News on the books of Matthew Rollins, plus help for aspiring authors in the form of book and movie reviews through the lens of the Hero's Journey and other thoughts on the craft of writing.
Writers should write every day. Right? Eh, I have a few thoughts…
Not a picture of me. But we all make that face some days. I know I do.
If you’re not ready to write (go read my post on understanding your process), sitting at the computer or your notebook and attempting to pound out word count for the sake of word count is not the most productive thing you could do with your time. Sure, seeing those numbers go up is gratifying, but if your first time quality sucks, you’re really only creating more revising work for yourself later while wasting the “writing time” you have today on words you ultimately have to throw away.
I put “writing time” in quotes, because you can still be productive with those minutes or hours you have in your schedule, even if you’re not adding word count to your work in progress. Have a list:
Writing Things to Do When Not Actually Writing
Think about your work in progress. If you pants like me, then you should be doing this on the regular, “writing time” or not. I may not have an outline written down, but I do know where my scenes and chapters are going, what the character arcs are, how the climax fits, etc. If you’re a plotter, then examine your outline, make sure the setup you had originally still fits what you’ve written down.
Read. Educate yourself on the craft of writing, or just read a novel and pick it apart as you go. Identify themes, arcs, subplots, things you would improve, etc. Understanding the methods other authors use to craft stories you love can only help you do the same.
Take a class. Early on in the process of writing my first manuscript, I realized I needed some training. SMU in Dallas had a great program (sadly now shuttered) called The Writer’s Path, where people from all walks of life would come together to learn from published authors and faculty about writing. I came away well-prepared. You can too!
Read your own stuff. If you have an outline that you are betrothed to, make sure your writing is going to get you to the altar. If you’re pantsing, make sure the voice is appropriate for your genre and age group, and your characters’ actions are internally consistent.
Revise. Here’s where some of you will disagree heartily with me about editing while writing the first draft. If you’ve read my post on process, then I’ve stated my case there. First time quality matters.
Research agents. If you’re planning to enter the query trenches with your manuscript eventually, it doesn’t hurt to build your to-be-queried list as you go. There are a TON of agents out there, but only a small percentage of them are going to be interested in exactly what you wrote. You need to spend your querying time on them, and no others. Read my #1 lesson from querying.
Research self-publishing. If you’re going the other route, then you’ve a lot of work ahead of you. Find your editor(s), cover artist, learn layout, research Amazon vs. everyone else, create a budget strategy, etc.
Find a local writing group or critique partners. If you have those, converse with your compatriots or review their material. If you don’t make time for them, they’re unlikely to make time for you.
Find a conference to attend. Better yet, find several. You can find online-only or in-person events. There are plenty to choose from. I’ve had solid success with pitches through Writing Day Workshops. Dallas has a great event in October called DFWCon. Most of these conferences aren’t free, and pitches cost even more, so mind your budget. But you can learn a lot about all facets of writing, get material reviewed, meet new writing buddies, and speak directly to agents. There is no better way to get through the slush pile than to step around it entirely. I have had *way* more interest in my stories from pitch sessions than I’ve received in responses to unsolicited queries. Way more.
Social media. Use sparingly. Interacting with the writing and reading communities is great if you’re doing it to an end. Build your follower list. Make connections with critique partners or editors or artists. If you’re entertaining yourself and not much else, you could use your writing time better.
So there you have it. Lots of ways to be productive as a writer in those times when the words aren’t coming.
Whilst preparing a marinade for tonight’s grilled chicken, I cut my finger. What does this have to do with writing fiction? Consequences!
Because I was in a bit of a rush, I elected to cut the soon-to-be-juiced lemon in my hand, rather than take the safe approach and use a cutting board. Thusly, when the nice and sharp knife deftly cleaved the lemon in twain, it went into one of the fingers that was holding said lemon. I appreciate your concern, but the cut wasn’t too bad.
Right when I did it, my immediate thought (as the finger bloomed red and the scent of lemon wafted into my nose) was, “Well that’s gonna sting.” But it didn’t. Told ya the cut wasn’t that bad. Wash hands, apply a bandage, and finish cooking, right?
So that’s what I did. Flattened and scored the chicken, tossed it in marinade, and into the fridge it went.
And that’s when the pain started. It wasn’t immediate, as expected. Just a five-minute Alexa timer late. But when it hit, I found all the colorful metaphors I could muster. And, more importantly, the stealth lemon juice forced me to acknowledge the error of my ways.
Choices have consequences.
As a character on the journey of making dinner, I made a choice to cut corners. Who doesn’t want to save a little time in the kitchen where they can? The consequence of that choice was excruciating — albeit brief — pain in my finger. And I didn’t save any time in the end either. Did I learn my lesson? Definitely. Next time I go heroically up against the nefarious evil of the dinner menu, I will bring my cutting board.
Part of the point of the Trials, Allies, and Enemies phase of the Hero’s Journey (or the first half of Act 2 of the three-act structure) is to teach our protagonists lessons. Cross the Death Star chasm with a Stormtrooper’s utility belt and a kiss from the princess for luck. Knock out the troll in the bathroom to save Hermione. Solve the riddle to get the first key to the easter egg that saves the OASIS. These challenges help our protags grow into the heroines and heroes we need them to be to triumph over lemons (or evil, your choice).
Naturally, as we humans go through the course of our lives, we learn from our mistakes. But I think better character growth in stories happens when a hero has to deal with the unintended, and (hopefully) delayed consequences of their actions. Here are a couple condensed examples from my own stories.
In Dangers to Society, the four protagonists each have quirky superhuman abilities. One of them (Steve) can distinguish truth from lies. Another (Ben) can manipulate minds to believe any manner of things. So, I had Ben subtly use his ability on Steve (and others) for something frivolous, just out of convenience. Chapters on, I had a side character casually say something in front of Steve that was in direct contradiction to what Ben had done. This triggered Steve’s ability and caused a cognitive dissonance between the lie Ben placed and the truth Steve heard. It wracked Steve’s brain and risked his health. Ben had to deal with that. He also learned something about using his ability from this encounter. Steve learned something for his arc as well (about Ben), though he wasn’t aware of what it was at the time. The results of the consequences collide later on in the Ordeal phase.
In The Pentathax Contingency, my current work in progress, one protagonist is escaping a planetary conflict in the opening chapter. In my head he’s a bit of a young space scoundrel type, and to create conflict for him as he was escaping, I destroyed his ship (naturally). So he needs another one. He finds an available ship with a testy pilot getting ready to depart. In a bit of a Han Solo vs. Greedo I-live-or-you-live standoff, he shoots the guy simply to escape from the planet. Wasn’t personal. Motivated by survival, and a choice I can see a lot of us making, were we the young space scoundrel type fleeing a planetary conflict. Later on (when I get around to writing it), he’s going to have to cope with the fact that the pilot he killed was a close family friend of our other protagonist (and potential love interest). Oh my, the consequences of that.
