A step outline is the feature film’s (and especially the TV film’s) equivalent of the fact film’s sequence outline. It is, indeed, the sequence outline applied to fiction in a dramatic presentation.
This being the case, life will prove simpler for everyone if, forthwith, you will go back and re-read Chapter 4. The basics are there.
A sequence, as noted in said chapter, is a related series of shots, a filmed unit of thought and/or action.
Where the feature film is concerned, each sequence in effect constitutes a step forward in your story’s development. The step outline’s function is to help you check out, strengthen, and clarify said story by breaking it down into its component episodes. To this end, it reduces each unit or sub-unit of confrontation and transition to the briefest of descriptive bits—a sentence or two or three, preferably.
The important thing to remember is that these “steps,” these segments, should, when strung together, incorporate the picture’s entire flow of action. Every sequence—that is, every related series of shots to be photographed—must be included. To leave one out is bound to create problems later.
Here’s how a chunk of a reasonably typical step outline looks:
What’s the simplest way to put a step outline together?
A fistful of 3 × 5 cards and a few square feet of corkboard along a workroom wall can be a major aid. A “step” description goes on each card. Then, you thumbtack cards to corkboard in sequential order. If problems of spacing out climaxes or balancing peaks and valleys arise, all you have to do is insert or remove cards, or reorganize by shifting the cards involved to more satisfactory positions. Similarly, if weak sequences turn up, or changes in plan of attack force revision, it’s just a matter of retyping a few cards, not a whole manuscript.
What do you look out for in building a successful step outline? Let’s put the issues in checklist form—twelve questions, grouped into three major categories:
1. The overall framework.
a. Which are my main scenes?
b. Are they properly spaced and placed?
c. Do my characters come on at the right times and places?
2. The internal development.
a. Does this sequence move the story forward?
b. Is it necessary?
c. Is it interesting?
d. Is it believable?
e. Does it have impact?
f. Am I telegraphing my punches?
3. The presentation.
a. Does each outline unit tell what’s seen?
b. Does it tell what’s heard?
c. Is it clear?
So much for summary. Now, a look at the elements in detail:
1a. Which are my main scenes?
Certainly you should know by the time you get to your script’s step outline stage!
A useful trick to make the pattern instantly recognizable is to put a big red check on each main-scene card.
Closely related to this is our second question,
1b. Are said main scenes properly spaced and placed?
The answer, of course, comes through at a glance, once you arrange your cards in order on the corkboard. In general, you probably should have something fairly strong at the start, to hook audience interest, and your strongest scene of all, the climax, close to the end. In between—well, check any TV drama to see how a subclimax/cliffhanger is introduced just before each station break. Do not follow quite such a me chanical pattern yourself, however, unless your film is specifically aimed at TV—a movie-of-the-week or such. Rather, try to ride with the natural peaks your material itself develops, insofar as possible.
Helpful in spacing and placing your main scenes are three oft-used but still effective elements: subplots, parallel action, and relief scenes.
A subplot is in effect a secondary story, ordinarily involving secondary characters, which takes place simultaneously with the main story. Shakespeare loved these: Witness the Jessica-Lorenzo love story that runs alongside the main Portia-Bassanio line in The Merchant of Venice. Or, from today’s films, recall the Jane Fonda romance and her son’s maturing from On Golden Pond, or the love affair of the Jewish boy and girl in Cabaret, or any of the Pink Panther pictures, with a crime to be solved on the one hand, bumbling Inspector Clouzot in his ongoing conflict with Herbert Lorn, his superior, on the other.
Parallel action refers to two lines of action which take place more or less simultaneously. By juxtaposing—and quite possibly contrasting—sequences from each line, you can both control time and suspense and, often, achieve neatly ironic effects. Thus, in one British picture of a few years ago, the central character is desperately—and dangerously—busy with a burglary. The occupant of the house being burglarized, in turn, is attending a concert. By alternating sequences from burglary and concert, tension is heightened immeasurably, and striking contrast achieved.
Similarly, several viewpoints may be developed within a picture, as in Ruthless People, where part of the time we live the story with the kidnappers; part of the time with Danny DiVito, husband of the kidnappee, Bette Midler; and part of the time with DiVito’s mistress and her boyfriend.
Relief scenes or sequences offer a technique for changing mood or time or place, or reducing tension which has risen uncomfortably high, or introducing humor or contrast. At the same time, they have to tie in with the picture’s general tenor and story line if they’re not to prove disruptive.
Often, this is most simply accomplished through use of a comic character whose appearance signals a relief scene. A good case in point is the introduction of that master of ineptitude, Inspector Clouzot, into The Pink Panther.
(Note, however, how easy it is to get too much of a good thing. In The Pink Panther, Clouzot was side-splittingly hilarious; in The Return of the Pink Panther, something less.)
