Off the Rails: An Introduction to Nonlinear Storytelling
What happens to content when the linear roadmap is thrown away? Suddenly you find yourself without standard continuity, without narrative editing, perhaps without plot and character too. How do you develop ideas under such circumstances without ending up in the ditch? Is it even possible?
In this chapter, we will discover that not only is it possible but that, in quite unexpected ways, releasing animation from the structure of narrative storytelling can open up a new world of possibilities, some first cousins to linear narrative and others like nothing you’ve ever seen.
What “Nonlinear” Means
The only definitive thing that can be said about the meaning of nonlinear storytelling is that it is not linear. This means it doesn’t follow a linear timeline with a predictable beginning, middle and end. Neither does it work within the overall rules of narrative structure. Instead, nonlinear storytelling works with a variety of rules and encompasses many approaches to storytelling including abstract, non-narrative and experimental.
These categories are often associated with challenging content—abstract squiggles or obscure dancing objects—but surprisingly, they also include work that you’ve been watching your whole life. Animated commercials, music videos, TV or film credits, sports and news bumpers, internet graphics and musical numbers in your favorite Disney and Pixar films frequently use a nonlinear approach.
Notice that some of these examples, such as TV ads and music videos, act as freestanding pieces. Others function as adjuncts to linear narrative, offering alternative ways to present key aspects of story within the context of an otherwise straight-line plot. Think here about the opening credits for Spider-Man 2; the pink elephant scene in Dumbo, or the overview of Carl and Ellie’s life together in the opening of Up.
Also notice how different these examples are from one another: the photo-album structure of Up’s opening montage could hardly be more different from the wild, free-form imagery in the pink elephant sequence yet they are both solidly nonlinear in approach. Nonlinear can achieve this kind of range simply because it has been freed from the boundaries of narrative story. As we’ve said, this doesn’t mean that there are no rules, only that the rules tend to change according to circumstances, governed by such factors as the main idea driving the project or the primary mood that needs to be established.
Within those ever-changing guidelines, nonlinear storytelling can:
It’s important here to mention one last distinguishing feature: where meaning comes from in nonlinear. Unlike linear where we look for meaning first in plot, character, dialogue and performance, nonlinear communicates primarily through such factors as context, contrast, symbolism and the abstract qualities of movement (speed, rhythm, direction and so on).
For example, in the witness scenario above, the jumpy editing sells the idea of confusion as much or more than the witness’s dubious testimony. And in the fish scenario, the sense of misplaced ambition is not in the fish’s very basic performance but rather in the never-ending repetition of that performance (the ambitious bit) combined with our recognition that catching the worm means certain death (the misplaced bit). This hallmark approach to creating meaning in nonlinear storytelling can take many forms.
Given all these options, it may be that the best way to truly define what makes a story nonlinear lies in looking at a variety of models. Through the examples we study here, the beginnings of a new roadmap will emerge on which we can trace various routes for how nonlinear ideas can be developed.
Released from the strictures of narrative storytelling, the nonlinear concept is free to roam over a vast territory. It can explore issues ranging from politics to philosophy or play with an emotion without worrying about plot or character. Also included in that range are:
At first glance, some of these models look like they would work for either linear or nonlinear. And that is true. As it turns out, a lot of what distinguishes nonlinear from linear work lies in the interpretation: how the idea intersects with technique or the use of camera angles, for example.
Take the interpretation of music. Music can easily be given a linear interpretation, as in The Sorcerer’s Apprentice from Fantasia, or can just as easily be interpreted in a loose, even abstract nonlinear manner, as in the Toccata and Fugue in D Minor that begins the same film.
On the other hand, the creation of mood is territory owned almost exclusively by nonlinear. Here the ability to dump all the trappings of story to concentrate on cutting speed, sound-based atmosphere, evocative color palette and imagery connected by theme rather than by narrative gives nonlinear a huge advantage over linear.
For example, a sports network might create a football segment that includes quick cuts of passes, fumbles, injuries and touchdowns that when mashed together communicate all the highs and lows and tap into the visceral emotions of the competitive sport in just ten seconds.
This is not to say that the range of nonlinear excludes story. Actually, nonlinear can tackle all manner of story including the kinds of concepts that drive linear narrative. But don’t look for those linear-style beginnings, middles and ends to suddenly make an appearance here. Instead, the nonlinear version might only show the end of the story with beginning and middle implied. Or it might even collapse past, present and future into a single time frame.
