Everyone has already seen everything, it seems. It would be hard to find a person over five who couldn't readily recognize hundreds of stories — whether they be from films, books, comics, games, or TV shows. How do you possibly write something that's fresh (or at least seems fresh) when readers and audiences have so much to compare your story to?
Chaplin recognized this problem. In fact, his advice was due this:
- Put a banana skin on the sidewalk.
- Keep the camera on it long enough for everyone to see and understand the peril it promises.
- Have your character (in this case the Tramp) walk down the sidewalk, and show that.
- Include a shot of the Tramp getting closer and closer to the banana peel.
- The audience fully expects him to slip on that peel and fall.
- So instead, he carefully and deliberately walks around it.
- Just as the audience heaves the sign of relief, the Tramp steps into a manhole.
All the expectations readers and audiences bring to the story you're presenting don't make clichés inevitable. The trick is to reverse expectations.
At the beginning of the pilot for TV's Scandal, it looks like Olivia has been suckered into a blind date. A bar. A man recommended by her friend. His offer to buy her a drink. She doesn't want to be on a blind date. So she tries to get out of it. He tells her it's a job interview. She calls him on it. She has applied for any jobs. He throws out the name of the one person she'd most want to work for, and he's convincing enough so she doesn't let him go away. She lets him buy her a drink. Finally, he admits that this is not a job interview at all. She has the job. She's already hired.
Now, those aren't "Luke, I'm your father," twists, but they break up the rhythm of what could've been a boring first day on the job orientation laden with exposition into moments of charm, fun, conflict, and surprise. Along with exposition.
The movie The Untouchables reverses expectation often. Think of the dying Irish cop (played by Sean Connery), who seems to be reaching for a religious medal in his last moments, but really is offering a key that will lead to taking down his murderer. Or the moment when Scarface's hitman gives himself up, knowing he won't really pay for his crime. Eliot Ness, the ultimate straight arrow, must bring him in and sacrifice true justice (and, honestly, get revenge) because he does not break rules. But, in that moment, rules don't matter to him, and he shoves the villain off the top of the building so he falls to his death.
The Usual Suspects destroys expectations with everything coming clear too late, in the last few minutes -- because the protagonist (and we) haven't looked closely enough. We've fallen for the con.
Of course, we want to fall for the con. That’s one of the key statements in the opening of The Prestige cleverly shows how magic tricks surprise and delight (with winking cooperation fro the audience). Playing with expectations is not a cheat… unless you cheat. So don’t lie. It’s fine to distract, but not to
Provide the right plants. No deus machina.
So, how is it done?
Understand what’s expected. This, of course, is important to avoid rewarming old ideas. But it also is key to have a clear idea about what is in the the minds of readers and audience members.
Usually, just sorting through ideas that come to mind first tells you what people will expect in a scene. But, if you don’t have a mind that immediately comes up with common approaches to what happens next, see if you can remember similar situations in older shows. Chances are some will feel very tired, and those are the ones to hold as likely expectations.
I’ve asked people about less than original choices in drafts they’ve written. Why did you choose this? It felt right. It felt comfortable. That’s what the audience expects.
Once you know what’s expected, find something unexpected. Playing with opposites is good. People expect the villain to be a man? Or the club bouncer? Make that character a woman. Created a cowardly special forces operative. Include a tiny man with a basso profundo voice. Defy gravity like Buster Keaton or Jackie Chan. So find something uncomfortable that works.
A class exercise I use is having people list animals. At least one of these —dog, cat, tigers, pig, cow, etc. — makes everyone’s top ten list. Some people have all of them. Insects sometimes show up in the next ten. Go further and weird stuff happens for most people. And this list approach is pretty reliable for solving story problems, too. Clichés run out.
Without cheating, suggest the expected will happen. That’s like putting the banana peel in plain sight on the sidewalk the Tramp is ambling down. Anything you can do to make people feel smart about sussing out the predictable sets up the surprise of the unexpected.
You may also use other characters to provide reactions to what the scene seems to be building toward. And later, to the surprise.
Reactions can buttress what you’ve created so the reversal is clearer. They can also take a form that is fresh.
Let’s look at an example. In a movie I saw years ago, a kid tried a clever dance step and fell. Good enough for a small laugh (since he didn’t get hurt). The kid swore (the reaction) when it happened. And since this was years ago, I remember the audience gave it a big laugh. They weren’t expecting profanity then. They probably would today.
Unexpected fall. Unexpected profanity. But it wouldn’t work today. So, what if his nice grandma, watching it swore. Would that be unexpected? Especially if she fit the stereotype for grandmas? Maybe. Maybe not in our times. What if she hit the person next to her who laughed at the grandson falling and swearing? Or bit him? Or, for some class, dressed him down with Shakespearean insults.
See if you can push the reactions into an odd space (without violating your story world) even further than the unexpected choice. Make fresh fresher.
So the sequence is identify the expected. Prep for the expected (and the unexpected so you’re playing fair). Reverse the expectation with something novel (but credible). Build in reactions (including fresh reactions.)
A few more thoughts:
Be open to possibilities. Sometimes life gives you a gift. When Guys and Dolls was put on at my son’s high school, the casting was a challenge. Big Jule was supposed to be large and intimidating. The role went to a tiny freshman, and he got the biggest laugh of the show.
Over the top can equal reversal. It might not be surprising if road rage led to a character tearing the windshield wipers off another driver’s car. Or even slashing the tires. Murder happens, yes, so that would be an expected choice. But what if the raging person sets that other drivers car on fire. (Perhaps after apologizing and getting the other driver to step out to shake hands.)
Explore relationships. Even though we all act as part of communities, this is often neglected. At the extreme, good people are goaded into very bad behaviors by friends or in a mob. But this can be simple and elegant. The pilot of Hill Street Blues is standard in many ways, and the conflict between the police captain and the defense attorney was gloves off and unrelenting. In the last scene, the captain is cooling down from a hard day, getting into bed. With the defense attorney. Outside their day jobs, like many of us, they were different. And so was their relationship.
Surprise readers/audiences with who has the power. If we assume someone is the boss, and we’re wrong, it can be a big shock and force a reevaluation of the scene(s).
Make the familiar unfamiliar (and vice versa). SF revels in this. “The door dilated.” (Heinlein’s story Beyond the Horizon)
There are many more ways to play with expectations. Beyond feeling fresh, it can break the spell of thinking we already know and see everything. It can make a moment, a scene, and even a story memorable. It can be revealing, helping people observe life more closely or empathetically. And it can just be fun.
John Ritter starred in a short-lived series called Hooperman. The character was beset with everyday problems, and the first scene has him in a shower, his face full of shampoo… when the water stops. He’s stuck. Maybe he can get away with toweling most of it away. Instead, he steps out of the shower, pulls the lid off the toiled tank, and dunks his head in. Problem solved.
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