What about question number three,
1c. Do my characters come on at the right times and places?
Do I need to tell you that all major characters should appear on screen reasonably early? Or that they should reappear often enough to keep your audience reminded of their existence?
The answer is, yes, I do. Over and over again, I’ve critiqued scripts in which Hero or Heroine or Villain failed to show until the last half of the picture. Or appeared once and then vanished until the climax. Or played a major role in the opening scenes and then disappeared forever.
Any of these ploys can be managed, of course, upon occasion. Consider the way Alfred Hitchcock brought on Janet Leigh as Psycho’s apparent heroine, only to kill her in the first third of the film. But this kind of thing takes skill and a sure hand. You’re better off to hold back on such until you gain experience.
How to check character presence? List the characters, one to a line, down the left side of a sheet of graph paper. Then, put the sequence numbers across the top, one per column. Finally, enter a check-mark in the appropriate crosshatch square if the character plays in that sequence.
What do you do if characters fail to appear where you want them? The answer, of course, is to juggle, manipulating characters and relationships and action until, at last, all pieces fall into place.
A good case in point that recently came my way was the story of a man whose brother is murdered. Try as he might, the scriptwriter couldn’t figure out a way to bring in assorted key characters—including the woman who’d done the killing—until relatively late in the picture.
The ultimate solution proved to be introduction of a funeral scene, at which all the missing characters were present. Further brooding developed sound reasons for them to be there, and the script was off and running.
Do note one point, however—that focused upon in the previous sentence: … sound reasons for them to be there. One of the great curses of the beginner is a plague known as author convenience—which is to say, things happen in a script in an obviously phony and contrived manner, because the writer needs them to happen that way.
This is a cardinal sin, and then some. Yet it can be resolved far more easily than you may imagine.
The first step in this direction is for you to recognize that everything in a story is contrived—and contrived for author convenience, at that! So the real issue isn’t “Is it contrived?” but “Is it contrived in a believable manner?”
This can prove a murky question. Ordinarily it will come clear, however,-if we give proper attention to the five issues involved in the internal development of each sequence:
2a. Does this sequence move the story forward?
The issue here is, does this sequence bring the picture closer to its climax? Or, to put it another way, if the state of affairs and state of mind of your key characters are the same at the end of a given sequence as they were at the beginning, then that sequence, that step, constitutes pure waste motion.
A case in point: Ever so much in love, Hero and Heroine visit a fair … ride a particularly wild loop-the-loop. The action’s so violent Heroine is half sick by the time they get off. Hero is appropriately solicitous. After a moment, however, Heroine recovers completely. They go on their way without further incident, still ever so much in love.
Observe, now, the flaw in this sequence:
Beginning state of mind:
Hero and heroine are ever so much in love.
Beginning state of affairs:
They visit fair.
Concluding state of mind:
They still are ever so much in love.
Concluding state of affairs:
They continue their ramble through the fair.
Do you see what’s wrong? Time has passed. Action has taken place. But we can see no evidence of any change in Hero or Heroine’s state of affairs or state of mind—at least, no change that we can interpret as having consequences for the future of our characters within the framework of the story. Result: The sequence has not moved the story forward. Nothing meaningful has happened.
For a sequence to move the story forward believably, certain events must transpire, certain developments take place. Leave out any of them and the whole structure stands in peril of collapsing.
The situation is much like that which you face when you climb a flight of stairs. Each step consists of a riser and a tread. Leave out any one of them, and you very well may fall and break your neck.
The same principle applies where a film is concerned. Leave out crucial steps in the transition of Character from predicament to resolution, beginning to end, and that invisible entity we term suspension of disbelief quite possibly will be shattered. That is, the picture’s spell over the audience will be broken; the viewers’ enjoyment of the ebb and flow of tension ended. Departing the theater, they’ll tell their friends, “Don’t go. This one’s a dog.”
The essence of moving a story forward most often is the introduction of new (and, most often, unanticipated) developments which change Character’s state of affairs and/or state of mind … actually or potentially for the worse.
Could the fair bit cited above be developed in such a manner as to move its story forward? Of course. Instead of recovering promptly, Heroine might have gotten worse. Result: a trip to the hospital, with Heroine’s family holding it against Hero that he’s so endangered her.
Or, an attractive carny girl helps Hero with Heroine. Result: Hero finds himself comparing his fragile flower unfavorably with the helper. He wonders if he’s made the right choice of fiancees.
Or, Heroine’s bag is stolen in the furore. Result: Heroine blames Hero for carelessness. The unreasonableness of this sets Hero to looking at Heroine with new eyes.
Or, seeking some medication to aid Heroine, Hero rummages through her bag. Result: He discovers information about her that casts her in a new—and unfavorable—light.
