Writing the short film 3th - Part 10

4. What Occasion or Event Serves as the Catalyst?
There will be times you would like to skip this question, leaving it until the
last, and there will be times you’ll be able to answer it immediately—only to
find that the catalyst changes with each draft of the script. Either way, you
are engaged in discovering what it is that you want to say, rather than what
you think it is you want to say. Still, it is important to realize that a screen-
play should not be considered complete until the catalyst is in place.
Calling up our image of Icarus trying to occupy himself with the gull
feathers, in the answer to Question 2, and knowing that the climax must take
place during his flight, it first seemed to us that the catalyst, or agent for
change, in the script must be the moment when Daedalus conceives of
escaping on wings made of feathers and wax. The difficulty was that
Daedalus was not our protagonist. Therefore the question became this: How
could we involve Icarus in this pivotal event?
We turned to Aristotle, who has some very practical advice for dramatists
in his Poetics: “In constructing the plot and working it out . . . the playwright
should place the scene, as far as possible, before his eyes. In this way, seeing
everything with the utmost vividness, as if he were a spectator of the action,
he will discover what is in keeping with it, and be most unlikely to overlook
inconsistencies.”
4
Close your eyes with us, then, and imagine a stone chamber at the top of
the tower. Imagine Daedalus busy at the only table with his parchment and
stylus. Imagine young Icarus, restless and bored, with little to do and noth-
ing to look at but his father, the sea, the sky, the sun, and the gulls that perch
on the open parapets. Imagine a pile of the feathers he’s gathered and the
ways he invents to play with them—trying to make them float, keeping
them up with his breath, pasting them onto his skin with water or spit so
that he can spread his arms wide and pretend to be a seagull . . .
Ask yourself what this particular father would do if he were disturbed
while working. Probably he would rebuke his son sharply; only then,

because he is by nature a “cunning artificer,” would he realize that there
might be a way to construct real wings of feathers and, yes, candle wax.
In answer to Question 4, then, the catalyst will be Daedalus’s realization,
at the sight of Icarus imitating a bird in flight, that he might be able to design
wings on which he and Icarus could escape.
5. What Is the Protagonist’s Dramatic Action?
We arrived at an answer to this question by a roundabout way. Because
Daedalus is a doer, not a dreamer, a desire to escape prison with his son
would serve him as a strong dramatic action. We could simply have made

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Icarus’s dramatic action complementary—to escape prison with his father—
but it might be more dramatic to follow through on our perception of him as
a dreamer, very different from his father. This difference would exacerbate
the natural tension between father and adolescent son.
For when we go back to the original material, hunting clues to the father’s
character, we are reminded that Daedalus killed his nephew—and favorite
pupil!—out of fear that the boy might surpass him as an architect. Such a
man would probably be an irascible, competitive parent.
Thus, it makes sense that, in answer to Question 5, Icarus’s dramatic
action is to escape his father any way he can.
6. What Is the Antagonist’s Dramatic Action?
As discussed above, Daedalus’s dramatic action is to escape prison with
his son.
7. How Is the Protagonist’s Dramatic Action Resolved?
Icarus escapes his father, but at the cost of his life.
8. Do You Have Any Images or Ideas, However Unformed, as to
What the Climax Might Be? The Ending?
Keeping in mind that the climax, by definition, ought to be the most intense

moment in the film or video—both for the audience and for the protago-
nist—we should be searching for a powerful image, or series of images, that
will express not just what Icarus is doing at that moment but also what he is
feeling.
Sometimes a writer is in possession of such an image early on and needs
only to articulate it; sometimes he or she finds ideas by going back to the
original material, or by doing further research. Sometimes an image of the
climax does not appear until the writer is actually working on an outline, or
even the first draft, of a screenplay. As professionals well know, each project
can prove quite different in the writing from every other; the imagination
works in mysterious ways.
This myth is a tragic one, but it doesn’t at all follow that the script should
be unrelentingly grim. On the contrary, if viewers are to identify with a
doomed character such as Icarus, it’s essential that they empathize with the
passion that drives him to destruction, that they be able to feel compassion
for his belief in the possibility of achieving his heart’s desire. In our project,
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where the climax will be the moment in which Icarus ignores his father’s
shouts of warning and continues soaring up toward the sun, we need images
that convey the wonders of such flight, the glory of wheeling and swooping
and gliding like a seagull. In answer to the first part of Question 7, then, the
climax is to be a series of images in which a joyful Icarus swoops, glides, and
wheels up and up through the dazzling sunlight.
What about an ending? Because death is the ultimate escape from any sit-
uation in life, we can say that Icarus has achieved his dramatic action—to
escape his father any way that he can. But at what a cost!
It seemed to us that in order to explore the irony of this, we would need two
different sorts of images for the ending—those showing the boy’s terror as he

