Category: Uncategorized

March 10th, 2010

Didja get that thing? Searching for your MacGuffin

My sister, Spenser, and I go on the same highly anticipated adventure every time we’re together. We drive from our parents’ home in Connecticut into Manhattan for a quick, food hit-and-run on Original Ray’s on 9th between 23rd and 22nd and then on to Billy’s Bakery, half a block away between 22nd and 21st. It’s my favorite two blocks in Manhattan, next to Zabars and H&H. Mmm. Delicious! The drive usually takes us one hour and forty five minutes roundtrip to complete and then there’s forty five more minutes of scarfing pizza and cupcakes while we giggle. We are on a mission, specific solely unto us, which can only be satisfactorily concluded with that first bite of pizza and end with the last moist bite of a chocolate cupcake with vanilla frosting.

Like Peewee and his bike, Citizen Kane and his Rosebud, Lt. Aldo Raine and his Nazi scalps, Spenser and I wanted something so much that it prompted us to act just to get it. That slice and cupcake, in the movie of our cross-state adventure, is our MacGuffin: the “thing” we seek.

A MacGuffin, plainly and simply is everything and nothing at the same time. It is the object of your character’s desire; it’s the thing that drives him and forces him to act. It is the carrot at the end of your plot’s stick. It is an excellent character motivator and every movie has one, regardless of genre. Some movies have a tangible thing, like Harold and Kumar’s White Castle, while others can be intangible, like Dorothy wanting to “go home.” While she’s not yearning for a “thing,” she’s yearning for “something” and that’s enough to motivate her to act.

The term MacGuffin was coined by Alfred Hitchcock while working on Notorious. The spies were originally going to be hunting diamonds, but then Hitchcock decided Uranium would work better. The thing about MacGuffins is that even though there’s a huge difference between diamonds and Uranium, there’s really no difference at all. Hitchcock recognized that all that needed to remain constant was the characters’ desire to obtain the “thing” not what the “thing” is. The “thing” itself is really just a random thing. Sam Spade had his Maltese Falcon, The Terminator has John Connor, Neo has his whatever The Matrix is about. Everyone wants something different. What they want doesn’t matter, just that they want something does.  It’s really a spectacular revelation when you think about it.

Hitchcock dubbed this concept a “MacGuffin” after a joke: Two Scotts are on a train. One points to the other’s case. “What’s in the case?” “It’s a MacGuffin. It’s an apparatus used to trap lions on the Scottish Highlands.” “But there are no lions on the Scottish Highlands.” “Well, then sir, that is no MacGuffin.” And that’s it. A MacGuffin was born.

According to Hitchcock, a MacGuffin can really be as varied as the character. My cupcake, is one spy’s papers is another thief’s diamond necklace. But what that “thing” is, isn’t important. What is important is the character’s desire to possess that “thing.” Because it is desire that drives us as people, and it is desire that makes for relatable and accessible characters.

It is this desire that will prompt a cross-state adventure to satisfy a food craving, but it is also this desire that puts your character on their journey to self discovery. The MacGuffin gives your character something to focus on, to strive for, to be pushed to the limit to have. It is through this process that your character will develop and ultimately grow as a result of participation. The MacGuffin is such an integral piece of all writing, fiction and non, because it is a comment on the human condition. Everyone wants something… that “thing” that they want, isn’t important. Their hunger for it is everything.

Just because your character is on a quest for some “thing,” it is really how he gets it and if he gets it that is important. So while it might be of the highest importance to eat that slice and cupcake, it’s the getting there, and the trip with Spenser that makes the movie exciting. It is the minutia of what happens to us in the car ride that makes the movie special.

Whereas the object of your character’s desire can be as varied as the landscape in which you create it, the one thing that will always remain constant is that the MacGuffin is the most important thing to your character. It is this unabashed love of something that drives your character to act, to journey, to grow. So no matter if it’s a waffle or a sports car, whatever the “thing” your character wants, should inform their choices to obtain it.

The MacGuffin also allows you to show a little bit of character in a fun and clever way. The Dude’s attachment to a small throw rug in his living room is odd. It was weirdly sized, awkwardly placed and grungy. It was something of little consequence to basically everyone in the world; everyone in the world but The Dude.

You see, if The Dude hadn’t so seriously wanted his rug back, he might never have met The Big Lebowski, nor been sucked into the caper of The Missing Bunny Lebowski. It was his desire for his rug’s safe return that lead him to Maude, it was the rug that led him to the Nihilists. If Jackie Treehorn’s porno-actor thug hadn’t micturated upon the rug “that really tied the room together,” The Dude might not have realized how important this item was to him. He might have done his bowling Thai Chi over it for 10 more years as it gathered dust, unnoticed below him. But it was the loss of this rug, the ever present desire to reclaim it that forced him to realize how important it really was to him. That this rug didn’t just “really tie the room together,” it really made him whole, it defined him.

So, when you’re crafting your character think about what they want. By giving them a MacGuffin, you’re giving them something that explains something about their personality while also giving them a built in goal. The item itself is immaterial, as it can be anything. But what makes it so exciting and so mysterious, is that while it’s so important, it’s really of little consequence. Ascribe them something strange and different, make the object a poignant character point rather than some throw away. Use your MacGuffin to center your journey around, and let it inform your character’s choices.