An airlock will be involved.
These are the kinds of darlings we get to keep. If the tests you put your protagonists through don’t matter in the end, they’re not worthy of your story.
Hello again! Thanks for dropping by to read my ramblings.
Today I thought I’d ramble upon my writing process. I am (as of 4/16/22) in the early throes of the first draft of my fourth manuscript, tentatively titled The Pentathax Contingency (henceforth referred to here as TPC). It’s a YA sci-fi story.
I’m working on the fifth chapter, about 10k words into the story as a whole (out of 75k or so I’d guess), and have been around that number for a couple weeks now. When I’m at my most productive, I can do 3-5k a day. So as I sat there one night, not doing much with the story other than rereading and tweaking the already done chapters, I asked myself why.
I didn’t immediately know. I love writing, and I like my plan for this story, but I’m not in love with TPC. Not the way that I love the first three manuscripts I’ve finished. And I couldn’t quite put my finger on the reason.
When I thought back to those first three manuscripts, I found a commonality: I had hovered around at the exact same spot in the story for all three. I got inciting incidents locked in. Refined the voice. Little bit of worldbuilding and backstory, and then… paused. Tweaked. Edited. Revised. But then I worked my way through that blockage and powered through 106k, 128k, and 56k words to cross those finish lines. Why?
Like our heroes, I had crossed the threshold. Accepted the call to adventure. Understood the stakes and the payoff. And I’m not quite there yet with TPC. So why is that?
Well, I’m a pantser. I write as I go, without much of an outline or plan written down. Perhaps I’m a little bit of a mental plantser (planner+pantser), if I want to be perfectly accurate. I think about my stories a ton. Like all the time. Probably to the detriment of remembering things I should probably remember. Rarely does a shower go by where I don’t have a eureka moment for my current work in progress. As a result, I (generally) know where my stories are going, both in the coming chapter and overall. And I do know where TPC is headed. Protagonists and side characters are established. Antagonistic force is known and introduced. Climax setup is there. Have some ready subplots to add depth and complexity as needed.
But I’ve not crossed the threshold yet. I’m not ready to write TPC.
For one, I’m not quite certain I have the voice yet. It’s told in first person from two different points of view, and so far, each protagonist has had two chapters to establish their way of telling their side of the story. They’re different enough, and I think it’s young enough for YA, but they’re in space and commanding spaceships with the fate of the planet at stake, so a certain maturity is required as well. Things just don’t feel quite right yet. So I tweak. In addition to the voice, I think the way my brain thinks it likes to have little details in the narrative already lined up for use later on. Be that characters or names or technology or conflict or whatever. With all that stuff as ready as it can be, I don’t have to go back and find the right spot later when I have that idea. I wait to have the idea, put in the clue or character or whatever in the opening scenes as needed, then it’s ready when I need it. So I tweak.
What reasons might the little alien driving my subconscious have for writing this way? First and foremost, I think I’m inclined towards first time quality. The idea of writing THE END and parking a story in the drawer for a month, only to come back to it and tear it completely apart to fix stuff isn’t appealing to me. So I edit as I go. I make micro revisions in situ. By the time I finish a first draft, I’ve been over the story dozens of times and it’s already 95% ready to query. I like that.
Of course, the manuscript goes to an editor. Things need clarifying, grammatical foibles are found, inconsistencies in world building get identified, and — my specialty — overly long and complicated sentences are highlighted. We fix those. And we revise again. And again, until those issues are no longer present. Takes a few times, but those are easy fixes. The story comes out of the gate developmentally sound and needs no surgery. That’s what the little alien driving my brain is telling the rest of me to do. So far, I’m pleased with the results.
Now during National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), this approach probably doesn’t fly if I’m to hit the 50k word goal. But outside of that event, I find I don’t mind the nights where the daily word count doesn’t rise by thousands. Still feels like being productive as I’m honing the early chapters into fine-edged steel.
I think it helps us as writers to analyze our writing processes, because, like our stories, they are unique. Every approach to creativity is different. But every new story is an adventure for the writer. Because like our heroines and heroes, every time we commit to finishing a story, we are crossing the threshold. Apparently, part of my writing process is making absolutely certain I am fully prepared for the journey before I step over that line.
Don’t get me wrong on TPC, I’m close. Very close. I’ll get there any day, and then the words will start flying. I expect the first draft to be done by the end of May. But for now, I don’t want to jump into the Millennium Falcon and fly off until I’ve given the droids their oil baths, I understand the structure and history of the Galactic Empire, the vaporators have been turned off, and I’ve had one last glass of blue milk.
Attend any writing conference where an agent is speaking, and invariably they will let slip how many new queries they get per week. The number you’ll usually hear is “hundreds”, and I’ve heard “thousands” more than once as well. That’s a lot of email to filter through.
An agent I follow on Twitter recently just reopened to queries and was tweeting about her slush pile (that’s the collection of unread queries waiting for their attention). In just a few hours after reopening to queries, she had 150 fresh queries waiting. After she had gotten through those 150 queries, she had requested materials from two. That’s not a great rate of return (and I think 1 out of 75 is kind of high actually). By the second day she had over 450 new queries waiting. Now she probably had a queue of people waiting to send her a query, but still. That’s a lot of work waiting for someone who’s not going to get paid for nearly any of the time they spend on it.
Most veteran agents spend 90-95% of their effort on existing clients. That doesn’t leave a lot of time during the day for queries. Let’s say the agent above gives thirty minutes a day to her slush pile. That’s 150 minutes. Enough for a minute per query, for just the first day’s haul. But for the entire week’s intake, she has less than a minute per query. A lot less. If she’s getting 1000 queries per week, and holds fast to the 30 minutes per day, that’s just 9 seconds per query.
Certainly, stories that look promising will take more time than that. What is the agent to do? Look for anything that makes for a quick rejection. So, today’s lesson is…
Follow submission guidelines to the letter.
Submit your query to the wrong place? Reject.
Get the agent’s name/pronouns wrong? Reject.
Submit when the agent is closed to queries? Reject.
Attach a Word doc when the agent wants copy/pasted text in the body of the email? Reject.
Submit more than the requested sample pages (AKA sending your whole manuscript when the agent wants one chapter)? Reject.
Have weird/bad manners? Reject.
Submit something that the agent doesn’t represent (this is always mentioned somewhere: their MSWL, Publisher’s Marketplace, or the agents/about us page on their agency’s website)? Reject.
Open by saying your manuscript is the best thing ever put to paper and you’re going to make them a trillionaire? Reject.
Get out on the wrong side of bed in the morning? Reject.
