Alec Nevala-Lee

Thoughts on art, creativity, and the writing life.

Posts Tagged ‘Some Like It Hot

“There’s something we need to talk about…”

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"There's something we need to talk about..."

Note: This post is the fifty-first installment in my author’s commentary for Eternal Empire, covering Chapter 50. You can read the previous installments here.

Suspense is usually the most linear of genres, but a lot of thrillers include exactly one flashback. You know the one I mean: it comes near the end, just after the big twist, to explain precisely how you were fooled. In a heist movie, it frequently involves the revelation that the plan you thought the protagonists were following was actually something else entirely, and in films that are heavily dependent on fridge logic, it can reveal that much of the movie you believed you were watching was really an elaborate mislead. At its best, as with the unforgettable flashback that occurs two-thirds of the way through Vertigo, it can singlehandedly justify the whole concept of flashbacks in general; at its worst, in a movie like Now You See Me, it can leave you asking why you bothered taking any interest in the plot at all. And these reveals seem to be becoming more common, as the need to find new variations on old surprises has caused such plots to become ever more convoluted and implausible. (We’re at a point now where a single flashback scene isn’t enough: we’re treated to entire flashback montages, replaying what seems like half of the movie from a different point of view. When handled well, as in The Illusionist, this sort of thing can be delightful, but it can also leave a viewer feeling that the film hasn’t played fair with its obligation to mislead us with what it shows, rather than what it omits.)

This sort of flashback is obviously designed to save a surprise for the end of the movie, which is where we’ve been conditioned to expect it—even if some violence has to be done to the fabric of the narrative to put the reveal in the last ten minutes, instead of where it naturally occurred. This isn’t a new strategy. Jack Woodford, the pulp writer whose instructional book Trial and Error was carefully studied by Robert A. Heinlein, thought that all stories should end with a punch ending, and he offered a very useful tip on how to artificially create one:

A good way to do this is to go ahead and end it with the usual driveling collection of super-climaxes, anti-climaxes and what not that amateurs end stories with, and then go over it, find where the punch ending is, rework the ending so that the anti-climaxes, if there is anything in them at all that really needs to be told, come before the final crux ending.

This is why so many stories contrive to withhold crucial information until the point where it carries the most impact, even if it doesn’t quite play fair. (You frequently see this in the early novels of Frederick Forsyth, like The Odessa File or The Dogs of War, which leave out a key element of the protagonist’s motivation, only to reveal it at the climax or on the very last page. It’s such a good trick that you can almost forgive Forsyth for reusing it three or four times.)

"Let it play out..."

Another advantage to delaying the explanatory scene for as long as possible is that it turns an implausible twist into a fait accompli. I’ve noted before that if there’s a particularly weak point in the story on which the credibility of the plot depends, the best strategy for dealing with it is to act as if has already happened, and to insert any necessary justifications after you’ve presented the situation as blandly as possible. Readers or audiences are more likely to accept a farfetched plot development after it has already been taken for granted. If they had been allowed to watch it unfold from scratch, during the fragile early stages, they would have been more likely to object. (My favorite example is how in the two great American drag comedies, Some Like it Hot and Tootsie, we never see the main characters make the decision to pose as women—we cut to them already in makeup and heels, which mostly prevents us from raising any of the obvious objections.) This explains why the expository flashback, while often ludicrously detailed, rarely shows us the one scene that we really want to see: the conversation in which one character had to explain to the rest what he wanted them to do, and why. Even a classic twist ending like the one in The Sting falls apart when we imagine the characters putting it into words. The act of speaking the plan aloud would only destroy its magic.

I put these principles to good use in Chapter 50 of Eternal Empire, which rewinds the plot slightly to replay a crucial scene in its entirety. Structuring it as a flashback was clearly meant to preserve the surprise, but also to downplay its less plausible angles. For the story to work, Maddy had to reveal herself to Tarkovsky, justify her good intentions, and propose a complicated counterplot, all in the course of a single conversation. I think that the chapter does a decent job of pulling it off, but placing the discussion here, after the effects of the decision have already been revealed, relieves it of some of the weight. The reader is already invested in the premise, simply by reading the events of the preceding chapters, and I hoped that this would carry us past any gaps in the logic. But it’s worth noting that I never actually show the crux of the conversation, in which Maddy spells out the plan she has in mind. Asking a character to fake his death for the sake of some elaborate charade is a scene that can’t possibly play well—which might be why we almost never see it, even though a similar twist seems to lie at the bottom of half of the surprise endings ever written. We don’t hear Maddy telling Tarkovsky what she wants him to do; we just see the results. It’s a form of selective omission that goes a long way toward making it all acceptable. But as the reader will soon discover, the plan hasn’t gone quite as well as they think…

