Chapter Seven
The Comic Throughline
excerpted from
The Comic Toolbox:
How To Be Funny Even If You're Not
by John Vorhaus
Lately I've been thinking about the similarities between a comic hero and a would-be murderer. Each, it seems to me, needs means, motive and opportunity to be successful. One day, perhaps, I'll codify this idea as the Murder Mystery Theory of Comic Storytelling. For now, though, I'd like to concentrate on a simple story shorthand that I hope you'll find quite useful. I call it the Comic Throughline, and I've recently registered trademarks on the phrase, so that when Comic Throughline sportswear and coffee mugs and Comic Throughline action figures come on the market, I can really cash in.
Not all forms of comedy involve story, although if you look hard enough, you can find the beginning, middle, and end of any comic moment, even a joke, even a pratfall, even the launch, flight, and landing of the lowly pie in the face. Nor is all storytelling comic, although if you look hard enough at the following structure, I think you'll discover that it works equally well with serious stories as with comic. The difference between comedy and drama turns on such things as exaggeration, perspective, inappropriate response, and the wide, wide gap of the comic premise. But in the end those are only differences of tone, not structure.
Some people might try to tell you that a comic story doesn't require structure. "It's just comedy," they'll say, "all that matters are the jokes." Trust me, those people are wrong, and soon will try to sell you dubious propositions in real estate or Michael Bolton CDs. A well structured story gives jokes a place to happen. It tells the audience whose story to follow. If they don't know whom to follow, they don't know whom to care about. If they don't care, they don't laugh.
So while we're going to spend this chapter talking about something other than comedy, in the strict constructionalist sense of the word, please suspend your disbelief and imagine that we're developing something in fact crucial to comedy. Your money cheerfully retained if not completely satisfied.
I think that cracking the story is just about the hardest part of a comic writer's job. One reason for this is that what makes us funny--a knack for comic invention--doesn't necessarily lend itself to the rigors and disciplines of storytelling. Another reason (I'm sure you won't be shocked to hear I think) is lack of proper tools.
In my time I've haunted certain bookstores where you can't swing a dead cat without hitting a rack of massive tomes on story structure and scriptwriting and screenwriting: Zen in the Art of the Plot Pivot, Act Two Made E-Z, what have you. I've found almost all of them to be almost incomprehensibly dense. It's not that they don't work; it's just that they didn't work for me. I'm a simple guy. I needed a simpler system.
So I built my own. What I was after was a way of writing the barest bones of my story in ten sentences or less, so that I could discover with a minimum of work whether I had an interesting, whole and solid story or not. What I came up with was this:
Up till now in this book, we've only developed stories to the level of a sentence or two. With this structure we'll move to the next level---a paragraph or two--where, if all goes according to plan, you'll be able to see simply and clearly the beginning, middle, and end of your tale, plus some vital stops along the way.
The Comic Throughline won't give you all the answers. It won't tell you how Aunt Celia could have robbed the bank in Cleveland if she was in Hawaii with Señor Guernevaca at the time. I have some strategies for solving that sort of story problem, but they come later. For now, we just want to know if our story is complete and authentic. With a minimum of work.
Which is not to say that the tool doesn't take practice. It will definitely seem clunky and awkward, more paint-by-numbers or fill-in-the-blanks than genuine comic story development. After a few times through, though, the tool will become comfortable in your hand. And then, interestingly enough, it will disappear from view. Soon you'll use it just to check your work, to make sure your story is tracking correctly (not like subtracting to check your addition, which only proves that you can make the same mistake twice.) Ultimately, if it works for you as it works for me, it will illuminate a part of your storytelling map which may previously have only been labeled, "Here be dragons."
Well that's the intention, anyhow. Let's throw it out the window and see if it lands.
"WHO IS THE HERO?
Every story is about someone. It can be several someones, as in The Big Chill, or about someone who becomes a something, as in Metamorphosis, or about something who never was a someone, as in The Bear. Until you decide who your story is about, you have no hope of discovering what your story is about. Imagine a private detective who tried to tail a suspect without first deciding which suspect to tail. Can't be done.
The first order of business, then, is to select your hero. At this point don't take "hero" to mean some sort of larger-than-life adventurer like Conan or Roseanne Barr. Smaller-than-life adventurers, like Yossarian and Woody Allen, make excellent heroes too. By hero we simply mean the protagonist, the main character, the star of the literal or figurative show. For the purposes of this exercise, any hero will do, though if you're going to develop a comic story you need to start with a strong comic character as outlined in chapter four.
Film heroes include Michael Dorsey in Tootsie, Brian in Monty Python's Life of Brian, Luke Skywalker in Star Wars, Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, ET, Breaker Morant, and the courageous Japanese journalist who fought Godzilla to a draw. Television sitcom heroes include Archie Bunker, Murphy Brown, Gilligan, Seinfeld, and poor, long-suffering Oliver Douglas. Heroes in fiction include Anne of Green Gables, Sissy Hankshaw, Tom Sawyer, Rip van Winkle, and Bartleby the Scrivner.
Interestingly, each of us is the hero of his or her own adventure. You're the hero of your story, I'm the hero of mine. Mao Tse-tung was the hero of the Long March. Jesus Christ starred in the Gospel.
Can a story have two heroes? Sure: Woodward and Bernstein, Butch and Sundance, Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas. The problem is that each of these characters is the hero of his or her own story, and to understand their stories completely, you'll eventually have to separate them and track them individually. You'll save yourself a lot of grief, at least in this chapter, if you declare your hero to be a single individual and develop the story through him.
So what I'd like you to do now is create a character to run through this throughline with me as the chapter progresses. Start fresh. Build someone new from the comic perspective up. Or, you can use a pre-existing character if you prefer. You can even look at your neighbor's paper. The proctors have left the room.
