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The stuff that dreams are made of

7 INT       AUDIENCE       DAY


"The writer’s audience is always a fiction. For a writer any real recipient is normally absent (if a recipient is accidentally present, the inscribing of the message itself proceeds as though the person were somehow absent—otherwise, why write?). The fictionalizing of readers is what makes writing so difficult. The process is complex and fraught with uncertainties. I have to know the tradition—the intertextuality, if you wish—in which I am working so that I can create for real readers fictional roles that they are able and willing to play. It is not easy to get inside the minds of absent persons most of whom you will never know. But it is not impossible if you and they are familiar with the literary tradition they work in.”

Walter Ong 
The question, 'to whom is my story addressed?' is probably the most important question most screenwriters never ask themselves, let alone answer. You wouldn't write an email to nobody, so why would you write a poem or a screenplay to nobody? To write with sensitivity and respect for your audience is to be open to the ways in which your story can make someone else emotionally, politically, and psychologically more open - in short, more aware and more tolerant. 
 Billy Marshall Stoneking
"The only manner in which a creative idea should enter the awareness of the audience is via the trust the creator has in his/her audience. A dialogue in which audience and creator are equal partners has to be developed. There is no other approach, even if something is absolutely self-evident to the creator it is extremely wrong to try and force this into the audience's mind. The aesthetic  ideas generated by the viewers have to be accommodated, but one must never compromise and neglect the duty to create modern cinema. In no case should one concede to the tastes of the more backward viewers... one doesn't need to explain in film, but rather to directly affect the feelings of the audience."    
  Andrei Tarkovsky



"What writer wants to make compromises with story? Story is the only reason you're in it."
- David Simon, creator/writer,
The Wire

When I write I pretend I’m telling a story to someone in the room and I don’t want them to get up until I’m finished.  - James Patterson

"The emotions - love, mirth, the heroic, wonder, tranquility, fear, anger, sorrow, disgust - are in the audience."   - John Cage

When screenwriters write their scripts from “outside” the lives of their characters they rob their screenplays of the essential ingredient necessary for evoking powerful emotional responses in their audience.

Any screenwriter who, steeped in genre and armed with a predetermined plot, builds his/her characters around a pre-conceived recipe for action will be able to produce the semblance of a screenplay. They might even produce a dramatic screenplay. But will it be fresh? Will it surprise us?  

The answer to the question is who is driving the story, is not nearly as important as the realization of what is driving the process?  And the process in the character-driven story is much more complex and intriguing than the kind of target shooting one often finds in plot-driven melodrama. Character-based drama takes the reality of character so seriously that it acknowledges that the characters necessary for finding the story do not all reside within the pages of the draft screenplay, characters whose involvement and relationship with one another - emotionally, psychologically, spiritually and intellectually - is essential to the story finding process. Only when ALL of the characters necessary for finding the story are effectively engaged and transformed by their on-going interactions with one another inside the story-world, is there a chance to develop a story that is vital and fresh. When the screenwriter makes an executive decision and chauvinistically decides that only the writer can drive the story, the result is, at best, almost always mediocre - that is, a story that is formulaic and stale.   

Hence, the astute screenwriter is ever sensitive to the dynamic interactions taking place among all the characters, both inside and outside the script. Hemingway’s salutary advice regarding every writer’s need for a “crap-detecting device” is still relevant, only in the case of the screenwriter one must be able to discriminate between a story that is being lived by the characters and a story that is written out of a writer's anxious need to create a 3-act facsimile of human emotion whilst avoiding significant and getting to the end as painlessly and expeditiously as possible.

None of this, however, should be construed as a criticism of melodrama per se. There is good melodrama and bad melodrama; melodrama that works, which stimulates our emotions and permits a strong identification with the characters and their problems; and melodrama that, for any number of reasons, is predictable, manipulative and keeps us at a confounding, emotional arm’s length.