Or—to switch the situation around completely—it’s Hero, not Heroine, who gets sick. Far from sympathetic, Heroine mocks him for his weakness. Result: Hero finds his feelings of love replaced by hostility.
Now none of these thoughts rate as gems, by any means. But they do show how relatively small changes in a character’s state of affairs and/or state of mind can transform a sequence from static to dynamic … keep a story moving forward rather than standing still.
How do you come up with such twists?
One highly effective technique is to bring in a new character (the carny girl, for example) or a character already introduced who’s been forgotten (perhaps some hostile member of Heroine’s family).
To this end, it’s not the worst idea in the world to tack a list of all characters on your corkboard. Then, when you’re stuck, you can check them over with minimum waste motion, asking yourself the twist-pregnant question mentioned earlier: “What’s Joe doing—or what might he be doing—that would jar this sequence off dead center?” Same for Sam, Rose, Eddy, Glenda. By the time you’re through, nine times out of ten your problem will be history.
An even better approach is to root your thinking in thorough and intimate knowledge of your characters and their relationships to each other. The “blamer” heroine who berates Hero for letting her purse be stolen, when his only sin was solicitude for her, is a definite and special kind of human being who shows possibilities for adding extra dimensions to your story as it moves onward. So is the heroine who ridicules Hero because he can’t control his stomach. And so would be a heroine who, outraged at her guy’s discomfort, proceeded to punch the ride boss in the nose.
One final point: To build a strong sense of forward movement in a sequence, it’s best in the majority of cases to end on what might be termed the counterpunch.
This is a concept which perhaps can stand a bit of clarification. Let’s begin with reconsideration of those key story elements, confrontation and transition.
The pattern of confrontation is one of goal-conflict-disaster; that of transition, of reaction-dilemma-decision.
The counterpunch focuses on your character’s response to a sequence’s disaster: his mounting of a new attack via choice of a new goal and/or implementation of that decision in goal-centered action.
Thus, in our fair sequence, when Heroine’s wealthy uncle arrives at the hospital and, in a rage, announces withdrawal of vital financial support from Hero’s cherished project, Hero might very well conclude the episode with a chill announcement that the hospitalization concerns him and Heroine only; and that as far as the project goes, Uncle can keep his money: Hero will carry on without it.
Instantly, a question is raised in viewers’ minds: What will be the consequences of this challenge Hero has thrown in the face of fate? It’s a good note to break on.
On the other hand, it certainly is not the only one possible. We might also end on the disaster/cliffhanger (Uncle’s announcement that he’s cutting off the money), or on the dilemma (Hero’s strained effort to figure out what to do in the face of the Uncle-precipitated cataclysm). But centering the sequence’s conclusion on Hero’s indecision tends to emphasize weakness and stasis rather than the strength and forward movement most audiences seek, while ending with Uncle’s cliff-hanger announcement puts the spotlight on Uncle instead of Hero.
Which is not to say that either of these alternatives may not prove desirable in specific instances or for variety’s sake. But in general, the counterpunch approach is stronger.
2b. Is this sequence necessary?
Now why would I raise such a question as this, after all the attention I’ve already given the matter of the importance of each sequence moving your story forward?
The answer is that quite possibly you’ve built two sequences, where one could have done the job as well.
Here, for example, is a sequence in which a friendly elevator operator helps Hero locate Villain’s office. Following is one that sees Hero coaxing information from Villain’s secretary. A third has him trying to find Villain’s car in the building parking garage.
Next question: What is Hero seeking?
Answer: He wants to talk to Villain.
So, why not just let him talk to Villain? Elevator operators, after all, are fast becoming rarities, secretaries who talk too much are hardly unusual, and a tour of a parking garage stands a good chance of lulling your audience to sleep unless someone’s taking potshots at Hero.
This business of less-than-vital sequences can be particularly important when you’re running long. So don’t hesitate to ask yourself, “Can I combine this sequence with another? Is it possible to merge this character/set/action with another?”
2c. Is this sequence interesting?
Again, author convenience rears its seductive head. For it’s ever so easy to become so preoccupied with getting in plot lines or essential information that you forget that such can also prove dull, dull, dull, unless you give heed to keeping each sequence entertaining in and of itself.
Thus, Professor Zeitelbaum’s lecture on the physics of the fourth dimension may be crucial to understanding your film’s climax, or Aunt Agatha’s youthful involvement with music the key to the way she reacts to Jean’s joining the Hare Krishnas. But that won’t help if the audience goes to sleep.
In a static situation, you see, boredom soon takes over. Viewers yawn and squirm; perhaps even leave the theater. A disastrous turn of affairs indeed!
What it all comes down to is that, all statements to the contrary notwithstanding, you don’t just hold an audience’s attention; you capture and recapture it.
How do you do this?
First and foremost, you do it by manipulating tension.