So we might end up with a core idea based on “The Three Little Pigs” in which three main actions—the pigs building their houses, being threatened by the wolf and defeating the wolf—are all shown on the screen at the same time.
Notice that this core idea includes interpretive/structural factors (how the material will be shown) right alongside what we normally call “content” (the various actions of the pigs). This is because interpretation is not only a carrier of nonlinear elements, it is also an integral part of nonlinear story.
Our linear fairy tale reinterpreted has the advantage of a fully realized plot with which to work. Now watch what happens when nonlinear tackles a linear concept at an earlier stage, before the details have been fleshed out. Here we can pull in not only all the nonlinear tricks we have discussed so far but also break down story possibilities into the following forms:
These options exist for all aspects of nonlinear. Applied to one starting concept they produce an interesting variety of story approaches. Let’s say the concept were “It may be futile to pursue an impossible dream but it sure is fun trying.” The linear version could follow the exploits of a character—whether human, animal or object—who looks for love in all the wrong places using the classic “boy meets girl, boy pursues girl, boy loses girl” plotline.
By contrast, nonlinear Option 1 could feature a boy who literally leaps from romance to romance with growing determination. Note that the hero’s performance here would be emotionally driven but might be delivered in random order and placed in randomly changing settings.
Option 2 could show our hero on an endless rollercoaster ride with a series of different girls. Here the character performances would be driven more by ritual than emotion and the setting would be highly symbolic.
Option 3 could be based on the symbols of love—valentines, jewelry, love notes, roses—in progressive states of freshness and decay. In this option, the objects—in terms of what they are and how they move— would be chosen for their symbolic connection to the theme and the setting might be equally symbolic or simply neutral.
And Option 4 could simply show a pair of lines, one (perhaps the male) intent on weaving and the other (perhaps the female) on unraveling. This last option would therefore present nonfigurative elements moving in symbolic ways, set in either a symbolic setting or a neutral one.
Take note where meaning might come from in these scenarios. For example, the first could derive meaning by balancing the constant bouncing from setting to setting against the hero’s reaction to his ever-changing circumstances. Meanwhile, the second option nicely combines the emotional ups and downs of failed romance with the fun of a carnival ride (the two sides of our theme) in one symbol—the rollercoaster— which can easily carry this message without an emotional character performance.
Option 3 banks on our shared knowledge of acceptable romantic gestures. And finally, Option 4 builds on the stripped down language of movement.
It’s very important in nonlinear to be sure you have embedded the potential for meaning into your core idea before you go any farther. Nonlinear has fewer options for this essential task. If potential isn’t built in at the very start, it may be impossible to add later.
Just as important is ensuring that your idea is actually nonlinear. Again, what isn’t there from the beginning will be hard to add later and will have a weak relationship to your theme at best, rendering it little more than a gimmick.
Nonlinear Visual Content
What might we see on the screen while watching a nonlinear piece?
Unlike the character with a mission acted out in various locations with various supporting characters who dominates the content of linear work, the visual content of nonlinear work is highly varied. It might focus on the movement of light and shadow across an old tree or consist entirely of a pile of objects—ranging from kewpie dolls to jelly donuts—being flattened frame by frame. At the other end of the nonlinear spectrum, you may see familiar elements mixed with some decidedly unusual ones—characters in an emotional performance set within a fractured version of time and space, for example.
In our “boy meets girl” scenarios, we have some interesting options along these lines to explore. How exactly will our first hero leap from one romantic adventure to the next, for example? Since this idea is based on an emotional performance that grows in determination, giving the boy both means and reason to leap higher and higher might provide a good way for his determination to be expressed. The girls in each setting could be placed ever further out of reach, progressing from a second-floor balcony to the top of a mountain fortress perhaps, forcing the hero to resort to pogo sticks, then trampolines, and finally cannons in his vain attempts to reach his goal.
In the second option, everything depends on the rollercoaster since the character performance will be very minimal, so finding ways to vary the rollercoaster’s tracks with twists, turns and visual gimmicks while still maintaining the essential ups and downs could be effective here.