My hero, then, is ALBERT COLLIER, a young dreamer circa 1915. His strong comic perspective is curiosity: he's a tinkerer driven to invention. His flaws include gawkiness, curiosity, sexual innocence, intellectual arrogance, painful shyness, impulsiveness, and fear of heights. His humanity includes intelligence, compassion, creativity, a sense of humor, good looks, charm, and a strong desire to change the world with his inventions. We see exaggeration in Albert's awful bumbling clumsiness, in his tendency to take things apart that he can't put back together, in his sexual innocence--a lady's naked ankle makes him blush--and in the wildly inventive but massively unsuccessful things he builds. In short, Albert Collier is a young man who's really going places--if only he can stay out of his own way.
Take a moment now to invent your hero and describe him or her on paper. Limit yourself to a paragraph of detail, and then boil all that detail back down to one sentence. Don't stop until you can identify your hero in one sentence, for that's your strong clue that he's become clear to you. At the same time, don't get hung up on "right" answers. Every character is subject to massive change without notice, and while it's true that you can't discover your story until you've discovered your hero, it's also true that your story will reveal things about your hero that neither of you ever knew.
WHAT DOES THE HERO WANT?
Once we've identified the hero of our tale, we next have to know what he wants: what's his goal, strong desire or need? It turns out that an interesting and well constructed comic hero has not one strong need but two, his outer need and his inner need. The simplest way to think of these needs is that his outer need is what the hero thinks he wants and his inner need is what he really wants.
For instance, your hero may think that what he wants is to build a successful business, but what he really wants is to retire to the woods and paint. Or he may think that he wants to join the Navy, but what he really wants is to get his darn father off his back. Or he may think that what he wants is his dead wife back, but what he really wants is to come to terms with her death. Again, you might not think of this dark psychology as grist for the old humor mill, but I think you'll find that it is.
In Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, Sissy Hankshaw's outer need is to hitchhike, but her inner need is to find her place in the world. In Tootsie, Michael Dorsey's outer need is to get work as an actor, but his inner need is to discover his true self. In City Slickers, Billy Crystal's outer need is to have a raw adventure, but his inner need is to have an authentic life experience. In Pretty in Pink, Molly Ringwold's outer need is to prove herself to the snobs in her school, but her inner need is to prove herself to herself.
Sitcom characters have outer and inner needs as well. Mary Richards' outer need is to take care of her friends, but her inner need is to stand up for herself. Archie Bunker's outer need is to validate his bigoted view of the world, but his inner need is to understand a difficult world. Murphy Brown's outer need is to prove herself to everyone, but her inner need is to prove herself to herself.
In the New Testament, Jesus' outer need is to help the poor, but his inner need is to know God. I won't speculate on Mao's inner need on the Long March. Possibly to keep his feet warm. What are your outer need and inner need? The answer to this question won't necessarily help your comic storytelling, but it's interesting to ponder just the same. Consider it extra credit.
Here are some more examples, just to make sure we're all tracking the same target. In When Harry Met Sally, Harry's outer need is to prove he's right, but his inner need is to find love. In Romancing the Stone, Joan Wilder's outer need is to save her sister, but her inner need is to find love. In Groundhog Day, Bill Murray's outer need is to get out of his dead-end life, but his inner need is to find love. In Heaven Can Wait, Warren Beatty's outer need is to live again, but his inner need is to find love.
We see this over and over again, especially in comic movies: no matter what the hero thinks he wants, what he really wants is love. It may even be that the presence or absence of love as an issue is the difference between a comic and a dramatic story. I decline to speculate, for that's the stuff of doctoral dissertations, not pop "how-to" tomes. Suffice it to say that if you can't find any other inner need for your character, assign the need for love. You won't go too far wrong.
But don't get fooled by the word "love," any more than by the word "hero." There's all sorts of love besides romantic love. Billy Crystal loves that calf in City Slickers, but doesn't want to marry it, as far as we can tell. Steve Martin loves his daughter in Father of the Bride. Luke Skywalker "loves" the rebel alliance in Star Wars.
Can a hero have more than one inner need and outer need? Sure, why the heck not? In Romancing the Stone, Joan Wilder needs romance, and adventure, and to save her sister's life. In Star Wars, Luke Skywalker needs his manhood, adventure and love. He to defeat Darth Vader and to save the rebel alliance and to master the Force. Busy guy. Just as the most interesting comic stories have many levels of conflict, so the most interesting comic heroes have many levels of comic need. On the other hand, two are sufficient, so long as the inner need and outer need are real. So think about your character for a moment and assign those needs to him now.
In my story about Albert Collier (working title Everybody's Dream Come True), Albert's outer need is to invent one damn thing that works, but his inner need is to become a man.
I don't worry that Albert's inner need--the need to come of age--has been explored before. Such needs are universal; they're what make a story worth telling. Don't worry that your hero's need is already "taken." When you dress it up in detail, you'll make it uniquely your own.
Also don't worry if your hero's needs change later. Right now all we want to do is set the story in motion. A story is a dynamic thing. Nothing's set in stone until the type is set in print. So feel free to be reckless and bold in your choices. After all, you can't go back and fix a broken story until you've broken it pretty good in the first place.
Oh, and I'd just like to say that it's not enough to think about these things. You really need to write them down. You are? Oh, good. Well, I won't mention it again.
THE DOOR OPENS
Now that we've established our hero's strong outer need and inner need, we need to kick his story into gear. What we want is to thrust him into some new and challenging world, a place away from home, literally or figuratively, where gets a chance to go for the thing he thinks he needs. If Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz thinks she wants to leave home (she really wants to accept home), the door opens when the tornado comes and takes her away.
In a fish out of water tale, the fish leaves his pond. In a character comedy, the comic opposites meet. In a powers tale, your hero finds the magic. On the page, so far, your story might look something like this:
PAULA PILDUSKI is a prim 'n' proper bride-to-be. Her strong outer need is to get home in time to marry BILL. Her strong inner need is to discover that she's marrying the wrong man before it's too late. The door opens when she arranges to ride home with ANDREW FERGUSUN, anarchist of the soul and, unbeknownst to Paula, her ultimate Mr. Right.
In Weird Science, two teenage nerdnoes have the strong outer need to be popular. The door opens when computer magic creates the girl of their dreams. In Tootsie, Michael Dorsey wants work as an actor. The door opens when he lands a job as Dorothy Michaels. In Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, Sissy Hankshaw wants to hitchhike. The door opens when she becomes old enough to hit the road. In The Big Chill, a group of college pals has the strong comic need to come to terms with their past. The door opens when the suicide of a peer brings them all back together again.