Making the impossible plausible

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Kim Novak and James Stewart in Vertigo

Ideally, all stories should consist of a series of events that arise organically from the characters and their decisions, based on a rigorous understanding of how the world really works. In practice, and especially in genre fiction, it doesn’t always happen that way. Sometimes a writer just has a plot development that he really wants to write, and isn’t entirely sure how to get there from here. Frequently he’ll construct a story out of a number of unrelated ideas, and needs to cobble them together in a way that will seem inevitable after the fact. And sometimes he’ll simply paint himself into a corner, or realize that he’s overlooked a monstrous plot hole, and wants to extricate himself in a way that leaves his dignity—and most of the earlier material—intact. A purist might say that the author should throw the story out and start again, proceeding more honestly from first principles, but a working writer doesn’t always have that luxury. Better, I think, to find a way of keeping the parts that work and smoothing over the connective bits that seem implausible or unconvincing, while keeping the reader immersed in the fictional dream. And in the spirt of faking it until you make it, I offer the following suggestions:

1. Make it a fait accompli. As I’ve mentioned before, a reader is much more likely to accept a farfetched narrative development if the characters take it for granted. Usually, this means putting the weakest link in your story offstage. My favorite example is from Some Like It Hot, an incredibly contrived movie that shrewdly refuses to show the most crucial moment in the entire plot: instead of giving us a scene in which the main characters decide to go on the run in drag, it just cuts to the two of them already in skirts, rushing across the platform to catch a train to Florida. The lesson, clearly, is that if something in your story is obviously impossible, it’s better to pretend that it’s already happened. And the best strategy of all is to push the most implausible element of your story outside the boundaries of the plot itself, so it’s already in place before the story begins, which is what I’ve previously called the anthropic principle of fiction. If the viewer doesn’t see something happen, it requires an additional mental effort to rewind the story to object to it, and by then, the plot and characters have already moved on. It’s best to make like Jack Lemmon in heels, and just run with it.

Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon in Some Like It Hot

2. Tell, don’t show. Normally, we’re trained to depict a turning point in the action as vividly as possible, and are taught that it’s bad form to describe an important moment indirectly or leave it offstage. When it comes to a weak point in the plot, however, that sort of scrutiny can only raise questions. It’s smarter, instead, to break a cardinal rule of fiction and get it out of the way as unobtrusively as possible. An implausible conversation, for instance, might best be rendered as indirect dialogue, leaving readers to fill in a more convincing version themselves. And if you can’t dramatize something in a credible fashion, it might be best to summarize it, in the way dramatists use the arrival of a messenger to convey developments that would be impossible to stage, although it’s best to keep this sort of thing as short as you can. There’s a particularly gorgeous example in the novel The Silence of the Lambs. Thomas Harris shows us Hannibal Lecter’s escape from federal security in loving detail, but when it comes to the most astonishing element of his getaway—the fact that he peels off another man’s face and wears it like a mask—he lets Jack Crawford describe it after the fact in a few terse sentences. It’s still hard to buy, but it’s more acceptable than if he’d allowed us to question the action as it unfolded.

3. Use misdirection. The secret of sleight of hand is that the audience’s eye is naturally drawn to action, humor, and color, allowing the performer to conduct outrageous manipulations in plain sight. Similarly, when a story is engaging enough from moment to moment, the reader is less likely to object to inconsistencies and plot holes. A film like Inception, for instance—which is probably my favorite movie of the last fifteen years—is riddled with logical problems, and even the basic workings of its premise aren’t entirely consistent, but we’re having too much fun to care. In some ways, this is the most important point of all: when a work of art is entertaining, involving, and emotionally true, we’re more likely to forgive the moments when the plot creaks. Some of our greatest books and movies, like Vertigo, are dazzling precisely because they expend a huge amount of effort to convince us of premises that, if the artist proceeded with uncompromising logic, would never make it past a rough draft. Just remember, as Aristotle pointed out, that a convincing impossibility is preferable to an unconvincing possibility, and take it from there.

