in 401 and telling her she's a freak. 

But we keep adding elements. The guy videotaping the whole thing.  The girls clasp hands, making it impossible for Jane to leave. The DJ won't turn the music off. The girls' spin around Jane is becoming so fast it's a blur. Then the DJ agrees to stop the song, shouts "Wipe out," and someone throws a milkshake on to her, causing her to fall to the ground. 

AND STILL we're not done. We've got everyone laughing. Andrea stops and mocks her (in another perfectly pitched, "I think I'm so smart but God I'm dumb" line). And then she flees. 

As an audience we've seen plenty of bullying sequences play out like this. I think what makes the Duffer Brothers version especially effective is their patience in adding new elements. There's never 2 or 3 things introduced at once; rather they build on what they have set up single step by single step. It keeps the sequence focused. And it gives it a sense of direction--we are headed toward something terrible.

3) Reactions are Everything: So much of the pain of the sequence is built out of how Jane responds, the building horror that she shows in response to what they're doing. 

But they also use Will's reactions to this end. Even before Andrea has shown up, Will trails behind them on the skating ring, looking deeply troubled. Some of his troubles almost certainly have nothing to do with Jane lying to Mike and everything to do with he wants Mike for himself. But it doesn't matter; he's like a neon sign above their heads signaling their doom. 

And then once the horrors begin, the camera repeatedly goes back to Will and Mike, who sit there absolutely stunned. And each time that camera choice underlines again how terrible this is. 

4) Heroic Powerlessness is Also Everything: Characters are defined by their choices. When a character makes big, bold choices, it makes them attractive and compelling, even if they're bad guys. 

And when characters do nothing, it tends to make them less attractive. And to some extent Will's paralysis here does have that effect. It's yet another in a series of the moments in STRANGER THINGS where we just want Will to do something (which I assume will pay off with him actually making some kind of big choice at the end of the season; all the frustration we feel now is intended to make that choice more cathartic). 

But in general we expect Jane and Mike at least to act and act fast. And the fact that they don't, that our big choice heroes for some reason can't escape this, once again generates a feeling of horror. This situation is so bad even they can't get out of it. 

5) Use Catharsis to Seal the Deal: This sequence could have ended with Jane fleeing the rink. But instead, the Duffer Brothers address the obvious question, the one we want to see answered: What's a badass like Eleven going to do after being paralyzed and humiliated? 

She's finally going to stop performing as a normal kid and fuck some shit up, that's what. 

For the first two episodes we've watched Jane withhold herself, basically, to try to be something she's not. And she has been trying so hard, but it has not felt right at all. So to see her finally throw all that off and take up her true identity is immediately satisfying. Lent is over. Finally we get chocolate again.

But that promise of catharsis hides within itself the final and worst horror of all: Jane seen (and seeing herself) as a monster once again. 

Even as she's hitting Andrea in the face with a roller skate, I wanted to believe that would be the end of it. Andrea had it coming. Of course that's insane, because Jane HIT ANDREA IN THE FACE WITH A ROLLER SKATE. But that's what delayed gratification does, it gets us so invested in getting what's been withheld from us that we don't think too deeply about what catharsis will mean for the character. 

The beginning of the rink sequence sets up that the most horrifying thing that could have happened was that Jane was publicly humiliated in front of Mike. But at the end in her attack we discover the Duffer Brothers had sold us a fake set of terms; the worst horror Jane could be asked to experience wasn't humiliation, it was being confronted again with her own sense of monstrosity.

STRANGER THINGS KNOWS HOW TO INTRODUCE A CHARACTER

 

STRANGER THINGS Season 4 dropped on Friday and I'm going to spend this week and next week talking about some nice moves in different episodes. 

Today: Episode 401, "The Hellfire Club," written and directed by show creators the Duffer Brothers. It's a new year in Hawkins, Russia and that little town in California where Joyce moved her family and El/Jane. And with a new year we get a ton of new characters, including Charlie's pothead friend Argyle; Dustin and Lucas' DM Eddie Munson; Hopper's Guard Dmitri; Max's acquaintance Chrissy; Nancy's co-editor Fred; Lucas' teammate/public speaking expert Jason Carver; Joyce's frenemy Yuri; and that #!%!% Angela. 

(Oh, and Vecna lol.)

Even with extra long episodes, this is a lot of characters to service on top of the 17 main cast members. A couple will only be around a couple episodes, but that's immaterial at the moment of their introduction. Every single one of these characters need a first moment that defines who they are in a way that is distinctive, compelling and immediate. There's just no time to waste. 

(And the Duffer Brothers are really, really good at this. Last season they introduced Billy, Max, Robin, Suzie and Erica, and each of them was immediately iconic.)

So how do the Duffer Brothers do it? Let's look at a couple characters. 

Argyle: While the real key to Argyle is his voice, by which I mean both his laid back Cali cadence and his blissed out pov, when we meet Argyle it's all about the visuals. He has extremely long hair, which immediately sets him apart, and paired with sunglasses and a hat with the bill up, which just looks ridiculous. And he's driving a pizza van. It's a package that tells us, this kid is likely to be some variety of absurd.  

Jason: We meet basketball team captain Jason Carver at a pep rally. He, too, has his own look--he's clean cut in the extreme, which becomes a great point of contrast with Eddie, who he will come to consider his enemy. But the key with Jason is his public speaking ability, which is demonstrated in two ways: First, the subtle demagoguery of his words themselves: he's an excellent speaker, with a clear strategy of first affirming the crowd and then pitching to their heartstrings, but raise your hand if you weren't just a little bit creeped out when he stopped in his speech to say hey to his girlfriend. 