An episode of The Mary Tyler Moore Show might start with Mary's strong outer need to have Ted and Lou be better friends. The door opens when they agree to try. An episode of All in the Family might start with Archie's strong outer need to prove that liberals lack the courage of their convictions. The door opens when Meathead refuses to back a student strike. In the new sitcom Love Will Find a Way (don't see newspaper for local listings--I just made it up), the hero is Walter, a young widower, whose strong outer need is to find a mother for his kids. The door opens when hires a nanny.
Now you know and I know that Walter and the nanny will become lovers in the end. Thus, in a situation comedy, the hero's strong outer need can be the premise or trigger for the entire series. Murphy Brown's strong outer need to prove herself to others drives her to take a job at FYI in the wake of her stint at the Betty Ford Center. Dobie Gillis' strong outer need to find the girl of his dreams is the engine that motors his show.
As an exercise, try creating a couple of new situation comedies by starting with their central character's strong outer need. For example...
In Flappers! our hero's strong outer need to be in show business drives him to purchase and renovate a derelict burlesque house.
In Rising Starr, a young boy with a strong need for control in his world finds a magic meteor which gives him the power to make wishes come true.
In Home of the Brave, a newlywed couple's dream of owning their own home leads them to buy the house from hell.
In A Fish Called Wanda, John Cleese's Reggie has the strong comic need to free himself from his dull, conservative life. The door opens when he meets Wanda. Wanda, on the other hand, has the strong outer need to find the money, and the door opens when she meets Reggie, one who can help her do just that. You can see from this example that each of your lead characters can be treated as the hero of his or her own story. In The Prince and the Pauper, both of the main characters have a need to reinvent himself, and the door opens for each when he meets the other.
In Big, Tom Hanks wishes he could be an adult. The door opens when the fortune telling machine makes his wish come true. In Home Alone, McCauley Culkin wants everyone to leave him the heck alone, and the door opens when they all go off on vacation without him. Same thing in Risky Business.
From the hero's point of view, the opening door is either a problem or an opportunity, a threat or a welcoming hand. In murder mysteries, the door opens with the discovery of a corpse. In quest adventures, like Lord of the Rings, the opening door is the first step of the quest. The common denominator is this: the opening door upsets the applecart. From the moment the door opens, things for your hero can never be the same.
Or, to put it another way, the opening door makes your hero an offer he can't refuse. Make your opening door, then, as compelling or as dire you can. Yank your hero through that door.
Another way to open the door is to offer your hero something he really, really wants, but maybe can't handle. Cinderella wants to go to the ball, but when she gets there, she has to be up to the challenge of winning Prince Charming.
On the other hand, the opening door can look like your hero's worst nightmare come true. In Baby Boom, Diane Keaton plays a selfish yuppie on a high-powered career track. Her opening door--she inherits a baby--is the last thing she thinks she wants. Of course, in terms of her inner need--to discover her humanity, femininity and maternity--getting that baby is exactly what she wants. She doesn't know it yet--but she will.
We see this a lot, an opening door that looks great to a character's outer need, and terrible to his inner need, or vice versa. In Father of the Bride, Steve Martin's outer need is to keep his little girl from growing up. In this light, he dreads her impending wedding. But since his inner need is to accept her adulthood, her wedding is just the right crucible in which to forge a new relationship.
In Everybody's Dream Come True, Albert's outer need is to be a successful inventor, and his inner need is to acquire his manhood. The door opens when he meets barnstorming aviatrix KATHRYN HILLS, who wants him to build for her a racing plane. He's getting his shot at inventing, but will he be up to the challenge? He's in the soup. Funny thing about the opening door: one way or another, it always seems to lead to the soup.
As you write down your opening door, remember to keep it simple: the door opens when he joins the circus; the door opens when she meets the boy next door; the door opens when they find a sacred amulet; that sort of thing. Again, if you can't boil it down to a sentence you don't have a fix on the information yet.
THE HERO TAKES CONTROL
Having found this beautiful, beckoning door, the hero strides boldly through, ready for any adventure... or tentatively through, filled with trepidation. Whatever his thoughts going in, he immediately starts to take over in his new and challenging world. He enjoys early success here, and thinks that things are really, really going his way. He doesn't know it yet, but it's only a surface triumph, the appearance of success.
In Tootsie, Michael Dorsey enjoys early success in his new role. He has fans, money, approval, everything he could ask for. Is his victory real? No, because it's not Michael Dorsey but Dorothy Michaels who's earning all the kudos and encomia. He has the surface appearance; "Not triumph, an incredible simulation!"
In Romancing the Stone, the hero takes control when Joan Wilder arrives in Colombia and hires Jack Colton. She makes real progress toward her goal, and as things now stand, she has every expectation of success. Expectations, as we know, are made to be defeated. Otherwise, the story goes like this: a nervous young woman goes to Colombia to rescue her sister. She does. The end.
Not much of a story, is it?
In Everybody's Dream Come True, Albert takes control by building Kathryn's plane. When it flies, he thinks his story is over. If he were right, then she'd fly the plane, win a big air race, join him on the cover of National Geographic, and that would be that.
Why isn't this real success? Why is it only surface success? Because the thing that Albert really wants, the inner need of acquiring his self-respect, has not been addressed yet. He hasn't been tested to the limit of his ability. In a very real sense, he hasn't yet earned his wings.
So when you're deciding how your hero takes control, think in terms of early success and surface success. Make things good for your good guy here. Make him enjoy what's happening. Give him a fun time. Above all else, make him unaware of the greater battle that looms ahead.
In Star Wars, Luke takes control by going off to join the rebel alliance. Along the way, he learns the rudiments of being a Jedi knight and, based on early successes, thinks he's learned it all. He knows there's such a thing as the Force, and he knows it's alive in his life, but he really doesn't know how to use it. In one sentence, we'd say that the hero takes control when Luke goes off to find the princess and gets introduced to the Force.
