I hate to slam my preferred method of expression, but there is just no such thing as the ultimate art form. Film certainly is one of the most popular and the most varied. But that does not make it the ultimate anything. This isn’t Pizza Hut and this isn’t The Ultimate Meat Lover’s Pizza.

Film certainly has a jack-of-all-trades-but-a-master-of-none sensibility. Yet it isn’t as “photography” as photography; isn’t as “music” as music truly is. Just because it incorporates elements from other mediums does not mean that it gets away with stealing its essence—as if the movies were some comic book villain that parasitically absorbed the abilities of its host.

The problem with filmmaking is that no one artist is truly in charge; genuinely, absolutely in charge. Some even dismiss the auteur as an illusion perpetrated by the French (kidding). I say that even if the auteur did exist, they would still not have as much control over their vision as, say, a single painter before a canvas of their own; or as a writer before their own typewriter. The difference is that they can create undisturbed. If Robert McKee was correct in his statement that the screenplay is the only original art in the movies, and that everything else is interpretive of it, then surly this is the biggest drawback of filmmaking as pure art: the artist never has free reign over their own creation.

But even if the artist did have absolute control over their vision, then what must be said about the audience? Movies are victim to the worse spectators of any art form combined. Because it is approached as disposable entertainment, audiences of all kind–any kind–will attend a movie without knowledge of its vision; of its genre or its intentions. Compare this with the audience for classical music or literature: the spectator, the audience, will always have been “initiated” into the medium prior to actively engaging in it. Before they can pursue, they must experience it; and if they pursue, then they must surly like it. Consider even the matter of taste within the mediums: a fan of classical music will know not to attend a Metallica concert, and a fan of Metallica will not readily attend a classic symphony. They know their boundaries, and so the respective artists are free to delegate to a preconceived audience as they see fit.

Not the same with movies. Instead of the artist delegating to the audience, the audience–however oblivious and untrained–will try to delegate to the artist. What you have is not an industry bursting to the brim with uncompromising visions, but rather an industry that tries to peddle to the untrained eye. This is where we get the phrase, “This movie is depressing,” as if the film has violated a contract with the viewer by having them leave with anything less than a smile. They confuse most films for simple entertainment (which indeed should leave you with a smile) rather than for pure art, which can be whatever it wants to be.

There I was in the dark (I like to brainstorm past midnight, the shimmer of the moon on the windowpane), wondering what the heck my story was all about; the confidence I had felt in my heart now sank into the pit of my bowels. All of a sudden I hated my story, and I suspected it was because I was fuzzy on the ending. Because if I was unsure of the ending, the rest of the plotting—the build-up, the expository, the character development—it all rang false. And I was so close to a story, so close to wringing it with my hands and proclaiming it my own.

I resigned myself to bed and read my paperback of Fables, a comic book series. This volume centered on The Arabian Nights. Afterward I looked up ’1001 Nights’ on the Wikipedia of my iPhone. I then read a few of its stories (it is in the public domain and can be accessed on the web). I read one called ‘The Three Apples.’ For being a couple hundred, maybe even a thousand, years old, it was wonderful. Apparently it was the very first murder mystery in recorded history. Here is a snippet, courtesy of Wikipedia:

A fisherman discovers a heavy locked chest along the Tigris river and sells it to the Abbasid Caliph, Harun al-Rashid, who then has the chest broken open only to find inside it the dead body of a young woman who was cut into pieces. Harun orders his vizier, Ja’far ibn Yahya, to solve the crime and find the murderer within three days or else he will have him executed instead.

Already in the first scene there is a mystery and a “ticking clock.” The story goes on to involve three apples, which can be called the runners of the story: an aesthetic element that serves to connect one plot strand to another; without it the story would lose its natural binding. Hence they “run” (appear) throughout the story. These three apples weave together coincidences, plot twists, and ultimately, the true identity of the murderer—all while the reader hopes the vizier Ja’far doesn’t get executed in trying to solve this impossible crime.

While the story alone sobered me up, it was a statement from a famous filmmaker that gave me the insight I needed. A common theme of The Arabian Nights is that of fate and destiny, and filmmaker Pier Paolo Pasolini had this to say when adapting it into a film:

“Every tale in The Thousand and One Nights begins with an ‘appearance of destiny’ which manifests itself through an anomaly, and one anomaly always generates another. So a chain of anomalies is set up. And the more logical, tightly knit, essential this chain is, the more beautiful the tale. By “beautiful” I mean vital, absorbing, and exhilarating. The chain of anomalies always tends to lead back to normality. The end of every tale consists of a ‘disappearance of destiny,’ which sinks back to the somnolence of daily life… The protagonist of the stories is in fact destiny itself.”