Why do agents cull with such abandon? Simple statistics. The odds of them finding something they’re going to love so much they want to represent it are already astoundingly low (see my Lessons from Querying #1 post). The odds that story they fall in love with will have been submitted by someone who breaks submission guidelines? Even lower. Because personalities matter, as well as the writing. A writer who can’t be bothered to follow submission guidelines is more than likely going to be harder to work with, and less likely to get past the traditional publishing finish line. And agents are already busy enough to have to deal with someone like that.
By clearing out all the flotsam and spending next to no time doing it, a literary agent preserves precious seconds per query that are better spent on something that has a higher likelihood, no matter how small that increase, of being something they want to represent.
Don’t make it harder for an agent to fall in love with you. Your story won’t get even a first glance if an agent ends up chucking your query out the window because you couldn’t follow the submission guidelines.
Hello again. Gonna attempt to make this blog a twice-a-week habit. Should be easy enough with the lessons from querying series. There are plenty to share.
Today, we shall discuss the very first thing I learned from the very first literary agent I ever pitched, which was at the DFW Writer’s Convention (aka DFWCon) in 2018, before the world went nuts. Since that point, I’ve heard this same advice from agents a zillion times, so you can take this one as written in stone (with a few exceptions mentioned toward the end).
When pitching/querying a novel, especially a debut novel, you must have a standalone story. It must have a beginning, middle, and end. The goals of the protagonist and threats of the antagonist must be resolved. In short:
You shouldn’t pitch/query the first book of a planned trilogy, or first volume of an open-ended series.
Here’s why:
Publishers are far less likely to be interested in an open-ended work of an unproven author. It’s simple risk/reward math to them. They don’t know if your story will sell. And if you don’t have an established track record of productivity, they don’t know they can count on you to produce sequels in the timeframe they want. Subsequently, agents are far less likely to be interested in representing said work.
“But Matt, I’ve already written the whole trilogy. Won’t that save them a lot of time?” Time, perhaps. But publishers think with their checkbooks first. They don’t want to buy three books when they don’t know if the first book will sell or not.
In addition, as a traditional publishing hopeful wanting to be productive with your writing time, you don’t to spend time writing sequels to books that don’t go anywhere with a publisher or agent. Write three entirely different stories and query them all. Yes, querying sucks at your soul, but your odds are better (very, very low x3 > practically nil x1).
If you plan to self-publish said series if you don’t get anywhere with an agent, then the advice is generally reversed. You want to have a series of books queued up for planned release at Amazon or wherever, as that tends to boost your sales. Lining up multiple books takes advantage of the “You may like…” and “Other readers purchased…” marketing algorithms online booksellers employ. And you want to take advantage of those, because they are time-limited. My focus (at the moment) remains with traditional publishing, so we’ll leave the advice on self-publishing at that for now.
Back to writing standalone stories vs. a series. It is entirely fine and, in some genres encouraged, to leave elements in your worldbuilding and subplots that can turn a standalone novel into the first of a larger story. If you do happen to have a successful debut novel, your publisher will most definitely be interested in your follow-on stories with a now-established audience.
Exceptions? Of course. If you have a million followers somewhere. If you’re a celebrity or known politician. If you write like Amanda Gorman. If you check all the boxes of a publisher’s flavor-of-the-month acquisitions binge. If you happen to query the exactly right agent at the right time that happens to have a great relationship with exactly the right editor and that editor’s publishing house’s cards all line up for you at exactly the right time. Long odds to line up all of those ducks in a row.
Success in traditional publishing has long odds already. As writers we must do what we can to improve our chances. Don’t make it easy for an agent to say no to you in the slushpile phase.
“So Matt, what happened with that first pitch session?” It was a polite decline. She gave no further reason than I had admittedly written the first book of a trilogy. The quality of the plot or characters or worldbuilding didn’t matter. I didn’t pass that first hurdle. I learned that lesson quickly and altered my pitch to the other three agents I met at the conference that weekend. All three requested materials. When I got home, I spent a furious week fixing the story before submitting my queries to those agents. I adjusted the ending, tweaked the goals, the antagonist, and trimmed the various subplots that were intended to further the story into books 2 and 3. I never got any further with an agent than the initial requests for materials from those pitches, or from unsolicited queries (which usually provide zero actionable feedback), so it’s entirely possible I didn’t de-trilogy it enough.
That manuscript is now on the shelf, biding its time. I still love the story. It’s the one that got me into the passion of writing in the first place. It’ll get attention again some day. Now that I’ve completed two more manuscripts (both entirely different stories), I suspect the quality of the writing wasn’t where it needed to be to catch an agent’s eye. We’ll talk more about that in an upcoming post.
Long time, no post. Eh, blog? Those longer analysis posts are fun, but certainly time-consuming. I’ll keep up with those at some point in the future, but to get my duff back into the blog, I thought (at the behest of some critique group friends) I would start a series of short posts that share various lessons I’ve learned throughout my time attempting to query the novels I’ve written. Some brief facts to set your mindframe:
As of March 31, 2022:
I have written three novels, two adult, one middle grade, all various forms of contemporary fantasy.
All three have been edited and revised vigorously. Reviewed with critique groups as I was writing them. Bounced off beta readers. They’re all within the expected bounds of word count. The voice and subject matter are appropriate for their target audiences.
All three have been queried. The two adult I have shelved for now and am focusing on querying the MG story while I write my fourth novel (YA sci-fi).
I do not yet have representation from a literary agent. But I am still hopeful.
The MG story has received three full manuscript requests, all from pitch sessions at (virtual) conferences, as well as over a 95% request rate for materials from agents I’ve pitched. None have requested more material, though there are dozens of unrejected queries still floating out there (fingers crossed!).
None of my unsolicited queries have received anything other than a rejection. Most do not get any kind of feedback other than a form response that apologizes and says “it’s not for me”.
Despite my lack of success, I feel I’m close. The MG story has had some very positive responses in the rejections. Literary agents sometimes refer me to colleagues or other agent friends. I get compliments. “Writing is strong” and “fun elements” and “twist on tropes” have been common. What’s also common? “I didn’t fall in love with it.” What’s the lesson here?
Writing and reading are subjective exercises. Hence, agenting is a subjective profession.
This means two things: Writers (should) write what they enjoy reading. Agents will (generally) only represent stories they love. If you query an agent, and that agent doesn’t love your story (or have dollar signs spin through the whites of their eyes), that agent will not offer you representation.
They may compliment you on your writing. They may point out things they liked, or an area of improvement. If an agent takes the time to send you anything other than a form rejection response, that in itself is an uncommon thing.
But, if they don’t connect with it first as a reader, beyond being a professional wanting to represent it in the confounding quagmire of traditional publishing, they aren’t going to offer you representation. Doesn’t matter if you wrote Harry Potter or Pride and Prejudice. If that reader doesn’t care for wizards and magic or proper English manners and the search for self, that reader isn’t going to offer you representation. Simple as that.