The challenge with melodrama, and genres in general, is that they constantly cry out for some fresh interpretation. If there is an art to melodrama – and there most certainly is – it must reside in the screenwriter’s vision and in his/her ability to disguise or imaginatively camouflage the more predictable elements of the melodramatic plot. Without such disguise, a melodrama-in-the-making constantly runs the risk of veering into contrivance or settling back into cliche, or both.

Good melodrama is difficult to write; bad melodrama is on every street corner. Have a look around. Bad melodrama is where almost every would-be screenwriter starts and ends; that well-tilled common ground of sentimentality enshrined in obvious and mostly forgettable events enacted by one-dimensional characters operating as mere plot functionaries in the service of propaganda, sentimentality, pornography or any number of private fantasies that drive a scriptwriter's ambitions, prejudices and fears. 

In contradistinction to melodrama, the emotional energy of character-driven drama is grounded in the character's origins, in their essence, in the tribal circumstances that they share with the writer, and whose problems are the problems of the tribe, whose source of being is common to both the writer and the characters.  When actions are sourced from the character's (and the writer's) emotional needs and desires, when a character's origins are just as important as a character's objectives, and when all the characters necessary for laying bare the emotional energy inherent in the dramatic problem confronted, the character-driven screenplay becomes a possibility. 

In dramatic, character-based stories, plot is the ongoing outcome of what a character is - an ontological revelation of the contradictions of human nature - their desires, hopes and fears - as expressed in actions. Character is the ever-moving focal point where all of the forces of the dramatic story meet and are played out. In character-centric stories, fundamental decisions concerning “what happens next?” are not based upon what the storyteller needs in order to move the tale from one plot point to the next, but upon what the characters want, why they want it, and who or what is stopping them from having it, and why.

Allied to this is the quest of the screenwriter to liberate the characters from the straitjacket of the screenwriter's own expectations and fears. The narrow, pre-digested clichés, stereotypes and formulae that serve as a kind of smoke screen for the writer, must be abandoned. It is a quest that involves the liberation of the storyteller as much as the liberation of the characters. Such a liberation involves a transformation in which the writer becomes a receptive, responsive vehicle through which the characters speak and act.

This transformation is contingent upon the screenwriter’s ability to simultaneously inhabit a variety of vantage points or perspectives; which slightly alter the writer’s relationship with the story and the characters. In altering the “psychical distance"  (1) from which the storyteller perceives the characters and their actions – as well as the storyteller’s own actions in relationship to the actual telling or finding of the story – the storyteller is afforded a perceptual contrast that enables a fresher view of both character and story. Aspects of character and story that may have been neglected, misunderstood or simply lost in the inertia and entropy of habitual examination and expectation are re-vivified when one shifts one’s psychical distance.
Stories that endure and change the way we look at the world and ourselves almost always dramatise issues that have the most powerful consequences. Prejudice, greed, oppression and faithlessness are perennial themes in dramatic stories that move us because they strike at the heart of what it means to be human.

To successfully dramatise the potency of such forces, one must have some experience of them. However, experience alone is not always enough. To become the vehicle through which powerful dramatic characters and stories come to life, the storyteller must have some feeling for those that have suffered as well as the courage to fearlessly explore and be true to the characters whose actions convey the turmoil at the heart of the drama. The feeling with which “Jesus wept” – and his reasons for weeping – cannot be foreign to, or beyond the ken of, any storyteller hoping to connect emotionally with his or her characters.

A feeling for one’s characters and the courage to follow them wherever they may take you is one of the surest antidotes to mediocrity and its yoke of predictability. This is rarely if ever effected solely from the perspective of the storyteller/character relationship. If one is to enter into the emotional energy that is the life essence of the characters, and thus become a medium through which they speak and act, then audience is indispensable.

An effective dramatic story requires an audience not only to complete its meaning and fulfil its emotional potential, but to provide a catalyst that will allow the writer to disentangle his/her ego and ego needs from the story that is trying to tell itself through the medium of the screenwriter and the screenwriter’s sensibilities and skills. To conceive and present a story that is told without reference to an audience is an absurdity, a dramatic story worthy of its name not only presents change but also creates it in the responses it elicits from both the storyteller and the audience. Until it has elicited such a response a story is not fully functional.