In Big, Tom Hanks takes control by moving to Manhattan, getting a job, and an apartment, and all the other trappings of adulthood. He seems to have realized his dream of being "big," but he doesn't have a clue what true adulthood really means. That responsibility yet eludes him, and so his story has not yet been told. In a sentence: the hero takes control when he moves to Manhattan and starts behaving like an adult.
Meanwhile, back on television, Mary wants Ted and Lou to be better friends. The door opens when they agree to try. The hero takes control by inviting them both to dinner, and they seem to be making nice. You know that the story's not over. Something's bound to go wrong. It has to. It's that or fifteen minutes of commercials.
An episode of Murphy Brown might have Murphy with the strong outer need of landing an interview with a tinhorn dictator from some banana republic somewhere. The door opens when Murphy gets the interview, on the condition that she treat the dictator with respect she doesn't feel he deserves. The hero takes control when she curbs her atavistic urges and conducts the interview on the dictator's terms. We know that Murphy's not being true to herself, so we know that her story is not yet told.
In the Gospels, Jesus' strong outer need is to help the poor. The door opens when he starts his ministry, and the hero takes control by performing miracles, acquiring followers: helping the poor. He hasn't yet addressed his inner need, so his story's not done.
How does your hero take control? Think of one event that completes the following sentence: "The hero takes control by..." In Everybody's Dream Come True, the hero takes control by building a plane that flies. In your story, the hero takes control by...
Now challenge yourself. Think of five different, smaller ways in which the hero takes control. These are the details of your story. You don't need them yet, but you will. In Tootsie, the hero takes control by signing his contract, by buying new clothes, by doing well on camera, by becoming friendly with Julie, and by standing up to Ron.
In Everybody's Dream Come True, Albert takes control by designing a plane, by helping Kathryn test it, by taking credit for the invention, by feeling good about himself, by standing up to the town bully.
In your story, the hero takes control by...
Again, don't worry if you're wrong or right. The whole point of this exercise is just to give you a better feel for the sort of events that take place when the hero is taking control. All you really need is the one thing, the umbrella description of these events. In City Slickers, the hero takes control by going out west to act like a cowboy. Is it as simple as that? Yes, I do believe it is.
A MONKEY WRENCH IS THROWN
I once taught screenwriting as a second language to students from Egypt, Spain and Bulgaria, a veritable world conference on story structure. They all spoke at least some English, because English, thanks to CNN and MTV, is the language of the world these days. This is lucky for me because if the language of the world were, say, Malagusu or Ylang-Ylang, I'd be pretty much a loss as an international educator.
While these eager screenwriters understood classroom English language pretty well, American idiom gave them fits. This, in turn, gave me fits, so used was I to teaching in the cultural shorthand of my milk tongue. When I say to you, gentle reader, "a monkey wrench is thrown," you know what I mean. But a literal deconstruction of "monkey wrench" yields, "a device for twisting simians." Illuminating? Helpful? I think not.
For monkey wrench, then, substitute "a new, bad thing," because that's what happens in the Comic Throughline when the monkey wrench is thrown. A screw-up happens, a new threat arises, a new character enters, or a complication develops. In a murder mystery, the hero will be in control, feeling like he's got the case all solved, right up to the moment when his prime suspect turns up dead. In comic stories, especially on film, the new bad thing that happens is a change in the hero's state of mind.
In television sitcoms, we call the monkey wrench gets thrown at the act break, the moment just before the commercial when the hero realizes that things aren't going according to plan. In the example we've been tracking, no sooner has Mary negotiated her truce between Ted and Murray than a new, bad thing happens, not only renewing their hostilities, but escalating them and somehow making Mary a part of the fight. Suddenly she's hostile too. She's experienced a change of state of mind. Boom! Act break. In television terms, this is also known as the moment of maximum remove. At this moment, it dawns on the hero just how distant she is from her goal.
Remember that up until this moment, our hero has had things pretty much his or her own way. You find the monkey wrench in your story, then, by asking and answering this question: when does something go wrong?
In a comic story, the monkey wrench is usually thrown when the hero falls in love. Why is this a bad thing? Because it creates a dynamic and irreconcilable conflict between the character's original, self-serving goal and his new goal of winning his loved one's heart. Look at Tootsie, and you'll see exactly what I mean. All during the "hero takes control" phase of Tootsie, things go great for Michael Dorsey. He's moving closer and closer to his goal of winning respect as an actor. Actress? Acting person. But the moment he falls in love with Julie, he's sunk. It's impossible for her to love him as long as he's a woman. The longer he maintains his pretense, the closer he gets to his original goal, but the further he gets from Julie's love.
In Romancing the Stone, Joan Wilder has no problems (apart from getting shot at regularly) until she falls in love with Jack Colton. Now her desire to see her sister set free is in sudden and dynamic conflict with her desire to go after the treasure with Jack, and win his heart.
In City Slickers, everything's going fine for Billy Crystal. He's ridin' the range, ropin' them dogies, drinkin' that chuckwagon coffee without a care in the world. Then he falls in love with Norman, the calf, and he's stuck. Now he has responsibility. He can no longer ride that range and sing them cowboy songs without a care. Out of loyalty to that li'l dogie, he's got to bring the cattle home safe and sound.
The key word is "loyalty." A character always starts out with loyalty to himself and loyalty to his goal. What happens when the monkey wrench is thrown is that the hero experiences displaced loyalty. Michael Dorsey displaces his loyalty to Julie. Billy Crystal displaces his loyalty to Norman. Luke Skywalker displaces his loyalty to the rebel alliance. This new conflict between original loyalty and displaced loyalty takes and turns the story on its head. Up till now, our tale has been a simple one of a character wanting something and going after it. When the loyalty gets displaced, suddenly the story is about a character wanting two things which are mutually exclusive. Irresistible force versus immovable object. Trouble.
Romeo and Juliet have no real problems until they fall in love. Robin Hood and Maid Marion. Oedipus and Jocasta.