Second, how people respond to him. When he speaks, people want to do what he says. This is his magic power, and we'll see him exercise it again and again. 

So the Duffer Brothers tell us who Jason is through his talent and others' reactions to him.

Angela: Angela's introduction is very interesting. We first see her laughing at Jane, after some boy hits her with a spitwad. That establishes her as a bad guy crony type, but nothing more.

In a sense we're not going to see her full potential until Jane starts her presentation and Angela undermines her with her constant questions to the teacher. 

But we open that scene at the end of Angela's presentation of her hero. And it's a very 80s high school presentation in tone. But I think the key is that she's talking about Helen Keller. You couldn't choose a hero that is less controversial or more likely to make you look "good." And Elodie Grace Orkin's performance subtly plays on this; when she finally names who she's talking about she's got so much self-pride. And at the same time when she mentions the word "disability" she does so with just a hint of condescension. She's the good girl who is actually a real shit, basically. 

So in her case the Duffer Brothers reveal character through her voice--again, her tone and point of view--and also through her choices. She chooses to speak about Helen Keller, and in a very typical way, and in doing so we learn what's at her core.

Eddie: Eddie walks into STRANGER THINGS like he's been here the whole time. He's perfectly pitched for the show, and once again iconic. 

Because he's going to be so important to the plot, the episode gives him quite a bit of time. He has three scenes--his introduction in the cafeteria; him as a DM; and him with Chrissy in the woods--that are each in their own way character defining. 

But just to take the first one, when Finn and Dustin go to meet him in the cafeteria: we open on him, reading a Newsweek story about Satanic panic around Dungeons & Dragons. There's a cool needle drop going on behind him, "I Was a Teenage Werewolf," by the Cramps, and he puts on this newscaster voice and at first we're just getting little glimpses of him--the black metal hair; the rings; his eyes. 

Then at the end of the sentence, which says D&D leads to murder, he throws down the magazine and we get a full look at him. And his tongue is out and his head cocked in such a way that absolutely looks like '80s "Satanic" heavy metal groups like Black Sabbath, Iron Maiden or Motley Crüe. And as he finishes we cut to those around him, who laugh, all clearly on his side.  

Just in this moment, which is only the barest beginning of him in this scene, there's so much good stuff. The things he's mocking are exactly what he's about to accused of. His character is defined in terms of his speech and the adoration he receives back, all of which exactly parallel his soon-to-be enemy Jason. And at the same time his type of speech is the exact opposite of Jason; he's ironic where Jason is earnest, he's ridiculing the voice of the status quo which Jason is absolutely the mouthpiece for. And where Jason gets an entire room cheering for him, Eddie has just his few devotees, and seems happy with that.

So, with Eddie character is defined through his look, his voice and point of view, his relationship to those around him and to society, and also the background music used for him. 

But also, though we may not be aware of it in the moment, he's defined through contrast. He is everything that Jason is not.  

If you're looking for an exercise for your own writing, try watching the first episode of any season of STRANGER THINGS, and see the many different ways the Duffer Brothers introduce new characters. They really are so good at it.

STRANGE NEW WORLDS FINDS THE NEW IN THE OLD

About a month ago Paramount+ launched its new STAR TREK show STRANGE NEW WORLDS. A prequel to the original STAR TREK, SNW actually has a very similar remit, to explore, discover and just see what happens. 

At the same time, this is the seventh STAR TREK TV show, the ninth if you include the two animates shows (which, why wouldn't we?). And there's been about a dozen movies as well. 

So the question you have to ask when you're beginning is, how do we make this fresh and new? Because hasn't it pretty much all been done.

The answer is, probably. But I gotta say, tonight's SNW, episode 104, definitely seemed like a new twist. The premise is actually pretty familiar: the Enterprise is being hunted by a superior foe, so they have to play cat and mouse in a gas cloud thingy to survive. And of course there are complications, namely the thingy is actually a high gravity brown dwarf near a black hole, so they are, in the words of Freddie Mercury, "Under Pressure."

But that situation allows the show to do something that has always been right in front of us, and yet I don't think I've ever seen: they turned the cat and mouse into a submarine hunt. First you've got the shipping dropping a torpedo like a mine to destroy the enemy. Then, when that was actually itself a trap--the Gorn are fantastic strategists; immediately I love them--the Enterprise becomes the vessel going deeper in an attempt to escape, while dealing with increased pressure and buckling hulls. It has great suspense, but really what is so satisfying is the fact that it is such a fun fresh take on a space battle. 

And again, it was always right there in front of us: we're dealing with ships that move in three dimensions (four if you nasty). Usually that translates into flight and dog fighting metaphors. But another version of that is being undersea, and submarines.

I have no idea how the writers came up with this. (This episode was written by Davy Perez & Beau DeMayo, and we should definitely keep our eyes on them, because this episode fucking rocks.) But seeing what they came up with seems like a great invitation for us, whether we're creating our own show or even more when we're staffing something, to stop and consider the genre we're doing, and see what kind of ideas it kicks up. 

Here's a fun exercise: Pick a show that's on the air right now, one you know well. And then just write a list of things that the show makes you think of, stories or types of stories that your show is like. And see if that leads to anything, a kind of story the show could do that it hasn't yet.

Here's mine for SNW: It's like detective shows. It's like the X-Files. It's like 3D chess. It's a monster movie.

It's like sailing around the world for the first time. So it's like being trapped at the North Pole. It's like being eaten by cannibals. (You'll notice here I'm doing my best not to self edit, just letting it all fly and seeing what comes.) It's like doing anthropology. It's like hunting for buried treasure. 