However, one must not think of audience as a faceless group of paying spectators. In the context of an evolving script, it is both ignorant and unproductive to reduce one’s conception of audience to mere demographics; to do so misses the important, creative contribution that audience makes to the realisation of the story-being-found.

Far from dreaming about “bums on seats”, a more productive and enlightened conception of the storyteller/audience relationship, and one that is ultimately essential to the storyteller’s own processes of transformation, involves the realisation that, far from being a generalised and sometimes quantifiable mass of potential viewers, an audience is personal, identifiable and capable of lucid visualisation by the storyteller. In short, audience is that person, known to the storyteller, to whom the story is addressed, that person to whom the storyteller is speaking.

When considered in the context of story and story creation, audience is never merely a group of people; it is a person, and not just any person, but a person with whom the storyteller is intimately associated.
The association must be close so that the storyteller can gauge the responses that that “person” would have to the characters and the actions by which the energies of the story are built and released. Conceived of in this way, audience is as much a tool of discovery as it is a final fact of appreciation. Audience is an act of the imagination, for it is not the actual person that the storyteller addresses. The storyteller’s vivid internalisation of his or her audience and the critical faculties that persona brings to an examination of character and story is what is crucial.

A storyteller looking at a script solely from the habitual perspective of the storyteller/character relationship is more likely to read through gaps or contradictions in the emotional logic whilst, at the same time, reading energy into stale or un-energetic actions; whereas the imaginative “other” – the storyteller-as-audience – functions very much as Hemingway described it, as “a built-in, shock-proof, crap detector.”

In many ways, the storyteller’s relationship with his/her audience parallels the storyteller/character relationship, for just as the story is not entirely from the storyteller but depends upon the active participation of storyteller and character, so too does a story require audience to which it can be directed and through which its power and effectiveness can be challenged and tested.

To say that a storyteller can tell an effective dramatic story without the slightest hint as to its audience is on a par with saying that characters are irrelevant to the creation of emotionally compelling stories. Dramatic stories require both characters AND audiences.

This second vantage point – the storyteller/audience relationship – explores story from the perspective of it being something that is told to someone. It embraces the notion that every well-told story has a good reason for being told, and that that reason is as important a factor in its successful expression as the language that is employed to express it. Hence, the experience of developing a dramatic story is not unlike the experience of entering into an engrossing and life-changing conversation, not only with one’s characters but with the person who needs to hear and see such a story enacted. Indeed, that person – or audience – might even provide an important reason for the story’s coming-into-being.

This dialogue between the screenwriter and the audience may at first be largely unconscious, but even at the unconscious level it works to increase the screenwriter’s sensitivity to and awareness of where and how the storyteller has intruded into the story. The storyteller’s awareness concerning both his or her unproductive intrusions, as well as those authentic expressions that evolve organically out of the character’s needs or fears or desires, increases as the storyteller becomes ever more conscious and sensitive to audience. Indeed, the ear whose innate understanding of what rings true and what does not, belongs largely to the audience, or least the storyteller/audience relationship.

In the process of seemingly “disappearing” into the storyteller/character relationship, the screenwriter is still capable of aiding and abetting the dissipation of energy by unconsciously asserting his or her will over the will of the characters themselves. In the act of performing the role of the unseen player, the writer’s first goal is not always to find the drama; but, more often than not, the motivation is to protect or promote the screenwriter’s own prejudices and anxieties.

The storyteller/audience relationship enables the storyteller to lose him/herself completely without losing sight of who the story actually belongs to – i.e.: the characters. In the act of becoming one’s audience, the act of losing oneself enables one to find oneself as character, whilst challenging the wilful and unproductive intrusion of the writer/character who, if left unchecked, might go on contentedly manipulating the choices and actions of the other characters, thus compromising the power and authenticity of the lives of the story.