Notice that in both cases, neither the abrupt shifts of location nor sudden appearances of superficially illogical props are an issue. This is because nonlinear works almost entirely on deeper logic—such as the symbolism of the rollercoaster. So as long as they stay within the boundaries of that deep logic, the visual elements can move around freely.
Notice also that these highly varied visuals, from the mainstream to the most experimental, all share the same strengths. They are all built around one simple visual idea such as the tree in light and shadow or the rollercoaster. They all have movement built into them. At the same time, they all manage to be both evocative and unexpected. And by surprising us in multiple ways, they all provide the foundation for creating memorable work.
What might we hear on a nonlinear soundtrack?
Sound can function in nonlinear much as it does in linear work but it can also take the same components— dialogue, narration, effects, music—and use them in unexpected ways. For example, if linear sound usually supports the visuals, nonlinear sound can be used to oppose the visuals, creating meaningful contradiction.
This contradiction could take many forms. It would be unusual, say, for a linear soundtrack to be deliberately irritating at the expense of the visual. But a nonlinear track might intentionally consist of one continuous irritating sound. Paired with a beautiful image, the purpose might be to distort our reaction to that image—perhaps leading us to question why we value beauty—by taking advantage of sound’s dominant role in generating emotion.
Nonlinear sound can also take an active role in storytelling. In our rollercoaster story, for example, the constant click of the cars on the track could set the rhythm for the whole piece, reminding us of how the tracks will force the hero to repeat his actions again and again unless he works up the nerve to get off the ride.
Finally, some nonlinear soundtracks consist primarily of music or spoken word such as narration. Here sound becomes a main source of continuity. This approach would work well with our first option, allowing the narration to buttress the bouncing visuals with its steady, straightforward structure.
Nonlinear Story Structure
Beginning, middle, end: the structure of linear storytelling is a sturdy and dependable thing. As a structure, it always leads somewhere and therefore comes with a guarantee of at least minimal success built right in.
By comparison, nonlinear storytelling has no such absolute structure on which to rely. Instead, story structure must grow outward from the core idea. As always, this grants both the freedom to invent new structure and the responsibility to use that freedom well. To do well here, you’ll need to dig deep to uncover a structure that truly serves your story and then work hard to stay inside its boundaries.
There are existing story models that can be taken on wholesale or adapted to the needs of your project. These can also be used as jumping-off points for creating brand new models. There are no set rules for why this particular model best matches that particular story. Instead, plan to begin by considering the potential meaning built into each model and how that meaning will intersect with your themes.
Nonlinear story models include:
The Cycle (Circular or Pendulum)
Applied to nonlinear work, this model may mean that we see one pass of the cycle, ending the story where it began, several passes or even multiple rapid-fire passes. It may soon become clear that the whole film will be nothing but endless passes of this one cycle. So where is the meaning here?
Often, meaning comes from the repetitiveness itself combined with a particular context. We’ve already seen that a fish jumping continuously for a hooked worm could make a statement about misplaced ambition. That statement could be intensified not by making the fish’s performance more elaborate but simply by toying with the speed of his cycle. Greatly exaggerated speed might speak to the fish’s frantic state of mind, driven to have the one thing that is out of reach. Varying the pace and even adding pauses between jumps could convey his fatigue or perhaps that he is attempting a strategy to “outsmart” the worm.
The same goes for our fourth romantic option—the abstract one—where again there is room to vary the speed of the continuous twining and unraveling. For both examples, all the suggested approaches could produce a solemn mood or plenty of laughs.
The Puzzle
Here the information, both visual and aural, appears in seemingly random order that gradually reveals the big picture in which all the pieces add up. Done well, this model acts like a detective story, keeping the viewer on his/her toes as they attempt to second-guess where the film is going.
A variation on our third romantic scenario, featuring the objects associated with love, could work with this model. Against a romantic background—full of tokens of a budding love saved by our ever-hopeful hero—scraps of a torn photograph begin to appear, gradually revealing the truth about the hero’s new relationship: that he is really a dreamer whose “girlfriend” doesn’t even know he exists.
The Clothesline
Nonlinear pieces built on the interpretation of music, poetry or short stories are often a good match with the clothesline structure. When the soundtrack tells a story, it naturally becomes a source of continuity and that creates an exciting option. While not the only way such projects can be structured, the advantage of the clothesline approach is that, with the continuity accounted for in such a reliable fashion, the visual is granted an unusual amount of freedom.