It's like a dog fight. It's like World War II. It's like being shot down. It's like going on a bombing run. It's like Dresden.

Right away, I get a couple ideas to chew on: Is there an alien abduction X-Files mystery to tell? A being trapped at the North Pole? A bombing run? 3D chess? Maybe I come to the room with a solid pitch. Or maybe it's just something I keep in mind, keep developing and wait for the right moment, or the right reference to make--Have you seen The Terror? What if we did that here? How would a huge crew survive being stranded? Would Star Trek officials be any better at holding it together? 

Finding something new in something familiar--it's such a thrill for an audience when you can pull that off. And it can open whole new veins for story. 

 

BETTER CALL SAUL KNOWS HOW TO THROW A HEAD FAKE

The first half of the final season of BETTER CALL SAUL has had two main plot lines: Lalo's journey from the ashes to take down Fring; and Saul and Kim's plan to take down long time frenemy Howard Hamlin. 

The Lalo plot has been a slow burn; it's definitely the story of the season. But each episode we've seen Jimmy and Kim taking their next step against Howard. And basically what they've been doing is a long form caper, with each next move taking them another step forward without ever fully revealing the full plan. That's a big part of what makes a caper so engaging for an audience: the lack of information draws us into formulating theories of our own; meanwhile the craft involved in every step is itself immensely satisfying. 

In SAUL 307, written and directed by Thomas Schnauz, we finally get to the payoff. We see the final step, a massive and gutsy caper of its own, and one made so much more complicated by one single variation. And as a result the Howard half of the episode has a certain breathless quality, the initial crisis like coal fed into an old timey train engine, stoking the story's momentum and making the final success that much sweeter. 

(There's some great acting and direction along the way here. As crazy as Howard ends up seeming, Ed Begley Jr. does a fantastic job as Cliff Main to make it seem like he's still listening to Howard, still considering the possibility what he's saying might be true. It's a small choice, but one that withholds the resolution of the caper that much longer. Even as it looks like they've pulled it off, there's a final moment of uh oh, what if.)

But then in the final minutes of the episode Howard confronts them. What was the point of all this, he wonders. Why would they put so much energy into doing this? And with all the capering said and done, there's nothing to distract us from the truth of those questions. What they did might have been fun, but seen in the light of day it's without any basis whatsoever and the scale of it is insane. They basically tried to ruin this man's whole life, for no reason other than they wanted to. They were so good at it and worked so hard at it, they absolutely got us on side. But it was all smoke and mirrors. These two aren't heroes, they are at best lost souls.

 My operative metaphor for screenwriting is always sleight of hand--how a writer gets us looking to the left when everything important is happening to the right. And here in the midseason finale, we see SAUL having done that on a massive scale.

And there's a couple great lessons in there for us as writers, I think. First, if you show a character working hard at something the audience will start rooting for them and stop questioning them.

Second: A big final beat that the audience has been waiting for casts a big shadow, and you can definitely hide another move in there.   

I've talked about this before as "The Gillen," after Kieron Gillen, who when writing the comic book THE WICKED + THE DIVINE often talked about how there are moments in a story that the audience anticipates, whether consciously or unconsciously. These are the things you've implied are coming--so for instance, Howard is going to get served up on a platter. But those moments offer a whole other kind of opportunity as well, because when the audience gets there, they assume the story is over. That's where they've been told everything has been headed, after all. And because they're not looking for anything more to happen, it's a perfect place to hit them with something more or new. 

It's interesting, the episode ends with Howard dead and the two of shrieking in horror at it. And part of me wants to say that's way too neat, a coincidence that smacks of what the writers need rather than what the story merits.

And yet, is what happens to Howard really all that far from where they tried to lead him themselves? I don't think so. So even if it is a bit contrived, maybe Howard's death actually ends up being the exclamation point at the end of his sentence, really. "This right here, this is what you both did." And come July we'll see how that sits with both of them...

BARRY DOES GREAT SIDE BY SIDE

BARRY 305, written by Emily Heller, has a lot of great stuff in it. Barry's crazy dialogue with Sally about destroying the studio exec who cancelled her show; Mr. Cousineau's arc. 

But for me the stand out moment is Barry showing up at Hank and Cristobal's place for counseling. Anthony Carrigan as Hank is always delightful, but this scene is just *chefs kiss*. It's thrilling, too, because it's a rare moment on this show where everyone gets to speak honestly. Hank and Cristobal know who and what Barry is and so Barry doesn't have to hide; and, while of course with Barry there's always danger, Hank feels safe enough to be straight up with him about his rage issues. Really, in this scene and in the scene with Sally, part of what makes it so exciting is precisely the fact that it's the first time Barry is really revealing himself. When it comes to television having a character say or do the thing that they have withheld is a huge source of energy and catharsis for the audience.

But the thing I really want to draw attention to from that scene between Barry, Hank and Cristobal is the choice to place Hank and Cristobal together on the couch facing Barry. Call it a Side by Side. It creates a situation of comparison; that is to say, at every moment we are going to get two different reactions to what's going on, what's being said. Sometimes they react exactly the same, which tells us the ways in which they are on the same page. And other times there are going to be subtle differences that point to where they differ or have problems. So as Hank tells Barry that his problem is that he has a double life, and that is not sustainable, we get Cristobal looking down slightly, and then momentarily away, before coming back to Barry, but his eyes now slightly unfocused. It's a brilliant piece of acting from Michael Irby, and it basically opens up into the rest of the episode for those two characters, as Cristobal's wife shows up and ruins everything. 