Not every reader will enjoy your book baby. Consequentially, not every literary agent will love it either. Doesn’t mean it’s not good, or not a potential bestseller. Just means that particular person you queried isn’t going to rep you. That’s not the end of the world — it’s the wrong needle in the haystack.
My daughter is in a stage production of Disney’s “The Aristocats: Kids” this fall, and as you might suspect, we’ve seen the movie a couple of times at our house since she joined the cast. Plus, I’m running the sound for the show, so I’m at every rehearsal, nodding my head to “Ev’rybody Wants to Be a Cat” and “Thomas O’Malley”. It’s a cute musical.
Oddly enough, the stage production is a better story than the movie. Now we can certainly forgive a 30-minute children’s stage show filled with musical numbers when it skimps on the character development and arcs, since (from the parent’s perspective) it’s merely an exercise to get our 5-12 year olds off their tablets and out of the house for a while. But the movie? I have some words.
For purposes of this post, I assume you have seen the film. If you haven’t, there’s still plenty to learn from the discussion below, so feel free to keep on reading. I’ll do my best to fill you in on the necessary details. Or go watch it first and develop your own impressions.
To be blunt, The Aristocats (1970) is not a good story, structurally. It is an entertaining movie, but flawed. Oh, so flawed. Off the top, there is the unfortunate racist depiction of the Siamese alley cat. It was common to the era, but it isn’t a good look in a children’s film. It’s about as bad as the crows in Dumbo, but he’s not in the film as much. The very beginning of the movie (available on Disney+) has Disney’s standard disclaimer regarding racist content seen ahead of a number of their older films. They acknowledge the mistake. We move on and vow never to be that awful in our own stories. Beyond that, there is the nonsensical combination of Parisian alley cats and jazz, which while fun, make about as much sense together as peanut butter and traffic cameras. And the interesting inclusion of two hounds that talk like old American war veterans. On a French farm. In the movie, they only serve as foils for the bumbling butler villain Edgar and never even come across the Aristocats. They’re only in a couple very cartoony scenes that would have fit in more in a Roadrunner vs. Wile E. Coyote Looney Tunes sketch. In the stage show, they cross paths with the cat family briefly, which makes their inclusion at least somewhat relevant to the protagonists.
But I want to talk about characters and their journey. Specifically, we’re going to go into the protagonists themselves, the Aristocats, but we’ll discuss Abraham Delacey Giuseppe Casey Thomas O’Malley the alley cat too.
The Aristocats features only an external journey for our main protagonist, mama Duchess, and her kittens Berlioz, Toulouse, and Marie. They are kidnapped by Edgar so that he eventually inherits their owner Madame’s fortune instead of the cats. Duchess and kittens have to make their way back home to Paris. That’s the journey. External-only stories are usually action/adventure/fantasy/scifi fare, and I guess you could lump The Aristocats into the adventure category, but that’s a bit of a stretch.
Here’s why. Throughout the film, things happen to the Aristocats. Actually, everything happens to the Aristocats. They don’t do anything. The world moves around them from safe at home to being catnapped by Edgar to being found in rural farmland by alley cat Thomas O’Malley to being escorted back to Paris by Tom and some geese to being captured by Edgar again only to be rescued by Tom’s alley cat friends, a mouse (Roquefort), and a horse (Frou Frou).
The Aristocats do nothing across all of this, except play the role of victims. That’s not a satisfying experience for an audience or reader. The Aristocats make no choices. Help arrives right when they need it, and they don’t have to do a thing. Perhaps there was a subversive message here that the world bends in order for the wealthy to get what they want? I kind of doubt it’s that subtle. It’s just bad writing.
In order for a story’s protagonists to complete a satisfying journey, either external or internal, they need to earn it. Make decisions. Take action. Grow. The Aristocats are cute, the songs are fun, and Edgar’s buffoonery draws laughs, but beyond that, nothing changes for the heroes from beginning to end aside from Edgar being shipped to Timbuktu, and Thomas coming to live with the Aristocats. Externally, the cats don’t save themselves through action or choices, they are instead rescued. Internally, nobody grows past their flaws or learns anything, except that butlers can’t be trusted. And everybody already knows that.
As it stands, I would rate The Aristocats 1/5 on story and 3/5 on entertainment value. Now that’s all well and good. Who doesn’t love to point out the flaws of a bad movie or book? There are plenty to choose from.
The real exercise here for us writers hoping to improve our craft, is to not only recognize a story’s problems, but identify ways and methods to make it better. So that’s what we’re going to do. We are going to redesign the Aristocats into something much, much better. And then Disney will want all my ideas to do a live action remake of it and make a bajillion dollars. They are welcome to call me. Here we go.
Let’s start with Duchess. She’s flawless. Her owner is wealthy. Looks beautiful. Acts beautiful. So well-mannered, and oh, so boring. She needs flaws and conflict in her life to be relatable and give her character room to grow. This is easy. She’s going to come across alley cats. So, she hates alley cats. They smell. They’re rude. They’re filthy. They’re a bad influence on her kids. Give us a 15-second scene where her owner Madame is out on the town walking them in a buggy and they pass an alley full of cats in the trash. Duchess scoffs and knows she is better than them. Innocent Marie asks “What are they doing in the trash, Mama?” Duchess responds with disgust. “Who knows? We don’t associate with the likes of alley cats.” And she diverts the children’s attention to something clean and shiny and more Aristocattish. That’s as much setup as we need (in a children’s animated movie) to set the stage for her encounter with Thomas O’Malley and the jazz cats later. Instant 1/2 star rating improvement for 15 seconds of screen time.
And since the Elixir at the end of the story is that Thomas comes to join the Aristocats’ family after they make it home, setting her up that way is an absolute must. If you want to make her even better, use the actions of her kids to break down Duchess’ perfect world over time, and teach her the value of finding value in everyone (in other words, the alley cats and Thomas). They do half the necessary set up already. At the start, Duchess is teaching her kids manners, painting, music, and proper etiquette at the table – er, dish of cream, but the kittens are reluctant to comply – barely. Ramp up that conflict a bit and it would be a great setup. As they go through the story, the kids, now exposed to the big bad world, and finding enjoyment in things that the hunting dogs, geese, and alley cats do, wonder why as Aristocats they too can’t enjoy those same things at home. Through her children’s eyes, Duchess starts to see that value, and as they make their way home, comes around to Thomas as a person (cat). As Thomas joining the family is the Elixir at the end, there needs to be some element of Duchess’ life that he fulfills. Maybe she can’t get the kids to practice on their own and has to sit down with them for their music session. Maybe she wants to have a career and is obligated to be at home taking care of the kids instead. Maybe they lack worldly wisdom, despite her teachings (this is best as it mirrors what Thomas and the alley cats will teach them). Extra credit if the problems with the children cause friction with Madame (maybe she takes the kittens’ bows away for bad behavior). The addition of Thomas at the end has to resolve some issue of hers at the beginning. Another 1/2 star improvement.