In this model, the soundtrack is the clothesline—a thread carrying the main message that runs through the entire piece from beginning to end—and the visuals are the clothes. Each sequence hangs on the line—a potentially separate entity with its own logic inspired by its moment in the soundtrack, yet tied through the track to the deeper logic of the whole.
By far the most accessible way to create nonlinear work, the clothesline structure is a great way to feel out how nonlinear functions. For example, let’s see how our first romantic option, with its leaping hero, could be adapted to work with this model. Already episodic in nature, all that’s actually missing here is the soundtrack.
So you just need to add one of any number of love (or lovelorn) songs/poems—each of which would alter the story to some degree—adjust the visuals to work with or against the lyrics/text and away you go. A lonely-guy song might work best if the visual elements—the various situations and performance— upped the ante on the desperation factor. On the other hand, an outright love poem such as “Sonnets from the Portuguese 43: How do I love thee? Let me count the ways” might skew the theme towards the delusional once again. Here the soundtrack could mirror the hero’s belief in each of his quests while the visuals make clear that he doesn’t stand a chance.
Nonlinear Film Structure
As in every area of production, nonlinear demands a new relationship with film structure. A nonlinear piece can have moments that need linear structure. When it comes to the oddball bits, though, a different approach is required.
This new approach can be expressed in a variety of ways. You could, for example, exaggerate standard film structure to the point where its relationship with content is significantly altered. So now, rather than using fast cutting to build tension between two rivals as might happen in linear, you could push the cutting speed into ultra-high gear, causing the characters to virtually blend into one. The message now expands to include the idea that these two characters are really two sides of the same coin.
Exaggeration is just one of the ways a new interconnection can be created. Options on this list include:
With all these possibilities, it’s no surprise that the relationship between nonlinear and film structure is so very different from the traditional relationship. Yet even in nonlinear there is one immutable rule in play: structure has to serve content. So film language can be twisted and turned, stretched and challenged in the nonlinear context but not to the point that it begins to fight the content unless …
… that is the actual point. Of course, this isn’t so much a breaking of the rule as just another twist which is perfectly acceptable as long as it produces meaning. This sometimes links to another important aspect of nonlinear in which film language itself becomes the focus of the work.
You’ll find examples of this potent combo in independent works but also in such mainstream work as Chuck Jones’ masterpiece, Duck Amuck, where Daffy Duck is forced to share top billing with various components of animation and animation film structure. This film is perhaps best described as a linear/ nonlinear hybrid in which the linear aspects (Daffy Duck’s performance arc) and the nonlinear aspects (the structural parts which actually represent the offscreen animator) go to war.
Specifically, this film demonstrates the interaction of two options: structure as content and structure in conflict with content. But does this double conflict produce meaning? Yes, in spades. In fact, Daffy’s emotional reaction to the structural onslaught—his demented determination to finish his performance in spite of endless obstacles—speaks volumes about the psychology of thwarted ambition.
It’s interesting to note here how strongly the second option depends on the audience’s knowledge of narrative film language. When we see a distant character begin to talk, we naturally want to get closer to them. Standard language will generally pick up on that wish and cut closer but nonlinear might deliberately hold the long shot for any number of reasons. In some situations, for example, the purpose may be to frustrate the audience while in others, such as Duck Amuck, the purpose may be to frustrate the hero instead.
Frustrating the hero could also be the goal if we wanted to adapt this structural duo to work with our first romantic scenario. In a variation on our theme, we could change the hero from a guy who tries too hard to a guy with terrible luck. This decision would allow us to give the film structure an active, contradictory storytelling assignment: it would now be cast in the role of fate. So every time our hapless hero is about to make a leap into love, the structure would get in the way, suddenly zooming in and knocking him off balance, for example.
Minimalist structure is another useful possibility. It can, among various options, work as a form of denial. With the camera nailed down, every other element in the film is then forced into working harder and more creatively to compensate for this loss.
In our abstract scenario of unrequited love, placing the unraveling female line at the center of the screen with the camera resolutely focused on her—leaving the twining male line with only the outer edges of the screen—automatically sets up the power structure of the story. It also provides a hidden point of view (POV)—essentially we are seeing the situation from the male line’s POV in which the female has all the power and “he” (though in reality the hero of the piece) is nothing more than a bit player begging for a little attention.