When you put two things side by side on screen, we will naturally compare and contrast them. And knowing that can be such a useful thing as a writer; it's one of the ways that we the audience will do so much character work for you if you let us.

And here's the other thing: TV shows and movies use this technique so rarely these days, when you can come up with a moment like this where it makes sense, it feels very fresh and original. Just its use becomes another hook for holding the audience. 

If you're looking for an exercise to try, maybe take a minute to think about some of your own scripts. Are there any where you think a scene like this could work? If so, why not give it a try? Worst case it gives you a chance to experiment with this technique. Best case you've added something fun to your script.

OUR FLAG MEANS DEATH PICKS UP STAKES

I'm always a little leery of anything that looks like a parody show. I'm not sure I could have definitively put my finger on why, until I watched the pilot of the HBO Max pirate parody series, OUR FLAG MEANS DEATH. 

The premise is simple: an upper class guy who knows nothing about being a pirate and seems much more into helping his crew improve their lives runs a pirate ship. The show is very playful with this concept; most of the crew are thoughtful and articulate in a way that pirates just never are. And that's the gag of it, right? Take something familiar and give a new spin on it, and that spin by being so out of sorts with our expectations ends up making it funny. 

At the same time, I spent most of the pilot wondering, So what? And this is the problem with a parody show: There are no real stakes. When your characters are all just punchlines, there's really nothing of emotional value to lose. 

But then at the very end, the FLAG pilot sneaks up and surprised me. Midway through the captain had this very emotional revelation that he was not a pirate, he was an idiot, and it was played as just another indication of how ridiculous he was. But then after the battle is over a glimpse into his memories explains exactly what that revelation was all about. And it turns out what he's realized is that he had this beautiful family that actually loved him, and he walked away from them. 

It's maybe a 5 second flashback, and yet it absolutely transforms our understanding of the character. He has lost something very real and now he must live with that. 

From there we watch him go back to his crew and finish reading Pinocchio to them, and suddenly the paternal aspect of his character makes a whole other sense. He does what he does because they are his surrogate family, and also the children he has lost. 

So in a sense the whole pilot is a con job. You think it's just a series of gags, but then no, it's the tale of a man who has messed up his life and clings to the family he's found who accept him anyway.

You can't ask for better than that...

BETTER CALL SAUL LOVES A QUEST

Last night on BETTER CALL SAUL (written once again by Ariel Levine), we get the second part of Lalo's search for Fring's lab. And matched with last episode's first stage, we get a nice example of how to do a quest. 

(I almost hesitate to use the term, as this is BETTER CALL SAUL, where everything is a caper. It's probably a distinction without much difference in that world, but as it better fits a lot of other shows, I'm going to use it anyway.)

So, a quest, i.e. the pursuit of something enormously important, has a couple main parts that we see play out in SAUL 605 and 606. 

First, a quest involves multiple steps. If you face only one challenge to get what you want, it's not a quest, it's a challenge. 

That's not to say a quest has to take place in multiple locations, although usually that's what happens. It just needs to involve multiple challenges. 

Lalo wants to find Fring's lab. So in 605 he goes to Germany and meets the dead foreman's wife. There he gets a piece of the puzzle, which leads him to the worker he accosts in 606. 

And that's the second thing about quests: Each challenge won needs to provide a piece of the puzzle that in turn leads to the next challenge. 

It doesn't always work like this. Think some of the early HARRY POTTER stories; the books end with a series of tests, but they don't necessarily gain anything from winning them. They just get to keep going. 

But the best quest, which is of course what we want in our awesome TV shows, goes further than that. Each challenge provides an actual key to the next challenge, something specific that the character needs to move on. In this case, it's a location. 

Third, Each challenge in a quest is different in character. Last week, Lalo had to seduce a woman. This week he has to fight off an opponent. The variety is really important; if getting to Fring involved just a series of battles, by the second or third we'd be bored. It would all feel the same. 

Fourth, and maybe most important, winning each battle has to be hard. If you're going to win something big and important, something you desperately want, the cost has to really fucking high. Last week that might not have been so much in evidence, except that we know Lalo has no trouble torturing and murdering people, and he didn't get to do any of that. You could say that was compassion--see #5--but it was definitely not easy. 

This week it's a lot clearer. The guy he's dealing with has an axe, immediately distrusts him and then manages to hurt him so badly that Lalo is rendered weaponless and vulnerable. He only wins through duplicity. (Personally I wish the German guy would not have fallen for the "hand something over" con as that is so basic at this point. You always want your characters playing at the top of their intelligence. But Lalo has been hurt, seemingly bad. So we allow it.)

Having not just chased the bear but had his head in the bear's mouth, Lalo has earned the win. But not until then. 

Fifth and finally, on quests characters learn new things about themselves. There's always a twist to quests, something the character could not have anticipated because in a sense it's not about the quest at all, it's about something else. Sometimes that's the cost of winning a challenge--I'll give you what you want, but first I'm going to tell you what your father has been doing to you behind your back. Sometimes it's the product of the effort. 

In 605, Lalo doesn't kill the grieving widow. To my mind, that's one version of a new thing learned, a new skill/weapon that Lalo can bring to bear in situations. He has the ability to mix things up and actually be compassionate. It doesn't sound like a very fight-oriented skill, but let's see how we go. 

In 606, there's less of an obvious insight or gift, but there is a reminder of his own vulnerability in all of this. He is not a fucking super hero. He should know that already, as he almost got burnt alive. But that was a while ago. Again, we'll see if it has any relevance going forward. 

So, the five parts of a good quest, as demonstrated by Lalo Salamanca. 

1) A quest involves multiple steps. First he seeks out the widow, then the employee. 