In Midnight Cowboy, John Voight displaces his loyalty from himself to Dustin Hoffman. In Paper Moon, Ryan O'Neal displaces his loyalty to his daughter, and once that happens he'll never be at peace until squares what he wants for himself with what he wants for her. In The African Queen, Bogart displaces loyalty to Katharine Hepburn. In Casablanca, Bogart displaces to Ingrid Bergman. In Key Largo, Bogart displaces to Lauren Bacall. In The Maltese Falcon, Bogart displaces to Mary Astor. Displacin' kind of guy, old Bogie.
Once you've got everything going your hero's way, pull the rug out from under him. Drop love on his head. Make him want two things and make it so that he can't have both. In Everybody's Dream Come True, Albert falls in love with Kathryn. His loyalty thus displaced, he can't be content to take credit for her invention, nor can he win her heart until she gives her her due.
How does your hero's loyalty displace? What monkey wrench can you throw into your story to make things impossible for your hero? Who can you put in his path that will create an irreducible conflict between what he wanted in the first place and what he wants right now?
Your answer might look something like this: Paula's monkey wrench is thrown when she falls in love with Chris, making it impossible to marry Bill.
To make this twist work you obviously need a character for your hero to become loyal to. Right now, then, it might be good to go back, invent such a character, and create a throughline for that character to follow. You'll be looking for your old friend Mr. Comic Opposite, the person who can give your hero the worst possible time. That's who you want your hero to fall in love with. Nice person, you.
Okay, let's recap using two fresh examples. In American Graffiti, Richard Dreyfuss plays a high school graduate who wants to go to college. The door opens when he gets a scholarship. The hero takes control when he drives around town, enjoying his last night of freedom. A monkey wrench is thrown when he falls in love with the girl in the white Corvette.
In Strictly Ballroom, the hero is a young dancer who wants to make his mark on the world of ballroom dancing. The door opens when he starts to dance his own steps. The hero takes control when he finds a partner for his new steps. A monkey wrench is thrown when he falls in love with her.
What I hope you're starting to see is that this throughline can be an effective way of boiling down a story, yours or someone else's, to its essence. One thing it's good for is revealing flaws. If, for example, you don't yet have a decent monkey wrench, you'll see it now. For my money, it's far better to discover story problems here at the start than to write 120 pages of rambling screenplay or 400 pages of a comic novel, only to find out later (and too late) that the script is flawed on the level of the story.
As an aside, if you want to break off an affair, simply take your future former loved one to the movies, and start analyzing a film out loud. "That's what the hero wants," you say, "and now the door opens, and now he's taking control. Oh look, look! Here comes the monkey wrench! Boy, I saw that coming, didn't you?" You'll be alone before the popcorn grows cold.
The hurling of the monkey wrench is only the first in a series of bad things that happen to our hero. He's had a fairly smooth ride up till now, but things are going to get bumpy from here on in, because, as William Butler Yeats promised in "The Second Coming..."
THINGS FALL APART
Remember what I said a few chapters ago about taking perverse pleasure in making things hell for your hero? Well now is when your hell-making skills really come into play. Once the monkey wrench has been thrown, you really want to litter your tale with bad news for the good guy.
In Tootsie, things fall apart when Michael's ironclad contract is renewed, when Julie thinks Dorothy is a lesbian, when Julie's dad proposes marriage, when Jonathan van Horn makes a drunken pass, when Michael discovers that his contract is ironclad, and when Sandy feels betrayed. Life is hell.
Just as "the hero takes control" encompasses a series of positive events, "things fall apart" encompasses a series of negative events. The challenge of the throughline is to boil all that bad news down to one simple statement. How about this: Things fall apart when Michael becomes trapped in the role of Dorothy Michaels.
To take another example, things fall apart in Big when Tom Hanks discovers he can't love Elizabeth Perkins as an adult, when his best friend feels betrayed, when his rival plots against him, and when he starts to feel homesick. In a nutshell, things fall apart when Tom Hanks discovers that adulthood isn't all it's cracked up to be.
In our Mary Tyler Moore story, things fall apart when Lou and Ted turn their anger on Mary, blaming her for the problems that exist between them. In Star Wars, things fall apart when Luke and the are forced to face the death star. In City Slickers, things fall apart when Jack Palance dies, when the other cowboys leave, and when a savage storm threatens the success of the cattle drive; in short, things fall apart when Billy Crystal finds himself leading the cattle drive. He's caught in a trap of his own making.
This is a key phrase: caught in a trap of his own making. More often than not, as tension builds between your hero's original loyalty and his displaced loyalty, he discovers that somehow or another it's his own damn fault. Of course the Ghostbusters aren't responsible for all those ghosts running loose in Manhattan, but their cavalier attitude, and their carelessness in letting the captured ghosts escape, lead directly to things falling apart in a trap of their own making.
Let's walk a new movie all the way through and see how it tracks to this point. In The Bad News Bears, Walter Matthau, the hero, wants redemption for mistakes in his baseball past. The door opens when he agrees to coach a little league team. The hero takes control when he recruits Tatum O'Neal and turns the team around. A monkey wrench is thrown when he displaces loyalty to the kids and realizes that their goal of winning has become important to him. Things fall apart when his own bad attitude (the trap of his own making) causes the players to lose faith in him.
Substitute Emilio Estevez for Walter Matthau, and hockey for baseball, and you have The Mighty Ducks.
Which raises an interesting point. Many successful comic stories are structured the same, so that you might think there's no original thought out there at all. In one sense, you're right. In terms of theme and structure, in terms of the way a story is told, we comic writers get led again and again to the same authentic places. This is not a bad thing. If you know anything about pop music, you know that most hit songs are written in the same major keys of C, D, G, A, etc. If they're not written in major keys, they don't sound like hit songs. It's as simple as that. Likewise, if your story isn't structured conventionally, it doesn't work like a conventional story. Does this mean vote no on unconventional stories? Of course not. It's just that conventional stories, conventionally structured, are far, far easier to write, and to read, and enjoy.
The trick, of course, is to transcend the structure with new and interesting comic characters, with inventive and amusing details, and with plot twists that make the conventional story uniquely your own. Just because The Bad News Bears explored the theme of redemption through baseball doesn't mean that there's no room for a movie that explores the theme of redemption through hockey, or a story like Hoosiers, which explores redemption through basketball.
