The Difference Between A Good Guy And A Protagonist

I’ve always thought that the most realistic antagonists are convinced they’re not being bad. They honestly believe that what they’re doing is right. 

How else can you explain the despicable shit my ex-wife pulled during our divorce?

So when it comes to a story where a protagonist confronts an antagonist, it only makes sense that a legitimate argument can be made to root for either character. 

The trick is in the telling. And just the other day I stumbled onto a wonderful example. It’s by J. Matthew Turner and wow, is it a lesson in perspective. 

A movie that's full of drumming and utterly devoid of sex, and that's where the parallel with my high school years ends.

You know what’s cool about being in the DGA? Christmas. This time of year I get screeners for a ton of movies that are hoping to be considered for awards. 

I know, right?

A couple of nights ago I dropped Whiplash into the DVD player. It's a story about a young musical student (played by Miles Teller) and his relationship with an abusive teacher (played by JK Simmons, who must have had a blast with the role because he gets to be a completely glorious asshole).

The fact that I’m singling out this movie might lead you to believe that this is an attempt to influence the voting. Nope. A lot of good films came out this year and I’m going to leave it to the Academy to decide whether Whiplash happens to be the best of them.

The reason I’m bringing it up is because it does something I’ve never seen before. Both the protagonist and the antagonist are pursuing the exact same thing. 

Exact.

The two characters tell you (by way of actions and dialogue with other characters) exactly what they intend to accomplish and the lengths they’re willing to go to accomplish it, so the movie doesn’t even have to fall back on a “surprise” reveal to justify their actions.

From a story point of view, that’s an extraordinary thing to pull off. And I happen to think it does. Despite both characters’ single-minded determination (see my post from June 5, 2009 about that) to achieve said goal, the film is able to create and elevate the conflict all the way through to an ending that’s simultaneously surprising, satisfying, and totally, perfectly, completely inevitable.  

Okay, I lied. I would like to influence the voting. Members of the Academy, take a look at the dramatic structure of this story. And consider nominating Damien Chazelle for Best Screenplay.

I don't hate women. Just one in particular.

I'm not a film critic. I don't want to be a film critic. But every once in a while, I'll see a film that pisses me off so much, I can't help but use it as an example of what not to do.

The other night, in a moment of weakness, I had the great misfortune to let my wife talk me into watching 'Julie and Julia'.

That's not to say I didn't enjoy anything about it. Meryl Streep is –– as usual –– delightful. It's so nice to see an actor considered "serious" having such serious fun with a character. And the historical tidbits about Julia Child were pretty neat and nicely presented. I'd heard she was a spy, but I didn't know anything else about the path that took her from the OSS to cooking icon.

So it's not Meryl Streep I hate.

Amy Adams walks a really delicate line. There's nothing redeeming about her character –– she's a self-absorbed foodie who, in an effort to prove a point to herself and her shallow friends, neglects her husband and her job. But she manages to infuse the role with a significant amount of sympathy.

It's not Amy Adams I hate.

That leaves Nora Ephron.

"Hate" is a strong word. Especially for someone who I've just gone and indirectly complimented for doing a more than adequate job in a couple of the more important capacities of a director. So what gives?

In a word: Story. Or, to be more specific, lack thereof.

Distilled to its essence, 'Julie and Julia' is about a woman who gives herself an assignment and a deadline, then meets the assignment within the deadline. Period. There's no adversity, no conflict, no potential loss. The protagonist, Julie, has nothing at stake.

'Julie and Julia' is about as compelling as watching someone shop for groceries. First she chooses some nice artichokes, then she picks up a pound of butter... It's not a film. It's a reenactment.

Sure, Julie has minor setbacks. She oversleeps and her boef bourguignon is ruined. The reporter from the Christian Science monitor cancels dinner. So fucking what? Within a couple of screen minutes she's cooked another boef bourguignon and thanks to an article in the New York Times, she comes home to 63 messages from agents, reporters, managers, and editors on her answering machine.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Okay, fine, Brian. You don't like the story. But why such vitriol?"

Because 'Julie and Julia' is a missed opportunity. It could have been a good film. Hell, it could have been a great film. There's no reason that Julie's character couldn't have struggled against seemingly overwhelming odds, overcoming adversity on her way to completing her self-assigned task, except that Nora Ephron either couldn't or wouldn't be bothered to write her character that way.

That's where I get incensed. I know Nora Ephron doesn't need to make good films, but she doesn't need to take potentially good films and make them crappy, either. She's both the writer and director here, and as Tobey Maguire says in Spiderman', "With great power comes great responsibility."