I believe that when you employ an interesting MacGuffin, you’ll find the same satisfaction I find in my slice and cupcake, as your character will find in their adventurous expedition to get the “thing” they’re after. It is in the hunting for that “thing,” the lusting for that “thing,” the obtaining of that “thing” that your character will find their happiness. It is in the adventure to get the “thing,” their MacGuffin that will actually force your character to grow.

August 10th, 2009

The Importance of Being Structured

Everyone knows the story of Hansel and Gretel. Convinced the only way to save their impoverished family was to abandon their two children in the terrifying wood, Hansel and Gretel’s step-mother insisted that their father take them deep into the forest and leave them there. Being cunning, clever, resourceful children, and having overheard their evil step-mother’s plan, they filled their pockets with breadcrumbs in order to leave a trail to find their way back home.

Well, crafting good film structure is a lot like leaving a trail of breadcrumbs so your audience can find their way home. As a writer it is your responsibility to carry, to direct, to tantalize your audience into following you on your journey. Every crumb you leave is another detail, another character, another plot point and together, after they’ve all been collected, they should bring the audience to a satisfying climax or, in other words, lead them home.

Regardless of genre, structure is the skeleton that your story rests upon. The characters, the plot points, the mood, the setting, they’re all just skin and muscles and ribbons in hair, but they’ll never be as important as the skeleton. Without a skeleton, a solid foundation on which to build, it doesn’t matter that your story is a macho muscle man, with long flowing hair resembling sexy wheat, if he is a boneless puddle of skin and tissue lying immovable on the ground.

When the structure is off, I get bored. I get bored, because I feel lost and adrift. When I’m lost and adrift, my mind wanders. I think about emails, or where I’m going next, or about the piece of popcorn stuck in my teeth. I’ll think about anything, other than your film. And you don’t want my mind wandering to that sweater I wanted but didn’t buy because it wasn’t on sale. You want my full-undivided attention for as long as your script / film is.

As an audience member, I want you, as the writer, to own me. I should be so invested in your story that I would follow you into a fire because I just have to see what’s on the other side. Whether you’re doing alternative structure or traditional three-act structure, telling a story is telling a story. You follow each bread crumb, until you’ve collected them all and wind up at your destination.

So, recently when I was talking with my best friend Scott about a movie we had just seen, he said he loved it. While I had laughed at the jokes, I felt the structure was off and therefore the movie seemed, to me anyway, like a 1000 hours of lugubrious uphill battle. I was exhausted from trying to figure out what act we were in, if the dark moment had passed, who the main character was because we spent equal time with everyone. Scott felt that I get too hung up on structure and sometimes it’s nice when they mix it up. While I couldn’t argue with that, what I could argue is that structure is important because without it, you get lost in the story, and not in a good way.

Imagine instead of dropping a measured trail of breadcrumbs, Hansel and Gretel chose to throw their breadcrumbs buckshot, willy nilly, all over the place. While the wild life those crumbs would attract would be beautiful and diverse and unexpected, Hansel and Gretel would be no closer to reaching their goal. Applying that same principle, if you as a screenwriter choose to scatter your story to the wind, relying on the details to carry your audience, your film simply won’t work.

Screenwriting is an artful balancing act. Every scene must build upon the next scene which must build upon the next, like a pyramid. Each moment being supported by and supporting the next. Whereas in other writing, prose, fiction, even non-fiction, you have the space to slowly spin your yarn, you have page after page to describe the pattern on a character’s blouse without it detracting from your overall piece. In screenwriting, brevity is king and without a clear cut travel itinerary your audience will be lost forever.

Structure is so important because as a story teller you want to tell your story in the fastest way to illicit the greatest response. You have a lot to accomplish and only a small amount of space in which to do it. You should have a main character who experiences growth throughout the piece and takes most of the focus. You should have a villain or detractor of some sort, constantly throwing road blocks in the hero’s way. You should have sub-plots and comedy and drama (regardless of genre) to provide the tension and the release needed to create an edge-of-your-seat story. You should have supporting characters and issues. That’s a lot of business to jam pack into a movie, leaving you with no time to waste.

When you go to write your next project, imagine you’re back in high school and you’re going out for the evening, but your father stops you at the door and cross-examines you about your nighttime agenda. He wants to know where you’re going, with whom, what you will be doing, and as if that’s not enough, he wants to know when you’ll be home. Well screenwriting is the same thing. You should know where your character is going, with whom and what he’ll be doing and where and when he’s going to wind up back at “home.” All of those elements are related to structure. If you miss one of those key points, your story will suffer. Your audience will get lost in the woods, and your script / film will feel like it’s a 1000 hours of wandering through the forest looking for the hint of a trail home.

So, while Scott was correct, that sometimes it is nice to mix it up, it also has to pay off for your audience in the end. It can’t be rambling or unfocused. You can’t use “But it’s alternative structure” as an excuse for shoddy craftsmanship. The best writers know that alternative structure is really traditional three act structure, dressed up for Halloween. At its core, your story has to be a clear path from Point A to Point B. The rest, the details, the minutia, that’s all window dressing, unique to each writer. It is in that area where your creativity, your cleverness, your genius can shine. I won’t be daydreaming about getting a pedicure or thinking about which has more carbs, a pizza or a chocolate cake. I’ll just see the story as you intended.

Apparently, when Hansel and Gretel finally did find their way home, after escaping from the evil witch who tried to bake them into gingerbread, they found yet another witch waiting for them, their step-mother… can anyone say sequel?