Tell me if this wouldn't work: Birdies! (I'm making this up) is the story of a former world class badminton player who molds some ragtag children into a badminton powerhouse. The hero, Twyla Hengst, wants redemption for mistakes in her badminton past. The door opens when Twyla has to teach badminton to the misfit kids. The hero takes control when she convinces them that "there's beauty in the birdie," and starts to shape their skills. A monkey wrench is thrown when she displaces loyalty to the kids, and signs on to their dreams of victory. Things fall apart when Twyla is offered a shot at the Olympics, which would mean leaving her team in the lurch.
Will it be funny? Sure--if the characters are real comic characters in strong opposition, if exaggeration and clash of context are present, and if the characters' strong comic perspectives allow funny words and actions and situations to emerge. Does it matter that this ground is familiar and well-trod? I think not. As Pablo Picasso said, "You just keep painting the same picture over and over."
Which brings us back to our stories, yours and mine. In Everybody's Dream Come True, things fall apart when Kathryn accuses Albert of stealing credit for her inventions, when their plane crashes and Kathryn's injured, and when Albert faces the prospect of flying solo in an upcoming air race. In short, things fall apart when Albert realizes that he's going to have to see this plane thing through.
Now do yours. First, list as many ways as you can that things fall apart, and then boil them down to a single sentence.
You may find it useful right there to do what I just did with Birdies! Start over with a fresh, new idea and run it through the throughline. I think you'll find that it's easier to hit the marks the second time around. And the third, and the fourth. Eventually it will become almost automatic.
Here's another fresh stab:
The hero, a recent graduate from hotel management school, wants nothing but a quiet little inn of his own. The door opens when he's hired by an international conglomerate to run a run-down resort in a third world country ruled by a despotic strongman. The hero takes control when he goes to the third world country and starts to turn the resort around. A monkey wrench is thrown when the hero falls in love with a beautiful guerrilla leader, and displaces his loyalty to her. Things fall apart when the dictator comes to stay at the resort and the revolutionary plots to assassinate him by blowing up the hero's beloved hotel.
Can you see the conflict between our hero's original loyalty to the hotel and his new loyalty to the girl and her goals? As things now stand, something's got to give. When you move toward a moment when something's got to give, you're ready to start wrapping things up.
THE HERO HITS BOTTOM
There's an achingly beautiful moment toward the end of Tootsie, which takes place the day after Michael, as Dorothy, has made his pass at Julie, leading her to believe Dorothy's gay. He comes to her dressing room to explain, but she won't listen. "I really love you," she says, "but I can't love you." In this instant, Michael Dorsey knows that no matter what happens, as things now stand he'll never have the woman he loves, so he'll never really be happy again. Whenever I'm trying to remember how a hero hits bottom, this is the moment that comes to mind.
This is the moment, in a sense, that every comic story aims for. Having taken our hero out of his world and thrust him into a new and challenging one, having given him early success in that world, having displaced his loyalty, having made his situation bad, and then made his bad situation worse, we bring him at last to the moment of truth. Every story you've every loved, from Sleeping Beauty to Moby Dick to Gone with the Wind, has a moment of truth. For my money, the moment of truth is what makes the story real.
In our Mary Tyler Moore episode, the moment of truth comes when Lou hates Ted, Ted hates Lou, they both hate Mary, and Mary's not too keen on them. More to the point, it's the moment where Mary realizes that, unless something drastic happens, she's going to lose her two close friends forever. What's a girl to do?
In Star Wars, Luke is attacking the death star. Darth Vader is on his tail, and all his efforts to hit the target have failed. The voice of Obi Wan Kanobi comes to him and says, "Use the force, Luke." To use the Force means surrendering his hard won manhood to some higher power. Not to use the Force means to fail and die. What's a boy to do?
In City Slickers, the hero hits bottom when Billy Crystal's beloved calf, Norman, gets swept into the river. There stands our hero, with his conflicting loyalties laid out before him. On one hand, he can turn away from that calf, and continue to live, which he desperately wants, now that he know what living really means. On the other hand, he can plunge into that raging torrent and try to save that calf, but he might die trying. As things now stand, he has no reasonable hope of a happy ending. What's a lonesome cowboy to do?
The connecting tissue in all these moments is the sense of time running out. The hero has come to the end of the line, the final moment when at last he'll have to choose between what he wanted when the story started, and what he's come to want along the way. He arrives at a choice between his original, self loyalty, and his new, displaced loyalty. It's a choice, in a sense, between "me" and "you."
In Romancing the Stone, Joan Wilder finds herself in a life-and-death struggle with Colonel Zola. At her moment of truth, as she battles for her life, she calls out to Jack Colton to come and save her. If he does, she knows, then her dream of romance will be fulfilled. If he doesn't?
Then she'll die.
In Paper Moon, Ryan O'Neal hits bottom when his daughter walks away, just takes her things and goes. In The Mighty Ducks, Emilio Estevez hits bottom when his hockey team abandons him on the eve of the championship game. In Birdies! Twyla hits bottom when her team abandons her on the eve of the championship game. In The Bad News Bears--well, you get the idea.
If your story is tracking right, you'll come naturally to the moment when your hero is poised between two things he really wants, two things which are clearly mutually exclusive. If Mary sides with Ted, she loses Lou. If she sides with Lou, she loses Ted. If Albert Collier gets in that crippled plane and flies, he might lose his life, but if he doesn't, then Kathryn never wins her race, and Albert never wins her.
By dragging your hero down to his bottom, you force him to make the ultimate choice. Use the Force or refuse the Force? Stay Big or be small? Be a woman or a man? Save the calf or save your life? These are the sort of choices you want to bring your hero to. And it's no accident that so many fine comic stories come down to a matter of life and death. As we'll discuss later, the greater the jeopardy, the greater the comedy too.
So how does your hero hit bottom? Write that answer now.
If finding this moment seems difficult, well, yeah, it is. But it's vital that your bring your hero to a choice of this sort, or everything you've invested in the story up till now will be lost.
