Nine
Magnitude

It All Boils Down to One Thing

So what exactly does Aristotle mean by “a certain magnitude?” We know that a good story must be bound by a clear start and finish. Now we need to figure out how to ensure it has the proper length in between, that it covers the proper ground, neither too sprawling nor too narrow in focus or duration.

As the above quote indicates, Aristotle thinks that things too small aren’t beautiful because we can’t really see them. Things that are too big aren’t beautiful since we can’t really grasp them. As usual, it’s all about balance, moderation, finding a middle ground.

Are you noticing a recurring theme here?

Consider the difference in magnitude between these two story premises: THE STORY OF BOB LOOKING FOR HIS LOST PENCIL and THE STORY OF BOB’S LIFE. One is too limited; one is too expansive. Somewhere in between is a story, as Goldilocks says, that is just right. We want a beginning, middle, and end that can be expressed in a story that is of a suitable length.

So what constitutes a suitable length for a dramatic narrative? At first, Aristotle says:

That seems pretty reasonable. The proper magnitude for a story, like the proper magnitude for an animal in nature, is one that we can wrap our heads around. It starts somewhere, a bunch of things happen, connected by necessity and probability, and then it ends. And all the while, WE CAN FOLLOW IT.

But even more importantly, Aristotle goes on to say:

In other words, if you can remove any part of the story without the whole thing crashing down, you remove it since it doesn’t belong in the first place. It is not part of the whole.

So for Aristotle, what gives a story its proper magnitude is that it is made up ONLY of those events essential to tell the story, to get from that beginning to that ending, no more and no less. Nothing tangential, nothing unnecessary, nothing that can be missing without being missed.

But how do we know if any given event is NECESSARY in a particular story?

Well, because it adheres to the most essential element of a good movie premise, the one expressed at the very beginning of Aristotle’s definition of drama when he calls it AN IMITIATION OF AN ACTION.

Let’s look again at that definition. We’ve already discussed the importance of IMITATION and of ACTION. We want mimesis, a representation of life. And we want the drama to center, not on a character or time or place or theme or philosophy, but on a doing.

So what’s the other important word in that central concept? The one so significant he uses it twice.

Yes, I am talking about that little two-letter article.

AN.

And why is that significant? Because a good story isn’t just based on an ACTION, it is based on AN action.

As Aristotle says, expanding his definition of the ideal premise:

Single. One. Uno.

A good story isn’t about a smorgasbord of things, no matter how delicious they all may be. It is about ONE thing.

And that one thing is NOT the protagonist, as we’ve said. On the contrary, Aristotle makes the point that a person contains infinite aspects, and their life consists of countless incidents between which there are no necessary or probable connections. So unity of plot cannot come from unity of the hero.

No, unity of plot comes only from unity of the action. So the question arises, just what kinds of things might that one specific, singular action be?

What the heck are we even talking about when we talk about an ACTION in the first place?

Aristotle is great with theory, but he’s also a pro at backing it up with specifics from the narratives of his time. So let’s take a page from his book for ours and do the same.

Take a look back at the premises described in the previous chapter on conflict. Remember what they had in common?

Oedipus wants to escape the oracle’s prophecy. Hamlet wants revenge on his uncle. Elliot wants to help E.T. get home. Luke wants to rescue Princess Leia. Alvy wants Annie. Joe and Jerry want to escape the mobsters.

Recall the pattern? Duh, of course you do.

The hero WANTS something. Something specific. Something singular. Escape. Revenge. Home.

And that is what gives a story unity, what makes it about ONE action.

And it’s Aristotle’s Guiding Precept #6:

What the hero wants to acquire or achieve or reach or prevent, is what gives a good story its unity of action since the story’s unified action is quite simply the PURSUIT of that objective. That pursuit connects everything that happens in your story. It defines it.

The hero’s OBJECTIVE is in fact what gives a story its beginning, middle, and end. After all, the story begins when the hero acquires that want. The middle consists of his pursuit of it. And the ending occurs when he either succeeds or fails at getting it.

Hamlet starts when the ghost of the Prince’s dad urges him to vengeance against the King. Hamlet wrestles with that task throughout the middle, and at the end, he succeeds, but with tragic results.

In Chinatown, Jake is hired to solve a case, he works the clues, and in the end, discovers the truth.

In Annie Hall, Alvy Singer meets Annie, sets out to woo her, and eventually wins her heart or loses it.

Saving Private Ryan starts when Captain Miller is tasked with finding Ryan. Complications arise as he pursues that goal and meets up with a myriad of obstacles. And it ends when he either succeeds or fails at that mission.