In the movie there’s just a hint of love story there between Thomas and Duchess. Only the faintest wisps. So we need to identify a flaw in the Aristocats’ existing world that the love story will resolve to give it some legs. Easy again, and it’s given like three seconds of service right when the Aristocats meet Thomas when one of the kittens says they’ll never have a father. So let’s set that up by identifying that wound earlier in their ordinary world with one of the kittens saying “I wish we had a father” when Duchess is tied up with a photoshoot or something with Madame, and the kids are bored with nothing to do. Duchess hears it and feels the internal pain of that lack. Now, when tom cat Thomas (be more creative with your names, yo) enters their life and gets friendly with Duchess, but shies away from her when he learns she has three kittens, the conflict is there for the audience when Thomas is being ne’er-do-well O’Malley the alley cat. He’s a free spirit. He doesn’t want responsibility. He’s not the correct puzzle piece for Duchess. Conflict! Character depth! Add another 1/2 star rating.
Now let’s fix Thomas for a moment. In the movie, he’s all say one thing, and do another. We’re told to believe he’s an irresponsible rapscallion alley cat (telling), when in fact in action, he’s responsible, protective, and heroic (showing). Which is fine for his true character. But those qualities have to have a chance to be pulled through the hardened exterior blanket of indifference and self-centeredness, earned through a hard life of alley catting.
After Edgar dumps the kitty basket into the farmland river and the Aristocats find themselves lost, in walks O’Malley. In the movie, he saves the day. That’s no good. He’s not the protagonist of this story. He’s an Ally for the Aristocats. So let’s make them find him. They get out of the river and start walking down the path. And through their choice and initiative, they come across Thomas. Here’s a good spot for Duchess to still be Duchess and react with disgust at Thomas. He’s lazing about like an alley cat would. Fish bones on the ground. Fur unclean. Still, they’re lost, so (with encouragement from the kids) Duchess asks for help. He refuses. Duchess quickly accepts the answer and turns the kittens to the path to keep going. Thomas lets them walk for a moment, but then asks where they were going. “Paris,” Duchess responds. “Paris is thattaway,” Thomas says with a grin, pointing in the opposite direction. This simple, unexpected kind gesture by an alley cat surprises Duchess, and we see the first crack in her ordinary world impression of alley cats. Growth! Add another 1/2 star.
We need to toss a second call to adventure to Thomas since he’s already refused his first (and yes, side characters with their own character arcs – and Thomas is gonna get one – can follow their own Heroic Journeys). This is a fine point for feisty kitten Toulouse to ask Thomas to teach him how to be an alley cat. This amuses Thomas and draws him in, and provides one of those conflict points for Duchess as her kids choices on the adventure start to pull conflict strings on her impression of alley cat life. We need some throwaway comment that he’ll come along, so long as he doesn’t get stuck in any dark or tight spaces. We’ll take advantage of that claustrophobia later.
Duchess needs to make a choice here to allow Thomas to engage with Toulouse, but she does so reluctantly in order to get O’Malley to come along. What Thomas talks to Toulouse and the other kittens about though is unexpected. Independence, freedom, self-reliance, standing up for yourself, and the pursuit of happiness. Good qualities. Not expected of an alley cat. That’s great. Now add some conflict. Duchess warms to Thomas a little more. Thomas, sensing the growing affection from the family and the approach of responsibility, backs off and instead of continuing, hastily takes off, advising the family to keep on the same path and they’ll make it home in no time. Changes in momentum! Another 1/2 star, and we’re just getting going.
Conveniently, this is where they cross the railway bridge. Marie falls into the river, and Thomas (still keeping a remote eye on the Aristocats) rescues her. Now we’ve seen a hint of the real Thomas, breaking through the façade of alley cat O’Malley.
Let’s assume the Gabble Girls geese have rescued Thomas, adding the necessary comic relief. We need to provide some agency now to Duchess to make another choice that helps the group get back to Paris. Time to give her a Test. Maybe she can take advantage of her privilege and read signposts where the rest can’t, so she guides the group with her knowledge over Thomas’ instincts (which can cause some enjoyable friction between them, and may make Duchess second-guess her growing affection for Thomas). Character conflict? You don’t say!
The encounter with the jazztastic alley cats is a perfect Ordeal moment for Duchess, as they will completely pull the kids away from their Aristocatic bearing, letting them improvise, dance, and have fun with abandon and unexpectedly shed that behavior that was vexing Duchess in the beginning. In doing so, the kids yank at conflict strings on Duchess, breaking down that prejudice she has against alley cats. To the point where she herself, all prim and proper, starts to let loose. She and Tom dance, laugh, and escape for a private moment on the rooftop, which actually happens in the movie (but without the earlier set up, it’s just not that effective). The two get close. Duchess and Thomas are about to admit their feelings for each other and touch noses or do whatever it is that cats do. Then from below, one of the now-sleepy kittens asks “Where is Madame?” and Duchess is drawn back in to her old world. Madame would never accept an alley cat. She rejects Thomas, and fails in the Ordeal. Structure! Choices! Another 1/2 star.
So what are we building up to? A final choice that helps earn Duchess her reward.
Duchess gets the kittens back to Manor Madame, much to their owner’s delight, and Edgar’s chagrin. This completes the Road Back segment of the Hero’s Journey, but the entire external journey is not yet finished. Edgar makes another grab for the cats, intending to send them to Timbuktu. Since he’s a bumbling butler, he will have missed Duchess. This is absolutely critical, as she needs to take action to save the day and earn her reward. If we’re doing things absolutely right, Thomas is unintentionally caught in her stead, so she ends up having to save him too. Remember that throwaway claustrophobia we gave him? Not so throwaway now. He flips, stressing the kittens, and ramping up the tension.
Small aside here: I am more or less eliminating Roquefort and Frou Frou from the plot. They’re darlings that should have been cut. They can exist as cute worldbuilding extras, but we don’t let our heroes be rescued in the climax by side characters.
Ah, but don’t the alley cats come in to save the day too? Yes. But here’s the difference. Duchess will choose to go get their help. She’ll have the choice of seeking out Madame (and her old life) and whatever assistance the slow old lady can muster, or racing back to Chateau d’O’Malley to get the jazz cats, because she 1) knows they’re the right people/cats for the job, and 2) has accepted them as worthwhile people and that her prior prejudice against them was wrong. We’ve grown. We’ve made a choice. Now, let’s save the kittens! Another 1/2 star here.