From the screenwriter’s point of view, the critical distance afforded by the storyteller/audience perspective is what renders the re-writing process meaningful. It calls attention to the fact that an essential element of this process is a meditative encounter with both character and story from the perspective of audience. Entering into the life of one’s audience, becoming one’s audience, is fundamental to the process of finding and entering more deeply into a relationship with the characters in the screenplay.

From the perspective of audience, the screenwriter’s perception of him/herself as “character” is vividly exposed. The prejudices and choices of the writer/character are now open to the same sort of scrutiny that was once reserved only for the characters in the script. As such, the storyteller/audience relationship can be understood as an audience/character relationship in which the storyteller addresses the audience and is addressed by it. When this occurs the screenwriter becomes an implicit character operating within the context of the other characters and their quest. Such a relationship provides a critical vantage point that allows the storyteller to retain what is useful to the empowerment of the characters while at the same time giving the screenwriter the strength and confidence to jettison whatever might be irrelevant, including the storyteller-as-manipulator with all of his/her accompanying airs, pretensions, doubts and delusions. The screenwriter who ignores this relationship does so at his/her own peril, for to create with a sense that no one is listening or watching virtually guarantees that no one will be.
In asking the question: who is my audience? one confronts the most crucial question of all: why do I care? The ultimate answer to this question can only be answered by the dramatic connections and disconnections that ensue from the collective actions of all the characters, and by those energies that are being built or released in, by and through their interactions.

Isolated from audience, the screenwriter lacks the requisite perspective to ascertain the effectiveness of the actions produced by the storyteller/character relationship. Audience permits of a contextual shift that re-constructs the dramatic experience through a non-proprietorial perceptiveness that allows the screenwriter to “read” and discern the physical, psychical, emotional and intellectual relationships operating within the script with a fresher eye and ear.


(1) Distance ...is obtained by separating the object and its appeal from one's own self, by putting it out of gear with practical needs and ends. Thereby the 'contemplation' of the object becomes alone possible. But it does not mean that the relation between the self and the object is broken to the extent of becoming 'impersonal.' See Edward Bullough’s 'Psychical Distance' as a Factor in Art and as an Aesthetic Principle’. 

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“We live forwards but we understand backwards.” – Soren Kierkegaard

Very few rules-of-thumb are of any use to writers apart from those they discover for themselves. In his novel, A Walk on the Wild Side, the novelist/poet, Nelson Algren, cites three basic rules for living: “Never play cards with a man called Doc. Never eat at a place called Mom’s. Never sleep with a woman whose troubles are worse than your own.” Unfortunately, he didn’t have anything to say about writing screenplays; certainly nothing as profound as William Goldman’s insight, which long ago morphed into that proverbial chestnut of screenwriting wisdom, namely that “writing is re-writing”.

Interestingly enough, when it comes to dramatic screen storytelling, the writer that offered the most practical advice was Charles Dickens who never even saw a movie let alone wrote one. His salutary pronouncement to storytellers was founded – as might be expected – upon his deep appreciation of audience: “Make them laugh, make them cry, make them wait.”  Sound advice, and a timely reminder to any screenwriter toying with the notion that audience is extraneous to the story that is trying to get itself told. 

In forging an intimate relationship with one’s audience, the successful screenwriter invariably works with two, essential audience-related story elements, namely MYSTERY and SUSPENSE, which manifest as visual and verbal “utterances” that function to stimulate an audience’s interest in and identification and involvement with the characters.

The efficacy of these two elementals for evoking interest in and identification with the characters, as well as a passionate emotional involvement with the story, is proportional to the degree to which they encourage attention (a tension) and generate and build energy through the promotion of perplexity, anticipation and contrast. 