2) Each step must provide a key to the next piece. The widow's house gets him the location of a place connected to one of the other workers. 

3) Each challenge is different in character. In 605 Lalo seduces a woman. In 606 he fights off a tough guy. 

4) Winning each battle is hard. Lalo can't bring himself to kill the widow, so he has to find another way. In 606, he's got to fight someone tougher than he is. 

5) The character learns along the way. Lalo learns compassion and vulnerability.

Quests can get boring and repetitive if they're not well organized. But when they are set up right, man do they sing. 

BARRY RISKS EVERYTHING

 

BARRY 303 and 304 have an interesting dynamic vis a vis the season storyline of Barry saving Mr. C as a way of earning forgiveness. 

In 303, Mr. C does the part, because Barry threatens to kill his family otherwise. But then at the end, instead of delivering the line he explodes all over Barry and flees. And there's a certain definitiveness to Barry's read on it, like he's failed. 

In 304, though, that redemption arc story continues in two ways. First, Barry's plan is unexpectedly working despite Cousineau's rejection. the director of the TV episode where Cousineau ignored the script and attacked Barry ended up loving his performance and wants him back. And the story Barry told about Mr. C saving his life has gotten into Variety. Suddenly he's a hero. 

At the same time, we follow Barry doing a group assassination for Hank. And it seems like he's given up on life, but then in the end he brings that money to Cousineau. It's not about earning forgiveness any more, it's just about trying to pay back a debt--which obviously is a much more selfless thing. 

I love the sleight of hand of giving Barry a job whose significance we will assume we know from past experience and then revealing it has a different purpose. It's a great example of playing on audience expectations to generate a wonderful experience of surprise.  

But what's equally satisfying is the way that big choices lead to unexpected rewards.  Cousineau risks EVERYTHING by telling Barry off, and he is rewarded for it. 

(Similarly, Katie risks a ton in 304 to be honest with Sally, and that, too, has enormous positive consequences. And we could say 304 shows Sally's huge risk in writing and producing her own show paying off, too. God it feels good to see her get a real win.)

Every show is different, but I'd say that most TV shows exist in a universe in which big risks that involve high personal stakes produce big rewards, even if they're not the rewards the character expected. 

It's a good question to bring to our own work: If my characters succeed, how much have they risked to get there? If our answer is not, "Pretty much everything," we may need to up the ante.

BARRY KNOWS HOW TO DIALOGUE

Yesterday I was looking at the way that the story of BARRY 302 develops from Barry's clear desire to get Mr. Couisneau a job. The pattern being, 

Desire-leads to->A Choice, which faces/inspires a-->Complication, which leads to a-->New Choice

Today, I want to look at that same pattern from the perspective of one great scene in the episode, Barry's move to get Sally to hire Mr. C.  Scenes are really just smaller version episodes; they have the same set of steps at work.

While the conversation has a lot of back and forth, it has really four main beats. 

1) You have a show, you hire him: This is cheerful Barry, trying to get his mission accomplished, who comes to Sally first because she's the most obvious choice for him. They're dating, she has a show, she knows Mr. Cousineau and what he's going through. It's simple. 

The complication he faces is that in fact she did feel this way and tried to hire Mr. C, and was told no, absolutely not. So Barry's strategy isn't going to work. He tries to push back: who cares what Hollywood says, she's the boss. But in fact listening to her people is what being boss is all about, and Cousineau has really made his bed. So, no, she can't do it. 

Before Barry can pivot, Sally tries to end the conversation. "I'm real busy right now, can we do this later." She'll do something before step three. I think of this as sort of  writing marker, telling us, one beat is over and we're onto the next, deeper one. 

(Even the way those moments are performed, it's like just for an instant, instead of the rat-a-tat of the dialogue there's space, and silence, and Sally takes her time.)

2) He's in a lot of pain: Barry moves to a more personal appeal. Mr. C isn't just some guy; he's her teacher. And he's in pain. Implicitly he's questioning her here. She knows him. She should care. And when she says she's sorry to hear that, he makes that question clear. She's not sorry or she would do something.

Which leads to our second breather/marker/descent beat: Quietly she asks, "Are you okay?"

3) I need this to live:  When Barry says he's worried about Mr. C, Sally once again tries to defuse/complicate through agreement; me, too, i.e. we're not having a conflict, we can't be, we're on the same page. Here we get Sally at her most stripped away, just as we're about to with Barry. Her constant need is not to be rejected, to not be the disappointment. She'll do anything to avoid that.

And here she's right. She does feel bad like he does, and there's nothing she can do either. 

But that agreement ends his quest, so he's got to try another tactic, and it amounts to getting a lot more personal, both about her and himself. 

For the first time he raises his voice and attacks her. They are not on the same page. 

Then he takes it farther--This isn't about Mr. C at all. Barry needs this himself. "I HAVE TO DO THIS TO FUCKING LIVE," he shouts at her.

It's like we've been peeling an onion this scene, and at this point we get to what's at the very center--just as Sally needs everyone to be okay with her, Barry needs to do this or die.

And Sally's response is writing genius: She laughs. It's not mockery; she's completely overwhelmed by what is happening here, she can't handle the reality of it, so she tries to play it off as some kind of joke they're having, mostly to try and salvage herself in front of her staff but also for Barry. Her laughter is a sort of rejection of the whole idea that they're having a fight.

4) RAGE: Sally's reaction in a sense also gets mirrored in Barry. Up to this point, even if he's been getting more and more bullying, he's still kept up a semblance of rationality. But when her reaction is outright laughter, what can he do? All he's got left is screaming demands in her face. It's a terrifying moment in the scene, and one that is meant to silence any kind of further conversation. 