Having cut Roquefort and Frou Frou from the festivities, we’ve lost a lot of the comic buffoonery of the stable setting where the climax takes place. Yet, we already have a ready, and dare I say, better and more fitting, replacement. Duchess has brought the alley cats. They meet up with Edgar in the alley where he’s waiting with the trunk holding the napped kittens and Thomas. How are Duchess and the alley cats to defeat the villain? Use what they have. The instruments. The final sacrifice in the Resurrection is the alley cats’ beloved jazz. A guitar string picks the lock. A drumstick through the shoelaces trips up the villain. And quickly, to wrap up Thomas’ arc, he needs to make a final choice here. Edgar is down and the trunk is opened. Thomas is free and still freaking out from his confinement in the trunk. He sees an opportunity to escape and get back to his old life. But he stays with the kittens (and Duchess). He makes the responsible choice, as we knew he would.
And after many blows to the cranium to the tune of a trumpet, drums, cymbals, guitar, and perhaps even a piano (which Duchess and Thomas both help to drop), Edgar is thwarted. He tumbles into the trunk and is carted away to Timbuktu.
Now to reward the heroes. This will be fun for the audience, and so much more fitting, given the journey the cats have been through. There are so many here we need a list (and some of these do happen in the movie, but aren’t earned like we just made the protagonist do).
Duchess and Thomas admit their mutual feelings.
Madame, having seen the battle, strikes Edgar from her will.
Madame recognizes the kittens’ improved behavior. She gives them their bows back, new and sparkling.
Madame takes a shining to Thomas and says she’s always liked the idea of a man about the house (making flirty eye winks to the old lawyer who’s been helping with the will).
Madame replaces the jazz cats’ instruments and creates a foundation for alley cats.
Thomas joins the family, giving the kittens the father figure they wanted and Duchess a companion she lacked.
Add a full star rating for the resolution.
So there you have it. We’ve turned a 1 out of five 5 stars mess in to a 5-and-a-half stars masterpiece of a story. Wasn’t that hard, was it? I’ll be waiting for that call, Disney.
Warning: spoilers ahead!Note: I will also presume you’ve read the previous entry in this series, so if you haven’t, go do that first.
For this installment of my dissection of No Time to Die, we will discuss killing off side characters as a motivational tool for our heroes. Typically this is done in one of three places:
Before the hero has crossed the threshold. The death(s) provide the necessary motivation for the hero to begin the journey. Classic example here is in Star Wars Episode IV. Luke has refused Obi-Wan’s call to adventure (join the Rebellion). He returns to his farm to find Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru murdered by the Empire. Motivation is gained, he agrees to join the Rebellion, and crosses the threshold.
During Trials, Allies, and Enemies or in the Ordeal. Typically a side character’s death here helps the hero (and audience) realize how deadly the antagonist is. In Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring, Gandalf sacrifices himself to stop the Balrog, and allow Frodo and friends to escape the Ordeal of the Mines of Moria. This gives them the chance to regroup (Road Back) and prepare for the final fight (against the Uruk-hai). Frodo is emotionally wounded by the loss of his friend and mentor and is taught a valuable lesson in his fight against the evils of Mordor.
During the Resurrection. Here, side character deaths close subplots, expose the true villainy of the antagonist to give the hero the last bit of oomph to triumph over evil, and (intentionally) traumatize the reader/audience to deepen the emotional impact of the climax. Remember the final battle in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows? JK Rowling kills off scores of beloved side characters to deepen the emotional resolution of her story. I’m still mad.
In all three, a side character’s death serves to motivate the hero. Get off their butt. Get better prepared to face the villain. Finish the fight, or else the world will end. All common, all useful. Apply directly to the forehead.
So let’s examine what the heck the writers of No Time to Die were thinking when they killed off Jeffrey Wright’s Felix Leiter.
Recall that Bond was pulled out of retirement by Leiter (in a Mentor role) to case a big party that Spectre was having, conveniently not far from Bond’s home. Things go south. Spectre thinks they’re killing Bond in a grand spectacle. They all die instead. Let’s continue.
As Bond is attempting to ascertain how the Spectre party went from his funeral to Spectre’s, he makes off with Spectre’s bumbling scientist Obruchev and steals the new 007’s plane to meet back up with Leiter.
Bond has just come through an intense firefight, exchanged unpleasantries with his MI6 double-0 replacement, and was totally shown up by Ana de Armas’ wickedly fun spy Paloma (she needed way more screen time!). He’s got scores of dead Spectre big wigs at his feet, the snivelling Obruchev by the collar, and some mysterious and way deadly viral agent in a briefcase. Does he need any more motivation to join the journey?
Nope. He’s in. As the plane is in the air approaching Leiter’s fishing boat hideout, Bond’s chest is heaving, his adrenaline is coursing, and he is fully committed to the adventure. He has crossed the threshold.
But moments after Bond meets up with Leiter and presents Obruchev, Leiter’s CIA tagalong, Logan Ash, reveals the turn of his coat and begins shooting. Not a big surprise. Leiter is mortally wounded. Ash absconds with Obruchev and the plane, locks Bond and Leiter inside the boat, and leaves a bomb. Bomb blows, boat sinks, and Bond narrowly escapes with his life (via conveniently available life raft) and the trauma of seeing his friend die.
Well, okay. So that’s a checkmark for Trials, Allies, and Enemies, right?
As my daughter likes to say, “Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!”
Bond doesn’t need to learn how deadly his foe is. Whoever it is just murdered the entirety of Spectre. Yes, this moment teaches Bond and the audience whose side Logan Ash is on, but come on. We knew he was bad the moment we saw that stupid grin on his face. Any time there are two CIA agents involved in the plot, one will end up being a bad guy. It’s a Hollywood staple.
More critically, we need to look at the Hero’s Journey when lined up with the classic Three-Act Structure. The point where the hero crosses the threshold happens when the story moves from Act I to Act II. And that doesn’t happen until after the boat sinks. Why not? Because story beat wise, we’re still wrapping up the Spectre party and firefight afterwards. Yes, the boat is a new scene, but it is the last step in the Spectre party’s sequence of events, and is thusly the final scene of Act I.
Which means structurally, Leiter’s death is supposed to be the final motivating piece to get Bond off his old duff and off to adventureland. And as that, it is 2000% unnecessary. Bond is already there. All the death serves to do is traumatize Bond and the audience. And that’s no fun. Character deaths (at least the ones we care about) should matter both emotionally (easy), and structurally (harder). In the Song of Fire and Ice series (Game of Thrones), it’s okay for George R. R. Martin to off randos with familiar names at regular intervals, because he has a ton to pick from, but more importantly we don’t really care about Ser What’s-his-name-from-three-scenes-ago. The deaths of important characters we care about happen, but less frequently, and with absolute impact to character development. Ned Stark? Mattered to the Starks and served as series-long motivation for Sansa, feeding into Littlefinger’s ultimate comeuppance. Red Wedding? Mattered to Arya who trained to exact sweet, sweet revenge against Walder Frey. Perfect.
Felix Leiter in No Time to Die? Didn’t matter to the hero (motivationally), because he was already on his way to adventure. That sauce is weak, my friends.