Mystery is the presence that is not present – the hidden catalyst or inexplicable disturbance that forces choice and action. As mystery, it stands  within,   behind  and  beyond  the goals and plans of every dramatic character. It is both secret and puzzle,  as well as the source of the  audience’s most  important  questions and  doubts  concerning  the identity of the characters, their back-stories and their present situation. When an audience is alert to the possibility that a character’s actions might actually hide more than they reveal, when questions concerning “what”, “why”, and “who” give rise to an uneasiness that provokes uncertainty and increasing anxiety, you can be sure that mystery is afoot. The opening sequence from the television series, Nowhere Man, vividly demonstrates mystery. 

Suspense, on the other hand, places the audience in a position of privileged perception. When an audience sees or hears something that threatens the well-being of a character with which it identifies, but is not perceived by the character her/himself, suspense thrives. The shower scene in Psycho is an obvious example. The playground scene is The Birds  is another. The audience sees the birds in the playground or the murderer coming into the steamy bathroom; the character doesn’t.


Mystery hides information from audience in order to make it ask “how come?”.  Suspense hides or withholds information from the characters (or dramatis personae) in order to make the audience wonder “what now?”.

Dramatic irony is often an ingredient of suspense insofar as the audience experiences a disparity between a character’s understanding of a situation and the situation itself. The audience is aware of the disparity; the character is not. The apprehension of dramatic irony works to conduct the audience into a more intense, emotional interaction with the characters by stimulating the audience’s anxieties.

The perceivable contrasts (ironies) that exist between what a character believes to be the case and what really is the case; the unresolved mystery of what is wondered at but not answered; and the unrelieved suspense of “what next?” build energy both inside and outside the script. Indeed, when successfully realised, mystery and suspense are capable of keeping an audience engaged and involved in the action even when the story itself lacks a substantial dramatic problem.

However, all of this begs the question: how is suspense, let alone mystery, possible short of a compelling problem that carries both risk and urgency for one or more of the characters? The character-based, Mexican feature, Blue Eyelids  (Párpados azules), provides one, possible and illuminating answer.

Blue Eyelids is one of those off-beat, satiric films that might easily go unnoticed by the cinema-going public; its eccentricities and unusual storytelling style do not mark it as a film that would garner much attention, although it has done rather well, both critically and commercially. The story itself – as well as the way it is told -  eschews the conventional grammar associated with dramatic screen storytelling, except for the curious quality it has of rather masterfully creating - in a black, satiric sort of way - the elements of mystery and suspense.

The story concerns the relationship of two lonely hearts, Marina and Victor. Marina is a meek wallflower that eeks out a desultory living working in a uniform company in Mexico City. When she unexpectedly discovers she has won an employee raffle for a beach holiday for two, her first inclination is to go on her own, but in a change of heart she decides to ring up old school friend to find someone who might want to accompany her. Marina’s pathetic attempts to find a traveling companion culminate in a meeting with Victor, for whom she has only the vaguest of memories. Though the two were at school together, they were anything but close, and when Marina asks him to accompany her on the holiday he is genuinely uncertain about her intentions and the wisdom of going on a trip with someone he hardly knows. He nevertheless agrees to go, but suggests they spend some time together beforehand to get to know one another better. From this point on, the true dimensions of both of their hang-ups and unspoken frustrations become simultaneously clearer and more mysterious.

When the couple sets out on their first date to a traditional dance club, they manage not only to lose their table, but also sour the whole evening with superficial conversation and an undercurrent of unspoken desiring that makes dancing seem rather irrelevant. They eventually end up back at her place where they indulge in what passes for a sexual act, but without any of the conventional passion or lust one might expect.

Because they are likeable, and because their loneliness is obvious, we  care about them. We want them to have more than what either has chosen for themselves. But all the time we are perplexed, even haunted, by the circumstances into which they have wandered; and their seeming inability to break out of the emotional and psychological cages they have constructed for themselves is so constricted the very tightness of their being seems to threaten an explosion.