But Sally still has enough strength to say no. She says it in a soft Sally doesn't want to fight way: "I'm sorry, I can't." But still, that's it. The battle is over. Barry lost. (As much as Sally seems codependent in this scene, that moment is really telling. She still has the courage to say no.)

Look at the steps Barry took: First, a sort of math common sense; you've got a show, he needs a job, let's do  it. Second, a plea to Sally's heart. He's hurting, you can help him. Why don't you care? Third, a reckoning on their relationship--we are dating and I fucking need this, so fucking do it. Finally, straight up crazy town aggression. DO IT DO IT DO IT. 

It tells us so much about who he is (and Sally, too).

BARRY KEEPS THE QUEST SIMPLE

In BARRY 302, we see Barry following through on the plan he came up with at the end of 301: He will get Mr. Cousineau a part, and in that way earn forgiveness for what he's done. 

It's obviously a crazy plan. That math does not check out. But that's what he's decided to do, so off he goes. And he's really focused--which is such a strong choice for the episode. When a character has a desire they refuse to give up on, it's exciting to watch. Also, it's accessible--there are times in my own writing where I think, I need to make this more clever, or I don't want to reveal everything all at once. And you know, it makes the work harder to get into. When it comes to a character's desire, clarity is an asset. 

And to be clear, the way we learn what they desire is not primarily by what they say. People say a lot of things, and sometimes nothing at all. What's essential is what they do. 

So what does Barry do in 302: He immediately goes to see his girlfriend, who is running a show, and he demands she give him a part. Their scene together is absolutely incredible for just how hard he goes at her. I'm not sure we've ever seen Barry like this; first he's unrelenting, and then he's just fucking terrifying. 

Which is how writers Alec Berg & Bill Hader tell us just how essential this is to Barry. He's not even trying to hide how scary a person he can be. This is that important. 

And still he fails--which is great. In a quest episode, you never win right away. In fact, the episode is built for you to succeed only at the end.   

So, he fails with Sally. And then what does he do? Like an arrow, he goes to the famous casting director Allison Jones (pictured) and asks her to get Mr. C a part. And again he fails, for the same reason really but it's slightly more specific. Mr. C wasn't just terrible around town, he was terrible to her. It's a very slight difference but it makes the problem with Mr. C, the obstacle to Barry's goal, more personal. He was terrible to her.

Quests always have two basic parts: the action of the protagonist, and the complications his actions cause, which becomes an additional burden or wrinkle on the quest. Barry's moment with Sally is going to have complications long term, but not in the short term. But here with Jones we get a very unexpected complication: She wants to put Barry up for a part. It's not the kind of problem that complications often are, but it does change his quest slightly. The path he's going to take to get Mr. C hired is by auditioning himself and trying to convince those casting the project to hire Mr. C.

The great thing about this wrinkle is that once it happens--once Barry has the audition--it's no longer clear what is going to happen. How does this relate to Mr. C? We don't know, and Barry doesn't say. It's only once he's in the room with the casting people that all that comes out. 

And note, he still has to fight to get what he wants. The casting people say no repeatedly. He only wins at the very end by grasping at straws--namely, the speech Mr. Cousineau just made. 

And EVEN THAT is not the end. Him going to that audition creates its own complication--Mr. C was left unguarded. And so of course he ran like hell. And now we get some fun complications for him as well. Great choices create complications. He has to get off the street--but then the yard he travels in has dogs. SO. MANY. DOGS. He escapes but now looks like a crazy person. And so when he finds someone and asks for help, they are skeptical. But they do help--mission accomplished! 

But no, not so much: because the car coming for him is Barry's. Which is great for Barry; he's got the part and Mr. C. Mission accomplished! Except then he gets smashed by a car and Mr. C gets away. 

It's still not over, right? Mr. C gets home and of course Barry is already there. It's interesting to think about how the writers chose to play that out. They could have followed Barry; I mean, he is the middle of yet another complication. He's got to deal with the driver of the other car, getting away, trying to figure out where Mr. C went. But it's a much bigger wallop to stay with Mr. C and then reveal he's not out after all. His story line has the highest emotional stakes; he is trying to escape this crazy person's imprisonment. 

It's a good thing to pay attention to: The higher stakes story is always the one you want to turn to when you have choices, because that's where the audience's interest and affections will naturally lie. I'm sure Berg and Hader could have made Barry's situation compelling, but Mr. C is running for his fucking life. 

Desire-->Choice-->Complication-->New Choice, and so on. Do that, and you can tell a good story. Add some wrinkles in terms of what the complications or new choices are, and you can tell a great one.

I like this episode so much, tomorrow I'm going to talk about quests again, but just in the context of Barry's conversation with Sally. Every scene is just like every episode, right? The character has a goal, they try to reach that goal and face obstacles along the way (namely the goals of their conversation partners).  

In the meantime, if you're interested, take a pilot of yours or an episode of TV, and try to outline the quest. What's the desire? And what are the choices the character makes and complications they face toward that goal?

BETTER CALL SAUL IS CRAFT ALL THE WAY DOWN

Here's a mystery about BREAKING BAD I could never really solve: the series loved a meth cooking montage. And yet, they never seemed to get old. There was never a point where some sweet song kicked in and they started cooking that I was like, Seriously, this again?

But why? These are repeated sequences with as far as I can remember no essential story component. It was just, "Now people cook meth." 

I was thinking of this watching the BETTER CALL SAUL 605, "Black and Blue," written by Alison Tatlock. Because SAUL, too, loves a montage. And 605 begins with what actually looks like a meth cook sequence. We've got the liquid, the powder, a lab in which we're waiting for things to harden.  