Ah-ha! An appearance of destiny that manifests itself through an anomaly. In screenwriter-speak this is referred to as the Inciting Incident. But with ’1001 Nights’, the inciting incident becomes something so much more specific; and this specificity is what gave me the sobriety I needed to overcome my writer’s block—better than a cold shower and black coffee combined.

Lets break down this information, dissect it.

1. It is vital that the anomaly affect the protagonist directly. In the case of The Three Apples, it is the discovery of the dead woman in the chest. The vizier’s destiny is to bring the murderer to justice.

2. The first anomaly will not need to make perfect sense. It will unravel itself through the anomalies that proceed it. This is called the plot.

3. The anomaly will take on a cohesion of purpose; it cannot be perceived as entirely random. Through the proceeding anomalies, it should become clear that “destiny” is leading the protagonist (or antagonist) in a clear, but unforeseen, direction.

4. This sudden semblance of meaning, which was vague at the beginning, will solidify and give the story purpose.

5. By the end, the plot will fit together in an obvious manner as to banish any idea that destiny alone had a hand in it. Everything does, in fact, make logical sense; it just didn’t seem like it at the time. All along the protagonist was master of his or her own destiny.

Tip number five is absolutely essential in creating a twist ending. And yet I suspect that all endings end this way, because most endings strive to be unpredictable. A twist ending simply takes this principle to the extreme. Tip number four is the “beauty” of the story that Pasolini was referring to; when the plot strands snap together before the viewer’s eyes. It is embedded in human nature to try to make sense out of patterns, and we take delight in a story when it weaves together in a way that we did not foresee. But I am getting ahead of myself.

What banished my writer’s block, and what I think will help you banish your writer’s block, is this notion of destiny, which is like a guide rail for the writer: it will take you safely through your story from beginning to end.

“The Arabian Nights” amplifies an important trait of storytelling: the correlation of events. This miraculous chain of events is sparked by a singular event that at first seemed inconsequential to the story’s outcome. But nothing in traditional storytelling is random; little by little events contribute to the outcome of the ending; thus the events are said to be correlated. In real life, when a series of events seem to be correlated, we would label that fate or destiny. Without that correlation, we would perceive each event as an isolated moment—a solitary vignette that means nothing. (as an aside, our vain attempt to make sense out of unrelated events is what makes the films of David Lynch so interesting)

Here is a story that relies on correlation:

A grumpy businessman sees a shaggy dog on his lawn. He shoos it away.

We learn that he does not have much family.

He is then informed that his estranged younger brother died in an accident five years ago. He feels no remorse.

The dog returns, wagging its tail. The man grows irritated.

He calls the pound. They take the dog away to be put to sleep.

The man learns that his brother was a devout Buddhist; he believed in reincarnation.

Curious, the man calls the pound. He discovers that a family “took the dog back” to their home in another state.

He realizes that the dog traveled hundreds of miles to be on his lawn.

After digging through records, he finds out that his brother died in that particular town.

The man feels regret for not taking the dog in, yet he cannot explain why.

This is a story I made up just now. Regardless of its quality, each event is correlated. It begins with a random anomaly (dog shows up on lawn) and goes through a chain of anomalies that intensifies the purpose of the narrative (dog symbolizes his brother). Without this notion of destiny, the “point” of the story would be lost. It can be said that the destiny of the protagonist in the above example is to reconnect with his estranged brother, a task that he fails to notice due to a lack of imagination. Whether or not he (or the viewer) believes in the act of reincarnation is beside the point. It is implied within the context of the story thanks to the correlation of the scenes. What we are left with is a clear idea of who this man is: defeated, lonesome, and without hope of a livelier existence. The ultimate point of the story is to highlight this fact.

So if you have trouble with your story, try placing the plot on a guide rail; steer your protagonist in a predetermined direction. You could think in terms of “theme” and “message,” but those are awfully vague terms that tend to sidestep character altogether. What “The Arabian Nights” does so well is rephrase those loose screenwriter’s terms into a much more holistic specificity. And that specificity is called Destiny. Read more »