Unlike conventional melodrama, Blue Eyelids sustains our interest primarily by evoking mystery and suspense out of the very unexpectedness of the characters' actions and reactions. The physical, historical, cultural and intellectual contexts - both real and suggested - in which the characters act provide the basis for a portrayal of loneliness, longing and dysfunctional self-esteem without ever explaining why the characters are unable to find comfort or even meaning in one another's company let alone relieve the underlying tensions that their emotional incompetency has created. Why is Marina unable to consummate her desires? What makes her like this? What is she avoiding or striving to forget?

The film’s edginess – its suspense – is supplied by the unstated but ever-present questions “will she change?” , “will he change?”, and will either one of them break out of the malaise into which they have apparently fallen? Watching the film, one cannot help but think that something has to give, that at any moment one or the other will say something, do something, that will send them off on some extraordinary happening or adventure. One waits in expectation, and waits. And waits. Only nothing happens. The film simply ends. 

While the ending neither relieves nor resolves the suspense and mystery – a result that initially enraged me, and continued to enrage me, for several days – I eventually realised that the ending, though not obvious, was the only emotionally logical (and I might say courageous) ending that was possible. In a subtle and unexpected way, the underlying irony of the situation into which these two characters had fallen forced me to look at my own understandings and misunderstandings concerning the nature and possible meanings of romantic love.

What is interesting about Blue Eyelids is that the relationship starts at a point where conventional movie relationships (as well as “real-life” ones) usually end – with a couple estranged from each other, not speaking. If one was to state it in formulaic terms – and this is certainly not a formulaic film – one might describe it as Boy meets Girl, Girl loses Boy, Boy and Girl lose themselves completely in marriage. By standing the entire phenomenon of romantic love on its head, it shows us how the end of an affair is already present in its beginning.

The film’s ironic take on modern love, by way of its sustained use of mystery and suspense, stimulates any number of questions and thoughts in a perceptive audience: who is it that we love when we say “I love you”?; to what extent is love a projection of one’s own needs and beliefs?; do we ever really know the person that sleeps next to us, that we wake up next to every morning? 

In their own, unexpected way, the characters in Blue Eyelids calls our attention to the progression of our own, failed or aborted relationships, and compels us to wonder from whence they sprang and for what purpose. It is one of a handful of  films – including Goddard’s Contempt - that simply and compellingly presents an honest, unromanticised account of human attachments and the power of karma to effect the most unlikely and unexpected connections and disconnections. What is most interesting, however, is the way in which it manages to hold our interest and maintain our emotional involvement despite de-tuning the usual Problem – Goal – Plan grammar. By hiding or withholding details concerning the character’s personal back stories whilst, at the same time,  stimulating our anticipation that their present actions are certain to produce unexpected and perhaps life-changing events, the story induces us through very small, seemingly stake-less actions to identify with and care about the characters.

One of the more important jobs of dramatic characters is to nurture mystery and suspense through action. This does not mean “flogging a dead horse”. Mystery, too, has a shelf life. But the more profound the mystery, the longer the shelf life. One need not employ only one mystery per script. Some times the quest to solve one mystery leads the characters to the discovery of an even bigger mystery, and so on. The point is to keep  mystery alive.

Likewise in the case of suspense, the challenge is to sustain it for as long as possible. In other words, don’t let your audience off the hook too quickly; make them suffer; “make them wait”. The greater the suffering, the greater the relief, when and if it comes.

Unfortunately, most films fall short of maximising their dramatic potential due to inherent failures in managing mystery and suspense. However, this must not be construed as a one-way communication, where the writer decides what the characters do and what it’s all going to look like as they do it. In order to find and maximise the energy, all of the characters must be engaged with the issue at hand and interacting with one another. An example of what this looks like on the screen can be seen in the film, The Haunting. (see below) 