It's actually yet another example of a SAUL caper--we know something's up, but we're not told what. And, as SAUL sometimes does, it's not until the very end that the significance of this moment is revealed. (And even then...deep cut, Alison!)

But as I was watching this weird random montage about creating a transparent cube with a ruler in it, the thing that hit me was how much the creative team of SAUL loves a craft. They absolutely fucking love watching someone make something, in the finest of detail. These montages really are craft porn: C'mere kid, let me show you a guy making a funeral memento. WHAT? And yet it's so fucking compelling, both because they actually are super-interested in the process by which things are made, and because that's what they're doing, too. From top to bottom the BETTER CALL SAUL creative team is in love with the craft of telling a story.  

And the story they're telling is also about people who are absolutely invested in their craft. Jimmy McGill is a mess--seriously, my guy, what are you doing letting Howard lead you around by the nose? You know better. But in a sense these first five episodes have been a longform story version of a SAUL montage. It's just, instead of building a lucite block, they're building the perfect climate catastrophe. Kim nods to that, when Jimmy asks why he did what he did. "Because you know what's coming next."

Lalo, too, is building something in these first five episodes, a bomb maybe, or a missile. And the fact that he's come all the way to Germany to try and figure out where Gus built his lab is itself a statement of the craftsman he is, endlessly patient and resourceful.

So, why do the montages work? Obviously in part it's because they're beautifully shot and scored; also, they're not all about meth. But I think it's also about character, story and theme. SAUL, like BAD, is a story about a kind of craftsmen--crooks--and their capers. And every montage is by nature of both what it represents and the way it's produced a little story about some kind of craftsmanship, an in depth look at the making of some thing.  So rather than a flourish, the montages expand this central idea of the show to its broader world. Everything is craft (which also means that everything is kind of a scam).

Everything we do in a script has to come back to character, story and theme. If it's not connected to these elements--and I think when it comes to flourishes, especially to theme--it's not going to land.

If you're looking for an exercise of your own today, look at any special touches you have in some script of yours--montages; dream sequences; opening and ending moments; time jumps; flashbacks; musical numbers. And ask yourself, how do they build upon the theme? Are they there yet? Or do they need another very patiently-applied polish?

BARRY KNOWS HOW TO FORGIVE JEFF

The opening scene of a season can be such an asset in setting up the journey of the coming season. Take the third season of BARRY, which came back two weeks ago. 

Barry spent last season repeatedly insisting he was out of the assassination business only to somehow keep ending up in more and more horrifying situations, finally wiping out almost all the men of two different cartels. And all the while he was haunted by the fact that he had killed his mentor Mr. Cousineau's girlfriend, Janice, because she was onto him. In the end his handler showed Cousineau the body of Janice and revealed that Barry killed her.

So you might think we open on season 3 with Barry well and truly done with the murdering now, having wiped out all those who were after him or hiring him. But no, instead he's preparing to killing some guy Jeff for some other guy, who is there telling him the things he wants Barry to do, because the guy slept with his wife. So yeah, things are definitely not going well for Barry.

But when it's time for Barry to get busy, the guy reveals he's changed his mind. He's forgiven Jeff.

And as he tries to explain himself Barry gets more and more angry, until he shoots them both and walks away, saying: "There's no forgiving Jeff."

There's the question of the season: Can Barry ever be forgiven? And more specifically: Can Barry ever feel forgiven. Can he forgive himself?

It's such a clean, clear opening. And you see the power of it over the course of the premiere episode, as the question of forgiveness keeps coming up. Barry wants Hank--whose men he killed--to put him back to work, and Hank tells him you can't just move on. You have to earn forgiveness. 

And then in the end we circle back to setting of the opening scene. Now it's Barry about to shoot Mr. Cousineau, who has confronted him about what he did. And Cousineau occupies the space in the frame of the two men Barry shot at the opening, and he's sort of the synthesis of their points of view: he apologizes to Barry for what he's done, and he insists he's forgiven Barry. 

Barry's words, too, are a synthesis of where he started and what he learned from Hank. You can't just be forgiven, you have to earn it. It's very cool that each of them is a kind of synthesis--there's that sense of progress, of coming to a point.

And then we get it: "So fucking earn it!" 

Therein lies Barry's quest for the season. 

It's such a solid opening henceforth I'm going to call any great premiere opening scene a Forgiving Jeff. Seriously, it's that solid. And it's worth noting, from a plot standpoint it's not complicated. The great openings never are. They're distilled to the finest degree of clarity. 

If I were a gambler, I'd say we're going to end up back on that bluff under that tree at some point, and Barry is finally going to be the one having a gun pointed at his head. And we're going to see the other side of his question asked. Can others ever truly forgive him?

If you're looking for an idea today, take a look at a pilot you've written and consider your opening scene. Does it set up the character and the quest or problem of the season (and the series)? Is there anything you can do to make it more iconic?

BETTER CALL SAUL ALSO APPRECIATES BABY STEPS

This week's BETTER CALL SAUL, "Hit and Run," written by Ann Cherkis, has lots of great stuff in it--starting with more or less the very first meeting between Kim and Mike. The fact that they're only just meeting now after five years is a complete mind blower. So satisfying to see how they interact. First meetings--such an exciting moment in writing. 

So too is the reveal on the meaning of the opening--another classic "Start close up on something important and only reveal what it is much later."

But in terms of technique, I want to point out what's in some ways a small thing, but a tremendous asset of the show: The writers are so damn patient in the storytelling. We've known for four weeks now that Jimmy and Kim are trying to bring down Howard. And the first two episodes saw Jimmy and Kim going at this in a couple different ways, planting drugs and fake stories. 