So let’s take a look at another 007 film and see where they used Leiter correctly as a motivational tool for Bond.
There’s a special place in my heart for the two Timothy Dalton 007 outings, The Living Daylights and License to Kill. These were the first Bonds I got to see in the theater, and as such, my young mind was expanded to the possibilities of choosing spy as a career. (Spoiler, I didn’t go that route). They had my impressionable teenage mind all aflutter.
I love, love, love The Living Daylights for a handful of reasons which I’ll save for future posts. But it is in Dalton’s second turn, License to Kill, where they use his old friend Felix Leiter to spur Bond into action.
The movie opens with Leiter and Bond on the way to Leiter’s wedding, suddenly called in to assist the DEA in an attempt to capture drug kingpin Sanchez before he leaves US airspace. One thrilling helicopter/airplane chase later, the baddie is snagged, and the two friends parachute (in their tuxedos) right into Leiter’s wedding. Fantastic opening. Full of classic Bondness.
Bond is in America in the Florida Keys for the wedding, so is comedically referred to during this sequence as strictly an observer, but he’s the one to jump out of the helicopter to tie a cable to the tail of Sanchez’s plane. At this point, he’s just helping his friend (Bond is Leiter’s best man at the wedding). He is only superficially aware of the threat that Sanchez poses, through what he gleans from Leiter and the DEA on the lead-in to the chase.
Sanchez quickly escapes (of course) with the help of a local DEA stooge (of course). His lackeys kidnap Leiter and kill his bride Stella. Leiter is strung up and fed to a shark, then left for dead for Bond to find. Here, Bond is taught the true villainy of the antagonist. Leiter survives with grievous wounds and is out of commission. The DEA is unwilling to operate outside of US jurisdiction, so it is left to Bond to pick up the fight. And cross the threshold he does. Begin Act II.
Simple, brutal, and very, very effective. And oh, what that shark scene did to me as a young teen! I hadn’t seen Jaws yet. Yes, Bond and the audience are traumatized appropriately, but it is done in the correct order with respect to the Hero’s Journey and Three-Act Structure and provides motivation for Bond exactly at the right time. They didn’t kill Leiter here, but they certainly could have and the character’s impact on Bond (and the film) would have been even stronger for it.
Bonus points! They also tied that motivation throughout the rest of the movie, as not only does Bond get revenge against the locals that helped Sanchez escape the DEA, he ultimately stops the bad guy in the end by setting him on fire with the gift he received from Felix and Stella at the wedding. That’s hot sauce!
Suffice it to say, I was not a fan of Leiter’s death in No Time to Die. Primarily because of how they did it (see above), but two, I like the character (throughout the Bonds), and three, I love Wright as an actor (hello, Westworld). Now I think they actually elected to kill off Leiter since Bond dies at the end of the film (also intentional). By clearing out all the ties to the old Bondiverse, it gives Amazon (who now owns the lion’s share of MGM (hah)) a clear path to carve out a new Bondiverse that fits in their plans for world domination. All Jeff Bezos needs is a damaged eye and a fluffy white cat and he’d fit right in as the next Blofeld. He’s already been to space, what else is there to accomplish?
For my inaugural posts on Building Worlds, I’m going to discuss the thoroughly entertaining, yet developmentally flawed film, No Time to Die, featuring everyone’s favorite British spy, James Bond. The legendary 007. Be warned, there will be spoilers. Many, many spoilers.
In fact, I’m going to be spoiling stuff almost straight off the bat, so if you haven’t seen the movie and want to do so without knowing what’s coming, then perhaps wait to read any further until you’ve hit your local theater.
You’ve been warned…
Alright, let’s get to it.
We’re going to talk about the force of antagonism in this post, which features prominently in several key steps along the Hero’s Journey. If you don’t set it up right, the story won’t feel right, and the payoff in the climax isn’t nearly as satisfying.
This past weekend I watched No Time to Die in the theater. Daniel Craig’s final turn as the incomparable James Bond. Now I haven’t gone back and watched all the 007 films since becoming an acolyte of the Hero’s Journey (yes, a teacher actually called me that), but even with my hazy memory, I can say with complete certainty that none of the Bond films are perfect examples of the Journey. Some are good to great (Casino Royale), others not so much (Quantum of Solace). No Time to Die probably falls in the latter category.
But, don’t fret! Like all Bond movies, No Time to Die is still a wild, entertaining ride. In fact, in Craig’s final spin through Bondland, they made some very fun nods to previous entries in the films, including possibly my most favorite 007 moment ever when during a very tense moment, they snuck in the theme music from On Her Majesty’s Secret Service (an instrumental track), which is one of my favorite opening pieces of the entire bunch. They also made use of my favorite Aston Martin, the ’87 Vantage.
Have you ever read a book, or listened to one, or watched a movie and somewhere between a third to halfway through something doesn’t feel right? Kinda hard to put your finger on, but something’s missing? Well, I got that feeling in No Time to Die, but there was no confusion why.
The relationship between the hero and the antagonistic force (the villain) has to be well established early on, so that the stakes the hero is fighting for matter to the hero in the end. Optimally, this is done at both an external (save the world) and internal (overcome some personal problem) level.
While Spectre (the film) was probably my least favorite of the five Craig Bonds (still good), the internal and external connections to the force of antagonism (Blofeld) are well established. Spectre wants to control the world, and Bond has a personal history with Blofeld. However halfway through No Time to Die, the external antagonist is nebulous (to Bond), and the internal antagonist is practically non-existent. Part of this is, I think, intentional as the writers pull a number of bait-and-switch moves on the audience. Probably to keep us surprised and guessing, but the result isn’t as satisfying as I suspect they had hoped.
Major spoilers ahead. Seriously, last chance.
Early on in the movie, the threat of evil organization Spectre looms. Bond is summoned out of retirement by old friend and CIA agent Felix Leiter (the great Jeffrey Wright) to case a party of Spectre big wigs. Turns out it was a trap to lure Bond to his death (via a DNA-linked form of smallpox macguffin), but the tables are turned and the DNA weapon targets every Spectre agent instead. In moments, the huge evil organization that has clouded the entirety of Craig’s 007 run, as well as a number of older Bond films, is wiped out. In seconds. Yeah, they did that. Shock value: high. Story structure development: net negative.
The only remaining Spectre agent alive is Blofeld (Christoph Waltz) himself, still in the max security prison that Bond put him in at the end of Spectre (the film). He’s had a bionic eye implanted and was using that to spy on the proceedings at the party. Okay, so Blofeld is the big baddie, right? And him wiping out his Spectre buddies is just more example of his evil genius, right? No. Blofeld is soon killed via the same DNA weapon (accidentally by Bond) and is out of the picture. Well now what? Somewhere out there is a nameless, unknown uber-villain, evidently worse and more evil than the legendary Blofeld and Spectre. Surely Bond and MI6 know who it is, right?