The minimalist approach can also lead to another option in which much of the job of creating structure shifts to the animation itself. This opens the door on a fluid and potentially seamless world in which structure and content truly become one. In this world, we can create a continuous flow of images unbroken by standard editing of any kind.
The third scenario could work nicely with this approach, in yet another variation. Here all the objects could be treated like flowers, perhaps: growing, blooming, fading and wilting away to nothing in a continuous flow of imagery.
Presenting Nonlinear Scenarios
Storyboards are excellent planning tools, uniquely suited to linear storytelling. In nonlinear, storyboards are sometimes useful and sometimes not, depending on how far the project drifts from the linear model. In some cases, a nonlinear story can be adapted wholly into storyboard language, allowing the board to function as it would in a linear piece, as a full structural blueprint.
In other cases, the storyboard functions primarily as a guide—creating a loose outline of the project within which the creators can improvise. And sometimes, storyboards aren’t needed at all. In these cases, an efficient animation technique which allows for a higher shooting ratio might be combined with a highly improvisational approach to content. Here a storyboard may be more hindrance than help and the best choice may be to simply jump in.
Keep in mind, though, that in some situations—such as a meeting where you need to sell an idea—a storyboard may be a requirement. Here the storyboard functions less as a working guide and more as a means of accurately and graphically presenting your concept. In some cases, it may take high creativity to find a way to capture your idea in storyboard form but if it makes the difference between landing your deal or not, there’s no question that the effort to create it will be worthwhile.
Final Thoughts
It’s essential in nonlinear work to be aware from the get-go of all potential sources of meaning. This is because there are fewer elements available in nonlinear for this task. Be sure to review the examples in this chapter to get an overview of the full range of options.
Also be aware of the common misconception that, compared to linear storytelling, nonlinear is somehow easier and more forgiving—a kind of free-for-all governed by the whim of the artist. This couldn’t be farther from the truth. In fact, nonlinear storytelling is more demanding than linear. It requires more strategy, precision and attention to detail in order to create any meaning at all. However, once you get the feel for how it all works, you’ll find that going off the rails is possibly the best ride you’ll ever take, one that (bonus!) carries you into a brand new world of animation.
Summary
General Principles of Nonlinear Storytelling
Key Points for Working in Nonlinear
The range of nonlinear core ideas includes:
Nonlinear story forms include stories driven by:
Nonlinear story structures include:
Options for creating nonlinear film structure include:
Additional Resources: www.ideasfortheanimatedshort.com
Recommended Reading
Nonlinear on the Edge: An Interview with Deanna Morse
Our chapter on nonlinear storytelling in animation has focused primarily on its more mainstream applications, with the more alternative side of the field only hinted at. The alternative side is in fact very dynamic and with its adventurous nature has often led the way in building the nonlinear language which finds expression in both experimental and mainstream work. To better represent this area, here is an interview with renowned artist/animator, Deanna Morse.
Over the past 35 years, Deanna Morse has been working as a film/video artist, creating experimental and art films and videos, animations, installations, and interactive multimedia pieces. Her films are visual poems, often revolving around a character exploring an environment or situation. This art-film-work has been screened in many different and varied venues: on cable, network and public television, in film and animation festivals, museums and schools. Her films are represented in many international collections including the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the Australian National Film Library. She has also made films for children, including animations for Sesame Street.
Q: Where did your work in more exploratory and nonlinear animation begin?
Deanna: As an undergraduate student in the late 1960s, I undertook a broad-based art education. Early on, I became interested in trying to answer this question: How can a specific tool be used in a manner that is unique to that form of expression? For instance, what could an artist do in painting that could not be done in sculpture? How does the tool limit or extend the artist’s voice or expression?
My continued artistic pursuit still grapples with that idea. What is unique to filmmaking? What is unique to animation? What is a distinctive visual style, technique, message that you can present in animation, but you cannot create in live-action, or in photography?
Q: Your past work includes such inventive pieces as Help! I’m Stranded … in which you survive a potentially boring night unexpectedly stuck in less than ideal tourist accommodation with only a pad of paper and a red crayon by creating rubbings of everything in your motel room: hangers, bathroom tiles and all. What are you currently working on?
Deanna: My current work as an animation artist involves shooting thousands of images of nature. I use my camera as the palette to record the subtle differences of shape, color, light and tone. I have an awareness of the frame before, the frame now, and the frame after. Then, I edit the material together, often rearranging the information in those frames, to create a juxtaposition of shots that emphasize their similarity and differences.
I am basically drawn to new technologies. I am interested in how using different techniques, different media, affects the message, and affects my process.
Q: Can you describe your process?
Deanna: My process always has two paths. I experiment, making “animated sketches” which can be drawn or could be created with the camera (like time lapse). I do a lot of this work, like exercising. If a series of sketches begin to have some resonance for me, I continue in that direction, and build a film around them. At the same time, I always have some broad concepts that I research. That research feeds my sketch work, but may or may not be evident to the viewer when the film is completed.
For instance, my current project involves animating tree bark. My current research is around these themes: the benefits of directly experiencing the natural world, how cultures honor growth and decay (like Japanese wabi-sabi), how forms and patterns in nature repeat, and what it means to shed skin. This research will go in several different directions before the film is complete. It is part of what feeds the project, keeps me inspired.
Q: Does your work have any relationship to narrative animation and if so, what?
Deanna: An effective element of narrative structure work is how the audience identifies with the characters. Sometimes the character knows something, and the audience is trying to figure out what they know. Sometimes the audience knows something that the character doesn’t, and they anticipate when the character will get it. If the audience and the character are too much in sync, things get boring—the tension of either being ahead or behind the character is one quality that keeps us involved.
In non-narrative or nonlinear films, this can happen, too. I try to work for this—to have the audience engaged in a similar manner. For instance, I create a pattern of image and sound relationships (like in my film Help! I’m Stranded…) and when I feel that I have cemented that connection—I break it. Or I build a visual structure (Breathing Room) where we start inside, go outside, then come back inside. That book-ending structure sends a message to the audience that we are coming to the end of the film—when the windows close, and the music changes, I have often heard an audible sigh from the audience. That is satisfying to me.
I incorporate narrative elements, like book-ending, pacing, rhythm, rising and falling action. I apply those structures (or rules) to my non-narrative work. I try to show that, as a filmmaker, I have carefully made choices, that I am in control of the film. I do this through careful editing, structure and change, and through my counterpoint editing and layering with music or sound effects.
Q: What are some of the driving forces behind your work?
Deanna: I always hope that the audience will be aware of things outside the frame, of the moments before and after. I heard that Kurosawa, at age 84, said that he was just beginning to understand how movies work. I am on that same journey—trying to understand how movies work; what is central to the language of film and how we can extend it, re-invent it, make it sing.
As an artist/animator, I find something magical in that space between the frames. My technique of creating films a frame at a time, by analyzing the underlying visual structure, is a methodical manner of generating imagery. It allows me to play with visual creation, with time, with space. The result is akin to a jazz riff. There is an energy that is revealed by animating similar and dissimilar shapes, colors, and forms, and then playing them at “normal” film speed. It’s not the actual shapes on an individual video frame that build meaning, but the differences in shape—between the frames—that create the energy. This animation concept continues to enchant me. It drives my current film work.
Q: Given all this, what factors make your current work unique?
Deanna: My recent video work examines nature through the lens of time. Light sweeps across a lawn, a bird dances with a berry in slow motion, flowers erupt in a riot of color, and the seasons change and transform within a single space. These video poems amplify moments and gestures that are not always visible to the naked eye. My videos consider our relationship to the spaces and environments we inhabit. Common surroundings of the natural world are elevated in importance as they are reanimated and presented through media in new ways.
Audiences have told me that this recent work makes them look at nature more closely. Several people have commented on how vibrant and alive the landscape becomes through my lens. The animation technique that I invented for shooting multiples of flowers makes the still environments pulsate with energy.
Many artists have used nature as their inspiration. What makes my work unique is my form. By taking the familiar, and reanimating it, using the lens of time to build a visual rhythm, those familiar elements are elevated in importance, and help to set a public agenda of concern for balance in our natural and managed landscapes. Change only happens through increased public awareness. Art will help drive that awareness and push that change.
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