Because this is so, you’ll be well advised to so plan your script that it develops that generally rising state of excitement among viewers upon which we’ve commented previously. Such a state will be based on the ebb and flow of fear that some immediately dreaded or desired thing will or won’t happen; an anticipation of potentially impending disaster, as it were.
Secondly, you do it by translating abstraction into people being human.
This demands that you be ever conscious of the human animal and his foibles—the way people really react as contrasted with the way they’re supposed to; the contradictory things they do, cutting out mashed potatoes to lose weight, even while they eat a box of chocolates; the irrationality that makes them laugh and cry and love and hate and behave the way they did on Candid Camera.
Thirdly, you do it by focusing on the logical yet unanticipated.
These are the twists of fate, the things that shouldn’t happen but do, the wrong people in the wrong places at the wrong times. They’re the efforts that fail, the schemes that go awry, the roofs that cave in.
And the diamond-studded cloudbursts, too.
One way or another, trickles from one or more of these three streams should seep into every sequence of your script. Let sinister forces be gathering outside Professor Zeitelbaum’s lecture hall, with cross-cutting to give his words importance as well as build suspense. Bring the abstraction of Aunt Agatha’s “involvement with music” to life via an affair with a tramp trap drummer. Or, by way of relief when tension grows too great, break the dreariness of a long afternoon by the river by including a comic character trying to retrieve a jug of moonshine from a sunken scow.
But do keep interest pulsing!
2d. Is this sequence believable?
Believability is largely a matter of character behavior. It comes in two parts: things your story people do and things they don’t do: the same coin, but different sides.
The things your characters do raise certain crucial questions: Why does Character do this? Would the average person—or, at the very least, a character of Character’s character—do it? What other, more logical paths might he take to reach the goal he’s seeking?
Thus, why does Character date the ugly sister, not the beauty? Why does he support his drunken brother? Why does he back down before his boss or mother? Why does he agree to take a job that he detests?
The issue where things your characters don’t do are concerned is even simpler. It boils down to one question: Why doesn’t Character quit?
As, why doesn’t he ride out before the gunmen come? Why doesn’t he refuse to doctor the books? Why doesn’t he refuse to marry the hellion? Why doesn’t he put his father in the rest home?
If Character does things viewers see as illogical and unbelievable, their suspension of disbelief in the film is shattered. Consequently, they must be made to believe—and the answers the audience wants are visual: living demonstrations of the points you’re trying to make. Verbiage is not enough.
2e. Does this sequence have impact?
“People never remember what they hear in a movie,” Henry Hathaway once commented. “They only recall what they see.”
Since Mr. Hathaway directed nearly a hundred films—including such items as Lives of a Bengal Lancer, Kiss of Death, True Grit, The House on 92nd Street, Call Northside 777, and Johnny Apollo—in the course of a long and illustrious career, his observations rate careful consideration.
The scenes audiences recall, Mr. Hathaway elaborated, the memorable moments, ordinarily center on action: bits that strike home with strong visual impact, as when Paul Newman with a single punch knocks out the woman who’s betrayed him in The Verdict … Indiana Jones shoots the sword-wielding Arab menace in Raiders of the Lost Ark … James Cagney mashes the grapefruit into Mae Clarke’s face in The Public Enemy … Paul Hogan is passed over the heads of the crowd in the final sequence of Crocodile Dundee … the youthful Mozart pursues the squealing girl beneath the banquet table in Amadeus. And while in large measure such are the product of director times actor times cameraman, the writer, too, plays a role in that he often provides the original concept.
This being the case, it will be to your advantage to try to incorporate a few such visual jolts, such not-soon-to-be-forgotten moments, into every script you write. Take it for granted in advance that most will fall flat or be ignored by the director. But a few will get through and touch an audience nerve on a level that will help to build your reputation.
2f. Am I telegraphing my punches?
That is, am I being predictable?
What you’re after is the unanticipated but logical development. To get it, you need to set up an anticipated development … then pull a different rabbit out of the hat. But don’t cheat, or audiences will hate you.
Let’s suppose, for example, that your hero has faced untold perils to get to the room where his girlfriend allegedly is waiting. At last, panting with a combination of fatigue and passion, he knocks at the door.
The door opens—and there stands his girlfriend’s mother.
Assuming that you can make the switch logical, it’s the kind of twist that will help to keep viewers awake.
Now, what about your presentation?
3a. Does each sequence, each step outline unit, tell what’s seen?
3b. Does it tell what’s heard?
3c. Is it clear?
For once, in this volume, little need be said. In essence, it’s enough that you make it clear that you have something which can be photographed.
* * *
So much for the step outline. It’s almost time to move on to our final feature film topic, the master scene script.
Almost, but not quite. First, we need to consider a tool essential to writing any effective feature script, that of dialogue.
We’ll take it up in the next chapter.