Nope.
Ambiguity is fine when the clues are fairly presented and it is part of the character’s development that they haven’t figured things out yet. But the intelligence agency is left scratching their heads with only one nonsensical lead from the Spectre massacre. It feels off, because the audience already knows who the big bad is (by process of elimination, side-character scenes, and order of names in the opening credits), and by this point, a third of the way through, the hero should too. It is Remi Malek’s Safin, with whom Bond has absolutely zero connection. Who does? Bond’s ex, Madeleine (Lea Seydoux). Her father (a Spectre agent) killed Safin’s family when she was a child. Safin comes back for revenge, kills the mother and is about to off Madeleine (via drowning in a frozen river), but decides to save her instead. Traumatic past sounds like the great makings of an internal antagonist, right?
Except it’s not Bond’s! Madeleine suffers greatly from this wound, and if she was the one to triumph over Safin in the end (while Bond stops the weapons from deploying), it would have been immensely gratifying for her (underdeveloped) character arc, and the audience. But, she’s sent off to safety while Bond fights both internal and external fights. His triumph over Safin in the end (because of course, he wins) does save the world, but it provides exactly zero satisfaction of the internal character arc because Bond wasn’t ever connected to Safin except through Madeleine (which she only loosely explains to Bond about two hours in). It doesn’t change Bond, it doesn’t help him grow or get over something he was lacking. It certainly motivates him to defeat Safin, but that’s external, and he already had saving the world as motivation. If he does that, Madeleine gets saved too, so no extra credit there.
And they were so close! Right at the beginning of the film, Bond and Madeleine are enjoying life together, and she’s experiencing nightmarish flashbacks of Safin. Instead of sharing their trauma (Bond still struggling to get past Vesper from Casino Royale), they play coy with their secrets (setting up a lack of trust for Bond ultimately ending their relationship after Spectre blows up Vesper’s tomb when Bond visits). Insead, if Madeleine’s trauma had been revealed and shared, Bond could have gone through the longing for Madeleine (despite dumping her, he never gets over her and they get back together later on for a bit), filtered with analysis of her trauma from Safin. It could have become much more personal for him and would have healed the internal relationship wound he inflicted upon himself in the opening vignette of the film. This would have been even more impactful if Safin had been the one to blow up Vesper’s tomb, providing some personal connection to Bond as well.
So let’s talk antagonists in general for a second. Well-done stories include character arcs for the villain too. The very best will have an arc that nearly mirrors the hero’s, but ultimately results in a different choice being made and a villainous downfall as the hero triumphs. In Madeleine’s flashback, we are informed that Safin’s family is killed by Spectre. He wants revenge. We first see him already in this state. This is telling, not showing. It is telling the audience the antagonist’s motivation, and it’s done in mere seconds. Within the early minutes of the movie, the villain’s growth is done. From the point where he saves Madeleine from drowning in the icy river onward, he’s the same one-note creepy bad dude.
And sure, good triumphs over evil in the end. We’re glad he loses. But it could have been so much better.
Let’s go back to blowing up the tomb. As presented, it would have made no sense for Safin to have been the person to perpetrate that. But let’s make it make sense, and improve his connection to Bond. What if Safin never knew who killed his family? This eliminates his connection to Madeleine, but honestly we don’t need that. Safin can antagonize Madeleine and her daughter later on in the film, and it would still make sense for his relationship to Bond.
How to build a better villain? Make us sympathize with them a little! After his family was killed by Spectre, Safin could have been adopted by Spectre (jerks, right?) and unwittingly indoctrinated by his family’s murderers. His development as an uber-villain under the auspices of Spectre would make sense, and seem ‘connected’ to the Bondiverse. While in Spectre he would be aware of Bond’s threat and have 007 on his radar. He could have been jealous of Blofeld having a pseudo-brother in Bond. He could have been competitive with Blofeld. Safin, in his own professional dealings as an adult, could have uncovered Spectre’s involvement in killing his family, and thus begins plotting his exit from Spectre and future horrible revenge. Now if he’s the one blowing up Vesper’s tomb (because it is the first step in his grand scheme to bring down Spectre), it connects him to Bond, and opens an internal wound for Bond to close when he blames Madeleine for luring him to Spectre’s trap and it was later revealed to be Safin’s solo work.
Now in fairness, doing all of that would probably take upwards of 10-15 minutes of screen time to accomplish, add a handful of additional actors, speaking roles, sets, and locations, and at 2 hrs 43 mins, the movie is already very long. I can easily see why the studio might give the villain less attention. But I argue that spending that time in the opening moments developing the actual villain, instead of investing it in a thrilling (but developmentally unimpactful) Italian rooftop motorcycle chase (and ultimately leading the audience down the path of a false quest), would have made for a much more satisfying conclusion to the Craig Bond era.
Come back next time when I discuss killing off side characters. Thanks for reading! M
Thanks for visiting my new blog. This here is my very first post. Many more to come…
In many of my posts on Building Worlds Blog I will be reviewing parts of movies or books (well, audiobooks probably), and presenting my thoughts on how well those stories line up with the established path of the Hero’s Journey.
“What’s the Hero’s Journey?” you ask? Get thee to Google, my friend, and look it up. Better yet, go get a copy of The Writer’s Journey by Vogler and enjoy. No time for that? Well, okay, I’ll distill it for you. The Hero’s Journey is a twelve-step pattern that humans have used (quite unintentionally until the Journey was defined) to tell stories. Modern writers of all kinds use it as a guideline to structure their stories. It is a guide, not a requirement. Though, as we are all children of modern media, throughout which the Hero’s Journey is carefully used and hidden, I dare you to write a sensical, and enjoyable, piece of fiction that doesn’t include most of those twelve steps.
I finished the first draft of my first novel before I ever learned about the Hero’s Journey. After taking a class on it and analyzing what I had written, I discovered I had used ten of the twelve steps without even trying, and mostly in the proper order as well. I had also included a number of established character archetypes as well (though we’ll get into those in future blog posts). Seeing the Hero’s Journey laid out in my own work confirmed for me how effective it is as a tool to help writers tell coherent — and entertaining — stories.
Study the Journey enough and you won’t be able to watch, listen to, or read another piece of fiction without analyzing it first, and enjoying it second. So, beware. But, if you really want to be an author, you gotta do it.
Why do it? Well, as an aspiring author, analyzing the structure and success of other stories helps me with crafting my own. With practice, it becomes second nature to identify the various milestones in a story and analyze how effective (or ineffective) they are at the implementation. While adherence to the Hero’s Journey isn’t a requirement to tell a great story, you will use some components of it — it’s impossible not to. And if you get stuck somewhere along your path, it’s a pretty good resource to use to analyze what’s not going right in your manuscript. Plus, it’s kinda fun to break down a movie at a deeper level on the drive home. At least I think it’s fun.
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