Surprisingly, it's less difficult if you take a fresh running start at the story. In my experience (and this is why I've bothered to go to such tedious length on the subject) the Comic Throughline serves the purpose of revealing an otherwise obscure or uncertain moment of truth. Let's start with a new story and see if I can show you what I mean:
A thirteen-year-old boy in Milwaukee in 1968 has the outer need of being a hippie and the inner need of learning to sacrifice. The door opens when he meets a seventeen-year-old hippie chick who rocks his world. The hero takes control when he bonds with the girl, learns from her, and becomes, to outer appearances, a hippie. A monkey wrench is thrown when he falls in love with the girl, and dares to believe that she might love him too. Things fall apart when her draft-dodger boyfriend turns up and our hero gets dragged into their efforts to escape over the border into Canada.
Given this simple template, how must the hero hit bottom? Won't it inevitably come down to a choice between what the hero wants for himself--her love--and what he wants for her--her happiness? In concrete terms, he'll have to decide whether to help them get away, which means losing her, or to try and keep her for himself.
I must tell you that when I wrote this throughline just now, I assigned the hero the inner need of learning to stand up for himself and his true values. Looking at his moment of truth, I realized that the inner need of learning to give would make his ultimate choice that much more difficult to make. So I went back and changed his inner need to what you see above. That's how the system works. By laying out the story in its simplest terms, you can make changes on a rudimentary level, while such changes are still easy to make. Later, when you're writing the script or the novel or the teleplay, it will be much too late, and much too difficult, to change the story in a major way. Do it now while it's still easy.
Do it now with some fresh meat. Try a new story, and see if the story you create doesn't point itself inevitably toward this ultimate conflict. It won't all the time, and when it doesn't, you'll know that there are some key story elements still unknown to you. Or you'll know that the story you're chasing is a dog. The advantage is that you'll reach this understanding through the least possible effort, the smallest amount of actual real writing. The Comic Throughline is the line of least resistance. And what happens when the hero hits bottom? Facing his moment of truth, staring into his abyss, what does our hero do?
THE HERO RISKS ALL
With no certain hope of success, the hero in a comic story hurls himself into the abyss. He abandons completely his entire investment in his original goals, sacrifices everything for the sake of his displaced loyalty. The key here is that the hero does the right thing even if he doesn't know whether it will pay off.
With no certain hope of success, Billy Crystal throws himself into that raging river to save that drowning calf. He doesn't know if he'll save the calf. He doesn't even know if he'll survive. All he knows is that things can't go on the way they are, and when push comes to shove, he'd rather lose his life than fail to take the shot. Notice that it's just this sort of moment---one instant of genuine, authentic life experience--that he's been seeking all along.
With no certain hope of success, Michael Dorsey rips off his wig on national television and reveals Dorothy Michaels to be a man. In this instant, he doesn't know whether he'll win Julie's heart or not. All he knows is that he can't bear to live the lie another instant. He has to come clean.
So often in a comic story, the hero risks all by coming clean or telling the truth, confessing to the lie that's carried him through the story so far. Tom Hanks does it in Big when he admits that he's not an adult. Dorothy does it in The Wizard of Oz when she clicks her heels and says, "There's no place like home." She's admitting that she was wrong in wanting to leave home. Now all she wants is to have her home back. It takes a major leap of faith to risk everything on a pair of magic slippers, but that's what Dorothy does.
Luke Skywalker uses the Force. He doesn't know if the Force will work, he just knows that nothing else possibly will. He yields himself up to a higher power.
Mary Tyler Moore stands at her moment of truth, poised between Ted and Lou, loyal to both, and loyal to herself. Pushed to the end of the line, she finally shouts, "If you guys can't grow up and behave yourselves, I don't want to be friends with either one of you!" With no certain hope of success, she throws herself into the abyss. Is this a "strategy?" Does she hope that going ballistic will cause Ted and Lou to see the light? No. She just knows that she can't live this lie (approval of their feud) a single minute more. She has to come clean. The fact is, she doesn't respect either of them any more, and she can no longer keep that secret.
Joan Wilder has her back to the wall, a knife at her throat. She calls to Jack, but Jack doesn't come. What will she do? If she waits for Jack, she'll die. When she can't wait a minute more, she abandons her lie--that she's an incompetent woman who needs a man to save her--and saves her own life. She throws off all her old notions of romance, and comes into her own.
In Bad News Bears, and The Mighty Ducks, and Hoosiers, and Birdies! the moments of truth are all the same. The hero says to his team, his loved ones, "I don't care about me, and I don't care about winning. All I really care about is you." In Birdies! as I see it now, Twyla will get all the way to the airport, badminton racquet in hand, ready to fly off to the Olympics. She'll see something that reminds her of her hopeful protégés and she'll realize, "I just can't do it." With no hope of winning back their loyalty, she'll bag her flight and rush back to the competition site.
In Paper Moon, Ryan O'Neal goes after his daughter. He says to her, "I care more about you than I do about me. We'll do it your way." The truth he's telling is this: I need your love.
In my story about the hippie wannabe, his moment of truth comes when he realizes that his loved one and her boyfriend will get caught unless he takes action. He risks his life to create a diversion. He has no certain hope of success, or even of survival. He has every reason to believe that his action will cause him to lose his loved one. But he knows that in the moment of truth there's nothing else he can do but sacrifice, thus fulfilling his strong inner need.
The moment of truth fulfills the inner need. In Everybody's Dream Come True, Albert's inner need is to acquire self-respect. In his moment of truth, when he overcomes his fear and flies that plane to victory, he's serving his inner need. In Big, Tom Hanks' moment of truth comes when he decides to go home. This fulfills his inner need of coming to terms with himself as a child.
Storytelling seems to be a mystery, but it can be a clockwork. If you know your hero's inner need, then you know what his moment of truth must be. If you know what his moment of truth is, then you know what his inner need must be. So ask yourself now, based on the story you've told so far, what must your hero do, what choice must he make or action must he take to fulfill the terms of his inner need? If all has gone according to plan, the answer will be obvious.
Again, to make this tool work best for you (and for the practice if nothing else),start over with a fresh idea and walk it all the way through.