Clear your mind of what you know and ask yourself which project holds more potential for telling an interesting story, a) a movie based on a 43-year-old ride at an amusement park or b) a movie about a woman who idolizes a chef and uses that chef to inspire her to become not just a better cook, but a better person?

Gore Verbinski (with 'Pirates of the Carribbean') created an amazing story out of almost nothing. Nora Ephron, on the other hand, was handed –– forgive the food metaphor –– a beautiful dry-aged steak and decided to grind it into hamburger, smother it with Accent™, and boil it.

Now do you see why I'm so incensed?

(By the way, lest you think I'm just being misogynistic, I should point out that I consider 'Big', directed by Penny Marshall and written by Gary Ross and Anne Spielberg, one of Hollywood's great films of –– well –– ever, and no, I don't think Gary Ross deserves a disproportionate amount of the credit.)

Nora Ephron will never read this blog, of course. She doesn't need to. And frankly, if I were her, I wouldn't change the formula that's been working since 1993, when she did 'Sleepless in Seattle', which by the way I hated for other reasons.

But please, if my wife ever comes home with another Nora Ephron movie, remind me that I would have a much more rewarding experience replacing the wax rings under our toilets.

What makes an interesting protagonist (Part 4): A worthy adversary

Let's say you're single-mindedly determined to accomplish something and what you want and what you need are potentially at odds. Are you an interesting protagonist?

Not yet.

You're missing one critical thing that makes your story interesting. Difficulty.

Without difficulty, you're not accomplishing something, you're just doing it. And who wants to watch you do something you're perfectly capable of doing?

Not me.

The tougher the struggle, the more interesting the story. In other words, as determined as the protagonist is to succeed, the antagonist needs to be even moreso to make the protagonist fail.

That's not to say that the antagonist has to spend every minute devising ways to thwart the protagonist. In fact, a super powerful antagonist doesn't even need to try. In 'Finding Nemo', the antagonist is the ocean. It's so vast and powerful that it doesn't even need to be aware of a little clown fish trying to find its son.

In films where a hero faces an actual enemy, the enemy needs to be stronger than the hero. And not just stronger. You want your hero to be up against somebody so powerful, so experienced, with so many more resources and so few scruples about destroying the good guy that you wonder how your hero is ever going to survive, much less triumph.

Think Luke Skywalker versus Darth Vader, for example. Or Harry Potter against Valdemort.

The more unlikely your hero is to emerge victorious, the more satisfying the story is when he does.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Brian, if my antagonist is unassailable, how can my protagonist ever win?"

Good question. There are two answers. One is what's called "deus ex machina," which is a fancy way of saying "Wow! That sure was lucky!" Remember 'War of the Worlds'? Not the original, but Steven Spielberg's 2005 turd?

The other answer is for what appears to be the hero's weakness to become the very strength that vanquishes the antagonist.

That same formula is at work in both 'The Bad News Bears' and 'Life is Beautiful'. And yes, I know how weird that sounds.

What makes an interesting protagonist (Part 3): Conflict between want and need.

I have a theory about stories. A good story is not just about the conflict between a protagonist and an antagonist. You tell a story like that to four-year-olds.

A good story is also about the conflict within the protagonist, between what he wants and what he needs.

I can't think of a better example of this than 'The Incredibles'.

If you haven't seen the movie, stop reading right now and go rent it. I'm serious. It's one of the most perfectly crafted stories ever and I refuse to teach you another thing until you've seen it.

Okay.

Where was I?

Right. 'The Incredibles'. The protagonist is Mr. Incredible. The antagonist is Syndrome. At its simplest, this is a story about the struggle between the two.

But there's more. What defines Mr. Incredible are two things: his want, which is to work alone, and his need, which is to save the world.

Until Syndrome comes along, those two aspects of his character are perfectly compatible. And even though he's no longer a working superhero, Mr. Incredible the insurance adjuster can't suppress his need to save the world –– he just does it one person at a time.

Syndrome changes everything.

First, he forces Mr. Incredible to come out of retirement. Then he forces Mr. Incredible to realize that he can't do it alone.

Ultimately, the conflict that has to be resolved is within Mr. Incredible. He has to decide whether his want is more powerful than his need.

Here's a tip. It never is.

Mr. Incredible's need to save the world is so great that he'll not only work with someone else, but work with his family -- the last people he'd want to put in harm's way.

In a really good story, like this one, by resolving the conflict between his want and his need, the hero experiences growth.

Even a four-year-old knows that.