The obvious public struggle of characters vying for power or approval, or simply to be heard, was never a feature of the community meetings I attended during my four years living and working at Papunya Settlement in the Northern Territory, but they were not without a subtle form of drama. The meetings were large, outdoor affairs that occurred whenever there was a need to make a decision about some important issue affecting the well-being of the community, like whether to allow grog on the settlement, or what should be done about the young petrol sniffers, etc. Hundreds of men, women and children would turn up outside the settlement hospital, squatting or sitting on the ground or on blankets, usually in family groups. There was no facilitator, no spokesperson or master of ceremonies. People would simply sit, talking quietly to one another until someone, a man or a woman, stood up and spoke about the issue. The statements were invariably short and powerful. When the speaker was finished he or she would sit down and after a few seconds or minutes someone else stood and said their piece; and this was how it went, for an hour or two or longer, until everyone that wanted to express an opinion had had a chance to say what was on their mind. When no one else got up to speak, the entire group would rise and everyone would walk back to their camp, knowing what the community’s decision had been. There was no counting of hands, no vote, no summing up; it wasn’t needed. The evidence of each individual had been heard and every person intuitively understood what had been “decided” – a silent consensus was acknowledged and the collective will was clear.

The interaction of the story’s internal characters and the story’s external characters produces a similar kind of consensus and understanding when apprehended intuitively, which is the only sure and powerful way of creating anything. There cannot be one, single character in charge of the process without skewering or in some way distorting or blocking the flow of emotional energy. Whenever the writer attempts to take over, as commonly happens, the story suffers. When one or more of the characters is not present at the “meeting”, the story suffers. Unless all of the characters are engaged with one another, sharing and interacting at an emotional level that is congruent with the actions of the characters in the script, the story suffers. Without this matrix of forces, which are both sympathetic and adversarial, the dramatisation of mystery and suspense cannot be energetically sustained.

The annihilation or dissipation of emotional energy due to the premature resolution of mystery and suspense is evidenced by a breathtaking number of film scripts and films, regardless of genre. A basic principle of dramatic grammar is never resolve a mystery unless it can be replaced by another mystery that is even more compelling. Don’t let the air out of the balloon.

The same applies to suspense, which should only be relieved for the purpose of giving one’s audience a chance to catch its breath. Having done this, the suspense should return and start building again, ought to start building again, or become the catalyst of even more compelling events that develop a new line of suspense, thus allowing the action of the story to move in a new direction with increasing stakes and an even greater sense of tension.


Far too many films fail because of a lack of impetus to consistently and effectively build pressure through a variety of surprising and credible actions that flow from coherent, logical and necessary character choices. Films, like Hitchcock's North By Northwest, succeed and remain fresh by virtue of the ways in which they manage not only the dramatic grammar or Problem, Goal and Plan, but also because of the mystery and suspense that keep the audience firmly inside the story world.

Most dramatic films that rely on mystery manage to make it work for a while at least. Their ultimate failure as stories is usually due to the fact that they cannot sustain mystery and they have given us nothing as compelling with which to replace it. Jonathan Mostow’s film, Breakdown, is a case in point. A young married couple, Jeff and Amy, find themselves stranded in the desert when their new, 4-wheel drive suddenly breaks down. When a friendly truck driver shows up in an 18-wheeler offering help and advice, Amy decides to catch a lift to a nearby diner where she can ring for a tow truck. Her husband will watch over the car until she returns.

While waiting, Jeff discovers that the source of the mechanical failure is a disconnected wire. With the vehicle now restored, Jeff sets out for the diner where he expects to find his wife. Only she isn’t there. The mystery is further complicated by an unfriendly proprietor and an assortment of ne’er-do-well cowboys and solitary drinkers, none of whom have seen Amy. Thinking that perhaps she’s decided to go straight through to the closest town, Jeff returns to his car and heads off down the highway. En route, he spies the 18-wheeler on a side road, and is soon in hot pursuit, honking and shouting at the driver to stop. Risking his life, Jeff swerves in front of the big rig, forcing the driver to slow down and then stop to avoid an accident.

When confronted, the driver claims to have no idea what Jeff is talking about. “I don’t know anything about your wife.”, he says, which only serves to provoke Jeff’s anger. A heated argument ensues and is only relieved by the arrival of a policeman who dutifully searches the truck and, finding no evidence of Amy, let’s the driver go.

