Arguments of Conviction

Dramatic stories revolve around conflict, and I've heard that conflict defined as a moral argument.  I don't like the word "moral" because it seems to imply right and wrong choices, and the most interesting stories include tough choices that aren't easily made.

Even a straight up action-adventure, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade gives the hero an impossible choice.  Should Indy save his father's life by retrieving the Grail, or should he refuse to help the Nazis recover the Grail? For as the story has clearly laid out for us, when Henry lies mortally wounded the only thing that can save him is a drink from the holy cup.  However, we also know that the Grail must not fall into evil hands. 

What I love about this story is more than this one brilliantly crafted moment that puts the hero in that impossibly prickly place.  My friend Jim Fisher calls this "the horns of the dilemma."  I love the thorough way writer Jeff Boam marinated the screenplay with arguments of conviction.  Yesterday I counted a dozen places where characters argue over the significance of the Grail artifact, the object of the quest. (That's a lot of dialog story events between all the chase scenes! And it's likely I missed some.)  

The quest begins with Indy clearly saying he doesn't care about the Grail, only in rescuing his missing father (who not coincidentally disappeared while seeking the location of the Grail). In the following scene Indy asks, "Do you believe the Grail actually exists?" Brody, his intellectual colleague answers, "The search for the Cup of Christ is the search for the divine in all of us." Brody doesn't claim to know if it exists beyond its metaphorical sense, but he clearly gives room for faith in the possibility of a physical cup.

Across Europe Indy argues with Henry about the importance of the finding the Grail first. Henry insists their search is more than archeology, "It's a race against evil." And he means it cannot fall into Nazi hands.  Indy argues with Elsa, beautiful archeologist-turned traitor, that she's aligned herself with the Swastika, implying that he also now believes that the Cup is more than a coveted archeological artifact.

Even side characters argue with conviction.  The bad guy who is financing the Nazi quest for the cup wants eternal life and sees Hitler as a convenient, silent partner in his pursuit for eternal youth. Brody--captured for the map that leads to the secret temple where they find the Grail--warns against, "You are meddling with powers you cannot possibly comprehend."  Vigilantes from a brotherhood sworn to protecting the Grail, die to protect the temple from the Nazi's approach.

These are the arguments that lead up to the final confrontation inside the temple.  The big bad "Nazi stooge" wants everlasting life, yet Indy's been convinced by his father and others that the Grail deserves his protection.  Yet, darn those prickly horns, Indy and Henry have finally begun to mend their estranged relationship.  He needs more time to enjoy his father.  Indy has to save Henry! Can he do it AND keep the Grail from the "unrighteous."

Number IV's due out this summer. Hope it's got the resonance of I & III and is also marinated in theme, laced with arguments of conviction. 

Dramatic Scenes

Great dramatic scenes all have structure, just as a complete work has.

1. The beginning, what the character wants.
2. The middle, or rising conflict, who or what that gets in the way.
3. The ending, the surprise outcome known as 'the turn.'

The dramatic conflict of the middle seems fairly easy to grasp. Yet, a soft choice for the beginning often leads to a lot of yelling and demands, but not much real drama, and no real chance for the scene to turn. The secret is in defining the goal.

The character's goal at the scene level is a specific objective, achieveable, & measurable. It includes taking positive action.

For clarity's sake, it's wise to state the goal exactly on the nose.

Let me give you an example from personal experience.

A short play I wrote called "Party Girls" was just produced at the Bloomington Playwrights Project. I'd done significant rewrites with the director and the cast during the early rehearsal period, but then didn't see a run through any time in tech rehearsal, trusting that all the basics were in place. The setting is in a side yard of a house where young high schoolers are partying. Opening night I was mortified that there was no sound to establish a sense of space, which meant no crickets, no dance music from the just off-stage party, no ring tone from the girl's cell. No sense of direction, or that the girls were on their way to a party.

Wait a minute. True, the absence of sound was deafening, but I'm ashamed to admit that somewhere in the the rewrites I'd dropped the girls' objective. This pair of teenage girls are on their way to a party, and the entire short is what happens between the edge of the yard and the back door. Nothing's going to stop them. The throughline is very simple, yet very specific. But I'd dropped the ball at the script level. No one in the audience knew where the girls were, where they were going or why. Thankfully, enough bazaar things happen in the first couple of the minutes that energy didn't sag.

Even so, I added two lines (now the fourth and fifth lines of the piece):

Kiki-I didn't even want to come to the party.
Hillary--Well I do. Come on!

The next night, the performance was so much better. Even without the sound design, we all knew exactly what was going on. And when the sounds were there the third night, even better.

TIP: As my friend Jennifer VanSijll says, "clarity trumps."