But then last week they spent the episode just putting together a way to get access to Howard's car. That was it. No explanation as to why. Only this week do we get that reveal, as we watch Jimmy steal Howard's car to create an insane scene for the benefit of Cliff Main.

Pretty much any other show, they're going to end 603 with Kim and Jimmy pulling the scam. What's the point of the theft of the keys without showing what they're for? But it turns out, by going slower they're able to make more of both the theft and the scam. Like the last beats in the caper, Jimmy bringing the car back to find someone has taken Howard's place, and now he he has to move the car AND the sign--they can do that precisely because they let the caper sit in its own episode. The fun button, the sign falling over, is the same. 

 (That moment is itself a genius choice on Cherkis' part; the whole caper has seemed very risky, and at the end, the danger has been clear. Having the sign fall just after Howard leaves is a great signal as to just how close they came to getting caught. It plays as comedy, but it also highlights the danger Jimmy and Kim are putting themselves in.)

On SAUL they travel in baby steps. What's the very next thing that should happen, the next tiny step? And then what after that? And after that? When you follow that process, you can end up discovering so much more to play with. 

BETTER CALL SAUL KNOWS HOW TO RASHOMON

As BETTER CALL SAUL heads into its final season, I'm writing about each week about the last episode. This week it's "Rock and Hard Place," written and directed by Gordon Smith. 

It's a big episode in the overall mythology of SAUL, as one of its main characters comes to their... resolution. One of my favorites, too. 

But the thing I want highlight is the way the story sets into motion. After a very weird opening pan, which lands on something in the dirt -- a classic SAUL technique, and really a variation on a caper technique; I'm showing you something without any context to make it clear, this is important but now you'll have to just ride along to see why or even what it is--we cut to Nacho where we left him in the prior episode, fleeing from her pursuers in a shot up pick up truck. 

For the first 15 minutes we stay with him as he hides in an oil tanker, holding his breath under the oil for a really long time while the Evil Twins come looking for him, and then finding temporary refuge in a used car shop. It's like the one truly nice guy he's met in forever. (One of the things that' interesting about this episode is the variety of ways this sequence signals where things are headed: He's driving a broken down pick up; he drowns in oil; he's helped by a truly good person; he leaves a wad of money covered in blood.)

And then... he picks up the phone and calls Mike. And suddenly we're back in the other half of a moment we saw happen in the last episode: Mike talking on a phone, gun to his head, then giving the phone to Fring. 

BETTER CALL SAUL likes this technique. It's certainly been done before, but not much: LOST was so in love with this move that it would sometimes do three episodes in a row that each began with a different character entering into the same moment we've already seen. And for them it was often about adding information that would cause us to reinterpret what we had already witnessed. It was a Flash Retcon kind of move. 

Here, the point is not to surprise us. Instead, it's about building momentum and establishing a sort of starting line (which is also kind of the finish line). This episode is 100% Nacho's story (well, 95% and 5% Mike's). So start to finish Smith wants us to be on the journey with him. The stuff we hadn't seen that happens before the call is like the booster rockets that launch Nacho forward.

You could say, do we really need to have the scene in 602 to accomplish any of that? And maybe not; maybe in part it's just another form of caper-ing, Hey Look, there's something big at work but we're not going to tell you what yet. 

But I actually think having that earlier moment in 602 creates a kind of Lock In Point for Nacho's story. Once his story syncs up with 602, we're at the point of engines on full burn. The phone call is when we hit atmosphere and the boosters can fall away. But given the content of that moment, it's also the point of no return. In fact I think it kind of foreshadows the end of episode. Gus can't harm Nacho because he already fucking died in that oil, and then a kindly Charon took him helped him to get across the river Styx.

And of course we end on the image we started, but now we know what we're looking at. Mystery solved. 

For me, the takeaway is really the perennial question when you're writing: What is the most interesting way to tell my character's story?

HEARTSTOPPER BUILDS IN A TEASER

One last post about HEARTSTOPPER before I leap into the final seven eps of OZARK. (I'm done with three. In a word? Wendy GOT TO GO.)

It's just a tiny thing that I found fascinating. The show, you may recall, has seven main characters. Six of them have actual stories. The seventh--Isaac--sits around reading books and giggling. And that's about it.  I think he might have seven lines in the season.

Now I haven't read the comics, so I don't know where that character is going. But I do know, if I were writing that show, there would absolutely be an episode in season two, maybe the opening of the pilot, that is basically retelling the season from the point of view of Isaac. And we'd find out what the hell he's reading and he would get a great big story of his own. 

When we would write pilots in grad school, one of our profs would often warn us, you cannot do everything in the pilot. As a new writer you definitely want to show and do everything, both to sell the show and to demonstrate your talent. But that generally makes for a terrible pilot, like opening a trunk you overstuffed with things and then BOING it's shooting out all over the place.

I find the same goes for a season. You just won't get through everything. But here Alice Oseman turns that bug into a feature. She gives us this mysterious character who is around, and clearly has a lot going on--What is that kid reading?? And why does he suddenly disappear sometimes?--but never explores it. His presence is like a built-in teaser for season two. It reassures us that there's so much more world to be explored here. 

Lots of shows offer characters like this, though sometimes they're more hidden in plain sight than Isaac; they're situated as the friend or someone else in the office, part of "the team."

If you're working on a pilot right now, maybe step back and ask yourself, Who is my Built In Teaser? Which character do I have who is supporting the action in season one in some way, but gives us a whole new set of fun experiences to play with down the road?