Later, in the sheriff’s office, Jeff files a missing person’s report, and stares at photos of the missing – mostly of women – on the office’s large bulletin board. Presumably, none have ever been found.

Back at the diner, a strange, seemingly simple-minded young man tells Jeff where he can find Amy, but warns him not to trust the police. Following the young man’s instructions, Jeff drives out along a secluded river road where he encounters some gun-toting rednecks that capture him and demand money if he wants to save his wife’s life.

At this point the mystery, along with most of the emotional energy, quickly dissipates. The intrigue created by not knowing what has happened to Amy, and whether or not her husband will ever see her again; the horror and helplessness posed by the unknown, and our acute puzzlement over why the truck driver denies seeing her, and what role the police might have in all of this, keep us watching and wondering and involved. What is it that has happened, and what will happen next? are important questions fueling out interest. So long as these questions are alive in the audience, so too is the story. But as soon as the characters start giving us answers – you have money in your bank; we’re holding your wife until you withdraw it and give it to us, etc – the story loses  its mystery, and its edge.


The same sort of thing happens in David Cronenberg’s, A History of Violence.  The legendary opening shot is nothing if not intriguing - a four-minute, under-stated tour de force that lulls us into the lives of a couple of convertible-driving travelers and climaxes in blood, bodies and the execution murder of a five-year-old girl.

When the same two strangers turn up in a different car in a small Indiana town and make their way into Tom Stall’s little coffee shop on Main Street just on closing we know there’s bound to be trouble. When one of the men threatens to rape or kill the waitress, Tom is forced to kill both men. His heroism is nothing if not news in a small country town, but his  sudden celebrity status is the last thing he wants. Shortly after the story of Tom’s heroism hits the papers, and his face is featured on the six o’clock news, three more strangers come to town who claim that Tom is really a guy from Philadelphia named Joey. Tom strenuously denies this, but when the men kidnap his son and threaten to harm him if Joey doesn’t accompany them to Philadelphia, Tom is forced to reveal his true identity, and in so doing, acknowledge his own personal history of violence.

The response that his son and wife have to this is extreme, and not entirely credible, but their seemingly complete rejection – even hatred – of Tom is necessary motivation for what he must do if the film isn’t going to end at the 50-minute mark. With the mystery solved, and Tom’s wife and son hating him for not being the man he always claimed to be, the film settles down into a routine redemption story in which Tom must not only kill Joey (again) but also wipe out every vestige of his past in order to have a chance of saving his marriage.

Unfortunately the film never regains the intensity it possessed when the answers to the big questions were still uncertain, and in the end, Tom’s family is too easily and sentimentally restored to him by virtue – it would seem – of the very violence that his wife and son had previously found so repugnant. It is possible that Cronenberg wants to call our attention to the fundamental ambiguity of violence, but he does so by breaking faith with the emotional logic of his characters, whose behavior at the end is unpaid for by the actions we have seen. .

What is most important in all of this is the recognition of the roles that mystery and suspense play in stimulating an audience’s attention and willingness to enter in to the emotional life of the characters. If you lose mystery and allow the tautness that comes from real suspense, you abandon your audience to their own devices, which almost always results in them losing interest in the story.  


"The approval of the public is to be avoided like the plague. It is absolutely essential to keep the public from entering if one wishes to avoid confusion. I must add that the public must be kept panting in expectation at the gate by a system of challenges and provocations."  

- Andre Breton



It sometimes seems to me that we go through life with three identities - as a storyteller, as a character in a story, and as an audience of the story or stories that are occurring. Those with strong personalities and a will to power frequently cut a mad dash as storytellers, and usually do quite well in the roles that they play. When we gravitate towards being an audience it is usually because we find ourselves in a situation of unpredictability, and because we are unwilling or unable to run away from it, are temporarily forced to accept it. Then and only then do we become an audience, but only until insight jolts us in the direction of a novel "plot point" we are prepared to act upon." 
                                                        - Billy Marshall Stoneking