And to bring this whole conversation back to where we started, a discussion of magnitude, you can see that it’s the hero’s OBJECTIVE that defines a story’s proper magnitude since it should be made up of only the events necessary to depict the pursuit of it.

So if you’re keeping score, a hero’s objective gives a story a UNITY OF ACTION. A hero’s objective defines the story’s PROPER MAGNITUDE. And a hero’s objective gives a story its BEGINNING, MIDDLE, and END. And if we throw in obstacles to prevent our hero from obtaining that objective, it also provides us with CONFLICT.

It’s impossible to overstate the importance of this simple truth. Essential to any good story, and therefore to any good premise for that story, is the Aristotelian principle that your hero WANTS something. Something specific. Something tangible—

—a DRAMATIZABLE OBJECTIVE (or DO).

We make that distinction, adding the qualifier dramatizable because the objective is NOT an abstract idea. A character doesn’t want love; she wants ROMEO. He’s not pursuing answers; he’s after the MALTESE FALCON. They’re not searching for glory; they’re searching for PRINCESS LEIA.

A more abstract goal may enter our story on a thematic level, but as we shall see, for a solid story, the hero’s objective is something concrete—something that, at any given moment, we can track how close or how far they are to accomplishing it.

So at the core of any good story premise is a simple dramatic question: Will the hero fail or succeed at achieving that objective?

Therefore another way to view the wholeness, completeness, and proper magnitude that Aristotle deems essential, is that at the beginning of a good story, a dramatic question is posed. In the middle, it is discussed and debated. And at the end, it gets answered.

In the case of Saving Private Ryan, that dramatic question is “Will Captain Miller find Private Ryan before it’s too late?” In E.T., it’s “Will E.T. get home?” Will Luke rescue the princess? Will Joe and Jerry escape the mob? Will Andy Dufresne gain his freedom? Will they find the treasure, win the battle, make partner, commit the crime, thwart the crime, solve the crime?

By thinking of a solid movie premise in terms of that specific, singular dramatic question, you define the central, unified action being imitated.

All well and good, you say. But if Aristotle says a story should only be about one thing, the dramatic question that’s posed by the hero’s dramatizable objective, that doesn’t leave a lot of room for anything else. What about SUBPLOTS or stories with multiple storylines? Is Aristotle saying we have to avoid them?

You raise a good point. And thankfully, Aristotle addresses this very issue while reaffirming the imperative of the Unity of Action.

He describes how Homer, in composing his masterpiece The Odyssey, did not include each and every adventure related to Odysseus—

Homer didn’t leave out these events due to lack of space, but because they had no bearing on the central dramatic question that defines his story. Remember, that story isn’t about Odysseus, but about his specific, singular dramatizable objective—TO GET HOME.

Even so, Homer does not spend the entire story simply chronicling that voyage. On the contrary, he sets a sizeable chunk of it back in Ithaca, where Odysseus’ wife and son are dealing with villainous interlopers hell-bent on stealing their riches.

Those incidents could constitute a completely different story, one in which our hero isn’t even present, let alone involved. So doesn’t their inclusion violate the principle of Unity of Action?

Of course not. The subplot of Penelope, Telemachus, and those dastardly suitors is not tangential to Odysseus’ quest, but an integral part of it, providing motivation, urgency, and ultimately, the requisite climactic showdown.

Similarly, the central dramatic question of King Lear may revolve around Lear and the tragic results of trusting the wrong progeny. But equally compelling is the subplot of the Duke of Gloucester and his two sons, incidents that may be separate from the central storyline, but that provide vital commentary on it, and ultimately intersect with it in dramatic ways.

And finally, look at the primary subplot of Silence of the Lambs, Hannibal Lecter and his objective to escape custody. To some, his is the central storyline, as in many ways it is the most memorable. But no, the dramatic question at the heart of the film concerns Clarice Starling and whether she can stop Buffalo Bill before he kills again. Her story provides the movie’s Unity of Action, but Hannibal’s story remains an integral part of it, as his actions directly impact her progress, whether hindering or supporting her pursuit.

The point is, for Aristotle, elements of the story may indeed chronicle actions distinct from that of the central character, as long as those actions maintain some probable or necessary connection to the hero’s pursuit of their dramatizable objective, either running parallel and thus serving as commentary, or intersecting with it and thereby directly affecting it.

In that way, far from violating Aristotle’s principle, these secondary storylines reinforce it, remaining part and parcel of that essential singular dramatic question that defines the unified action being imitated, and which in turn provides the story its necessary wholeness, completeness, and proper magnitude.

And in the next chapter, we’ll put ALL these vital story principles together and see just what a solid movie premise should look like.