falls, and those showing the indifferent world through which he falls: blazing
sun, tranquil sea, cloudless sky, and fields where peasants labor. (This last is
suggested by a renowned painting by Pieter Brueghel the Elder, “The Fall of
Icarus.”)
At this point, we imagine the very last image of the film to be that of Icarus
plunging into the sea and descending underwater in slow motion past the
camera.
FINDING A STRUCTURE (II)
In long narrative films, there is time to develop plot as well as subplots, but
in most short narratives, there is time only for a fairly simple story line, how-
ever complete the characters or experimental the approach. In order to care
about what happens to the main character, we need to be engaged as early
as possible. We need to see that character in the midst of life, however briefly,
before the catalyst occurs, introducing or stimulating the main dramatic
action.
Basically, developing this action through the character’s struggle with a
series of increasingly difficult obstacles constitutes the story line or simple
plot of a short film script. And while the concept of a full three-act structure
has proven useful to writers of longer films (mainly features), it can be
unhelpful—even obstructive—to writers of short films. With some excep-
tions, it is best to think of the story line for a short as a single flow of inci-
dents. In our experience, the following structure is a simpler, more flexible
scaffolding for the short, whether it is original or an adaptation.
STRUCTURING YOUR SHORT SCREENPLAY
1) Set up the main dramatic action, showing the protagonist in his or
her life before things begin to change.

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2) Introduce the catalyst, which can be as subtle an occasion as meet-

ing a stranger’s eyes across a room, or as violent an event as a car
crash. One essential feature of the catalyst is its visible effect on the
protagonist, as it results in the emergence of the main dramatic
action.
3) Develop that dramatic action through a series of incidents in which
the protagonist struggles to overcome the obstacle or obstacles that
stand between him or her and the “object of desire”—whatever it
is they now want. In general, these incidents or crises should be of
increasing intensity, culminating in a climax which leads to resolu-
tion of the action, one way or another.
4) Resolve the action so that the protagonist succeeds or fails in get-
ting what he or she wants—always keeping in mind that an appar-
ent success can turn out to be a failure (as when a character gains
something and no longer wants it); and an apparent failure can
turn out to be a success (as when a character gains something other
than what he or she wants).
5) Bring the script to closure with a brief scene—often a single shot—
which comments on, or simply reveals, the main character’s situa-
tion at the end of the film.
In a sense, the first and last steps above can be thought of as a simple fram-
ing device that shows the protagonist before the main dramatic action gets
underway, and again, after that action has been completed. Closure is the
writer and director’s last word on the subject, the image or images they wish
the audience to come away with.
(More on closure in Chapter 7, Rewriting Your Script.)
WRITING A STORY OUTLINE
In an interview discussing the architecture of the screenplay, screenwriter
William Goldman, author of the film scripts for Butch Cassidy and the
Sundance Kid, Marathon Man, and All the President’s Men, says, “I’ve done a
lot of thinking myself about what a screenplay is, and I’ve come up with

nothing except that it’s carpentry. It’s basically putting down some kind of
structure form that they [the actors and director] can then mess around with.
And as long as they keep the structure form, whatever I have written is rel-
atively valid; a scene will hold, regardless of the dialogue. It’s the thrust of a
scene that’s kept pure.”
5
One of the most valuable tools we have for structure is the story outline,
wherein each step briefly describes a full scene—ideally a scene that furthers
the action.
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The writing of a story outline often begins with collecting notes or making
observations on character, location, events, bits of dialogue, or images that
you have about the project. When these notes take on some sort of coherence,
you can start asking yourself the questions we’ve listed. Keep in mind,
though, that for most people the best way to work on ideas for writing any-
thing is with pen in hand or fingers on keyboard.
In the short script, where dialogue is best kept to a minimum, a detailed story
outline can occasionally serve the purposes of a first-draft screenplay. There are
students who prefer to answer the questions and move directly to a rough
draft. If this second method is your choice, you will probably find that writing
a bare-bones outline of this draft can help you spot problems in motivation and
structure before going on to the next draft. It is much easier to see such diffi-
culties when the scenes are laid out in sequence on a single sheet of paper.
There are those who find that using index cards, or photocopied cutouts
from the draft of the outline, for each step and moving them around helps in
finding the sequence that works best. (Most people who have done any film
editing at all discover, sooner or later, that casual or even accidental juxta-
positions can yield extraordinary results.)

When you arrive at the assignment, keep an open mind and be prepared
to experiment with these strategies to find out what works for you.
Because our first example of such an outline is intended for a very short
animated film or video, and story-boarding is all-important in animation,
it will be somewhat more detailed than it would be for most live-action
films. Essentially, what we are aiming at is an outline that could almost
serve as a first draft of the screenplay.
STORY OUTLINE FOR “ICARUS’S FLIGHT”
1. Day. Icarus and Daedalus imprisoned in a room at the top of a tall
tower. Icarus stands at one of the parapets, gazing out at sea and
sky; Daedalus sits at a crude table, working on a plan of escape. He
looks up, sees Icarus dreaming, and orders him to sweep the room.
Icarus takes his time about obeying.
2. Night. Daedalus asleep on a cot, Icarus gazing out, as before.
Daedalus stirs, sees the boy at the parapet, and orders him back to
bed. When he closes his eyes, Icarus makes a face at him.
3. Day. Daedalus at the table, Icarus at the parapet. From Icarus’s
point of view, we watch seagulls ride the wind. Quietly, he spreads
arms wide and dips and turns in place, imitating them.
4. Day. Icarus collects discarded feathers from the sills of the parapets
and adds them to a pile by his cot. Icarus at work, trying ways to
paste feathers onto his arm.

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