Written by nevalalee

February 1, 2013 at 9:50 am

Crossdressing, dystopias, and the power of the fait accompli

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Last week, my wife and I watched the classic comedy Some Like It Hot, after she confessed to me that she’d never seen it, or any other movie with Marilyn Monroe. We’d just reached the movie’s first big turning point, crowned by a classic smash cut: Tony Curtis, talking to the manager of an all-girl band on the phone, asks if they still needs a couple of musicians for Florida—and then, without preamble, we cut to our two protagonists in drag, rushing across the platform to catch the train. Turning to me, my wife pointed out that in a modern comedy, we’d inevitably be treated to a montage of the two men changing into women’s clothes, but here, the movie just gets on with it. Which is a good point. And I was even more struck by this when I remembered that the same approach occurs in that other great comedy of sexual panic, Tootsie, which cuts to Dustin Hoffman in drag only a few seconds after the idea first occurs to him. But why?

One obvious answer is that both movies know that we’re well aware of their underlying premise, so there’s no reason to put it off any longer than necessary. But I think something slightly more sophisticated is at play. The fact is, when a farce—or any kind of contrived storyline—depends on the audience accepting a ridiculous premise, it’s best to present it to them as something that has already happened. A scene of Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon changing into skirts would only underline how absurd their entire scheme is, derailing the movie’s momentum just as it was getting started. Instead, the film wisely presents it to us as a fait accompli: here they are, already in heels. As a result, we have no choice to suspend our disbelief and come along for the ride. The same thing applies to many other comedies: they leave a convenient gap in the structure wherever tricky questions might be raised.

This is also true of a genre that seemingly has nothing to do with sexual farce, which is science fiction, especially the dystopian kind. It’s hard to imagine how a future like the one depicted in In Time, to take just one recent example, could have arisen through any kind of reasonable historical process, so a shrewd writer skips the intermediate steps and simply shows us the consequences. Part of this is just good storytelling, but in particular, if your future scenario is especially farfetched, as in Equilibrium, you’re better off giving us as little explanation as possible. This is also why most superhero “origin stories” are so unsatisfying: whatever psychological reality the story possesses is destroyed by showing the main character deciding to put on that costume for the first time. (A well-timed gap can also be used to skate past sticky plot points. My favorite example is that convenient caption from The X-Files: Fight The Future: “Wilkes Land, Antarctica: 48 Hours Later.”)

Presenting the audience with a fait accompli, then, is one of the most effective ways of avoiding problems of fridge logic. Once they’re caught up in the story, viewers or readers are much less likely to question what they didn’t see than what they did: given a blank space in the narrative, they’ll intuitively fill in the gap with an explanation of their own, when they might have objected to whatever you tried to show them, no matter how reasonably presented. I’ve learned this lesson repeatedly in my own fiction, in which I’ve addressed plot points that refused to work simply by pushing them into the background. (There’s actually a great example of this in The Icon Thief, which I’d discuss in greater detail if more than ten people in the world currently had copies.) In the end, if the story works, we don’t need explanations. If you want us to believe the impossible, just cut to it directly.

Written by nevalalee

February 17, 2012 at 10:36 am

The last word

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If asked to name the greatest curtain line in movie history, most critics would probably go with Joe E. Brown’s classic topper in Some Like It Hot, which is a great line, but so famous an example that it nearly ruins the joke itself. Second place would probably go to the last line of Casablanca, which still retains all its magic, even though I’ve heard it close to thirty times. But my own favorite curtain line is from David Mamet’s The Winslow Boy, based on Terence Rattigan’s play, which the charming Gill Fraser Lee has kindly allowed me to discuss at greater length on her Jeremy Northam page.

The closing line of a book can have great power as well. Ever since I was very young, I’ve had an almost superstitious reverence for the last lines of novels: I still take pains to avoid seeing them before I’ve finished the book, and when I reach the final page, I’ll often go so far as to cover the last paragraph with a piece of paper—or my hand—so that my eye doesn’t stray to it by accident. And it’s not surprising that I’ve also thought a great deal about closing lines in my own writing. Tomorrow, I’ll be taking you through a few of my favorite last lines, and, later this week, tackling the even stickier subject of endings in general.

Written by nevalalee

January 10, 2011 at 7:27 am

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