The hero is an over-the-hell tennis star with the outer need to be a star again and the inner need to find the offcourt meaning of "love." The door opens when she takes on her comic opposite as her doubles partner. The hero takes control when she improves his game and they start winning. A monkey wrench is thrown when she finds she loves him, which is a problem because she already knows she hates him. Things fall apart when their tempestuous romance screws up their game and the partnership dissolves. The hero hits bottom when she realizes that she can win a tournament or win her man but not both. She risks all by giving up her shot for the sake of his love.
And what happens next?
WHAT DOES THE HERO GET?
They win the big doubles tournament. Our hero gets returned to glory and she also gets the man she loves. Oh happy ending!
I argue with people all the time over happy endings. No, I do. People stop me on the street and say, "Vorhaus, why are you so dogmatic about happy endings? Why won't you admit that movies and TV shows and comic novels have happy endings just because that serves the marketplace? It's pandering!" Yes they serve, but no it's not pandering. It's organic. The natural ending of a comic story is a happy ending. If it were otherwise, then all the comic currency earned by the tale would be forfeited by its outcome, sort of a substantial penalty for unpleasant withdrawal.
Moreover, the underlying purpose of a story is to instruct, and the underlying message of any story is, "If you do a certain thing, here's what happens." If you kill your father and marry your mother, Oedipus, you don't get a happy ending. You have to pluck out your eyes and be miserable. But if you do the right thing and use the Force, Luke, you get rewarded. You destroy the death star and get to hang out with the princess for another two movies. Just one thing: she's your sister, so don't sleep with her or you might end up like ol' Oedipus there.
So yes, I'm a fan of happy endings. But I'm also a student of endings, both happy and sad, and I've noticed something very interesting about the endings in real comic stories. Not only is the hero a winner, he's a double winner, because what the hero gets is both his original goal and his new goal. Against all foreseeable odds, he manages in the end to serve both his self loyalty and also his displaced loyalty. Again, it doesn't have to happen this way, but because it does happen this way in so many stories, we ignore the compelling logic of this outcome at our peril.
In Star Wars, Luke surrenders to the Force. Then what happens? He destroys the death star and acquires his manhood. He serves his ends, and those of the rebel alliance. In City Slickers, Billy Crystal goes home with a renewed love of life and the calf.
In a good comic story, the hero ends up with the best of both worlds. Joan Wilder gains both her self esteem and the man of her dreams. Albert Collier gains both his place in the world and Kathryn's love. Mary Tyler Moore tells Ted and Lou to grow the heck up... whereupon they see the light, settle their feud, and meet Mary's twin needs of keeping peace among her friends and maintaining her self respect.
Does this seem phony and forced? It certainly can be, if the sudden reversal of fortune isn't justified by what's happened before. But in a well-crafted story, the sudden reversal of fortune is not only justified, it's the only authentic outcome possible. When Michael Dorsey reveals himself to be a man, he doesn't know that he's going to win Julie's love, but he must win Julie's love, because revealing his true self is the only action that could possibly achieve this outcome. He also gets work as an actor for the same reason: in risking everything for his own true love, he finally came to understand himself. For the first time in his life, he was the sort of actor who could get work. Paradoxically, nothing could bring him to this pass but the ultimate sacrifice of his career.
After my wannabe hippie risks his life at that border crossing, his loved one and her boyfriend escape safely into Canada. He's achieved his first goal: to understand the meaning of sacrifice. But has he achieved his second goal? Does he have the woman he loves? No... not until she comes back across the border, tells him Canada's too cold for her, and drives him off to Woodstock. In his sacrifice she sees his quality, and that makes everything change.
In the Gospel, our hero has the outer need of helping the poor and the inner need of knowing God. The door opens when Jesus begins his ministry. The hero takes control by doing good works, talking plain truth, and acquiring a following. A monkey wrench is thrown when Jesus displaces his loyalty to his followers and realizes that his message to them is being misunderstood and misused. Things fall apart when crucifixion looms. The hero hits bottom hanging there on the cross wondering why he's been forsaken. The hero risks all by saying, "Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit." What does the hero get? Service to the people and knowledge of his God.
In this business of happy endings, you may think I'm full of beans, and you have every right to think so. But I put it to you that if you set out to write an authentic comic story without an authentic happy ending, no one will be satisfied.
Not you, not your readers or viewers, not even your mother, who's sworn on the Oath of Writers' Mothers to love every word you ever put to page.
Try it. See if I'm wrong: Our hero is a struggling young writer whose outer need is fame and glory, but whose inner need is to discover what being a writer is really all about. The door opens when he gets the chance to masquerade as a famous novelist at a writers' conference. The hero takes control when he pulls off the charade, passing himself off as the novelist. A monkey wrench is thrown when he falls in love with a woman who, in turn, passionately loves the person he's pretending to be. Things fall apart when a rival threatens to reveal his identity. The hero hits bottom when he's forced to choose between love and glory, between continuing the masquerade or finally coming clean. The hero risks everything by closeting himself in a room, writing a 200-page confession, and laying it at her feet. He has no certain hope that she'll forgive him or understand. He only knows that after all these lies, he has to tell the truth.
What happens next? What does he get? Does he get thrown in jail? Does he get banned from publishing forever? Does he get sentenced to grim obscurity and misery? I don't think so.
No, check that, I don't hope so. Rather, I hope that the woman will forgive him, and that his act of redemption, writing that confession, will teach him what it really means to be a writer, and open the door to authentic fame and glory, the sort of reward that genuine good work brings. That's the ending that feels right. And because it feels right, I submit that it is right.
But, really, how long does it take to beat a dead horse? You'll find out for yourself what kind of endings your comic stories want to have. Just be aware that a happy ending is the icing on the comic cake, and if you don't give your audience the whole cake they have a right to feel betrayed. And don't be surprised when the happy ending creeps in.
Before we leave the Comic Throughline, I'd like you to run through it one more time. Choose any story you've worked with up till now, or choose a brand new one. If all has gone according to plan, you'll find it far easier going now than you did some umpteen pages ago. And if you think the tool works well now, just wait till you've used it for years!
So. Who is the hero? The hero is...