44 pages • 1 hour read
Story: Substance, Structure, Style, and the Principles of Screenwriting
A modern alternative to SparkNotes and CliffsNotes, SuperSummary offers high-quality Study Guides with detailed chapter summaries and analysis of major themes, characters, and more.
Themes
The Universality of Story Form
Although the possibilities of storytelling are quite literally limitless, McKee argues that all story comes from the same foundations that have existed for thousands of years. This is one of the first ideas that the book’s introduction puts forth: “Story is about eternal, universal forms, not formulas” (3). It is about taking what we know to be true about human nature and portraying it in a poignant, satisfying way.
McKee is not the first to try to compartmentalize these story foundations. In Chapter 4, “Structure and Genre,” he explores some of the story classification systems that have developed over the centuries. Aristotle defined four basic story types depending on the central values and the way those values shifted. Georges Polti defined 36 “dramatic situations” that explored the root conflicts of all storytelling. McKee presents 25 cinemagraphic story types in use at his time of writing. Later, however, he argues that there is really only one universal story form that matters and that all other story archetypes and dramatic situations derive from, the Quest:
For better or worse, an event throws a character’s life out of balance, arousing in him the conscious and/or unconscious desire for that which he feels will restore balance, launching him on a Quest for his Object of Desire against forces of antagonism (196-97).
In spite of these efforts on behalf of the story craftsman to isolate what makes a story work and what doesn’t, the truth is that story is something we all already have deep in our bones. Stories are “timeless and transcultural, fundamental to every earthly society, civilized and primitive, reaching back through millennia of oral storytelling into the shadows of time” (45). This is as beautiful as it is challenging because the audience already has fundamental expectations of what a story should be. Mastering the craft of story structure and genre convention allows the writer to satisfy the audience’s expectations as well as surprise them with something new—not an easy feat. Working creatively within set boundaries (of genre, setting, etc.) is therefore not so much a rule of thumb as it is a necessity: Since story itself has a basic form, anything that deviates too much from that form isn’t really a story.
Subtext’s Role in Story and in Life
McKee argues that subtext exists as an omnipresent undercurrent beneath all dialogue, in story as well as in life. He calls this “the duplicity of life” (253)—a duality between what a person puts into words versus what they’re really thinking or trying to achieve in that moment. We do this as people all the time, filtering our emotions and trying to communicate them in the best way we know how, but it is never the full truth. McKee offers the example of a psychiatrist and a patient: The patient is in a safe space to speak their minds as honestly and unrestrainedly as they can, and yet the work of the psychiatrist is still to break their words apart and understand what they are truly saying underneath.
Likewise, in a film scene, there will always be two layers of dialogue. Part of the work of an actor is to pinpoint this distinction in order to bring the scene to life, speaking the dialogue—the text—and acting the subtext. If no subtext exists, or if it isn’t apparent, a good actor will create it. This is what gives characters complexity and depth. The audience likewise will search for subtext or create it when they watch a film—this is the moment of true connection between the audience and the actor, when they reach each other through words unspoken.
This connection between the story and the audience is what makes the story world real—something greater than simply hollow entertainment. We are so used to searching for subtext in our everyday conversations that we do this instinctively when engaging with stories—perhaps especially film, which McKee argues is a much more visual medium than literature or even theater. As much as subtext in film relies on “unspoken” dialogue, it also relies on the juxtaposition of dialogue and visuals, or of visuals with one another. This is why McKee cautions against rendering image systems too obvious: Symbolism that decodes itself is as uninteresting as verbal exposition. Subtext is what makes the story true and recognizable as an extension of life, and creating a metaphor for life, McKee argues, is what story is all about.
The Storyteller’s Responsibility
One of the biggest mistakes that new writers—and even some more experienced writers—make is forgetting who they are writing for. McKee often talks about the responsibility writers have to their audience as well as to the craft itself.
The introduction hints at this forthcoming idea several times in sections like “Story is about respect, not disdain, for the audience” and “Story is about originality, not duplication” (7-8). McKee argues that by immersing ourselves in the storytelling craft, we are entering into a holy mission to deliver the stories that the world needs to hear—stories that will satisfy the audience’s craving for a light shone into the senselessness of life. McKee’s first chapter, “The Story Problem,” issues this call to action: The section “Good Story Well Told” opens with, “‘Good story’ means something worth telling that the world wants to hear. Finding this is your lonely task” (20). Again and again McKee expresses the idea that a story is much bigger than just the writer, or even the writer and the person watching the film; it is about effecting a real change in the wider world.
In Chapter 2, “The Structure Spectrum,” McKee takes a candid look at the writer’s relationship with the world in the section “The Politics of Story Design.” This explores why writers might choose their mediums and subject matter. As McKee says, this is a personal choice that every artist must explore in their own way: “You must make your own ‘political’ choices and decide where you reside” (61). The only thing that truly matters in art is to create what you believe in because by creating you are communicating a deep and poignant truth about the world, and you as the artist become responsible for that truth. Chapter 6, “Structure and Meaning,” explores this idea on a more emotional level in its discussion of theme choice. This “controlling idea” is what you want the audience to come away with. For some, it may be powerful enough to change their worldview entirely: “Once you discover your Controlling Idea, respect it. Never allow yourself the luxury of thinking, ‘It’s just entertainment.’” (129). The chapter closes with a statement on the social responsibility of the artist to tell the truth above all else.
Even the more instructional chapters of the text often allude to this idea of loyalty to the truth, to your audience, and to respect of the craft. Microcosmically, we introduce a dramatic question at the beginning of the story and take on a responsibility to the reader or viewer to answer it by the end. Macrocosmically, we show the audience a world we have created and take on a responsibility to put forward the truth as we understand it in the best way we know how. The final section of the text, “Fade Out,” ends with one last call to action for the writer to create and share their truth with the world.
Unlock all 44 pages of this Study GuidePlus, gain access to 8,800+ more expert-written Study Guides.
Including features: